We look before and after,
And pine for what is not;
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell
Of saddest thought.
― Percy Bysshe Shelley
There would never be, in all of time and space, a perfect goodbye. A beautiful goodbye. They didn't exist, and much more than that, they never would.
And so, as The Doctor stared, lost in his own inner turmoil, she dared to move ever closer.
"Listen, if this is the last I ever see of you, please," she said, "not like this."
She held him, spoke to him, said her goodbyes and let go of any past demons that she might have clung desperately to. She was brave and it broke him in ways that he hadn't known were possible. All he could do, despite everything, despite his title and his promises and everything he'd done in the past, was merely stand there and watch her.
There was a hug, a beautiful speech, at attempt at comforting an old man who'd lost too many companions in the past. She was more than just a companion, though, wasn't she? If he'd ever found himself a lover, other than his dear River, if would have been her. Oh, it would have been her.
One look in her direction said it all. It could have been you.
It should have been you.
"Everything you're going to say, I already know. Don't do it now. We're already had enough bad timing." Oh, the words burned. They burned so badly.
She drew away, startled by the sound of The Raven outside. It's cruel caw, the resounding silence that followed. So bitter, so cold. And yet she didn't back down. And all he could do was stand there, his limbs numb and his eyes teary and red-rimmed. He didn't know what to feel. They're always brave. He heard himself saying that in a past life. So many past lives.
The Lonely God never forgot. Never. And he never forgave himself.
"Don't run," he murmured to her. "Stay with me." There was a smile between them — heartbreaking and yet so very real. Filled to the brim with yearning, longing, and ache for what would never be, could never be, and what they had lost.
They shared that smile before she whispered, "I know it's going to hurt you, but please, be a little proud of me." Her hand cupped his cheek, a poignant, affectionate moment befalling them and surrounding them in a haze.
He took her hand in his own, lips pressing delicately to her knuckles. It was as intimate, as tender as he knew how to be. As sweet and as loving as he could possibly muster and handle being in such a heartbreaking moment. It burned all over, the hopelessness of it all.
If only all eyes hadn't been trained on them. If only they'd had another moment together. Another adventure. Another day. Another lifetime. Yet, it would never be enough and they both knew that. No measure of time, no adventure or mystery with her would ever be sufficient, or enough, enough to go on and enough to tuck away as a mere memory. Such things couldn't be hidden away in pockets to dwell on later, for a moment away from others, stashed away safely as notebooks — not unlike the way Ashildr had with her own memories. No, it didn't work that way. It never worked that way.
Love was so much more. Love was a promise.
And it burned. It burned in the best and worst of ways. Because real love was always a painful, agonizing thing. Real love was tender and yet brutal. Real love always burned. And it burned until the fire was doused, put out by the reality of loss or death, or until it faded away. Because... Everything ends. And it's always sad.
But everything begins again, too. And that's always happy.