"In a thousand years time, you won't remember me."
It was a Unicorn. Back in the 20th century an author had written a story about a unicorn turned into a human and then back into a unicorn and how, though she no longer loved like a human woman, would remember her beloved's heart long after men were fairy tales in books written by rabbits. The author should have said cats.
It was quiet and The Face of Boe had time to think. It always had time, but not always the quiet. A thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand years had passed and The Face had kept its promise. It had not forgotten. It remembered the preciseness of his dress, how he always kept his hair just so, his hands and nails, even in the heat of battle, clean and well kept, the spicy notes of his cologne, the softness and warmth of his skin and the way it felt to have the man's weight pressing down from above, their first kiss, and the first time they made love. And how their last attempt had been thwarted by beans; no, yes, no. By Rhys! Rhys who was cooking the beans. Rhys. Rhys and Gwen. Gwen. If it could have, The Face would have shaken its great head. After so many lifetimes a single stray thought could lead anywhere.
The man had been called Ianto. And the Face remembered. The man, no Ianto, had bright blue eyes as clear and alive as a tropical sea. Ianto had been brave and kind and could brew a mean cup of coffee. Ianto had died in The Face of Boe's arms, back when The Face had arms, back when he was also just a man, but a man who could not die. A man who had watched uncounted numbers of his own beloveds die, sometimes in his arms and sometimes from afar when they had tossed him out of their lives. But Ianto had been the only one to see Jack, to truly understand that their time together was limited and to ask for no more than what they had in front of them. Neither of them realized just how short that time would be.
It hurt to remember. It hurt to be Jack again. It hurt to be a man. But after billions and billions of years, The Face knew the truth. That was the point of this whole silly existence – to hurt, to remember and on occasion, to love.