The bright yellow leaves of the wheat caressed his palm, tickled his skin. Sometimes, his small fingers would hook around an ear, unwillingly plucking out a few grains. He didn't mind. He knew the grains would give birth to new plants, eventually. His feet, protected by a thin layer of grey cotton that matched the material of his dirty tunic, ploughed the dry earth at each step. He wished he could run faster, and he wished he hadn't been unlucky to be born with a defect that had gifted him with crooked knees. If he managed to pass the examination, graduate, and thus be granted with a few regenerations, maybe he would regenerate into a better body. A healthier one. And a prettier one, too. He hated his face. He had never thought much of it when he was younger, but as soon as he had started going to the Academy, he had become self-conscious. A downpour of scorn and mockery at his snub nose, his big mouth, his hollow cheeks and his thick eyebrows had rained down on his fragile shoulders from the moment he'd stepped in his classroom. It had taken a mere few days for his effervescent and joyful character to be smothered down with a dark veil of diffidence and modesty.
That was why he liked it. Running through the fields of bloomed wheat in the summer, where the plants were high enough to mute the sneers and the laughs, far enough to keep the disdainful faces out of sight. Peaceful. Comforting. Liberating.
His lungs expanded, filled with fresh air, and he accompanied the frightened chirping of the birds taking flight at his approach with a loud hoot of his own. His bowed legs wailed in protest when he took a sharp turn on the right, but it was another kind of pain he was too used to to care. The deafening sound of the leaves brushing against his head and of the wind blowing in his ears suddenly died down, as soon as he emerged from the edge of the field and stopped dead in his tracks, bending forward with his hands on his deformed knees. The only sound that remained was the heavy puffs coming out of his mouth, the pounding of his double-heartbeat in his skeletal chest - a heartbeat he had trouble getting used to - and the blood rushing in his veins to keep his muscles oxygenated - he also had trouble triggering his respiratory bypass system when he needed it. Unfortunate, but then again, fortune had never quite been watching over him ever since he'd been born.
His eyes lifted up to observe the dark, tiny entrance to the cave he liked to call his refuge, and a smile tugged at his lips. With a giggle that had a scared mouse scurry away in the field behind him, he spurred his legs into a trot that took him to the cave. The hole that pierced the rock at the bottom was the only way to penetrate into its confined intimacy, and it was just large enough to let his skinny body slither through it. His hands entered first, fingers finding purchase around smooth stones anchored in the humid earth so that he could pull the rest of his body inside. It was dark, only lit by the thin stream of light coming through the slit in the rockwall, but he knew his way around that cave like the back of his hand, if not even better. He groped his path to the oil lantern he had hung on a hook-shaped stalactite, bowing his head or bending it on the side whenever he had to avoid treacherous lengths of rock falling from the ceilings like sharp blades. His fingers went to the small wooden box tucked in the makeshift belt he had tied around his waist to hold his too-large tunic in place - an uncouth rope he had stolen on a bag of vegetables. The box was carved with Gallifreyan motifs he was quite unable to translate, and he flicked the small lock open with his thumb. He carefully picked one of the few matches he had left, stroke it on the side and used it to inflame the burner.
Shadows danced on the asperities of the walls - sometimes, his hearts would stutter in his chest at the impression that someone had managed to enter his refuge, but it was always short-lived. No one ever came. No one would ever come. He adjusted the size of the slow burning flame and gave an appreciative hum when he was satisfied with the dim light shedding its orange color in the cave.
He sat on the small cushion he had snatched in the library of the Academy, in front of the improvised desk made of a simple wood plank. Out of habit, he rolled the moth-eaten sleeve of his tunic to reveal his forearm. He loved seeing that mark there. A nacre, intricate pattern that reflected the soft light of the lamp. It was desperately still, and just as hopelessly flat and dull. Nothing like the marks all the others displayed with frivolous pride. It was supposed to shine, the lines were supposed to move under his skin, give the smooth, pale expense some relief. Signs that his soulmate was waiting for him somewhere. But, not unlike everything else that happened in his execrable life, something was amiss with his soulmark. He had looked for answers in books he couldn't read, scrolls he couldn't decipher, engravings he couldn't make sense of - and, quite plainly, it hadn't helped with his matters. He had almost given up on the hope for a better future when the Sage of his village had visited him on a dark winter night. They had sat together, face to face, by the fire roaring in the fireplace. And he'd listened to her. She had told him about the story of The Overseer, one of his ancestor that had walked Gallifrey at a time when the planet was only in its early decades. The Overseer had worn a mark just like his, that had remained dormant for centuries. He had travelled every mountain, every forest and every desert, in search of his soulmate, never to find them. One night, moments before he'd been about to commit the irreparable, a beautiful creature from another world had knocked on his door. His soulmate.
And it was on that night that he had decided never to let hope slip away from his fingers again. He had a mark. He had a soulmate. He didn't know where they were, when they were, but he knew someday he would find them. He even considered himself lucky to have been blessed with an outworlder soulmate. It made him special. And that was the only thing that kept him going, the only piece of knowledge that would get him through the Academy curriculum and allow him to pass the final examination. And then, when he'd finally be a Time Lord and be gifted with his very own Tardis, he'd set out to travel the universe and find his soulmate - if they didn't find him first.
He opened the heavy book on the wood plank, a small cloud of dust rising in the air that made him forcefully rub his nose with the back of his hand to keep a sneeze in. Then, he picked up a blank piece of rough paper and his favorite, and only, quill. A jet black feather, so long that its tip tickled his jaw when he was writing, that ended with a golden nib sizzled with one of the few Gallifreyan symbols he knew of - a symbol that roughly translated into Doctor. That quill was the only object he had inherited from his Time Lord father. He treasured it like a relique, even though he had found out long ago that it was just a worthless trinket, probably bought on a market in the pauperised neighbourhoods of the Citadel. And that was why he had decided that, when he'd finally be a Time Lord himself, he would chose a title that could be paired with his legacy. The Doctor. Fitting, he thought, given that he wanted to help people, heal them, make their life easier than his own. A title well-chosen he hoped he'd be worthy of - and to achieve this goal, he had to work.
He flipped through the hundreds pages of his book, some kind of Gallifreyan bible the gathered all the secrets of his language. Oh, he knew how to speak it, when it came to answering questions in his lessons he was always the first to blabber without end on the subject, and he could understand almost everything, save for a few words of vocabulary that were rarely used, even by the Elders. But he wanted to read it, and write it.
Often, he would dream of learning everything that could be learnt about the universe, the secrets safe-guarded among the stars, reading about them in the columns of books piling up in the endless library. After all, he couldn't risk disappointing his soulmate. He had to be able to talk about their home planet, lest he'd make a fool of himself, or even appear to be a rude and simpleminded alien.
And then, some other times, his soft and maudlin nature would take the upper hand, and he'd imagine writing down passionate odes and romantic poems that he would get to recite to his soulmate on the day they'd meet. After all, he couldn't risk offending his soulmate with poorly chosen words. He had to be able to caress her soul and prove himself to be a kind and gentle lover, lest he'd ruin the only chance he might get at seducing them.
So, his hold tightened around his quill and his index ran on the yellowed page of the encyclopedia, before it stopped on the one word he'd been dying to learn for days. Dozens of circles, some full, some cut in two, some interlacing to create intricate rosaces. Dots that needed to be perfectly placed beside or within circle lines, thin segments that needed to be perfectly angled, with no other tool than the thick tip of his quill. He had always heard that it was a complex emotion, quite possibly the most complex of all, so he hadn't been surprised to find out that this word was one of the most difficult to write. But he wanted, needed to master it. How could he demonstrate his love to his soulmate if he couldn't write the word, let alone read it?
His first tries were hesitant, the lines jagged and uneven, the ink blotting all over the page in a mess of dark spots. Of course, a compass would have made the task easier, but, of course, his had broken the week before and he hadn't managed to gather enough credits to buy a new one - he would have gladly thieved one from the classroom, if only the teacher didn't keep his vulture eyes on him at all times.
He kept trying, his hand gaining confidence minute after minute, the tip of his quill brushing against the paper instead of chiselling rivulets of black ink. After more than an hour, his wrist started to ache, and the flame from the oil lamp started to quiver, as if to warn him that it wouldn't be long before it'd give its last breath. He didn't give up. Soon, an impressive pile of used paper stood on the corner of his plank, and he picked the last sheet of paper to give the accursed word one last go.
His brow knitted in a frown of concentration, he wiped his clammy hands on the coarse cotton of his tunic and he bit the tip of his tongue between his teeth. He took a deep breath, and started drawing the outer circle of the word. He didn't need to, because he had had enough time to learn the symbol by heart, but he still kept stealing quick looks at the book, just in case his anxious mind wanted to trick him. It took long minutes of nibbling his lower lip, cursing under his breath and abusing the corner of his page with sweaty fingers, but he eventually pressed the tip of his quill one final time. The last dot.
He dropped his black feather on the floor and lifted the page up to see it under the dying light of the lamp. His eyes flew from the paper he was holding to the open page of the book, once, twice, joy starting to bubble in the pit of his stomach as he realized that this last attempt was his best so far. Not only was it its best, but when he ripped the page of the book and stuck it behind his own to observed the differences by transparency, he realized that it was also perfect. A perfect calligraphy that could have put most of his tutors to shame.
"I did it!" he shouted as loud as his throat constricted with joy would allow him to. "I finally did it! Soulmate, I love you!"
He jumped to his feet and danced around his very own refuge with his achievement tightly pressed against his chest, his mind roaring a song that filled him with a felicity he had never had the pleasure to experience. Through his excitement and the heavy tears of joy rolling down his cheeks, he didn't see the soft glow that shone from his forearm for a fraction of a second.
The ten-year-old boy from Gallifrey missed the one moment his mark came to life for the first time in his morose existence, unaware that this tiny fraction of a second was a pin at the juncture of his timeline, and that of his soulmate. The very first time their lives would coincide in the immensity of time and space, and the last time for a few centuries.
"I'm the Doctor, and I love you!" he giggled, dropping down on the humid earth.
He lied there for long minutes, the precious piece of paper cradled in his arm, as he tried to imagine what his soulmate would be like, would look like, would smell like, a fond and happy smile splitting his face in two. The flame of the lamp died in a soft breath, a murmur of relief and delight.
The heavy pink duvet felt too hot and she kicked it off her body with a disgruntled groan. She had never understood why her mother always deemed necessary to bury her under so many layers of sheets and covers that she more often than not ended up shoving away anyway. She was still hovering above the thin frontiere between shallow slumber and awareness, and she nestled her face deeper in her pillow, hoping sleep would get the better of her before she could wake up completely. The dim light of the moon filtered through the pale blue curtains of muslin that framed her window, just enough to tickle her eyelids and tear another groan of discontent from her mouth. She rolled on the other side, a yawn threatening to dislocate her jaw, and she willed her body to relax into the mattress. She didn't fancy the idea of being tired the day later - it would be ill-advised to sleep-walk at her own birthday party.
That last thought had tiny bubbles of excitement rise in her stomach, and it only made falling back asleep all the harder. With a sigh of defeat, she opened her eyes and pushed herself into a sitting position against the headboard. A quick look at the robot-shaped alarm clock on her bedside table told her that it was five to midnight. Five minutes until she would turn ten years old.
She slid down the bed and tiptoed in silence to the window - the last thing she wanted was to wake her mother up and imperil the big birthday party she had planned. Without a sound, she sat on the window sill and pressed her nose against the cold glass of the window, looking up at the dark canvas of the night sky, sprinkled with hundreds of twinkling stars, the moon a tiny ping-pong ball that seemed to float over the far end of the capital city. She really hoped her mother had bought her the telescope she'd been asking for for weeks. Her fascination for the stars and the universe had no end, and she often imagined what it would be like to go up there, among all those little lights that seemed so close and were yet so far.
Another quick glance at the clock. Two to midnight. When she pressed her nose back against the window, she noticed the condensation that came with her breath. And she realized that she was humming. Her eyes grew wide under the fear that her mother might hear her, and panic seeped into her veins when she found it impossible to stop singing. She couldn't even understand the lyrics to that song, couldn't remember ever hearing it before, but her voice kept rolling down her tongue and flowing past her lips, against her best will. She clasped her hands above her mouth and retreated back to her bed, pressing her face against a heart-shaped cushion to keep the noise down as she fumbled around to draw the heavy duvet back over her body.
One to midnight. Her heart leapt into her chest when a second voice joined hers. A soft voice, a merry voice, probably belonging to a kid her age, most certainly a boy. Her eyes travelled around the room to find him - as if he might have hidden under her bed or inside her cupboard during the day and had waited until that moment to make a surprise apparition for her birthday. But there was no one in sight. The voice sung louder, so loud her body vibrated at each powerful syllable they ended up singing in chorus - and it was only then that she understood that voice wasn't coming from the room. It was coming from inside her own head.
She could do nothing but listen to that voice, to the melody of the song, the beautiful words echoing against her skull in the most perfect and magnificent music she had ever heard. Before she could stop them, tears begun to fall freely from her eyes, and her stomach swooped with a feeling she had never felt before. The song grew in intensity, building up in powerful harmonies that caused the next lyrics to flow past her lips in a choked sob. And, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.
Chest heaving and breath short, she looked at the alarm clock. Midnight.
If her arm hadn't been trapped under her pillow, she might have seen the lines glowing under skin for a fraction of a second. But she missed it.
The ten-year-old girl from Earth missed the one moment that marked the beginning of something she was galaxies away from imagining, the one moment that pinned the exact time and place when her timeline crossed the one of the owner of the voice. The first time in her life, and the last time for a whole decade.
"Happy birthday, Rose Tyler," she murmured to herself, gathering her legs close to her chest.
She wiped the tears that refused to dry on her cheeks with the back of her hand, and she went back to sleep. Unaware that lightyears away, millions of years in her future, a small boy her age was falling asleep on humid earth in a dark cave.