They're on a hill and she can see the Goblin's castle. It's at the very end of the Path; many-turreted and grey-dull. Her feet hurt (damp, flat boots) and her fingers are numb (wrapped into the Raggedy Man's cuff) and her head aches (the bright yellow Path, the burnt orange sky, the bulging darkness everywhere else). There's a breeze, but it barely pushes the hair out of her eyes.
The hill slopes, and the Path is a winding, thinning ribbon leading to the castle's door. She doesn't feel anything special, being here. Did she walk to this place every morning, from it every afternoon? This distance? No, not possible.
"And, surprise," says the Woodsman, "it's a huge distance away."
The Man, whose discomfort had turned into a depression between the eyebrows and a staunch refusal to look neither back nor up, grins. "At least we know where we're going. Let's get cracking!"
"I think maybe I can get us there. Without the walking, I mean."
The Man turns his head toward the Woodsman, eases his cuff loose; pats the Girl's fingers. "How could you possibly do that?"
"I just…." The Woodsman closes his eyes and wrinkles his nose and opens the eyes again. "Do something like that."
"Whatever you did, it certainly worked," says the Woman.
The Girl blinks — and the castle is a mere stone's throw away. "That's happened before, right?"
"Has it?" The Man's frown turns into a grimace, makes him tense, takes the grin away. "How did you do that!"
"I don't know, I just did."
"All right. Fine. Okay. Brilliant, but disconcerting." He kicks the Path; nearly slips. "I don't like this!"
"Meanwhile, the autumn spring lawn and the talking bird didn't bother you in the slightest!"
The Woman puts a hand on the Girl's shoulder, nudges. "They might be a while. Shall we?"
"Of course. Watch out, Goblin." The Path has grown sleeker and sleeker, and the Girl has to be careful where she places her feet. "Does your book know anything about this? You know, 'this' in general?"
"Oh, it does. I do."
"What is it, then?"
"Oh, old stuff. Not yours to relive."
"Like?"
"The fall of Troy, Demon's Run, the threefold man. You'll understand."
"And what about me?"
"You should remember."
"No… I think I should guess."
The Woman squeezes her shoulder.
~
The entrance to the castle is a plain wooden door.
The Girl and the Woman wait for the others, because it would be rude not to.
The Woodsman glares at the Woman until she strides over to bother the Man, who's running his hands over the door, apparently amazed by its wooden-ness.
The Girl rolls her eyes. "What do you want?"
The Woodsman scratches his head. "So, this castle…"
"Yeah?"
"What's wrong with it?
"Does something have to be wrong with it?" She asks, despite feeling that something most definitely was Wrong With It.
He gives her an odd look, but it's also a curiously obliging one. "If this is the end of the Path… you didn't like coming here."
~
The door is heavy, but the Man and the Woman manage to push it open — it moves inward, slowly, noisily. They're in the way, but the Girl can see the flicker of candles.
The Man says nothing and the Woman says nothing, so the Girl takes the Woodsman's hand and strides through the door. And then she stops.
And then the Woodsman treads on her heel. Stops, puts his chin on her shoulder. "Is that…"
"The Goblin. Must be." She swallows.
The door has let them directly into a chamber; not into an anteroom or a hallway or up a flight of stairs, but into a great chamber. There are candles in lopsided chandeliers, and the burnt orange bursts in through tall windows, but otherwise, the castle is this room, and the room is dull, grey stone; cracked stone.
And then there is the Goblin.
Must be the Goblin.
The thing is —
he was also her Raggedy Man. His hair is neater and he's dressed in a jacket and a bowtie, but it's definitely him. He sits on a stone throne behind a stone table with a chess set on it, and he waves.
"Explain." She glances at her Raggedy Man, the proper one; he's straightening his tie.
He opens his mouth —
And the Goblin says, "This is the man all tattered and torn… who stole a magic box and ran away." It's the same voice, too. He grips the armrests and leans forward, leers; the cuts on his lips stretch. "Oh, yes. Great big paradox, that's me."
The Man sniffs. "You're not looking your best either, I'd say."
Well, the Girl thinks, that's true. The tweed jacket was ripped, the bowtie frayed, and his features were enhanced by soot.
The Goblin reaches out, flips one of the chess pieces over; it's a pawn, and it rolls off the table and down onto the floor; it splits.
The door slams shut behind them, disturbing some of the candles; the shadows reel.
The Woodsman clears his throat; it echoes. "Why… are there two of you?"
The Goblin taps an armrest with the tip of a finger. "Ah, the Woodsman, who's not a woodsman, but who had to be because it was the only title left."
"Excuse me?"
"Don't look at me like that; this is your world. This is all your world. I'm just a filter. Oh, I know so much about all of you. I listen to you. Then I make things out of what I've heard. I make trees, and I make flowers, and little birds and bottomless pits and decrepit gardens full of dead things and ever-squeaking swings. I make lots of things that need to be saved."
The Woodsman shakes his head. "I don't understand."
"No! But then you never do. Shot any more girlfriends?" The Goblin leans back again, crosses his legs. "Go on, any of you, have a guess. This place. What is it?"
"It's our dreams, if you could call them that," says the Man.
"You're boring. It's not good sport to get it on the first try." He brightens, nevertheless. "Shall I tell you who contributed what?" He pins the Girl with a look. "It'll be ever so much fun. This is your dream, Amy, isn't it? Yes, it is. Some of it; the broad strokes. You once had an imaginary friend…"
The Man turns to her, holds up a hand. "Don't listen to him."
The Girl swallows, because somehow, the name fits. It's hers. It has almost always been hers. Her head spins. "Amy Pond," she mumbles, barely loud enough for herself to hear.
"Oh, Doctor," continues the Goblin. "Don't listen, don't listen. Look at me, your ultimate foe. I have adapted to the situation. Bad, bad subconscious."
The Man lets the hand fall. "Why are you doing this?"
"You said it, stupid! Like a name in a fairytale… A girl with the entire universe running through her head. How could I resist?"
"No, that's not it."
"Time to wake up, eh? Feel better? Refreshed? Ready to take on the Silence with your tweed and your hair and your… quirks?"
The Girl looks between the raggedy men — both seem primarily stubborn — and the Woodsman — who's clenching and unclenching his right hand and staring at it — and the Woman — she seems primarily fascinated. The Girl has to ask, so she catches the Goblin's eye; "Who are you?"
The Goblin regards her with pity; it's an expression her Raggedy Man has never ever worn. "Call me the Lord of Dreams… I'm quite partial to that one, as far as monikers go."
The Man spreads his arms. "Are we just going to stand here and talk?"
The Goblin shrugs. "Should we resort to blows instead? I admit I'd rather not; I could never look Freud in the eye again."
"I assume you can stop this? The fire?"
"One of us can, I'm sure." (The Girl shakes her head, because he glances in her direction.) "Like the tale says… 'hope', right?"
"Since you're relatively non-annoying, I'm going to assume the matter isn't pressing, so far?"
"We have time, a bit. No need to stop chatting already." He looks down at himself, tugs at the bowtie. "How about this cabaret act? You didn't like it when I mentioned that, did you?"
"Yes, I wasn't keen on the limerick, either, if you recall."
"You know I'm right, of course. You can walk without tripping over your own feet, and you are perfectly capable of understanding most, if not all, of their simple ways, and you know more about them than they ever will themselves… and you don't say it, because why would you? The fun Doctor, that's the one they'll like." The Goblin draws breath, eyes glittering.
"Is this monologue going anywhere? Talk about earache."
"The goblin and the trickster and the warrior… which one, pray tell, do you think you are?"
"Well, it's obvious which one you are."
"Is it?"
"Ha! Of course you'd say that. I'm almost impressed."
"Realise this: we're in a world built on your lies." The Goblin pushes himself to his feet; rises languidly; comes toward their group. "Amy… Rory… Come, now, Rory, look at me!"
The Woodsman glances up from his hand; the Girl can see it takes effort.
The Goblin comes closer and closer still. "Rory, Rory, Rory. You… You lucid dreamer, you. Two thousand years? Remember? Those times when all we had was me giving you things to do and you… doing your best? Oh, I do hope that was your best."
The Woodsman clenches his hand again. His lips part, but he doesn't say anything. The Girl steps in front of him; opens her coat to make herself as big as possible.
The Goblin tuts. "You realise he hasn't disappeared, don't you?" He passes the Raggedy Man; theirs shoulders brush. "And Amy, our adventures. Don't you remember? I took you to see the stars. The whale? Vincent van Gogh? I even let you keep the tiara."
This was her chance, she should be asking all her questions; the ones about the Path, and the Shed, and her days; she should be… and now her mouth is dry and her head pounds and her name is Amy Pond.
Her Raggedy Man has turned around; intent on the Goblin's every move, but he doesn't stop him.
The Goblin is so close she could reach out and stroke his dirty cheek, or tug at his threadbare lapel, or kick his shin — and he steps neatly to the side and into the Woman's personal space.
"Hello," says the Woman.
He looks her over. "And you… Can't lie in your dreams, can you? Burdened incessantly, discredited and imprisoned and —" he threw a look over a shoulder, at the Man "— insulted. And for what? The luxury of getting some titbit that you might have to share with half the galaxy anyway? And you can never be sure if he's lying to you. Never be sure of exactly what he knows."
"I thought you'd give up. Same dream, again and again and again and —"
He waves a hand, makes a face. "You were surprisingly boring, at first, I'll give you that. Really, you couldn't have done better for the audience? Anyway, it picked up once you got out of the box. Oh, Doctor, if you knew what I've seen."
The Raggedy Man raises his chin.
The Woman reaches up, strokes the Goblin's bowtie, smiles; it's a rather sweet smile. "You know nothing about me."
The Goblin laughs. "Oh, but I will, or so you tell me — or him, same thing, isn't it? How long have you practised that smirk?"
She pulls back her hand and cocks her head. "I know all about you. Let's say half of it are lies… I still know a lot."
"Are you trying to fool me?"
"Oh," she says, and her voice is low, sultry. "No one ever implied that."
"You know," he says, spinning away from her, "I'll leave you be. I figure that's fair. I'll make it up to you later."
"Is that so?"
The Girl snorts.
The Goblin stops, glances over a shoulder. "Sorry?"
"Come on! You're afraid of her!"
"Oh, Amy. I think maybe you should be quiet now."
"You should be quiet!" It takes the Girl a moment to realise it's the Woodsman putting voice to her words.
"Oh, dear, the gooseberry's irate." The Goblin turns to him. "Jealous, much?"
The Woodsman sighs, holds up both hands. "Just… Which one of you is real? Cos there's one I don't like!"
"Are you going to run me through with your imaginary sword, is that it?"
"Dream Lord…" The Woman catches the Goblin's attention, makes a soothing motion. "How can we get out of here, say, soon-ish?"
