The Drumbeat of Orion
Summary: After destroying the Swarm the Doctor relaxes, listening to music in the tranquil peace of the Eye of Orion. But then he hears something else…
Disclaimers: I own neither Doctor Who nor David Tennant, but if anyone knows where I can buy John Simm, I'll pay a good price…
* * *
The sun was shining, the birds were singing; the breeze was warm and gentle, and the air was delicate with the unique and beautiful scents of untold flowers. Just another day on the Eye of Orion, the Doctor thought, stretching himself out on a grassy bank and crossing his hands behind his head. No worlds to save, no damsels in distress, not even an old lady to help across the road. Ah, the sheer bliss of simply not being required!
"Some music, I think!" he said to the trees. The Tardis obligingly opened her doors just far enough to make the strains of Mahler's sixth symphony, as they danced into the open air, acoustically perfect. The Doctor grinned and closed his eyes. Peace, wonderful peace…
He let his mind wander: Gustav was a funny bloke, he remembered, musically brilliant beyond almost anyone except Mozart, but lacking in tact and loyalty to the nth degree. Still, geniuses were often – different, often a strange mixture of fire and ice, beauty and ugliness, love and hate. Just like…
He shook his head. This was why he kept busy: this was why he didn't like having nothing to do. As the pounding rhythm stomped around him, his mind dragged him back to those last ghastly moments hanging above the Earth when his oldest – and perhaps best loved – friend deliberately died in his arms. It was the unfitting culmination to a life of discontent, unhappiness and utter brilliance. Oh, if only he had let the Doctor help, all those years ago! If only he hadn't allowed his superb mind to become overwhelmed by those insidious, violating drums…
He sighed. Something in him knew that, if the Master had fought harder, he could have defended himself successfully against those intruders. The Schism was not only a test of the moment: it was a test of the life that followed, too. With the Doctor's help, and with his own enormous will, he could have done it. He could have done it.
The lushness of the music washed over him, contrasting with his mood. It was too late now: he had let his friend down as a child, and he had let him down again on that infernal ship, unable to persuade him to stay – unable to persuade him to live. It was a bitter legacy.
In an attempt to divert his dark thoughts, he began to tap his feet to the music's powerful rhythm, following the insistent boom-boom-boo-boo-boo-boom! of the percussion section, mirrored by the strings, and then passed to the woodwind who ran away with it, making it pervasive, enveloping, almost violent. Gustav knew his stuff, the Doctor had to admit. He sat up, and drank in the glorious landscape.
But he couldn't stop woolgathering. As the haunting notes of the French horn swept across the countryside, he began to think of his latest jaunt: of the Swarm, of Malcolm (now what was he like?) and Christine. Ah yes, Christine – another human female who'd flung herself at him and so lost the ticket to ride he might otherwise have offered her. Why did they do it? He was skinny and angular, and had a weird sense of humour – why did they all seem to fancy him? Now the Master – he was another kettle of fish entirely. Suave, debonair, magnetic in all his incarnations. Yet you didn't see the women beating a path to his door. Funny, what got people going.
And then he thought of Carmen; intense, worried Carmen, with her second sight and her chops and gravy. And her warning.
"He will knock four times."
What the hell did that mean? And didn't loads of people knock four times? Or two, or three, or five? What was it – a premonition? A statement of the inevitable? An opportunity to prepare – or to run?
The symphony had reached its third movement now, and was calm and gentle, stroking and soothing him with its quietness and harmony. He settled back again, and gazed at the sky. Whatever it was that Carmen had been trying to say, there was nothing he could do about it. He might as well enjoy the day.
Despite the fact that the middle of this section sounded uncannily like the cloister bell.
It was with the start of the fourth movement that the realisation hit him. As the third built to its crescendo, he had leapt up and began to conduct an imaginary orchestra, delicately controlling violins and flutes, harnessing the power of oboes and cymbals and drums, and when the insistent rhythms of the fourth took over, he found himself tapping his fingers in answer to it, beating out a tattoo in response to that insistent, ever-present drumbeat.
Drums – rhythm – knocking…
He became quite still. The music surged on without him, unforgiving and insensible, leaving him quite alone. His eyes were on fire. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have been so obtuse? The sound of drums echoed across the hills of the Eye of Orion, and through the deepest recesses of his heart. But they were not Mahler's drums, not the harmonious, powerful, contained drums of twentieth century Vienna. No, these were violent, uncontrolled, repetitive four-beat drums, the drums that cascaded through the lives of all those who could not shut them out, that had crashed through one of the greatest brains in the universe, and torn it apart. These were the Master's drums.
He remembered now – the people in the street, tapping out that same rhythm, insistent and insidious and everywhere. The pounding, four-fold rhythm that infected you and never let you go.
The drumbeat of destruction and despair.
"He will knock four times."