"What takes them so long there? I thought the message was short!" Cyneweard moaned, fidgeting on one spot. "I need to go back to the wall, you know. I'm a guard! I have a sword and many businesses to attend to! Like… protecting this city!" He cried out pompously.

Clara sighed heavily. That dwarf got on her nerves. From time to time, he got his sword out of the sheath and shook it in the air like an incompetent child on a medieval fair. Firstly, it was dangerous; secondly – quite annoying. Given a thought, he was a child, only with a short dark beard.

"If you are so busy," asked Clara, "then why are you still here?"

He opened his mouth to say something but thought against that and shut it instantly. Ah, right! Clara knew that reaction when you're too proud to admit you're simply interested in something.

Ignoring Cyneweard's other outburst, Clara tried to peek through the door crack, but there was little to see. And god! It was so chilly outside, it hit her only now that it must be autumn here. And she wasn't dressed for this weather.

"Can you see them?" She didn't notice how Cyneweard put his sword back in the sheath and was on the same level as her, trying to peek into another door crack.

"A little. I hope he's not being rude again," she muttered to herself, catching two figures staying still in the centre of the hall. Whatever they were talking about, Clara couldn't hear it. "Last time he was rude to the church authority, we'd almost burnt with many innocent women."

"Oh-oh," the guard chuckled, "and what was that wicked place called?"

"France," she answered, not paying much attention to the guard.

"Ahh, well, quite obvious," Cyneweard smiled.

Clara gave up any attempts on eavesdropping on Doctor's conversation with the priest; it was just no use, the door was too thick and the Doctor and the priest were too far away. Instead, she decided to talk to the wall guard – it's not a common thing meeting one in her days.

"And what is your story? How did such a short man become a city guard?"

"Says who?!" the man roared and dare she say he was offended. But not for too long. "Oh, but my story is nothing interesting, I assure you. It's just mere luck that my father was a guard and a good man. They'd taken me when he died. Gave me his sword and shield. Put his armour on me. Then put me on the wall to watch. I don't even know how to fight," he sounded sad, but then he smiled and added, "But I know how to shout if something bad is coming. Not like someone in his mind would attack a big city. Nowadays though, you should watch carefully. You never know who's your enemy. Still, I have nothing to complain about. It's a good job." He squeezed lightly a hilt of his sword, and his words echoed with sorrow. There was more in his story than met the eye, but Clara decided against nudging him. Something in his eyes told her it was a sad story.

They'd heard something moving behind the door. It was someone's grumpy heavy steps, but to whom did they belong? Clara hoped it wasn't the priest. If it was the priest, then the Doctor probably had done or said something very stupid, and now they might never be able to visit Medieval London again. On the other side of the door, Cyneweard hoped it wasn't the Doctor.

With a loud bang, the door flew wide open. "We're leaving!" the Doctor exclaimed, heading back to the blue box. "Don't ask why; in fact, don't ask anything until I let you, understood?"

"No–"

The Doctor grasped her by shoulders and turned around.

"Good. The less you understand, the better. Now, you," he nodded at the guard who was standing motionlessly near the door. He did a 'me?' gesture. "How much do they pay you?"

Cyneweard looked confused. That question wasn't what he expected to hear from a furious Time Lord. He fished into his pockets and took out several coins, dropping several on the ground as they'd slipped from his shaking hands. "Twenty pennies a week," he finally told him. "Why do you ask?"

The Doctor abruptly snatched them from his hands and threw them away in the church garden. "You come with us, I'll give you eighty each day."

If Cyneweard had been somewhat angry about his loss of money, he certainly was not anymore after hearing such a pleasant deal. "Right. I'll accompany you, sir."

"Wait, what?" Clara put heels into the earth to prevent the Doctor from pushing her any more. "Are you paying him for being our companion?"

"No. I'm paying him for another reason."

"Which is?" She didn't like how it sounded from him.

"No time. We don't have time for that, Clara. Later! Now, to the TARDIS!"

"What did he tell you?" he heard Clara asking him. Cyneweard was leading them back to the blue box standing in some street all alone. The Doctor was barely dragging his legs behind them, his hand resting on his chin, eyebrows glued together, deep in his thoughts again. Sometimes he took a breath when his lungs were aching and his head felt cloudy.

"It's personal," he snapped back at her.

Those words again, the prophecy, whatever. Why now? Why in Medieval London, when he expected it the least? It was meant to be the most boring adventure Clara and he had ever had! He had planned something greater to come after all things were done – whatever it was, he could not remember it now. But then again, there's a better question to ask. Why then, in that book? History of The Centre of the Universe, Paradoxical Eternity and Eternal Paradoxes by G'Bor was about, well, time-loops, paradoxes and how they were affecting the Universe. And all of a sudden there was this. A paradox. A thing that didn't belong in the book. Like someone was watching him and making sure this riddle would be noticed when the time came.

"C'mon, will it hurt if you tell me?" Clara Oswald smiled tenderly, walking in front of him backwards.

The Doctor scowled. Walking on a pebble road with her back? Had she gone insane? She was going to fall! He took her hand and moved her beside him. Her hand in his soothed his unstoppable roaming of thoughts.

"Yes, it will."

"Why?"

"Because it cannot be happening," the Doctor chuckled. "Because it's insane…" He stopped in the middle of the road, getting even more suspicious glances from the crowd. "Am I going mad?"

She looked at him confused.

"What makes you think so?"

The Doctor thought about what made him think he was going mad. Maybe he wasn't going mad, maybe someone really was watching him, someone very powerful.

"Aye! Sir Physician!"

The Doctor turned around to see who had called him. Down the street, a horseman was galloping to them, a wrapped scroll in his hand. The Time Lord put on a look like he already knew what it brought.

Troubles.

"A message! For you!" The horseman stopped near them, stretched his hand with the scroll to the Doctor. The Doctor didn't take it, his eyes dilated, he looked at the horseman's hand. Was it a joke, he wondered. Clara sensed the immobility of her friend so she saved the horseman from embarrassment.

"From whom?" she asked the horseman, glancing at the Doctor disapprovingly.

"The Earl of York! Now, if you excuse me." The horseman galloped away.

As Clara started to unwrap the scroll, the Doctor grasped her by her wrist and stopped. "Maybe we shouldn't?"

Clara looked confused. "Why not? Do you know what it reads?"

"No–"

"Then let's see, shall we?"

The Doctor ran a hand over his face. He might be not insane now, but If it was going to be that stupid riddle again, he might will.

When Clara unwrapped the message, the writing was familiar but no, not the riddle again. It was big and sluggish as if a child had written it. It simply said, "FALAW MI" , with deep red ink.

Cyneweard only now noticed that his new employers were ten steps back and ran to them. "What is it?" he asked, his face was full of concern when he detected something unreadable in the Doctor's look.

He stood frozen on one spot, never leaving his eyes from the message. He must be going mad. Or Clara and he, somehow, possibly, likely, were trapped in the matrix of some sort. Perhaps, something had hacked the TARDIS interface, and while they'd been asleep, it had put them in virtual reality. Perhaps…

His eyes darted to Clara's face. He checked every inch of it, every dimple, while she was gazing at him unfathomably. No, everything was fine, it's for real, no projection can reproduce so many little details of his companion's face and he knew her face quite good. Then what was happening? Who did play with them?

"Why are you freaking out? The Earl of York must be only a child," Clara told the Doctor.

"He's over sixty years," Cyneweard corrected her, looking at the message from her shoulder.

The Doctor eyed him suspiciously. "And how do you know this? You are only a guard." Maybe he wasn't a guard. He didn't look like one after all – he looked like a man who spends a lot of hours in pubs, collecting gossips. A perfect spy with a kind trustworthy face… Or maybe he was just paranoid, again.

"You mean you don't know?" Cyneweard sought Clara's support, but she was looking at him with the same look of surprise. "Everybody knows the Earl of York is very ill, he probably won't last another week." He stopped to see if anything rang a bell to his new companions but it didn't. "He's also the last man standing between the unoccupied part of the Isle and the King of Night Owls."

They were sitting in a tavern, the first one they could have found. It lacked natural light, windows were curtained; so every small table, which was made of ship wreckages, had a cheap candlelit. The air was full of beer and ale; it was hard to breathe. It was crowded even though it was still midday. The Doctor looked, well, astonished. Clara was confused, too. And only Cyneweard didn't know that whoever this King of Night Owls was, he did not exist.

The King of Night Owls had arrived with an unstoppable army at the beginning of this year. The army contained only crossbows, and nobody saw a single soldier from that army injured or dead. The King was powerful.

"He was not. He didn't exist," the Doctor said.

The King of Night Owls had conquered Scotland in two months. It had been an easy fight. Having seized Edinburgh, the King forced other kingdoms to obey. The North had fallen, the South was still fighting. The King was going to the South, eating the isle piece by piece. He was greedy.

He was not! He did not exist!

Night birds are the King's faithful friends, beware of owls –

"This is ridiculous!" the Doctor stated, massaging his skull with one hand. Yet not impossible, he thought to himself. How many times historical events were changed just because of one egomaniac human from the future invading the Earth? If anything, he did shape the history of humankind like no one did. And yet, why had he never heard of this Owl King? And was he somehow connected to the riddle? Was he someone from that riddle?

Clara cleared her throat and asked, "Have you ever spoken to someone who saw the army you have mentioned?"

"No," Cyneweard shuffled uneasily. "There are only rumours, there isn't much news about this war surprisingly. But enough of that. If the earl of York pleads for your help then… Are we going to help him? If we are, I'd like to gather my things and stock some food –"

"Oh, believe me on the TARDIS board you won't need that," Clara said, the Doctor was still in his thoughts. "And of course we will help the earl. That's what we, time travellers, always do – we answer a distress call. Isn't that right, Doctor?"

The Doctor whispered something incomprehensible.

He could see that Clara was eager for this particular adventure. It was in her eyes, a warm shining spirit of an adventurer looking out of them. Strange messages of invitation, the King of Owls, the war that shouldn't be – one mystery after another, a thing even he couldn't resist. But a war! A dangerous thing itself, more dangerous when it has no reason to happen. He fought in many wars, he knew what high stakes it could take and how many men were changed, were damaged after this awful bloody massacre. That war, somewhere in the middle of British island, the war that never happened, was unpredictable. Was the King someone he knew? Or not? What was his purpose? A mere simple conquering for conquering? Maybe revenge? Was it the King who had been sending him those strange messages?

He didn't know how to answer any of those questions. But he did know one thing, one thing that he'd been taught: every war has a price. And as he looked at Clara from behind, watching her heading to the blue box… No, this price was too high for a little adventure. He had almost lost her already, and he wasn't sure he wouldn't run out of luck this time.

That's why he needed the guard. To protect her, even before he heard about the war he knew he needed someone. To send her away, back to home. He didn't care what she would say to him when he came back, or what she would think if he didn't. Earth, her Earth, her little apartment in London was the safest place for now. The guard could look after her and keep her company.

The Doctor watched his companion entering the blue box; when her figure was somewhere near the central column, he gripped Cyneweard's sleeve. "Now about your job. Eighty pennies I said? That's lame if you know some basic Maths. I'll give you something more. What would it be? Your choice. On one condition. Look after her. Stop her doing brave stupid things which might harm her."

"I'm sorry?" Cyneweard looked disorientated all of a sudden.

"Keep her save when I can't. Is that clear?" The Doctor looked into his eyes. He couldn't reveal his plan. Not when she was just behind that door, what if she's eavesdropping! C'mon, you must know what I mean!

They heard Clara calling for them; yet, no one looked back. Cyneweard nodded.

"Doctor, I think something is wrong!"

"Have you been gossiping about me behind my back, you two?" Clara asked, knitting her eyebrows together.

"Nope," Cyneweard said.

"Yes," the Doctor told her simply. He circled the control panel and stopped next to her. "What's wrong, Clara?"

"The TARDIS. I wanted to help you a bit, enter coordinates of York, but the navigation system seems to be dead."

The Doctor eyed the panel carefully, but to him everything was fine. A little dusty but in general all was fine.

"And you think it's dead because?" His eyebrows did a thing.

She chuckled. Sometimes it's so difficult for him to let the idea that someone could understand something in his impossibly difficult machine. "Because nothing responds. And because the interface is blank." The Doctor turned the screen closer to him. Oh, yes, it was. "I'm not a technician, but it's not supposed to be like that, is it?"

The Doctor shook his head. No, it didn't. He tried switching several levers. However, it had no effect.

"See! I told you!" she switched a random tumbler to prove her point. It didn't do anything. Only, there was something with the Doctor's face. She would have expected disappointment, or slight confusion, or something of that sort. Because he always knows how to repair his beloved ship, there's not a millimetre he doesn't know. He would look sad, fix the problem and off they go back to the time vortex!.. She didn't expect anxiety.

"I guess, we'll take it the old way?" Clara shrugged trying to cheer the Doctor up. It seemed like his eyebrows would drop to his cheeks one way or the other at some point today.

The Doctor simply nodded. She was suggesting a walk. A walk to York. In wartime. The thing he had tried to avoid but now… He needed some time to sort this all out. He felt like his head would blow up eventually.

"In two days. I'm not quite in the mood now." The massive book was laying on a coffee table on the second floor, teasing him with its existence. The Doctor recalled days when he had been looking for its author, only to find out that he died several days after he was published. He hopped to it, circling it carefully before finally taking a heavy seat. The book looked normal, it looked exactly as any book should look: made of paper, dusty. He didn't need to give it a sonic to know it was what it was. Evil thing. Perhaps, cursed thing. Why was he always buying books without checking them first?!

"Can I go?" Cyneweard asked, shuffling uncomfortably.

The one who makes, the one who heals,

The one who takes and the one who kills.

One could become another. One could be not one, but two. One will be suffering. And one shall leave the world forever.

The first question towards this riddle/prophecy/whatever was whether it said about one character or four. It was not easy to answer as it first looked. Many religions have gods who can stay solus while being in the plural form at the same time.

"Yes, you can. Go back in two days at seven o'clock," Clara answered.

However, was it a religious legend? It could be a riddle for kids, for all he knew.

With a bow, the guard nodded, leaving the two on their own.

Clara saw that something was bothering the Doctor's mind. He was glaring at the book on the second floor, the one he had shown her not so long ago, and he wore a troubled face. So, step by step, she closed the gap between them. She decided to start with an easy question, "What has he told you, the priest?"

The Doctor chuckled, gently closing the book with a light pat. "Oh, Clara Oswald, he's told me impossible things which make no sense even to me. However, enough of that. Do you believe in coincidence?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I want to know your opinion." He shrugged in his chair, looking at her innocently. "I remember you complained once about my lack of communicating. So, here I am–"

"What exactly has that priest told you, Doctor?" Clara slumped into another chair face-to-face to him.

Clever.

"Nothing I don't know." He took some time to come up with the answer. Clara gave him a scrutinising look. Why was he so defensive all of a sudden?

"What was it?"

The Time Lord peeked at the book which lay literally between them. It did not go unnoticed to Clara and she realised it must be somehow connected with it.

"You know what? Maybe it was a coincidence after all." He sighed trying to shake her off his shoulders.

"You don't believe in coincidences, we both know that, Doctor." She chuckled and smiled soothingly. "But whatever it was I'm 100 per cent sure it's nothing so scary to not share with me."

The Doctor nodded considerably. That was surprisingly fast to crackle him. "It was a poem."

"See? I've told you, nothing to be afraid–"

"The one you've read today already."

She stopped her tracks, and now she was the one staring at History of The Centre of the Universe, Paradoxical Eternity and Eternal Paradoxes with a thoughtful look. But could it be?..

"The riddle from the book?"

"The riddle from the book." He nodded.

"Then it's not a coincidence."

"Not a coincidence." He shook his head. "The author's death, who has died right after publishing the book, the death of priest's ancestor after he got the message, Rodwell's death – he's the one who left a note that we were coming to the wall. Even the TARDIS malfunction is not a coincidence. Of course, I'll try to fix her. And, of course, I'll fail. It's a trap, Clara. A trap designed specifically for me."

"So someone built a mystery box around a hook. Better to find out who it is. Any ideas?"

"None."

"Right. And you've never heard before about this King of Owls."

"Never."

She put a light smile on her face. "Then isn't it exciting?"