My Dear Doctor.
The path has never seemed more slow, and yet I fear I am nearing its end. Reason tells me that you and I are unlikely to meet again. But I think I shall not listen to reason. I have seen the world inside your head, and know that all things are possible. Hurry though, my love. My days grow shorter now, and I am so very weak.
God speed, my Lonely Angel.
I almost didn't transcribe it, because I think it's private. I mean I literally -- how gay is that? -- wanted to deny you that letter, so you could find it elsewhere, and preserve some sound of echoes in the halls, some kind of darkness in the secret. Some dancing you can't imagine. Which is (only 1% admittedly) twee-er than I'm willing to go, so I'll distract you with this: "And was the day of my delight As pure and perfect as I say? ...I hold it true, whate'er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; 'Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all."
Too easy? Or too hard? The Doctor doesn't know. He tucks the letter away again, and looks at the fireplace on his monitor, dancing in cheery flames. He presses a key or two, leaving the fireplace in darkness. There's no girl in the fireplace now; no need to have a fireplace at all. What good's a fireplace, with no girl inside? He watches this physical space for a spiritual object that is gone with the sound of wings, and then looks up. Up, as the engines begin to run. Up, up, up.
Outside the TARDIS, the vacuum wind of a big blue steel angel picks up, and takes the Lonely God, and the only woman he knows, his only friend, and hers in turn, to their next destination. She disappears, this blue angel beast, and behind her is parked a portrait of Reinette, labeled thus: "Madame de Pompadour, 1721 - 1764."
Once there was a woman named Madame de Pompadour, a lady of the French court and mistress to King Louis XV, the last of the Louises that were allowed to coast. She was called a major influence on French politics of the mid-eighteenth century, but her memory is felt more strongly in art, and design, and in the study of beauty. And somewhere, in Time And Relative Dimensions In Space, even more strongly felt than that. Immortal beings have undying memories, or else they would go crazy. Their hearts break further down than we can understand, and it's only some of them that test it.
As she felt herself dying, in April 1764, in that last tiny moment, Reinette called upon God Himself. "Wait a second!" she cried. And He did. And in that second, she applied her rouge quickly, and went to him, to the wings of Death, as beautiful as she had ever been. "Wait a second!" Can you fucking imagine? This is the sass of someone who had walked, who had danced, with a god. Someone who had an eerie understanding of time. Someone who had looked, and grasped, and heard, and listened to, and understood, and loved, and danced with time himself. Courtly, witty, clever, irreverent. Brilliant. Beautiful.