Many thanks to my betas, Lilac Free and Meghan.
In Memoriam
He watches the destruction of Gallifrey on the TARDIS monitor time after time. He watches it burn, painting the darkness of space even more orange than its sky, and feels as though his soul burns too. He watches, time after time, and he hates her.
The first time she tells him of her plan, he turns and walks away, through the dilapidated streets of the once great Citadel. The grey eyes of her latest regeneration follow him as he leaves. He does not look back.
As he watches, he remembers. He remembers making the connection, inputting the data, flicking the switch that brings an end to the Time War, and to a whole planet. He remembers hearing the dying cry of his whole race echoing in his mind, sharing their fear, desperation, agony. He remembers the TARDIS shaking, its connection to the Eye of Harmony torn. He remembers their pain filling him until the blackness descended, and wondering if he was dying. He remembers waking up, and cursing because he's alive. Time after time he remembers, and he hates her.
The second time, she follows with more than her eyes. She grabs his arm, makes him stay to hear her logic, her reasons. She is pleading with him. He has never heard her beg before. He is wordless, quiet for once, and walks away when her explanation is over. He makes no verbal response, but the horror on his face is answer enough and the set of his shoulders as he walks away speaks volumes to her.
As he remembers, he reasons. He reasons that it was for the best, that he prevented the Daleks from killing billions, that he kept the precious and powerful Eye of Harmony from the control of a deadly enemy. It was a good plan, a necessary plan, he reasons, time after time, and he hates her.
The third time, she broaches the subject in the presence of the remaining members of the High Council. More than half are dead; the survivors wear grave, forcibly emotionless expressions. She explains, again, and they nod sagely and seriously to her every argument. There is no trace of disapproval on their faces for once. The situation must be desperate, he thinks, if these arrogant Lords of Time, who have always considered themselves superior to the rest of the universe, are acknowledging even a possibility of defeat.
"We are willing," she says, quietly, to him alone. "We do not want to die, but we have all but lost this war. When, if, it comes to it, will you not help us win, even as we die?"
She watches him as she speaks. His jaw is clenched, his fingers balled into fists, his eyes burning: he is angry. She is glad. One day soon he will lose his temper and then, perhaps, he will listen.
As he reasons, he remembers. He remembers after. Remembers waking slowly, sluggishly. Remembers feeling old shoes, no longer a perfect fit, pinching at new feet. His head felt oddly light with his new lack of hair, his teeth new and strange. He remembers realising. Realising that Gallifrey had burned and that he had been too busy being unconscious to notice. Gallifrey burned and no one was looking. No one was looking because he was the only one. The Last Time Lord. Without the hated, restricting, reminding, comforting psychic hum of his people, his mind feels full of emptiness. He no longer defines himself; instead he is defined by the absence of his people. As he remembers he shivers, and as he shivers, time after time, he hates her.
He loses his temper the fifth time she asks him. They are not alone, but that does not stop him shouting.
"Do you have any idea what you are asking me to do?"
"Yes," she says. She does. "I am asking you to destroy your own people, your own planet, and me. I am asking you to do something that will cause the death of thousands without causing your own. And I am asking you to stop the Daleks, to prevent them stealing the power that we have wielded for millennia. I am asking you to destroy thousands to save billions."
His shoulders are slumped, his eyes downcast as he tries to deny what she knows to be the truth. He is accepting her logic, however much he wants to discard it, and his moral code is the casualty.
"Why me?" he asks, tired.
She has won, but she cannot feel glad. She has never seen him defeated before.
Sometimes, as he watches his planet burn, he remembers her as he last saw her; brown curls forced into a neat bun, traditional Gallifreyan robes falling to her ankles, an expression of determination on her face. She says goodbye almost coldly, every inch the President of Gallifrey. But as he turns to leave, she calls his name; offers him a smile. In her eyes he can see the Romana he once knew, hidden by responsibility and regeneration and war.
"Thank you," she says, and she means it.
He remembers, and he cannot hate her.
It is at these times that he hates himself.