Chapter Text
Under the burnt orange sky, there is a kaleidoscopic glass dome above a city. The city is crowded, the people beautiful, and laughter rings through the bustle of the crowds. Silver leaves of trees fall softly unto the ground, reflecting the light of the twin suns, and in the distance, far, far away, painted with a million brilliant hues of orange and red and yellow, is a canvas of colors stretched across the sky, giving the everlasting mountains a look of pure, liquid beauty.
That is Gallifrey.
Gallifrey is as beautiful as you remember, every detail fresh from your dream, fresh onto the crisp white paper waiting for you to pour your worries out; you can still sense it, the smell of the plains of grass, stretching for miles and miles across the hills, scarlet as ever, and the sound, oh, god, the sound- of its people, the Gallifreyans, still alive.
Or should you have said... still, not dead...?
Your hand raises, against your own will, and shakily, you fill out every detail with the charcoal. Painstakingly slow, as to savour every memory, commemorate it all. The round horizon, graced with bleeding crimson suns, the gently sloping and curving hills, everything you can imagine. The crystalline dome of the city, the tiny people, all going on with their lives as they had in your dream.
Every detail, coming to life upon your paper. The colours wait on your palette, patiently, almost wanting to represent your home; all of it, too large of scale to be brought onto paper, by hand, through nothing but your dream. But you remember it, because it still hasn't left you, has it? The soft blessing of your people, caressing the very depths of your soul.
The charcoal sketch is rough, but captivating. You cannot believe you have drawn this, managed to capture even a miniature portion of the allure of your planet. If you place your hand upon the paper, flutter your eyes closed, you can almost feel it. Right there, in front of you, alive. The image burned into the back of your eyelids.
You long for the warmth of two suns, shining on your face, illuminating the city with its flaming hues. Your eyes snap open once more, and you survey the picture, mouth dry.
There is still one thing missing.
Drawing the paper closer to you, you rub the charcoal against your fingers nervously, and in a terrace, away from the confusing crowd, you draw him. Your lover.
Or at least, how you remember him. Like it had been, in the dream. His messy hair, the etched linings of his face, his silk suit, that watch. Those slightly weary yet grinning eyes.
You get halfway through his face before tears start running down your face.
That's when you stop, when you let down that piece of charcoal and wipe your face with dirtied hands, paying no mind to the streaks of black running across your cheeks. You must be over him- it's been more than just a few years- but you can't. He had been your life, made you seen colour in places you'd never thought to look. You'd loved, sweet and short... till the end.
This was you getting better. He'd always been better at hiding emotions than you- while you screamed and cried and cursed, he'd always been there, deathly silent, like the calm before a storm. He'd held you, rocked you back and forth in his arms, and he'd whispered consolations. He'd always hid his emotions too well.
And god knows, this was you getting better. Before, at the mere mention of your home, you'd cried. Felt as if you were drowning, as if you were six feet under and you couldn't just live. Now? All you felt was mere numbness. Emptiness. A hollow feeling, inside of your chest, as if your two hearts had stopped simultaneously.
And you'd learnt to hide your emotions, or get hidden by them.
"I'm a man of science," He used to say to you, "But meeting you? That- that was destiny right there. Good ol' destiny at its finest."
You'd blushed at that time and told him, rather violently, to shut up. Then you would have turned over in the bedsheets and kissed the living daylights out of him, just because you could.
Taking a deep breath, you make sure the tears are gone before picking up the chunk of charcoal again, and with slow but steady fingers, finish the outline of his face. Of your Doctor's face.
You are (Y/N) (L/N), and you are the last of the Time Lords.