CHAPTER NINE
Clara studied the remains of the scarf in her hands for a few moments, trying to get a grip on what the Doctor had said.
She swallowed nervously, unable to conceal her shock.
How could he have killed an entire civilization? That could be hundreds of thousands … millions of people. But then … he had destroyed Gallifrey. Or so he had thought.
She realised she couldn't judge … but she also couldn't dismiss his claim. The nausea in her stomach told her that she knew the Doctor was more than capable of doing unspeakable things if he thought the action warranted it … if he thought it was the right thing to do.
She ran her finger over the ancient material, noting the softness and bright colours, trying to calm the churning realisation that he could be telling the truth.
She glanced at the Doctor. His eyes had closed again, as though it was too much effort to keep them open, and his breath came in short pants, hitching with pain. His hair was sweat-drenched curls, and he shivered uncontrollably.
Clara couldn't help herself … she reached out and smoothed the hair back from his brow, trying futilely to settle him. He was in no fit state to discuss his past. It would have to wait. She just had to trust him for now … she had to believe that he had a reason for what he had done. Or, she corrected herself … what he thought he had done.
The Doctor turned his face towards her slightly, as though reaching for the comfort she proffered.
"Clara …" he mumbled, "Clara … I –"
"Shush … I'm here. I'm not going anywhere, okay?"
"You … you should."
Clara drew her brows down in puzzlement.
"What?"
"Leave."
She couldn't suppress a chill of shock shuddering through her at the finality in his voice, but she ignored it. She had to.
"Oh, I'll leave, all right. In the morning, when I can see what I'm doing and I can find a way out for us," she said sternly. She tilted her head slightly, studying him. Despite the Doctor being so sick, she could see the stubborn set to his jaw. "I see you're still in 'rubbish' mode," she added, pursing her lips thoughtfully.
The Doctor's hand emerged from the swath of blankets and grasped hers. He blinked blearily at her.
"You … you leave, Clara. As … as … soon as you can." He gave her grimace, and he swallowed a groan of agony. "I'm not … not being noble, believe … believe me," he added. "It's just … it's just common sense. And you …" he rested for a moment, teeth bared, the physical strain beginning to overwhelm him. "… you know all about common … common sense, don't you, Teach?"
Gently placing the remains of the old scarf in her pocket, Clara tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear and then clasped her free hand around the Doctor's, rubbing her thumbs across his bony knuckles. She felt his grip tighten. For the first time since his regeneration Clara realised that he really, really needed the contact.
"Look, Doctor … I have an idea that might work, but I need to check it out in daylight, alright? And then I can go fetch the TARDIS … I can come get you. The sonic should work back in the TARDIS, shouldn't it? We can set it to tell the TARDIS where you are?"
The Doctor gave a wan smile.
"Of course … of course we can. But … but there might not … not be time …"
Clara felt a sudden chill twist her stomach.
"What … what do you mean? No time?" Realisation struck her. "Ohhh … no, no, no, don't you even think about it, you hear me? I'm only just getting to grips with Mister tall-grey-and-grumpy, so regenerating isn't an option! Do you understand me?"
The Doctor's lips twisted into a facsimile of a smile.
"Who … who's talking about … about regeneration?" he ground out.
Clara's jaw dropped.
"Excuse me?"
The Doctor relaxed his grip on Clara's hands and took as deep a breath as his damaged ribs would allow.
"Clara … I'm so tired. Tired to death." He loosely linked his fingers through hers, and let her cradle his hand. "I can choose … choose not to regenerate … and … and death … sounds like … like an … awfully big adventure."
Clara's eyebrows hit her hairline.
"What?" She blinked furiously, trying to get a grip on what the Doctor had just said. "… but … what?"
The Doctor allowed himself an impatient sigh.
"I … I said –"
Clara, stunned, shook her head, disbelieving.
"Hold it right there!" she said finally. "I know what you said! And if you think …" she took a couple of deep breaths to get herself under control –" if you think, you … you … pudding brain, that channelling Peter Pan and talking about death for the second time in an hour is going to get you out of making any effort to stay alive and kicking, then you've got another thing coming!"
The Doctor clasped her hands tighter in his.
"Clara … Clara … Clara – "
Clara was having none of it.
"Don't you 'Clara, Clara, Clara' me! Don't you dare patronise me!"
"Oh, c'mon – "
Clara leaned forward and looked the Doctor square in the eye with the terrifying glare that he had privately begun to label 'The LOOK,' and in lieu of poking him in the chest – which would have been her preference if he hadn't been so hurt – she jabbed the air in front of his nose as she spoke, punctuating each word.
"Now you just listen to me, you nerk! Remember that slap across the chops I gave you a couple of days ago?"
The Doctor, hazy and in terrible pain and feeling utterly despairing, frowned.
"Um … yeah …"
He felt his teeth ache with the memory. It had been one helluva slap, and if they hadn't been in horrendous danger while miniaturised inside a deranged dalek, he might have held it against her. If he hadn't thoroughly deserved it, he admitted to himself.
"Well, compared to the one I'm going to give you when you're back in the TARDIS and well again, that one was just a love tap!"
"Love tap?" The Doctor echoed faintly.
Clara's eyes were all fire and danger. The Doctor thought she looked magnificent.
"On the Clara Oswald sliding scale of slaps, that one was just a two!" She leaned further forward until her nose almost touched his. "The one I'm going to give you for just suggesting that you might choose to die is going to be at least an EIGHT!"
"But –"
Clara held the Doctor's hand in one of her own and waved the other about in front of his face, agitated.
"No buts! There will be no dying! Of companions OR Time Lords! You understand?"
The Doctor was impressed.
"O-okay. No dying."
"Promise?"
"Yes, Clara. Promise." The Doctor had the grace to look chastened. "Again."
Clara, her terror subsiding, smiled shakily.
"That's better. No dying on my watch." She used her free hand to adjust the blanket around him, making sure he was as warm as possible. His pallor frightened her.
"Clara …"
"Hmmm?" she murmured, occupied with keeping him still and resting.
" … love tap?" he repeated.
Clara looked at him. There it was … the faint hint of a teasing grin on his face, his mobile mouth quirking up at the corners. She couldn't help herself. She blushed.
"Oh … shut up!" she scolded.
The Doctor let loose a dry chuckle that instantly turned into a hacking, agonising cough and Clara, frightened that he would cause more harm to his battered ribs, held him and soothed him with soft, whispered words.
Afterwards, the Doctor lay with his head resting on Clara's arm and her hand holding his, and he sighed quietly, the coughing spasm having taken all of his reserves.
It was going to be a long night, he knew. It was midsummer on Favonius Prime, and the nights here at the sub-arctic equator were equal to the length of the days, so sixteen-hour nights were the norm at this time of the year.
"You … you should get some sleep …" he proffered as Clara attempted to make herself comfortable. She had decided to relax back against the stone table-bench-thing and support the Doctor as best as she could. The shared body warmth wouldn't come amiss either, she thought.
"I'm trying to," she answered, a little more abruptly than she had intended and instantly regretted it as she felt him flinch. "Sorry," she added, a softness creeping into her voice.
"S'okay …" the Doctor murmured, "I … I'm just feeling … feeling a wee bit … sorry for myself. A bit …" he paused, thinking, "peely-wally."
Clara, wriggling about and trying to get comfortable, paused, confused.
"What are you talking about?" she said, grunting as she slid slightly against the stone bench-table-thing, the edge poking painfully into her neck. "Peely-wally?" she frowned. "Is that even a word?"
But the Doctor didn't answer. From what Clara could see, he had slipped into a fevered sleep, eyes closed, his fingers lax in hers.
"Y'know," she muttered to herself, "that slap I'm going to give you has just gone from an eight to a nine."
Giving up trying to get comfortable, she slid down next to the Doctor and freeing her hand from his, managed to ball the backpack beneath her head. She teased out the edge of the top blanket covering the Doctor and flung it gently over herself, and then re-linked her fingers in his and relaxed next to his long frame. Finally, she could rest.
She looked at his profile in the firelight, all long bones and brows and nose, and was utterly surprised to feel the Doctor lift her hand to lie against his chest, over his hearts. His fingers tightened, and Clara knew then that she would have to lie all night like that, pinned against him, her hand in his, over the thudding of his twin heartbeats. And she didn't mind. She really didn't mind.
She was still smiling when she drifted into sleep, her warmth mingling with his.
The Doctor, eyes still closed, curled his lips slightly.
"Peely-wally," he said. "Gotcha."
And in the flickering light and shadows of the great corridor, the Time Lord and the Impossible Girl lay sleeping in the doomed haven of the Padú-Kerai.
Clara awoke with a start.
The Doctor lay beside her, shaking with fever, brow furrowed. His hand still held hers, tightly clasped to his chest, and Clara could feel the rapid thud of his two hearts echo through his frame. His eyelids flickered and his lips formed a soundless word. He was dreaming, Clara realised.
She glanced over at the fires. They had burned down to glowing bricks of heat, so, she decided, she could not have been asleep for more than an hour or so. Turning her head, she looked back at the Doctor just as the dream took hold. He was restless now, muttering to himself in a language Clara did not understand, and the grip on her hand tightened. His agitation grew, and Clara realised that if his restlessness continued he could open his wounds, so she eased her hand from his grip and touched his face.
The Doctor whimpered at the loss, and a word came from his lips, clearly and succinctly.
"Q'lyth!"
The word began with a soft glottal sound in the Doctor's throat, and by the way he said it Clara knew it was a name.
Elbowing herself upright and easing back the warm blanket, she leaned over the Doctor, placing her free hand over his chest, trying to settle him.
"Doctor … Doctor, wake up," she said quietly so as not to alarm him, "come on now, wakey-wakey!"
The Doctor's eyes flew open, and he took a sharp breath, wincing.
"Clara … sorry … sorry … dreaming …"
"Yep, that you were." She replied softly. "You were getting yourself into quite a state."
The Doctor gave a noise that was more pain than anything else, but Clara detected a sense of bitterness.
She sat up and propped herself against the stone bench-table-thing, and proceeded to gently check on the Doctor's injuries. To her dismay the infection was spreading, now travelling along his shoulder and down his chest. Swallowing nervously, she glanced at the Doctor.
"So …" she said, trying to distract herself more than the Doctor, "who were you talking about? If you want to talk about it, that is" she added hastily.
The Doctor turned his head to gaze at her. His lips twisted in memory.
"Q'lyth," he repeated, making that soft throaty sound once more. He seemed to want to speak about whoever it was. "She … she's been dead for … for well over a thousand years."
Clara looked at him, her curiosity getting the better of her.
"Who … who was she?"
A movement caught her eye. There, deep within the rock wall, a face looked back at her. The Vendraloi child. When the Doctor hesitated, Clara caught the child's eye.
"Is … is that you?" she asked softly.
The child smiled, and she watched the Doctor, fondness shining on the long-dead face.
The Doctor looked at the shadow-child and a sob caught in his throat.
Clara was shocked. The raw vulnerability on the Doctor's haggard face stunned her as he closed his eyes, unable to look at the figure any longer.
"She … she was my shadow … every time I came here," he whispered. "The Vendraloii … saved me more times than … than I can remember." His voice hitched huskily. "When … I was alone … tired … they welcomed me. Gave me peace."
Clara rubbed his chest in sympathy, unable to say anything to aid him.
"Q'lyth … for some reason … followed … followed me around … like a puppy. Funny child. Odd." He huffed softly. "Quirky. Like me."
Clara smiled.
"She would have to be."
Shadow-Q'lyth nodded eagerly, her head to one side.
The Doctor carried on, now obviously unable to stop, the memories coming thick and fast.
"I … I was irresponsible then .."
Clara couldn't suppress a snort.
"Still are, you idiot."
The Doctor smiled mirthlessly.
"She … she loved the TARDIS. The TARDIS … loved her back. So … I took her for … for a wee trip. One trip. An … an hour at a m-market … on Vespae IV … she …she ran around like a wild thing."
Clara had been to the great market on Vespae IV, a wondrous place of colours and goods from throughout the Charon galaxy, full of different species and noise and foods. She understood why Q'lyth had gone wild among the crowds. She also knew that the Doctor would have loved showing the place off to the child.
Shadow-Q'lyth let out a silent laugh of joy.
Clara saw the laugh and smiled in response.
"I bet she loved it," she murmured.
"She … she did. She adored it. Wanted … wanted to bring things back for … for her family." He frowned. "She did that, alright." He bared his teeth in pain.
Clara felt dread settling in her chest, but stayed silent. She knew there was more to come.
The Doctor's eyes opened, dark pools of stormy grey in the flickering light.
"I took her … took her home. Left the next day. You know … know me, Clara … places to go … people to see. Didn't return for a …a couple of years. When I did …" he paused for a moment and swallowed, his breathing shaky. "They … were gone. All of them. Dead."
Clara's heart missed a beat. Shadow-Q'lyth's face fell into infinite sadness.
"How?" she whispered.
The Doctor's nostrils flared, his voice when it came was sure and fierce and desperately sad.
"A virus. A simple … common-coldish thing … something species throughout the universe … they … they shook it off and carried on. Incurable but … but an everyday, survivable thing. Except to the Vendraloii. They … they were an isolated people … no space travel … the place too cold for most visitors. No immunity or defence. It killed them. All of them. Within two years. All because I decided to … to impress a small child with a fun day out."
Clara heard every note of the self-loathing in the Doctor's gruff voice. And she couldn't tell him it wasn't his fault … because it was. He thought he had done something nice when he had, in reality, killed an entire species. Without thinking. She wiped her hand over her face. What could she say? How could she comfort him?
Unable to do anything else, Clara tucked the blanket around him and smoothed the hair back on his brow with a now-familiar gesture of care.
"Try to sleep, Doctor. I'll just put more wood on the fires and then I'll try to get some sleep too, yeah?"
But he didn't answer. He just turned his face away from her and sank into a silence of self-hatred.
Sighing, Clara topped up the fires and then slid back down beside the Doctor, and soon fell into a fitful sleep. But she left the Doctor to rest, unable to figure out how to comfort him when she didn't feel able to come to terms with what he had done.
And in the deep of the night, with storm clouds and lightning shuddering and crashing outside, they slumbered on.
As the snow whirled around the outside world of Favonius Prime, a swarm of small, lithe shadows made their way through the remains of burning trees, rootling and chittering, digging for morsels among the sooty remnants. As they hunted, they found a scent in the snow … a dark stain that had once been red but now had frozen to a dark brown. The creatures milled around, their sounds changing to yarps and growls as they became excited at the scent of what was obviously blood.
One suddenly let out a yipping cry and followed the scent trail, and before long they came to a pair of great doors. One had been left slightly ajar, and it swung fully open as the shadows disappeared inside into the beckoning darkness of the Padú-Kerai.
To be continued ...
