Clara felt as though she was falling with no sign of stopping. She was being torn into a million pieces and scattered throughout the misty void. All she knew was the Doctor. She needed to get to him, needed to save him, and when that was complete, it was time to die. This was the story of the impossible girl, but it was over now.
She felt herself finally come to a stop. Her back hit the ground, a fog covering all she could see. She didn't recognize anything. "I don't know where I am," she cried, stumbling to her feet. As she stood, her eyes caught something. A figure in a cloak, its face shrouded in darkness, stood off in the distance, looking at her . . . watching her. The figure stared for a moment more, possibly curious, and then shuffled away into the abyss of fog and misery. That's what this place felt like: suffering and misery and regrets of the past.
"Clara!" A voice shouted—the Doctor's voice.
"Clara, wake up!" the Doctor commanded. Clara jolted from her seat, suddenly standing before the angry Scottish man. She took a moment to catch her breath as he wandered back to the console. "You alright?"
"Yes, of course," she replied much too quickly. The Doctor gave her a look—his eyebrows questioning her. "Seriously, I'm fine. It's just been a while since I had some kip in the TARDIS."
"If you say so," he said. He pulled a lever and the room shook and stopped. "Here we are. Clara's home." Clara strolled to the exit.
"Same time next week, yeah?"
"Obviously, just make sure you get a good night's rest," he said in mock concern. They waved each other off and she was gone. Clara spent the remainder of her night trying to recall what she saw. She didn't remember much from her stay in the Doctor's time stream. And she was sure that was the way it was going to remain. Then she had that dream. It was the first time she ever dreamt of that event. Try all she might she couldn't delve deeper into the memory.
The following week, she opened her bathroom to find a big blue box waiting for her. She sighed and stepped into it, dressed in a big t-shirt and messy hair. "Seriously? Literally anywhere but here would be much better to park the TARDIS," she grumbled.
"So sorry, Clara," the Doctor apologized without the slightest hint of sincerity. He broke his attention from the console to look up at her. "Ah, well at least your ready—all your makeup on and everything."
"I haven't got any makeup on. I just woke up," she deadpanned.
"Oh, never mind then." Clara leant herself on one of the railings, looking at the Doctor and debating something within her mind. She could just ask the Doctor, but this is the Doctor and he'd never give her a straight answer—at least when it concerned something like that. She decided to come from a different angle. If she could somehow ease into the topic of his past, he might be more inclined to share. "So where to?" he asked, already fiddling with the controls.
"Doctor, tell me about Gallifrey." The Doctor stopped, eyes still fixed at the button he was about to push. His owl eyes looked to her as if trying to decode something.
"What do you want to know?" He asked very slowly.
"I dunno—history I guess. What did you learn in History class?" Clara eased in. The Doctor took to straightening his coat.
"I never paid any attention in History class."
"C'mon. Please?" Clara begged him with her eyes. "You're always so happy when you talk about Gallifrey. Share some of that with me." He hated to admit that her pout did have an effect on him.
"Fine," he relented. His eyes wandered as his mind set to work, reaching back into the far reaches of the past. "Well, Gallifreyan history is really long and boring, so here's the abridged version starting with the Pythia era."
"What's the Pythia era all about?"
"The Pythia was a sisterhood that ruled Gallifrey. They did so with the guidance of superstition—black cats, ladders, salt shakers, and all that. The populace tended to follow blindly, that is until . . . Rassilon. The Pythia fell as Rassilon began to take control." An energy captured the Scot's voice, his tone reflecting that of the theatrical magician he dressed like. "As the era of the Pythia came to an end, a 'curse' was set on all of Gallifrey. It was called the curse of Pythia—very creative—and it rendered all Gallifreyans sterile. They could no longer reproduce—that, of course, didn't put a stop to all the hanky-panky-"
"Doctor," Clara warned, although she did have a little smile on her face.
"Sorry. As I was saying, out of the Pythia's absence rose three that would plant the foundations for all of Time Lord Society. There was Rassilon, Omega, and . . ." The Doctor looked awfully unsure of his next words.
"And?" Clara urged.
"And the Other," he continued. "He is called so because to this day he remains nameless and a mystery. The three of them were considered the equivalent to gods in contemporary Gallifrey—very much similar to the Greek gods. They'd be worshipped and studied in the many years to come—which, of course, never interested me much. Who'd want to be a god anyway? The three set forth and accomplished great things. They created the Looms—a way to create new Gallifreyans by reweaving genes. These new people, however, would be different. They would be gifted with thirteen lives and would be almost ageless—immortal, baring accidents. Rassilon was on the verge of a new technology that would change the Gallifreyan's place in the universe. He only lacked a power source, which Omega soon rectified. Using the Hand of Omega he caused a star to go supernova, enabling the creation of the Eye of Harmony and therefore time travel. But he was lost, erased in the process." He seemed to smile cheekily, as if knowing a secret that no one else did. "It was then just Rassilon and the Other," the Doctor's face contorted into an even deeper anger than usual, "Legend says that the Other betrayed Rassilon and was cast out or destroyed—there are different versions of the tale.
"Ten million years of absolute power in the universe went on. Rassilon became dust, and the Gallifreyans, and Time Lords, cemented their position as observers, forbidden to interfere in the lives of others—quite boring, really. It was then that the miracle happened. The curse of Pythia was lifted, or maybe just wore off—it isn't very clear. And children returned to Gallifrey," The Doctor smiled a sad smile. It seemed clear to Clara why the loss of the children of Gallifrey had affected him so much. A new generation of children in so many years, and then they were supposedly wiped off the face of the universe. The Doctor snapped out of his thoughts. "And that's pretty much all the important bits up to the Time War. Any questions, class?" He asked, mocking a school teacher.
Clara smiled, forgetting her original goal and just enjoying the story she was told. "You remind me of the Other." At this, the Doctor gave her the strangest look—one that she couldn't quite describe.
"Why do you say that?" He asked very slowly, his eyebrows turned down with a heavy face.
"A nameless man—a mystery. Something tells me he didn't betray anyone, he just did what he thought was right." She beamed at the Doctor. He stood as if a weight was lifted from his shoulders. He suddenly flipped a lever and the TARDIS shook slightly. Then something dawned on Clara. "Wait a minute, does that mean the Loom thing didn't create Gallifreyans as children?"
"Well, our minds were much like children, but we had the bodies of full blown adults—puberty was a nightmare."
"So that means you were popped out as an adult?"
"That's what I said, Clara," the Doctor answered—a tinge of annoyance in his voice.
"But, that can't be right. What about . . ." Clara trailed off. Her hand quickly clasped over her mouth, and her eyes bulged with shock.
"What about what, Clara?" asked the Scot, taking a noticeable interest in Clara's odd behavior.
"Nothing," she said hurriedly.
"No, seriously, what is it?"
"Nothing, I swear." She rushed herself down the TARDIS stairs. "I'll be in the wardrobe—gonna go change." Running down the hall, she was relieved to find that he didn't follow and hoped that he wouldn't ask any more questions when she returned. She had almost slipped up and told him about meeting the young Doctor in the barn. But now she was wondering, was that the Doctor? He had just told her that he was born as an adult, and the boy in the barn was clearly a child. Who was he? Admittedly, she had been thinking of the Doctor while she was plugged into the psychic circuits, so it had to be along the Doctor's timeline. If it wasn't the Doctor then it must have been some . . . Other.