The Doctor has lost track of his face- or rather, he has misplaced it among myriad others.
It is unearthly, wan and yellowed and flaxen in the light of dying embers of the sun- yet, as the moonless night appears, glows radiantly, ghosted over with gauzy shadows of the deepest, most unfathomable blue.
His eyes are alight with a fire unseen for many ages and gleam golden, and on his thinning lips there is always a blessing, a smile, wetting the corners of his mouth.
His hair comes in variant forms- depending on his moods; mostly the grey of the downy gosling, he tells the dying in the children's ward, and invites them to feel; he favors on days when another of his patients die a morose auburn, or perhaps, for an ill child a brilliant green or red (it seems as the days go by, he wears the brown of mourning far more often.)
He's a doctor now- a proper one, not a barmy, time-mad traveler with a strange affinity for human beings.
He tends for the ones-left-behind, the lucky, the unlucky.
He breathes the dying coughs of the young, the misted eyes of the soon-dead, and the last warm vestiges of the soul.
He's never felt better, calm and assured as he ushers every last human to their fates.
One day, he is picking through the rubble of New York City (the Tardis still works, well enough, but with each wheezing sound, she knows that TIME is running out), when he sees a figure skipping through the ruins.
As he grows closer, his eyes focus- sharply.
She's wearing all black, from head-to-toe; a pair of sturdy boots, black slacks, shirt, and a curious lace veil that only barely hides the surging power in her tattooed eyes.
The Doctor barely bites back his tongue, but instead staggers a little- odd; his strength evaporates even as she regards him steadily.
Eventually, he sits down heavily on a stone- his flesh giving and groaning as he does so, and she clasps his hand suddenly.
"My dear! My messenger and harbinger and the last on Earth!"
A kiss on his forehead (he's normally always giving, never receiving).
"I've come for you at last, don't you see? Stay here awhile, we'll talk."
She spreads her arms exuberantly and vastly, and points at her hat.
"See? I've got all my mourning clothes set out all nicely. It's time, dear!"
The sun winks out, suddenly, but the girl and the TIME LORD emanate enough light that he can clearly see the earth shifting, pieces breaking away and dissecting and disappearing.
A sudden pang in his heart tells him his beloved, his TARDIS, has died- he is last, the last Time Lord ever, the last TIME.
As if reading his mind (perhaps she is), the girl chuckles.
"That's really 'in name' only, silly. You don't control time."
A firm poke in the chest.
"I don't control time."
Another poke.
He feels so tired, tired, tired, and as he slumps the ground she catches him and lays his head on her lap.
"Come on, now- I'll tell you a story, beloved- a made-up-completely-true one while we wait."
A vague moan.
"Once upon a time, there was a man- my brothers and sisters liked him, well enough, and he them. He learned the art of TIME from my eldest brother, telepathy from the Sand-man himself, joy from the youngest, bravery from the exile, ambition from IT, compassion from her twin…"
"I didn't like him that much," she whispers conspiratorially, "I don't remember why."
"Anyways, he offered me a deal- a fair one, really. He said that he would give me the light- THE BIRTHING, if you will, if I freed him (temporarily, I mean, really now, they're all gone). So I did that. I like babies, you know?"
Her lips on his ear.
"You're probably wondering where this all leads to, aren't you?"
"Well, it leads to you. I didn't like any of the others- I hadn't even expected them because, come on, he has no eggs. So I didn't go to any of the time births, and he was nothappy. Did you know that back-when, your race created the Daleks? They don't exist anymore-at-all either."
A kiss on his cheek.
"It leads to you. Of course, there were others- Melody Pond was sort of one- I needed to keep her going all for you. Mr. Jack Harkness was another, but Desire really, really, really wanted him."
"But you. I loved you. I was at your birth."
"Others loved you too, you know- all of them really, and that made me kind of sad, you know? Like when you have a new toy, but your siblings take it and don't care as much as you? That's a little bit like us. I kept you safe. I took you because Despair and Destruction and Delirium and Dream really wanted you too."
She looks up, abruptly, shading her eyes as a door, as if scribbled in chalk, melts into the pitch blackness.
The Doctor is surprised to find that they have been floating, really, on a bed of deep, dark nothing.
He takes a sharp breath, and nods, grasping the doorframe feebly.
He puts one tentative hand in, takes it out.
She taps her foot.
He puts the other in, and does the same.
Her expression is vaguely displeased.
His head, peering just within the doorframe.
When it reappears before her, it is beaming- not with the soft sadness of a healer, but with an exuberant, childlike grin, blinding and glowing.
All of sudden, she gets really excited, really fast.
"What's in there?" she asks breathlessly, "What is it."
His eyes twinkle.
"Spoilers-"
-and he steps through.