Author's notes - Hi! Thank you so much to Brownbug and Captain Hack Jarkness for reviewing since my last update. I appreciate the feedback and encouragement very much.
This chapter includes Emma and Doran's return to Galbon, which as usual doesn't go according to plan. I hope everyone reading enjoys the update.
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As Emma snipped a small square of blood-stained fabric from the navy waistcoat Doran had worn the day he'd found her dying on Galbon, she quietly cursed the primitive equipment. The laboratory her lover had "borrowed" from an illicit drug dealer on Victoriana lacked even the most basic diagnostic scanner. The primitive mass spectrometer worked well enough, but they had wasted two days cobbling together a suitable gas chromatograph. However, if an analysis of the dried blood could provide any clues as to how she had been kidnapped from the heavily guarded palace on Galbon, she would consider the two days as time well spent.
After many intense and oftentimes loud debates, she and Doran had come up with a plan of sorts to ensure that the timeline on Galbon adhered to the changes the Time Lord High Council had wrought without actually starting a civil war. Killing the scientist had long ceased to be an option; by the time of her kidnapping, Henred had four factories producing the incredibly strong but lightweight alloy. Nor could she stomach destroying the factories. Each ran on a round the clock schedule, employing a minimum of seventy workers per shift. Poor Doran had looked visibly relieved when she had vetoed his half-hearted suggestion.
In the end, they had agreed on the necessity of taking Rouchmel into their confidence, at least about the threat Davros posed. Only the king had the power to ensure the alloy wouldn't be sold to the Kaleds. He could easily ban the sale of the new metal to foreign governments by classifying it a strategic resource.
Doran didn't particularly like the plan since it depended heavily on her ability to interact with Rouchmel as both Gemma and Melina. She had argued that both were roles she had played quite well and could no doubt play well again. He had contended that he could just as easily speak to the king as a time traveler possessing knowledge of future events. Although moved by his concern, she had pointed out the dangers of reminding anyone of his capabilities, and he had reluctantly acquiesced.
Dropping the sample into a glass tube, she swirled it about so it could mix with the distilled water. After a few minutes, the water turned a vivid red, and she slid the test tube into the machine. As she went through the tedious process of identification, her thoughts strayed to the week prior when she had been forced to confront the truth of her captivity.
Already reeling from the atrocities she'd committed during the Time War, Emma had craved death. No, not merely craved death, she'd convinced herself that she deserved it. At least that was the lie she had chosen to cling to when the so-called scientists had made her a lab experiment, when Ninety-Six had made her feel weak and helpless, when he had . . . . Rassilon, but she was pathetic.
In all the years she'd fought, the Time Lord had never been subjected to such pain, such degradation, such defilement. Ironic, really—a veteran of a horrific war, a provocateur, a killer, a seductress, and she had still been woefully naïve of the depravities one being could suffer at the hands of another. Perhaps one had to experience such things to truly understand, but it was a lesson she wouldn't wish on a Dalek.
Rassilon fuck the Daleks; they had been the worst. Ninety-Six had violated her body while they had gotten inside her head. She shuddered now just to think about it. How could she trust herself ever again? They'd picked apart her brain and left her in mental pieces. Regeneration might have restored her mind, but it could never restore her confidence. If not for Doran, she would have become mired in a tar pit of self-doubt months ago. She called him her second chance, but in reality, he was her lifeline.
Glancing up from her work, she smiled at the human she loved. Doran returned her smile with a dazzling grin before returning his attention to the temporal calculations. She still didn't understand how he could love someone as screwed up as she, but since that day by the lake she'd stopped trying and simply accepted it.
As she studied the results of the blood sample, she recognized the chemical signature of the lomal seed first. From what Doran had told her, she'd been allergic to the edible seed in that body, though she'd never had the opportunity to test it. Lomal had been banned from the palace for many years since Rouchmel shared her allergy.
She identified the only other compound that didn't belong in her blood as . . . . Emma braced her hands against the metal table as the room briefly tilted. Irrationally, the knowledge comforted her.
"It wasn't blunt force trauma."
"Huh?" Doran looked up from his calculations. "What'd you say, Sweetheart?"
She held up the relevant piece of paper in her hand. "I didn't die from blunt force trauma. It was an overdose of boprylia oil."
He picked the paper out of her hand, studied the molecular formula and then handed it back to her with a sheepish grin. "I guess Chemistry's not my strong suit. You mind explaining?"
"I wasn't raped, Doran. I was poisoned. Boprylia's an herb indigenous to Galbon. Refined, the essential oil is a powerful abortifacient, and therefore banned by the government. In small amounts, it's safe, but the amount in my blood would have caused the hemorrhaging you described."
Blanching, his eyes glazed. She staggered backwards against his shock and churning emotions. After a moment, he took a deep, steadying breath and seemed to pull himself together, but she could still feel his desolation from several feet away.
"You were pregnant?"
She stared in complete bemusement. "What? Of course not. I told you, I was poisoned . . . . Wait. You, you wanted me to be pregnant?"
"I . . . ." He ran his fingers through his hair. She absently noted that he needed a haircut, but didn't think it the time to tell him. When he pressed her into the cold metal chair and got down on one knee, she wondered at his odd behavior, but the intensity of his piercing gaze quickly stole all thought.
"I would have been ecstatic, Sweetheart, but I never would have pushed for something like that. After we had that talk, after you'd asked me if I wanted a kid, I started thinking. About how much I loved you, how much I loved the life we had, how much I—."
She couldn't bear to hear more, not when their life had been such a lie. Caustically, she interrupted. "And, then I had to ruin your perfect life by not being the woman you thought I was, not being your little innocent Melina."
He had the audacity to snicker at her pique!
"Maybe I thought that at first, but as soon as we started having sex, I wondered about just how innocent you were, Sweetheart. Hell, you taught me a few things, and that's saying something. Now, are you going to listen? 'Cause I have something kind of important that I want to say."
If he hadn't been so anxious underneath his cocky façade, she would have shoved him to the floor. Instead, she curtly nodded for him to continue. His grin slipped in the face of her irritation.
He took her hand, all trace of smugness gone. Head bent, he began to rub his thumb over the back of her hand. She stared at their joined flesh as his gentle touch mesmerized. Slowly, she became aware of his warm breath against her ear, the hopeful frisson in her chest, the way his physical closeness almost compensated for the mental barrier he had placed between them.
She jerked her eyes to his as soon as she realized what he'd done. The terror simmering in her stomach cooled. For once, she didn't need to feel his emotions. The deep blue of his irises radiated sincerity, tenderness and the absolute certainty of his love.
"Just listen to me for a minute, and then you can get snappy again, okay?"
Nodding, she kept her gaze fixed on his. The slow cadence of his thumb against her skin never faltered.
"Those last weeks on Galbon, I did a lot of thinking. Chalk it up to me being one of the lesser species, but I decided that having a kid with you would be the second best thing that ever happened to me. I mean, you're definitely the best, Sweetheart, but a kid that's half you has got to be pretty amazing, even if I am the father. And then you were gone and I thought I'd lost it all. It was pretty embarrassing, actually. Garron had to sedate me. Did I tell you that?"
He hadn't. They hadn't spoken of the time she'd been missing. She'd been too horrified at her accidental impersonation of the child she had lost, and he obviously had been afraid of upsetting her. She shook her head mutely, her eyes still transfixed by his.
"When I finally stopped feeling sorry for myself, I figured out a way to track you. And, that's where it got complicated. I kept finding you at different points in your life. But every time I found you, Emma, I fell in love with you a little bit more. And when you regenerated instead of dying, I knew I'd been given another chance, a chance I told myself I wouldn't waste."
From the corner of her eye, she watched him pull something out of his pocket with his free hand. The object remained hidden by his closed fist, and she gave it little thought as he brushed his lips against hers before continuing.
"So, would I like to have a kid with you? That pretty much goes without saying at this point. Hell, if I haven't accidently changed our timelines, we'll have two one day. But you've got it all wrong. You couldn't possibly screw up my life because all I want is a life with you. I love you, Sweetheart, no matter if we're fighting a war that might outlast both of us or if I have to share you with a Time Lord with incredibly sexy hair. It doesn't matter so long as I'm with you."
"Doran, I—"
He stopped her with a kiss. "You're supposed to be listening, remember?"
She might have slapped that smug smirk off his face if she hadn't noticed the silver circle of interlaced knots resting in his open palm. When her eyes flew to his in question, his grin had been replaced by a self-conscious blush. She'd never seen him so flustered.
"Doran?"
"I found this in my pocket when I woke up on Sto. I know the concept of marriage is pretty old-fashioned, but, hey, it's the way I was raised. I've been trying to find the right time to ask for months, but a few days ago I realized I didn't need to. The way I figure it, we might not have had a ceremony, but we're married in every way that matters, Emma. So, I guess what I'm asking now is if you'd like to wear this ring, not as a symbol of ownership or anything like that, but as a reminder that I won't ever leave you. That way, even if I'm not close enough for you to sense what I'm feeling, you'll know. What do you think, Sweetheart?"
She didn't know what to think. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as a warm joy bubbled in her chest. She'd never tried to put a label on their relationship, but it had definitely matured since those early days on Galbon. Were they married? By Gallifreyan law, certainly not. But she'd lost respect for Gallifreyan law centuries prior.
Inexplicably mute, she simply held out her right hand. She experienced his joy as he slipped the wedding band onto her finger. As Doran reverently pressed his lips against her fingers, she knew with both hearts that only death could part them. It was a moment she would never forget.
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Doran and Emma flashed into existence inside the Rouchmel's bedchamber. After days of introspection, both had agreed that a private audience would be best. Neither had the stomach to live the lie that had once been their life. They would tell Rouchmel the truth, or as much of it as they could without destroying him.
Supporting Emma as she fought the disorientation of Vortex travel, Doran's eyes swept the darkened room. Empty, the unmade bed suggested Rouchmel had attempted sleep, no matter how briefly. Certain the king would at some point return, he helped his wife into a comfortable chair near the window.
Inhaling deeply, she pressed her nose against the soft leather. "This used to be my favorite chair on Galbon. Sitting here in the morning meant that I had spent the entire night in his bed."
A fortnight ago, her remark might have filled him with self-doubt. But, she wore his ring on her finger, not Rouchmel's. He smiled, content that she had been willing to share such an intimate part of her past.
"He told me how much you lectured him about women's rights. I bet it was from this chair."
"The chair, the bed, the dig sites, the dining table—any time I thought he'd listen, really. I think that's what intrigued him so much, that a woman was willing to speak her mind."
Unexpectedly, he thought of Hanna. The loyal maidservant would have never had the audacity to speak her mind. Yet, she had possessed a quiet strength. Even when Melina had cut her wrists, she hadn't panicked. In fact, he owed the woman Emma's life. Only, someone had killed her before he could repay the debt.
"Yeah, well, I'm sure that was a novelty here."
His dispirited reply must have betrayed his mood because she didn't speak again. Waiting in silence, time ticked slowly, punctuated each passing hour by the chimes softly tolling in the distance. Pacing around the spacious room, Doran grew more anxious with each toll of the bells. Where was Rouchmel?
An hour before sunrise, he couldn't bear the wait any longer. "I'm going to find him. The longer we stay on Galbon, the more likely you'll be discovered."
"I'll go with you."
"Not a chance, Sweetheart. If you're seen we'll be stuck here for months."
"Be careful."
He gave her a quick kiss as he fingered her ring. "Always."
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With only the vaguest suspicions of where the king might be, Doran walked the dimly lit corridors towards the apartments he and Melina had shared. If Rouchmel had found his note, the king might very well have decided to wait there for his return.
Regardless of the circumstance, he looked forward to seeing his friend and mentor. He'd missed Rouchmel, missed his optimism as much as his insight. What they had to say would be difficult for him to hear, but he hoped it would give the monarch the closure he needed.
He'd rehearsed the speech he planned to give Rouchmel many times. Now, it replayed in his mind while he traversed the familiar hallways. Nothing had outwardly changed, although in the few days since Melina's kidnapping, he guessed there hadn't been time.
Preoccupied with his introspection, he bumped into the one person he didn't wish to see as he turned the last corner to his rooms. "Gedrow, what an unpleasant surprise. Is there a reason you're standing outside my apartments, or are you just lurking?"
Ordinarily arrogant and self-assured, the king's most trusted advisor appeared tense and nervous. "You haven't heard, then. I had hoped not to be the one to tell you, but I have been looking for you, Sire. We all have. Your presence is required immediately."
Doran froze. There had to be some sort of mistake. But unpleasant man wasn't the sort to make jokes. "Don't call me that. That's Rouchmel's title, not mine."
"Please don't make this any more difficult than it is already, Doran. I've never taken you for a fool. He died of an apparent heart attack early this evening."
His head spun. This couldn't be happening. Rouchmel couldn't be dead. Swiftly, though, he focused on one particular word. "Wait, apparent heart attack?"
"Garron thinks he was poisoned, just like Melina. And, with you missing, the capital's close to anarchy. There are rumors of plots and assassinations and the ancestors know what else. You need to make a public appearance before the people riot. The press is already assembled."
"Oh."
He turned around to walk towards the Great Hall, his reflexes reacting faster than his mind. He felt dazed and panicked all at once. He had a duty as Heir Apparent that suddenly put him at odds with their grand plan. He couldn't run, not with the populace ready to riot. But, he couldn't expect Emma to stay.
Emma—something niggled the back of his brain, something Salow had said, something about poison. When he abruptly realized what it was, he turned around, his mouth running a second faster than his brain. "Wait. How did you know Melina was poisoned?"
The knife slid underneath his ribs as easily as a needle through linen. His legs went numb as he dropped to the cold stone floor. His legs were numb, not weak, numb. Blood trickled down his side. Numb fingers refused to move, refused to press against the wound. Something . . . something . . . something was very wrong.
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Emma bolted out of Rouchmel's room the moment Doran's anguish pierced her mind. With an unerring sense of direction, she flew down the empty corridors, drawn to him like a planet to its sun. He lay prone on the floor, a shiny pool of the darkest red blackening the stone beneath him.
"No!"
Turning him over, she ripped apart his shirt, heedless to the buttons flying in all direction. The wound was deceptively small, but the blood pouring down his side suggested it was dangerously deep. Taking off her new wool jacket, she pressed it against the wound. With her free hand, she lightly slapped his face, begging him to wake.
He didn't. He couldn't. He clung to life by the most tenuous grasp. His chest gurgled with each miniscule breath. His solitary heart raced and faltered and skipped and fluttered. And his mind—he had retreated to a place even she could not reach.
Coated in his blood, her hands tingled. Never removing the pressure on his wound, she took an experimental lick. She spat it out when her tongue went numb. He hadn't simply been stabbed; he'd been poisoned with a powerful neurotoxin.
"I need help! Someone help me, please! Help me!"
There had to be someone. Dawn approached; surely one of the servants would hear her. Less than a week after her kidnapping, surely the guards would be on the alert. Where was everyone?
"You're alive."
She whipped her head around, exhaling with relief. She'd never thought she'd be glad to hear the sound of Gedrow Salow's voice, but at that moment she would have happily kissed him.
"Gedrow! Thank Rassilon. Get Garron, quickly! He doesn't have much time."
"No, he doesn't."
She'd already turned her attention back to Doran, but the flat tone of Salow's voice made her look up. He held a laser pistol in his hand, and in that instant she cursed herself for her dimwittedness. Tall and skeletal, Rouchmel's contemporary played the arrogant villain so well that they had dismissed him as being far too obvious a suspect in her kidnapping. How stupid they'd been.
Crouched beside Doran, she shifted her weight to the balls of her feet. She refused to die on Galbon. She had to take him by surprise, snap his neck before he could react. But, six feet separated them. He would shoot her dead before she could lay her hand upon him.
A ridiculous plan popped into her head. Barely aware of how she did it, Emma reached within herself to call forth a power not manifested since the Dark Times. Her breathing slowed as she became hyperaware of the scene before her. The widening pool of blood underneath her husband, the constriction of Salow's finger on the trigger, the sounds of boots hitting stone far down the corridor from which she'd come, the scurrying of a beetle in the shadows—it all stopped.
She stared at the frozen tableau, utterly astounded. For a moment, her achievement eclipsed all else, but as her head pounded, she recalled why she had been driven to recreate a Time Lord myth. Salow stood motionless in front of her, his haughty sneer now petrified on his thin face. With a vicious cry, she launched herself into the air.
As her hands reached for his neck, her left foot landed on the hem of her long skirt. Stumbling against her adversary, her concentration broke. Time rolled. Emma yanked Salow's head to give it a vicious twist. The pistol fired. The blood beneath Doran expanded. The beetle scurried away from the commotion.
Shaking, she crawled to Doran, leaving her own trail of blood to mix with his. She reapplied pressure to his wound, refusing to acknowledge the absence of sound, the lack of rattling in his chest. Her head—Rassilon, it pounded, threatening to split her skull in two.
She heard frantic voices. Blearily gazing up, she recognized a familiar face. She made the effort to speak, but couldn't be sure of what she said. She couldn't make the effort to care. Even the awful pounding of her head receded as the world went gray.
Someone shook her. She was so cold, and her body buzzed with an odd tingle. No. No, she couldn't. She wouldn't. The buzzing gradually faded. Oddly at peace, she fell into the black.
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"Doran?"
Emma struggled to raise her head, but she lacked the strength for such a simple task. Her hearts beat in a painful, dissonant rhythm that most certainly would have panicked her had her mind not been so . . . so . . . . She hovered on the verge of consciousness, chasing nebulous visions of catastrophe. An eternity or only a few seconds later, a familiar voice wove itself through her vague nightmares.
"Did the transfusion work, Garron?"
"It's too early to tell, Sire, although there is reason to hope. Her right heart is still in fibrillation, but the levels of oxygen in her blood have improved significantly."
"She called for him again."
"Sire, the toxin is concentrated strivex venom, his chances are less than . . . ."
". . . . no matter the price, do I make myself clear?"
More words drifted above her understanding. Her arm ached, the throbbing at odds with her heartbeats. Her head, still stuffed with fuzzy wool, refused to think. She felt a gentle pressure on her leg before drifting away.
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"Doran?"
Damn it, where was he? Her head pounded; her body creaked. If he insisted on getting her drunk and then shagging her into oblivion, he could damn well be waiting for her with a cheeky grin and a cup of coffee.
"Doran?"
Her voice sounded croaky to her ears. Her right arm—it didn't just throb, it bloody hurt. So did her head. She felt as if she'd jumped into the Time Vortex and stayed there. Rassilon, but she was sore. How long had she been sleeping, anyway?
How long. How long. The question plagued her. She couldn't remember the time or her location. Her surroundings certainly smelled familiar, tantalizingly so. In fact, it smelled like home save for the taint of disinfectant hanging in the air.
A warm hand trailed across her cheek. "Melina, come back to us, please. All of Galbon prays for your recovery."
She groaned aloud. Galbon. She must be stuck in a nightmare. She fought against the weight of her eyelids to refute the voice. She couldn't be on . . . . "Galbon?"
Rouchmel gazed down at her, tears in his eyes. Lines of fatigue etched his face. He'd foregone shaving long enough for his stubble to turn into scraggly whiskers. His usually straight, reedy nose was swollen and red. His mouth gaped until he snapped his jaw together to form a disbelieving smile. The longer she stared at him, the bigger it grew, until it transformed his countenance from one of sorrow to elation.
"Oh, my child."
His voice broke and the tears streamed down his face. She struggled to sit, but had to do so one-handed when her injured arm refused to cooperate. Supporting her weight, he pushed several pillows behind her to prop her up. Then, he helped her sip from a glass of cool water. It tasted like honey on her scratchy throat.
As she slowly remembered the reason for her bandaged arm, she thought the water might come back up.
"Doran?"
He couldn't meet her eyes. "The toxin has spread through his tissues. It's simply a matter of time."
She refused to believe his grim pronouncement. Not sensing Doran's emotions, she reached for her ring, but it no longer rested on her swollen finger. Garron would regret it if he'd cut it from her hand. Forsaking the comfort of bed, she flung the blanket away and struggled to stand. She took a shaky step forward before clutching the bedpost for support. Rouchmel put his arm around her waist, careful not to jostle her injured arm. She brushed his hand away; she would not be tucked into bed like a child. Instead, she took several wobbly steps.
"Melina, I know how much you wish to see him, but you can't jeopardize your own health. He wouldn't have wanted—"
She brusquely put out her left hand, demanding he stop. Since it was a gesture she had often used against him in another lifetime, it shocked him into silence. She might look like Melina, but she had left that sweet, biddable personality behind months ago. She refused to play the damsel in distress with Doran's life at stake.
"No offense to Garron, but I'm much more likely to find an antidote to the neurotoxin than he is. So stay here and argue to the empty walls or help me to his room."
Obviously shocked by her assertive behavior, he stood immobile for several seconds. Her knees shaking, she waited for his answer. "Melina . . . ." Standing on her left, he supported her weight when she could not. As he slowly led her to Doran, he softly assured her, "Your mother would have been so proud."
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Doran really didn't want to wake. Hell, he hurt in his dreams, which meant reality had to be worse. Eventually, though, boredom forced him to consciousness where he received a pleasant jolt.
"He told me you were dead," he rasped through cracked lips.
Putting down the book he'd been reading, Rouchmel let out a snort of derision. "Poisoned soup—a pathetic attempt at assassination if there ever was one. Thankfully, he was already under surveillance. I can only offer you my humblest apology, Doran. When he attacked you and Melina, he had escaped custody."
"Melina, she . . . ?" His heart raced with terror.
"Is sleeping in your bedchamber," the king finished soothingly. "You have been sick for quite a while, my son. And, it is Melina you have to thank for developing a cure for the poison on the traitor's blade."
Holding the straw so he could drink, the king added lightly, "She truly is her mother's daughter. I believe she drove poor Garron to drink after some of their more frightening debates. She does not suffer fools gladly, at least not when your life is in the balance." Smiling broadly, he finished, "I envy you, Doran, but I wouldn't trade places for the world. I thought Gemma headstrong and opinionated until I witnessed one of my daughter's tirades firsthand. You have an interesting life ahead of you, my friend."
Stunned, Doran didn't quite know what to say. Their plan to appear secretly to Rouchmel and leave in the dead of night had gone pitifully astray. But, he never expected Emma to assert herself quite so forcefully in public. Luckily, Garron entered soon enough afterwards that he didn't have to reply.
Instead, he endured a tedious medical examination which only strengthened his suspicion that he'd come ridiculously close to dying. To have been caught so off guard by Salow frankly wounded his pride. And, by the way Garron clicked his tongue, he doubted he would be able to leave the bed, much less the infirmary, anytime soon.
After answering a string of infuriatingly simple questions and putting up with a battery of tests, Doran thought he might scream just to see what reaction he might get. The usually agreeable physician had poked and prodded and quizzed him on trivialities, but he hadn't once asked him how he felt.
"Remarkable. The Lady Melina has truly performed a miracle. Your organs are functioning without assistance and your cognitive abilities seem to be intact. I had expected you to be little more than a simpleton."
"Gee, thanks," he griped, and the young healer with the chiseled cheekbones finally realized his insensitivity. Blushing, he stammered an apology.
Doran didn't hear it. Emma's appearance in the doorway captivated his attention. A sling cradled her right arm. She wore a loose red tunic over fitted black trousers tucked into men's boots. Her shirt clashed terribly with her auburn hair, which stuck out from her braid at random intervals like some sort of parasitic weed trying to choke a sturdy vine. But the intensity of her smile made all else fade.
Ignoring Rouchmel and Garron, she knelt beside him, resting her head against his arm. His joy mirrored hers. Closing his eyes, he slipped into her mind for a more intimate reunion.
As they stood in a sunny field of red grass, she hugged him so tightly he thought he might burst. Laughing self-consciously, he threaded his fingers through her unbound hair.
"I guess it must have been a pretty close call."
"You've no idea," she whispered as she pulled him down for a blistering kiss.
Her raw emotions exposed the truth of her statement. He wanted nothing more than to show her just how alive he was, how alive they both were, but the mental contact physically taxed him. The pain that had chased his dreams returned with a vengeance. Instantly sensing his discomfort, she gave him a last, fierce hug before retreating from his thoughts.
What little stamina he'd had upon waking deserted him. His body ached with fatigue. As he fought to stay awake, Emma listened to Garron's report. She glanced at him time and again, but he couldn't bring himself to care about the quiet conversation. If it was important, he'd hear about it later. He fought slumber for the chance to exchange a kiss with the Time Lord in reality. After what seemed like ages, he finally got his wish, although he didn't understand why her eyelashes now clumped together.
"You should remember waking this time," she tremulously assured him.
His mouth went dry. "How long?"
"Almost three weeks."
No wonder her lashes were wet with tears. Close call didn't begin to describe what Salow had done to him. As the heaviness of his eyelids increased, he breathed three words, "Stay with me."
"Always."