Darzil Carlisle not a Lord when the Doctor meets him. He is a young musician playing his violin on a street corner, lost in classical music amid the rotting streets and the scornful orphans.
The Doctor almost walks past him, but he cannot, and he stops, and listens as the song comes to a mournful end.
His compliments are sincere, and they talk of music and philosophy and what's wrong with the universe. Darzil is charming, engaging, salient – his is not a political mind, but he could be a fine figurehead with the proper guidance.
It takes some time for the Doctor to ask.
"Have you ever wanted to change the world, Darzil?"
"I can't say I have. What's the point? I'm only a musician, and honestly, I'm fine with that."
The Doctor smiles, a sad, resigned smile that the younger man won't understand for a long time.
"It's a fine calling, but I think you have another."
It is the first war they will end together, an efficient bloodbath run by apathetic aristocrats.
The Doctor slams his hand on the polished desk as the new negotiator nervously looks on, wondering why he's here at all.
"There is no such thing as an acceptable loss."
"These people died fighting for freedom – "
"They died in a futile battle so you could prove your patriotism!"
When the Doctor slams the door behind him, Darzil glances at him dubiously.
"Shouldn't you be a bit more…diplomatic?"
He smiles then, a light, inscrutable smile; the younger man would come to know it well.
"Oh, Darzil, that's your job."
Lord Carlisle is renowned on countless worlds, a beacon of peace and civility. He is not what people believe he is but he has always retained the determined compassion of a struggling musician.
He is also a fine speaker when he knows what to say.
"It takes both sides to end a war. I need the cooperation of all of you to end this bloodshed, to save your families and lovers and friends. Please, help me stop this violence and lead this world to what it should have been!"
The Doctor meets him on his way out of the council, grinning and applauding. Lord Carlisle is buoyant with relief, and it's entirely too endearing.
One day, he will become tired, and resentful, and lonely, and he will never voice this to his friend. The Doctor knows anyone, and does his best to make this joyous pride last.
They have settled an ancient conflict on Solis Pass.
Their thirty-sixth triumph.
The Doctor stands in front of his TARDIS, gazing at the man he plucked from a simpler life. He's confided in him more than he ever meant to, laughed with him, mourned with him, fought with him.
He will never see him again.
"You are my best friend, Darzil."
He cannot change what is to come. One more lost companion, one more sacrifice to the Web of Time.
There is no such thing as an acceptable loss.