He sighed as the TARDIS set down for the last time. Nobody lived forever, not even the Doctor. He'd spent ages as the Curator, but had eventually tired of retirement and had refused yet another cycle of regenerations. Today was his final end.

He had once stayed in this place for century after century defending a small town called Christmas. It was fitting that he would remain here for the rest of time. Christmas and its inhabitants however were long gone, having fallen to the one thing that nobody could escape, time. Ages after those he had both fought and protected had left, volcanic activity had turned Trenzalore to a world of fire. For ages after that Trenzalore, the world which had stood against half the universe and survived, had become by tradition a world where war dead whose loved ones could afford it were buried.

Hobbling to the door and peering outside, he noted that he'd set himself down perfectly amongst the graves of those he had fought alongside defending this world ages and ages past. He was well away from the site of the town of Christmas, but amongst those he had cared for so long ago and had fought alongside.

He knew what he would think when he he first saw this grave, what he would believe, but he needed to to believe that Trenzalore would be his end in order to do what needed to be done.