A/N - Surprise! I'm still alive haha! So sorry about the wait (cough*two years*cough) - I have no idea if anyone is still interested in reading this...oh well?!
I planned to write this chapter back in 2014, and then just...forgot about it. I found the start I had made the other day, and well, it seemed like a good way to finish this fic off.
This will be in two parts, but will be the last one shot in this series, so I can finally mark this as complete :). I am starting a new Doctor Who fic, that I plan on giving these two a cameo in.
So, just in case the title of the chapter doesn't give this away already, this fic will ultimately contain character death and my take on the ultimate passing of the characters. So if you don't like that or it upsets you, then perhaps best not to read on - the first part is just set up, but part two will involve these themes.
If that's ok with you, then I hope you enjoy the read.
2014
Clara squinted against the chill wind that stung her apprehensive eyes. She wasn't sure it was the weather than was making her shiver, or the prospect of seeing what she had journeyed here to see. But she knew it was necessary.
"Too many" she whispered pensively, "Why are there always so many?"
She flicked her sleek brown hair out from where it was flapping into her cheeks, and took in the imposing sight before her; jagged black spikes long lost to erosion, a plethora of discarded junk food packaging, and a weathered sign that simply stated.
"Red_or_ Cemetary"
Clara sighed, wondering what her chances of finding what she was looking for were if they couldn't even maintain their own sign. Her expectations would have fallen right there along with her expression, except it was impossible to have a lower expectation than she already had. Clara didn't believe that this cemetery would brew success any more than she had the last five. But she had made a promise, and at least the tip for this one had seemed remotely credible; that was more than she could say about the others. Heart full of nervous trepidation and nascent hope, she gingerly placed forward a hand to ease open the gates and walk through. Her mournful, black coat swayed in the persistent wind, and the young woman flinched as she touched the entrance to the dark graveyard, half worried that her delicate touch would be enough to shatter the rusting gate entirely.
But under duress, it creaked open, and left Clara to observe the lightly climbing hill, and the nonsensical arrangement of gravestones, all dramatically varying in height, upkeep, and quite simply how much the family had been able to pay at the time. A slinking path ran between planned patched of grass, each with their own family of memorials huddling haphazardly within the confines of their safe island. Around this dizzying array of grief lay armies of despondent trees, dark in both bark and leaf, sheltering this despondent display from the prying eyes of the outside world. Or perhaps protecting the outside world from looking in. She couldn't tell.
Huddling her snugly fitting coat round her, and tightening the waistband, Clara contemplated where to begin. She did not entertain leaving; she had to as least try, no matter how unfriendly the atmosphere. Her breathing shattered the oppressive silence as her leather boots crunched down on the dirt path, following the first direction which felt sensible.
She began to glance down at the graves as she passed them by, searching for some sort of indicator that she was in the right place. Fred Banks – Dedicated Husband, 1903-1955, passed her by to her left, his gravestone so darkened she almost couldn't make out the epitaph. Maud Busby – Loving mother – 1900 - _, Clara couldn't even decipher the last date on that one, poor lady – her memory was now crooked, forgotten, the gravestone barely maintaining its upright position. The third one she regarded just looked like a haphazard stone; not one word was legible.
She paused and rested on a bench, which like everything else in this cemetery deserved better upkeep than it was currently receiving. Slats were missing from the seat, and the plaque on the back (For Barbara) was scored and scratched through vandalism, bringing up shiny lines in its otherwise dull plate. Clara glanced at the feminine, silver watch on her wrist, not to check the time but as an act of resignation. She knew she should leave but she had hoped, just hoped that perhaps she'd be lucky today. The longer she stayed here, the more depressed she felt about her chances; but it was so important to her that she saw this to its conclusion.
Clara's reverie was momentarily broken by the movements of some woodland creature behind her, panicking and scarpering off before she had time to see what it was other than a brown streak, but causing enough noise to make her jump. She took that as her cue to leave and rose sadly from the despondent bench.
As she began to move however she noticed a man in the distance, bent over and cleaning a certain gravestone reverently. He was about 100 metres away up the hill, and hadn't seemed to have noticed her, but seemed utterly tireless in his care. Clara briefly considered approaching him; perhaps he worked here, or if he came here often he may at least know the layout of the place and how to navigate it better than she would. Before she could choose however, the man suddenly turned as if he knew he was being watched, and waved at her tentatively, clearly surprised at the company. Clara cocked her head and smiled impishly at her luck, and sauntered up the hill towards the waiting man, embracing the opportunity.
As Clara approached the ruddy faced man, she could already perceptively feel the kindness in smiling blue-grey eyes and worker's hands. He was clean shaven, with a happy face and a sprig of haphazard white hair sticking from the top of his head. An oversized, clearly hand knitted jumper with a confusing array of colours engulfed his body and the top of his beige, corduroy trousers. He smiled widely at Clara's approach, placing down the soft brush he was holding and letting it fall into the bucket he had next to him.
"Well I'll be" he breathed enthusiastically, "And here was me starting to think I must be dead too!"
Clara smiled warmly at the gentleman.
"Family?" she asked politely, nodding towards the grave he had been cleaning.
"Eh? Oh no my love, nothing like that – before my time as much as I wished otherwise. You could say I'm just a bit of an admirer" he grinned at his cryptic assertion and winked at the younger woman, who laughed quietly back, "Have time for an old man's stories?"
Clara was halfway between humouring him and respectfully removing herself from the situation, as it appeared he would know no more than her about this wretched place when she caught the name on the grave he was cleaning, and her breath hitched in excitement.
Madame Vastra – Lizard from the Dawn of Time, Dedicated Wife and Friend.
Anger is always the shortest distance from a mistake.
? BC – 1940.
The man stopped in his incumbent explanation and regarded Clara thoughtfully, whose eyes had involuntarily begun to well with emotion before she could reign it back in.
"So you've heard of them!" he beamed, "Well you could knock me for six, I thought it was just me!"
Clara's eyes naturally drifted to the next immaculately clean grave, and was unable to stop a stray tear from renegading against her attempts at subtlety and rolling down her face.
Jenny Flint – Brave Warrior and Loving Wife. Friend to all.
Defied convention and time.
1860s-1940
Clara hummed in amusement despite herself; Vastra's age was never going to be clearly documented but she supposed Jenny's hadn't been the easiest to work out either due to her estrangement from her family. Perhaps she had even wilfully forgotten in her later years.
"They say there was a third" the man almost wheezed as he ran a wrinkled finger over the top of Jenny's grave, deep in thought, "A man, no less – their close friend and butler. But legend has it he was conscripted, World War One I believe..." he sighed regretfully, "I've never been able to track down what happened to him for certain"
Clara felt her heart stutter beneath her shuddering breast and placed a hand to stroke her sternum. Her limbs felt oddly light, as if the shock of finally finding what she had been searching for had dashed all the blood from her body. Clara closed her eyes to try and stem the flow of tears, afraid of having to explain her association with Madame Vastra and Jenny Flint to a stranger who would be unlikely to understand (despite being undoubtedly lovely).
"Did you" the man shook his head as if to chide himself, "No, no you're obviously far too young" after a few seconds though, he looked up expectantly at Clara, "But they do say great things, you know, about what can happen with time. Great things, great people" he smiled reverently at the two graves, "They say that these two were exceptional. I've read it all; saving people, solving mysteries, pioneering modern technology, even challenging accepted social norms…" he held the pause, waiting to see if Clara would fill it, and continued when she didn't, "You know I wouldn't be surprised if-"
"I knew them" Clara spluttered out, grief tightening her voice as the man's wistful descriptions of her late friends send a slideshow of memories cascading through her mind.
"So it is true" the man smiled triumphantly, "Time travel, the lot of it" he rubbed his hands together, and then caught himself, remembering Clara's mournful presence, "Sorry love" he apologised, "It's been many years I have waited to hear that I'm not crazy"
Clara managed to cough out a laugh at that, and stroked the man's shoulder affectionately.
"You're not crazy" she sniffed, carefully trying to cover the tracks of her crying, "Thank you for looking after them" she added sincerely.
Clara moved closer to the graves and crouched before them. She started to draw her fingers through the letters of the names and cursed herself for letting two more go without a proper farewell. There always seemed to be more loss just waiting at the precipice, and life with the Doctor was akin to always hanging your foot over the edge, risking what lies beneath. The cold stone sent shockwaves down her petite fingers, as if the pair were trying to communicate with her – but she knew that was just her fanciful imagination.
"The things they say…" the man continued, "Why, it wasn't even legal in those days, but they say they were married!" he chucked incredulously, "To think of how brave they must have been, to do a thing like that in Victorian times" he stroked the top of Vastra's grave affectionately, "Life has not been kind to people like them in my lifetime for Christ's sake"
"They were brave" Clara agreed, "In so many ways" she choked slightly and brought a thumb and forefinger to her eyes, "But they loved each other" she smiled through her anguish at that thought, "I think that was all they needed"
She looked up at the man, and as he looked down at her from above, Clara could see a tell-tale glimmer in his aging eyes. She rose slowly and without much thought, wrapped her arms around him in shared grief, taking in the musky, itchy fabric as her head rested on his shoulder. They stood for a moment in this strange tableau before with a sharp intake of breath, Clara drew back.
"Bless you my dear" he sniffed, wiping his eyes on the back of his tatty jumper clumsily, "You've made an old man happy"
Clara bit her bottom lip, as she considered the relative merits of simply leaving the exchange there, or pushing the details further. She was frightened of what discovery she may make, but natural curiosity was not going to let her walk away without the full story.
"They died in the same year?" Clara ventured, probing for an expansion from the man.
"The same day love" he confirmed, regaining his composure seemingly with the excitement of recounting the story, "Did you never hear of what they called The Second Great Fire of London?" he regarded Clara inquisitively as the brunette shook her head quizzically, and then continued, "The whole of Paternoster Row was destroyed" he stated, eliciting a horrified gasp from Clara, "They say over five million books perished in the blaze"
Clara felt her heart lurch against her chest in rebellion and for a second time considered that she may not benefit from learning exactly how her beloved friends had passed away; would it not be better to remember them as she had known them? She looked down once again at the immaculately preserved names, and then considered the stranger who had tended to them all these years. Without this kind man faithfully restoring the memories of two of her dearest friends, these gravestones could have been another corroded monolith of time; a monument to the disinterest of time as it forcefully marched on.
She owed them the dignity of being remembered; of their final moments not being lost.
"What do you know?" her lopsided smirk as she turned her head confirmed her determination, and the man seemed buoyed by her enthusiasm.
"Well" he gestured to her to follow him, as he began to slowly walk back to the bench that Clara had previously been seated on, "What you have to remember, is that Ms Flint was rather old by 1940…"