AN: Onto chapter five! I hope Rose and Martha's dynamic is beginning to take shape as I get ready to introduce original characters and adventures. Please enjoy and be sure to leave feedback!


They went to meet Shakespeare, in the end, and Martha took in Sixteenth Century England with all the wide-eyed wonder appropriate for a woman experiencing time travel for the first time.

Rose smiled as Martha gazed around, but she couldn't help but be melancholic. The Doctor would have loved Martha, she was sure, and he would have loved the look of amazement on her face even more. It wasn't really helping for her to think like that, but she couldn't stop herself.

"Is it safe?" Rose span around to stare at Martha, realising that she was being spoken to. "To walk around and stuff?"

She frowned bemusedly. "Well yeah, course it is. Why wouldn't it be?"

"I just mean, like in the films when people time travel and they step on a butterfly, they end up changing the future!"

Ah. "Nah, I wouldn't worry too much about that. Just be careful around the butterflies," she said, grinning. Then she stopped and added, "Best we avoid getting wrapped up in big historical moments though, yeah?" A shudder passed through her and she shook it off, turning to Martha with her grin firmly back in place. "Now, lets see if we can find the Globe!"

They set off side by side, and Martha asked as they walked, "What made you think of Shakespeare then?"

"I uh - well my friend - the one two owns the TARDIS - one of the first trips he took me on, we met Charles Dickens." Martha's jaw dropped. "I just thought it might make a nice trip for you to meet an author."

"And I'm safe, aren't I?"

"I thought we'd just had this -"

"I mean, I won't get carted off as a slave will I?"

Rose turned to her, stunned. Martha was looking at her with utmost seriousness, and for good reason. She could have kicked herself for not thinking of it, even more so when she acknowledged to herself that the Doctor wouldn't have made the same mistake. She had always been decent enough at her history too…

What mattered in the moment was reassuring Martha, though. "I won't let anything like that happen," she said, staring deep into her eyes to convey how serious she was being. "Okay? Nothing." Taking Martha's hand then, she began to lead her along the street again and continued to say, "Besides, Sixteenth Century England's a different world - or I suppose it's not so different. People with different skin colours weren't common, but they weren't unheard of either, if I remember my history properly. You'll be fine. I promise."

And when Rose made a promise, she meant it.


Rose hadn't felt like utilising the TARDIS' extensive wardrobe, not ready to do something else that was so intimately linked, in her mind, with the Doctor, but she had donned a long, dull brown coat before stepping out, and had encouraged Martha to follow suit. She did without question.

"I get it," she had said, "best to remain inconspicuous, right?"

"Right."

Right. Best to remain inconspicuous. Undercover. To not draw attention. That was best, right? Right.

They drew attention almost immediately.

Martha was enthralled by the performance on the stage, watching as a piece of history was written around her, and Rose tried to match her enthusiasm.

She had to be completely honest with herself; despite being the one who thought of visiting Shakespeare, she wasn't really a fan. Memories of grim school days, slogging through language she didn't understand under the bored eyes of various English teachers who didn't really care whether their students understood the texts in front of them were stark in her head. Martha was so much better educated that she was. It became more embarrassing the more she thought about it.

"Where's Shakespeare?" Martha called, breaking Rose from her musings. In her excitement, it seemed she had forgotten what they said about 'inconspicuous'. "Author! Author!" She stopped and looked at Rose. "Do people do that?" she asked under her breath.

Just as she asked this, the crowd all rose up and began echoing the chant. Seconds later, the man himself waltzed out onto the stage, looking around at the crowd with a self-assured expression, and an amused smile lit Rose's face. "I think they do now!"

She watched with mild amusement as the man himself, prowled up and down the stage, drawing laughs and shrieks of delight from the crowd, but from the moment Shakespeare announced the upcoming performance of Love's Labour's Won, a feeling of dread had begun welling up in her stomach. She couldn't really explain it. Like hearing the thunder and waiting for the rain.

"I'm not an expert," Martha said, "but I've never heard of Love's Labour's Won."

"Neither have I," Rose said, admitting to herself that it could have just been another of the numerous gaps in her education. But then, Martha hadn't heard of it either. "It's weird. Something here's… wrong."

Martha's eyebrows raised. "What?"

"Dunno yet. It's just a gut feeling." Yes, a gut feeling that something terrible was about to happen to William Shakespeare. "Come on."

It was shockingly easy to find out where the playwright was staying - he was the talk of the town - and Rose thought about how much more lock-and-key celebrityism was in her day. If Shakespeare was a Twenty First century phenomenon, she wouldn't have been able to get within ten feet of the door to the inn he stayed at, if she had been able to find out where he was to begin with.

As they headed off for their destination, Martha's eyes roamed around the old London streets with renewed wonder, and Rose couldn't help but join her.

"It's like -" Martha cut herself off and regathered her thoughts, then went again, speaking in a hushed tone. "It's like, I wanna take it all in, but I don't want to stare."

Rose nodded amiably. "That's fine. I'll try to find a planet where it's not rude to stare next time, yeah?" They shared a grin, and before long, they were coming to a stop at their destination; Shakespeare's inn.

Slipping inside, Rose tried to decide how she was going to handle the situation. If she were the Doctor, she would barge into Shakespeare's room and make herself well at home, but she wasn't, and she didn't have it in her to be so obnoxious, so she tried to think of something else.

"What's the plan?" Martha asked under her breath.

"Still in the making," she said. "Something's going to happen soon, and I'd bet my life on it happening near William." Or even to him, she thought with a shudder.

The best thing she could think of to start with was the inn. If Shakespeare was staying there for the time being, Rose and Martha would be too. They might struggle to get a room, she acknowledged to herself as she approached the blonde woman who seemed to run the place. She wasn't sure whether women travelling without the accompaniment of a man really happened in this time period. If it didn't she would just have to improvise.

The proprietor smiled at them as they approached. "Evening ladies," she said, coming over to them. "Can I help you?"

"Er - yeah, thanks," she said, trying for a smile. "My uh - friend and I have been travelling, and we just wondered whether there was - well, room at the inn."

"Ah, a room, for you and your blackamoor friend," Dolly said, smiling carelessly. Martha's jaw dropped, and Rose's wasn't far behind.

"What did you say?" her friend asked, at the same time as she asked, "What did you just call her?"

"Oh, is that not the word we use nowadays?" Dolly asked carelessly. "What is it then? An Ethiop girl?" Neither of them could muster up responses. "Ah, there's a room free for you to take."

"Blackamoor?" Martha repeated, disbelief in her tone. Dolly turned her smile on her then and asked her if something was wrong.

Before either of them could even think of an answer, a man behind them piped up. "Is there something going on here?"

Another asked, "Are these women giving you trouble, Dolly?"

"No no!" Rose called, laughing nervously. "Everything's fine, isn't it Martha?"

Stunned by the attention she had drawn, she nodded jerkily and said, "Er - verily! Forsooth."

Rose winced and mimed a cut it out motion as another man called, "What's that supposed to mean? What's she saying?"

"Martha is from a far off land," Rose said, desperately thinking of an out. "Er - Freedonia. They speak differently there!"

"Hey!" The room froze. "Might I work in peace, without having to listen to squabbles from all of you?" She and Martha turned to see -

Shakespeare himself, standing in the doorway to another room, scowling. Then, as he took in the scene before him, the irritation melted away, and she could have sworn she heard him say, "Hey nonny nonny," to himself, before saying at a volume loud enough to silence the room, "Away with all of you. Leave these two ladies be." Then, to she and Martha, "Come and sit with me, please."

Exchanging disbelieving looks, they acquiesced and followed him into the room he had come from.

"Such unusual dress, the both of you wear," he said before they had the chance to speak themselves. He glanced back at their coats, and then surreptitiously at the trouser legs poking out from beneath them. "Strange indeed," he said quietly, smiling at she and Martha.

He invited them to sit and they did. "Er - thank you for helping us out there," she said, smiling awkwardly. "I'm not really sure what happened…"

"Ah, it is past," he dismissed, waving a hand. "Though I must say I am surprised. Do you not have an escort with you, all the way out here in town?" he asked, his - flirtatious? - smile remaining.

"No, there's nobody," Rose said without stopping to think. "Not anymore."

Her voice must have carried some weight to it, because Shakespeare's expression closed off and he bowed his head for a moment. "I'm most aggrieved for your loss, good lady."

She managed a smile, internally shrieking "What the hell was that, Tyler?" as he returned his attentions to Martha, where they primarily remained until the door opened with a bang and a man stormed inside, brimming with anger.

"This is abominable behaviour!" he raged. "A new play with no warning? I demand to see a script, Mr Shakespeare! As Master of Revels, every new script must be registered at my office and examined by me before it can be performed!"

Shakespeare tried to wave him off. "Tomorrow morning," he said. "First thing, I'll send it 'round."

He spluttered. "I don't work to your schedule, you work to mine! The script, now."

"I can't."

"Then tomorrow's performance is cancelled! I'm returning to my office for a banning order. If it's the last thing I do, Love's Labour's Won will never be played."

Well that answered her questions about the play. She still didn't feel happy though…


She was right not to. Mere seconds had passed before the first scream ripped the night.

Lynley - the Master of Revels himself - was dead. Drowned. On dry land.

People gathered around him, their individual panics mounting and coalescing and forming one giant storm of terror. Rose watched a young barmaid observe the proceedings with an eerie calm about her, before the smallest ghost of a smirk made its way to her face and she disappeared into the crowd, vanishing from sight.

They didn't stick around much longer. Martha's failed attempts to save Lynley's life had left her shaken, and so at the earliest opportunity, Rose had taken them back to their room.

"I'm sorry about all earlier," she said once the door was shut and the two of them were left alone. "I just didn't think." Staring down at the scratchy bed sheets, she shook her head. "This isn't something I'm used to. I'm normally just the sidekick. The Doctor - my friend - he's so much better than all this stuff than me." For the hundredth time, she thought that it should have been her who fell.

"Well, I know I don't really have any other time travelling friends to measure you up against," Martha said hesitantly, "but I reckon you're doing a bang up job so far."

Rose managed a weak smile, that brightened as her words sunk in. "Friend. Yeah. We're friends."

She wasn't sure which was more alarming; that this woman had managed to establish herself in Rose's life almost without her noticing, or that she was so shocked Martha would consider her a friend already.

"Of course," Martha said in a matter-of-fact manner. "So what's the plan now?"

She huffed a sigh and any lightheartedness vanished. "Try not to die."


This plan was going off like a dream until they were woken hours later by a second terrified scream disrupting the peace of the night.

It was witchcraft. Or at least, it looked like witchcraft. She thought back to the "ghosts" of Charles Dickens and shuddered. Not only that though, she was sure the barmaid she had spotted leaving the scene was involved. Possibly a witch too, like the one who had been spotted flying away from the scene of Dolly Bailey's murder. Or an alien. Or an alien witch.

An alien witch, who, at that, was going after Shakespeare. Was it just a coincidence that she should kill the person who was going to stop the play from going ahead, seconds after he declared his intentions? Or Dolly, known to be close to the man himself. If she could only find the girl again, she might be able to get some answers.

"Well," she thought, glancing over at Martha, "it's not like I'll be sleeping now."

"I think there's someone we need to be looking for," she said to her quietly. Opposite them, Shakespeare lamented Dolly's loss, and didn't notice. "I saw one of the girls who works here at the scene of Lynley's death earlier. She was watching everyone panic and seemed to be enjoying it. Like she knew it was going to happen -"

"Or caused it," Martha finished, eyes going wide. "We have to find her. What if she's a witch too? I mean, both of the people who've died so far were connected to him," she said, nodding over to the playwright, who noticed the movement and began listening to them. "What if he's next? Shakespeare can't die, not now!"

"Definitely not," Rose muttered. "So we have to track her down."

"Track who down?" Shakespeare asked, frowning between them. "The way you talk, it is as if you have an idea of what's going on. Of who is causing these deaths."

She hesitated before admitting, "I might have an idea. I saw a suspicious woman watching Lynley drown. I think she could be behind what's going on." An idea struck her. "She works here, actually - one of the barmaids. Sort of petite, delicate features, browny-blonde hair…" She shook her head. "You don't know who I mean, do you?"

His frown deepened. "I cannot say I know who you mean." She and Martha exchanged a frustrated look. "But I was listening to what you said. You spoke of witches."

"Well yeah, I -"

"Peter Streete spoke of witches also."


Peter Streete. The man who sketches the plans for the Globe Theatre, apparently. The man who had gone mad. Who spoke of witches.

The madman in Bedlam, the imfamous mental hospital.

Reaching out, she placed a comforting hand atop his head, feeling disgust rush through her veins as at the action he flinched away, like he was expecting to be struck. "It's okay, Peter," she whispered. "My name is Rose. I'm going to help you. Protect you. But I need you to tell me what I'm protecting you from. I need you to think back to before, when everything was okay, and tell me what went wrong. Tell me about the witches, Peter."

When the man finally spoke, his voice was weak and distant. "Witches spoke to Peter. In the night, they whispered. They whispered. Got Peter to build the Globe to their design. Their design! The fourteen walls. Always fourteen. When the work was done they snapped poor Peter's wits."

"Who were these witches?" she asked, heart hammering. "Did they have names?"

"No, no, no," he mumbled, hands clutching at his head. Rose's heart clenched painfully at the sight. "Ca-Ca-Carrionite," he finally whimpered, curling in on himself completely. Carrionite. Was that the witch woman's name? Or just the name of the witch who had driven him mad?

"Where did Peter see the witches? Carrionite?" she asked gently. "Where in the city, Peter? I need you tell me, please."

"All Hallows Street," Peter whispered, and then suddenly the air in the room shifted. Rose's head snapped around to see a grotesque woman hunched in the corner.

"Too many words," she hissed, and Martha jerked back in shock.

"What the hell?"

"Just one touch the heart," the gnarled creature breathed, reaching out.

"No!" Rose shouted, but it was too late. The woman touched her hand to Peter's chest, and he slumped down, dead.

"Witch!" Shakespeare cried. "I'm seeing a witch!"

"Now who would be next, hm?" the witch mused, scanning the group. "Just one touch. I'll stop your frantic hearts. Poor, fragile mortals."

"Let us out!" Martha screamed, running to the cell door. "Let us out!"

Egged on, the witch continued with her taunts. "Who will die first, hm?"

Rose narrowed her eyes and drew herself up to full height. "Well, if you're looking for volunteers."

"No, don't!" Martha protested.

"Can't you stop her?" Shakespeare asked, looking between Martha and Rose.

"No mortal has power over me."

"Who are you?" Rose asked, ignoring the bragging. "Peter knew you. Called you Carrionite. Is that your -"

She never had the chance to get the entire question out because the moment she spoke the name "Carrionite", the witch shrieked and cried out, and vanished in a cloud of smoke.

Silent reigned in the cell, broken by Martha. "What?" Wide eyed, she asked, "What did you do?"

"Nothing!" she exclaimed, as shocked as her two companions. "All I did was say her name."

"Then that must be it somehow. You named her."


"Words are powerful, aren't they," she stated, marching back towards the inn with Martha and Shakespeare in tow. "Speak the right words in the right time, at the right place, and the world can be changed. Permanently."

"And these witches, they're targeting the greatest wordsmith of them all," Martha continued. "But why?"

"Oh, the same reason any alien race comes to Earth," she said. "To take it over. None of them ever just want to check in on us. Now think. Why would the witches specify fourteen?" she asked, trying to scrounge up a helpful answer. "What's special about fourteen?"

Martha shrugged helplessly. "I mean, there're fourteen lines in a sonnet."

"Really?" she asked, looking sharply at Shakespeare. "Can't be a coincidence." Not with Mr Sonnet himself apparently the witch's target. "Wonder if there's time to nip back to the TARDIS and look it up." She surely had enough information by now to find something helpful. Her gaze shifted back to Shakespeare and she said pensively, "It all revolves around you; the man with the words."

"Me? But I've done nothing."

"Hold on though," Martha said. "What were you doing last night, when that witch who killed Dolly was in the room?"

"Finishing the play."

"And how does it end?" Rose asked.

"The boys get the girls. They have a bit of a dance. It's all as funny and thought provoking as usual. Except…" He trailed off, eyes going a bit glassy. "Those last few lines. The funny thing is, I don't actually remember writing them."

Her eyes widened. "See, what is that? What is it, possession? They're writing words through you, and they obviously want it performed or they wouldn't have been in such a hurry to off Lynley."

"They had the Globe designed in their way, with fourteen sides specifically," Martha continued. "And now they want the play that they wrote performed there."

She groaned with frustration. "Oh, none of this is helpful! It doesn't tell me anything!"

"No, it does, it does," Martha said hurriedly, putting her hands on Rose's shoulders. "They're witches, these Carrionite things, and they're using the Globe Theatre to cast some sort of spell, right? But if there are words that can end the world there are words that can save it -"

"And there's no one better than the man we're with to figure them out," Rose finished. "Will, we need to get to the theatre. How long until the play starts?"

"It will have started already!" he said. "We must hurry."

"To the Globe," Rose agreed, setting off at a run before halting sharply. "Where is the Globe?"

With a nervous laugh, Shakespeare led the way.


"That went well," Martha said jokingly as they sat side by side on the edge of the stage, looking out over the now empty theatre. The Carrionites shrieked continually from within the crystal ball, and Rose rolled it absently about the stage.

"Yes, I think so," she said, nodding along.

Martha turned to her with an incredulous look. "I was taking the piss."

"I wasn't." She huffed a laugh. "Believe me, it could have gone much worse. Must be something about English writers…"

Martha leveled at her an appraising look. "You know, back there with Peter, something weird happened."

"Yes, I had noticed," she said, grinning.

Martha shook her head. "No, I mean - your voice changed. You sounded different." Rose froze, eyes widening and boring into the side of Martha's head. "Like, it was you speaking, but you sounded so far away. It was… weird."

Taking in a deep breath and trying not to let her sudden panic show, she sat back and bit her lip. Rose had an ever-growing list of things she needed to research when she had the time. While resting at Sarah Jane's house following the Judoon debacle, she had read up further on the aliens themselves, and more on the Shadow Proclamation as a whole. She was happy to keep using them as leverage in confrontations, but she didn't much like the sound of the people themselves. Added to her list were also Plasmavores and Slabs, and most recently, Carrionites.

Now she also had herself to think of, apparently. First her glowing appearance with Donna, and now her voice taking on a strange quality when reaching out to Peter… Something was happening to her, and she has no idea what.

Getting to her feet and tossing the crystal ball once, she walked to join Shakespeare, where he stood looking out over the theatre. He still wore the "neck brace" that she had given him, she was pleased to note.

"You alright there Will?"

"My new masterpiece," Shakespeare sighed. "Lost forever."

"You could write it up again," Martha suggested, but Rose shook her head.

"Probably best not to."

"Oh, but I've got new ideas," he said. "Perhaps it's time I wrote about fathers and sons, in memory of my boy, my precious Hamnet."

Martha blinked. "Hamnet?"

"That's him," Shakespeare said, nodding.

"Hamnet?"

"And what's wrong with that?"

"Anyway, time we were off," Rose said with a small laugh. "Got to get back on a ship to Freedonia."

"You mean travel on through time and space," Shakespeare said, and Rose blinked.

"Er, what?"

"You are from the future. Both of you are, that's not too hard to work out," Shakespeare said. It wasn't? "Now Martha, let me say goodbye to you in a new verse. A sonnet for my Dark Lady." Martha's eyes were blown wide, and Rose bit her lip to stop herself from laughing. "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate -"

He was interrupted by two of his actors, who sprinted into the theatre looking dazed. "Will!"

"Will, you'll never believe it, she's here!" one said. "She's turned up!"

"We're the talk of the town," the other continued, "she heard about last night. She wants us to perform again!"

"Who?" Martha asked, looking between them.

"Her Majesty," one of the men exclaimed. "She's here!"

Rose and Martha both straightened as a red-headed woman walked in, two pike men at her side. "Queen Elizabeth the First!"

The woman stopped, eyes wide. "You!"

Rose blinked. "Me?"

"Rose Tyler! One of my sworn enemies!"

"What?"

"Off with her head!"

"WHAT?"

"Never mind what!" Martha grabbed Rose's hand and pulled her into a sprint. "Just run! See you Will, and thanks!"

Shakespeare merely laughed, watching as the two mysterious women ran for their lives from the Globe Theatre, never to be seen (by his eyes) again.