He shouldn't be crying. He shouldn't be crying, not for the Master. That man unleashed the Toclafane on Earth, turning a Gallifreyan fairy tale into a name of terror that murdered one-tenth of Earth's population in a day. That man tortured Jack, killing him daily for a year. That man was the reason Martha Jones had to wander the globe alone, through the freezing cold and blistering heat, barren deserts and wild jungles.
No. He mustn't cry while he wraps the Master's body in the linen shard. Wherever this body came from, it's just an empty shell now. Like the body stolen in San Francisco. Like Tremis, stolen so long ago (he and Nyssa had never spoke of it). Like any other body he's seen over the long, long years.
It's only the smoke, just the smoke, that makes his eyes water as he walks away from the pyre. He should stay, should make sure the body is burned completely to ash. A Time Lord's body is a miracle, even in death. But no one will make him stay, take him to task if he shirks his duties.
The universe is better off without the Master. It is. The Master once destroyed a fifth of it; by accident, no less, when a plan went astray. And that's not even counting all the invasions he encouraged, the plots, the schemes, the twists. The man was like a spider, hiding in the corners and spinning traps. Yes, the world is better without the Master.
It's just that…for a moment…he wasn't the last anymore.