A/N: This is my first (and possibly only) attempt at Doctor Who. It was inspired by the 10th Doctor's musings on the Master, so I think of it as a 10th Doctor fic, even though it's technically the Doctor in his earliest incarnation. Please forgive any potential discrepancies from canon in regards to the Guardians, I have never really watched the old series (but yes, I do realize the White Guardian was historically played as male) -I admit, I took a little bit of research and a great deal of artistic license.

Spoilers: The Sound of the Drums

Summary: "Some would be inspired, some would run away, and some would go mad." It's the Day of Presentation before the Untempered Schism and a young Gallifreyan child struggles to come to grips with what he has seen.

The Gardens of Eternity

By Lady Chal

Run…

The single word filled and consumed him. It pumped through his two terrified hearts and powered his entire being as he tore down the long, linear streets of the Citadel.

Run…

The muscles of his short, eight year-old legs fairly screamed with the imperative even as they raced to heed it. They could not catch him. He would not let them. He didn't dare. If they caught him, they might make him look again, or tell them what he'd seen, and there was simply no power in all of eternity that could make him do that again.

He was dimly aware of the tears streaking down his thin cheeks, blurring his vision, and of the stinging pain in his knees and palms where he'd fallen numerous times and scraped them. No matter. The pain was irrelevant. It was the fear and dread which must be heeded.

Run…

He could hear the thunder of footsteps behind him, and the sound fueled him, giving him an extra burst of terror and speed. His gaze darted left and right, looking for an exit to this long, high walled street, but there appeared to be none. He was on the verge of despair when he finally saw it. It was no more than a shadow really, just the faintest rectangular depression in the deep blue vines which scaled the wall to his left. He drew one last gasping breath and ducked into it, thinking only to hide himself in the ivy until they passed, but the alcove proved to be deeper than he'd originally thought and he found himself stumbling into it, through the ivy and through the wall itself.

He pressed himself tightly to the warm golden stones, his hearts pounding, his lungs shrieking for air as he struggled to hold his breath. The rush of the footsteps grew louder, echoing in the street outside, rising up over stone wall at his back and washing over him. He closed his eyes, praying desperately to any or all of the old gods who might listen. After a moment, the footsteps faded, receding down the street into silence.

His aching legs gave out then, and he collapsed onto the carpet of soft red grass, drawing his burning knees tightly to his small chest and letting the salt of his tears cleanse the abraded wounds where they showed through the torn holes in his clothing. Wrapping his arms about his legs, he hunched into a tight little ball, rocking and crying inconsolably.

And to think he had been looking forward to this day, he thought bitterly. Romana had done it. Romana had said that it would be wonderful, that it was the most wonderful thing she had ever seen or experienced.

Romana had lied.

Or worse, maybe she hadn't.

It was said that when one looked into the Untempered Schism, they saw whole of eternity from the unique perspective for which they were born to serve it. Some, like Romana, were inspired by what they saw. Some ran away from the terrible destiny it foretold. Others went mad with the dark possibilities that it promised.

Well… he certainly didn't feel inspired. And madness? –Looking into that awful thing would be enough to drive anyone crazy. Only a truly insane mind would wish to look into it again. Just the thought of it was enough to shake him with a fresh wave of terror. Which left him with what? –Destiny, he thought glumly, that, and the indelible brand of cowardice.

He had seen it in their eyes. The stern disapproval etched into narrowed mouths of the Temple Acolytes as they had struggled to keep their hold on him, the disappointment writ large on his father's face as he watched the ceremony from the gallery. He had dishonored the House of Lungbarrow, or rather he would dishonor the house of Lungbarrow. The truth revealed to him in that hellish portal was inevitable, no matter what twists and turns the course of time might take. The stinging shame of the High Priest's stern expressions was nothing compared to the future he had seen. The day was soon coming when his true name would be stricken their lips, never to be spoken again by anyone, not even himself. They would demand he use another name, the name he had seen for himself through the Untempered Schism, the name that Time itself had given him.

The terrible realization only made him cry the harder. He could not use that name… those names. Different words, different shadings, but all the same meaning, all the same end.

Oncoming Storm

Destroyer of Worlds

Killer of His Own Kind

No, indeed, he could not use those names. He could not tell them what he had really seen. He pressed his forehead against his stinging knees, willing away the memory, denying its truth. He was no one. He was nameless. He could not go back. There was only one course left to him now.

Run…

This miserable thought combined with the almost electric touch of a hand upon his shoulder nearly caused him to jump out of his skin. He scrambled back, pressing himself tightly against the wall, his eyes dark and wide with fear and panic as he looked up into the face of the captor who held him so firmly in her grasp.

Not an Acolyte… not even a matron of the Academy… not anyone from the Academy at all. She was just a woman, old and serene, with smooth, pale skin, soft smiling lips, deep silver eyes and a stream of long, silken white hair that cascaded down her shoulders and disappeared into the folds of her impossibly white robe. The hand not clutching his shoulder held a basket of white flowers and a neat, sharp, silver shears.

She set the basket down upon the carpet of red grass and knelt before him, her ice colored eyes piercing his own.

"What is the matter, child?" She asked softly in voice that somehow sounded young and musical and belied her obvious age. "Why are you crying?"

He said nothing and her pale gaze swept over him in quick assessment, taking in his Academy hair cut and the torn ceremonial robes.

"Ah," she said delicately, a look of deep comprehension crossing her face. "Today was your Presentation Day."

His silence did not deter her as she reached down, took up his hand in hers and studied the scratched and bloodied knuckles. "I am guessing that it did not go as you had hoped."

He found himself shaking his head, even though he had not meant to give her even that much of a response. Still, there was something about her, something so pure and old and serene that he sensed it would be of no use to lie. There was something in those molten silver eyes that suggested she already knew everything that had ever happened or ever would.

"You looked into the Untempered Schism," she said, brushing dark sweat-soaked tendrils of hair back from his forehead. Again he nodded, his body trembling with the very memory.

"Fools," she said bitterly. "No one is meant to look into that bloody thing, not even a Time Lord full in his power. They are children playing with weapons they do not understand."

He looked at her in horrified amazement, for what she was saying was nothing less than blasphemy, punishable by death. "It is one of the most sacred rites of Rassilon!" he protested.

She arched one ebony brow, impossibly dark against the winter complexion of her skin. "Rassilon!" she snorted, and the name was filled with an intimate contempt. "Rassilon was the greatest fool of them all."

She rose to her feet in one swift movement, pulling him with her. Bending down, she picked up her basket in one hand and took his fingers firmly in the other. "Come, child," she said in a gentle tone that brooked no argument. "Let us see what we can find to soothe your bumps and scratches."

He hesitated, suddenly wary of this strange old woman and her knowing silver eyes. She cocked her head at him, her snowy tresses cascading about her shoulders. "Have you any better place to be?"

He shook his head and she pulled him with her. "Come on then," she said briskly, and led him down a neatly manicured path of silver Vespen trees and arched trellises dripping with white Jalara vines in full, rich blossom. Here and there, small clumps of Rostaria sprang from the thick red grass, a few small snowy buds peeking from under bright golden leaves. And those were only the familiar Gallifreyan plants that he could name. There were a thousand others in the lady's garden. Some tall and slender, some short and squat. Some were slim and graceful and delicate while others seemed a rough and ugly tangle of thorns. Their leaves and foliage were of all colors of the known galaxy, purples, and oranges, green, blue, lavender, yellow, brown, from the brightest quarine to deepest black, but it was the blossoms made them truly remarkable.

The path opened into a small round clearing with a white stone bench and table at its center. Seating himself upon the bench to which she guided him, he took a moment to gaze upon the wonder of it all.

"It's all white," he said, feeling a little stupid for stating the obvious.

She smiled faintly. "It is my chosen color."

She set her basket on the table and splashed some water from a tall crystal ewer into a small white bowl. Plucking a small selection of blossoms from the basket, she crushed them into the water, soaking the bruised petals in a sweet, tangy smelling infusion. She picked up his hand, selected a crushed bud from the bowl and used it to swab the tiny cuts and nicks across the backs of his fingers. He watched, mesmerized, as the bruised veins of the petals siphoned away the bloody water, turning the white blossom a spidery network of pink. Amazingly, the stinging pain of the cuts receded, replaced with a balmy sensation that was both warm and cool.

"Tell me," she said gently, turning his hand over to work upon his palm, "what did you see that terrified you so?"

He tried to suppress a shudder. "Time," he said hoarsely, "I saw Time."

She smiled faintly. "You saw a good deal more than that, I think. You saw your place in it." Reaching up, she stroked her fingers down his tearstained cheek, her mysterious silver eyes searching his with genuine curiosity. "Was it really so terrible?"

"Oh…" he whispered, his eyes widening into dark, luminous pools. "Oh yes."

"It is good to fear Time," she said briskly. "Those who don't, tend to waste it." She dropped the bloodied blossom back into the bowl and smiled down at him with eyes that were not exactly comforting. "And those who are so foolish to think themselves masters of it are merely the masters of their own destruction."

He felt the breath still in his throat. She knows… he thought desperately. Somehow, she knows…

"I can't go back there," he pleaded, his voice was trembling, his dark eyes hunted. "Please," he whispered, "please don't make me."

She shook her head slowly, something sad and rueful in her smile. "No boy," she agreed softly. "You have looked into the Untempered Schism. You have had a glimpse into the heart of Time itself. There is no going back now."

He suppressed a shudder at the thought. No, he couldn't bear it, couldn't bear the thought of that awful destiny he had seen.

"What do I do?" he asked, his voice sounding small even for his slim eight-year old frame.

The old woman sat down on the bench beside him and gazed out at the white garden with an expression of implacable serenity. "What do you want to do?"

Run, he thought desperately, but he did not say it. Instead, he simply shook his head. "I don't know," he said softly. "I just know I don't want to be..." he shuddered again "him."

She tilted her head thoughtfully. "You may not have much choice in that."

"Why not?" he demanded. "Isn't that what being a Time Lord is all about? Traveling around in space and time? Fixing the tangled and snarly bits? Making wrong things right again? What I saw…" he paused and drew a ragged, shuddery breath, "Surely that can't be right."

The old woman sighed and stroked a gentle hand across his brow. "There is what is right," she said softly, "and then there is what is destined. You are young, my little Time Lord, but one day perhaps you will understand that the two are not necessarily the same."

She folded her hands in her lap, the slim tapered ivory fingers toying gently with the snow white folds of her gown as she regarded her secluded paradise for a moment. "It is true," she said at last, "that you can manipulate the timeline. You can move back and forth, make subtle adjustments here and there, but even a Galifreyan can not stop what must ultimately be. The Time Lords are guardians, not Gods. They can navigate time, they can sense the ebb and flow of it, even give it a nudge here or there to set it back upon its proper course. Time is one thing. Destiny is something else entirely."

"But I don't want that destiny," he said somberly.

She offered him a wry smile. "It wouldn't be destiny if you could choose it."

The old woman looked at him for a long moment, her strange silver eyes taking in his wretched expression, his hunched and miserable figure huddled beside her on the bench. After a moment she seemed to relent, and touched his cheek again, willing his dark, frightened eyes to meet her own pale gaze. "Take heart, boy, just because you cannot choose the destination does not mean you cannot choose the path which takes you there."

He looked at her in confusion, and she let her smile widen and gentle just a bit. "There is always a choice, young one," she murmured. "It is the choice you must make in here," she brushed her fingers against his temples, "and in here," she added, dropping her hands to rest upon the syncopated rhythm of his beating hearts. It isn't what you choose that matters, child. Your destiny is set. It is why you choose that will matter in the end. It is the reasoning behind your decisions that will determine who you will become."

"But I don't want to become him." He said fiercely.

She was silent a moment as she studied him intently. Then, with a small sigh, she reached down and took his hand. "When you looked into the portal," she said softly. "Who did you see?"

He shuddered again at the memory.

The Oncoming Storm.

The Destroyer of Worlds.

The Killer of His Own Kind.

He shook his head fiercely pushing back the memories that thundered in his head, memories of things yet to come.

She squeezed his hands hard, as if reading his mind. "Who did you see?" she demanded.

He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. "I –I don't know," he stammered.

She smiled faintly, but there was a hard, grim edge to it. "That's right," she said firmly. "You don't know. You only saw what you must become, not who. You must remember there is a difference."

He stared at her in bleary eyed confusion. "What?"

She shook her head firmly. "No, my dear one, Who."

There was something in her tone, the way she said it, that seemed to reverberate within him, to the center of his very being. He felt a small shiver course through his body as he stared into her strange silver eyes. There was an uncanny gleam within them, pure, shining, and brilliant white, as white as the heart of Time itself. He felt a sudden, electric chill skitter across his synapses at the realization, felt a thin slice of true terror course through him that made his earlier fear seem small and insignificant. He paused for a moment, taking it all in: the white blossoms of the garden, the pristine walkways of white stone, the bench upon which he sat, the basin with which she had bathes his scratches… white… all of it white. He looked at the woman with her flowing white robes, her shining white hair, pale skin, silver eyes, and felt his mouth go dry.

"Who," he asked at last, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper, "Who are you?"

Her only response was a serene smile. "A friend," she said simply, "one who has seen much, one who will see much more before I cease."

He swallowed hard, digesting her cryptic answer. "Then you are not… then you are not an Eternal?"

She smiled again, but this time there was a wry edge to it. "The Multiverse is made of things so old and large that they are beyond the power of even a Time Lord to comprehend, but nothing is eternal child, not even Time itself."

She stroked his brow with a gentle hand and he felt his eyes grow heavy, his body weary, his racing mind slow to a dreamy lull.

"You are weary, young one," she said in soothing tones. "You should rest now. When you wake, all will be as it is meant to."

He stifled a yawn as the heaviness of limbs and mind seemed to consume him. The smooth white stone of the bench seemed so inviting, and he found himself leaning, swaying, and slowly toppling onto its sun-warmed expanse. Even so, a single thought, a small spike of fear and worry managed to slice its way through the gauzy web of exhaustion that now wrapped itself around him.

"But what will I tell them?" He murmured, fighting the drowsiness that seemed to consume him.

"Tell them what?" She asked gently, stroking his hair, caressing his cheek, soothing him inexorably towards slumber.

"They will want to know," he mumbled sleepily. "—Want to know what I saw. …Can't tell them. Can't tell them that."

"Then don't," she said simply.

"But they will want to know," he protested. "They will want to know what I am called, they will insist. The Presentation is the time of calling. I have to tell them."

He sensed, more than saw her nod. His eyes were so heavy now he could hardly keep them open.

"I see," she said sagely, and then paused, "but I think, perhaps, that they may not, and if that is the case…"

She seemed to think for a moment, in the manner of someone trying to distill a complex issue to a simple explanation –which, he supposed, she was.

"They liken the Presentation to a naming ceremony, and in a way it is, but it also is not. There is your calling, and then there is what you are called. You saw your destiny little one, enough to know that you will have many names, but the one that is truly yours is one that shall not be spoken."

In spite of his sleepiness, his eyes opened and widened at this. How could she know that? How could she possibly know, unless… But the thought drifted away, as ephemeral as the gentle breeze blowing through the garden and her soft voice continued.

"You already know what you would be called," she said softly, "and that can not be changed. But what is your calling child? Think not of the things to come, they are merely events. Ask yourself what is in your hearts? What is in your soul? What is it that you could do if you would?"

"I would stop it," he said fiercely, struggling towards wakefulness yet failing, aware that his child's voice was somehow different, determined, strong. "I would keep it from happening. I would fix what is broken. I would heal what is hurt. I would right what is wrong. I would stop it."

She regarded him for a long moment. "Yes," she said at last, "I believe you will." She stroked his brow again, soothing, serene. "And that is the other half of your destiny Child; that is what you are meant to do."

He felt himself falling, drifting ever so steadily into sleep, but just before oblivion took him he felt her hands touch him, stroking his head, his cheek, resting for just a moment between the twin beats of his hearts. "When they ask you for your calling, Child, tell them I call you Doctor."

"I see you have chosen your Champion." The tall, black figure stood in stark contrast against the white paths of the garden, his obsidian ceremonial robes seemed to absorb the light around him.

The woman rose from the bench where the child slept and turned to face him, "And you have chosen yours."

The Black Guardian smiled. "I knew him from the moment he looked into the Untempered Schism. His hearts cry to be Master over all within his reach."

"Well, that would certainly suit you well enough," the White Guardian said dryly.

The Black Guardian drew closer, observing the sleeping youth with interest. "I must admit, I am rather surprised at your choice. I'd not have thought you one for a coward."

"And you surprise me as well," she returned mildly, "I am disappointed you would settle for such an obvious assessment."

"Obvious?" His brow furrowed and he took a step closer to the sleeping child, curious to discover what she had seen and he had not.

She made a small sound of amusement as she came to stand beside him and gazed down at the small Galifreyan boy upon whose thin shoulders the very weight of the multiverse itself had already come to rest.

"That, old friend, is the difference between us: as clear as night from day and end from beginning."

"I weary of your riddles," the Black Guardian grumbled as she took her cutting basket from the small table and rummaged through it. "And yet you never tire of them –there's a difference for you."

"Mmmm…" she said noncommittally, plucking a small object from the basket. The rough piece of dark coral began to shift and change with a myriad of colors, gleaming a pure brilliant white between her thumb and forefinger as she held it up for inspection. "Yes," she said, half to herself, "that should do nicely."

Bending down, she placed the bit of TARDIS coral in the child's hand, curling his fingers tightly around it before straightening away.

The Black Guardian laughed derisively. "—A seedling for a sniveler? You can't be serious. That will take centuries to mature into a proper TARDIS! You make it too easy for me."

The White Guardian tilted her head. "Perhaps," she said mildly, "-Perhaps not. I think it best that they should grow together; it makes for a stronger bond. It will be ready when he needs it."

Her counterpart looked doubtful. "Ah, but will he be ready when you need him?"

"You know," she said casually, "considering your great love for irony, I am surprised you do not see it."

"See what?" he demanded, now fully irritated with her vague allusions and deliberate White Guardian merely smiled. "It is written in the book of Rassilon that the legs of every coward are propelled by the heart of a survivor. That, I think, is all I shall require."

The burst of dark laughter that erupted from the Lord of Chaos was both genuine and appreciative. "Touché, my dear," he said, and offered her his arm as he led her from the garden. "It may be that you have chosen well after all."

He allowed a few strides to consider the matter before speaking again. "Think of it: the Master and the Doctor! I look forward to that day of reckoning."

"You would," she said wryly.

Their voices faded as they disappeared down the path paved with black and white stones. The wind stirred softly in the silver Vespen trees, a vagrant breeze stirred the Jalara vines, sending a small shower of white petals down upon the stone bench where the boy slept, the bit of coral still clutched tightly in his hand. That was how the Temple Acolytes found him, several hours later when someone finally thought to look in the sacred garden of the Eternals.

He awoke a full day later in his own bed feeling nothing vague sense of fear and dread and fuzzy memory of a garden and a dream he could not quite remember. Of the Presentation itself he could recall nothing at all, but there was one thing of which he was certain, one thing for which he was truly grateful:

No one had asked his name.