Summary: Everything has its time, and everything dies. But before death, you must face the memories of your life. And for some people, it hurts to remember what slipped away. When the Doctor moves on, what happens to the ones he left behind?
A/N The characters may be a bit jumbled up, but this is how I imagine they felt after the episode ended, if you will.. Don't forget to review!
Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Doctor Who, all rights belong to BBC Wales. If I did own it, you really think I'd be writing fanfiction at half ten in the evening, instead of kissing David Tennant to within an inch of his life?
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Chapter One – Pompadour
"Pick a star, any star.." He had uttered those words so easily, yet betrayed them so devastatingly. He had never returned to her, and in her head, she knew her angel would never return, but in her heart she was waiting for the fireplace to turn. She was not alone in the world by any means. She had her king. She had all her dear friends. But without the guarantee of her angel, nothing seemed to matter any more.
She had waited so long at that fireplace, peering into the flames in desperate hope that she would see that face again. Yet all she could see were the flames burning her hopes.
Servants and courtiers came in waves, begging her to leave the fireplace. Many blamed madness for her constant fireplace vigil. Some said she was mourning the accidental burning of a precious document.
Rumours had always circulated her, and her ears had been trained to seek out the whispers of those around her. She heard their petty gossip, and each fresh speculation brought tears to her eyes, for they would never know the true reason for her constant unhappiness. They were too lowly to be graced with the true knowledge of the man she loved.
They had seen him, and they knew he was special, but they would never know how special. He had done things no human could ever dream of achieving. He had walked among her memories, welded himself to every corner of her mind. He had not intended to, but his face was one she could never forget.
She wondered if he had ever thought about her, stranded behind a fireplace. She wondered if he was even still alive; maybe he had been slaughtered by the evil demons he had destroyed. Yet she thought he could survive anything, and no weak creature could murder her angel.
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As the days turned into weeks, the sadness melted. She at last gave in to attempts to make her eat. Her face was gaunt and her body starved. She ate because she had been inside the Doctor's mind. He loved her, she knew that. Maybe he had loved others, but he had loved her along side them. And he would not see her die because of her love for him.
Her strength returned, and the sharp memory of her love began to fade slightly. She smiled a little more, and the low, maudlin sounds of her harp could be heard in the corridors of the palace. The songs were beautiful and full of emotion, and brought tears to the eyes of even the strongest servant.
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After a year, she had tried to return to normal. She would not see the stars: she accepted the fact. Yet she was not alone, and she treasured everything she had. She spent her time laughing, playing cards, and enjoying her king.
When she was 42, her health began to worsen. Her chest ached and her strength deteriorated rapidly. As she reached her 43rd birthday, she was growing ever weaker. She guessed she did not have long to live, and penned a letter to her long-ago love, just in case he should ever stumble into her world again.
She asked for pen and paper, and her servants carefully sat her up in her bed, and, with all the strength she could manage, she wrote down her feelings for a man she had known since she was just a child.
My Dear Doctor,
The path has never seemed more slow and yet I fear I am nearing its end. Reason tells me that you and I are unlikely to meet again, but I think I shall not listen to reason.
I have seen the world inside your head and know that all things are possible.
Hurry then my love; my days grow shorter now and I am so very weak.
Godspeed my lonely angel.
Against her own will, her tears fell upon the paper. They smudged the words written with such difficulty. The words were empty somehow, but perhaps they comforted her.
She carefully folded the paper, and asked for an envelope and her seal and wax. With all the strength she could gather, she stamped the letter shut, not knowing whether the seal would ever be broken.
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After months of ill health and unbearable suffering, she passed away while sleeping. A serene end for a woman of such extreme drama.
In her mind, she hoped that she would see her love in heaven. But he was no angel. He killed, he lied and he destroyed. Yet to her, he could do no wrong. He may be absent to her eye, but in her head, he was with her always.
She dreamt that she would see him once more, but he was too late. Perhaps if she had held on, or if he had been quicker to return, they would have been able to say her goodbyes. But all that he had was a letter from a ghost.
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The Doctor kept the letter with him always, inside his coat, next to his heart. That way, at least, he always carried the memory of one Madame De Pompadour.