"The name I chose. It was a promise."
The ghost of a smile fell across his face, young once more, his smile so much sadder and his eyes so much older. He had changed. Not changed physically, yet, anyway; that was coming soon. Not a new face, but a new hope.
The promise he chose with his name had been fulfilled through Christmas—much, much later known as Trenzalore. He stayed by them 'til the end. His end, anyway. Theirs would come soon. Sooner than he'd like to, it'd be much better if they never left at all.
His promise, however, was broken when it came to Clara Oswin Oswald; his Impossible Girl. He had left her to go play the hero, while just days earlier she saved his entire existence. It was ironic, laughable even. The Impossible Girl; the Woman Twice Dead, the light in that much-too-long period of darkness in London, abandoned on Christmas Day while he ran off and almost wasted the promise that she had given him to fulfill the one he had made to himself.
"Run, you clever boy, and remember me.."
He remembered that day too well: the day that Clara had shown herself for the first time, this echo as a governess in Victorian London. The Doctor had known that she was different from the start, but he didn't expect the ending. He hated endings, especially that one, because it was one of the few he stuck around for. It had caused him to almost go back to the dark: run back to the TARDIS on his cloud as fast as he could; he had thought that his promise was broken, but it turned out that hers was being fulfilled instead. It was too much like Amy and Rory, he thought. Too much hurt for someone he'd known for so little time.
Remember me, for we shall meet again.
That bounced around in his head for a while, the cryptic message on the grave. How was she going to meet him again? She was dead. An echo of his past—and Clara's, he could never forget, the one that brought him out of the dark. And then there was the real, proper Clara. The one that was coming any minute now, the one that had showed up 300 years late in Christmas, the one who kept coming back even when he didn't want her to. The one that came back when he needed her, whether he liked it or not. And now she was going to have to go through the same thing he did—an ending. They both had to suffer through this one, and it wasn't going to end well.
"She has to be on her way," he whispered dryly, tying his bow tie hurriedly and skipping a stair or five to get to the TARDIS's console. "I have some business to finish up. Time-and-Space-Telegraph Phone server Alpha; protocol forty-seven, if you please," the Doctor wheezed to his ship, and, even though the time machine knew she shouldn't let him commence this particular protocol, the TARDIS replied with a hum of annoyance and activated server Alpha. The door creaked open protestedly, as if to say, 'Go on, before I change my mind'. The Doctor patted the console with a weak smile on his face.
"Thanks, old girl.. One last favor from number eleven," he said dryly, reaching outside the phone box and grabbing the phone, golden energy evaporating off his hands, then stopping abruptly. "He's a'comin', we can't hold him off much longer, yeah? Let's get this over with," he told the TARDIS tiredly, sliding against one of the time machine's walls as the number dialed. He knew it well, and the TARDIS did too, apparently, for the line connected and a familiar voice came on the receiver. The Time Lord took a shaky breath, for she was probably with him now. Face Number Thirteen, Doctor Number Twelve. He had so much to say, but so little time to say it, the regeneration rushing through him as his companion answered the phone.
"Hello? Who is this?" the voice was shaky and uncertain, but he knew it well. Clara. His Clara, the Impossible Girl. A weak smile found its way onto his lips.
"Hey, it's me.."