Blood and Fog
Notes: Not for the young, squeamish or easily disturbed. A lot inspired by Buffy in this fic, and those who know the show will undoubtedly notice. The title is taken from a superb Buffy book written by Nancy Holder, whom I highly recommend. The quotes are all taken from Doctor Who, and all by the Doctor himself! Thanks to Wikiquote for that.
This fic is very like The Quiet Place, another one of mine. You'll be able to tell the 'imaginings' from what actually happens (at least I hope so). Please enjoy it and review when you're done.
For Cossie and Morph who saw it first.
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President of the High Council Romanadvoratrelundar was her full title, but he would always call her Romana. She looked out over the ocean. It was one of Gallifrey's more beautiful coves. The beach was made of shingle, flat jagged stones that crunched under his boots as he approached. She turned, her features softening into a welcoming smile of friendship. Her latest regeneration had all the makings of a great leader; an intelligent brow, strong chin, and fiercely determined eyes.
"Doctor," she said, acknowledging him. Her voice sounded far away and muffled slightly.
He couldn't hold her gaze for a moment. "Was it the right decision?" he asked, looking out over the gentle waves. His voice was free of persuasion. He needed to hear her honest answer.
"You were brave. Noble. You chose wisely. You did what you had to do and I'm glad for it," she said. But as he looked at her, he noticed that her voice did not seem to quite match with the movement of her lips. Her words echoed from elsewhere, giving the eerie impression that her words had been dubbed, altered. Translated. Censored.
He ignored this, too happy to hear what he had longed for. He was forgiven it seemed. He smiled gratefully at her and went to put his arm around her.
But something was already there.
An ornate metal handle, cool to the touch, stuck out from the back of her robes, buried deep into the small of her back. The dagger's strange beauty only added to the grotesque picture, and the Doctor cried out in absolute horror. He seized the handle roughly, trying to pull the blade free. To his agony, his attempt to help her only pushed it deeper. Mesmerized, he watched as her blood covered his hands, and he knew somehow the stain would last for eternity.
Romana turned her eyes towards him. This time when she spoke her words were perfectly clear.
"Aren't you ever going to take that out?" she asked, sorrow and pain etched onto every grand feature, and those eyes…they blamed him.
He took his hand away, reeling in shock, and stumbled to the water's edge to clean his hands. But those gentle waves had turned to blood, churning, filling his mind until all he saw was red. He heard Romana's screams behind him as heat seared the back of his clothes, and he cowered on the beach in despair. And the stones cut through his skin like daggers.
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All he could hear was the screaming.
He keeps remembering them screaming, Dalek and Time Lord alike, and he imagines it so often that he can no longer tell what is real and what is just in his head. And then he screams as well, in frustration and anger and the deepest pain of guilt. Blood and fog has clouded his mind, and he thinks he will never see clearly again.
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It was not a usual regeneration.
When he had activated the weapon to end all things, he had known that his body would not survive. The heat was far too much for any Time Lord to withstand, and he had thought it would be the end.
He had not counted on a TARDIS who cared for him.
A Type 40 TARDIS in the shabby shape of a police box had saved him. The bond that had been formed through years of travel was far greater than that of man and machine. His ship was alive, and it wanted him alive too.
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The fog hasn't cleared, and there's still blood on his hands, or at least he thinks there is because he can't see a thing. He's falling and then rising, being buffeted in so many directions, and now and again there's a light that pierces through the mist. But every time he sees it, something pulls him back down, something that whispers comfortingly in his head. Like metal drawn to a magnet, he's being pulled towards an unseen force. And then he becomes still. The grounds is solid, the fog is gone.
The darkness, and the blood, is not.
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"One day, I shall come back. Yes, I shall come back. Until then, there must be no regrets, no tears, no anxieties. Just go forward in all your beliefs, and prove to me that I am not mistaken in mine."
She did not recognise him at first, and that was perfectly understandable. She herself had changed, regenerated, and there was a sadness about her that showed she had experienced the heartache of watching a loved one grow old and die. And yet, in some ways she was still his darling little Susan, and hidden beneath a dignified woman was the girl he had loved so many lifetimes ago.
"Susan," he said, crossing the shingle towards her. She turned, looking puzzled.
"How do you know my name?" she asked slowly. Then she looked him in the eyes. Her voice trembled slightly. "Grandfather?"
"My Susan," he said, as both of them began to cry. "My dear, sweet Susan." He reached for her blindly as tears clouded his vision, making it impossible to see anything but a blur. His hands closed on the air.
"Grandfather!" Her voice cut through the fog, still rejoicing. He moved towards it, laughing as he cried, finally reaching her.
Even through the mist that surrounded him, he could still see what was happening. And as his hand closed on her arm, she began to grow frightened.
"What's happening to me?" she said, panicking.
"Susan? Susan, what's wrong?" he asked, taking her face in his hand. She screamed as his skin touched hers, and to his horror her beautiful face began to blister. The terrible burns disfigured her features in moments, but it didn't stop spreading. He could see it on her arm too. His fingerprints were scorched into her flesh. She was burning alive.
"You are not my grandfather!" she screamed in agony, her eyes wild as she stumbled away from him, shaking violently as the burns spread up her arm. He could only watch and listen, his heart breaking. "My grandfather would have died for his people. He would not sacrifice them and save himself."
"Susan, I didn't--!" He fell silent. The fog had already claimed her, and she was gone. She would never hear him tell her he loved her, and that he was so very sorry that he had never gone back.
He had broken that promise.
He'd done that.
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"I have to really want to, to bring them back in front of my eyes. The rest of the time they... sleep in my mind and I forget. And so will you."
The words of comfort that he himself spoke come back to him now as he lies shivering on the floor. He's beginning to recognise familiar shapes; the console, the walls, the central column glowing softly in the darkness. The gothic décor seems so appropriate, but the darkness is so bright it's deafening. Which makes sense to anyone who's ever known what it's like.
They will not sleep. He cannot forget. He seems them screaming and burning before his eyes as he betrays them.
And the coward has survived. But not by choice.
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"Through the millennia, the Time Lords of Gallifrey led a life of ordered calm, protected against all threats from lesser civilisations by their great power. But this was to change. Suddenly, and terribly, the Time Lords faced the most dangerous crisis in their long history…"
He had been on Earth when they had called to him. A distress signal from the people he had long since abandoned. The people who had given up trying to contain him.
They had called him back before, forced him to stand trial for doing the right thing. This time it was different. The threat of the Daleks had been very real for many years, and it pained him to think that he had been the once to first draw their attention to the ordered race of Gallifrey. And yet he had noticed that they had been suspiciously absent, and rumours had reached his ears about a bigger war.
Romana herself had contacted him. That's when he knew how serious it was. Something about her desperation made it seem like she was saying goodbye.
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But even now, as he crawls around his ship in clothes too small and too tight, he knows that there will be a time when he will be happy again. He clings to that hope like the TARDIS clung to his soul. The fog will clear, the blood will be washed away, and he will be made new. This life, this life born from death and pain, is spoilt, tainted forever.
Yet he has to hope that some day, he will make amends.
"Time will tell...It always does."
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And now, as he bears the pain of the Time Vortex, he feels something leave him. The dagger in his back. The blisters on his skin. The scars will remain but at last he can feel his body changing and the wounds closing.
She's so frightened, so afraid and confused but he knows that she'll soon understand. He hopes she'll adjust. Because he needs her now. Through her perhaps, he has made his amends. One life can never be enough to redeem all those others, but the Time War is over. Finished. His people did not die for nothing.
So he talks to her about Barcelona and then he very nearly loses her to his own sickness. But he saves the day by chance, and there's still a young girl and an ageless man, and they'll still be together for a while yet.
And he hopes that when her time does come, when she leaves him, when she dies, it will be somewhere clear. Somewhere peaceful. She deserves that now.
And he hopes the fog is gone forever.
And he hopes that his hands will not be stained with her precious blood.
"Planets come and go. Stars perish. Matter disperses, coalesces, forms into other patterns, other worlds. Nothing can be eternal."
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A little strange, but please review.