Slowly lose themselves and forget what it was to be alive. Well, there's nothing at all familiar in any of those words. Certainly not. It lives in him all the time—all the things he's done, all the countless selfish choices when he lost himself—and he needn't be undead to have struggled with such things, to still struggle in the moments when he has to make the hard choices far too often. The injustice of the universe, setting it all to right, forgetting the promise of his name at times because he's so old now, and he can't always see it anymore. He knows the beginning and end of all things and because it drives him mad, it's why he so desperately needs others, not only with him but all around him, to help him remember the beauty and the hope of it all. He sees it through them, all of them. What becomes of those creatures with nothing at all to anchor to? Wrathion said it himself—they lose themselves.

"I don't like endings, but for some, there can be far more to fear than the end itself. The getting there, as it were. Or...never getting there."

Not that he has any experience with that either. Why would you think that.

Leaning back against the table, the Doctor crosses his arms loosely over his chest as he matches Wrathion's gaze.

"Will it be a life for her? What she has beyond this?"

Had he the TARDIS, of course, most of their problems would have been solved the moment he arrived, not least of all what to do with Irenia. If she's to endure, he can't bear the thought of her lingering on with nothing and no one, susceptible to being made a prisoner again. He would take her with him. The alternative would be to remain here with her, should things turn that way. He's had that thought more than once, even before this.

"For now, she has the chance of something better than she's had in far too long. Imperfect as it is."