He was born of violence.
The violence of boys too young for this kind of life. Of bureaucrats and administrators too proud and fixed in their ways to admit they were wrong. And of an old man who had seen and done too much.
He was a study in contradictions from the start. Despite breathing his first in a morgue, he was so very full of life, and perhaps even more surprising, of wonder.
Despite a baptism of blood, he was so pure and ready to love with abandon.
A Romantic, in every sense of the word.
Passionate. Emotional. Youthful. Joyful. And as always, so very alive.
He reveled in the victories. He not only saw, but cultivated the potential in those who crossed his path. He made them better. And he loved. Loved everything and everyone he encountered with a fierce and unremitting joy.
Despite being older than the the ones who had come before, he was so very very young.
And in one of the greatest tragedies of the universe, that youth and joy and innocence were made to give way.
Knowledge and experience weighed heavy on those hearts which had once been so full of joy and innocence.
And when the moment came, there was no wonder, no innocence, nor anyone anyone else to make the decision.
So he acted as circumstance dictated, and as the change began, the universe lost a beacon.
But the Doctor lives on. A little darker. A little meaner. A little colder.