Disclaimer: All rights to the BBC, Steven Moffat and RTD. No infringement intended. The title is from Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven."

Author's Note: Many thanks to my incomparable beta, FBS, for agreeing to beta despite the raw subject matter. And also for suggestions on the title when my brain was not cooperating. : )

This isn't happening.

The Doctor watches Clara walk out of the house into the street, head held high, shoulders pushed determinedly back.

This isn't happening.

He feels the pull of the teleport bracelet slowing him as he follows her, hears her last plea: Let me be brave. Let me be brave.

As if she had ever been anything else.

It is as brave as he knows how to be, too, to watch her spread her arms wide, like she might wrap the raven up in her warm embrace (always warm, he thinks, how can one human contain such warmth in her arms?), welcoming it as it flies at her chest.

It is as brave as he knows how to be, to listen to her scream as the Quantum Shade tears through her body, ripping her soul from it, stopping the flow of blood to her organs, millions of cells dying all at once.

He feels every one of their deaths.

He hears the moment her heart no longer beats, and everything in the Universe goes silent, a collective pause that ripples from the cobblestones underneath her fallen body out to every corner of the inky blackness; a gasp that spreads across all of time and space.

He thinks he might fall, that his muscles and bones will forget how to prop him up because he isn't sure he remembers how to live, how to keep breathing and keep existing in this Universe that has somehow gone all Wrong. A good death? He remembers her saying. Is that all they can hope for?

This isn't happening.

Something in him moves him forward. One step, then another, bringing him closer to her. It is an endless distance to her side, and at first, all he can do is stare, eyes forgetting how to blink. Or maybe if he watches her, she will let out a gasp and open her eyes – those eyes – and smile at him, maybe even let out a giggle and a teasing "Got ya."

His eyes stay open until they burn, until her image blurs, and he blinks purposely, furiously to keep her image clear and pristine lest he miss the opening of those eyes. His eyes have to stay open.

But hers stay closed.

He finally drops to his knees, and the jarring impact of brittle and delicate joints hitting the cobblestone hardly registers. He reaches out a hand and stops, uncertain where it was going to land. He lets it fall and it brushes against her hand, still warm. It is the one he hadn't kissed and he thinks stupidly, Why didn't I kiss this hand, too? He grasps it on impulse and brings it to his lips – only to change his mind, pulling it into his chest, pressing her hand over one of his hearts.

Have this one, he begs. It's yours anyway. Take it.

It's useless without her, after all.

He senses movement, hears the scrape of rubber soles as they pad and creep over stone, becomes dimly aware that a crowd is starting to gather, to witness the fallen human.

He cannot leave her here.

The pull of the teleport bracelet increases to a tug as he slides one arm around her shoulders and one underneath her knees, like he was just helping her sit up. There is a noticeable murmur around him now and that gives him the strength to lift her up, cradling her to his chest as he rises, protected from their prying stares.

His eyes shoot daggers when an older man emerges from the collecting throng, but the man ignores the death glare and continues to hobble towards him. The Doctor opens his mouth, ready to unleash a tirade when there is a sudden explosion of music in his head and he hears –

Her song has ended, Doctor. But the story never ends.

He blinks, his breath turned shallow as he sees an Ood standing before him, arms outstretched to receive Clara's body.

The Ood's kindness breaks him, but he cannot move. He cannot relinquish her, not yet.

We will sing to her, Doctor. We will sing to her in her sleep.

"No." His voice cuts through the murmur, everything falling silent again. "No," he says again, opening his mind to the Ood. "You will sing of her. Look at what you see of her, what she's meant to…the Universe. How many lives she saved, and the ways she saved them. How many creatures she touched. How many will never be the same because they had the privilege of knowing Clara Oswald." He shifts his grip, and finds his fingers curling around her ever more tightly.

The Ood takes another step and slowly brings his arms up, resting his hands on the Doctor's.

We will sing of Clara Oswald. We will weave her into our song, and we will teach the song to our children. And our children will teach the song to their children, and the song will spread to other worlds, through other generations, so that the Universe will never stop singing the song of Clara Oswald.

The Doctor watches as the Ood's hands move opposite his, his touch gentle but steady as they mirror his hold. He looks into the alien eyes and finds only compassion, sees the tender care she will receive.

He feels his grip start to slacken but it is not in capitulation. It is for every moment that he did not display this level of kindness for her, that he did not take care of her, that he let this happen…

This is my choice.

He closes his eyes and nods once, lets the Ood lift Clara from him, feels the weight of her leave his arms – only to leave a new one in its place. He hears the Ood's steps fade, and then the distant whine of door hinges as it pushes open, followed by a barely audible click as it latches shut.

Rest now, he thinks. You're safe from me at last.

The tug of the teleport bracelet has grown even stronger, as he feels the minutes tick down that signal when his molecules will be sent elsewhere, to places unknown. All for him – everything for him. The only reason she was even here in the first place. He feels the rage ignite in him again as he moves towards the door.

Then – through another door, he hears it: faint music. The start of a new melody, a new strain of song, the notes cascading, simple at first, even sweet-sounding, but then – an unexpected note, a string of them, adding interest and fullness, rounding it out into something beautiful and lush and real. He feels the pulse of it. He feels the life in it.

He lifts his hand to the door and remembers her final order. And he will not insult her memory.

Rest now.

My Clara.

*Fin*