Okay, so explanation:
I started this story a couple of months ago, and it began as just angst. Basically, there's no logic required. I know the Doctor really can speak English, so this is a bit of a 'What-if". What if the Doctor had no control of a situation and no way to speak, only rage?
Read and review!
Furor Domini Temporis
Nine hundred years. Nine hundred years, and a knife in each hand. So this was what he had become: a man whose life could be summed up within that simple phrase, and would be ended with such an indignity as this. Beads of sweat dripped from his face down onto his bare chest, onto the blades of the knives…
Above him, the judiciary courts of the planet Mortacius looked down upon him; the fine ladies watched, masked by feathered fans, and the great generals, fat in their gilded armchairs, leered with sick pleasure upon him.
"Does the Time Lord know of his crimes against the Mortacian people?" the high minister, curling his beard about his fingers, said in a booming voice. It had, using technology similar to the Judoon, assimilated his language; the TARDIS translator circuit was disabled in the highly electrical field of the Arena.
The Doctor felt his voice break as he spoke. It was not himself he feared for, however; out of the corner of his eye, he could see Donna reaching out from beyond ornate prison bars, desperation in her eyes and a language he could no longer comprehend on her lips. She had no idea what was going on, no idea whatsoever, and there were no words he could offer that would comfort her. His words, spoken in the ancient tongue of Gallifrey, meant nothing to her.
"I do," he said gruffly, squeezing the handles of the knives as he swallowed uncomfortably. Donna was watching him, frozen in fear and, and it made his hearts break even more than the knives ever could to know that she would have the greater suffering of the two of them. The crime was his, while she was innocent of anything.
He had insulted the high minister, unintentionally, by speaking of the Time War; the mention of war in such a 'peaceful society' was grounds for death. Donna, reacting as usual with a fiery tempest, was charged as well, though her punishment was the harsher. Eternal servitude of the high minister's house—not only would she serve as an abused animal in life, but posthumously her body would play host to thousands of Mortacian eggs.
After she watched her best friend, with whom she could not even communicate, kill himself in the arena to the cheers of thousands. And so she crouched there in terror, naked but for a bra and panties that did precious, precious little for modesty.
She screamed something to him; he guessed it was 'Doctor,' but how could he know for sure? He turned to look at her, and though he tried to appear brave, he knew the cracks in his façade were growing, and he knew he had to say something, just so she could hear his voice.
"Donna!" he screamed. There were angry shouts from the stands, and he felt a mild electric shock from the floor of the arena grip his body. He shook it off, gritting his teeth, before screaming again. "Donna!"
Donna repeated her call, but let out a shriek, as if something behind her in her cell hit her. She snarled something to a guard that likely stood behind her, and the Doctor felt a faint smile come to his lips.
"Does the Time Lord accept the penalty for his crimes against the Mortacian people?"
Knowing it would be worse for both of them if he refused, the Doctor nodded quickly. "Yes."
He never let his gaze leave Donna, who was still crying out to him. She was too wonderful to suffer this forever; her tears alone made him yearn to tear the Mortacians to shreds with his bare hands. He vowed to himself that if there was a chance, even a ghost of a chance, he would take it.
He swallowed, feeling his blood boil. Suddenly there was rage, rage and nothing else. Rage at the people laughing down at him, anticipating his suicide. Rage at the people who sat comfortably in their thrones as Donna's tears fell.
She was too beautiful to cry. They took their lives in their hands when they hurt his best friend.
"Then, Time Lord, you will suffer the death of all criminals on Mortacius. You will stab your own heart—in your case, hearts—until you fall in death to the floor."
Silence reigned.
The Doctor swallowed. "No," he replied lowly; the high minister seemed astonished.
"I'm—sorry?" he asked, cocking his head to the side. The Doctor gritted his teeth and took his chance, hurling the knife from his right hand with strength he could've never found without the fury inside of him. It stabbed through the minister's crooked neck, and as blood spurted forth, screams erupted from the crowd. For all their pomp and circumstance, the Mortacians were cowards; they rose only to flee in terror from the maddened Time Lord.
The Doctor curled his hand into a fist and turned to face Donna, whose guards had fled. The woman stared at him, her eyes wide and glassy with terror. Suddenly, the weight of his actions fell like a thousand tons upon him, and he ran to her quickly.
"Don't be afraid of me, Donna," he pleaded in a whisper as she crawled to the back of her cell, wrapping her arms about her bare shoulders. He could feel the tears tracing their way along his face, and while he knew she could not understand his words, he prayed something in them instilled trust. "Please, please Donna, of all the people who fear me…don't you dare, don't you dare fear me!" He knew his voice was rising, and he struggled to control it, but the tears were coming too quickly, too hot down his face. He dropped the other knife, and as it clattered to the floor he bent his head to the bars of her cage, closing his eyes.
"I need you, Donna," he breathed hoarsely, feeling deep in his hearts the ache of loss. "I will not leave you here to die, Donna, and I don't care if you can't understand me because I will keep talking, keep telling you that I need you. More than anything in the universe, Donna Noble, I need you here with me."
He took a deep breath and raised his head, to see her face there inches away from his. To see her beautiful gray eyes hanging there so close to him…as though they trusted him…Slowly she reached a hand through the bars, and brushed the side of his face.
With newfound strength, his hands raised from the floor to grip the bars. They were brittle and hardly a powerful barrier; it didn't take him much strength to tear the gate from its hinges.
Donna didn't break eye contact until he reached down and snatched up the knife again; the Doctor, from the corner of his eye, saw her glance upwards to where the body of the high minister lay.
Then she followed him from the cell, though her eyes were wary.
He appraised her carefully, and she him.
"You know I love you," he said, then paused. "Hm…maybe I'll tell you again when you can understand me."
Her eyes were so vacant to his words, and it pained him to see her so…
They had to get out of the Arena.
"Stay back!" he roared as they approached the main gate. Outside there were Mortacians standing, attempting to appear imposing but failing miserably. He raised his knife to eye level, and they seemed to remember what had happened to their high minister, moving backwards in fear. He could feel the crackle of the electric current on his tongue, it was only feet away.
They pushed through the crowd; the Doctor's knife their guide. He saw Donna's eyes light up as they passed through the electrical barrier, but he didn't dare stop to speak a word to her. He held his knife and it struck fear into the Mortacians.
An insult, they had punishment for. A murder, they could not fathom; there was nothing but anarchy and terror.
When finally they reached the blue box, the Doctor threw open the doors and let Donna enter before he followed, closing the door behind them.
The moment the doors shut, Donna shrieked.
"Damn it all, damn it all to hell," she growled. The Doctor raised his eyebrows; she let out an exasperated sigh and ran into his arms. "Say something, say something English, you bastard, or I swear…"
"Donna!" he cried, realizing tears were still pouring from his eyes as he took her face in his hands and planted a kiss on her forehead. She tightened her grip on his waist, before both of them realized how little they were wearing.
"Ugh!" Donna exclaimed, pulling backwards. "You—you put a shirt on, I'll get—yeah," she said, backpedaling from the console room.
The Doctor shook his head, turning to face the console with a wry smirk. He only needed to speak her name…
He had so many words to say, none of which Donna did not already know.
Thoughtfully he looked down at himself. He really ought to put a shirt on.