#tendawhan

[sclfmastery]

He stands there, bewildered, hearts breaking as the torrent of emotions bursts forth from the other timelord like the breaking of a dam.

Too long.

This has been coming for too long.

He tries to take it all in. Her. That’s new. He doesn’t understand, but he can guess well enough. And oh he has so many questions, because despite everything they have dragged one another through, he cannot imagine a lifetime where he does not need The Master like breathing.

“Koschei…” Gently, tenderly, he takes the other’s hands in his own, trying to loosen his frantic grip.

“Is that what you want? Gods and monsters, it’s been so long since you’ve let me call you by your name…” His fingers lightly brush the other man’s face. “Hey… breathe… Breathe. Don’t-… It’s alright, Koschei. Everything’s gonna be alright.”

He pulls him close, holding him as tight as he dares. This face is such a visceral opposite to the one that came before — the face that synced up with his own timeline, and he can’t help but to feel slightly unbalanced.

“I’m here,” he murmurs softly. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere if you don’t want me to. I-… I’m sorry, Koschei. I’m so so sorry…”

Yeah....different: this is that same vainglorious charlatan, the politician with the pink cheeks and pale impatiently shorn hair and babyface, only put through fate's trash compactor one time too many. Vulnerable where Harry Saxon was unyielding. Weary and cold and aimless and alone, and aware, all too aware, of the real odds against him.

All he needs is the other half of himself; killing, emulating, or merging with that person have all proven failures. It is time to simply dwell next to the Doctor.

The Master indulges himself in fully letting go; for once, he is in control of nothing, and it is a relief. He sobs, and it's not beautifully poetic the way tragedy is, it's ugly and final the way tragedy is. It's both empty and complete the way tragedy is, the way a loved one lies on the field of battle or under the white sheet in the morgue, and you look at their visage, and it's them but it isn't. That is how the Master sobs, relinquishing his title, with tears and snot and gasps and whimpers. This, he realizes, is all he has ever wanted. If he should die, if the universe should collapse under the gravity of this temporal paradox, this mismatching of soul-mates, then fine. He'll go with a smile.