In the end, it is one of those hopeless days when everyone doesn't live. Not even close.
Donna sits at the jump seat, lank hair cascading around and across her face, hands hanging limply at her sides. She doesn't look at him. Won't look at him.
The Doctor takes a tentative step towards her, but the closed off look at her face halts him and he stops. He tries to come up with something to say, but witty jokes and vocal mannerisms rhyme badly with what they've seen and he's sure that if he tried to make light of the situation, that, if nothing else, would be impossible for Donna to forgive.
It had been humans. Without asking, he knows that is the most difficult thing for Donna to comprehend. For all her cynicism about the world, she cannot possibly understand this. Shouldn't have to.
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It should have been a light jaunt to Napoleon's court.
Instead they had ended up in the depths of the Iberian Peninsula, not far from Badajoz. They had come across a small village, hardly big enough to merit the name, just a few farmhouses clustered together as if for company.
They'd hidden together with the villagers, twenty or so men, women and children of varied ages, in a cellar under a trapdoor in one of the smaller houses. A young widow with torn ear lobes, not more than 19, held a newborn baby. The English were coming; their flags had been seen flapping in the distance, waving banners against the wild landscape.
The clapper of hooves, the men's shouts had cut through the silence leaving a bloody wound. They were searching for food, wine, women.
The villagers, Donna and the Doctor were hidden in the darkness of the cellar, couldn't see the destruction the soldiers brought, but the sounds painted a vivid picture. The missing villagers made the soldiers angry, the stolen wine made them heated and soon they were shouting threats, egging each other on.
They came closer and closer to the cellar, stepping around the trapdoor, their boots like thunder.
The baby stirred in its mother's arms. Its eyes opened, still blue, and the mother's grew dark with remembered fear. She rocked the baby, trying to keep it from waking, from crying, but its moments increased, the beginning of a scream in its throat.
The mother put a skinny, dirty hand over her baby's mouth.
Overhead the soldiers moved.
The baby's movements slowed.
Donna stepped towards the mother, a frown on her face. Quick as a snake, the Doctor grabbed her arm, holding her back. She struggled but was no match for his alien strength.
He changed his grip so that he had one arm wrapped around her torso and one across her mouth, mirroring the mother.
The Doctor had seen the cruelty of war.
As Donna's breathing became harsh and her struggles increased, the noise from the soldiers became unbearable and the room spun for the Doctor and suddenly all was quiet and still again.
Even the baby.
It would never move again.
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The Doctor wants to ask Donna if she is all right. Wants to hug her, hold her hand, take away her memories. He wants to explain.
But for once, words fail him, he the great wordsmith, the clever tongue, and so he stands at the console, watching his silent companion mourn a child and a mother and her own innocence.
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Notes: I'm not sure if it's true, but I read a novel where many of the women who were raped during the Siege of Badajoz had torn earlobes because soldiers had torn their earrings out. I really know VERY little about the Peninsular Wars, and any factual errors are because I'm far too tired to do research. This was written during half an hour's speedwriting to take my mind of finals.