The Doctor’s hearts gallop, his shredded face stings, and his head is afire with the sudden influx of a hundred thousand Time Lord consciousnesses. They were all there, a cacophony on the other side of the Time Lock, springing into existence again as though they’d never been gone. The Doctor had once imagined it would be a relief to sense them again, that he wouldn’t feel lonely any more, but in this moment he only feels nauseous.

He’s bleeding internally from his fall through the glass roof, he has at least four broken ribs, and he’s hemmed in by death — the Master behind him, Rassilon before. He can’t remember the last time he actually vomited, but he’s certain he will in just a moment. Holding the pistol steady at Rassilon is almost more than he can manage.

One of the shamed members of the Time Lord High Council arrayed behind Rassilon moves, lowering her hands from in front of her face. As she does so, she also unveils her mind, an intentional giving-over of her identity, which Rassilon had no doubt commanded her to hide.

It is Romana.

She is still in her third regeneration, and the strain of the Time War has aged her. She’s still beautiful. And as her mind touches his, he feels her callousness is gone. Her disdain and hardness, born out of her regeneration during her tenure as Lady President of Gallifrey, has been worn away to a grim resignation and faint hope at seeing him again. 

It must be done, Doctor. Her thought is clear and calm. On its heels comes another, light as the brush of wind over a spiderweb. Absolution, my friend.

Without a second’s hesitation, the Doctor spins around, leveling the gun at the machine on the other side of the room. His eyes lock with the Master’s.

“Get out of the way!”

(Source: how-ood, via tennantsbluebox)