He was crying.
The Doctor never cried, but he wept now like a child. He huddled on the floor of the TARDIS, his body wrenched by heart-broken sobs.
I hadn't expected him to cry. I had expected him to turn and leave, the silent god that destroyed the Racnoss, and imprisoned the Family of Blood. Unrelenting, doing what had to be done. But he wasn't a god then. That came later.
Now he was simply alone, helplessly, hopelessly alone. He wept for hours, unmoving, letting the TARDIS fly where she would, carrying him away from the wreck and the carnage. It didn't matter where they went; the image had been seared forever into his mind of Gallifrey burning, his home gone, his people; the guilty and the innocent alike.
He had killed them. He alone was responsible for the wholescale slaughter of two races. There had been no one to help him, no one to encourage him or to hold his hand as he activated the Moment.
Asked to go back and do it again, he would. Even knowing what he knew, even seeing what he'd seen, even with these days and hours of mourning upon him, he would do it again. Somewhere, somehow, he would find the strength. No, he was no god. He was a fallen angel, setting himself up as a god, with the power of life and death.
He looked up at last, far from where the last vestiges of the deed were swallowed by the Void. The look in his eyes was indescribable, and I thought that he would take his own life then. It would be fitting; he had no right to go waltzing off into the universe now; the last of the Time Lords, triumphant in his brethren's death.
He stood, shaking, and pulled himself together. The look on his face was that of a judge and a convict, and all thoughts of suicide had fled from his mind. Death would be mercy, and he deserved no mercy. Living would be far, far worse, and that was what he sentenced himself to in everlasting penance.
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