Rory waded back to shore, ignoring the desert chill on his wet legs. It was real. This was really happening. That was the Doctor's body out there, his tweed jacket and ridiculous bowtie turning to ash as flames filled the horizon.
There was nothing to say. Anything would sound cheap. The Lone Centurion, who had stood watching a silent prison for centuries, who took the slow path so Amy would be safe, couldn't do anything to save the man who had saved both him and Amy so many times.
Amy stood on the shore, her shoulders still heaving with silent sobs. Amy, I'm sorry, he wanted to say, wanted to take her in his arms and let her cry for the Raggedy Doctor, but when she was in this state of mind, there was no knowing how she'd respond.
She might wrap her arms around his neck and cry, or punch him in the chest and call him stupid. Rory wasn't sure he could handle the later at the moment. So he shuffled out of the water and stood beside her as she watched the funeral boat drift across the lake.