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It is late at night, 10.34pm to be exact. The Master huddles on the dirty ground of the large warehouse. It is ominously quiet, the air tense with anticipation. The Master swears that he feels dust particles vibrating in suspense… and a weird tingly sensation on his back, like someone’s eyes drilling into his spine. He turns his head slightly and sees, from his peripheral vision, a man donning a pinstripe suit and brown jacket standing a distance away from him. He almost rolls his eyes in exasperation. Of course it’s him. It’s always him. The Doctor, his oldest friend and greatest enemy. Saviour of the Human Race, Defender of the Universe, so unlike himself.
He turns around to face the other time lord, taking a few steps forward in silent warning. The Doctor wears a stoic expression, his face blank as he disregards the Master’s warning and starts walking towards him. The blonde grimaces, his knuckles cracking as he clenches both hands into fists, blades of blue tinted white energy sizzling and wrapping around his fingers. He throws his right arm forward, fingers uncurling so that his palm faces the Doctor. A blast of electricity shoots out from the middle of his palm, jagged and blazing, and hits something behind the Doctor. Orange flames erupt from where the energy blast had landed, streaks of fire licking up the side of the warehouse. The Doctor’s visage, lighted up by cold moonlight that shone through the broken roof and the orange hue of the blaze, remains expressionless as he continues walking towards the Master, unfazed. The Master groans as his face phased between skin and bones. He felt his life energy depleting as his skeleton shone through his skin once again.
The Master directs his other blast from his left hand slightly closer to the Doctor, seeing as the man is still walking towards him. A final warning. Energy hits the dusty ground, causing an explosion. More flames licks up like tongues, engulfing everything it touches. The Doctor wears the same expression, unblinking and cold. It is as if he doesn’t see the flames and the explosions. His eyes are fixed on the Master, his steps reverberating through the warehouse as the distance between the two time lords shrink with each growing second.
The Master is slightly panicking internally, though he does not let the panic show in his actions or on his face. He grins maniacally. Desperate, with his life energy draining at an astonishing rate, he rubs both hands together in an attempt to build up more energy to keep the Doctor away. Electricity derived from his life energy crackled around his hands, wild and uncontrolling, weaving between his fingers and around his palms. White, the manifestation of every colour, all and everything; Blue, the colour of the hottest flames. Together, they create a lethal concoction of danger; wild, unforgiving, unrelenting. The electricity grew brighter. The Master is blinking between his flesh self and his physical self more rapidly. The Doctor walks closer. They are only a few steps apart now.
The Master shoots. Energy pours from both his palms and crackles, tendrils of white light with a glowing blue hue reaching for the Doctor. It hits him square in the chest. He blinks, the expression on his face finally changing to a painful scowl. He stops in his tracks, shuddering. Finally, the Master thinks. The Doctor is still staring at the Master, taking in the energy as it flows from the Master’s palms, a long stream of glowing poison.
When he finally whips his hands away, all is silent, save the crackling of fire burning and the heavy, raspy breaths of both time lords. The smell of burnt fabric hangs heavy in the air. The two time lords stared at each other, one grimacing, one smirking. Alarm flashes in the Doctor’s eyes as he stumbles forward, staggering. The brown haired time lord drops to his knees, his head lurching backwards, arms flailing. Without thinking, the Master darts forward and wraps an arm around the Doctor’s abdomen, preventing him from falling headfirst into the ground. The Doctor puts a hand on the Master’s shoulder, looking at the Master in incredulity. Up close, the blonde can see the Doctor’s tense jaw, the shimmer of pain clouding his brown eyes. All signs that the Doctor has been hurt by the blast. Good, he thinks. Then, the Master came to his senses. He is holding the Doctor, helping his greatest enemy. What is he thinking? Disgusted, he pushes the Doctor off him, ashamed of his kindness. The Doctor lurches and lands faceplants into the dusty ground, the dull thud of his fall echoing and bouncing around the warehouse.
The blonde turns away from the other time lord, gazing at the other end of the warehouse before squatting down beside the Doctor. The Doctor hasn’t moved from the spot where he had fallen face down. The Master waits.
He knows something is off when the Doctor still lies unmoving in the dust after one long minute.
Silence. The Master hears fire crackling as it consumes yet another piece of junk. The drums, in repetitive beats of four from the beginning of time to the day when the universe ends, grow louder in his head with his growing anxiety. It is almost deafening, the drums layering with the tense silence. He waits for the Doctor to do something, like he always does. The Doctor doesn’t.
The Master rolls the Doctor over roughly, panic pounding through his hearts in sync with the drums. The Doctor coughs once. It is an unnatural sound, pitched oddly and so unlike the Doctor. The man’s dark brown eyes, once filled with endless curiosity and wonders about the universe, are now dulled with suppressed pain. He wasn’t looking at the Master. Instead, his gaze was fixed on the roof, or what used to be the roof. Moonlight pours through the roof’s opening, bathing the Doctor’s face in a cold but soft white glow. The Doctor’s face seems to glow, ghostly and paler than usual.
“Doctor?” The Master asks, tentative, and frankly rather terrified now. The Doctor has never been like this — he has always been eager and way too energetic, insisting he’s alright when he’s clearly miles from that. The man in front of him is so unlike the Doctor he had known since they were children on Gallifrey.
The Doctor stares unseeing at the Master when the latter moves to shake him. Something is really, really wrong and normally the Master would be delighted, overjoyed even, but this is something different. Something new. New, not in a good way but an incredibly bad way. The Master is panicking quite a bit now as he shakes the Doctor’s shoulders in an almost desperate attempt to rouse him from whatever state he is in currently.
“Doctor,” the Master repeats, a hint of desperation slipping into his usually steady voice. It seems to work this time. Something in the Doctor snaps, and the man seems to be roughly shoved back into his senses. The Doctor, disoriented, winces when he sees the Master. The Master should have felt a sense of satisfaction, but at this moment all he can feel is panic coursing through his blood as the Doctor tries and fails to stand, falling awkwardly back onto the ground into a heap of man and clothes. The skinny regeneration of the Doctor looks pathetic and weak lying on the ground, helpless, and it shocks the Master that instead of feeling the cruel joy he usually feels from his sadistic nature, he feels a twinge of despair.
The Master eyes the Doctor cautiously, the way someone would look at a hurt, abandoned puppy. The Doctor huffs indignantly. “Y’know, just because I’m slightly hurt doesn’t mean… you should treat me like a toddler,” he says, gritting his teeth in effort. The Master doesn’t reply, instead putting his hand on the Doctor’s chest. The Doctor doesn’t protest. His blood runs cold with the sizeable dose of panic he feels when the Doctor’s heart beat does not match the sound of drums in his head. The heart beat of a time lord, yet the Doctor’s irregular heart beat signifies that something is severely wrong. This is not how he thought his night would go, the Master thinks bitterly, his hearts cold with dread.
The Doctor groans in pain, his eyes glazing over, a layer of sweat forming on his forehead where none existed before. His lips tightened slightly and momentarily, but the Master saw it nonetheless. The Master sits down beside the Doctor. Quietly, he gathers the Doctor’s frail body into his arms. The only form of protest the Doctor articulated was a weak whine.
The Doctor is quiet. It is unusual for the Doctor to be quiet. When he is, it is usually when he is grieving, or has to stay silent to avoid being noticed for whatever reason. The Doctor has always relied on his words as his greatest weapon. He is a wordsmith, rambling on and on about anything and everything. Therefore, when the man in the Master’s arms drags on this silence, the panic he feels doubles into an almost hysterical amount.
“Say something,” the Master pleads. He is growing cold with fear as time drags on. The Doctor shoots him a heavy look. A look that carries more words than the Doctor has ever spoken in all timelines, all 900 or so years, an admission of guilt that one would typically get on a stormy afternoon right beside the raging waves. Not here, in a broken down warehouse, on a pleasant night where the moon hangs cheerfully in the sky, casting its cold but soft light down on England. The look carries all the Master’s fears and hurls it at him, unrelenting. It is an apology, a silent confirmation, a buried regret. He knows. They both know, both refuse to admit it, say it out loud, for admitting it will make it real. They will be forced to face what is and will happen, and what will continue to happen for aeons to come. The Master desperately hopes everything is just a dream, a nightmare, and when he wakes up everything will be fine. The two time lords share another look. Whatever little hope of the fake world bursts. A tear escapes the Master’s eye unconsciously, landing with a splatter on the Doctor’s rumpled jacket. For once, the Master doesn’t care.
“I’m dying,” the Doctor says softly.
And the stone drops, just like that. Two words, yet they seem to shake the Master to his very core. The string of a puppet cut, and it falls, down and down into the bottomless pit. Abyss of regret and timeline of denial.
The admission of guilt.
“No,” the Master insists, refusing to accept reality. “No, you’re not. Stop saying that.” He feels a mix of emotions all at once, all of them negative. Guilt was the strongest of it all. He chides himself for attacking the Doctor in the first place, beats himself up mentally for not controlling his own power. The Doctor is his greatest enemy, but at the same time the man lying in his arms is also his best and oldest friend. The last of the Time Lords. The Doctor and the Master, four beats of the heart, four hearts in total, four knocks of the drums. It was all written in the books, from the first time they laced their fingers together, running through fields of red, flowy grass, laughing like nothing ever mattered, wind grazing their cheeks, to the first time they fought and became enemies, to when they met after the Time War and the Master was still Professor Yana, up until his Harold Saxon persona. And now it’s ruined; he ruined everything. The Master has had blood on his hands multiple times, but this outranks every single one of them combined.
He is devastated as the initial denial slowly wears off. The Master pulls the Doctor closer to himself and sobs, something he hasn’t done for a very long time, especially not because of grief. A hand reaches out and touches his face reassuringly. The Doctor wipes his tears off his face gently, a smile on his face despite his pain, mainly to reassure the Master. It doesn’t work. The Master sobs grew more frantic and hysterical.
“Regenerate, Doctor, please…” the Master begs, despite knowing that it will never happen. Can’t ever happen now. The Doctor’s grimace only confirmed it. “Can’t, you know, straight to the chest and everything. The hearts’ damaged. Nerve…” the Doctor trails off as the Master buries his head in the nook of the brown haired man’s neck. Guilt stabs through him like knives, deep into his hearts, pulling out unexpectedly and leaving a gaping hole for him to bleed out his sorrows and regret. Such an unfamiliar, uninvited feeling. The Doctor’s left hand comes up to run soothingly through his blonde hair, right hand hanging limply by the side.
The Master cries until his tears run out and his wails become whimpers. The moon shines its unforgiving light coldly on the two huddled figures, apathetic as always. Mocking, even. No storm clouds to darken the mood, nothing to obscure the familiarity of it all. A perfectly normal night, like every other night gone and all the nights to come. The Doctor grows stiller and colder in his arms.
“You can’t die, not here, not now…. You have to stop my plans, remember? All the plans that I’m going to come up with. You’re the universe’s saviour, so come on! Thwart my plans to conquer the Earth. Stop me from blowing up planets. You have to!” The Master rocks the Doctor in his arms gently, cradles him. The Doctor shakes his head and whispers an apology.
“Stop. No. Don’t apologise.” He can’t live with himself. The Doctor and the Master, the sun and the moon, chasing the tails of each other. The sun loses his glow in the moon’s arms, his burning passion burning out, smothering. There is no explosion to engulf everything in flames where there should be. Just quiet resignation from the man below.
The Master lays the other time lord down onto the floor delicately. He takes the Doctor’s left hand with both of his own, shaking, rubbing the Doctor’s pale knuckles with his cold, shuddering fingers. “I didn’t mean to do that. I didn’t want this to happen. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I…. No, please no….” The Doctor gazes at him, eyes devoid of the fire that usually courses through them, yet, they were peaceful. “I forgive you. Always. For everything.” The brown haired time lord breathes out. The Master shakes his head frantically.
In all timelines, all possibilities, there has to be at least one timeline, one possibility where this encounter did not happen. “Time can be rewritten,” the Master says. The corner of the Doctor’s mouth twitches slightly. A resigned smile. “Not this time. This is a fixed point in time. Sorry.” The Master knows just as well as the other man does, but hearing it in words brutally extinguishes whatever tiny little hope that resides in his hearts.
The Master’s grip on the Doctor’s left hand grows just a bit tighter. “I’m so so so sorry, don’t leave me…” he chokes out, unable to hide the regret that spills out of him in agonising waves. The other man’s body grows colder and limper, eyes drooping. The Master sobs. The Doctor’s mind brushes his own, comforting. The Master holds on to it, entangles his mind with the Doctor’s, not letting go. He sees the grounds of Gallifrey, rolling hills of red grass rippling like waves when a gentle breeze wheeze through it, hears long gone laughter lingering in the air. He sees the Citadel standing proud beneath the twin suns, the city shimmering in all its golden glory.
The Doctor hears the Master’s drums. The Master watches as understanding and resignation dawns on his face, followed by acceptance. The drums, going circles and circles in beats of four. One two three four…
He will knock four times. The thought hangs heavy between the two time lords. The Master is horrified and feels an inhumane amount of guilt and regret.
I’m sorry, he thinks, earnest. Desperate. The Doctor’s mind wraps itself gently around his own. Don’t be, the Doctor repeats. You’re forgiven. Always and completely forgiven. The Master chokes out another sob. It’s time, the Doctor thinks.
No, he thinks, frantic, and says it out loud as well. A cry to the universe. The Master doesn’t let go. You’re brilliant, the Doctor whispers in his head. Wonderfully brilliant. Thank you, the Doctor breathes.
It happens when he isn’t ready, nor will he ever be ready for the rest of time. The Doctor lets go of his mind and he feels nothing at all. A gnawing emptiness in his head, cold and silent and not right. Even the drums have subsided into a dull throb at the back of his mind. Achingly quiet, claustrophobic, stifling silence. He opens his eyes. The Doctor was still on the ground, unmoving. The hand in his hands limp and cold. Lifeless, he thinks, a tear forcing itself out of his eyes again despite having run out of it. There’s an old saying that you never learn to appreciate someone until you lose them, and the Master is feeling the full blast of it.
He is numb as he gingerly gathers the Doctor’s body into his arms once again, cradling him, rocking him back and forth. Wishing for a miracle that will never happen. He doesn’t notice the trickling of time as the moon falls away gracefully and the sun replaces it in the sky. He doesn’t notice the rain that extinguishes the fire, doesn't feel the bone shattering cold of wet clothes mixed with howling wind. He can’t care less about the golden rays that envelops both of them. After all, what use is the sun when his sun is dead? He buries his head in the nook of the Doctor’s neck, pretending that the skin is of room temperature and normal for a time lord instead of the chilling coldness it now possesses. He sniffs, taking in the familiar scent since childhood. Moving his head down to the Doctor’s chest, he presses his ear down and listens. Nothing. No beats of four where there used to be for 900 years. Empty and silent and dead.
The Master wails, hollow, heavy with guilt and self hatred. It is a chilling sound, the hopeless agony that reverberates around the barren, charred warehouse, carrying unspoken words and endless regret. He hates himself for being so careless and losing the only person that matters to him. He beats himself up for murdering his best friend. If the kid on Gallifrey could look at what he became now, he would be ashamed. The Master is insane, yes. He doesn’t deny that he can be evil at times. But he made a promise that he would never, ever, kill the Doctor, which he had broken. He chuckles self deprecatingly. Look at him now, pathetic. He was laughing at the Doctor being injured after he… he shakes his head, the memory hurting too much for him to focus on.
He is truly alone in this world. The sole time lord remaining in the entire universe. The drums and his own condition seems to be the least of his worries as he remains holding on to the long lifeless body of his dear friend.
Around 3 in the afternoon, the Master hears shuffling and shouting, accompanied by the buzz of heavy machinery. His cheeks are tear stained as he glanced up from where he is sitting on the ground, clothes still humid from the rain at dawn. His legs are asleep, pinpricks poking into his skin. He can’t be bothered.
He hears the sharp click of guns cocking before he sees the people in army uniform pouring into the warehouse. Ah, that must be UNIT, he thinks. The Doctor’s companion must have reported the Doctor missing. Or companions, at times, he corrects himself.
“Drop the Doctor,” a female voice orders, assertive and powerful. It takes him a couple of seconds to recognise the host of the voice in his grief-stricken state. Martha Jones, the girl who managed to outsmart him on the Valiant. He isn’t surprised that she joined UNIT, especially after what she’s been through.
“Drop the Doctor,” Martha repeats, louder now. The Master shakes his head, unable to formulate words as his grip on the body tightens. He is looking at the Doctor’s body again. The Doctor has a small grin on his face, making his hearts ache with loss.
“Last warning, drop the Doctor or we will open fire!”
The Master finds himself unable to care less. “Do it then. I don’t care. Is this what the Doctor wants of you, Martha Jones?” His voice is hoarse from crying and yelling throughout the night. Martha hesitates. “The Doctor will understand.” She’s uncertain, the Master can hear doubt dripping from her carefully placed words.
“He won’t. He’s gone.”
Four hushed words spoken from grieving lips. A stifling silence fell over the warehouse, broken only by Martha after a good 10 seconds of shock. “What do you mean by gone?”
“Gone. Dead. He’s dead,” the Master says quietly. “I killed him.”
The admission rang silently in the air as Martha steps closer to the Master and points her gun to his forehead. Death without regeneration if she presses down onto the trigger twice in a row, the Master muses. “You killed him?” She was seething, her teeth gritted with barely restrained anger. The Master swallows, nodding painfully and wincing at the thought. “Drop him. Now.” Martha glares at him with disgust and hatred.
“Shoot me, go on. Martha Jones’ first extraterrestrial victim. Or wait, no, you’ve killed aliens before, and I’m just one additional death to your collection of victims. Go on then.” The Master challenges, looking up into Martha’s eyes, his grip on the Doctor’s body almost possessive. Martha gulps, the index finger on the trigger pressing down slightly, not enough to cause a bullet to shoot out.
He looks behind Martha. 6 more UNIT soldiers were spread out in formation, guns all facing him. An old man is standing slightly behind Martha, horror painted on his wrinkled face as he stares unblinking between Martha, the Master and the Doctor’s body. The Doctor’s current companion, or the one with him before he… well, died, the Master realises. The Master spots the handle of a revolver poking out from under his jacket. Probably for self defense after noticing the Doctor’s missing. He grins maniacally, an idea popping into his head. He let go of the Doctor’s body somewhat reluctantly, jumping back as Martha kneels down beside the brown haired man. Eyes flicking to the old man, he quickly eyes the man up and down. Swiftly, he takes a few steps toward the man, grabbing the revolver and locking the man in a chokehold, putting the gun on the man’s temple. This sequence of action happens at astonishing speed, before anyone has time to react.
The man cries out. Martha whips her head around. The two humans exchanged a horrified look, with Martha crying out, “Wilf, no!” The man, Wilf, coughs and wheezes as the Master applies pressure to the chokehold. “Leave the Doctor and I alone, and I’ll let your old man live,” the Master threatens, his voice unwavering and dangerous despite his mental state. A tense silence passed between all the people present. A UNIT soldier steps forward, but is stopped by Martha. The Master wiggles his finger on the trigger, and Wilf’s eyes widen in terror. Martha looks distressed as she takes a step away from the Doctor’s body cautiously. “You have a deal.”
The blonde releases the old man, now pointing the revolver at Martha as he backs slowly to sit down beside the Doctor again. Martha tells her people to retreat. Once they are out of the warehouse, the Master drops the revolver onto the ground with a clank and scoops the Doctor’s cold, stiff body into his arms. The corpse was pale to the point of blue, yet he still refuses to let go.
“Come back, please, Doctor… stop me from committing heinous crimes. I’ll even travel with you in your stupid Tardis, if you want. We can see the stars together, how about that? You’ve always wanted that, didn’t you? I’ll be good. I’ll try to be. I’m so sorry, I regret everything, please… just come back…” the Master begs, weeps. His screams into a black hole, pleas falling on deaf ears. Silence, except the sound of the Master’s hyperventilating breaths. The Doctor’s eyes are closed, and he looks so peaceful in a way that hurts the Master.
He pleads again and again, screaming his heart out to no one, until his words become slurred together, incomprehensible. Then he just sits there, blank, devoid of anything. Empty and hollow. He caused this. He murdered the Doctor. He didn’t mean to, but alas, the Doctor died by his hands, and it hurts him to think of that.
His eyes drifts to the revolver. It must have been evening, the sun casting warm glows on the two figures. He stares at the gun and ponders. His sun is dead, so what use does the moon serve now? An unpleasant thought stems in his head, rooting deep in his mind, flourishing at a rapid pace. The drums hum and grow louder. What is the point of taking over the universe when the Doctor can’t be there to stop him or see his glorious kingdom? He lowers the Doctor onto the ground, forlorn, running a hand through the brown hair. The action stabs his heart and fills it with guilt and regret. A whimper rips itself from his lips.
His right hand drifts towards the handle of the revolver. Wrapping his fingers around the cool, lethal metal, he lifts the gun up, weighing it in his hand. He ponders again, staring at the unforgiving device in his hand. A lump forms in his throat and he forces himself to swallow it down. He is sick, using up his life energy, with the tormenting drumbeat in his head. The idea seems increasingly appealing. He swallows again, choking out a sob.
The Master returns to kneel down beside the Doctor. He makes up his mind. He presses the barrel of the gun to his temple, closing his eyes.
“I’m coming, Doctor. Wait for me.”
Two gunshots echo in the warehouse, bouncing around in a desolate tune. The first one causes the Master to slump over the Doctor’s body, glowing with regeneration energy. The glow stops by the second gunshot.
Just like that, the last of the Time Lords, gone. A species dissolves into stories and whispers by firesides on a perfectly normal evening.
Martha and her team return again to the warehouse at midnight. Wilf doesn’t tag along, after much convincing. After the disastrous encounter with the Master that afternoon, she thinks that it is best Wilf stays out of this case, at least for now. She doesn’t know what to feel. One moment she was with the Doctor and many of his companions who are just like her, saving the Earth and multiple planets, and next time she saw that man, he was dead. Grief and rage bubbles in her, mixing together into a deadly concoction of adrenaline and hunger for revenge. The Master will pay for what he did, she thinks furiously.
She doesn’t know what to expect when she and her team barge into the scrapyard warehouse, guns primed and ready to fire, but it certainly was not what is displayed in front of her. The scene in front of her shocks her to her very core, and despite being familiar with gruesome images, Martha still shudders.
Two bodies are strewn across the ground, one atop the other. The moonlight makes them almost glow eerily. The Master is sprawled over the blueing body of the Doctor, blood dripping from his head slowly. There is blood sprayed all over the ground in a five metres radius from the two bodies, some of them dried up into a morbid brownish red, most of it still shimmering crimson. It is a horrifying image. Brain matter is splattered onto the floor in puddles of blood, the grey tissue stained with sickening red. Wilf’s revolver was directly below the Master’s limp right hand, its shining metal coated in a thin layer of blood. It is apparent what the Master had done. Martha retches, suddenly nauseous. Despite feeling a deep sense of horror and dread, Martha takes a few steps forward and squats down beside the two bodies. The rest of her team lingers behind, unsure of what to do.
Up close, Martha could see the Master’s distorted, almost unrecognisable face. It is frightening. Where his left eye used to be, a bloody eye socket stands. Martha thinks that his eye lies somewhere in the pile of gruesome matter around them, mushed into unrecognition. Blood stains half of his face. He still wears a forlorn expression, the same one Martha found him with in the afternoon. So unlike the Harold Saxon she knew, the one that had taken over Earth for a whole year. She doesn't feel particularly sad at his death, given the torture he had put she and her family through, but Martha can’t help but feel little sorrowful at the nature of the situation itself.
Gingerly, using gloves and with the help of two UNIT soldiers, Martha removed the Master’s body from atop the Doctor’s. She had a first proper look at the Doctor, and it almost makes her burst into tears right then and there. The Doctor, once so lively and bubbly with ideas, now lies on the blood covered floor of the warehouse, unmoving and paler than a ghost, a stark contrast with the dark-coloured blood below. She remembers her adventures with the Doctor, how he rambles on and on about things beyond her understanding. He will never speak ever again. Not one sentence, not one word. Martha chokes out a sob, struggling to keep her emotions under control. She stands and turns away, unable to bear looking at the bodies any longer.
“Clean them up and build a funeral pyre for them,” Martha instructs her team, recalling what the Doctor did when the Master ‘died’ on the Valiant, her voice wavering despite her attempt to keep it steady. She herself steps out of the warehouse, taking deep breaths to clear her head and keep her emotions under control for now. She’s numb, seeing it in person, still in denial of this whole thing.
Martha walks back into the warehouse a third of the hour later, her thoughts clearer and slightly more calm. The bodies had been cleaned, the blood almost nonexistant, the only sign of the suicide is the blood that has seeped into the cracks of the flooring and the blood that still stains the two time lord’s clothes. Martha, still dazed, walks out again to help with the pyre just outside the warehouse.
The two bodies are laid on top, side by side. The Doctor has a small smile on his face, while the Master bears a frown. The sun and the moon.
A fire was lit, engulfing the wooden pyre in seconds. Martha watches as her beloved Doctor and his best enemy gets swallowed by the flames. Against the black backdrop of the night sky, the fire crackles with such great ferocity. An orange glow illuminates Martha and her team’s faces, revealing their somber expressions.
The last of the Time Lords. Burning together.
Two intertwined stories told at dinner tables. Two fables passed down through generations. Legend has it that the Doctor and the Master reunited in the afterlife and travelled the stars together. The Doctor and the Master in the Tardis, just like they had promised. Forever and ever….