The Master had long since fled Gallifrey.

That was what everyone was assuming, at least. They didn't know, notfor sure, but there wasn't really another possibility. Nobody had seen the renegade for what was nearing close to a month. Despite his tendencies to draw away from anything involving more than a brief interaction with a single person, he always showed up to the meetings, and lately, he hadn't been.

Imala had come calling for the Doctor in his TARDIS, asking if he had seen his childhood friend. He replied in the negative, as did Clara when Imala turned to her next. Romana, in her free time, had been poking around, but she was much too busy to spend priceless hours looking for a single man who was too low in priority compared to all the other things. Gallifrey came first, now. As for the General and his assistant Androgar, the former couldn't care less and the latter hardly knew the man.

Yes, everyone, without basis of fact, assumed the Master had fled.

The Doctor knew. Three children had vanished from the infirmary seven days ago, and in a disappointing fulfillment to his earlier statement, not a single person had noticed. There was also a column missing from what Clara was now referring to as the 'glorified storage closet', and it was remarkable that the noble men and women entrusted with the future of their planet hadn't noticed during any of their daily meetings. Ah, well. That was politicians for you.

Clara had adapted remarkably well to Gallifrey, which was certainly an impressive feat when one took into consideration the hostility and history of the planet, as well as her close relations with the Doctor, but perhaps it had something to do with her past lives. Out of all the echoes from the Doctor's timestream, the one who lived the longest had been a Time Lady. She had nudged him in the direction of the Type 40 TARDIS which had remained so faithful to him throughout the days and years and centuries and continued to do so even now. As far as the Doctor could tell, Clara had bits and pieces of knowledge leftover from her lives, including that one, so she had a natural affinity for picking up on Gallifreyan terms. She was well on her way to being fluent! It made him very proud.

On the other hand, Clara was noticing something about the Doctor. He was pulling away from everyone, in stark contrast to his typically social persona, spending more and more time inside his TARDIS. Some days he would be staring sadly out the windows, as though the red fields of grass – none of them full regrown, but definitely well on their way – were something that he would never be able to have, despite them being so tantalizingly close.

He had shed the standard red Gallifreyan robes for his old purple jacket and bowtie and suspenders, and stayed that way unless he had to leave the TARDIS. Even then, he only changed back if there was something important and official, and it was mainly so no one else would be uncomfortable. Anything alien on Gallifrey was... well, alien, and alien wasn't considered a good thing right now.

"Time to go soon, Clara," he would say, nodding as he tinkered underneath the TARDIS console. "Time to go soon."

She would ask what he meant – was he going to drop her off at her home and then come back here? He just smiled and went back to what he was doing.

"Time to go soon, Clara!" he would announce cheerfully, almost bounding into the console room after yet another long meeting session. "Time to go, soon!"

"Time to go soon, Clara," he would say quietly, after a long day. "Time to go, soon."

She finally found him staring outside through one of the many windows in the Citadel, a distant look in his eyes, looking very tired and just a little bit sad. Underneath the light of the twin suns, he looked older, almost – not that ancient look he always carried, but his hair seemed a little bit lighter, the lines on his face just a little bit more pronounced.

"Hey," she murmured, nudging him with her elbow. He looked over at her and smiled, still tired, still sad. "Come on, Chin Boy. Talk to me."

That prompted a chuckle, an honest one, nothing forced about it, but it was quick to fade.

"Time to go soon, Clara," he said yet again, sighing, returning his gaze to the window and the scenery beyond it.

Clara frowned. "You keep repeating that," she told him, poking a finger at his chest. "It'd be nice if you told me what you mean."

"I mean what I mean!" came the simple response. "Time to go soon, I would think. Very soon, actually, if I'm being honest here."

"Doctor..."

"Actually!" He grinned, spun around, clapped his hands on her shoulders. "Why don't you go and find Imala? I've been meaning to talk to her. You go and find her, and then... bring her back to the TARDIS, yes. I like that idea, that's a good idea. You go and do that, Clara, I'll meet you both there!"

He grinned again and walked off, leaving his human companion too confused at his sudden change in behavior to pick up on the tears in his eyes or the faltering gait in his step.

The Doctor gently traced his fingers over the wooden doors of his TARDIS before patting the side fondly and stepping through. The console lights were dim around him, and the engine hummed sadly, the vibrations traveling through the floor and resonating through him.

"Oh, don't cry, old girl," he sighed, offering a bittersweet smile to the empty room around him. "You'll take Clara home, right? And... stick around with Mother for a bit. I hate to leave her so soon, but... it was nice to see her again, don't you think?"

The sad humming didn't stop – if anything, it got louder, pulsing through the air.

"Maybe find the Master and those kids, if you can manage it," he continued. "Send them a message, let them know that I... well."

"That you what?"

He spun around at the familiar voice, his eyes settling on the Moment Interface. It had taken the form of River Song once more, and she was watching him with a slight smile.

He just raised his eyebrows. "Oh, come on. Smartest piece of technology in the universe, you should get this."

"I do. Though I must wonder why you're so afraid to say it."

"Afraid... no, not afraid – I'm- I'm dying. Hah, of course I'm afraid..." He sighed heavily, shook his head. His hands were starting to get wrinkles, and his hair, flopping down past his eyes, was tinted gray. This body was old, and he didn't have any more left to give. This song was ending, now, ending for good. "Does it hurt? The last time I died of old age was a while ago... I've forgotten."

River sighed. Amy – little Amelia, still dressed in the same clothes she wore when she was five – took his hand. The Moment's eyes were serious. The Doctor thought he could hear the shouts and cries of old friends somewhere in the background, but it was probably just his mind playing tricks on him. That sort of thing happened when you were dying, didn't it? Reminding him of all the lives he'd stolen...

"For all you do right, Doctor, your reward is much too small." The Doctor smiled weakly at the Moment's words, but it turned into a grimace as one of his legs gave out, and he crumpled to the floor. The Moment didn't leave his side, but made no move to help him back up. "I hear you, Doctor, remember that. Now tell me honestly: do you want to live?"

The Time Lord gazed into the eyes of the Moment, Amelia's eyes but not. When he spoke, his voice was much too soft, but did not waver or break. "You're honestly asking?"

"We both know the answer changes from time to time." The Moment brushed some hair out of the Doctor's face, touch lighter than gossamer. "There are no debts to be repaid. Your family is safe, your home is safe and in its rightful place among the stars. Your ship will have somewhere to rest; the human will be with her family; Koschei is on the road of healing. You can sleep, rest... there is nothing to fear."

"But I can't... I don't want to go." His hands were shaking, even as the world started to get fuzzy around the edges. "I don't- I don't want to. I..."

The Moment merely nodded, and now it was Susan kneeling in front of him. His hearts ached at the sight of his granddaughter. Her eyes were kind, her smile serene, and she was gentle even as she gripped tightly at his shoulders, the only thing keeping him from collapsing.

There was the feeling of something cold pressing against his forehead, and something like molten lead being poured down his spine, and then the world exploded into gold.

Clara managed to keep up with the Time Lords remarkably well – they were running full tilt, but she ran with the Doctor, she had practice.

"I don't understand!" she exclaimed, skidding around a corner. "Is something wrong?"

"There's more than one way to leave, Clara," Imala whispered. There was panic in her eyes, worry, desperation. Romana had schooled her features into something carefully neutral, but her eyes betrayed her emotions. "Heavens above, don't let us be late... please, don't let us be late..."

The TARDIS was parked where it had stayed parked ever since shortly after her arrival, well away from most foot traffic and in one of the back rooms, nestled out of sight. The trio raced in that direction, their undignified manner drawing stares and comments from those they pushed past, but they paid the whisperers no heed. Clara was clueless, but she knew something was wrong, she had known something was wrong from the instant she had mentioned the Doctor's behavior and both Time Ladies went whiter than sheets. She just didn't know what. Imala was continuing to whisper frantically under her breathe, and Romana's mask was slowly crumbling.

They turned the corner, and there was the TARDIS in all her shining blue glory. The two doors on the front slammed shut – they had been slightly ajar – as soon as they stepped into the room.

"No!" Clara didn't think she had ever seen Romana lose her composure, but the dignified woman actually staggered, neutral mask falling and shattering as she stared at the doors. Imala closed her eyes and looked down.

"What's happening?" Clara asked, looking rapidly between the two and the locked doors. "Why won't she let us in?"

"He's on his last life," Imala whispered. Romana nodded in agreement. "He said so, he told me."

Clara looked like she had been punched. "So all the times he was saying-"

"Time to go, he meant he was dying. Yes." Imala's hands were shaking. "That's what he meant."

Romana straightened, and through what looked like sheer force of will, shoved her expression back to something resembling normal. "Doctor!" she shouted in the tone she normally reserved for a particularly argumentative cabinet meeting, rapping loudly on the wood. "Doctor, so help me, you leave us out here and I'll exile you from the planet!"

Imala stepped up to her side. "Please, let us in! Theta, please..."

"Doctor..." Clara's whisper was barely audible.

A blinding flash seared through the glass windowpanes.

The three lurched back, throwing their arms up to block their eyes. They could feel the energy pulsing through them, radiating outward in wave after wave after wave, surging around them and drowning all coherent thought out. Blindly, Romana fumbled for Clara's arm and dragged her back. It was overwhelming, this- this, there was no word for it, but it tugged at them and pulled them in opposite directions until the feeling was nearly overwhelming and it was like they were going to vaporize in the sheer power of it all-

And just as quickly as it had come, it left, and they couldn't be sure whether a minute or a month had passed.

Imala was the first to run forward, not deterred in the slightest by the scalding hot handles of the TARDIS doors. She flung them open and darted inside, Romana and Clara fast on her heels, only to come to a halt at the bottom of the stairs.

There was a man slowly sitting up, gripping the side of the console for support. His hair was black but graying, though it made him appear only more dignified, and he looked... older. Younger than Imala, certainly, but the face this man wore was twice the age of the last one.

He sat up slowly, painstakingly, breathing deep and somewhat even, and looked at his hands like he had never seen them before in his life. Then again, he probably hadn't. Not these hands.

"Tell me, Mother," he said in a voice that was not deep, but, as all of the Doctor's other voices had, held an undercurrent of authority. "Am I ginger?"

fin