Author's Note - This sparked from a few concerns I had with the finale, and a few big what-ifs. It's completely AU, being a complete rewrite of the finale, and allows me to write shameless angst about the Time War, an old Doctor and what's going on in that big head of his.

I hope you enjoy the read! A big thanks go to my lovely beta Abbey, who was a massive help. Thank you dear!


Act I

Five. His fist hits the wall, threading hot pain through his hand and up his arm. He's surrounded by stone – the three walls of the diamond wall, and the Veil behind him. It's shuffling closer.

Four. He grits his teeth, and pretends not to feel how the hairs on the back of his neck are standing on end in warning.

Three– and the golden light is blinding, like the reflection of the twin suns on the glass dome of the Citadel. A breeze whistles through the tree leaves, oh so beautifully red, and it fills him with a warmth he hadn't felt since...

Two.

And then– but, oh, what was her name?

He can see her. He can see the way she walks through time next to him, as an equal. He can see her existence across time and space; a bright light wherever her foot meets the ground.

She plays with her hair sometimes, enough that he notices. It's always that one strand that doesn't fall quite behind her ear, which she curls around her finger when she's thinking, or when she's nervous.

She smiles like the stars are in her eyes, and galaxies are at her feet. She's always smiling. He remembers– it was on a far away planet, during a winter cycle; they were huddled into their coats as they watched a meteor shower paint white streaks into the sky, and she'd turned to him, beaming, and he'd never felt warmer in his life.

She talks. She talks a lot. He remembers– it was on a busy city street, filled to the brim with species big and small, and a market. She's crouched in front of a crying Adonian child, her head bowed, a comforting smile dancing on her face. He steps closer, and she says to child, "Everything will be okay."

He loves it when she says that.

He loves her.

But the stone walls are unforgiving; they're suffocating, and his fist pauses, with the final blow tingling against his knuckles. One more, and he would be free– free to save her from time itself.

But, the Veil's cold fingers touch his face, and the warmth of the golden light builds, builds and builds into something unbearably hot, like he's trapped in a furnace, cooking alive–

"Everything will be okay," she says.

The Veil's fingers dissolve against his face and into oblivion.

Then, his knees give way, but there's a groove in the diamond surface next to him, so he crams his fingers into it and holds on. He teeters; falls against the wall, and then rights himself with a cry.

The golden light is encouraging, singing to him about twin suns, red grass, a glass dome– but what was her name?

He can see her, in his mind's eye, skipping through the long blades of red grass. They part for her, drawing a path towards the Citadel. It's glorious; the pinnacle of the Time Lord's power, but it's on fire

"Everything will be okay," she whispers, and the wind carries it to his ears, and it's like music. A sweet melody, just drifting across the breeze, beckoning him to press his fingers to the stone.

He swallows. The golden light hums softly in his ears.

"I can't do it," he grounds out. "The paradox..."

"Everything will be okay," it sings to him, and the humming intensifies. He can hear shouting, gunfire, and there's a clock ticking hypnotically, in amongst the cacophony of noise.

"It's the pain," a woman's voice says, in High Gallifreyan. "It's always the catalyst for the impossible, and the unspeakable."

Somebody chuckles. "I do like miracles," they say.

He takes a step towards the light.

Pain grinds at him, but he takes another, and then another, and another, and then staggers into the wall. It's a welcome, cool touch against his cheek, and the palms of his hands.

"You have to trust me," the woman's voice continues. "Please, Theta."

There's silence for a moment, but then Theta says, "I trust you."

The Doctor's bloodied hand curls into a fist.

"Theta," he whispers to the wall. "That name..."

The humming is deafening. His fist trembles as he withdraws it from the wall.

"Time is bleeding! Dying!" the woman cries in his ear. "Unless we fix this, everything will be gone, not just the girl."

"I have to save her!" Theta shouts in return.

I have to save her, the wall whispers to him. Save her. Save Clara.

"Clara," he whispers to the wall. "Oh, my Clara..."

Abruptly, the humming stops. The shouting falls to whispers, the gunfire stops, and the hypnotic beat of the clock slows down.

He closes his eyes. "Let me be brave," he murmurs. "Oh, my Clara, let me be brave."

His fist hits the wall– one.


There is nothing but the darkness, the silence, and himself. It endures.


He starts counting, from zero to one hundred, then to two hundred, and then quickly to one million, five million, one hundred million, one billion, one trillion, and on.

Time is passing.

It has to be, if he is counting.

But there's a twinge of... something in the air, like a hint of mint, or sage, or spice. It's pungent, but not in the tasteful sense. It's timely.

Time is passing. But not how it should be.

There is residual time in the air, like a twinge for all the timelines that have been, should be, could be, and never will be. They are constantly changing at a nauseating pace– but such is the burden of a Time Lord.

It's a unique experience to feel time as a sixth sense.

A Time Lord can feel the age of the ground beneath where they exist, or the age of that around them. Age is an artist's masterpiece; filled with colour, intricate patterns and unspeakable detail, and youth flourishes from black and white, to grey, to colours which grow and mould to tell the story in the manner which that entity lived.

Time is passing around him, but it is also being manipulated– artworks form from ashes and dust; or change abruptly, with their patterns reforming and their colour pallet changing; or they disappear completely, sometimes forever, sometimes not, constantly.

But he exists in one place, counting from zero to one trillion, in time with his hearts. Or so he thinks. There is no way to tell.

All he has is time, nothing else.

How he got into this predicament, however, he has no recollection. It's all a blur of colours, patterns, and simply nothing.

Whatever is around him must walk through time, weaving an elaborate painting through galactic history. Whatever is around him is old, and so very, very wise.

Gallifrey, his numbed lips form, in the blackness.

Gallifrey, whose power is exercised across the universe, whose Time Lords dance through galactic history as if it's nothing, whose Time Lords should be dead and gone.

He remembers the Time War, and he remembers Gallifrey's attempted return, and he remembers the pocket universe. He remembers– ah, yes, the confession dial.

He's been running, as fast as his TARDIS can carry him, to Clara. Always towards Clara. She is all that ever matters. She is– simply– everything.

He's been running from the Time Lords, for what he suspects is the mess he made of his own canvas. But time whispers to him, so he shouts back, and splatters the colours around him into one, big, intangible mess.

His tenth face scrawled 'Time Lord Victorious' across history.

This face paints Clara into time and space, weaving her hair into galaxy after galaxy, and painting her smile across billions of stars, from one end of the universe to the other.

Why should Gallifrey reel, at that?

Gallifrey reels, time paints across the darkness in angry yellow, orange and red, because you are dangerous, Doctor. The hybrid–

In a delicate pink and bold purple is scrawled, Time. Time is reeling, Doctor.

Time passes, and the blur of Gallifrey's timelines slowly mould into clear masterpieces, definite from one another. In yellow, orange and red; it boasts age, but never as old as the halls of the Citadel, or the grass of the red fields, or the light of the undercities. Like a flame, is a timeline burning with power, wisdom and treachery.

Rassilon, the pink and purple provides.

And you? he asks, in brown.

I, the pink and purple replies, need you to wake up.


Something is ringing.

Not like a telephone would, but constantly, and it's buzzing against his eardrums like a swarm of angry bees. It crescendos steadily until it pops and gives way to sound.

Then, the world explodes into noise, and his head erupts painfully into a headache.

"–telling me we can't do anything?"

"I'm telling you he needs time. Not you shouting in his bloody ear!"

Two different voices, which are like thunder blasting in his eardrums, split his head in two. He hears somebody moan, and realises it was him.

"Shit– This is you! See!" The voice moves closer, and an array of colours flash nauseatingly across the blackness.

"You will not address me as such! I'm the President–!" Rassilon, in yellow, orange and red, follows the other voice, and the two artworks blur together. His head is screaming, like a caged animal is trying to escape from his skull.

"Shut up," the other voice hisses. "Udina! Fetch someone!"

"I..." he tries to say.

"No, stop it. Shh." A gentle touch brushes against his agonising headache, soothing it, and the wild animal begins to calm. "Go back to sleep, Doctor. Everything will be okay."

Everything will be okay, echoes Clara.

"I need–!" Rassilon roars.

The voice roars back, "I need you to shut up! He's in no state!"

"I will have you exiled, Cardinal, so help me! The Hybrid–!"

"–can wait! Let him rest!"

The headache starts to dissipate into the blackness as angry red spots, which are swallowed, along with the noise, the colours, and everything. He sleeps.


Time is passing, and he is numb.


She sings while she works.

He doesn't remember when she first started the soft tune, but her gentle voice is a blessing.

He counts the beats and the rests, and how each of the notes flourish in a delicate G Major key, and swell through each bar in four-four time. She is slightly off key, falling flat on the higher notes, but keeps a steady speed.

She works, he listens and time passes.

Her words thread beautifully into the array of colours which she paints against time. She is young, now well-into her third regeneration, and boasts a flourishing rainbow through history, but it struggles to endure against all of the other masterpieces around her.

"You have a pretty voice," he tells her, and his voice grinds against his throat like sandpaper.

A short intake of breath, and her hearts skip a beat, and then she laughs. "You're smooth," she compliments. "Even while half-dead."

He smiles. Or, he thinks he does.

"How are you feeling?" she asks next. Her voice, even while she isn't singing, is like music to his ears.

It is good to have time pass through her twin heartbeat, or each breath she takes, or her words, and not simply just aimless, endless counting, from zero to infinity.

"Half-dead," he croaks in reply.

She huffs in amusement, and then silence fells the blackness. He can still hear her hearts beating, and when she inhales, and then exhales. When he listens closer, he realises she's scratching a pen across paper, dotting and crossing the Gallifreyan letters across the page.

"You're doing better," she tells him. "Audio stimuli should start to feel more normal throughout the next few days. And then, hopefully everything else isn't too far behind." She audibly sets down the pen and paper, which is enclosed with a clipboard, somewhere to his left.

"Everything else?" he asks. His voice is barely above a whisper, but she hears him; she shifts slightly in her seat, and inhales.

"Your senses."

"Ah." He swallows, and then wets his lips, trying to muster some volume into his voice. He feels better– quite a bit, actually, and it's good to have a conversation partner who isn't shouting or shushing him.

"Yeah, a lot of your bodily systems are damaged from your injuries," she explains. "Which are pretty extensive, by the way. It looks like you got into a fight with a Dalek, who had a flame thrower."

He smiles, and knows he did, because she laughs slightly. "Sorry," she apologises. "I shouldn't joke."

"No, it's..." He clears his throat again, and scrapes sandpaper through his mouth. "It's fine."

"You don't have to talk," she says. "Just rest. It's probably better that you do, or Rassilon's going to start his interrogations."

Ah, yes, his splitting headache from prior. Rassilon didn't make his presence scarce, especially during an argument.

And not only their raised voices, but having two presences so versed throughout time was dizzying, because the two artworks would crash together at a sickly pace while they quarrelled. Yellow, orange and red would swallow everything whole, but miraculously, the other party held their ground, messily slicing bold, dark streaks through the cacophony of colours.

"They said– the Hybrid?"

"Yeah. Everybody's saying he's gone mad with it," she explains. He must have looked confused, as she continued, "It's in the prophecies. A lot of them mention this Hybrid– half Dalek and half human, which is supposed to destroy the Time Lord race. You have information about it, apparently."

He didn't.

It would link together the final dots, however; why the Time Lords had been chasing him, and why they had been so desperate to track him down.

But, it didn't answer why they'd locked him inside the confession dial when they simply could have asked; in which he would have denied any knowledge at all, anyway, because he had no information to offer.

It was all for her. For Clara.

"That's why he... bought me... here."

She doesn't say anything for a moment. "He didn't," she replies, sounding as confused as he felt. "What the other attendants said, was that they found you in the wastelands while they were tracking a temporal disturbance. You were unconscious; almost dead."

That doesn't make any sense.

It was the Time Lords who sentenced him to the dial, and yet, they sent no one to monitor their investment. Surely, they must have watched the entirety of his sentence, laughing, with a net in one hand and a wine goblet in the other.

Instead, his arrival on Gallifrey was merely a temporal disturbance.

"Your name. What is it?" he asks the attendant.

"Pangarth," she answers, with ebbing confusion dancing on the edge of her words.

"Pangarth, when–? When are we?"

"We're in stasis," she answers slowly, as if he were mad. "But linearly, it's about 3 years after the end of the Time War."

He inhales, and then holds his breath.

That was impossible.

In his last memory of the confession dial, the planets had shifted above his head; the stars had turned from light to shoals of dust and memories adrift in the dark tendrils of space; and no longer did the constellations smile down upon the universe, speaking eons of wisdom to its travellers.

He should be at the end of the universe, where light retreated from the approaching, hungry darkness; and inhabitants of the universe clung onto the last tendrils of hope.

Instead, he is on Gallifrey, time locked, in a pocket universe, just after the Time War. The stars still twinkle gently in the sky, as if they are softly caressing the darkness of space, and draw pictures bigger than the universe itself.

"... Thank you. Pangarth," is all he says, slowly.

"Did you need anything else?" she asks. Worry creeps through her voice, quietly tiptoeing across her tongue while she tries to discern his sanity. "Or, I think I should leave you to rest. You should concern yourself with all this later, when you're better."

Her artwork abruptly flashes across his vision, etching a perfect rainbow of colours into the blackness.

"Thank you," he tells her again, "for talking to an old man."

"It's my job," she replies, a slight smile in her voice.

She says nothing for a few moments, while she fumbles with something and affixes it to the edge of where he was laying. The clipboard, most likely, which lives on the end of the bed.

"Get some rest," she then advises curtly.

"I will," he replies, but he's not tired, presently.

He knows that she's smiling again, and then she turns on her heel and walks out, with the soles of her shoes scuffing against the floor.

Her vibrancy fades from his mind's eye, and off into a distant memory, while she goes to discuss her concerns about lapses in his memory with her superiors. All she knows, is that he won the Time War, disappeared, and then reappeared three years later, without any explanation.

What he knows, is that after he used the Moment, he ran. He ran as far away as he could, in his big blue box, and never stopped. He never looked back, because there was nothing to look back to.

Now there is.

But what he knows, is that there is something is very, very wrong, and nobody is doing anything to fix it. He should not be here. Time doesn't permit it. But yet, it does. He exists, here, on Gallifrey, now.

And the Gallifreyan wind, which sweeps in from the west, from over the rolling hills of red grass, carries noise to him, but not answers; he hears Pangarth humming, somewhere, and lets it ease his descent into the darkness. He isn't tired, but he is too old for this.


Sound evolves to tastes on his tongue, and scents up his nostrils, which help author the story painted around him in the darkness.

He drifts across the verge of consciousness, perched delicately on the edge of the darkness. He swings his legs over the side, and pushes his palms into the nothing, leaning backward to look up at nothing.

His thoughts wander, to drown out the noise around him, so he can think on the strange twinge in the air which fights for control of the age of Gallifrey around him, and on Rassilon, and on all he's heard since he first woke.

Around him, it's usually Rassilon, arguing with somebody, or Pangarth, singing a soft tune as she works, or the other attendants, who tell him nothing of the universe they've seen.

As each person weaves a unique imprint through history, they also see the stars differently; appreciate the beauty of the array of planets differently, and love the universe differently, how they know to.

It's why he travels.

He is too old to see proper beauty, or to properly appreciate the masterpieces around him; the ones he can see with his own two eyes.

The ones that take shape as a sunset on a distant planet, or a sea of lanterns across a busy street, or a snow-felled path through an ancient forest, or standing atop the highest cliff overlooking the endless ocean, with his companions standing tall next to him.

It is through their eyes that he is able to see the glory the universe has still to offer, and all the good left in between those stars.

Oh, Clara.

How he wished she could see Gallifrey for him.

How he wished she was here, to be able to hear more than Rassilon's voice, booming in his ears, or the scrape of the attendants' pens across that clipboard, or when he inhales, and then exhales, again, again and again.

Time is passing, without Clara, and without beauty. It's only the darkness, so he lets it embrace him once more.


"

The sun and the moon and the stars in the sky

Give us light as time goes by

We rise with the sun

And sleep with the moon

And the stars sing a lullaby.

Sometimes we rise and we're happy

Sometimes we rise and we're sad

But when we look and see the warm sunlight

Everything's bright and we're glad.

The sun and the moon and the stars in the sky

Give us light as time goes by

We rise with the sun

And sleep with the moon

And the stars sing a lullaby.

Sometimes while sleeping we're dreaming

Of wonderful places to see

We fly through the sky in the moonlight

And laugh and sing joyously.

The sun and the moon and the stars in the sky

Give us light as time goes by

We rise with the sun

And sleep with the moon

And the stars sing a lullaby.

And the stars sing a lullaby.

Sometimes the stars are just twinkling

Reminding us we're not alone

For every star sings a sweet melody

That helps us to find our way home.

The sun and the moon and the stars in the sky

Give us light as time goes by

We rise with the sun

And sleep with the moon

And the stars sing a lullaby.

And the stars sing a lullaby.

"

Pangarth sets the clipboard back on the end of the bed, and then continues her rounds.


"–long I've waited! He's well into his recovery! I need this information, Cardinal! The fate of Gallifrey depends on it, and I will not have you doom our Empire!"

Rassilon.

"I'm not dooming anything. I'm telling you, he's unresponsive. Unreachable. He's recovering, yes, but it's slow."

And that voice again.

"Then have the attendants reduce his dosages! I need him conscious!"

"We've already had this discussion.. And the answer is no, both from the attendants, and myself."

Rassilon flashes angrily across time, and the yellow, orange and red is blinding. The other voice is a mix of soft blues and purples, which he didn't notice before. The man is old, also, and it's a weight he bears openly on his shoulders.

Then, the President approaches him, and he smells like smoke and ash. The blue and purple follows, and then sighs wearily, and takes Pangarth's seat. He plucks the clipboard from the end of the bed.

"When he is lucid, it's very brief," the blue and purple continues, while Rassilon burns next to him. "You wouldn't get much out of him. The attendants don't."

Rassilon sighs, too, but irritation streaks across his painting in an angry red. "I'm simply trying to do what is best for Gallifrey, Cardinal, you must understand that. The Hybrid threatens all of us, not just myself."

"It's merely a prophecy–"

"Which is mentioned across billions of years of lore! It's real. And the Doctor knows something, I know he does. Why else would he run?"

The Cardinal sets down the clipboard. "I'm not sure," he answers. "I'm sure he has his reasons."

Rassilon makes a noise of vague disapproval, and the bold yellow, orange and red fades, no longer such a juxtaposition against the blackness of time.

"I'm sure he does," the President says, eventually. "I'm most curious to hear them."

The soft blue and purple suddenly swirls, weaving elaborate shapes across time. Letters form, punctuated with exasperation, to say, He's an idiot.

So, the Doctor murmurs, "Idiot."

From next to the Cardinal, Rassilon freezes; his yellow, orange and red artwork trickles into almost nothing.

"What?" the President asks sharply in return. "Did you hear that?"

He knows the Cardinal is smiling. "I didn't hear anything," he replies.

So the Doctor says, louder, "I said, Rassilon, you're a pompous idiot."

Rassilon splutters, and the waft of smoke explodes into the pungent smell of burning flesh.


The days begin to slow down. Tastes become stronger, smells become sweeter, and sounds settle against his eardrums properly.

Rassilon is nearly always next to him, shouting about fear, treachery and betrayal. Of course, the Doctor argues right back, and tries to keep his voice steady.


Rassilon spits, day in and day out, "Tell me about the Hybrid!"

And the Doctor just says nothing.


"The Cloisters wouldn't lie, Doctor, especially to me," Rassilon says. "You should have heard them after we bought you in."

"A welcome home present," he deflects.

"A warning. To the people of Gallifrey! About you."

The Doctor musters whatever energy he has left to spread his hands uselessly. "Oh, yes, look at me! Very dangerous."

Rassilon gives a long, impatient sigh. "Your words, Doctor, are what make you dangerous."


"You have to realise that the Hybrid threatens you, also. You may have forgotten you are not a god, but simply another Time Lord, like the rest of us," Rassilon says.

It has been days, and the President has grown weary of their talks, yet still he persists.

"But you still granted me another twelve regenerations," the Doctor quips in return.

"For condemning us to this. The people demanded it, Doctor. They see you as a hero, but I know what you really are. A coward."

"You're not wrong. But it was me who won, Rassilon. I beat it. I beat Davros, I beat the Daleks; all the others. And I beat you."


"So help me, Doctor, I will torture it out of you, if I have to!"

He says nothing.

"What is it you're trying to hide, boy? Why are you condemning your own race to this genocide?"

He swallows thickly, and says nothing.

Time whispers, Clara.


"

Tears of sadness, tears of woe,

From those of peace who long ago

Came to show a way of light

But all man does is turn and fight.

Tears of sadness, tears of woe,

From those of peace who long ago

Came to show a way of love

But all man does is kill the dove.

Tears of sadness, tears of woe,

From those of peace who long ago

Came to show a way of light

But all man does is turn and fight.

Tears as they look upon this human plight

Where actions are losing true spiritual sight

Repeating the cycle – material might

As people pursue what they think is right.

"

Pangarth finishes her notes, scratching the pen across the page with precision.

"Is that the end of the song?" he asks quietly.

"Another two verses," she replies, still writing. "And I've got a bit to write for you, too." There, she stops, and leans forward in her chair. "Are you doing okay?"

He falters for a moment. "Am I okay?"

"That is what I said, isn't it?" She sounds more worried than annoyed.

"Yes! And I am okay, Pangarth. I am the king of okay."

She starts to write again. "Well, good." She's silent for a few more moments while she writes, and the Doctor counts her heartbeats out of habit. Then, she continues, "It's just... Rassilon is taking a toll on you, I think. Your sensory and muscular regeneration has slowed down. Not by much, but it's noticeable."

"He does yell a lot," he returns.

She huffs in amusement, still writing. "You can say that again. I walk past sometimes, when it gets really loud, just to check he isn't... you know..."

"Isn't what?"

"... hurting you," she finishes, quietly, still writing. Time isn't bright, like it usually is when Pangarth is here.

He frowns, and when her silence continues, he asks gently, "He hurts people?"

She makes a noise of affirmation.

"Has he hurt you?"

Her pen freezes. "I... no. Not me. But others." She continues writing. "People I know. People who oppose him."

"Don't worry, I'm very good at opposing people. I do tend to prioritise safety."

She laughs, still writing, and it's a welcome sound to his eardrums. The rainbow, however, remains subdued against the blackness of time.

"Yeah," she says, and then sets down the pen. She returns the clipboard, and is silent for a few moments until she blurts out, "Sorry. You don't need to worry about more things–"

"No, tell me–"

"–it's just there's this rebellion, and my little sister, she's talking about it–"

"Pangarth–"

"–and I'm just so scared–"

"Pangarth, shush," he tries, instead, and she stops, swallowing thickly. "Slow down. And tell me."

She sniffs, and a tear rolls down her cheek; a streak of black pierces the middle of the rainbow, dividing it in two.

"My sister joined this rebellion group," she explains, "against the High Council. Something about time. Something's not right, she said. And they're not doing anything to fix it."

Time is reeling.

"And?"

She takes a shaky breath. "I'm worried about her. You hear things, you know? About what Rassilon will do for power."

"Trust me, I know exactly," he replies.

Time is reeling, Doctor.

She takes another deep breath, her breath still shaky, and swallows again.

Clara would know exactly what to say to this girl. If he had those blasted flashcards–! "Okay... how about..."

"Sorry," she says, for the umpteenth time.

"No," he replies, and adjusts himself in the bed, sitting up a little straighter. "Stop it. I asked."

"You're in no state to –"

"Stop. Because your blubbering did give me an idea, which will keep your sister safe, for a time."

Her hearts flutter in her chest. "How–?"

He smiles disarmingly. "You leave it to me. And I want you to finish that song for me, and when you get home, have a bowl of ice cream," he adds. "A big one. On me."

The hole in the rainbow doesn't heal, but it stretches further across time, just a little bit.

"

Tears of sadness, tears of woe

From those of peace who long ago

Came to show a way of love

But all man does is kill the dove.

Twisting the truth at their own accord

Controlling the innocent, seeking reward

Power and greed are ever near

Love and peace – lost to fear.

Tears of sadness, tears of woe

From those of peace who long ago

Came to show a way of light

But all man does is turn – and fight.

"

Time is reeling, Doctor.

I need you to wake up.

Note: Lyrics credit, "The Sun and the Moon" and "Tears" go to Rosemary Phillips.