They had made fun of Scaroth, the two of them, at the time. His pathetic disguise and his objets d’art and his human wife and his desperation. They’d defeated his planet-killing scheme and counted it a holiday.
“What a sad way to go,” he’d said afterwards. “Last of a species.” She’d taken his arm and smiled. She’d been with him then.
She had been the flower of Gallifrey: she’d embodied everything they could have been, should have been, and mostly weren’t. And that had killed her in the end.
It had stopped being funny, somehow, now that he was alone.