[ The look of him, his words, it appears to the Doctor that he's almost gazing into a mirror. He sees parts of himself in the man, the weariness that comes of a life long lived. These are the secrets he keeps (his weariness, the screams that haunt him when he closes his eyes, all the long dead now that he couldn't save, and the terrible things he's done), that which he doesn't allow anyone else to see. Can't let anyone worry, can't let anyone think he's less than okay.

It was the Doctor, after all, who stood down an ageless god and offered up his memories for the taking. Might he have felt peace? He'll never know. ]

I know that feeling, I'm older than I look. But that's your purpose in doing this at all, giving them — all of them — a life?