You look for her and she is not there (she is falling with a scream, fading in the distance, simply not there), and it steals your breath, her absence. What are you without her, so dear and so familiar, her voice your own, her heartbeat your own? She twists to smile up at you and is suddenly gone, and you hit the ground hard.
It is your fault, this travelling, and you freely admit it. It was her idea, but she wanted to turn back, and you did not listen. You listen for her now, call her name, and cannot hear her calling back. Fear dries your mouth, or is it the dust, or the Doctor calling your name and hers, and getting only one reply? You do not know. You never know. She knows, but she is gone.
A sob catches in your throat—she was with you, she was!—but no longer, she is gone. The Doctor picks you up, half-carries you away, and all you can think to do is struggle to go back, to claw at the rock and try to get through to her because she is not dead. You would know if she was dead. All those times when she could have been dead, you knew she was not. Guillotines, insecticide, Daleks and murderous aliens could not take her from you, so a mere pile of rock has no chance. You know she is alive.
The Doctor is humoring you, and you can hear it in his voice, a little. We will go and look for her, he says, and there is grief in his voice, that is not all left over from Susan's departure. It is becoming more and more evident to you that he does not know everything, and so you let it pass. Why should it matter? You know she is alive, and you will find her.
The swords create a small hitch in your plan.
You don't die, though—the Doctor saves you, but you think that you could have saved yourself if it came to that. You think somehow that you cannot die, not while she needs you, not while you don't know where she is. Your heart is banging in your chest, and you still cannot find her.
There is the sun and you are out, leaving the cave and the chasms and the things that lurk in the darkness. This is the right direction. She will be here, if she is anywhere, out in the sun. She found the sun for you, in the darkness of the caves. She finds the light for you when the darkness gets too much.
It is the least you can do, to find her now.
There is a scream; a girl's scream, you realize, not hers, but not before your heart flies to your throat. The Doctor's arm is on your sleeve and you look down, understand that you could have run off the ledge if he hadn't stopped you. Her name is on your lips but you have not said it, thank God, though it would not change anything if you did; you look back at him now and realize he already knows.
Time is running short now. The path down the cliff is short and swiftly taken, even with the Doctor trotting along behind, white-haired and birdlike in his age. Your legs are longer and still he keeps up, his worry for her as strong as yours. He has lost Susan, by his own choice, and you do not doubt it was the right, the only choice to make, but neither of you are ready to lose her, and neither of you will allow it to happen.
The ship is ahead, five hundred yards, three hundred, one. You fly across the distance and somehow he beats you, cries, "Barbara!" and hugs her quickly and hard. You might have been jealous, but she looks at you over his shoulder and her eyes are warm.
I knew you'd come for me.
The Doctor releases her, and she curls her hand into yours, squeezes gently. "I knew you'd come for me," she says, and you smile.
"Always."