it's the season of grace (coming out of the void)
It takes months, but he finally finds her among the ruins Anima Persis. It should have been obvious, now that he's there, now that he sees it - barren and sterile, a planet destroyed by war, inhabited only by ghosts - the last warrior, digging herself a grave. She's out of place, here. Her skin is too bright and her hair too still; there's no wind, no rain, no warmth. Another might have deserved it, but he knows better; she doesn't.
"River," he says gently, keeping a careful distance.
She doesn't turn. "Go away."
He smiles faintly and shakes his head. "I can't do that."
She huffs, annoyed, and fixes him with a wounded stare. "Don't you have somewhere to be? Planets to save, damsels to rescue." It's said with scorn, but beneath it there's a glimmer of truth, of respect and awe and he shrugs and offers her a cheeky grin.
"Who says I'm not doing so right now?"
She glowers - distress has never applied to her - and kicks absently at a bone by her feet. The ghosts shake and swirl, but she pays them no notice. "What do you want?" He raises both eyebrows in question, and she gives him a look. "You didn't track me across the universe to gloat; it's not your style."
The Doctor hmms in agreement and takes a few steps closer. She eyes him warily, but doesn't move. "Gloating is for those who have something to be proud of," he remarks, shaking his head.
"You won the War."
"There was no war, River," he murmurs. "Only what Kovarian made up."
She flinches at the name, fingers itching for a trigger. "Quite a story, then, isn't it?" she says bitterly. She's young, so young, so lost; a shell of the woman he used to know; the woman she'll become. The lines on her face are harder, her jaw set tighter, and he almost thinks it would be easier, if she were wearing a different face, one he doesn't know so well, one he hasn't touched and kissed so many times. She doesn't trust him, doesn't love him, barely even knows him, and yet, here she is: a broken planet for a broken soul, trying to find her penance in the dusts of the dead.
"It's the best story there is," he answers, and she looks up at him in disgusted surprise. He backtracks quickly, waving his arms in front of his face hastily. "Not that part," he corrects. "Not the kidnapping part or the weapon part or the fighting part. Those are all rubbish, all horrible, horrible things that never…" he sighs heavily, "never should have happened, not to you. Not to anyone."
"Then what?"
"Us," he says simply. "You and me."
"I'm not leaving," she says flatly. "I'm not going back."
"I don't want you to go back."
She snorts. "I'm not going with you, either."
It stings, but he hides it with a shrug. "Okay," he agrees, fishing into his pockets. He pulls out a key - the TARDIS key, she recognises - and with a flourish throws it as far as he can. She watches as it arches, spinning, and falls over the side of the cliff face.
"What did you do that for?"
He grins - this early on, he still has the ability to surprise her - and sits down on a long, flat headstone. "I'm not going anywhere, either."
She opens and closes her mouth several times, looking back and forth between him and the ravine. "I've been trying to kill you for years," she reminds him, and he almost laughs.
"You've been trying to not kill me for years," he returns, "There's a difference." He eyes her knowingly. "It wouldn't have been difficult for you, if you'd really wanted."
She turns away, then, staring out across the graveyard, watching the ghosts weave in and out of the surface.
"I know you don't trust me," he says softly. "Not yet, at least. But you can someday. If you want."
She scoffs, "Where's the fun in that?" and doesn't notice when he winces; the faith he'll come to cherish hasn't been born yet. Doesn't exist. But then she turns, hesitant and curious and demanding: "Why?"
"Because I made a promise," he says, getting awkwardly to his feet and dusting off his trousers as he approaches her. "A long, long time ago, to a woman I barely knew. I made a promise that I would watch us run, as far and fast and long as we could." His voice drops and he resists the urge to take her hands, to touch her face. "Because I trust you, River Song, even if you don't trust yourself."
She pauses, so still and so unsure. He's offering her a chance, a first chance, a right chance, and her bones ache at the risk of it all; what could happen to her if she does, how she might actually change.
"There are things-" She stops abruptly, and the Doctor holds his breath. "There are things I can't remember. Things I know I've done, but I can't-"
Flashes of white, sandy beaches. A creature standing above her, haloed by the sun. Writing on the walls.
"River?" he touches her arm gently, and she blinks, startled, and jerks away.
"It'll make sense someday," he promises.
"How do you know?"
He grins. "Spoilers."
She nearly growls, an angry whine in the back of her throat. "If you're keeping something from me…" she warns, but he just shakes his head.
"It can't be told, River. It has to be lived. And oh, do we live it. You and me."
River frowns, her mind playing out all the angles, all the history and all the words and everything she knows about this man, and none of it, none of the stories or the fairy tales or the lessons are enough to convince her that he's lying; that this is some cruel joke at her expense. She doesn't trust him, not entirely, but he's still there, still waiting.
"Why?" she asks again, softer this time. "Why me? Why do you care?"
"I always care," he answers generally. Then: "We travel back to front. Your future is my past."
"So, what?" she demands. "I'm bound by some time-space law to go with you?"
"No," he murmurs, "No, not at all. Time can be rewritten, almost always. I only know what has happened, not what will happen. Time doesn't control free will."
She blinks. "That doesn't make any sense."
He grins. "Isn't it wonderful?"
There's a flicker, an almost-smile, a touch of light to her eyes that he knows so well, remembers so fondly, loves so much. "You and me, River. Time and space." He holds out his hand. "What'd you say?"
She hesitates, stalling for time. "You threw the key over the cliff," she reminds him, but receives only a grin in response.
"Don't need it."
She stares at his outstretched hand. Words reverberate in her mind, cautions and threats and whispers, horrid tales of death and misery; the engine whine of the blue box, looming behind him. It terrifies her, that box; what she might find inside.
Slowly, so, so, slowly, she raises her hand. It lingers in the air between them, her mind and hearts duelling, her future staring at her from all directions. She shouldn't, she knows - it's too dangerous for them both, too volatile. But when she finally meets his gaze, he's looking at her with something in his eyes no one has ever held for her before:
hope.
She takes his hand.
"You're a lunatic," she says as he drags her toward the TARDIS. He stops in front of the doors, grinning widely, and snaps his fingers. The door swings open, and River stares, and the Doctor beams.
"River Song," he says, "You have no idea."
The air crackles with electricity and static, and then: nothing.
Kovarian looks around, staring out at the surface of a planet made entirely of sound. Vibrations hold the core, and the ground pulses with a throbbing bass, the air is high pitched and brutal, the floor a ringing tenor. Her temples pound, her skin crawls with notes. It's completely empty, save the sounds weaving in and out, in and out, unending bars.
She always knew it would end eventually. Knew her death would return to her in kind. But this, this place, this punishment-
The planet thrums around her, a steady, dizzying drone, treble and bass staggering their echoes.
She's done. Gone. She had no words, no fire, no passion - the weapon she raised, the girl she destroyed, picked her up and dropped her off without even a whisper, and now there's only this: the fizzing out of lightning, the fading imprint of a silhouette.
After a moment, not even the air remembers she was there.
And Kovarian is alone.
"I always thought it was strange," she says, too exhausted and too empty to care that she shouldn't be talking, shouldn't even be thinking like this around him. "A sad, lonely man with too much power and not enough Grace. A man who destroyed worlds and ended lives and purged the Universe in all parts of space and time. A bitter, bitter man corrupted by his own immortality." She smiles at him, but there's no joy, only pain, and he barely stops the hand that reaches for her desperately. "It never made any sense," she murmurs, and he swallows tightly.
"What didn't?"
"That anyone that alone, for that long, would want anything other than a friend."
"River..."
"You lied to me."
He nods solemnly. "Yes."
"You knew. You knew before I did, before I remembered. Everything I became. All that time you-"
She closes her eyes, tears clinging to her lashes. He stares, and waits for them to fall.
"How?" she asks, her voice cracked in two. She looks at him with so much sadness, so much pain, years and years - the Silence. The metal box. The astronaut in the lake. Everything suddenly weighted, all returned. She stares at him like someone so, so broken, and he doesn't understand how through all that grief and all that noise, she only asks one question, steeped in desperation and guilt:
"How could you ever love me?"
Her tears fall and his shoulders fall and he kisses her because for the first time, he doesn't know what else to do.
"It's okay," he says, "I know who you are."
She raises her weapon. Two shots echo across the water, and he stumbles backwards.
Amy screams in the distance.
The astronaut stares.
The Doctor waits for pain, but it never comes. He sees Amy tear out of Rory's arms at the same time the child falters; the gun lands with a muted slap at his feet.
"No," he breathes. Melody falls, and he lurches forward, easing her gently to the ground. "Melody. Melody, can you hear me?"
Amy drops to his side, grabbing his arm frantically, trying to pull him away, crying out and demanding answers and all he can see is the pale face behind the glass. He looks up suddenly, eyes scanning the beach frantically. "Where did it come from?" He digs in his pocket for his screwdriver and stands, scanning the area in a flurry of motion. "Where did it-" He turns around. Amy is next to him and Rory is crouched over the astronaut, trying to pry her from the suit. River stands by his side, gun in her hand, eyes sharp and stance tight - ahead of him, already ascertaining dangers and locations and, he knows, ready to put herself between him and uncertainty. He grabs her shoulders suddenly, and she blinks in surprise.
"What have you done?" he demands.
She opens her mouth to protest but he's already moved away, pacing, muttering, "No, not yet, not you, but how-" He whirls, squinting off into the distance; he can see the boat, Canton's car, the picnic blanket.
"Doctor?"
River's voice breaks his concentration, but he can't look at her. She'll know.
She always knows.
"River, go back to the TARDIS," he says sharply. "Bring her here."
"Doctor, what is happening?" Amy demands, standing now between him and River, looking between them and the astronaut.
"Rory, do not let her die," he says fiercely, barely finished before River protests,
"She tried to kill you!"
Too close, in her face, anger and fear and too much knowledge: "She's a little girl!"
River looks from him to the child, but there's no recognition in her eyes. It's as strange to her as it is to the rest of them, but she's smarter, older, and she turns back to him, voice flat and brittle. "You knew," she accuses, and Amy's head snaps toward her.
"You knew she was coming here, that this would happen. That she would try to kill you."
"Doctor?" Amy, almost childlike: "Is that true?"
He waves his hand in the air between them, frustrated. "We don't have time for this. River, the TARDIS-"
"Tell me you didn't know." She's so still, so tight, every chord of muscle taught and drawn and it was necessary, he knows, but the grief on her face is almost unbearable, and he looks away. River scoffs, slamming her gun back into its holster and handing Rory her hand-held device. "I'll get the TARDIS," she says flatly, and without another word takes off up the beach. He watches her for only a moment, then turns and drops to his knees next to the girl.
"Rory?"
He nods, confused but dutiful, indicating to the small computer. "She's alive, but barely. We need to get her out of this suit so I can examine her." The Doctor sighs, and Amy grabs his arm tightly.
"Doctor, what is going on?"
"Time," he says absently, "Time is being rewritten, meddled with."
He says it so gravely that she starts, pulling away. "Isn't that a good thing? River's right, she was going to kill you!"
"It's not that simple," he murmurs, eyes fixed on Melody's pale face.
"Doctor," Amy starts, but he's saved from any questions by the soft whir of the TARDIS. River opens the door and the Doctor gestures to Rory, both of them lifting the astronaut awkwardly and carrying her inside. River moves to help, but the Doctor snaps, "Don't!" She raises her eyebrows at him in question, her hands hovering just over the girl's arm, and he shakes his head. "Trust me, River, please. Don't."
She nods, slowly backing away. Amy watches from the sidelines as they gently place the child on the floor. Together, Rory and the Doctor remove her helmet, and Rory gasps quietly. "She's so young," he breathes.
Hardly, the Doctor thinks, but instead says: "Out."
Rory looks up. "What?"
"All of you," he says, concentrating on the suit, "Out. Out of the TARDIS, right now."
"Doctor-"
"Especially you, River," he snaps. It's wrong, he knows, to accuse her of something she hasn't done yet; something he assumes she's done. But she's here now, came just like she always does - did - will - and everything is jumbled and messy and he glares up at her harshly. "Seriously, all of you, out now. Go back to the restaurant."
"Doctor, you can't just leave us here," Amy says. Rory moves to help the Doctor, but he slaps his hands away and stands quickly, awkwardly, all hasty limbs and agitation.
River: "Let us help."
"You've done enough!" he yells. Amy steps back slightly, but River barely moves, doesn't flinch.
"I'm not leaving."
His eyes narrow dangerously. "River," he warns, but she barely reacts. It's a standoff, one he knows he could never win, and he sighs heavily.
"Amy, Rory, give us a minute."
"But the girl-"
"She'll be fine, Rory, I'll take care of her. Go." Neither of them move, and he lowers his voice. "Seriously. Go."
Amy watches him, confounded, as Rory leads her gently out the door, closing it behind him. He can hear their muffled arguing from outside, just underneath River's sharp, "Do you have any idea how much you just hurt her?"
He nods, deflated, and crosses the distance between them in a few strides. He doesn't touch her, too afraid, his hands fluttering nervously around her instead.
"Doctor," she says lowly, gently. "What is going on?"
"I can't tell you."
"Our timelines-"
"I lied." He bows his head. "I'm sorry, River. I lied. I'm older, much older. We're not linear."
She swallows tightly. "Why would you do that?"
"I had to. If there were another way, I would have…" His eyes stray to the girl, to Melody, to the paradox before him.
"Doctor."
He grabs her hands and presses his forehead to hers. "Please, River. Please trust me. I need you. I'm meeting you in the restaurant in about an hour, a younger me. There's somewhere we have to go and I…I need you there, more than here."
"Space, 1969."
"Yes."
Her gaze flickers to the astronaut. "You said time had been rewritten."
He nods slowly, his thumbs running gently over her palms. "This wasn't supposed to happen."
She looks back at him with bright, unguarded eyes. "I'm glad it did." He inhales sharply, but she doesn't notice. She kisses his cheek and pulls away. "I'll take care of them," she promises, one hand on the door.
He stands, frozen in place. "I know you will."
The door closes behind her softly, and he stares after her for a moment too long. Then all at once his anger returns, his confusion, his terror, and he scrambles up to the controls, slamming buttons and pulling levers harsher than necessary.
"Find her," he demands of the Box. "Find her now."
They are methodical. Perfect in their implementation. A single strike planned over 100 years into the future. Every step. Every breath. Twists and turns and rewinds to confuse and delay. They are tireless. They are precise.
They make no mistakes.
When they fall, it will be through no fault of their own, save one -
They tried.