note: apologies for the short chapter! i'll put the next part up asap. charina thank you again for the comments! I'm so happy you like this :D. and Sam! Thank you so much for your beautiful words. I'm so so happy you're enjoying this; I hope you continue to do so!
it's the season of grace (coming out of the void)
She sees Kovarian only once before the end. From a distance she watches, hand braced on the trigger; it's far, but a simple shot. It would be so easy, here and now, but she isn't ready. The others weren't as difficult, more about righting past wrongs, hers and theirs. This is different. This is vengeance, a path she swore a long time ago to avoid. Kovarian is nothing without her army, without her God, without her success, and River knows she could untangle the life she's built for herself in mere moments, with mere whispers.
But she wants more.
It's a heady feeling, a sickness coiling in her throat, but she can't shake it. She's spent her life - her second life, her real life - atoning for deeds she only vaguely remembered, and now she knows: every mark she used to think was an accident, every scar she attributed to her own carelessness, every memory she couldn't quite reach.
Every life she felt, but couldn't remember taking.
In the distance, Kovarian looks up, looks toward her, and River sinks back into the shadows. It isn't right. It isn't noble. She can hear the Doctor, herDoctor, his voice a calming grace under her skin, and she knows he might never forgive her.
For the first time - the only time - she can't bring herself to care.
"I paid a visit to the Gamma Forests a few days ago," he says, hands tangling together in his lap. "Then stopped off in the Vortex for a bit, needed to clear my head. It's always so full of stuff. I don't always think properly." He knocks on his skull with his knuckles.
"Where in the Forest?" she asks, though she suspects she knows the answer.
"The Bone Meadows."
River inhales sharply and he tries to smile, to reassure her; he owes her that much. "The only place on the entire land that's barren. Nothing grows there, hasn't done for centuries." He shifts in his chair, pulling at his braces and his bow-tie. It's dark outside, night seeping in through the windows of her apartment. The TARDIS looms in its usual place in the corner, though he doesn't know yet that it's a habit. He's only been here once, too far out of his time stream, breaking rules and barriers he made her swear to respect.
The pause drags, and she swallows tightly. "I know what it is."
He sighs heavily, his shoulders dropping, and he looks at her with so much remorse she forgets to breathe. "I didn't," he admits softly, and she knows what it cost him. "The people of the Gamma Forests… they have a legend that dates back hundreds of years," he starts, eyes steady on her face. "They say, that before it was empty, the land held a huge, metal box, the only thing on the entire planet constructed from unnatural materials. A large metal box, miles and miles wide, miles and miles long, miles and miles deep, infesting the Earth and killing everything around it."
He runs a hand through his hair awkwardly and gives a light shrug. "No one knows where it came from, or why, but they say that the box held War itself - the very essence of violence and hate. It just appeared, killing the trees and the waters and even, some say, injuring the third sun of Maila. It was there for decades, spreading out, torturing the land. They say that anyone who tried to defeat the box, tried to fight it, was instantly killed or worse, absorbed into the metal and made into a soldier of War."
He pauses, waiting for her to interject, but she doesn't. She's heard the story many times, but he's never told it, so she listens, focusing on the fluttering motion of his hands and the way his voice cracks and repairs, cracks and repairs.
"War grew within it," he continues, his tone thick with regret, "stronger and stronger every day, more and more fearful. The people of the Forests fled the surrounding areas, seeking shelter in other villages and even leaving their planet. War grew, and took more land, more soldiers. More people."
River hesitates, wanting to touch him but fearing the spell will break, the moment will vaporise. His eyes flicker to her hands, catching their aborted movement, and he offers a brief, broken smile.
"But War wanted out. The box wasn't enough. So finally it took a child, a child of the Forests, and it forced itself into her, to give itself sight and touch and motion. To give itself freedom. War forced itself into the body of a little girl, and it was free." The Doctor holds her gaze knowingly, and part of her wants to disappear from it, within it. To bury herself in the understanding she so rarely sees anymore.
"But the child was clever; she knew War couldn't speak yet, couldn't understand, so she sang to the trees and the rivers and the suns, and she begged them to destroy the box and everything within it. The trees were hesitant, but in the end they agreed. They turned hot, boiling their leaves and surrounding the box with fire. The water from the rivers crashed open the doors, and the fire spread, melting the metal into the earth, destroying War from the inside out, one flame at a time.
"Nothing's grown there ever since," he says, leaning back into his seat. "Fifty people died, their bones still littering the grounds in the canyon - those that gave themselves to the box or were corrupted by it. But there was only one casualty, according to the Gammas: a little girl. Her body never recovered. They say she fought War itself and won, but it cost her her life. The people of the Forests keep the Bone Meadows as a reminder." River stares, and the Doctor stares, and his voice falls so quiet she barely catches the words; more that she feels them, their weight, their whispers in his mind. "The sanctity of a child."
"Doctor…" Her voice crumbles, and he bows his head.
"I owe you an apology. I never stopped to consider…I'm sorry."
His hand covers hers, and she stares down at their fingers, so old and so young, intertwined. He pulls back after a moment and clears his throat. "You don't have to tell me…" he offers quietly, "but if you want to, I'm ready to listen."
She tries to speak, but for a long moment the words won't come. She starts and stops in her head; she knew she'd have to tell him at some point, but she never imagined how. Never imagined it would be like this - so quiet, so still. The Doctor sits and waits and doesn't say anything at all, until her voice fills the silence: a bit too sharp and a bit too brave and entirely too human.
"It was a laboratory," she says, though it's not what she intended. "Kovarian's laboratory. I spent one of my regenerations there. It was only about twelve years, I think." She shrugs lightly. "I was still young."
"What were they doing?" he asks, gentle and smooth.
"It was a research lab. Part of Kovarian's plan to defeat you, to find weaknesses she could exploit. They were studying Time Lord DNA, trying to find a way to…" She searches, and finally lands on: "replicate it. Advance it." She rises suddenly, moving to the window to watch the clouds blend into the night. She can't look at him, so young and unsure. She wraps her arms around herself in a worthless embrace, but carries on. "As far as I understand it, they wanted to breed an army. They could weed out the humanity bit by bit until they had the perfect weapon, one who wouldn't-"
She stops.
"Wouldn't what?" he prods gently, and River inhales deeply.
"Rebel against her 'programming'." The Doctor nods, reading what she isn't saying, what's written across her face and in her stance and in the sharp lines of her arms. "And if you think, for one moment that I would allow them to do to another child what they did to me…"
So softly: "What did they do?"
She doesn't answer. He waits, but she's gone, mind somewhere far away, heart in her throat. He doesn't know if it's right or even fair, but he stands and moves behind her, close enough to touch but he doesn't. "River," he murmurs; his hand hesitates near her shoulder, then falls to his side. "The man you… killed," he begins, careful not to startle or offend her. "It wasn't because he shot at me, was it?" She turns, surprised, and he admits, "I saw his face before he died. He knew you." River freezes for a moment, then nods, an unspoken permission for him to ask. "Who was he?"
"His name was Dr. Frachlen. He was a scientist, a brilliant one at that. He was in charge of Kovarian's research projects." The pause hangs, then drops suddenly at the flat tone in her voice: "He was also my medical doctor."
The Doctor's eyes widen. "You were a test subject."
She shrugs. "I was a resource."
"Deciphering our DNA, understanding it well enough to literally create your own Time Lord… that would take decades, if not centuries," he says, and she smirks wryly at his buried question.
"Why bother when they already had me?" He nods, and she turns back to the window, as if speaking to her own reflection. "I was damaged. I had dreams - of my mother's voice, a man in Roman dress. They made me human, and no matter how hard she tried, Kovarian couldn't extract those dreams."
The Doctor winces at her phrasing, but River doesn't notice.
"He almost figured it out, Frachlen - how to 'test-tube' a Time Lord." The disgust curls around her words like angry vines, strangling the vowels. "I was gone by then, regenerated, but after the Silence fell I started to remember. Which…I guess this is how you knew, then. Before me."
He ignores the spoiler as best he can. "You went back to stop them."
"And to make them pay." She gives him a sad, empty smile. "My motives weren't all virtuous."
"Are anyone's?" he asks softly. "You still haven't answered my question."
"What question?"
"Your hands."
River frowns, arching an eyebrow at him as he moves to stand in front of her, his back to the glass. "I didn't notice it before, I should have, but I didn't." He unfolds her arms gently, holding them out in front of her, palms up, his hands under her wrists. "There's a low-level perception filter around your arms and hands. It makes the skin look whole."
"Liars," River sighs, but she isn't angry, just resigned. "They told me it was Time Lord-proof."
The Doctor smiles - "Nothing is Time Lord-proof." - and River rolls her eyes fondly.
"Don't I know it."
She moves to lower her arms but he stops her, cradling her hands in his. "May I see?" he asks softly.
Her eyes widen with insecurity and fear, and she stammers, "It doesn't matter."
"It does to me," he insists, gentle and firm. He waits, watching the emotions play across her face, her indecision, her hesitance. He hates it, even now, that anything could make her stumble. He waits as she composes herself, looking for a sign. Eventually she nods, almost imperceptibly, and he digs into his jacket quickly, scanning her briefly with his screwdriver before returning it to his pocket.
She holds her arms out and the perception filter disappears; scars appear like ink drops on wet paper, seeping into focus. Her arms and wrists are covered with marks - leftover patterns of needles and wires and restraints.
"They should have disappeared when I regenerated," River says casually, "but they never did. One of our many differences I suppose."
He meets her eyes briefly. "Do they hurt?"
"Not physically," she shrugs. "Not anymore."
He holds her arms gently under her elbows, still studying the lines. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"You know why."
"I do," he murmurs. He looks up, holding her gaze. "And you need to stop."
River blinks and the Doctor shakes his head, fingers tracing whisper-light against her arm. "These scars." She flinches and tries to pull back, but he holds her elbow, gentle but firm, and tugs her even closer. "They're a part of who you are, and whether you believe it or not, they make you so…"
He trails off, eyes suddenly bright and wet.
"So what?"
He smiles brilliantly. "Beautiful."
She opens her mouth to protest, but he quiets her with a finger against her lips. "Everyone has scars, River," he says softly. "Everyone has things they've done they wish they hadn't, or had things done to them they'd like to run away from. And so many become a…a product of their pain. They succumb to it in the worst possible way." He shakes his head, hair falling in his face. "But you…River, you...turned all that hate and all that- that…fear into something so, so…" He grins, the word falling from his lips like a prayer. "…good. Your entire life was wrong and you made it about doing something right. Every day." He reaches out, brushing his fingers down her cheek, her skin warm and soft beneath his touch. "How could youever think I would hate you for that?"
She laughs quietly and bows her head. "Am I that easy to read?"
"Never," he whispers fondly, brushing an errant tear from her cheek. "It's one of the many things about you that I-" His throat catches. "That I can't resist."
"I'd hate it if you could," she admits, one hand reaching up to smooth the collar of his jacket absently.
"I know," he replies, wrapping his arms around her loosely, a strange sort of contentment rolling through him as she returns the gesture, her face buried in the crook of his neck. "I know."
The Silence fall, and she remembers, and the rest aligns like stars.
She takes care of them, one by one. Everyone who played a hand. There's some mercy in it, she knows - the smart ones have been awaiting this day, and she tries to make them all quick, no more than a minute. She ties up her ends, even though she knows it might not matter - Time will be rewritten.
But it's closure, for the first time in her life. Who she is, what she was, her whole life stretched out behind her, clear and still as water, and it gives her comfort.
She doesn't ask for the memories. Doesn't ask for her fate. But the Silence fall and they return and when it's done there's only one option, one choice:
Take it back.