Chapter Thirty-Six: Silence

As only a Time Lord can tell you, the full regeneration of every cell in one's body is an agonising process. Imagine the scorch of the sun, but instead of it bouncing off of your skin, it's exploding out of it. Then magnify that by ten. You may by now be as close as you will ever get to experiencing regeneration.

But even though the pain was great, the Doctor barely felt it. It scarcely scathed him, such was his intense bereavement. All he could see through his misted eyes was the corpse of his beloved Clara, stricken across that awful, cracked stone floor, blood pooling beneath her.

He wanted to reach out. He wanted to touch her, shake her, wake her up, and tell her everything would be OK.

But it wouldn't. Never again.

Whilst in the thrall of the orange vortex, Time Lords experience something close to judgment. The passage of time will fragment, reaching a full stop, and the Time Lord will look back over his life, see his biggest triumphs, and his greatest defeats. Some of the more conflicted Time Lords once recorded their experience as a vision akin to the Ancient Egyptian rite of passage to the afterlife. They found their actions judged, overseen by the God of Death Anubis - their hearts were weighed, so to speak - and whatever followed next would determine the personality of their next incarnation. Those who condemned themselves during this regeneration, and had their hearts eaten by the crocodilian demon Ammit, would be reborn as a shadow of their former glory. But those who could be reconciled with their past deeds were given a new lease of life in which they may try again to avoid judgment. Whether or not this idea lies closely with the truth remains to be seen, but the Doctor was the definition of an open mind, and embraced these concepts with wide arms.

Upon his birth on Gallifrey all those thousands of years ago, he had been supplied with twelve regenerations. The bright light that engulfed him now was the twelfth of its kind, which also made it the last.

The Eleventh Doctor had had very little time to reflect prior to his 'death.' Now was his chance; even if such an opportunity was clouded by the extent of his trauma.

'Clara...,' he whispered, seeing her face float by in his peripheral vision. "I'm... Oh, I'm so sorry, Clara... WHAT HAVE I DONE?"

By now he was no longer calmly grieving. Seething with self-loathing, he was shaking as wracking sobs escaped his lips.

"It should have been you," he shouted, referring directly to himself. "It should have been you... Useless, useless FOOL!"

Ammit was licking his lips, but Anubis outstretched his palm, and calmed the ravenous demon. The Doctor was being rewarded the chance to defend himself, but he found it difficult to take.

'Think of how many get to see another day,' he tried to remind himself. '...because of me. Whole civilisations, whole galaxies... whole... whole universes... Dimensions...'

But what did it matter?

If I can't protect the ones that I love, the ones closest to my hearts, I'm not fit to live. And how I have let them down.

'I promised them the stars, and I got them buried.' Tears rolled down the Time Lord's face, and he brushed them away. Despite the fact that they did not exist outside of his mind, they were real enough for him to feel; thus, they haunted him.

'I sent them to their graves...'

"Yes, that's the spirit!"

The Doctor looked up, his eyes blurry. He tried his best to ignore the monster that stood before him, but he found it impossible to break it's gaze. Even the Weeping Angels would cower before such a glare.

"You... are the destroyer of worlds. The Valeyard. You are the prophecy."

The Doctor swallowed hard, suddenly at alert from the sound of the blood rushing through his ears. "I've fought countless foes... malevolent invaders, terrible tyrants, self-proclaimed gods... Daleks... But in the end, it's always you, isn't it? The one who haunts my dreams, the shadow that stalks my sleep..."

The figure watched closely out of the orange haze, its eyes constantly accusing. "I am your flesh; your blood. I am your father, and you, Theta, are my son."

The Doctor arched his back at the sound of his childhood nickname, a word that had lost all meaning up until that moment. The man who shared his name - the father from whom he had inherited it - stepped into the light. He was still geared up in his battle armour, and he held his skull-plated helmet under his arm. The lips of the skeletal head were drawn back in a snarl as they always were, except now they almost implied as though his father had been eternally yelling throughout his imprisonment. He had not fared well to the exposure. His face was withered and his hair a deteriorated white, like a patch of melting snow.

He was an old man. By all accounts, a non-threat. But The Doctor knew better. For this man was his silence, the one and only threat which the Doctor had never truly been able to defeat. All he could do was contain him, whether it was inside the Trenzaloric Rift, or the deepest recluses of his own mind.

The Doctor looked upon The Doctor. Two ancient pairs of eyes were locked together.

"Face me!" the older Time Lord roared, still vehement in his innumerable years.

The Doctor stood deathly still, and smiled. "Geronimo."

- The Past -

Theta felt as though he was treading water as he followed his father into the apocalyptic chaos that had formerly been the Gun Deck. His boots were strewn in Chryllophane's blood, and as he walked he trod the thick red puddle into the floor. Not that anyone would have cared about the mess now; the Gun Deck was beyond help.

Panels were ripped open and shredded all across the room. The floor tiles were obscured in parts by the corpses of fallen soldiers: both allied and enemy alike. Theta shuddered as he stepped onto the desecrated eye socket of a Chimera grunt. Its mouth hung wide open at him as he bent down to prise the boot from the mess, and he tried not to flinch, less it come back to life to rip out his throat.

The Doctor ducked beneath a fizzling black cable and arrived at the computer panel at the centre of the room. The screen was cracked in places, but retained its utility. Grinning madly, the Doctor started to input into the console.

Theta peevishly arrived at his father's side, and caught sight of the images that were crossing the screen. Immediately, seven years of advanced astrophysics kicked the side of Theta's head impatiently, demanding his full attention. The young Time Lord quickly ran the calculations that he was seeing pass across the screen, and his face crumpled. His father cast a single glance at his son - it was less out of concern for his wellbeing than it was confirmation that he was watching his father save the world; that he would idolise him.

"Father," Theta said, his voice nary a whisper. The Doctor did not respond, his eyes now firmly upon the screen. Cautiously, he raised his voice slightly. "Father!"

The Doctor continued to hit upon the computer screen. This was his moment of glory, and no idiotic child was going to distract him from his accolades.

"Father, you're going to send the whole fleet into that black hole!" Theta was growing increasingly terrified, but he was still incapable of summoning any resemblance of forcefulness towards his parent's apparent ignorance. At least, he wanted to believe it was ignorance, and not just plain intent.

'What matters more to him? The lives of the many or the few?' Theta pondered, courageous in his own thoughts. 'There could be hundreds... thousands of survivors on those ships!'

Realising the immediate urgency of the situation, Theta decided - against his better judgement - that his father must be reacquainted with reason. He grabbed the Time Lord by the arm as he continued to work on the panel, and tugged hard. "Father!"

Craaaack!

Theta hit the ground in a daze as his flesh was scathed by the back of his father's heavily-reinforced metal gauntlet. He heard bells in his ears, and his eyes started to roll. His father appeared over him, blurred into a practically-demonic form by his vision, and looked down upon him with utter detest.

"You aren't strong enough to make the decisions, Theta. And you never will be. You're weak! You hear me? I'm ashamed to call you my son. In fact, I'm ashamed to call you a Time Lord! Now, STAY OUT OF MY WAY!"

As the last droplets of his spit showered down on Theta, the Doctor returned his wide-eyed stare to the control panel. He smashed his palm on a final command, and an eerily-calm A.I spoke out across the room.

Command sequence accepted. Initiating.

The voice was just enough to break the void of unconsciousness that Theta had begun to slip into. His eyes flickered open, and he saw the back of his father's heels just in front of him.

By now, he wasn't thinking like the Theta of before. No longer was he just a worm on the end of a fishing line. He'd decided to make his own choices - judgments of his own.

'This is wrong,' he thought, watching the red light from the alarms on the walls seep across the dark and empty space.

'And I'm going to stop it.'

Something broke in him. A whole lifetime of principals and inhibitions was shattered like a pane of glass, and the splinters turned to dust before his eyes. He had no other thoughts. Without a single word of warning, his hands grabbed his father's legs, and he yanked them from underneath the old man.

He didn't wait to hear the cry of surprise or the clatter of steel armour upon steel floor. Theta was up on his feet like a roadrunner in a mere few seconds, and in that time he wisely decided to seize his father's fallen Harmonious Spear, and bring into his own grip.

"What are you doing?!" his father screamed, desperately skidding on the floor, trying to find his feet.

Theta looked down upon his father for the very first time in his whole life, and said: "I'm making a decision."

And, without the slightest ounce of hesitation, Theta spun on his heel, and sunk the spear straight through the command panel.

"Do you know why you took my name, Doctor?"

It was a simple question, but there was no simple answer. The Doctor asked himself the same question every day. His chosen name was at the very core of his identity - or, more accurately, his apparent lack of one. He had come up with several suggestions as to his choice that particular day.

Perhaps he was honouring his mother, trying to do good with a name that had tainted her husband.

Or maybe he had wanted to live with the guilt of destroying his father's legacy to some extent.

But mostly, he had agreed upon his third theory. He had wanted to redefine the word 'Doctor.' For so many years, it had been a word that struck fear into people. A doctor was a soldier, a warrior, a murderer. He wanted it to be something more; something better.

His father didn't seem to agree, however. "You took my name because it was your destiny to become like me. You, Doctor, are the second Valeyard, and you fulfilled my legacy. The destruction of the Time Lords; of Gallifrey. The moment."

"No." It was The Doctor's turn to speak. "I ended a war."

"You destroyed our people."

"The Time Lords were never my people."

The Doctor paused, because he knew that what he would say next would cause an actual immolation in his father.

"I may have two hearts, but I am not one of you."

As predicted, his father's eyes practically erupted. His sinisterly-calm mannerisms changed in an instant, his muscles going rigid and his jaw clenching like a fist.

"No," he roared, pointing an accusing finger. "You love the humans. One more than any other... The one who has lived a thousand lives... The one who occupies the sole section of your mind, where I cannot tread..."

"Don't you dare," The Doctor growled. "Don't you dare murder her name with your foul tongue!"

"Clara. Clara Oswin Oswald." His father's eyes narrowed to slits, a serpentine quality to his posture. "This is the girl for whom you would discard your heritage. The scrap of humanity that you would spit upon your father's name for!"

"You are not my father!" The Doctor shouted, his cheeks blazing red and shoulders struck out.

"But you... You are my son." The Doctor noted the drawn-out enunciation. His father knew that without a corporeal form, words were his only weapons; thus, he ensured that each one was chosen for a high potential to harm. "You can run around in that dilapidated police box as much as you like, pretending that you're one of them, but you can never, ever, run away from your past!"

The Doctor didn't even blink. He wouldn't be intimidated by this man. Never again.

"Just watch me," he said.

Theta rolled as he hit the ground. The tremors shaking up through the ship's bowels threatened to knock the whole plateau out of its rest - this sense of urgency was enough to propel the characteristically-mousy Time Lord into a die hard action hero. He tasted blood in his mouth, a silvery gush pumped at double the strength of any human, but he pushed on, even in spite of the pain that was massing across his legs and back. Only when he reached the open doors to the corridor did he stop to turn round.

He only ducked at the last minute to avoid his father's fist.

Theta's eyes widened as the gauntlet, now extending to an intimidating length by a sharpened, spear-like bayonet, was withdrawn. The Doctor smiled manically at his son, blood dripping down his greying beard from a cut beneath his eye that he had sustained as he had fallen on his face.

"What are you doing?" Theta squeaked, reversing timidly as his father drew back his arm for another slash.

"I'm killing my enemy," his father rasped, before lunging forwards.

Theta dropped to his knees as the blade whizzed across the tips of his hair. He felt a couple of his roots loosen, as they were trimmed in a vicious lawn-mowing manoeuvre, but he remained intact.

For now.

Theta could do very little to defend himself. He had no weapons, and his armour would not protect him from a well-placed attack - it was bound by leather, not steel, and parted like water through a colander. Avoiding his death was all he could do. Luckily, his cowardly nature prepared him perfectly for this.

He watched warily as his father swung again, this time in a horizontal arc. He backed up, and the blade scathed the air in front of his ribs. Theta tried to counter-attack, but his father caught his outstretched leg, and, clutching the limb by its largest bones, he sunk his arm-mounted blade straight through the marrow.

For an idyllic few seconds, Theta felt no pain; it was as if his nerve ending had been completely disconnected, leaving him to frolic in a bubble of blissful ignorance.

Then, the agony came. Theta's whole leg flared up as though incited by a fire pit, and he felt his mouth starting to salivate, his stomach rebelling against him, and preparing to toss up a barrage of vomit.

There was only one thought.

'Mother,' Theta whispered softly, smiling as the tender arms were wrapped around him. 'Mother, I'm home.'

Through the paralysing pain, Theta could just about make out his father's ominous figure, silhouetted against the darkness. He drew his blade from Theta's calf, pausing to gleam it of blood and tissue, before raising it high above his head. Theta closed his eyes, falling deeper into his mother's arms, and preparing for his end.

And then the whole world was ripped open, and silence was all he knew.

'Gravity now stable. Returning control to the corridors.'

Theta recoiled from the voice in his ear. Not the pleasant, dulcet tones of his mother, but the cold and sterile declaration of the onboard computer. He opened his eyes, and looked around. He was not in the afterlife yet.

He was still on the ship.

As he tried to crawl into a sitting position, Theta felt his whole body go rigid, tensing up with the pain. He cried out as the blood pulsing through his leg was jettisoned in a constant stream, spewing across his trouser leg, and burning his ripped flesh like an acid. When he was finally able to break the pain barrier, and look about him, he was met with an unfathomable sight.

His father was grasping a nearby railing, but he was no longer in any control of his situation. The whole of the gun deck had been inverted, spun like a spit roast to a ninety-degree angle. His father clung to the sides, but was clearly incapable if movement in any direction but a vertical thrill ride to his certain death. Theta himself was positioned against the back of the door to the corridor, which was in close enough proximity to the door to share in the stable gravity of the outside hall. Thus, Theta found himself able to move in a straight direction unhindered.

On the other hand, his father was completely stuck. Thera froze as he saw his face, which was contorted by a perfect storm of fury and disbelief. The withered Time Lord opened his mouth and yelled at his son: "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!"

Theta paused when he saw the helpless figure, pinned by gravity and marked for certain death. He took one last look upon the man who had both raised and terrorised him, and then he started to crawl for the open doors.

"Silence will fall."

Prisoner Zero had been the first to say the hollowed words, in his attempt to seal the renegade Time Lord with a shred of doubt, and fear of the future.

But in an irony that transcended reason, he had been right. Silence had fallen. The Doctor's father would not escape the Trenzalorian Rift. The darkness that had been foretold by his mother had been prevented.

He had won.

'But at what cost?' he wondered. 'Craig Owens, that wonderful footballer with the impossible house, and all-conquering infant son.'

And Clara.

Kind, friendly, funny, beautiful. Impossible. Clara Oswald had filled a hole in his soul, and now, torn from him, the gap was left wrenched open once more. The Doctor felt like a busted dam, torrents of water shooting out of him every second.

He looked out through the empty orange mists. His father had long gone, and he could feel the last of his time hastily slipping through his fingers. The eleventh hour was mere minutes from its conclusion.

Taking a deep breath, the Doctor lay his head back. He daren't contemplate the man that he would become - not when the man that he would soon cease to be still had time.

Anubis had weighed his hearts upon the scale. He had built quite the convincing case against himself. The weight of the two muscles sent the light feather gracing into the air. Delighted with his meal, Ammit swallowed his two hearts without a second of consideration, growling in a deep, ho-drum reverb as he bared his bloodstained teeth to the Doctor. But the Time Lord was not watching. He had his eyes tightly shut, awaiting the chime of the clock.

And it was then, in the midst of my great despair, that I felt it.

A hand. Small, soft fingers, wrapped up in my own. A hand.

Her hand.

I opened my eyes, and I looked upon Clara Oswald.

She was as beautiful as the day I met her. That is, the day I met Clara Clara. Spoonhead Clara. Chin Clara.

She smiles at me, taking my other hand by its palm to join with its sibling in her embrace.

"Clara," I manage, scarcely breathing.

"Doctor," she says back, and I nearly weep upon the spot. The sound of her voice... it's nearly enough to spark a whole new regeneration! "Where are we?"

"The void," I reply, for once truly uncertain. "We are strangers at a crossroad. Two random people, destined to walk in opposite directions, never to see each other again. Just a glimpse of a meeting, but a memory that lives forever.."

I stop right there, stricken by the lump that has risen in my throat. Clara sees my struggle, and alleviates it. "Don't be sorry for me. Don't EVER be sorry for me. I have had the time of my life."

"I promised you the stars-"

"And they were beautiful." Clara's eyes meet my own, and they burn like a supernova right in front of me.

"Promise me that you'll live, Doctor," she whispers, gripping my hand so tightly I fear it may break, but remaining uncaring. "Find someone else. Someone fantastic. And show them the stars."

"Clara, I have no hearts," I say, glancing at my own chest involuntarily.

"No." Clara looks at me in that little way she does, wrinkling her nose and batting her eyelids as though she doesn't believe in a word she's been given. "You will always have mine."

Even as she says it, I can feel it to be true. My whole body - simply ethereal though it may be - blooms into life.

She smiles, and I realise that it is her last. Her lips part, and a barely-audible whisper emerges.

"Me too," I reply softly, brushing a solitary tear from my cheek.

Diiiiiiiing.

The bell tolled; Clara Oswald was gone.

The orange vortex that had surrounded the Doctor for the past ten seconds grew suddenly in intensity. In those brief moments, the light that the Time Lord was emanating from his head, palms and feet was nearly as bright as the sun above.

And then, it was over. The dim shadows of the underground cavern returned, and a man that River did not recognise took a step forwards, drawing close to the light but continuing to dance around it.

"Hello?" River called out. "Doctor?"

The man in the shadows tilted his head slightly. Then, he spoke for the first time - a deep, Scottish bark.

"Excuse me, young lady," he said. "Could you help me with something?"

River bit her lip, but did not refuse him. "Yes, of course."

"Thank you," the man said, walking out of the dark. He was an older gentleman, greyed in the hair and wrinkled around the face. He had a rather-striking expression upon his face, almost as though grimacing came naturally to him. None of these things would have told River who he was, however.

She could only tell that by his eyes.

Fiery, and yet cold as ice. Dark, and yet teeming with unique lights. Ancient, and yet young as the break of the day.

The eyes of the Doctor.

"It's my hair," Twelve grumbled.

"I need to know... Is it ginger?"

TO BE CONCLUDED...