disclaimer: The Doctor belongs to the BBC and Illyria is Joss's. I just had fun with them. Please R&R. Thanks.
Husks
"It smells of carcasses and bones turned to dust," Illyria said. It had been a townhouse once, opening onto a busy street. Empty now. Ivy crawled up the walls, finding holes in the concrete and brick. Broken windows hung open inviting the grey light to peruse gutted rooms. In some parts the walls had crumbled in a haphazard fashion, defeated by wind and rain.
"That sounds about right," the Doctor agreed. "This is the empty shell, the husk of a building, where dead men still whisper." The walls were cracking with age. There was a sadness here, Illyria felt it creep like a poison through her.
"More riddles," she said. The little man loved his little riddles and his pathetic games.
"Not this time," he answered. "Here the shadows have stories to tell. Maybe, if you're polite they'll tell you. Now hush, I have to concentrate." Illyria tilted her head listening. The Timelord was right. She could hear faint whispers in the shadows, the echoes of ancient screams…and something else. Her head snapped up in shock.
"It lives," she said.
"That's what I said," he snapped impatiently. Illyria turned, a retort already half formed, but his eyes were closed. The Doctor was already reaching out with his mind. Illyria left him and went to the window. It was a gray world, boxed in, compartmentalized, so claustrophobic, so empty. All across the globe, from one end to the other, there was only silence. Empty forests, empty streets, empty rivers, and empty streams. Just buildings, crumbling slowly into dust. A whole world dead, but not gone, after all there were still the shadows. There were voices murmuring in the shadows. So many voices, a word of voices. Illyria could hear their death cries. A whole world massacred leaving the husks of their souls to inhabit the dark places of one single building. Curiosity drove her insistent probing and Illyria reached out to touch the darkness with her mind. The world shifted around her. Color seeped in slowly. Hearing the Doctor's voice she turned.
The Doctor was arguing with someone who wasn't there. Illyria tilted her head. No, that wasn't quite true. He was surrounded by incandescent shapes, flickering softly almost invisible.
"I have come a long way for this, you know," he said softly. "It is a simple request."
"You know it is not simple," the figures said, their voices merged as one. "The one you seek is locked deep in the bowls of the collective mind, as you suggested."
"Yes, yes, I'm so glad you took my advice so readily. Now would be the time to do so again. Take me to him. I'll ask him a few questions; he'll growl and posture before answering me, then me and my friend will be off. There, you see, it's all very simple, really."
"Such a meeting, would put the entire collective at risk," the figures circled him.
"Not for much longer," the Doctor muttered under his breath.
"What was that, Timelord?"
"You should have more faith then that. He will not slip past me. After all," the Doctor said. "I trapped him in the first place."
"We are aware, Timelord. You captured him, and ripped him from his body. Brought his spirit to us for safe keeping, but we know you better than you think. It was useful then to have him out of the way, it may be useful now for you to free him."
"You dare," the Doctor's eyes flashed. "You dare accuse me…"
"Peace Timelord, we only sought to make a point."
Beside Illyria a shape was forming. It danced and shimmered in the light, before it became solid, before it became familiar. Illyria's gaze slid over the new-formed figure slowly. She took in the smell of whisky, the stubble, the light pink scar running across the neck.
"You're not Wesley," Illyria stated.
Not-Wesley nodded. "And you are not Winifred Burkle. What a fine pair we must make."
"Identify yourself," Illyria commanded.
"I am the Unity of the Conscience, who speaks with the voice of all the dead. We thought this form would be more pleasing."
"I do not find the forms of lower beings pleasing, nor would I prefer one above any other. You are a clumsy abstraction forced to exist only on the astral plane." Illyria paused briefly and examined the Unity more closely. "Your form is clouded on the edges. The illusion is imperfect."
"You see a great deal," the Unity said. It was Wesley's voice although forced and rough. "Tell me then, if forms have no meaning on the astral plane, then in theory you could appear as you did in your time of glory."
"Such an illusion would be simple."
"Yet you chose to remain I the form of the…shell. Why is that Illyria?" Their eyes met. Illyria glanced away first. Her eyes fell upon the Doctor still arguing with his ghostly companions.
"Why do you not grant the Doctor his request?"
"It was granted the moment he arrived. We owe the Doctor too much to refuse. Nevertheless, it does not hurt to call his motives into question. For example, what does he want with an Old One, who should be buried in the Deeper Well a hundred thousand light years from here? The last time the Doctor was here he brought as a companion, a young woman very fond of poisoned thorns. Now he comes to speak with the murderer, and is accompanied by one of the most feared demons in all of time and space."
"You are posturing," Illyria said.
"Yes, and you are avoiding questions."
The Doctor slowly crept down the stairs into the cellar. Convincing the Unity had taken longer than anticipated. He checked his watch and hoped it hadn't taken too long. It was dark in the cellar and cold. The Doctor clutched his metaphysical lantern a little tighter.
"Who brings a light into my darkness," asked a voice in the gloom. The Doctor held the light up.
"You're looking good for a dead man," the Doctor said taking in his opponent. He was shackled to the wall, hanging suspended by his wrists. The Doctor glanced around at the torture equipment arranged on a table. "No one expects the Spanish Inquisition," he muttered.
"Doctor, is that you? What do you want with me?"
The Doctor went over and placed the lantern on the table. He reached and absently turned the thumbscrews over in his hands, right to left, to right to left. "I just want to talk," the Doctor said. He turned and smiled darkly.
"To talk," the prisoner said, eyeing the thumbscrews.
"To talk," the Doctor confirmed.
"Then pull up a chair," the prisoner smiled. "and we'll chat you and I, murderer to murderer."