A/N: I can't help it. I saw two of my favorite filmed fencing scenes today: the one between Tyrone Power and Basil Rathbone in a Zorro movie I'm embarrassed to say I can't remember the title of and the one between Inigo Montoya and Westley in his Dread Pirate gear in The Princess Bride. I am in a swordy mood. And history has taught us that the Doctor does indeed fence. (Must be all that Shakespearean training he's had over the years... ;) )

As for the white fencer, the inspiration for that figure comes from a variety of places, including but not limited to the one you can use for a visual. Think the Stig, but taller, in fencing mask instead of a racing helmet, and no Hammond/May/Clarkson funny at all. (and if you don't watch TopGear, my apologies)

There is a great streak of violence in every human being. If it is not channeled and understood, it will break out in war or in madness.

~Sam Peckinpah

He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster.

~Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil

I.

She'd followed the tug, and soon the tug became more like a whisper. It was indistinct, like someone trying to hide a secret conversation across the room, but it was so familiar. There were almost pieces of words in it, but she couldn't catch them. She walked on.

II.

The white fencer was very, very good. Even with a weapon as unusual as the one the Doctor had chosen, one requiring such total precision and focus to control, the white fencer never wavered. The color of his (her?) blade never changed, except once or twice, the Doctor thought he saw a little flicker of gold just out of the corner of his eye. He couldn't quite catch it, though, and he had other matters to attend to, such as...

Parry.

Riposte.

Lunge.

Parry, and get back into position, moving quickly backwards to avoid being cut by the blue blade as it sliced through the air in front of his face.

A manic smile, so tense as to look like a grimace, strained his face. The light of his blade was still glowing black, that shade beyond the other colors, still fueled by the darkness inside him. He feinted delicately, trying to draw out the white fencer, but ice water apparently ran inside his (her?) veins. The white fencer patiently waited then parried the Doctor's attack gracefully.

Wonderful match, this. Perfect, and perfectly what I needed.

The white fencer overextended ever-so-slightly in an aggressive riposte, and the Doctor tapped the blade away and went in for the kill with a cry.

III.

The whisper grew to a murmur, and the murmur to a grumbling like the sound waves make as they crash on rocky shores. She knew she had to be getting closer.

"You know," she mused to the ceiling, the mental tug getting irritating, "just for future reference, a big yellow painted arrow would be a heck of a lot clearer and easier to follow."

As she rounded the next bend, she became aware that the hallway ended ahead. She sighed. "At last. And if he's not behind one of these doors, I'm going to be furious with somebody." She edged forward cautiously, and the tidal roar became the rumble of thunder from a summer storm that was about to break.

IV.

Although his Time Lord mental training amply prepared him for the task of connecting with the telepathically-sensitive crystal in the sword's hilt with only moderate effort, the Doctor had allowed his concentration to become completely focused on channeling the necessary mental energies to the blade to keep it corporeal and on the other elements of the match itself. The complexities of it allowed him respite from his problems. Not for nothing was the sport referred to as physical chess. In an effort to purge the pain he was feeling, he was narrowing down his sphere of focus to just this blade, just this opponent, just this space at this time. The grand whole of time and space, that beautiful puzzle that existed outside this room and usually enchanted him, held no appeal for him just now, filled with despair and the impending wasteland of self-denial as he perceived it to be. He had kept no awareness, then, to spare for the soundless inching-open of the door or for the slim figure who slipped inside, closed it quickly, and pressed herself against one of the marble columns

Instead, he was currently being forced back step by reluctant sliding step towards the back of the piste. He was laughing like a madman, teeth bared in defiance, his blade flashing like dark lightning against the electric blue of the white fencer's. There were several odd scorched holes on his sleeves, one on his chest right over one of his hearts, and he looked more like Amy's Raggedy Doctor than she had seen him since that night so long ago when he'd stolen the clothes from the lockers in the deserted hospital. Amy's eyes were huge as she watched him wielding the bizarre blade.

He made a fancy circling gesture with his wrist, and his blade dipped under and around the white-fencer's and slid home to touch white fencer hard enough on his (her?) chest to force him (her?) to take a full step backwards. No burn spot appeared on the spotless white front, and the white fencer stood motionless.

"Oh, come on, come on, where's your sense of fairness? Nothing? You know I got you. 'A touch, a touch, I do confess it,' something, come on!" The Doctor waved his blade at the white fencer.

Almost reluctantly it seemed, a spot of red appeared on the snowy jacket, flared bright, and then faded out. Then the fencer saluted and moved back to his (her?) starting mark.

"Such a graceless loser you are! Have I complained even once? And you've completely ruined one of my favorite shirts, by the way." He plucked at the sleeve lightly. "This one will have to go in the rag bin. Nothing for it..." The white fencer started to flicker. "Oh no, you don't. I'm not nearly done with you. En garde!"

The white fencer solidified and saluted again, moved into the ready position, and the two began the dance again.

V.

Amy couldn't remember when she'd seen anything quite as mesmerizing as the Doctor fencing. He was totally absorbed in the sport, and he fought like he did everything else, with passion and determination. What was going on here was not quite what she would call enjoyment. She wasn't quite sure how she knew that, but she knew that what she was seeing was something...else. Something...other.

She couldn't put her finger on it, quite. It was frustrating. It was like something half-forgotten, something stuck just there on the tip of the tongue, important, vital, but inaccessible. It sat there just in the back of her mind, just beyond her awareness...

He yelled in frustration and pain as the white fencer slid under his guard to score another touch, and she saw why the blade had ruined his shirt as the white fencer's touch seared a neat rip in his shirt near the other over his right heart and an angry red welt appeared as well on his pale skin beneath. She stared at the little wound, heart pounding in her throat. When he'd yelled, she'd felt a surge of his emotions through the bond for just a moment, flood waters escaping a dam spillway, and she was overwhelmed by a tidal wave of...

*/RAGE/FURY/DESPAIR/SELF-HATRED/JEALOUSY/FRUSTRATION/*

Oh no. Ohnoohnoohno. That has to be wrong. That can't be what he's really feeling...

She edged closer, forced to cling to the column for support but desperate suddenly for a better angle of the combat. She felt slightly dizzy from the burst of his emotions. Her eyes continued to follow the movement, but her mind was worrying over the glimpse into him she'd gotten. It had been nothing like what she'd felt when they'd been together. Instead, every feeling inside him was razor-edged, larger-than-life, and bitter. There was no sweetness, nothing gentle, nothing light or good in the dark swirl that had streamed from him. She wrapped her arms around herself as if to ward off a sudden chill and she slid down the column to sit at its base.

What's happened to him?

VI.

With a final thrust, the Doctor scored one last touch against the white fencer. The red spot flared briefly against his opponent's torso. "Ah-ha yeah!" he crowed, holding the extension just a moment more.

As it always did after a touch, the fencer returned to its ready pose, waiting to see if he was going to start another match. He'd had enough, though, had channeled off some of the most aggressive edge of his darkness, and breathing hard from his exertions, he shook his head and raised the hilt in a quick salute. The white fencer returned it and faded away into the nothingness from which it had come.

The Doctor released the portion of his mental focus required to maintain the blade and it disappeared, too. He made a sound of relief. While all the exercise, both mental and physical, had been absolutely necessary and felt very good, it was also good now to stop. He walked over to a bench and picked up a folded towel, laid the sword hilt carefully down on the remaining pile, and wiped the sweat off his face. He paused for a moment suddenly, going completely still as if he'd heard a noise, looked up at the ceiling, and an odd smile flickered over his face. He hung the towel around his neck, and he started to pace the inner area of the room slowly, leisurely, cooling down.

He walked for a minute or two, and Amy watched him through the obstructions of the columns. He moved right by the column she was hiding behind, but he gave no sign that he knew she was there. He simply kept circling the room, pausing once or twice to run his hand appreciatively along one or two of the more exotic specimens of the stone columns, but never any of the ones too near her hiding place. Finally, when his circuit brought him back to the bench again, he sat down on it, and he pulled the towel from his neck, tossed it to the side, and leaned against the high curving back of the bench. He laid his arms along the back and let his head fall backwards, his eyes sliding closed, becoming perfectly still.

Amy began to inch toward the door as furtively as possible. He didn't seem to be aware of anything in the room, hadn't seemed to notice her presence, and as tired as he should be right now, she thought she could get away without his ever knowing she'd been there. Suddenly it seemed of paramount importance to her that she get out without his knowing that she was there... The bench was located in such a place that she didn't think he'd have a full view of the door even if he sat up. The reddish marble column should give her a screen to slip out. And she fully intended to do so. Her desire to talk to him had evaporated as she'd realized what his current mood was, as she'd seen that dark storm of emotion inside him.

Time, she thought. We both need a little time before we try to...before we... before I... Oh hell. I have no idea whatsoever about how to end that sentence. I'm going to my room. I'm going to sleep. Today has just been too much on every possible front.

She actually had her hand on the door when his voice broke the silence.

"Now that's not the Pond I know."

Her head whipped around, startled, as she looked at him. He had not moved at all, still sat sprawled on the bench, head fallen back, long legs carelessly splayed in front of him, eyes closed. For a moment, a scant moment, she managed to convince herself she'd imagined that comment and she turned back, took a breath and inched her fingers toward the latch.

"I've never known you to be daunted by anything. Not Daleks. Not Angels. None of the things that go bump in the night ever scare Amelia Pond. Bold as brass, you are."

She hadn't imagined that. No way she could convince herself that slightly mocking tone was her imagination. She put her forehead against the cool surface of the door.

"Or...is it that this time, you've suddenly realized that what's after you is something...dare I say it, more dangerous?" His voice was much closer to her this time.

She turned and pressed her back against the door. Somehow he'd covered the distance between them in those very few frantic heartbeats between his comments. He was now leaning with deceptively languid ease against the red column, arms folded, head tilted to rest against the bloody stone. He ran his gaze over her thoroughly, and when it met hers again, he smiled. It was one of the most unpleasant things she'd ever seen, cold and dispassionate as arctic glaciers and at complete contrast with the savage storm in his eyes.

"Hello," he murmured softly, giving her a little finger wave. He did not move in any other way. "Run."

She swallowed and her hand fumbled behind her for the latch again. She managed to get the door open and she did just as he'd told her. She didn't look over her shoulder and she didn't stop until she'd slammed the door of her own room shut and was holding it shut, shaking in a mixture that was equal parts fear, anger, exhaustion, and misery.

VII.

In her dreams, she was seeking something she could not find. There was something missing from this place in which she found herself, something she continually pursued while she herself was pursued by a towering masked figure dressed all in white with a sword like lightning who could appear and disappear with the speed of thought. She could not see its face, but she knew it must not find her, that it would destroy her if it did. She'd been in this endless room of columns that stretched to the sky, all of them casting long shadows in senseless directions for hours, maybe days. In the way of dreams, there was no time here. Maybe she had always been lost here. Maybe there was no other place. That thought made her cry. She was so sure that there had been some other place, some place she did not have to be afraid, once, but now...

She could not hide from the white fencer in the criss-crossing shadows of the columns. There was no safety to be had there. She had tried that. In the shadows of those columns there was something...something she'd not been able to see clearly, something that had watched her with hungry green-gold reflective eyes and a low, thunder-bass growl waiting for her to spend too long in the darkness.

There was no safety anywhere, no refuge. She fled the fencer only to run from the beast. The singing of the blade of light was replaced immediately with the growl of the hunting thing that sought her in the shadows. She had just stumbled into the darkness running away from a stroke of the white fencer's sword only to see the laughing teeth of the thing in the darkness descending toward her throat when she jerked awake.

When she knew where she was again, she looked around her room. Her eyes fell on the door in a panic, but the heavy dresser she'd childishly shoved in front of her bedroom door still stood sentinel there. She felt more than a little foolish as she remembered the effort involved in getting it to slide over into that position, but also, although as the dream began to fade she was more and more reluctant to admit it, relieved that it was there...

Haven't done anything like that in years. Haven't had nightmares like that, though...in...in... I don't know if I've ever had nightmares like those...

She contemplated trying to go back to sleep, wondered if she might be able to have better dreams now, closed her eyes against the tiredness.

Then she heard the soft knock against her door.

VIII.

He'd watched her run away, fought some dark, hell-borne impulse from his blackest nature to chase. To chase her down the hall and continue his cruelty or to chase her and pin her against a wall, take her strawberry kisses seasoned with tear-salt until all trace of sadness and ability to think was lost in the heat of desire, he wasn't sure which. His hands curled into fists as he continued to stand there for long moments after she was gone, hating himself, angry with her, bitter with the situation. Finally, he pushed away from the column with a noise of disgust and packed away the sword hilt, closed the box, and left to go find a shower.

He stood under the hot water, the temperature turned up as high as he could bear it, as if he could somehow wash himself clean of all of it, of what he'd just done, of the moment with Rory, of everything that had gone before, all of it.

I shouldn't have said that to her. That wasn't...I didn't... Damn. Even for me, that was above and beyond in pure nastiness.

A part of him argued that she'd started it, she'd gone off with Rory, abandoned him, and...

And so what? So what if she did? And I don't know what she did, actually. All I know is that she was confused. It is a bit confusing, isn't it? I'm 907, and I don't know what the hell is going on here, so perhaps I need to be a little more tolerant, give her a little more of the doubt before I just make assumptions, jump to conclusions that may or may not be true...

The other part spluttered, trying to hold on to dying anger, fading rage that she had picked Rory before. Wasn't it foolish to hope that she wasn't picking him now? Hadn't she probably sought out the Doctor to let him down easy or some other such romantic Earth nonsense?

The Doctor put his head under the steaming spray, rinsing away the last of the soap, feeling the heat soak into his tired muscles.

It's possible. I'll even go so far based upon past experience as to say it's likely. But if that's what she wants to tell me, then so help me, she gets her chance with no more dramatics on my part. She deserves that. I'll go and see her first thing tomorrow. Today has been long enough for everyone.

And he switched off the spray and got out to dress, limbs heavy with weariness.

IX.

The Doctor sat bolt upright in his bed. The book he'd fallen asleep reading tumbled to the floor as he scrambled upright. He grabbed at a thick robe hanging inside an ornately carved wardrobe and shoved his arms into it, and then he was flinging the door to his room open and running down the hall with the robe flapping open around him like great blue wings.

He'd heard Amy's dreams, his mind opening to hers involuntarily as they both slept, the loneliness and sadness in him reaching out for the comfort of her thoughts. When her nightmare had begun, he'd heard her terror, her fear, her sadness, and he'd been pulled along with her as she'd run with no place of solace, no place of safety. He'd felt her searching, seeking, felt her unconscious mind grasping out in the darkness for what it lacked, but he could not supply it even though he ached to. Because of the incompleteness of their bond, he'd only been able to experience it with her. He had not been able to direct her dream from where he was, nor had he been able to send her any comfort. It had been like watching her suffer from behind thick glass, helpless to do more than beat against the barrier in frustrated futility. Useless. Once again, I'm useless to her...

He'd also known beyond a doubt from looking at the world of terror she was trapped in exactly what had created it, and it was another knife in his heart. He understood all too well exactly who was behind the mask of the fencer in white and exactly whose wolfish eyes gleamed in the deep shadows beyond. When the shadow creature had finally attacked her, her terror had caused her to awaken, and he'd awakened, too.

Now he needed to see her, to hold her...

To apologize if there's any way I can. Oh Amy. What have I done?

He knocked lightly on the door.

X.

Amy's heart jumped into her throat and her hands gripped the coverlet before she could stop herself. Then she forced herself to calm down.

Get a grip. You're hardly going to open that door and see a fencer or a wolf, are you, now?

She pushed out of the bed and padded over to the door. She paused there uncertainly. "Who is it?" She tried to make her voice sound as normal as possible.

"Amy...it's me. Could I...could I come in a moment?"

Oh well, worse than both, then, isn't it?

She was suddenly ridiculously glad for the heavy old piece of furniture there in front of the door.

"Oh, Doctor, it's you, is it?...well, I'm not really dressed for visitors just now. How about...how about I see you later, okay?"

There was a pause. "Amy. Please. Let me in." He said it softly, gently, and she had the sudden vision of him standing with head bowed, his forehead just touching the door, hands gently pressed to the surface.

She sighed and grabbed up her dressing gown, wrapping it around her and tying it off before turning back to the dresser.

"Alright, but you're going to have to give me a minute."

She shoved the solid, carved furniture hard, and after a few moments, it slid back into roughly the same place it usually stood. She unlocked the door and moved back to her bed, sat on it cross-legged, and called, "Come on in."

The Doctor's head peeked around the door with a curious expression. "Call me crazy, but I could have sworn I heard you moving furniture about in here..."

She gave him a deliberately blank look, eyebrows raised, and shook her head slightly.

"Ah. Well..." He stepped in and pushed the door closed. For a moment, he just wandered around, hands shoved in his robe pockets. He looked at the few small items she had kept from here and there on their travels, pulled a hand out of his robe and ran a fingertip across the surface of the dresser's top, a tiny little smile twitching at the corners of his lips. He could see slight scuff-marks on the floor from where the dresser had been moved...

"You wanted something, Doctor?" Her tone was frosty, irritable. What the hell is he doing? After last night, what could possibly be so urgent that he just has to see me? If he thinks we're going to have any more of anything we had yesterday, oh boy, is he sadly mistaken...

"Did I? Oh, yes. I did." He crossed the room and stood by her bed. "I just needed to see you to make sure you were okay."

"Okay? Sure. I'm okay. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, I just thought that..."

"I mean, sure, yesterday you kissed me, well, lots more than kissed me, right? And then you left me standing there in the hall and just walked off without a single word. But don't worry, Doctor. I'm okay."

Something like alarm appeared on his face. Perhaps this was not a good idea.

"And then I had to have an exquisitely painful conversation with my best friend since childhood where I told him that no, I wouldn't be marrying him after all, and he responded by calling me an individual of loose moral character more or less, but sure, Doctor. I'm okay..."

He shifted uneasily from foot to foot. Yes. Definitely. This was a bad idea. "Amy," he tried gently. Wait. What did she say about the Nose? But she kept right on going. In fact, she was gaining speed now.

She got up from the bed, stood right in front of him. "No. You do not get to talk. You always talk. Right now, you get to listen. After all of that, after all of the joy, after all of the rollercoaster ride, I just wanted to see you, talk to you, tell you what had happened, figure out what was wrong with you, and when I went to find you, you were..." Her hands fluttered as she looked for the words. "You were terrible...and...scary... and...and.. dark... and hateful to me. On purpose!" She was getting louder.

"Amy, please," he said, gently capturing the hands that had begun to stab at his chest to punctuate each word. She was hitting the wounds he'd received from the white fencer's sword, but he had taken each tiny burst of pain as no more than his due. "Listen to me. I'll not deny a word you say, and I will give you my personal permission to scream at me until you're blue in the face after I'm done, but please, right now, just listen, okay?"

She tugged at his grip, muttering mutinously, but she nodded.

"Can we sit down, then?"

"Fine." She flopped back down on the bed with ill grace and tucked her feet up again, wrapped her arms around her knees, a defensive position. "Be my guest."

He hesitated a moment and then sat down leaving a little gap between them. He stared down at the colorful rug that covered the floor beside her bed, pushing the tassels with his toes.

"I want to start out by saying that I'm sorry for my behavior in the Armory. It was inexcusable. No matter what I was feeling, no matter what I... I'm sorry, Amy, deeply, truly sorry. I should never have taken any portion or degree of it out on you."

He turned his head and looked at her with a brief, small, pained smile. "I did warn you, though. I'm not always... sometimes I ...I can't always be..." He stopped and ran a frustrated hand through his hair, looked at her with beseeching eyes. "Amy..."

She stared at him for a moment before speaking. "I can understand that you can't always be sweetness and light. I've never said I expect it." This was said softly, slowly. "What I can't understand is why you went from a lover holding my hand to...to...what you were when I saw you last last night. What the hell happened, Doctor? That's what I need to understand. That's what I need you to tell me. I don't need another warning. And, although I appreciate the apology, it's not really helping me with the root of the problem, either. Because, you see, until I understand what took you from the man I trust, the man who was holding me, laughing with me, kissing me, to the man who could look me in the eye and smile that terrible smile and then tell me to run and mean it, I don't see any real purpose in us having any more conversation. Do you?"

….and if you're nice and review, aunty nemain might have another chapter ready and waiting for you... :)