FIC: Burning Remnants
Community: justprompts
Prompt: Hourglass (picture)
Character(s): The Master, the Doctor
Words: 2,643
Summary: After the lock containing the Time War shatters and bursts open, the remnants left behind burn along with Gallifrey and the Daleks.
Warning: Major character death, angst.
...Yes, I realize how impossible this plot is XD But... for SOME REASON the prompt escaped me and lol, this is what it became. And heck if I know how the time-lock broke. They don't, either. Use your imagination!
Burning Remnants
“You don’t get it, do you?” the Master’s voice echoes around the room, questionably, but he doesn’t look up from the leaflet held in his hand. The lights in the TARDIS have dimmed since he has taken this seat at the desk, and it isn’t his doing. He wonders if, in another hour or so, they would be in complete darkness.
He sighs, then brings up a hand to press at his eyelids, face wrinkling in frustration and dislike. He drops the leaflet to the tabletop and leans over it, trying to cool his mind. “It’s too late, you know,” he says aloud once more. He reaches out with his free hand, knocking over a jar of various writing utensils from different centuries and parts of space, and grasps an antique hourglass.
Much like them.
He watches the last of the sands fall to the bottom, then turns it again and rises to his feet in one fluid motion. He faces the room’s doorway, and casts a neutral look toward the Doctor. “Ten more turns,” he tells the other cryptically. The Doctor stands in a ruffled dress shirt and slacks, hair mussed, expression worn and old. The Master thinks to say: You’re age is showing, but he doesn’t.
Ten more turns of the hourglass. After that, he wonders if he’ll start looking like the Doctor does now. He banishes the idea quickly from his mind. He’ll deal with that bridge when he comes to it, or something. When it comes to him.
“Have you nothing else to say?” the Master asks, voice sharper now. The silence from the other is aggravating. It makes the situation no more bearable, can’t he see? If he shakes him, hits him, will the Doctor react? Is this all that becomes of a Time Lord when there isn’t anything left for their hearts to survive off of?
The TARDIS is dying alongside the Doctor. She rumbles every so often, jarring books that line the walls, rocking a vase or two. Something shattered earlier; despite it startling the Master from his thoughts, he didn’t pay any other attention to it. He’s tried to offer the TARDIS a link to his mind, a bit of salvation for when there’s nothing left of the Doctor, but she ignored him and even went as far as shoving him far, far away from her psychic channels.
Even after all this time, she doesn’t want his sympathy. Even after she opened up once for him, easing the drumming, softening the rhythm by mixing in her own song. Those days ended not long ago, when she chose to put the blame for this onto him. It isn’t my fault! He desperately tried to make her understand, and then the familiar beat began to creep back through his inner being, and he dragged himself to this study to stay.
The Master begins forward, hands clenching at his sides to keep from tapping fingers on any of the surfaces that he passes by. He doesn’t want to. He stopped that. An old, forgotten habit - he’s grown out of it.
One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, one-two-three -
“Doctor,” the Master growls. “Say something.” Anything. Him and the TARDIS, they can’t both be blocking him out. Not now, of all times. If they chose to leave him like this, then -
“I get it,” the Doctor replies at last, quietly. “I see it. It’s before my eyes.” He reaches up a hand and waves it in front of his face, his eyes not shifting in the slightest.
The Master grows cold. He thinks his hearts slow at the sickening realization. “You’re blind.”
“Yes,” the Doctor admits.
“But -” And he was the one saying that this couldn’t be fixed, now he’s shaking with the sudden need to reverse the problem, but his gaze locks back to the hourglass behind him, and he can see, hear, feel the last of the sands falling again. Angrily he storms to the table and flips it, slamming it down. “Nine,” he hisses. He stays poised by it, watching the white slip to the bottom half, and then his anger drains out of him and he hangs his head. “This can’t be happening.”
“I’m sorry,” the Doctor murmurs.
“You’re sorry?” That fires that Master up again. For a moment he glares towards the Doctor, but seeing that blank stare in return causes him to tear his gaze away. “Why the hell are you sorry?! This isn’t your fault!”
“It isn’t yours, either.”
“Tell that to your damnable ship.”
“She’s just… panicked. Lost.”
“And we’re not better?”
The Doctor doesn’t answer. He moves slowly into the room, one hand out as a faint guide to his surroundings, even though he remembers the layout. He stops at the Master’s side, hand brushing across the table’s surface, fingertips straying over sheets of paper, bumps of utensils, an inkwell. It tips and the Master stays silent as he watches the ink spread over everything; he doesn’t even move his hands away as it rolls against them. The Doctor, still, utters a brief apology after realizing what happened.
“What are you seeing?” the Master asks, his own eyes focused on the white sand.
“Gallifrey,” the Doctor says solemnly, after a moment’s hesitation. “Burning, again and again.”
Of course, the Master supposes. What else was there to see besides the dreadful war? He shuts his eyes and breathes, trying to focus on the rhythm of his hearts instead of the drumming that grows louder and louder as time passes.
He suggested early on that they could fly into a sun and kill themselves. It wasn’t exactly their style or anything, but they were dying anyway, probably in the worst of ways… Remnants of a long forgotten Time War being eaten away until there was nothing left. He rests an ink-stained hand over the top of the hourglass and he now feels a fire snaking within him, twisting and biting out, and he knows that it has begun to effect him. “We could still go find a sun, you know,” the Master gasps, clutching the timepiece.
The beginning symptoms were the worst, the Doctor had mentioned nonchalantly, after he had spent minutes convulsing on the TARDIS grating, yelling in agony.
“The TARDIS won’t respond, anymore.” The Doctor sounds as though he already tried.
“Are you sure the beginning is the worst?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he answers softly, shifting to lean against the desk, arms crossed. His gaze is off to a far wall, but it doesn’t matter. All he sees is the Time War, exploding before his vision. “I’m sure the end will be just as bad.”
“Aren’t you just the morbid one?” the Master rasps, and he flips the hourglass before sliding to the floor in a mess, one hand wrapped around the chair leg, the other burrowing into his suit and pressing against his chest. From the corner of his vision he sees the Doctor trying to seek him out, surprise laced across his features as if he just realizes what is happening to the Master.
“I hoped it wouldn’t…” the Doctor pauses, fishing for words. He finishes even quieter than before: “I didn’t think it would get you, too.”
The Master barks out a laugh, but it comes out rougher than he intended. “Why would you think that? I’m a remnant, same as you.”
“But it… started later.”
“I don’t know, maybe because of my long period of being human.” He releases the chair and hunches forward, clenching his eyes shut as the pain begins to spread. At least, he thinks with irritation, he doesn’t hear the drumming. They’re still there, he bets, but they aren’t nearly on par with this new infestation. “I won’t be able to flip that damn thing anymore,” he says a bit too fast.
“Doesn’t matter,” the Doctor replies. The Master can hear him rifle along the table again, before it seems he finds what he was looking for. “I think I’m better off not knowing the countdown.” And the Master looks up sharply to see the Doctor holding out the hourglass, letting it slip from his hand and shatter to the floor. The Master just stares at it blankly.
“I thought you liked keeping antiques.”
The Doctor shrugs. There isn’t much of his old personality left to him. He reaches out a hand and it meets the Master’s shoulder, and then the Doctor settles down to the floor next to him, bringing up his legs and resting his head on his knees. “They won’t survive longer than the TARDIS.”
The Master nods in understanding. That’s the last of their conversation as the fire reaches out into his mind and his synapses flair. He curls in on himself, clutching his head and shaking, feelings his body tremble and start to break apart and he has to bite back the yell that threatens to escape him. The beginning was the worst. Knowing that doesn’t make things any better for him. It has to get worse before it can get better.
He feels arms encircle him, and somewhere in a stable part of his mind, he scoffs. The Master didn’t offer any comfort to the Doctor when the symptoms first struck; he only stood by and watched, too shocked to move. He wonders if the other was simply using the opportunity to seek his own bit of comfort now, but then he remembers what a sentimental fool the Doctor always was.
He chokes on another ragged cry and sinks into the Doctor’s side, hot lightning coursing from his skull to his ankles, searing everything in its wake.
“It’s alright, Master,” the Doctor murmurs against his hair.
“Like hell,” the Master breaks out, voice a higher pitch than usual. He stops keeping track of time, of everything. Somewhere along the way he finds himself in his mind, stumbling down corridors of charred doorways, hinges roasted. He wonders how much of himself he will lose during this process, and then he wonders how much the Doctor had lost.
The fire slowly begins to subside, but by then he’s slumped completely against the other, motionless. He hears the drumming again, a thunderous encore. His body and mind cools, but the destruction remains. He’s too far weakened to even try to begin repairs. He supposes the Doctor didn’t manage, either. It would explain some things.
Hands tighten around his back and the Master thinks he hears his name spoken, but the drums distort most of the outside noise. But then a second - or maybe a third - insistent call follows and the Master forces himself to focus. “What?” he groans, trying to shift, but the Doctor won’t let him go.
“I’m sorry,” the Doctor sobs brokenly, “I’m so sorry, Master.”
The Master swallows. His nerves jump up on end and he can’t seem to quell them. “What are you… what’s going on?”
When he feels the Doctor’s grip slacken, he takes advantage of it and gathers what remains of his energy to push himself up and look at his fellow Time Lord. His eyes widen. The Doctor has grown a paler, a sickly color. He’s been crying, but the Master hardly knows for how long given the state he had previously been in. Then on closer examination - he reaches out a shaking hand - he sees the other’s skin start to change. An energy, crawling beneath the surface. It reminds him of regeneration, and fear grips him tightly. “You’re -”
The Doctor forces a smile, resting his back against the desk. He sets his hands to the TARDIS floor, then shudders. “I can’t hold it back any longer. It…” His eyes shut and makes a sound akin to a faint laugh. “The end isn’t so painful, you know.”
“Doc -” Whatever the Master intended to say, the words die off and he sharply withdraws from the Doctor’s vicinity as orange light burns through skin and clothing all at once, dissolving any of the remnants of the Doctor. The light swirls through the sky for a manner of seconds, before it fades out.
The TARDIS moans around him. The Master doesn’t move, doesn’t react beyond anything except shock and fear. The last blip in his mind regarding the Time Lords disappears and he despairingly realizes that he’s the only one left.
“You were worried,” the Doctor blinks at him with surprise from where he was resting on the ground.
“Of course I was worried, you idiot! Stuck on a planet with only your precious humans for company? Oh, that sounds like a wonderful vacation!”
“You couldn’t stand being left alone with only the drumming the rest of your life.”
“I can endure more than you think, Doctor.”
But he couldn’t. It was now painfully obvious that he couldn’t. He was going to lose all his remaining sanity before he burst into energy just as the Doctor. Oh, what a way to go. That was the last thing he wanted right now. And it was even worse, knowing that the Doctor had actually tried to hold back whatever it was killing him to stay.
“The end isn’t so painful, you know.”
This can’t be happening.
It couldn’t. None of this made any sense. It shouldn’t be happening, even. He doesn’t know what they did, if it even was them - maybe the universe just decided that they weren’t worthy anymore. That they couldn’t exist. As if the universe was its own entity, at least. Possibly a very vengeful one, then, if it decided that shattering the time-lock containing the Last Great Time War was a great idea. Gallifrey burns, the Daleks burn, and then - somehow, achingly - they do as well.
It wasn’t fair. He didn’t deserve this. What had he done to the universe in his years of traveling with the Doctor? Sure, in the beginning it had been rough, and who could blame him? But then he finally, finally actually listened to the Doctor when the other begged him to stop. And that had been it.
So then why the hell was this happening?!
He growls, frustrated, looking around for something to destroy, something to take his anger out on. His mind roars on with the drumming, forcing him to drag himself to his feet and stare around him with a predatory gaze. An animal that needed to kill. There had to be something. Tear his hands through something… anything…
A nudge against his mind causes him to rethink, however. The TARDIS reaches out to him, envelopes his mind, grieving for the Doctor and forgiving the Master and she sings. He slumps, accepting her in wholeheartedly, and the drums begin to dull again. She has to wind more tightly into him than ever before, now that the Doctor is gone. She’s mourning, and he begins to as well. His vision blackens and he isn’t sure if it is because of her or himself.
They’re both equally dying.
He relocates to the console room and rests himself against her controls, emotion seeping out of him as his vision takes another turn for the worse. “It’s alright, old girl,” he whispers to her. She’s shaking apart. “Don’t hold yourself together for me. Can’t have him waiting now, can we?” She hums around him and he smiles. His vision cuts out; he sees the untempered schism flow before him, and then he watches the Dalek Emperor takes control of the Cruciform. He shuts his eyes and holds a hand against them, then snaps, “No really, I bet he’d be upset if I let you die after me, all on your lonesome.” He can’t run from the scene before him this time.
The TARDIS slips in and out of his mind, their connection to one another breaking. Good, he thinks. It isn’t long now. He slides to the floor and tucks himself beneath the controls.
Not long now.
Prompt: Hourglass (picture)
Character(s): The Master, the Doctor
Words: 2,643
Summary: After the lock containing the Time War shatters and bursts open, the remnants left behind burn along with Gallifrey and the Daleks.
Warning: Major character death, angst.
...Yes, I realize how impossible this plot is XD But... for SOME REASON the prompt escaped me and lol, this is what it became. And heck if I know how the time-lock broke. They don't, either. Use your imagination!
Burning Remnants
“You don’t get it, do you?” the Master’s voice echoes around the room, questionably, but he doesn’t look up from the leaflet held in his hand. The lights in the TARDIS have dimmed since he has taken this seat at the desk, and it isn’t his doing. He wonders if, in another hour or so, they would be in complete darkness.
He sighs, then brings up a hand to press at his eyelids, face wrinkling in frustration and dislike. He drops the leaflet to the tabletop and leans over it, trying to cool his mind. “It’s too late, you know,” he says aloud once more. He reaches out with his free hand, knocking over a jar of various writing utensils from different centuries and parts of space, and grasps an antique hourglass.
Much like them.
He watches the last of the sands fall to the bottom, then turns it again and rises to his feet in one fluid motion. He faces the room’s doorway, and casts a neutral look toward the Doctor. “Ten more turns,” he tells the other cryptically. The Doctor stands in a ruffled dress shirt and slacks, hair mussed, expression worn and old. The Master thinks to say: You’re age is showing, but he doesn’t.
Ten more turns of the hourglass. After that, he wonders if he’ll start looking like the Doctor does now. He banishes the idea quickly from his mind. He’ll deal with that bridge when he comes to it, or something. When it comes to him.
“Have you nothing else to say?” the Master asks, voice sharper now. The silence from the other is aggravating. It makes the situation no more bearable, can’t he see? If he shakes him, hits him, will the Doctor react? Is this all that becomes of a Time Lord when there isn’t anything left for their hearts to survive off of?
The TARDIS is dying alongside the Doctor. She rumbles every so often, jarring books that line the walls, rocking a vase or two. Something shattered earlier; despite it startling the Master from his thoughts, he didn’t pay any other attention to it. He’s tried to offer the TARDIS a link to his mind, a bit of salvation for when there’s nothing left of the Doctor, but she ignored him and even went as far as shoving him far, far away from her psychic channels.
Even after all this time, she doesn’t want his sympathy. Even after she opened up once for him, easing the drumming, softening the rhythm by mixing in her own song. Those days ended not long ago, when she chose to put the blame for this onto him. It isn’t my fault! He desperately tried to make her understand, and then the familiar beat began to creep back through his inner being, and he dragged himself to this study to stay.
The Master begins forward, hands clenching at his sides to keep from tapping fingers on any of the surfaces that he passes by. He doesn’t want to. He stopped that. An old, forgotten habit - he’s grown out of it.
One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, one-two-three -
“Doctor,” the Master growls. “Say something.” Anything. Him and the TARDIS, they can’t both be blocking him out. Not now, of all times. If they chose to leave him like this, then -
“I get it,” the Doctor replies at last, quietly. “I see it. It’s before my eyes.” He reaches up a hand and waves it in front of his face, his eyes not shifting in the slightest.
The Master grows cold. He thinks his hearts slow at the sickening realization. “You’re blind.”
“Yes,” the Doctor admits.
“But -” And he was the one saying that this couldn’t be fixed, now he’s shaking with the sudden need to reverse the problem, but his gaze locks back to the hourglass behind him, and he can see, hear, feel the last of the sands falling again. Angrily he storms to the table and flips it, slamming it down. “Nine,” he hisses. He stays poised by it, watching the white slip to the bottom half, and then his anger drains out of him and he hangs his head. “This can’t be happening.”
“I’m sorry,” the Doctor murmurs.
“You’re sorry?” That fires that Master up again. For a moment he glares towards the Doctor, but seeing that blank stare in return causes him to tear his gaze away. “Why the hell are you sorry?! This isn’t your fault!”
“It isn’t yours, either.”
“Tell that to your damnable ship.”
“She’s just… panicked. Lost.”
“And we’re not better?”
The Doctor doesn’t answer. He moves slowly into the room, one hand out as a faint guide to his surroundings, even though he remembers the layout. He stops at the Master’s side, hand brushing across the table’s surface, fingertips straying over sheets of paper, bumps of utensils, an inkwell. It tips and the Master stays silent as he watches the ink spread over everything; he doesn’t even move his hands away as it rolls against them. The Doctor, still, utters a brief apology after realizing what happened.
“What are you seeing?” the Master asks, his own eyes focused on the white sand.
“Gallifrey,” the Doctor says solemnly, after a moment’s hesitation. “Burning, again and again.”
Of course, the Master supposes. What else was there to see besides the dreadful war? He shuts his eyes and breathes, trying to focus on the rhythm of his hearts instead of the drumming that grows louder and louder as time passes.
He suggested early on that they could fly into a sun and kill themselves. It wasn’t exactly their style or anything, but they were dying anyway, probably in the worst of ways… Remnants of a long forgotten Time War being eaten away until there was nothing left. He rests an ink-stained hand over the top of the hourglass and he now feels a fire snaking within him, twisting and biting out, and he knows that it has begun to effect him. “We could still go find a sun, you know,” the Master gasps, clutching the timepiece.
The beginning symptoms were the worst, the Doctor had mentioned nonchalantly, after he had spent minutes convulsing on the TARDIS grating, yelling in agony.
“The TARDIS won’t respond, anymore.” The Doctor sounds as though he already tried.
“Are you sure the beginning is the worst?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he answers softly, shifting to lean against the desk, arms crossed. His gaze is off to a far wall, but it doesn’t matter. All he sees is the Time War, exploding before his vision. “I’m sure the end will be just as bad.”
“Aren’t you just the morbid one?” the Master rasps, and he flips the hourglass before sliding to the floor in a mess, one hand wrapped around the chair leg, the other burrowing into his suit and pressing against his chest. From the corner of his vision he sees the Doctor trying to seek him out, surprise laced across his features as if he just realizes what is happening to the Master.
“I hoped it wouldn’t…” the Doctor pauses, fishing for words. He finishes even quieter than before: “I didn’t think it would get you, too.”
The Master barks out a laugh, but it comes out rougher than he intended. “Why would you think that? I’m a remnant, same as you.”
“But it… started later.”
“I don’t know, maybe because of my long period of being human.” He releases the chair and hunches forward, clenching his eyes shut as the pain begins to spread. At least, he thinks with irritation, he doesn’t hear the drumming. They’re still there, he bets, but they aren’t nearly on par with this new infestation. “I won’t be able to flip that damn thing anymore,” he says a bit too fast.
“Doesn’t matter,” the Doctor replies. The Master can hear him rifle along the table again, before it seems he finds what he was looking for. “I think I’m better off not knowing the countdown.” And the Master looks up sharply to see the Doctor holding out the hourglass, letting it slip from his hand and shatter to the floor. The Master just stares at it blankly.
“I thought you liked keeping antiques.”
The Doctor shrugs. There isn’t much of his old personality left to him. He reaches out a hand and it meets the Master’s shoulder, and then the Doctor settles down to the floor next to him, bringing up his legs and resting his head on his knees. “They won’t survive longer than the TARDIS.”
The Master nods in understanding. That’s the last of their conversation as the fire reaches out into his mind and his synapses flair. He curls in on himself, clutching his head and shaking, feelings his body tremble and start to break apart and he has to bite back the yell that threatens to escape him. The beginning was the worst. Knowing that doesn’t make things any better for him. It has to get worse before it can get better.
He feels arms encircle him, and somewhere in a stable part of his mind, he scoffs. The Master didn’t offer any comfort to the Doctor when the symptoms first struck; he only stood by and watched, too shocked to move. He wonders if the other was simply using the opportunity to seek his own bit of comfort now, but then he remembers what a sentimental fool the Doctor always was.
He chokes on another ragged cry and sinks into the Doctor’s side, hot lightning coursing from his skull to his ankles, searing everything in its wake.
“It’s alright, Master,” the Doctor murmurs against his hair.
“Like hell,” the Master breaks out, voice a higher pitch than usual. He stops keeping track of time, of everything. Somewhere along the way he finds himself in his mind, stumbling down corridors of charred doorways, hinges roasted. He wonders how much of himself he will lose during this process, and then he wonders how much the Doctor had lost.
The fire slowly begins to subside, but by then he’s slumped completely against the other, motionless. He hears the drumming again, a thunderous encore. His body and mind cools, but the destruction remains. He’s too far weakened to even try to begin repairs. He supposes the Doctor didn’t manage, either. It would explain some things.
Hands tighten around his back and the Master thinks he hears his name spoken, but the drums distort most of the outside noise. But then a second - or maybe a third - insistent call follows and the Master forces himself to focus. “What?” he groans, trying to shift, but the Doctor won’t let him go.
“I’m sorry,” the Doctor sobs brokenly, “I’m so sorry, Master.”
The Master swallows. His nerves jump up on end and he can’t seem to quell them. “What are you… what’s going on?”
When he feels the Doctor’s grip slacken, he takes advantage of it and gathers what remains of his energy to push himself up and look at his fellow Time Lord. His eyes widen. The Doctor has grown a paler, a sickly color. He’s been crying, but the Master hardly knows for how long given the state he had previously been in. Then on closer examination - he reaches out a shaking hand - he sees the other’s skin start to change. An energy, crawling beneath the surface. It reminds him of regeneration, and fear grips him tightly. “You’re -”
The Doctor forces a smile, resting his back against the desk. He sets his hands to the TARDIS floor, then shudders. “I can’t hold it back any longer. It…” His eyes shut and makes a sound akin to a faint laugh. “The end isn’t so painful, you know.”
“Doc -” Whatever the Master intended to say, the words die off and he sharply withdraws from the Doctor’s vicinity as orange light burns through skin and clothing all at once, dissolving any of the remnants of the Doctor. The light swirls through the sky for a manner of seconds, before it fades out.
The TARDIS moans around him. The Master doesn’t move, doesn’t react beyond anything except shock and fear. The last blip in his mind regarding the Time Lords disappears and he despairingly realizes that he’s the only one left.
“You were worried,” the Doctor blinks at him with surprise from where he was resting on the ground.
“Of course I was worried, you idiot! Stuck on a planet with only your precious humans for company? Oh, that sounds like a wonderful vacation!”
“You couldn’t stand being left alone with only the drumming the rest of your life.”
“I can endure more than you think, Doctor.”
But he couldn’t. It was now painfully obvious that he couldn’t. He was going to lose all his remaining sanity before he burst into energy just as the Doctor. Oh, what a way to go. That was the last thing he wanted right now. And it was even worse, knowing that the Doctor had actually tried to hold back whatever it was killing him to stay.
“The end isn’t so painful, you know.”
This can’t be happening.
It couldn’t. None of this made any sense. It shouldn’t be happening, even. He doesn’t know what they did, if it even was them - maybe the universe just decided that they weren’t worthy anymore. That they couldn’t exist. As if the universe was its own entity, at least. Possibly a very vengeful one, then, if it decided that shattering the time-lock containing the Last Great Time War was a great idea. Gallifrey burns, the Daleks burn, and then - somehow, achingly - they do as well.
It wasn’t fair. He didn’t deserve this. What had he done to the universe in his years of traveling with the Doctor? Sure, in the beginning it had been rough, and who could blame him? But then he finally, finally actually listened to the Doctor when the other begged him to stop. And that had been it.
So then why the hell was this happening?!
He growls, frustrated, looking around for something to destroy, something to take his anger out on. His mind roars on with the drumming, forcing him to drag himself to his feet and stare around him with a predatory gaze. An animal that needed to kill. There had to be something. Tear his hands through something… anything…
A nudge against his mind causes him to rethink, however. The TARDIS reaches out to him, envelopes his mind, grieving for the Doctor and forgiving the Master and she sings. He slumps, accepting her in wholeheartedly, and the drums begin to dull again. She has to wind more tightly into him than ever before, now that the Doctor is gone. She’s mourning, and he begins to as well. His vision blackens and he isn’t sure if it is because of her or himself.
They’re both equally dying.
He relocates to the console room and rests himself against her controls, emotion seeping out of him as his vision takes another turn for the worse. “It’s alright, old girl,” he whispers to her. She’s shaking apart. “Don’t hold yourself together for me. Can’t have him waiting now, can we?” She hums around him and he smiles. His vision cuts out; he sees the untempered schism flow before him, and then he watches the Dalek Emperor takes control of the Cruciform. He shuts his eyes and holds a hand against them, then snaps, “No really, I bet he’d be upset if I let you die after me, all on your lonesome.” He can’t run from the scene before him this time.
The TARDIS slips in and out of his mind, their connection to one another breaking. Good, he thinks. It isn’t long now. He slides to the floor and tucks himself beneath the controls.
Not long now.