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Two golden suns hung in separate corners of the bruised-purple sky, their radiant plasma streamers curling through the air. Below the hills, the vast red plains stretched to the horizon. Shimmering fields of red grass burned like rolling flames under the gale. The silver-leaved trees glistened, their glass-like foliage clinking together like distant starlight. This was Gallifrey.
“I had estates once. Do you remember my father’s land back home?” The Master crouched, looking down at the Doctor, who lay sprawled on the rubble. The Doctor snapped his head up, his large, sorrowful eyes—the hallmark of this incarnation—boring into the Master’s soul.
“Pastures of red grass, stretching across the slopes of the Mount Perdition,” the Doctor finally gasped. His expression grew solemn, yet he found himself breathless, unable to say more.
Nine hundred years? Or a thousand? It was a lifetime ago, before the Time War screamed into existence, before the drums in the Untempered Schism began their rhythm. Two boys in crimson robes had skipped classes, hand in hand, swinging from dead branches and lying in the grass, staring up at the burnt-orange sky.
“We used to run across those fields all day, calling up at the sky,” the Master’s voice grew faint. He shook his head with a sneer, the nostalgic glimmer in his eyes hardening back into malice.
He glared at the Doctor. “Look at us now.”
The Doctor winced. Flashes of Koschei’s bright blue eyes, pure laughter, the Deca, and the band flickered through his mind. And then… the explosion of the red planet. The press of the Big Red Button. Everything—the Time Lords, the Daleks, the Nightmare Child—shattered into atoms and nebulae. He had ended it all with his own hands. Yet, he forced a note of accusation into his voice:
“All that eloquence. But how many people have you killed?”
The Master acted as if he hadn't heard. He gave a sardonic smirk. “Me? How many have I killed? Look at yourself. The blood on your hands could drown a star. It’s not just the blood of your precious little human pets, or those tin-pot pepper pots—it’s the blood of your own kind!”
The Doctor’s face turned deathly pale.
“You even killed me.”
Both fell silent. A deathly hush descended upon them. The Doctor trembled; the Master lowered his head. The drums were louder than ever.
Before the Doctor reached the end of time, before he met Professor Yana, he truly believed all Time Lords were gone—including his childhood friend. When he heard Martha’s warning and saw the gold fob watch engraved with Gallifreyan symbols, his grief-stricken heart had been utterly lost in a vacuum of disbelief.
They had spent centuries hurting one another since the day they fled Gallifrey. Yet, the Master had never truly broken the Doctor, while the Doctor had presided over the tragedy of the Master’s entire life.
“You killed poor Torvic. There is a price to be paid… but you have a choice. Let him bear it for you.” “Take him instead…”
Death grinned, a look of pure contempt. “I will take your friend. He shall be my warrior, my instrument of destruction. Wherever he goes, death and annihilation shall follow.”
Jade stepped out from the darkness—a personification of Death herself. She smiled as she tore open the sealed chambers of memory. The horrific imagery flooded back: Torvic’s corpse crackling in the soaring flames, emitting acrid black smoke. Theta and Koschei, hand in hand, watching it turn to ash.
The drums roared.
Even as these memories returned, the Master did not hate the Doctor for it. And they would never know if they had truly forgiven each other.
“What if I ask you for help?” the Doctor broke the silence. “It’s not just you and me busy tonight,” he tried to explain earnestly, for the Master seemed not to be listening.
“Oh, yeah?” “Someone told me that something is returning.” “And here I am!” The Master chuckled dismissively. “Not just you,” the Doctor shook his head.
“But it hurts!” Suddenly, the Master clutched his head, letting out a muffled cry of agony. “Someone told me it was the End of Time.” “It hurts!” The Master’s body jolted with violent tremors. “Doctor, the drums…” He collapsed to all fours, his eyes locking onto the Doctor’s.
“The drums in my head, Doctor. One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four… louder than ever! Can’t you hear it?” “I’m sorry…” “Listen! Listen! Just listen!” Intense pain contorted his features as he pointed to his temples. “Every second, every minute, every heartbeat—it’s there, calling to me. Please, just listen!” “I really can’t hear it.” “Listen.”
The Master crawled toward the Doctor, staring deep into those sorrowful brown eyes that seemed to merge with the blue ones from centuries ago. He took the Doctor’s head in his hands and pressed their foreheads together.
It didn't come through his ears, but struck directly at the deepest layer of his consciousness—a heavy, monotonous, never-ending four-beat rhythm. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. It was more primal than a heartbeat, more eternal than time itself. Beneath that rhythm lay a vast, icy void of silence—the desperate, eternal echo of Gallifrey’s final scream. And… loneliness. An absolute, bone-deep solitude capable of driving any living soul to madness. In those few seconds, he felt the Master’s soul screaming and tearing before the Time Vortex; he felt how this rhythm warped every thought, every joy, every spark of hate.
“This is me!” the Master screamed within their mental link. “Do you hear it? This was never my choice! Never!”
The Doctor couldn't bear it. He recoiled violently, as if burned by a sun. “But…” “What?” He staggered, face white as a sheet. “That’s…” “WHAT?!” the Master roared. “I heard it. But there was no sound. There never was. You’re just mad. What is it? What is in your head?!”
The Master burst into manic laughter—a cocktail of despair and exhilaration. “It’s real!”
A group of soldiers suddenly descended from helicopters, seizing the still-collapsed Master. The Doctor watched him being dragged away, just before he drifted into unconsciousness.
“I want to leave this boring place with you. We’ll steal a TARDIS and take her to see the stars. We could travel the Milky Way, Andromeda… so many brilliant places,” Theta said, looking up at the night sky where celestial bodies spun in slow circles. His friend leaned against him, the fine red grass brushing against their young faces.
“And the Great Vampires, and the Toclafane… I want to know if they’re real.” “Then we’ll find them together,” Koschei giggled. “You haven't even passed your TARDIS flight test yet.” “Neither have you!” “Hmph. Still better than a certain someone who barely scraped by with a 51%.” “KOSCHEI! I’m a late bloomer!” Theta gripped Koschei’s wrist in mock annoyance.
Koschei simply laughed and placed that hand over his own chest. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Four heartbeats.
The night on Gallifrey was so, so quiet.