it's the season of grace (coming out of the void)
There were too many guns.
Too much anger for his taste, too much singed skin and ash. He cleans her wounds calmly, too calmly, and she scrutinises his every movement. She's waiting for him to ask, but he doesn't; not yet. Her hand is wrecked, shards of debris lodged in the skin around the hole in her palm.
"I hate firecrackers," she mutters, hissing as he numbs the area with a cool gel.
He helps her pull her shirt off, wincing at the sight of the tear in her side. It isn't too serious, he knows, but the weapons are brutal, exploding shells, and even a flesh wound can be dangerous.
He bickers with her amiably, cleaning the cut on her side while she tends to her hand, picking out the scraps of metal carefully before bandaging the area. He's focused, too concerned about torn skin and the sight of bone to be distracted; fair skin and sleek muscles and she's beautiful, part of him registers. Even dishevelled and dirty and scarred, she's beautiful.
River lets him run his scans and ask his questions and poke her with a myriad of strange instruments, and he wonders if her patience is an inborn virtue or a developed one. Either way she stays, forgiving him his nervous habits, before slipping away once he's thoroughly satisfied and sufficiently distracted.
It isn't until later when he's finally stopped, finally allowed the day to sink in and create a space for itself in his mind that he remembers just how much gunfire there was, just how many bodies. Not by his hand, not directly, but the guilt clings to him like sand to slick skin, and he sighs.
Even the slightest hesitation he could have taken comfort in, but there was none. Every shot, every step, everything precise and purposeful; despite her injuries, she barely broke a sweat. Everything was mechanical - except when she moved, so fast and so light he didn't register her motion until he hit the ground, rolling with her away from the fire. She caught his eye then, just for a second, just long enough to know that he was safe, and all he saw was fear. Fear, then relief, then nothing; she turned around and killed the man who shot at him; that would have hit him if she hadn't intervened.
The Doctor shakes his head, the memories dislodging and floating away into the recesses of his mind, at least for now. They'll need to talk about it, he knows; he'll need to convince her she was wrong and she'll need him to understand all the ways she wasn't. He hates it, but he's learning; he just hopes he'll learn enough in time.
Lorna leads the Doctor to the very edges of the Forest, crowded in purple leaves and gold grass and a distant, distant hum. The suns never rise here, she tells him, looking down over the shadowy canyon.
"Doctor," she asks, her voice as small and young as she is, hidden in the branches of a lame tree. "What are you looking for?"
He doesn't answer, but he holds her gaze and gives her a brilliant smile.
Below, the voices of the Marines echo up along the vines and the rocks and the water.
There is always doubt.
Small and neglected in the back of her heart, there's a confusion and a hope that can never be explained away. So wicked and so wise, but so, so alone. Doesn't that matter? she wants to ask, but they only hit her or forget her when she does.
"He stole you from your family," says the woman with the silver eye. "He tried to control you. But we saved you, and now you will save us."
She curls her fingers around the handle and nods, unsure but angry, filled with screams and terror and hatred. Her mother's face, shadowed in red, be brave, very brave. We'll find you.
"They can't find you," the Colonel says flatly, without remorse, the language of the Forests unnatural on his tongue. "They're dead. The Warrior killed them all."
She doesn't tell him, but he knows.
Not the man she meets in the laboratory, not the one who visits America. Not these versions, not these Times; but the Doctor, her Doctor, the one who lied and lies and will lie - he knows.
What she's done. What she will do.
It won't matter when she's through; when it finally comes to a head. When the last shot is fired, it could all be undone, she knows. But even if it does, they're smart. They'll remember. And they'll know she won; their little warrior child. All grown up.
They'll know.
He tries to cover the start, the brief shaking of his muscles and bones as his body registers her presence. He tries to mask it with a grim smile, but she knows - she always knows - and she tilts her head, her fingers drumming against the soft arm of the chair.
"Melody Pond," he acknowledges, clearing his throat. He reaches for his gun, but finds his holster empty. "I wasn't expecting you."
She smiles - the nerves in his feet begin to tremble - and shrugs her shoulders lightly. "Where would be the fun in that?"
He scowls, and her eyes dance in amusement. His gaze sweeps over her, trained and precise: the curve of her back, the swell of her chest, the shadow she casts to the floor. Her position is twofold, he knows - to show she's calm, controlled, and entirely confident; and also unarmed. He looks for signs, for clues of what's to come.
"You won't find anything," she says, an almost sing-song lilt to her tone. "After all, I was trained by the very best. Wasn't I, Colonel?"
"And it still wasn't enough," he says bitterly, blame rich on his tongue.
She merely shrugs. "You get points for effort."
His eyes flicker to the security camera hidden in the wall.
"What do you want?"
"So, so many things. None of which are actually attainable thanks to you; though you did plan everything so perfectly."
She rises, circling him. The Colonel stands as proudly as she remembers - hands folded behind his back, spine straight, legs shoulder-width apart. He doesn't flinch when she leans in, her breath hot against his ear.
"I have been wondering, however."
He stares straight at the wall ahead. "Wondering what?"
There's a long, empty pause. The silence itches, and he resists the urge to turn, to shake out his limbs, to keep her in his sights. She's behind him now, somewhere, but he doesn't know how far and he knows he can't move fast enough; he never could. When she speaks finally she's so close, nearly pressed against him, and he can't tell if her question is a continuation or a non-sequitur.
"Did they pay you?" she asks lightly, tracing a finger over the lapels of his coat, medals dangling there like spiders. "Did they give you this palace?"
She steps away, gesturing to the ornate furniture, the high ceilings and long floors and endless, endless luxury. "Or did they offer you something else?" she asks, turning her back to him completely and pouring two drinks into tall glasses from the bar. "Rank?" She adds one of the many spices arranged on the counter to both glasses, fingers pinching the substance into the dark liquid. "Honour?" The drink glows a soft yellow at the top, blending down into crimson and black as she stirs, first one, then the other. Satisfied, she turns and offers him a glass. "Or was it simply pride?"
He stares, unmoving. Her lips curve into a smirk as she takes a delicate sip. He still refuses and she shrugs, setting the drink on the nearest table. She returns to her seat, legs crossed, leaning back into the cushions casually. She takes another sip, eyebrows raised in question.
"Well?"
"My consolations are none of your concern."
"No," she agrees, then drops her voice to a sly whisper, "But they do make excellent table conversation, don't they?"
"Is that why you're here?" he asks dryly. "Conversation?"
"Have we something to discuss?"
It's a dare. Bold and bright and a bit inspiring, if he were willing to admit it. She knows he knows; her ease assured him of that instantly. But her look, so smooth and deceiving, haunts his muscles painfully and there's a voice in the back of his head, buried low and covered with years of training, a little voice that he tries desperately to quell: run, it says. For God's sake, run.
As if echoing his thoughts, her voice breaks the pause. "Colonel Runaway," she muses. "Pity that never caught on, I rather like it. It suits you."
He raises his arms, letting them fall easily to his sides. "Am I running now?" he questions.
She smiles, a little secret curving the edges of her lips. "Not yet."
His jaw twitches. "So. To what do I owe this…unexpected pleasure?" His words are tight and scornful, but if anything they only amuse her further.
"Can't a girl just drop in on her old Master now and then?"
The title echoes back at him bitterly, but her words are so light, her smile so fixed, that he hesitates.
"You were a Warrior, Melody. The best Warrior. You still are."
She recognises the offering, the extended palm, and ignores it. "But not the warrior you expected, am I?"
"You were corrupted."
She laughs. He flinches, hard, and it only makes her smile brighter. "Oh, Colonel. You have no idea."
"You can't run forever," he warns.
She arches an eyebrow - "Can't I?" - and sets her drink down on the table adjacent to the chair, folding her hands primly in her lap. "Tell me, Colonel - do you still train Recruits?"
He frowns, trying to guess ahead. "I assume you know the answer to that."
She nods vaguely. "Four-hundred twenty-five Anglican Marines at your command. That's quite an impressive cavalry for a man of your age."
"They're good men," he says firmly.
Her smile fades into something he can't place, something haunting, akin to sadness. "Aren't they all?"
"Why are you here?" he demands harshly, growing impatient.
"Isn't it obvious?" she asks sweetly; the sound burns his ears. There's a gun in the table drawer behind him, a meter to his left. She's five from it; he knows he'd never make it.
"And what does your Doctor think of this?"
She smiles tightly. "You seem to be implying the Doctor would care." She blinks at him in false innocence. "I thought he was a brutal warrior. Why would he mourn a life such as your own?"
"You had the best education. The best training. We gave you-"
"What you gave me," she interrupts, "amounts to very little in light of what you took."
"We made you what you are," he argues. "A strong woman. A Warrior."
"Doctor," she corrects, eyes gleaming at his confusion. "I'm accredited now. Aren't you proud."
She's mocking him, each inflexion, each motion of her hands, every blink - they're all intentional, all signals. She lets the pause fester, watching every twitch and every flicker of his gaze. He's waiting for the guards that aren't there, the security that will never come. He's waiting, just like he always has, because he can't run.
"Do you know what the Church still executes for, Colonel?" she asks suddenly, casually; like it's nothing more than a line in a play. "Thousands of years later, they've abandoned almost every stigma that plagued them up through the 31st century. There's only one, True Sin now. Punishable by death." She tilts her head curiously. "Do you know what it is?"
"I'm a bishop," he snaps. "I know all God's laws."
"Then tell me, bishop," she drawls, leaning forward, arms draped over her legs. "What is the greatest Sin?"
He freezes. River waits, still and patient, her half-empty glass dangling precariously from her slim fingers. The Colonel shifts, the slightest motion betraying his distress. Finally he dodges, a question of his own buried in a quotation:
" 'For as by the one man's disobedience the many were made sinners, so by the one man's obedience the many will be made righteous.' "
She nods slowly, relaxing again into the cushions. "Romans, 5:18-19."
"Chapter and Verse." He tilts his head in intrigued approval. "I'm surprised you remember."
Her smirk disappears instantly, tone dangerous and cold. "I remember everything."
He shakes his head, finally moving, lowering himself stiffly into the chair across from her and taking the drink perched on the table.
"The Doctor is far more guilty of Sin than we ever were," he reasons.
The amused curve of her lips returns, and she arches an eyebrow at him evenly. "The Church is judging by degrees, now?"
"You know it's true," he ignores her. "We never lied to you." He tilts his head curiously, taking a careful drink and watching her reaction; she doesn't blink; he swallows. "Everything he's done…how can you trust him?"
" 'For since death came through a man, the resurrection of the dead comes also through a man,' " she parrots. He stares. Drawing the last taste of her drink, she stands, passing him slowly and leaning down to whisper in his ear. "You're on the wrong side, Colonel Manton. You always have been."
He waits, timing his question until she's near the door; her footsteps tell him she's already stopped, ahead of him, awaiting his card. He grimaces, but covers it with a cool, breezy tone: "Do you really think you're just going to walk out of here?"
Her smile is brutal. "Do you?"
He falters - just a fraction of a second, barely at all, but she catches it; she knows.
"The greatest Sin," she says, just as he feels the first flush of heat under his skin, "isn't death. It isn't vengeance. It isn't even a war."
His hands shake just slightly; he stares at the glass in his hand, the edge of fear crawling along his skin. "What have you done?" he demands.
"It's believing you can become like God. Isn't that right, Colonel?"
He buckles suddenly, his chest tight, eyes hot, a thousand needles everywhere. He gasps, collapsing to the floor. Her shadow falls over him as she kneels, fingers once again tracing his medals, his honours, his rewards.
"You took my childhood. You made me your Prodigal." She leans in close, lips to his ear. "How many of your 'good men' were children, Colonel? Or was I special?"
"R-River," he mouths; his body shakes and his throat is tight, but he manages to ask, just one more time.
" 'I am not a Fool,' " she echoes quietly, the faintest hint of remorse flashing in her eyes. " 'I am a Mercenary of the Lord. I am Ordained in the Light of the Spirit to cast Judgment upon those who Trespass.' "
She watches as his body spasms then stills, mid-gasp or mid-word she doesn't know; she never let him beg, a small, unnecessary gift. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, and she rises slowly, leaving him untouched.
" 'I am not a Fool. I am a Mercenary of the Lord,' " she murmurs to the empty room. " 'I will uphold The Law.' "
She finds the box in Madame Kovarian's vacant office, eighty years into the future, buried in a pocket underneath the sleek, white floor. Covered in dust and sin and fear, she pulls the box from its hiding place and opens it: a wooden doll, a paperclip, and photographs. Three little girls, all in different places and different times. They're all holding the doll, tattered and worn. They aren't the same, but they are.
Three little girls.
One photograph: a shed, a suitcase, a house with an overgrown lawn.
It's too familiar, too perfect. She remembers that doll - its smell, the texture of its hair, its smooth, wooden face. She didn't before, but she does now; a movie reel come to life in her mind.
The photographs are numbered: 1 2 3
Small, bigger, biggest.
She remembers a suit; grey faces and long arms. Kovarian's steely grin. Silver and white. Concave glass. And then: the house with the overgrown lawn; the soft hum of engines; the teenage girl.
The photographs fall to the floor.
The Doctor kisses Lorna on the forehead and gives her a gift and sends her on her way. Back to her family. Back to the Forests, away from the chanting and the marching and the big, silver box that shadows the canyon.
He sends her away, knowing that what he's done now will kill her then, and he worries at how this guilt bleeds so effortlessly into all the rest. But there isn't time, there's never time, and he makes his way slowly toward the compound without a backwards glance.
She is still a child when the Silence come for her. She isn't afraid: not of the dark, not of the writing on the walls, not of the strange colours outside her white-washed room. She isn't even afraid of the engines, ever-present, always haunting. She isn't afraid of anything, until they push her into a white suit with a glass window and she can't move, can barely breathe. Everything is stiff and full of pain and she begs them to let her out, to let her go.
"You escaped," he says, gentle but firm. "You fought back."
"I was supposed to," she snaps, pulling away from him angrily. He doesn't know yet. Doesn't understand. She called for him and he came, but not at the right time; never at the right time. "I did everything - everything - they wanted. I played right into their hands."
The Doctor follows her relentlessly. "You were a little girl, River. A terrified, unloved little girl-"
"I should have known."
He smiles at her sadly. "How could you? How could you possibly?" He brushes his hand across her cheek and it terrifies and bewilders him, the ease with which she leans into his touch. She catches herself not a moment later, pulling away and putting a distance between them he never thought he'd grow to hate; to resent. His boundaries, his rules, crushing even further the broken heart of a woman he isn't supposed to love.
He hesitates; then steps forward with as much confidence as he can muster and gently - so, so gently - cups her face in his hands, fingers soft against her neck and jaw, thumbs just barely caressing her cheeks. She tenses, wide-eyed and confused, until he leans in and brushes a kiss against her forehead. She shudders - a small, involuntary motion that forces him to let go, only to wrap his arms around her as tight as he can and hold on for all he's worth.
She tightens her fingers around the gun, and a shot echoes through the white.
"See?" Kovarian says, "That wasn't so bad. Now." Fingers around hers, adjusting her own grip on the gun. "Try again."
It isn't as calculated as she would have preferred.
Her motions are deliberate and her aim is precise, but it lacks closure; it isn't defined or poignant like the others. His eyes widen with recognition, and she knows he knows - in those last seconds between her finger releasing the trigger and the blast impacting, their eyes meet.
It's slow, somehow; Time has always given her a strange sort of grace. He mouths her name, the bullet still in its trajectory. It's a crass form of death, she knows, but he'll still be recognisable - a 21st century piece of metal lodged between the creases of his brow.
No words, no last reminders. She doesn't get the opportunity to stand over him, powdered residue on her hands and clothes. Instead she shouts, and pushes the Doctor behind a large crate as the air crackles with plasma and electricity.
She doesn't get that final moment, but it'll do.
