AN: This story uses my concept for the twelfth Doctor. I am not BBC, so I do not own any of the names that are used in this story. I am also not whoever owns the two portions of lyrics from "Look Down" that I used. The other lyrics are mine, though. And extra points for those of you who recognize where the number 24601 comes from.
Clara Oswald looked out in the sea of gruff, cruel faces in front of her. Many of the men who had come to buy slaves had stubble across their chins, if not full beards. One thing they all had in common, though, was that none of them looked very kind. Some of the men in the crowd were staring at her with lust all over their faces. It wasn't the first time this had happened to her. Even with her ribs prominent against her skin, and cuts and bruises all over her body, men's minds went places she didn't dare go. Clara just kept her head down and stayed silent. There was nothing she could do. She was a slave-had been ever since she was born. Good for nothing except to do the chores that others weren't willing to do.
One by one, slaves of both genders were brought up to the stage and sold before being led off. Finally, it was Clara's turn.
"Look down. Look down.
Don't look him in the eye," she sang softly, so low that nobody seemed to hear her.
"Look down. Look down.
You're here until you die." The song was a bit of a funeral dirge for the slaves. Long ago, during the early days of the Time War, called so because it went on so long that many believed it would continue for all time, somebody had made it as a work-chantey to be sung whenever their masters weren't around.
She got up on the stage and the bidding began. She was eventually priced at five thousand credits by a particularly cruel looking man. Clara only needed to glance at him to know that his thoughts were not pleasant ones.
"Ten thousand," a man in the back shouted. Every head turned to look at him. Even Clara lifted her head up to look, only to have it beat down by the auctioneer's meaty fist. The single glance he was able to steal of the man wasn't much, but she was able to tell that he stood fairly tall, but no more than six feet high. To her small five-and-a half foot frame, that was almost a giant. She had tried to see his face, but hadn't been able to. He wore a dark jacket with a hood that covered it in shadows, preventing her from getting a good look.
The cruel man from before immediately bid fifteen thousand credits. The two bid back and forth like that for two minutes, until Clara's price had climbed all the way to fifty thousand credits. Clara had to admit, with a small smile to herself, that she was somewhat proud that people were willing to pay that much for her.
Finally, the man with the hood pushed up to the front of the crowd and jumped up onto the stage. Lowering his hood, the man revealed to Clara a clean shaven face, save his sideburns, chocolate brown eyes, and dark shaggy hair.
The auctioneer was about to call for guards to remove the man from the stage, but before he could, the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of credit sticks, dropping them at the auctioneer's feet.
"One hundred thousand credits," he said plainly, his face betraying no emotion. The cruel man in the crowd opened his mouth to bid again, but the man on stage pulled out another fistful of credits from his pocket, dropping them as well. "Two hundred thousand." He continued to do this until five hundred thousand credits lay in a pile at the auctioneer's feet. He looked about ready to faint from the sheer amount of money that he was about to collect. Nobody bid on Clara after the man was done.
While the auctioneer bent over to collect his money and finalize the sale, the man turned and looked at Clara, who immediately looked down to the floor, as was expected of slaves. The man placed a finger under her chin and tilted it up, looking into her eyes. Clara expected to see the same lust as in everyone else's eyes, but only found a gentle, loving twinkle.
"Never cruel or cowardly," he said softly. "Never give up. Never give in."
Clara said nothing, though her curiosity about the man's statement was plain. He smiled. It was a kind smile, genuine. It didn't make him look like a sadist who would work her to the bone, instead making it appear that he was actually kind to the people who worked under him.
"That's who I am," he said. "That's the promise I've made. What I've done today is not out of fear, or hatred, or lust; instead, I've done it in the name of that promise. In the name of peace. In the name of sanity. But not in my name. Not in the name of the Doctor."
The Doctor kept smiling, and waved the guards off when they came to shackle Clara back up. He led her down the stage and over to a horse-drawn coach. A woman met him there, standing roughly as tall as the Doctor. Her black dress fell down to just above the muddy ground, though she seemed to take no notice. Her shining emerald eyes looked from the Doctor to Clara and back again. "I heard the price you had to pay for her," she said, her voice slurred by some accent Clara couldn't place. "I assume that it was the Master you were bidding against."
"You would be correct, Vashtra." The Doctor handed Clara off to Vashtra. "See to it that she is taken care of. Have Martha tend to whatever wounds she may have. Assign her quarters and make sure that she is fed properly."
Vashtra nodded. "At once." Vashtra helped Clara into the carriage and let her sit down next to her. Clara winced in pain as she leaned back in her seat. The slave master who had brought her to the auction had not been sparing with the whip on the way there, and she could still feel the pain. The seats were as soft as a cloud, upholstered in leather as only a rich man would have, but that didn't stop the pain.
Vashtra noticed and took down a few notes in the portfolio she had in her lap. The Doctor, on the other hand, didn't seem to notice. He only watched the muddy countryside underneath the layer of grey clouds that dominated the sky as they rode to wherever he called home.
Barely an hour later, the coach pulled up and stopped in front of a well-cared for, but old mansion. Clara took a minute to appreciate the beauty of it. Every bit of stone was laid perfectly. It rose three stories high and stretched for a good half mile across. Ivy and moss grew naturally across the worn masonry, but it seemed almost as if they had been placed in their precise places as decorations.
The Doctor stepped out of the coach, followed by Vashtra and Clara. His long, sturdy legs carried him up the stairs much quicker than the two ladies. Clara had to stifle a slight blush as she realized that she had been staring at the Doctor's behind. She had to admit, it was a rather nice-looking behind. His dark blue jeans hugged it just tight enough for her to clearly see it. No, bad Clara, she shouted in her mind. He's not a guy you can even think of falling in love with. He's your master, not your crush. He owns you.
Yeah, but that doesn't change the fact that he has a really nice butt, her mind seemed to say back to her. Clara must have been blushing pretty badly, because Vashtra cracked a bit of a smile looking at her. Thank goodness, though, the Doctor's back was still to the both of them and he didn't notice the exchange.
The front doors were opened by a man who looked a bit older than the Doctor, but he was still young himself. He stood no more than two inches taller than the Doctor, and had jet black hair, which matched his suit perfectly.
"Welcome home, sir," the butler said in a clean accent like the Doctor's. "I trust that the trip was fruitful."
"It was," the Doctor said, turning to look at Clara. "Jack, this is Clara Oswald. Clara Oswald, Jack Harkness." The two nodded silently to each other. It was greeting enough for now. They would have time for proper introductions when their work was done.
The Doctor turned back to Jack. "Take Clara to the quarters I had you prepare. I trust you kept that bath warm like I asked you to."
"Per your instructions. As always sir."
"Good man. Take her up, let her bathe, and fetch Martha. Have her take a look at Clara, make sure she doesn't need any serious medical attention." The Doctor walked off to another part of the house after giving his instructions.
"And tell Martha that I noticed Clara experienced some back pain when she rode in the coach today. Have her take a look."
"Yes, ma'am," Jack responded with a nod of his head. He gestured with his arm. "If you'll follow me, miss." Clara followed him up the marble steps, taking in the richness of the house. She looked around at the various paintings and tapestries until her eyes fell upon a crest emblazoned in gold upon white ivory. The moment she saw it, she recognized what family it belonged to.
"The Williams Family," she all but shouted. Jack gave her a look that conveyed both fear and the desperate need for her to shut up. He looked around to see if anybody had heard her outburst. Thankfully, nobody did.
"Rule of thumb around here, Clara," Jack said quietly, "Don't mention the Williams family. It's true that that's their crest, but the estate was left to the Doctor in the instance of their death. They were really close friends of his, you see. Their deaths were pretty hard on him."
"Then why does he keep their crest there?"
"Because he does his best to honor their memory. Look, just don't mention them and you'll do fine." Jack finished leading Clara up to her room on the second floor. Steam rose from the stone bathtub in the washroom, and Clara was aching to soak in the first warm bath she'd had in ages. It was only Jack's presence in the room that kept her from stripping down then and there.
"You're bath is still warm, so I'll get out of here for you. Martha will be coming in a few minutes to give you a physical. I'll see you later." With that, Jack turned and shut the door to her room.