Thank you all for faving/following/generally giving this a chance, given its unusual nature. Reviews would also be enormously appreciated. Oh, and you can ask any question you may have there too, I will answer. Quote from Lord Byron's Manfred.
oOo
When the moon is on the wave,
And the glow-worm in the grass,
And the meteor on the grave,
And the wisp on the morass;
When the falling stars are shooting,
And the answer'd owls are hooting,
And the silent leaves are still
In the shadow of the hill,
Shall my soul be upon thine,
With a power and with a sign.
.
Right, Doctor. Focus.
He can see a tunnel-like corridor opening up to his left, light visible at its end. His first instinct is to run towards it but he forces himself to turn his back. He's not playing along.
The console is behind him –and above him, the place where he's standing a good twenty feet lower than it should be.
What else is new.
He grabs a fallen blackboard and balances it against a stair that has no reason to be there. He steps precariously on it and reaching out, grasps a shining, twisted railing with the tips of his fingers and pulls himself upwards. The next foothold is a computer panel, the next handhold a bookcase. A book falls off and almost hits him on the face, but he grabs it in time and stuffs it in a bigger-on-the-inside jacket pocket.
He climbs over the bookcase and a loose cable from under the console is hanging just out of reach. He hesitates for a moment and then jumps.
The whole structure collapses and crashes down behind, beneath him, but his fingers now touch metal; he swings a leg sideways and he finally lands on even ground. For a while, he just stays motionless, lying face down on the floor and trying to catch his breath.
"Well, I do in fact not like the redecoration."
He refuses to look up, to get up, to do anything.
"Oh goodness me, what a climb!" He hears footsteps approaching and catches a glimpse of baggy trousers, a black frock coat several sizes too big, and a mop of jet black hair, as the man leans over the edge and looks at the depths below. "Although I suppose the old place doesn't normally look like this. Does it? It'd be terribly inconvenient."
As the other straightens up and turns away, a small, smooth, silvery object falls out of his pocket and rolls on the floor. He sees it's about to go over the edge, so he props himself up on one elbow and snatches it.
It looks like a simple metal rod similar to a penlight; but he knows very well what it really is. He closes his eyes and slumps back down.
"That would be my sonic, thank you."
He hands it over and finally, slowly gets to his feet.
(The Cosmic Hobo, the Flautist… River had once jokingly suggested "The Clown Prince of Time".)
He's leaning on the console, a cape slung over one shoulder, reading his 500 Year Diary. Right. He used to be so young once, didn't he?
"Funny old world, isn't it?"
"What?" He smiles and snaps the small book shut.
"The Time Lords would have let you off."
He stands very still, his back to the void, the edge of the swirling dark. Somehow the ground below seems much, much further away now. And well, why not?
"Non-interference. At all costs. Oh, they did change their minds once the Daleks became a threat… but back then? And they never even apologised." He sounds quite annoyed. "Even after we'd saved the cosmos…how many times?"
He puts the book and the cape away and approaches you, wringing his hands. Shorter, eyes a deeper shade of blue.
"I suppose I should feel grateful I wasn't atomised. Traditional for interventionists. I don't, though. Exile and summary execution will do that to a man. Not to mention how they dealt with Jamie and Zoe…" A fleeting shade of wistfulness passes over his face, then it's cold again as he looks up at him. "Still, isn't it amazing? I am the guilty one here; because I tampered with history. Because I couldn't just stand by, abandon people to their problems. Had you been in that sorry excuse for a trail, you would have done the right thing. For them, that is."
(Suddenly abandoning a helpless child mid-rescue seems a thousand times more despicable an act, no matter what he grows up to be. He promptly decides that looking at his boots is preferable than enduring the gaze of the younger eyes.)
"But perhaps you do agree with them now?"
His head snaps back up again. "I know that it wasn't right."
"Good. That's the truth." The other shifts his jaw and walks slightly to the side to examine a smashed computer panel that hangs over the abyss. "Because there are higher laws than those of the Time Lords, Doctor, and we both know that."
The colourful piece of machinery suddenly emits a loud noise, several sparks, and there's a small explosion of smoke and debris. As if in slow motion, he sees his younger self duck with an alarmed expression and almost fall to the floor. He turns away and steps backwards, covering his face. One foot slips over the edge and he loses his balance, gravity taking hold in full force. A flailing hand manages to catch a piece of railing and he falls sideways with a cry.
"Oh my word!" comes the voice from above amidst several bouts of coughing. He's barely hanging on and the strain on his arm makes him want to use far more rude expressions. As it is, only a grunt of pain escapes his clenched teeth.
"Sorry about that." The younger face appears above him, smiling. "But I'm afraid small accidents are unavoidable when you consider the present state of the TARDIS."
Then his expression turns serious again and he seems to hesitate for a second, as if he doesn't know if he's able or allowed to help. But the moment passes and he crouches down on one knee offering his hand.
"I never regretted it, you know. Everything that I did. Not once, despite how it ended. I knew the risk, I knew the consequences. But I still did it: I travelled, saw the universe, met and helped extraordinary people; saved them even. If I had known that the sentence would be death, final death, not just the death of regeneration, I still would have done my part. And I could have done more. That I regret." As he reaches down, the younger eyes soften for the first time with pity. "Can you say the same?"
He wants to respond but he can't. And he has nothing, there's nothing that he can say. He reaches upwards trying to catch the offered hand, but the railing is smooth and his fingers are slipping and he falls backwards, down, into the dark.
.
.
He closes his eyes and concentrates. Slow down.
He opens them again and he bursts through the blue doors to a perfectly normal TARDIS. He pauses for a second, almost surprised. Even the lighting looks okay.
"Right". He shakes his head and rushes to the controls. Both screens are blank, filled with static. "Come on…"
"That's quite a neat trick you've got there. However, there's no real danger, so it's not going to help you here."
He resists the urge to roll his eyes and kick the console in annoyance. He really wants to, though.
"At the moment, you are having a perfectly survivable fall. And it's all in your mind anyway, so going into your little mind palace is a bit redundant. Defeats the purpose of the whole thing, really."
Jean-Paul Charles Aymard, remind me to tell you that you're the greatest imbecile in all of time and space next time I drop by. Yeah, "Hell is other people". Idiot, that's all I'm saying.
He sighs and turns around. His young, blond and beige self is sitting in the middle of the stairs leading to the upper level, his hat by his side, the stick of celery stubbornly decorating his left lapel. A cricket ball is repeatedly thrown in the air to land effortlessly back on his right palm.
"Well…better safe than sorry. I'm surprised you didn't have a fear of heights."
"I was no longer the man I used to be. And neither are you."
"And, uh, you don't think that change is for the better, do you?" It almost isn't a question.
The old blue eyes seem to judge him, and the young, usually sweet and carefree face remains mirthless. "No." He catches the cricket ball and puts it in his pocket. "Sorry."
Always the polite one.
"There should have been another way", he quotes. "I believe you'll agree that this time, there was."
He can feel his pulse beating like a hammer against his temples and he's beginning to sweat. Say something, anything.
"You let the Master die", he spits at him. "You stood there and did nothing."
The fair head tilts slightly to the side. "I'm not proud of it." He looks down. "He survived, of course, but I had no way to know or expect that. So, no, not proud". He stands up with his hands crossed behind his back. "But I'm pretty sure you understand the difference, Doctor."
(You don't say "You didn't kill Davros when you had the chance". Because you didn't save him.)
"Oh? Well, what would you have done?" he asks instead, approaching him. He's aware of the desperation that's seeping into his tone.
The younger man picks up his hat and descends the last steps until they're face to face. Barely breaking eye contact, he takes a coin out of his pocket and flips it. He catches it easily in the air, and turning away, opens his hands.
If only it were that easy.
He glances at him over his shoulder and his look is grave, even mournful. But the coin goes back into his pocket and he neither shows nor answers him.
You don't bother asking him again, and instead, as he heads to the doors, you close your eyes and let go.
.
(to be continued)