No Time Land

A disturbing book appears in the TARDIS and torments the Doctor's mind with legendary prophecy which no one heard of. Very soon, strange things start happening, and Clara Oswald has to take part in a whole new adventure and face a new side of the Doctor she hasn't seen yet.

Author's precautions/notes/whatever/30 seconds to read I promise:

*I've been thinking for a while what rating I should give to this story and decided to give it M just to be safe. In the main it's T.

*The story is AU but has (I hope) a spirit of original series.

*The story contains elements of Whouffaldi (for different reasons) but no M. Most of the time, it's strong friendship of an asexual alien and a human being.

*Flames, criticisms, thoughts, emotions, swearings are all welcomed, and here is why: I respect your opinion. Therefore, I never delete comments (if they're not adverts of any kind). But at this moment, I want you to pay attention to the line below.

*Please, leave all your requests in PM. It's very frustrating to wake up at nights for a mail notification and see e.g. "that was good, let them kiss, then kill, then resurrect, then kill again, then make love to each other in the next chapter". It's like a stab in my back – hurts very much.

Thank you, my angel, given me for some kind of good thing I've pleased the Mighty 42 with. I have no idea what she did by that little talk but it really boosted those little thingies in skull box again.

There was a heavy atmosphere in the console room; the TARDIS didn't dare to make any sound less she disturbed her master. The Doctor was deep in his thoughts, chewing at his fingernails; his boots made a heavy sound with every step. Sometimes he walked up to the second floor and read words in an open book. He went to one of the blackboards covered with white marks of chalk and gave it a thoughtful look. The Doctor added some notes, nodded slightly and considered all he had written on the board while roaming around the second floor — an unconscious action of one who thinks too much and can't stand immobility for a long time. Then, he froze abruptly, as a man struck with the greatest idea, returned to blackboards and erased every single line he had produced in two and a half weeks.

Deciding that there isn't much to think about and exhaling a tired loud yawn, he went to his bedroom. Put off his clothes, put on pyjamas. He would continue tomorrow. Or maybe he would not do such a thing. Maybe those words from History of The Centre of the Universe, Paradoxical Eternity and Eternal Paradoxes by G'Bor meant nothing and were only a childish legend, every country on every planet has one. But how could then it happen that nobody heard of the book? Not a single library had something about it, let alone those specific words. But what if, the Doctor questioned not letting his eyes shut yet, they really have some sort of value? What if it's a message created for him?

After thirty minutes of staring at the ceiling and internal musings about whether it was or was not something worthwhile two weeks and a half to spend on, his tiredness had finally overcome him.

The Doctor's dream wasn't a pleasant one. It was something disturbing. He dreamt of standing on the cliff; a shadow figure stood behind him, and though he couldn't see it, he sensed it. When a strong tide hit the cliff, the shadow figure pushed the Doctor off it and run away joining the other three — as mysterious as itself. When the Time Lord woke up, he thought of the dream as ridiculous. Perhaps, he'd been investigating the book for too long and now needed a little rest. He needed to shake up: forget those silly words, take Clara and go straight to the dangerous place.

After his morning cares, he went to the console room of the TARDIS in a cheerful mood promising his machine one hell out of a day. And she was more than happy to provide it.

The Doctor made sure it was Wednesday or a weekend (it was Saturday) and the TARDIS landed in the bedroom of Clara's apartment. But before letting Clara in, he cast a glance at clean blackboards, which had been previously occupied with his thoughts, quotes and other stuff not so long ago. Some mysteries aren't necessarily to solve, he concluded. Besides, this particular mystery didn't seem to be a vital one. More like a rubbish mystery. A rubbish mystery, thus, isn't a mystery at all.

"Hello, Clara," the Doctor greeted a woman sitting on her bed with homework notebooks beside her. "Mind if I steal a little time of yours?"

The adventure was everything he could wish for. Clara liked the planet, and she couldn't close her mouth in awe as they walked along the streets of shining houses made of glass. There were lots of astonished Claras reflected on the surface of mirrors and lots of proud Doctors trying to hide his little smirks without success. Very soon it appeared that no one from the mirror city liked them — what a surprise — and when the Doctor tried to speak to one of the locals they ended up in a jail. Who knew it was against the law to speak out loud! And what a silly law indeed! Of course, it took their time to escape the prison, and at the end of the day, they finally managed to find the TARDIS.

Exhausted as ever, Clara asked the Doctor for permission to stay on the board for a while, which the Time Lord was glad to give. He liked when she was with him a little longer, though he would have never ever admitted that.

"I will never forget that face when you asked her where a toilet is!" Clara laughed, as she made herself comfortable in the bed. "That 'O' and such a terror in her eyes! Her jaw literally dropped down to the ground!" she tried to mimic that alien the Doctor had spoken to before and finally got him to smile shyly. "That was amazing!"

"Oh, you just wait for tomorrow. I have more things to amaze you with," before she could say anything or even protest, the Doctor stood up from the mattress and left Clara's bedroom.

Little Clara knew what the Doctor was going to do to make her stay on board of his ship even longer. While she was sleeping or trying to sleep wondering what his last words could mean, he sneaked into her house and gathered every homework she needed to check on Monday. It was a big pile of forty-fifty notebooks that would have killed seven hours of Clara's life. And when it was a noticeable time for a human being with a short lifespan, it was nothing for him, and he was glad to help her with this work.

It appeared very soon that he'd underestimated the evilness of checking them. Sitting on a jump-seat near the console panel, he bit a pen as he disagreed with some statements in essays but thought of them as a part of a school program, which is, as far as he knew, wasn't perfect and contained lots of historical gaps and subjective judgment. Being in two minds made him give some students "A" and others "C" for the same statement.

In general, marking essays was a very irksome work. He got tired of checking some dull long text, which, thankfully, was the last one in the heap. The student it belonged to was very meticulous: every paragraph was half of a sheet, and there were about six sheets full of a small neat handwriting.

The Doctor unstuck his eyes from the loathsome essay to let them rest. The console room was blurry and getting darker; he didn't notice when his little rest turned out to be not so short, and he dozed off.

Three figures stood beside him. All of them were unfamiliar to him; all except one little skinless creature wrapped in black ragged monk clothes who was constantly moaning about being cold.

"C-c-col-ld," it moaned again, shaking and wrapping itself dipper into the clothes.

It was Death. He knew that. Of course he knew, for who's his longest-living companion?

But who were the others? He couldn't recognize those shadows.

And most important, who was he?

"Were you checking all these while I was sleeping?!" a loud question made him woke up. As he opened his eyes, startled, still thinking of a fragile image of bare flesh in a black tunic, he met Clara's puzzled face.

"What?" he asked her in confusion looking at his surroundings. Everything was blurry and unstable as if the lens on camera was trying to focus but failed it. How did he get here? Where was he? Who was he? A panic clenched his hearts making them pound quickly, pumping so needed oxygen in his brains as fast as they could.

Clara knew this look in his eyes perfectly, she'd seen it before a dozen times on school kids who had to sit through exams. Her hands cupped his face to let him have something to concentrate on, and that surprisingly worked as his eyes darted back to her. She smiled soothingly at him, rubbing circle patterns on his cheeks. "Hey, I know Fin can make you terrified just with his handwriting and accuracies. Usually, I give him his A's and proceed to the next homework," said Clara to him, and he felt a bit more relaxed by her words, even though he didn't grasp who that Fin was and why he should fear him.

"I –" he looked around. There were blackboards on the second floor, bookshelves, piles of books all over the most inconvenient places, a wild never-ending carousel of lights and most of all a tender groan made by the TARDIS. The only thing he hadn't given even a peek was an open massive book by G'Bor, which was lying on a coffee table. "I had a nightmare?" The Doctor shrugged and bit his lip. He was sure it was, then why had he given it a question intonation? It was a nightmare. Doubtless. Very stupid and short, but a nightmare. Nothing to be so scared about. But then, why couldn't he remember what it was about?

"It's nothing to be ashamed of. Everybody has it from time to time," Clara assured him of that, and he easily believed her. She looked for more words to say to him, not willing to leave his cold cheeks yet. "Thanks for helping me. I owe you. Any particular wishes?"

"Yes, pick up something amazing for us," he jumped up from the seat, heading to the console panel. Nightmare, nightmare, nightmare. Probably it was nothing. "Your choice. But not ridiculously stupid. No Hoods, no talking mushrooms, no space amebas, etc. And not too calm, okay? I don't like calmness. You can be calm at home all you like. Ah, and not a shop, too. And not extremely dangerous. Not something that I wouldn't have approved."

"It's not my choice then with all that 'not's," she chuckled, following him.

The Doctor turned around, "Right, choose whatever you want."

"Medieval London. I want to know what my house was before I moved in." As he gave her a bewildered look, which was practically crying "not stupid, remember?" she answered him with a light shrug. After all, why not?

"As you wish." He put coordinates of the twelfth century London. "But you will be disappointed!"

"O yeah. Sure I will be!"

The Doctor lowered the space-time throttle, and the TARDIS took aim at the Earth: more like falling from its orbit and heading towards the ground than actually flying. He observed his space ship one more time, trying to ignore one massive thing on the coffee table on the second floor, averting his eyes when he failed. Evil thing. As soon as this little trip was over, he'd make sure to get rid of it for good.

"What's that?" he heard Clara saying and looked at her to find out his quick glance at History of The Centre of the Universe, Paradoxical Eternity and Eternal Paradoxes gone not unnoticed.

"The book?" He tried to sound casual but even he could hear his voice a bit tight. "Oh, nothing interesting I assure you. Its author talks about science as of magic and magic as of science. Apparently, he was mad. Very mad. The book is nothing but a waste of paper. I'll probably burn it very soon, don't worry."

But Clara's curiosity was already long ahead of her, he watched her going up the stairs. Even the TARDIS loud bang as they arrived at their destination and good old more than ever stinky London just outside didn't stop her. Not even his warning 'Clara'. Clara walked around the book cautiously, noticing how ancient yellow papers looked like. It must be more than two hundred years old or maybe even much older. Its text was in unknown language, but soon enough the TARDIS translated it for her in English. Her eyes caught several lines that were underlined, possibly by the Doctor himself as that trace was new:

The one who makes, the one who heals,

The one who takes and the one who kills.

One could become another. One could be not one, but two. One will be suffering. And one shall leave the world forever.

There was something strange about those words. As she read them through, she got a feeling she knew them her whole life. Indeed, it was like her mom used to repeat those same words over and over before she got to bed. But that's ridiculous, she'd seen them for the first time; how could she know them already?

"What do you think? Nonsense, yes?" The Doctor leaned on the console, waiting for her verdict.

"I won't lie to you, this riddle here sounds familiar to me," she cast a glance at him and met his open-eyed face. He was horrified, but horrified of what?

"And to me, too," he admitted, almost whispering. But before she could say anything, he managed to shut her up. "Shall we see your London?"

She couldn't notice that London wasn't so bad as she had imagined it would be. Dirty, grey, dull — yes, but not drowned in mud and wastes completely. The other thing she noticed was that everyone was staring not at the blue box, which appeared on the street out of nowhere, not at her for she was wearing simple jeans and shirt; every trader, drunk man, beggar, peasant was looking at and whispering about the Doctor and only him. Indeed, it was such uncommon thing to see a man so deep in his thoughts, thought Clara. And he cared little to share them with her, even though it seemed important and somehow connected with that mysterious book.

What was that strange book really about, and why did the Doctor glare at it as the most abominate thing? Was it dangerous? It must be, as it contained those strange words. What did they mean? And why did the Doctor refuse to share? Just as she peeped at him right then, she wondered how many times he read those words over and over.

As they passed through several guardians, they climbed up the stairs on the stone wall that was faithfully protecting the city from enemies. It wasn't too high, barely six metres, but sure it was enough for this time. The Doctor stopped on the edge, looking over the surroundings. Then, he pointed with his finger at the forest, not so far away from the city.

"There will be your house. Happy?" he gave her a look. There was no adventure on the way to the wall. The most boring stroll he'd ever had.

"Not happy but relieved it's not a garbage pit," she said.

"Congratulations! I'm so happy for you. Let's get back to the TARDIS and have something real. And I won't let you make a choice twice. Next time, give me something abstract: beautiful, amazing, magical. Any adjective will do."

"As you wish," she chuckled, going down the stairs. In fact, she was more than glad that he will be the one to choose their destination. She knew many things about her home planet, Earth, but not about the Universe itself, no matter how some aliens surprisingly reminded her of her own kind. The Doctor, on the other hand, was a walking encyclopaedia and an experienced traveller. If there really was someone who could take you to somewhere 'magical', it was him.

"Halt!" they heard somewhere behind them on the wall and immediately turned around.

A man not of a big height, dressed like a soldier with a shield on his back and a sword on his waist, was running to them. If that thing could be called running at all! It was more like jumping in heavy armour, which clunked with every step he managed to make. In addition, a green coat was too long for the man and, as the wind blew in his back, it was always in his short feet, making Clara somewhat concerned about him.

"What is it? Is it forbidden to climb on the wall?" Clara asked as she observed the man from toes to tip more closely.

"No, it is not, lady, just don't annoy the watchmen." He put his hands on knees, still trying to catch his breath. If he was a soldier, then he had never fought in a real battle — he ran mere five metres and was already out of breath. "Sorry to interrupt your stroll. My name is Cyneweard. Are you the physician?" Cyneweard asked the Doctor.

"I am." The Doctor looked cautious. "Why?"

"Someone wishes to speak with you," it was the first time Clara caught a note of disbelief in his eyes as if they were ghosts he was so desperate to see once. "Come!"

As the little man led them along the wall, Clara looked at the Doctor, "What are you doing?" she hissed. "What if someone is injured? You're not a real physician; you can't heal, you know that!"

"I might be not a physician. But I am the Physician. And someone has been waiting for me, as it seems," the Doctor said. "Who is this fellow, Cyneweard?"

"He's not any fellow to you, Physician! You might be as powerful as he described, but you shall watch your tongue. He's a priest of St Helen!" He said vociferously. But as the Doctor looked at him tiredly, Cyneweard flinched with fear.

"Do I know him?" the Doctor asked. Clara could tell he was interested but acted as it didn't bother him at all.

"Not in person, sir. The father of the father of the father of his father knew someone very close to you if I'm not mistaken."

"Any description of that someone?" the Doctor scowled.

"No. By that time that man was blind and one step to the grave."

"Ah," the Doctor nodded. "Of course." He turned to Clara and mouthed 'how convenient'. "And what business this St Helen priest has with me?"

"I know little, sir," Cyneweard shook his head and with it his armour. "I've been going to St Helen every morning, and every morning his Grace has been telling us about you. You see, his father was expecting you to see, but unfortunately, he died four years ago or so, and now he is the one who spreads a word about you. So last week his Grace called me to talk privately after prayers. I thought he would get angry with me because I was really drunk. But believe me, I was as quiet as mice, nobody had really noticed that I was drunk. Besides, I had a day-off! What do you expect me, to be sober in my day-off?"

"Long story short?" the Doctor coughed meaningfully.

"Ah yes! Sorry, silly me. He took me to his private chamber and locked the door after me. He was nervous, looked around him twice when the wind blew through the cracks in the door. Then, he looked at me… He looked at me with such a piercing eye that, believe me, I became sober again! Then he shook me with such a force I'd never thought was hidden in such a thin old body. He wasn't going to talk about my state; I realised. He told me, 'Listen to me, Cyneweard. Listen and hear me! The Physician I've been telling you about all that time is coming! Oh, yes, he's coming and not alone! Remember those signs of him for you're the one who shall meet him. The screech of saws, the blue chamber, the young girl of your height in strange clothes. His face must be old, his hair grey, but let it not confuse you! He's much older than any of us, he's much older than my grandfather's grandfather laid in the soil! As you see him, you shall bring him to me and I will speak to him. The time has finally come.'"

Clara scowled. "Hang on. 'Young girl of you height?'"

"Interesting," the Doctor said after the man had ended his story. "I think I want to see this chap of yours."

"We're almost there."

Alphege, that was the name of the priest, was a typical churchman — with typical clothes and with a strange glint in his eyes. Alphege was waiting for the Doctor, and a weight of time on his shoulders was perceptible. It was something in his walk as he touched a head of every bench on the way to them, and in his relieved smile as his family was finally freed from the oath they'd given four generations before.

And yet, as the priest was getting closer to them, the Doctor couldn't bring the idea what kind of friend would prefer such a bizarre way to deliver him a message. Maybe this priest could shed some light upon this strange business.

"Welcome, travelers out of this world! You can call me Alphege. At last it is my privilege to give you the message, Physician," he said in a low voice, as he approached the Doctor. "I was quite concerned if I ever live 'til you come. I was so glad to know you'll be here very soon."

"And how did you know that?" the Doctor asked.

"I was told so. By your friend. But forgive me, could we talk privately?" Alphege wondered, giving a peek at Clara. The Doctor gave a doubtful look at the dwarf guardian. "Cyneweard won't do her a harm — of this I can assure you."

The Doctor turned to Clara who was saying nothing, waiting for his decision to make. Should he say that he trusts her or should he make everything possible to make her stay away from troubles? Not all his friends weren't dangerous, and if he had any in Medieval England — which he never had, the thing was clear — then they certainly wouldn't have been friendly. "Clara?" he asked her, and by her name he meant if she was okay with the idea of staying outside with this wall guard.

"Fine," she shrugged and headed to the exit. But before Cyneweard had closed the door, she stopped and told him with a light smile on her face, "Be polite."

"Yes, mom. I'll try my best," he shooed her with a wave of his hand. As they were left alone, the Doctor turned to the priest. "Now, when nobody listens, can you give me that message already? And could you describe that friend of mine?"

The priest's eyebrows knitted together, making a deep wrinkle on the nose bridge. "What question I must answer first?"

"The last one," the Doctor decided. By knowing who was the addressee he could easily catch the spirit of the message itself, he thought.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but the answer is: I don't know. I found a note telling me that you're coming on the last bench after a preachment. But I simply cannot imagine who could have left it. The family of Rodwell that sat here is a good family, and I've known them for ages. Here, you can take a look at the note."

Alphege gave him a little paper folded twice. It was yellow and was scattered with words about some herbs. Apparently, it was torn from an old book, which might have been very valuable but not for the secret addressee. When the Doctor unfolded it, the writing was big and sluggish, as if a child had written it. It simply said, "HE S KOMIN TO TH VALL", with deep red ink.

"That Rodwell family you mentioned," the Doctor said, "are they rich?"

"No, they aren't. And now they're poorer than ever."

"Why so?"

"Their father died. He was killed by a startled horse four days ago."

The Doctor gave a look to the priest. "He died?"

"Indeed. But let it not sadden you in the least, he died as a good man." The Doctor scowled as his brain raced a thought after another thought. Alphege sensed his deep disturbance but was too eager to finally release his family of the oath. "Forgive me, but shall I finally give you the message? Please, it won't take too much time."

The Doctor nodded. And as the priest began to speak, his eyes inflated two times in disbelief; those words he'd heard already not so long ago and hadn't thought to hear them in his life ever again.

The one who makes, the one who heals,

The one who takes and the one who kills.

One could become another. One could be not one, but two. One will be suffering. And one shall leave the world forever.