Strands of gold
Disclaimer: Yes, yes.
Timeline: During PotW obviously.
Summary: The golden strands of possibilities are twisting and turning.
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He knows it isn't fair, even as he does it. Not fair for either of them. Sending her home, out of harms way. What else can he do? He's seen her timelines, studied them carefully for so long. He's not in any of them, not anymore. Not without killing her, and he can't do that. Won't do that. So he sends her back, back to her mum, back to safety. Away from him. Away from danger and utter destruction.
When he hears and feels his beloved ship returning he can't form even one rational thought. It's impossible, it's not even remotely logical. Of all the possible outcomes, this is one he's never even glimpsed. Then she steps out. But it's not her. Or rather, it is. But it can't be. She's everywhere, absolutely everywhere. Not even another Timelord looks like this. Not even he himself looks like this.
The thin golden tendrils of possibilities stretch so far, farther then even he can follow, he realizes. But that can't be? The end of Time, and she is there. The beginning of Time, and yet she is there also. Her timelines meander and merge with such energy it's like looking into the Untempered Schism. Yes, that's it, he realizes with horror and slight fascination. She is like Time itself. Stretching out indefinitely.
Suddenly he sees them, the threads of possibility that connects them. They're everywhere, everywhen. He knows he should be terrified still, but it's impossible to feel anything other than complete joy. Because that's when he finds it, the thin golden strand of possibility that let's them stay together. Lets them stay connected in the present. It will kill him, he knows this for sure, but he doesn't care. She will live. He will live, in a way at least.
She speaks but he can't hear her words clearly, it's much too hard to stay concentrated when there are so many possible timelines converging on this very point, in this very moment. His head is reeling; it's like standing in the centre of an ionic lightning storm. His skin is prickling and every hair on his body is standing. The golden strands of possibilities are twisting and turning. He can't help himself, he has to follow them. It's like a maze, take one turn and there are a dozen other strands branching out. Most of them hold unthinkable horrors, unspeakable outcomes. But he once again manages to locate the one that doesn't. As he steps towards her, he smiles. There is no decision to make, it's already been made, and will be made.