"On my own..." I weep, ambling through the deserted road. The bricks feel bumpy and foreign under my feet, the gentle rain feels like bullets penetrating my skin. I collapse to the ground in a moment of anguish.
He's been there forever, but has never noticed me. We are the best of friends, but that is all I will ever be to him - a friend. How can he not feel the way I feel? Can't he see that I'm the one who has always been there? I've never left his side, never failed him, always happy, always bright - when he's looking.
Oh, Marius! I love you...but only on my own.
One more day until your battle. Our battle. The war we must fight for our freedom.
I wipe my tears with a filthy sleeve, only to have my face streaked again by the rain. I walk aimlessly throughout my little corner of France, listening to happy couples bustling about their homes, catching boys chasing their young lovers. My heart aches at the sight of them, and I think, Why? Why can't that be us? I hear a strange noise from behind me, a sort of beautiful scraping sound that rips through the depressing silence. I raise my head and turn, and nearly faint at the sight of a large blue...box...that is standing in front of me.
I back away, slowly. What is this? Is this a trick? This box appeared in the very place I walked. And yet it seems as though it has been there for ages.
I shriek as a door from within the damp wood opens and a man's head pops out. He's a rather strange-looking man, with a bow tie and wide grin, and a mass of hair that floats about his head like a mop. The man steps out of the box. Before he closes the door, he shouts into it, "Just taking a look around, River..." River? What River? I see no river, apart from the river that rushes down the stony hill into oblivion.
And the man sees me. He looks at me with large, deep, inquisitive eyes that seem to have seen things beyond their years.
I cough. "Erm...excuse me - Monsieur - I'm sorry to have bothered you..."
"Bothered!" the man exclaims so wildly that I jump. "You haven't bothered me, not at all! Where are we? When?"
"Erm-" I stutter, dazed and confused, "we are in France, Monsieur. It's 1832..."
"France," the man mutters to himself, smiling a bit, sadly. "I do like the French. My dear Madame de Pompadour - would you know her? No, don't suppose you would...bit late for her. I'm The Doctor."
"Doctor Who?" I ask.