Chapter 2
They stood in a place of gently rolling hills, covered in long grass and dotted with trees and bushes. Mountains and the domed Citadel of the Time Lords loomed in the distance, an imposing structure surrounded by bare, jagged rock, giving one the impression that the Citadel had absorbed the life and vitality of its environs. Here, though, he could hear the birdsong and small animal noises, the hush of wind through the trees and grasses, and smell the sweet scent of the flowering bushes that always came first to his mind when he thought of home. The loss of the Time Lords had been a blow to the universe, but the loss of Gallifrey had been just as devastating to him personally.
There was a structure nearby, cunningly built into the hillside. White, marbled walls seemed to curve and grow naturally from the rock and soil. There were no windows, but open-air verandahs with benches and tables decorated every level. At the base of the hill, a single wooden door provided entrance to the building.
Several of the verandahs were in use. Children in Novice uniforms, ranging in age from eight to about fifteen, sat alone or in clusters holding computerized tablets and books, hard at work on their lessons. A handful of adults watched them, admonishing or giving assistance as needed.
The Doctor watched the students for a few moments then noticed a boy, perhaps eleven years old, sitting with his back against a tree outside the school. The child was drawing on a paper notepad resting upon his knees. The solemn expression on his face as he concentrated appeared at odds with the mischievous, elfin features partially hidden under an unruly tousle of light brown hair.
The Doctor knew that face – knew it even better than the one he currently wore.
The Time Lord's first instinct was to run back to his Tardis and leave immediately; to encounter himself as a child would have disastrous consequences. He had to remind himself forcefully that this wasn't time-travel. This wasn't even Gallifrey – it was an illusion. Had to be.
He swallowed hard. His childhood had been…difficult. The loneliness, the knowledge that he was different from his fellow students, and the nascent but growing certainty that Time Lord society, with its stagnant culture and insistence upon non-involvement, would never satisfy his lust for knowledge, for life itself – all of that had been a tremendous burden for such a small boy to carry.
A bell chimed from somewhere within the building. The students rose and filed through the portals to the interior rooms.
Dinner-time, the Doctor thought. Meals at the Time Lord Academy were much like those at any school on Earth – a time for camaraderie and a break from lessons and study. The Doctor's younger self didn't go in, though. He remained under his tree, drawing.
"It seems that you were not always the social butterfly you later became, Doctor," the ghost remarked wryly.
"Why are you showing me this? I haven't forgotten what school was like."
"Come." The ghost led him closer, stopping a few feet away from the boy. The young Doctor took no notice of them.
"They can't see us, I take it?"
The ghost smiled. "Of course not."
As they spoke, a girl came out of the building toward them, carrying a plate loaded with fruit, cheese and bread. She stopped in front of the boy and stood looking down at him. She was a little younger than he was, ginger curls framing a round, freckled face.
Eda, the Doctor remembered.
"Well," she said, "if you aren't going to come in and eat, then the food is going to have to come to you, isn't it? That is, if you can stop making pictures long enough."
She was a bit like Donna, the Doctor realized. Never thought about that before.
The boy looked up at her and smiled. "'Hi, Eda. Sorry, I was just trying to get it right. And…thanks."
She returned the smile and sat down next to him, setting the plate of food between them. "I still don't understand why you bother – it takes so long, and a computer can do it more accurately and much faster."
"Getting it right doesn't mean getting it exact, like a photograph…never mind, it's not important."
"Can I see?"
"Sure." He handed her the notebook and she perused the pages as they ate.
"It's funny," she said after a while, "there are differences…the measurements aren't quite right – this tree branch is several degrees out of alignment, for example - and the lighting is all wrong, but they almost look better than the real thing. More…pleasing somehow."
"That's art," he said. "It's not about reproducing what you see exactly as it is. It's about, well…showing how it makes you feel at the same time, hmm?"
She nodded. "These are all sort of dark. Is that how you feel when you see trees and hills?"
The boy considered. "No, not really. It's just that shadows are interesting. They hide things, make things seem more complex. More mysterious. I just like that, I suppose."
The ghost turned to the Doctor. "An astute observation for such a young boy. Did you know that was what you were doing, before you explained it to her?"
The Doctor paused, trying to remember. "No, I just did it without thinking. I didn't realize that was the reason until she asked."
"And yet that simple realization – that you enjoy mystery – had such a profound effect upon who you became. All because of a child's innocent question."
"Yes, I suppose it did."
"I believe we're finished here." The ghost gestured toward the Tardis. "After you, Doctor."
The Doctor paused for a moment and took a last, lingering look. He knew this world was an illusion, but it was still hard to turn his back on it. He may have spent most of his life in exile, much of it self-imposed, but exile was quite different from not having a home at all. He listened to the birds, breathed in a last reminder of the scent of home, and turned to go.
Back in the Tardis, he leaned against the console with his arms folded across his chest and addressed the ghost. "Well, you did your research, I'll give you that, but a phony trip back in time isn't enough to impress a real Time Lord."
"It was not my intention to impress you, only to show you what you have forgotten."
"I have not forgotten Gallifrey. I couldn't if I wanted to."
The ghost shook his head. "As I said, Doctor, you are a stubborn man. Perhaps our next destination will help you to understand."
"No. Not until you tell me who you are. I played your game, now it's your turn."
"Who do you think I am, Doctor?"
"Answer a question with a question – hmm? Socrates?" The ghost smiled and shook his head. "No? How about every teacher I had at the acad – wait!" The Doctor stared at the ghost. He didn't recognize the face, the personality - but the man seemed familiar somehow, like tiny pieces of his past cut out and put together again. "That's it, isn't it? You're an amalgam – a composite being, comprising every older Time Lord I ever knew."
"Very good. You always were a very bright student when you applied yourself."
"That still doesn't explain why you're standing there talking to me."
"No, it doesn't. My turn, Doctor. Shall we move on?"
No harm in playing along, I suppose, the Doctor thought. "Right then," he spread his arms in an expansive, mocking gesture. "Lay on, Macduff!"
The ghost turned back toward the doorway. There was another flash of light and the Gallifreyan scenery was replaced by a narrow, quiet street corner. It was night and a street lamp cast a yellow sheen over falling snow and graffiti-covered brick walls.
This time, the Doctor went out first. He knew this area – they were a few blocks from the Powell Estate. Raucous noise carried from a pub down the street. Shouts of "Happy New Year!" erupted from time to time, and he could hear fireworks in the distance. The ghost followed him, the Time Lord robes looking ridiculously out of place in South London.
Voices from the opposite corner caught his attention. Two women walked toward him, arguing. Though they were still some distance away and bundled up against the weather, there was no mistaking them. He would have recognized Rose if she'd been wearing a bag over her head - and the way Jackie's voice rang when she was angry was something he wasn't likely to forget.
"Sweetheart, why don't you find a job closer to home? That posh shop's like another world – wouldn't you rather stay around here with your mates instead of hobnobbing with the rich and botoxed? The laundromat's hiring – that's good work, with regular hours."
"I like getting out sometimes. I like meeting different sorts of people. And…I feel like I could do more."
Oh, listen to you, Little Miss High-and-Mighty. You should have thought about that before you dropped out of school and ran off with that Jimmy bloke."
"So maybe I was just trying to be like you," Rose retorted as they passed by the Doctor. She looked so young, like she had when they'd first met. Just another human, living a small life in a world no larger than her daily bus commute. But…she was so much more than that.
Jackie stared at her daughter, speechless and hurt. Rose looked back at her mother and her expression softened. "I'm sorry, Mum. I didn't mean it like that. It's just…you've always talked about how Dad had all these big dreams and came and swept you off your feet. I reckon I wanted to find someone like Dad." She offered a weak smile. "Turned out spiffy, didn't it?"
"You could have done better than that. At least Mickey knows how to treat you right."
Rose hugged Jackie. "I love you, Mum, you know that."
Jackie smiled sadly. "Sweetheart, I just miss you, that's all. And I worry about you, working nights and taking the bus home."
"Just give me three months, all right? If they don't put up my salary by then I'll look for something else. You know what, though? I think 2005 is going to be my year."
"I hope so, Sweetheart. I really do."
The two women continued on their way, the Doctor and the ghost staring after them.
"Rose. Before she met me."
"Her three months were almost up when you met. Had she survived the Autons, she would have left her job at the shop, gone to work at the laundromat or the butchers', married Mickey, churned out a few children – she'd never have left South London, saved countless lives, and gone to work for Torchwood. You saved her, Doctor."
"No. She saved me." The Doctor's voice was husky with emotion. "I left her stranded in an alternate universe with a biological meta-crisis."
"Nevertheless, who would have believed that in a short time that young girl would be speaking with Charles Dickens himself?" The ghost chuckled as if at a private joke. "Great man, that one – for a human."
"Are we finished here?" The Doctor was eager to change the subject.
The ghost nodded. "You may return to your Tardis if you like. I shall not accompany you."
"That's it? That's all you wanted to show me? Bit anti-climactic, isn't it?"
"I am finished, Doctor, but you are not. Another will take over from here," the ghost replied, a mischievous glint in his eye. "An old friend of yours, I believe." He faded from view as he said this and the Doctor found himself alone in the street.
He frowned. Something tugged at his memory. Was he going mad?
[Author's note: This is my first chapter fic and it's a bit scary putting these out there before the story is finished. If you've read this far and can spare a moment, please leave feedback. It really helps – thanks!]
