oOo Doctor, oOo
At least you can tell when morning dawns, that's an unbelievable relief.
You lie, arms stretched out on either side, and feel the morning light spread like honey over your skin.
The night's over. The Ponds might find out you're gone now. You hope not.
Raise your head, as far as you can with your arms tied, the muscles in your shoulders straining where they meet your arms. You can feel pulses of blood (still inside your body, but probably not for long) crushing the inside of your skull - headache, bad one. Ugh.
You can't see much, just a clean, blank room, shaped like a bubble, with curving walls that look like cracked glass. A large shard has been taken out of the rough pattern, and black walls stretch behind the empty space, lining a narrow shaft of light. The ray slants sharply downwards - you're a little way underground. At the top, the smallest slice of orange sky makes a line to frame the bleak window.
Right. Right, out there, that's the Wailing Courtyard. Lovely. Oh - even though you know it's stupid and worse than useless, your body convulses violently, fighting the restraints like a wild thing. Then you let it go and suck in a deep breath. You can feel a sick, hot wave of terror rising in your chest, and you almost throw up.
And so you turn your mind away from the fear of the future. It's a stretch, but you need comfort, you need to know how the Ponds are doing, and you reach out for your mother.
Everything's fog for a second - but then you can feel her. And the Ponds, much fainter because of their humanity, glowing softly in the same vicinity. Staying well away from anything to do with memory and jumping from sensation to sensation (but dwelling most on sight), you nose around for what they're doing.
It's an invasion of privacy, but being drugged and dragged into the Citadal can make people ignore things like etiquette.
Amy comes into focus. She's pacing up and down - they're back in the living room of the Healer's house. "But he can't just be gone," she says.
"You saw for yourself," the Healer says. "Bed empty. No note. Gone. He could be dead. He could have been seen. Someone might have reported him."
"How can you say that like that?" Amy stops, arms folded, looking at the Healer with an incredulous frown. "This is the Doctor we're talking about. We love him, and we've only known him for a few years. You're his mother. Don't you care where he's gone?"
She looks at Amy. "Your Doctor has failed me many times."
"Does that matter?" She throws a hand up, then balls it up into a fist and rests it on her waist. "You said he could be dead. He could be dying. And you're just sitting there!"
The Healer shakes her head. "I do not see why you expect me to care about him."
"Because he's your flesh and blood!" Amy's laugh is a little hysterical.
"All the more reason to let death take what it wants."
Rory sees warning lights and grabs Amy's arm, but she shakes him off and strides to about an inch in front of the Healer. "How - can you say that?" She growls.
Rory sighs. "No matter what he's done, he is your family. Doesn't that matter on Gallifrey?"
"On Gallifrey, the children are born from genetic replicators," the Healer says. "They are loomed in groups of cousins. Our race chose this long ago as a higher form of reproduction. They thought we had advanced. But the Doctor, the Doctor wouldn't take the normal way to life. He was born in shame. The way lower races, the way humans are. So no, family does not mean much to me. It merely means a secret I had to keep for years."
Surprisingly, that stings. You knew the information, you knew what she thought - and of course, it was supremely exhibited last night - but being in her mind and feeling her indifference to you - ugh. Not much comfort there. You take a bit of heart as Amy launches some kind of tirade - Rory joining in a bit this time - but they can't move the Healer. She's not like them. To her, they're just … animals. And you pull away before you can hear the rest of the Ponds' defence of you - it isn't worth it, to experience your mother's coldness.
As the world drains back into reality, someone comes into your little room.
You attempt to raise your head again, and catch a glimpse of the new Time Lord. And when he speaks - "Hello, Doctor. It's an honour to meet you again." - you realize that he was the one who spoke to you, yesterday night, who dragged you off.
His face is mild and friendly, his words ernest. He's good-looking, but dressed in plain, simple work robes. Grey, expressive eyes. Hair: ginger (wavy, little curls. Just what you need, because of course those ringlets remind you of River and Theta).
You look away. "Can you just tell me what's going on?"
"I expect you already know most of it," he says, "But politeness isn't totally forgotten, even in the War." He pauses in his adjustment of various instruments (thankfully outside of the range of your sight) to give you a tiny smile.
"Right."
"First, you're to be tried for a Peace Crime, and your mind must be weakened so we can take the truth out of it. It's just proper. You were the Lord President - surely you tried criminals like this, yourself."
"No," you say. "No. I was President during peace. I thought it was an emergency procedure."
"You're right. My respect for you grows. You remember tradition in the years before the War. It's forgotten in many minds, as the War takes up all of our effort and focus."
"Even on Gallifrey? I thought that was only soldiers. Who forgot the peace, I mean."
"It's that way for everyone."
"Great."
"Secondly, sir, your name is unaccounted for."
Your heart hits an electric field with every beat, instead of bumping up against your chest. The name. The name. So they know.
Play it dumb, right…?
"So you're going to take it now? That's just -" you choke for a second. "Just not - just silly. Old grudge, all this bother for it?"
"It isn't merely tradition," the man says, looking surprised. "The name is to be used."
Right - play it dumb, for all the act is worth. Why? Because admitting the imminent end of the universe is probably not good for your sanity. And that's the one thing you need to keep, if you're going to prevent that end.
"Used for what? How?"
The man merely nods his head respectfully again. "Surely you know more than I do," he says. "I do not fully understand it myself."
You close your eyes and say nothing.
"You don't have to be so modest," the man says. "I know your understanding is great. I'd like to be like you one day, in that."
"Probably not wishing to end up under the Wailing Courtyard, though, eh?" You say.
He tugs a pair of slick white gloves over his fingers.
"Probably not, sir," he smiles.
You swallow.
"Here -" and he extends one of his pale-plastered hands towards you.
Your bonds release, and you take his hand out of pure instinct.
The slick glove material slides on your sweaty palms.
He guides you into a chair in front of a table laden with twisted metal things, switches, and buttons. There, he ties you down again. Secures your legs and one arm - odd, until your glance falls on the rack of instruments the man was fiddling with a second ago.
Cold sweat drenches you and your hearts flutter so fast it hurts. You wet your lips and sit there, very still.
He takes his place opposite you, and picks up something that looks a little like a pair of pliers with the fondness of someone picking up a loved one's hand.
"This doesn't have to happen," he says. His voice tells you that he'd rather not be doing it, that he's on your side. It's really charming, and you wish you could believe him. You wipe your sweaty face with your free hand and then fold the fingers into a fist, rubbing each one of your fingernails against the skin. They're treasures, now.
"You told River Song your name, you can tell me."
You moan, then catch yourself. You're the Doctor. And you're not allowed to break down. Not now, not ever. "My mind isn't weak," you say, jaw hardening. "I don't care that you know about River. That's surface information. And you're not getting anywhere deeper."
"Surface information? No - no, that has to do with your name. That's deep, with all respect. That's deep in your mind."
Fight back, shake your head. "Sorry. She's my wife, that's obvious, the Healer could have told you that. And you're trained to pick up clues, aren't you? Sherlock Holmes style."
Of course he wouldn't understand that reference, but he gives no clue that it's gone over his head. "Since when do people tell their wives their names?"
"Since when do people still have their names when they reach maturity? Since when do Gallifreyans marry? No, you are a professional information extractor - that's your job, and that's what you're doing."
"I'm not here because of a job." His face is honest. "I'm here because I want to make this easy. I really don't want you to suffer, sir."
You laugh.
"No," he says, grey eyes widening in sincerity. "I know you can just tell me. Just tell me, quietly, and it won't hurt anything."
You just look at him.
He holds out a hand.
You don't move.
He flips a switch on the tabletop near him, and your free hand is pulled - like a magnet - to the table. Once there, it freezes. You feel electricity shudder through it - a powerful, alien, pulsing feeling that you never get used to, no matter how often you're electrocuted - and then it fades and the man, eyebrows furrowed apologetically, singles out your index finger and pulls it up. Like someone picking a thread out of a piece of sewing.
"I'm sorry," he says, and the teeth of the pincers clamp onto the little line of nail that protrudes from the round skin of your finger.
Somewhere in the back of your head you wish you had a habit of nail-biting.
The first tug is not so bad. It's terrifying, but it doesn't hurt. And then the second comes and the breath evaporates like mist in your throat. The sweat stands out from your skin in a sheet of clammy fever-sickness, your stomach turns inside out - eyes rolling back, mouth splitting in a smile.
Because somehow it's so much easier to deal with when you're smiling.
"Just tell me anything," the man coaxes.
It's like the moment, back in the TARDIS, when your first instinct was self-preservation - and your mind begins flipping through random details - about anything - that you could give away to stop the pain for a second.
You don't realize how scared you are until a moment later, when it crashes down on your skull. You shake your head - you can't tell him anything, telling one thing leads to more - and the hours, days, jump out at you. The ten shields of hardened skin that he still has left to play with - it's going to take so long. Who knows -
"Oh, no, sir, it'll last until you tell us something," he says, voice still a bit apologetic, but firm.
How are you going to stick this out?
It's always been hard for you to lose track of time, but your perception of it fades in and out. It's at the moment when the first fingernail leaves your skin completely that each second stand out, clear and raw, that your terror kicks up to panic, that the walls of the room seem tight and claustrophobic. You can't, you can't do this. You let out the first scream of the session. And as the hours ahead press against your mouth and nose like a warm, suffocating cloth, you begin pleading, no tears, just a low, logical mumble that you're sure any human would be persuaded by. But a Time Lord - a Time Lord conditioned to do things like this? He just smiles sadly, patronizingly, and begins working on the next finger, handsome face firmly lined with concentration.
Your arm jerks violently, escaping the magnet for a split-second, and a bolt of electricity shoots up through it. You gasp; the current is inside your hand, inside your bones - splitting them from within. And when it recedes, not only is your arm fixed to the table again, but the joint of your wrist is shattered.
"Sorry," the man says, wincing in sympathy. "Please don't struggle anymore, I hate to see that."
And he proceeds to touch a nerve which makes your arm jerk again. Producing the same result.
"Do you know why you're doing this?" You pant when he reaches your ring finger. "Do you know what you're doing?"
To your surprise, his eyebrows dive and the way he looks away from you isn't simply ignoring - it's a little vulnerable.
"Do you know what a name is? What it will do?" You press on.
He bends his head over your hand even more.
"You don't," you realize out loud, chest heaving, wishing you could wipe the sudden, hopeful sweat off your face. Because he's stopped, for a moment. "Do they not trust you enough to tell you what you're doing?"
He laughs. "I'm sorry," he says, "You're not getting me with that. I'm not going to let you off."
"You don't have to," - your voice shakes, saying that - "Only, let me tell you what you want to know. Never mind them, you want to know what you're doing."
"I know that our names were sung out of time," he says. "I know that they're the most powerful forces in the multiverse. That's all I need."
You jump, desperate, down a crazy avenue of persuasion. "Don't you feel wronged, that - that the Academy took you name, takes all our names, makes them worthless?"
He meets your eyes. "Look where resisting gets you. Too much pain to bear then, too much pain to bear now. I'd rather not have my name."
And you get nothing else from him.
oOo
They've given you a handful of hours to rest while they call what is left of the High Gallifreyan council together. You lie, eyes closed, head thrown back against the smooth wall of the cell they've taken you to. Made of some kind of polished glass, but not cracked this time.
You can feel your exhaustion in every quivering muscle, and a constant stream of thanks that it's over pours from your wandering mind. Thank you, thank you, thank goodness for this little space of rest.
When you've recovered the ability to breathe normally, to think, you open your eyes and bring your hand up in front of them. Try to turn it, and feel the shock of the broken bones - twist it round with help from your other hand. Then you blink at the backs of the fingers, crusted in blood - fingernails completely gone, raw red skin shining where they used to be.
Apparently, your mind hasn't recovered completely, because the only word it registers is "hurts".
You blink some more and put the hand down.
Of course, it ends too soon, and they're back again, helping you up, making sure you can stand. You don't feel like you can, but leaning on your captors doesn't appeal to the hard knuckle of pride that you still have left, so you refuse their offers of help.
The guards set off, and you stride along with them, ignoring your exhaustion.
Up, up, up into the main council hall of the Time Lords. It's crumbling into rubble at the corners, testament to the long, hard war, but most of it is still draped in glory and pride, burnt orange jewels and expansive marble floors projecting an atmosphere of importance.
And yes, you stop and gape up at the vast domed ceiling for a second.
It's more magnificent than you remember - or maybe it's made to be more intimidating when you're standing in trial than when you're judging as Lord President.
Slowly your little group moves to the centre of the floor, into the eye of a large, circular rune inlaid in the floor.
A chain lies there, snaking out of the floor, and they secure it above your hand. A shock goes through you - right, the bones are broken. Of course, the manacle tightening around your wrist isn't going to feel good. They couldn't have put it over your right one, which is fine?
Over you hangs a sea of faces. Time Lords and Ladies in their ceremonial robes.
"Hi," you say into the echoing silence. "Lovely morning. How are we all getting on?"
A voice meets yours, and you squint up into the rows and rows of the council to find the Lord President Rassilon himself. "The accused will remain silent until invited to speak," he says. "Doctor. You are found guilty of a peace crime - deviating from express commands given to you by a higher authority in order to spare lives - and for abandoning the war. You fled your duty for three years. For this, and the excess mercy shown towards our enemies, an action which is designated as treason: for these and more, you are condemned to death, a sentence that will be carried out within seven days."
"Blimey," you say, licking your lips. "Don't I get a chance to defend?"
"Why should you?"
"I'd rather live a little longer."
"And you'd tell us lies. And if not, then the truth would condemn you. That is all there is to this."
Well, that's true. Actually, you've got away easy if that's all they're going to do - kill you. Maybe you can get the Healer to send your TARDIS back through the Lock somehow - somehow - if you think for a week straight, you'll be able to think something up - and Amy, Rory, and Theta can get back home.
You wish River were here. She would be able to fly them out, she could do something. (She could stand here and hold your hand.)
A pang shoots through your hearts, so you turn your mind away.
Still, though, you have got away easily if all they're going to do is execute you.
But no. Your hope sinks to your toes; Rassilon is speaking again.
"And as you die, your name will be taken from you, and used in the Time War."
So their extractor knew what he was talking about. You start shaking. There's nothing you can do about it, it's completely involuntary, and you force your limbs back into their still state as soon as you've recovered from the horror, tossed over you like a bucket of ice water.
You knew this would happen, you knew this would happen, how could you have been so stupid? To guess they might not - why wouldn't they? And isn't this what the Silence predicted all along? You search for a sympathetic face somewhere in the rows and rows of Time Lords behind you, and your eyes catch the Healer's. Your mother. Sitting there while they do this, say this. Does she care?
"Court dismissed," he says, and you tense, waiting for her to speak out. But the sound doesn't come. "Bring him back to me when he's sufficiently weakened," Rassilon says, and the ginger guard unlocks your wrist and leads you from the hall.