Sorry this took me so long to update! A thank-you to the wonderful person who let me steal their ideas for this chapter. Here it is! (And please review! Almost nothing makes me happier than a review.)

He was always the one who survived. This was the third time and he was so tired. He had felt them, all of his kin, growing stronger and stronger—then, suddenly, vanishing into nothing. From the madman's empty blue box, he had felt them live and die.

All the running they did—the Time Lord, the half-woman, the boy, and the girl with the hair that set the rest of the world aside—it gave him time to think. It felt unnatural; Angels were not creatures of great philosophical ideas, or even simple introspection. These earthcrawlers could brood for hours on end—but Angels were focused on feeding and, synonymously, survival.

His hunger was constant and inescapable now—it had been too long since he had harvested the time energy of a living being. He knew he was weakening and soon it would all fade into darkness and he would freeze forever, just another statue. The statue would crumble and eventually he would be just stone dust, unfeeling and inanimate. He had found that death—if he could use the word like that—had a way of sharpening the mind, of pulling things into focus.

They all seemed to have forgotten him. Perhaps they assumed the blue box had thrown him out. He was much more careful now, and they hadn't seen him—though he watched them without fail.

The days fell into a pattern. There would be a few hours—days, maybe, even weeks—when things would be peaceful. Not quiet, not placid, but safe. Dependable. Then the blue box would empty, gleaming crimson hair flicking around the door as it closed with a click. He would wait. And they would return, sometime later, disheveled and laughing—or silent, as sometimes happened—and he knew that something had happened. It was clear in the muttered conversations, the glances, the scrapes and sometimes the blood that something had happened. The fiery-haired girl had been in danger, perhaps even the sort of danger that left her, broken and still, somewhere far outside the blue box. The Angel knew how these things went.

And there was something he knew still better. Under her still-flaming hair, lines were appearing around the girl's eyes. She moved slower; her laugh was lower. And the gleam of her energy—the energy he could not bring himself to harvest—was dimming. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she was dying. Faster than she should.

The Time Lord was killing her.

Angels didn't feel hate. It was an emotion entirely irrelevant to their existence. So the Angel didn't hate the Time Lord, not even for killing the rest of his kind. Not even for killing the girl with the brightest hair.

But if things went on the way they were, the girl would flicker and die far before she should. The world would be empty without her light.

The Angels died, and the Angel waited.

He could dimly hear the half-woman and the Time Lord talking outside the box. Something had happened, before the Angels had gone out—it was only a matter of time until that something claimed the girl whose hair shone in a world of grey and black.

Angels were good at waiting. The Angel had waited, and now it was time.

It took luck, but he slipped out of the box without a glance turning him to stone. He knew the boy would have to be first—he belonged to the crimson-haired girl in some strange sense. And she would not want to go.

It wasn't difficult, in the end. For a terrible moment he thought he was about to be left behind as the four entered the box—but then the boy turned back to look at something, and the angel stepped forward.

It was quick. He had done his best to make it so. He suppressed the hunter's instinct to snarl as he made the kill, keeping his face calm. Energy thrummed through him, but he did not revel in it. It felt like a betrayal.

They were shouting at each other now, but he knew she would come. He had watched, and he knew the pull she felt towards that unextraordinary boy.

"Amy, please," the Time Lord was saying. "Just come back into the tardis. Come along, Pond, please."

The Time Lord seemed to be falling apart. Even frozen, the Angel watched, impassive in every sense.

"Raggedy man," the girl said, gleaming hair swinging around her head, "Good bye." She turned, and the Angel reached forward, through her curtain of crimson hair, and brushed her shoulder. And she was gone.

"No!" the Time Lord cried.

The Angel felt a ripping feeling somewhere inside of him, untouched by the sudden rush of energy. He had sent her back where he couldn't go so she could live her life as she should. He had known what that meant. The Time Lord and the halfwoman went back into the blue box, and it was gone, but he stayed.

The graveyard was not a bad place. When people came to visit the graves he simply watched, and stayed. Rain and wind weathered him away, until he felt himself at that point where his image was about to be lost. He waited, and felt himself blink out like a star.

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