"There was more than one," says Me, staring up at the TARDIS display. "More than one circle she had to pass through."
"Yes, I thought there would be."
There are spreading ripples, changes in the fabric of time the TARDIS can track and trace. The emergence of a new story, a myth written as they watch.
"The Wayfarer," reads Me, tracing a line of circular prose. "The Woman Without a Home." She winces. "At least a hundred years on an ice-ball world, look. That can't have been fun."
The pattern blurs and changes, become eye-watering in complexity. River looks grim. "A lot more than one circle. We did the right thing."
"Why do you say that?"
"No one else could have done this. Not even you. You might be immortal but you're not indestructible. You need food and sleep in order to keep moving. Air. Some of these planets have none of that."
Me shuts down the readout. "Sound fairly torturous to me."
"Whatever he's done, wherever he's gone, the only person he wants to find him is Clara."
"I'm still not sure that's a good thing. When she died… all of time and space was at risk from him. They're dangerous together."
"More dangerous than the shadow?" River presses buttons and a new story replaces Clara's journey.
"World Eater," breathes Me. "How many now has it taken?"
"The Ri'Jinn homeworlds are gone. What's left of their peoples have fled with the remains of their fleet. An empire of ten thousand years broken in days."
"Yes," says Me, retreating to the button-back chair.
"Yes?"
"They're more dangerous. But perhaps that's what we need."
River nods, continuing to watch the unfolding darkness on screen.
There are scrubby pines here, roots dug into the thin soil of the rocky slope. She can smell ice on the wind. Around her the slates of the circle slow and stop; whatever strange science powering their movement fails. She takes a deep lungful of clean mountain air, relief after six months of burning desert heat. A rough track is trodden down from the stones, a welcome sign of inhabitation. Birds sing and everywhere she can hear the rush of water as her feet follow the path. It is sleeting by the time she reaches a timber stack; her fingers trace the bite of iron axes into the wood before she passes on, quiet as a shadow.
An hour later she finds the lumberjack, toiling on the hill. She waves cheerily as Clara passes, indicating with her axe that the stranger should continue to follow the trail. Half an hour further, and she can see the houses of the village fringing the fjord.
There are men working on the boat in the dock, dressed in fur. One of them catches sight of the stranger, out of place in her ragged desert-wear amongst piles of melting snow. He swings down from his boat and crosses to her, extending a ham-sized hand.
"Hello," says Clara. She isn't sure what language she's speaking anymore, and it doesn't matter.
"Welcome," he replies, "the Sage has spoken of you."
"Yes," she replies, "the Doctor. That's who I'm looking for."
"He is visiting the Northlands. We are happy to take you on my ship." He points, and Clara smiles, accepting the offer without needing to understand the details.
They are swiftly underway, the crew paddling the longboat out of the docks before unfurling their mainsail. At the prow, Clara hear the canvas snap behind her. The boat surges forward. Sleet is fast becoming snow, whipping her cheeks. She shivers, but remains pale.
"You will be needing these, Wandering One," says the Captain, handing her a bundle of silvery furs and a pair of crampons. He mimes dressing, and Clara laughs.
"Yes, I understand," she says. "Clara," she adds, placing a hand on her chest before reaching out to touch the Captain's.
"Doriel," he replies, clasping her fingers briefly. "I'm glad that I had the chance to meet you."
The men of the ship know the coast and navigate with that in view. Years ago she might have set the mini-comp running, building a dictionary of their musical language. Now she merely watches; listens as the men shout back and forth. What is said is so little of human communication, and she absorbs language faster by using it than learning rote.
"You are very like him," says Doriel, as the men douse sail, ready to paddle again towards land. "You watch like the ship's cat." He hands her a rough crust of rye bread, ration for the journey on.
"Thank you," she tries and he smiles.
"A scholar too, eh? We're coming up on the pass now. You will have to jump! There is no landing point here." He mimes with his fingers, little legs taking a running jump off the ship and onto the approaching shore.
The men bring the boat around, close to the rough coastline as they dare. There is still a sizable expanse of icy water between boat and land. Old, old habits make her draw a breath as she considers the jump and leaps.
Her crampons bite into thick snow; she lands to cheers from the men aboard. Even through the fresh fall there is a discernible track of compacted snow heading up and away. A few hundred metres uphill she finds a fingerpost, half buried in the drift and hung with icicles. It points her on.
She remembers the knack of moving through snow after a while, as the track curves westwards, where the sun is beginning to pink the sky. It is still hovering low on the horizon when she reaches the tongue of the glacier. The fingerpost here is an enormous totem; a considerable feat for any crew to have dragged the carved trunk to this point, let alone sink it deep into the ice. A choice between west and north.
She considers the elaborately carved faces, further pitted and scored by the elements, as she tries to decide a course. Circles are normally found on the higher ground. She will climb—
She blinks.
Just for a moment a figure seemed visible, half obscured by the blowing snow, on the edge of her vision. She stands perfectly still; waits. Another gust of icy wind and she is sure. There is someone walking the northern ridgeline.
She picks her way across the ice towards the figure. Her pace quickens despite herself; if she had a heart to beat it would be thumping. This is nonsense, her sensible self tells the rest of her. What, after all, are the chances that it is him after all this time? And yet she finds that she is running, sprinting, snow dragging at her legs. He too breaks into a run and then she is certain; something in his gait gives him away as he hurtles toward her.
Neither of them try to stop or slow down. She cannons into him—surprisingly solid beneath his layer of fur—and finds herself spinning, feet off the ground, enveloped in a bone-crushing hug. When he eventually puts her down he clutches her arms, as if afraid she will somehow fly away. "Clara Oswald," he says, wonderingly.
"You remember." A statement rather than a question. The words seem to come from far, far away, her brain flapping in the pink sky high above, convinced this is a dream.
"Everything," he replies, and she is aware of words unsaid bubbling underneath, wrong for this time and place. He folds his fingers around hers and she finds tears prick her eyes at the gesture, familiar and longed for, even after all this time. "It's dinner time," he continues, "if you'd like to join me?"
She laughs, squeezing his hand. "Yes, I'd like that very much."
They retrace his footsteps, up and over the ridge, hand in hand.