Isolated from existence, the vast expanse lay blackened and scarred from the wounds of war. Millions of timelines had been ripped out of existence in a single moment, their ends severed, forming a jagged bramble of withered vines and tendrils. Only silence remained among the dead. No one heard their last moments, forever roaring at a pitch beyond the definition of sound, refusing that life should ever reclaim the destroyed region of Time.
In the center of the expanse, a gnarled, damaged tree loomed over the landscape. Scars dotted her branches where the timelines had been ripped from her limbs. She heard them all. Their voices constant, merely dimmed during the rare opportunities where she managed to distract herself. She went out of her way to avoid hearing the screams and last-attempted prayers before their destruction. Each time she encountered them, their pain became hers. She could name them all, one by one, mourning each life from beginning to end. She knew their fears, their hopes, their joys.
All gone. Shattered. Leaving her alone with the memories of dead worlds forever in her wake.
Against the will of the dead, however, the tree continued to live. From her wounds of war, small new tendrils had formed, glowing gold as they lengthened and stretched toward the ground. She cultivated them with love and hope, watching them stretch with every microsecond. New stars, new planets, new lives – all forming tiny buds of Time upon her. As old ones ended from natural extinction, they melded into the soil beneath the tree, nourishing the roots so that new life would once again bud from her branches. Birth, Death, Rebirth. All that was and all that ever would be helped her thrive.
Yet at this moment, her focus was on two particular tendrils which tended to cause her no short amount of motherly concern. One tendril, thickened through centuries of development, had continued to grow as it should, although its luster had dimmed recently. The other tendril, thinner than the first but far less predictable, danced as it coiled around the thicker line, strengthening as it went, learning from the other. For just an infinitesimal moment, each of these timelines had touched the trunk of the tree – and to the heart of the tree herself. The intimate connection brought these two particular timelines to the forefront of her attention.
It was the thinner tendril which concerned her – the life of the human known as Rose Tyler. Although still glowing brightly, it had suddenly stopped. Somehow, the lifeline had ended, severed sharply like all of the brambles that formed the barrier around her. Unlike the brambles, however, it clung to life, suspended in stasis, separated from its twin, which now spiraled alone and confused toward the ground.
The Tree of Time called out to Rose Tyler, and heard no answer.