Nightmare's Memory, by Lufia
Author's notes: Doctor Who doesn't belong to me, it belongs to the BBC.
The nightmares have come again. I can see it clearly, even in this darkened room. He's turning in his
sleep, throwing a hand over his face. His mouth twists open in a silent cry. He hasn't been the same since
Culloden.
He was lucky to survive, I know. Laird McLaren told me that when they returned. For a piper, he had
fought well, better than the laird had expected. And he'd been rewarded handsomely for his skills: land, a
home, sheep. He proposed to me within a week of his return. He'd never been so happy.
That was fifty years ago now, and much has changed. He was fine, at first. Sometimes, I would catch him
staring off into the distance, like his thoughts had drifted far away. When I'd ask him what he was thinking
of, he'd start, as if I had clapped my hands too close to his ear, and smile a false smile. Nothing, he'd say.
I was just admiring the sky.
Admiring the sky was how we almost lost little Colleen. She was barely three, and we'd gone down to the
river for a picnic. A nice afternoon together, no work to think of. It was a beautiful summer's day, and
unusually warm for the time of year. I was busy with the lunch, and he'd taken Colleen down to the edge
of the river to look at the fish. I don't know exactly how it happened, but I heard him shout suddenly for
Colleen to keep her head up, then I heard a splash. Colleen had fallen into the river, and he jumped in after
her. Fortunately, he reached her before she went under for good, and he did a trick to make her breathe
again. And when I asked how she'd fallen in, he only said, "I'm not sure, I was just admiring the sky for a
moment."
Colleen was seven when the nightmares began in earnest. They frightened the both of us out of our wits.
He awoke with a terrible scream, sweat pouring down his forehead. I wrapped him in my arms, as I would
Colleen when she had a bad dream, and held his head against my breast, trying to soothe him. His eyes had
been wide then. Wide and unfocused, like when he would admire the sky. And he spoke strange words,
words I had never heard used before. It was complete nonsense. He kept saying. "Cybermen of Telos,
transmorgification, seal them in ice," over and over. I don't know what it means to this day. He never
explains the dreams or the speech.
These "cybermen" are not the only nightmare he has. Others have featured large furry demons called Yeti,
with silver cannon balls from their bellies, or Lords of Ice, with plate armor for faces and no fingers, just a
block of hand. His worst nightmares, however, concern some sort of demon called a Dalek. He speaks of
them with rifles that shoot pure sunlight in a bullet, and speak through horns. Of course, he does not know
I have heard it all. He doesn't talk to me concerning the nightmares, no matter how I coax him. He thinks
that I will call him mad, and perhaps I would, if I knew more.
He cries out for other women in these nightmares. This more than anything concerns me. I shouldn't be
jealous of dreams, should I? But these women, Victoria and Zoe, he calls for with such passion, such
concern, that I cannot help it. I know he has never met any women by those names, but it still bothers me.
He calls out for another woman sometimes, Polly, but he calls after her and her lover, Ben, together, never
one without the other. And, strangely enough, he often cries out for a doctor. As if Archie could cure him
of these nightmares with a simple bleeding!
These terrible spells lasted for nine years, and then fell away suddenly. One night, the night before Colleen
was to wed Jonathan McDougal, they didn't come. He slept peacefully for the first time in nine years. I
could tell he was as relieved as I. But suddenly, they have come again. Neither of us knows why. Perhaps
seeing young Dugan, the spitting image of his grandfather at fifteen, has made him remember Culloden
again. Culloden is where this entire problem comes from, I'm sure.
He wakes now, his eyes wide and empty as always, and jerks up in bed. I wrap my arms around him,
drawing his head to my breast, like I have done for many years. "It's alright, Jamie," I whisper. "It's
alright now."
Author's notes: Doctor Who doesn't belong to me, it belongs to the BBC.
The nightmares have come again. I can see it clearly, even in this darkened room. He's turning in his
sleep, throwing a hand over his face. His mouth twists open in a silent cry. He hasn't been the same since
Culloden.
He was lucky to survive, I know. Laird McLaren told me that when they returned. For a piper, he had
fought well, better than the laird had expected. And he'd been rewarded handsomely for his skills: land, a
home, sheep. He proposed to me within a week of his return. He'd never been so happy.
That was fifty years ago now, and much has changed. He was fine, at first. Sometimes, I would catch him
staring off into the distance, like his thoughts had drifted far away. When I'd ask him what he was thinking
of, he'd start, as if I had clapped my hands too close to his ear, and smile a false smile. Nothing, he'd say.
I was just admiring the sky.
Admiring the sky was how we almost lost little Colleen. She was barely three, and we'd gone down to the
river for a picnic. A nice afternoon together, no work to think of. It was a beautiful summer's day, and
unusually warm for the time of year. I was busy with the lunch, and he'd taken Colleen down to the edge
of the river to look at the fish. I don't know exactly how it happened, but I heard him shout suddenly for
Colleen to keep her head up, then I heard a splash. Colleen had fallen into the river, and he jumped in after
her. Fortunately, he reached her before she went under for good, and he did a trick to make her breathe
again. And when I asked how she'd fallen in, he only said, "I'm not sure, I was just admiring the sky for a
moment."
Colleen was seven when the nightmares began in earnest. They frightened the both of us out of our wits.
He awoke with a terrible scream, sweat pouring down his forehead. I wrapped him in my arms, as I would
Colleen when she had a bad dream, and held his head against my breast, trying to soothe him. His eyes had
been wide then. Wide and unfocused, like when he would admire the sky. And he spoke strange words,
words I had never heard used before. It was complete nonsense. He kept saying. "Cybermen of Telos,
transmorgification, seal them in ice," over and over. I don't know what it means to this day. He never
explains the dreams or the speech.
These "cybermen" are not the only nightmare he has. Others have featured large furry demons called Yeti,
with silver cannon balls from their bellies, or Lords of Ice, with plate armor for faces and no fingers, just a
block of hand. His worst nightmares, however, concern some sort of demon called a Dalek. He speaks of
them with rifles that shoot pure sunlight in a bullet, and speak through horns. Of course, he does not know
I have heard it all. He doesn't talk to me concerning the nightmares, no matter how I coax him. He thinks
that I will call him mad, and perhaps I would, if I knew more.
He cries out for other women in these nightmares. This more than anything concerns me. I shouldn't be
jealous of dreams, should I? But these women, Victoria and Zoe, he calls for with such passion, such
concern, that I cannot help it. I know he has never met any women by those names, but it still bothers me.
He calls out for another woman sometimes, Polly, but he calls after her and her lover, Ben, together, never
one without the other. And, strangely enough, he often cries out for a doctor. As if Archie could cure him
of these nightmares with a simple bleeding!
These terrible spells lasted for nine years, and then fell away suddenly. One night, the night before Colleen
was to wed Jonathan McDougal, they didn't come. He slept peacefully for the first time in nine years. I
could tell he was as relieved as I. But suddenly, they have come again. Neither of us knows why. Perhaps
seeing young Dugan, the spitting image of his grandfather at fifteen, has made him remember Culloden
again. Culloden is where this entire problem comes from, I'm sure.
He wakes now, his eyes wide and empty as always, and jerks up in bed. I wrap my arms around him,
drawing his head to my breast, like I have done for many years. "It's alright, Jamie," I whisper. "It's
alright now."