Roughly pushed, the man stumbled into a wooden post. Teeth gritting in barely concealed rage, his wince barely recognizable over his burning eyes. His short, brown hair was limp and damp, the perspiration rolling off onto his freckled cheeks. Hands bound behind his back, rope rubbing into his pink flesh mercilessly, pockets emptied of any tool capable of saving him. He watched as his threats fell on empty ears, his hearts pounding with guilt and uncertainty and wonder. Around him, woman in heavy, layered dresses whispered and muttered, and men in kilts and dated clothing grunted and glared. He had to fight his childlike excitement with the true reality of his situation- captured and possibly put to death; and even worse, the sight of his companion crying and shaking as he yelled for her to run for her life. He had seen the group that had gone after her, the men heavy with blades and bloodlust. He could only hope she found somewhere safe to hide and wait for him to figure a method of escape.
Old eyes, tired from strain and strife, gathered his surroundings with suppressed curiosity. The mud soaking the ground was trampled and marked, dragging and staining the bottoms of every woman's skirts. The buildings were all made of stone, small and peasant. He watched as wagons and horses trafficked across the court-yard, all leading to the main entrance of the castle hanging over them. He listened closely to the lively language and blowing bagpipes, his mind immediately jumping to the improbable conclusion that he was trapped in Scotland; the highlands of 18th century Scotland. Although he felt rather overjoyed by the prospect, the unlikelihood of it being true and his impending situation kept him from growing a smile.
A small group came marching up to him- a man, flanked by four others. They all held swords at their waists, badges of honor pinned to the plaid sashes across their chests. The leader, as he presumed, stepped up into his space, looking down his nose at him. His face was clean shaven, the rest of his body more spotless than any other in this place.
"Who are ye?" The leader interrogated, his grip pointedly adjusting his sword. The bound prisoner's gaze flickered down to the movement, but did not falter at it- his ire only sparking further at the attempted intimidation.
"I am the Doctor," He spoke with gritted teeth, tugging angrily at his tied hands, "and I command you to release me at once-"
The Doctor's words were cut off by guffawing laughter, the leader throwing his head back in overexaggerated motion, "Look, lads, the prisoner believes he can tell me what to do!" The men behind him laughed, even a few straggling villagers joined- but The Doctor was unaffected; his paranoia of something amiss only deepening at the look in everyone's eyes.
The leader rocked forward, his sword clanging as he unsheathed it, holding its sharpened edge to The Doctor's throat, "Now ye listen here, I'm the Laird of this land- head of clan Mackenzie. Ye don't get to order me around, ye ken?"
The Doctor only narrowed his eyes, "No, you're not. You're not even human- so what are you?"
The laird regarded him carefully, chilled blue eyes flickering from his clothes to his blazing eyes, "Aye, a perceptive one, are ye? But I could say the same to ye, Doctor- ye are as human as I."
"Where are we, what planet is this?"
The Mackenzie smiled cruelly, "Earth. Or, at least, the last Earth ye and ye bonny lassie will ever ken."
The Doctor's eyes sparked, his body jerking in a burst of rage. His mind jumped to Martha, to his lost and terrified companion; the only reason she was here, the only reason she was being hunted, was because he brought her here- for his own convenience and selfishness. He felt guilt coarse through his veins, the same guilt that always drowned him when his companions were hurt or captured, the same guilt that haunted him when they were forever lost.
"You don't touch her- don't you dare, or I swear I'll-"
"What, Doctor?" The man laughed, "As far as I see it, ye won't even live long enough to see my men drag her bloodied corpse through those gates."
The Doctor's face twisted into a snarl, pulling and tugging furiously at his ropes. He yelled in rage as the group sauntered away, head hanging as his mind swam and fished for a way out. Sonic doesn't work on wood. His hands tugged again, his wrists rubbing raw; he can't break them easily. His eyes rose to look pleadingly, searching for anything- anyone who could help him.
His eyes connected with a small, red-headed boy's. The curls atop his head swayed as he rubbed dried tears off his face, the water mixing with mud. His skin was pale, his arms thin, his clothes rags hanging loosely off his figure. They looked at one another, the moment lasting only a second- but the effect permanent. The boy gave a small wave, a flicker of hope in the timelord's hearts, and he nodded back slowly.
As he saw the small boy meander his way, moving swiftly and carefully to avoid an adult's sizzling ire, he could only hope Martha would manage to remain safe long enough for him to save her.