"Damsel," she prodded, not surprised that he had forgotten, whether voluntarily or involuntarily. It wasn't a flattering name, though it amused her greatly. "You're the man with the ideas, let's hear them. And they can't just be descriptors like 'the Blue One' or 'the Hair.'"
"Yes, full of secrets," she said, shaking her head a little so her curls danced around her face. "I suppose there's even a few more left in there that you've yet to uncover. A woman should always retain a bit of mystery," she added with an alluring grin.
Her smile faded as the truth finally came out. She had always thought of him as a universal constant, ageless, eternal, even when she had heard whispers of Trenzalore and the fall of the Eleventh. Somehow she knew in her heart that he would always be out there, somewhere. Funny that the woman raised to bring about his death could not bring herself to even contemplate it. But this was not about her. It was about him, and though her distress at these words was clearly written on her face, she reached out and laid her hand on his arm. She wanted to shout out don't you dare, but instead found the strength to say calmly, "That's a difficult choice to make," followed by, "what happened?"