He should know better by now. He really, really should. Nine centuries of life, he'd seen so much, lived so much. He couldn't recall how many centuries ago he'd first heard it said that a perfect thing was a gift from the gods, compensation for something yet to come. And it was true. He knew it was. He'd seen it before, to his immeasurable grief.

He'd seen it on a beautiful, sunny day in London, that ended in heartbreak on a damn windy beach in Norway. And he'd seen it again, on a day that started with a glorious ramble through a market place with his best mate, and ended on a rain-soaked street in Chiswick.

Time wasn't a straight line, it was circle, always leading him back to this - alone and bereft, with nothing left to him but his magnificent time ship, but much as he loved her, she couldn't hold his hand, couldn't laugh or smile with him, or fill his hearts in quite the same way. He wasn't sure anymore, if the joy of having someone to share the beauty and wonder of the universe with was worth this terrible price.

Perhaps he'd be better on his own. He didn't think he could bear it again - to let someone into his hearts, only to have them ripped away. If he was alone, no one could hurt him.

That's what he told himself, anyway.