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Turlough stared at the glass. He knew, through his tenure on Earth, that what he held in his hand was leaded crystal. A wonderful example of prism chiseled in useful beauty. He twisted it slightly to catch the lights from over the table and make the blues in the prism swirl happily on the liquid within. Why humans would create something beautiful out of something so useful was beyond him. He could appreciate it though and that was the important thing.
He supposed. He wasn’t quite sure.
Or he was getting soft. And that, he sighed, that was the last thing he could allow to happen. He wouldn’t get soft; he couldn’t get soft and he had to remember that the Time Lord was an ally…never a friend.
He put down the glass and leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs. Friends hurt you, friends put you into a position…the position…the position of ultimate…problems. Compassion had no place in war; and Great Maker help him! All his life it had been a war, war of family, war of politics, war of firearms and power…and the war of anyone in power…
Friend, ha! They were as mutable as the prisms in the glass…move it and the colours within changed. People spoke of friend as a saving grace, a part of life that helped one to fulfill life; they never said that friendship introduced weakness; they never said that it would cause a downfall. But it would. Why would anyone trust anyone so wholly separate from oneself? There was no measure of control and too much measure of trust to be balanced; logic dictated against it.
Which, of course, was a dilemma as to why the Time Lord seemed to sink so much of his limited emotions into forming friendships. It released desperately needed control to something wholly different from time travel or mechanics. He understood the Yentria business; he understood the process and the need. But friendships, this drive for the Time Lord to have friends, to allow friends, he couldn’t understand.
“Hmm, the glass won’t assault you, Turlough.”
Turlough twisted the glass and watched as the prisms and colors moved across the surface of the contained liquid. With a shrug, he lowered the crystal. “Prisms are interesting.”
The Doctor made a non-committal grunt sound from the door. Turlough’s eyes shifted to take in the form of the Time Lord as he stood inside the door. He was clad in his usual clothes: some type of athletic dress from Earth with a formal coat over top. It was cream and fawn and light in color to match his hair. It gave him an innocent guise which Turlough knew to be misleading at best, manipulative at worst. “Interesting scientifically or aesthetically?”
“Scientifically? The idea is simple…refraction and projection…separation oflight into its realistic components. There’s nothing interesting about that.”
“Aesthetically, then. Interesting turn of conversation from you, Turlough.”
The boy held up the glass. “Lead crystal from Sol 3.”
“And hence,” the Doctor continued as he walked into the room. “Hence, it refracts white light as the predominant light of that particular system. That type of crystal, its structure and the elements contained in the matrix will, by plan or providence, only refract that type of light. But that’s scientific, Turlough.”
“Yes,” the boy agreed. He set down the glass after taking a sip. “Yes. But the act of the light separation is beautiful.”
The Doctor sighed heavily and slipped his hands in his pockets; Turlough could see that much in the peripheral of his sight. “The components are beautiful or the act of separation, Turlough?”
“The separation.”
“Very telling.”
Turlough smiled as he twisted the glass to change the play of light on the pale liquid. “The colors change with just a slight tilt of the glass, with just a slight change in the hand that holds the glass.” He sneered a smile. “I can’t find beauty in the pieces that change; but it is beautiful. Therefore, I have to say I find the separation beautiful.”
The Doctor walked to the chair and pulled it out from the table. With a sigh, he sank down to sit and crossed his legs. “I see, or at least I think I do,” he intoned. “But let’s clarify the conversation, Turlough, shall we? You can’t find beauty in the mutable pieces, but can find aesthetically beauty in the act of separation. Hmm, Turlough…”
The Trion wearily stared at the Time Lord. “You’ll say it has a psychological bent.”
“Yes.” The Doctor waved one of his hands to the side. “Or it could be simply that which you find beautiful.”
Turlough leaned forward and stared at the Doctor. Blue eyes stared into blue eyes; clear blue glass into storm blue sea. “Do you think I would give you an insight into what I truly believe and feel, Doctor?”
“Not if you are a Trion educated in the military, no,” the Doctor agreed. “And I know you are that.”
“Then…”
The Doctor released what seemed to be an inordinate amount of tension and sat back into the chair. “Perhaps I like stimulating conversation.”
Turlough smiled thinly. The Doctor’s eyes narrowed before words were formed. “Unlike,” he said, his voice sounding like a snarl to his own ears. “Unlike your Yentria.”
There was a ticking in the Doctor’s chin, a movement of his lips. Beyond that, there was no show of emotion. “My Yentria has a name and does have engaging conversation.” He shifted his shoulders under the linen and appeared to soften in his aura of power.
“I’ll concede that,” Turlough nodded with a sigh. “And I also know that emotional entanglement with one’s Yentria is not a necessary nor an advisable situation within the…”
“…afflicted incarnation,” the Doctor finished for him. “Yes, you’re correct.”
Turlough lifted an eyebrow; the Doctor’s expression was schooled. However, if the Time Lord was going to examine his psyche, he was going to return the favor and find out what made his ally (never friend) tick. There was no change in his eyes, nor in his manner of sitting. He seemed to be the perfect diplomatically neutral being.
“Yes, quite correct,” the Doctor reiterated. The blue eyes bore into him and suddenly the white noise of the TARDIS engines, constantly about them, seemed to fade into the background. “However, our discussion was about the beauty inherent in your prism, Turlough.”
“The beauty in the separation…” Turlough reiterated and glanced down at the liquid and the prism. “The firm strength in the lone colors. They are able to stand on their own. And to have such pure, such beautiful colors from something…”
The Doctor nodded slowly and then rose. It was a deliberate move, very deliberate and thought deep. He looked at the glass and frowned. Then Turlough felt the weight of the Time Lord’s stare on him. He brought his gaze to bear on the Doctor.
“White light can burn through beings, worlds and can be seen across immeasurable distances in space when conditions are right.” He nodded to the glass. “What you hold does serve the purpose to break down that force into understandable, tangible sections, but it is only a part, a small part of the actual power inherent in the unbroken white light. The real power, the real mystery…the real beauty…is in how the colors form this incredible power…how they join into a force of nature…and how white light is never whole without all of the components.” The Doctor paused for a breath, his eyes bright with purpose and with making a point. “There’s where I find the beauty: that every part of every whole has a purpose, and it is only with all parts of any given whole intact that power is complete. And that we…any individual is only the blue light or the green light, never, never are we the white light.”
Turlough pursed his lips in consideration of what was said. With a sigh, he turned the glass slightly to watch the colors dance across the liquid surface. It was a difference in philosophy, a psychology and a view on life. “No…” Turlough said quietly. “No.”
The Doctor slowly slid his hands into his pockets and released a long breath. The way he tucked his chin to talk might have been patronizing, Turlough thought, if he had been another man. As it was on the Time Lord, it just looked like his personality given life in form. There was no frown, no darkening of the Doctor’s face. “It’s individual, Turlough.” He glanced at the door and then back to the glass in Turlough’s hand. “The TARDIS is in a holding pattern, but we shall have to land soon. And…” the Doctor said quietly. “If you would like a better vintage, feel free to visit the TARDIS wine cellar. Some reflect the colors much better.”
He turned and left the room with a steady gait that Turlough could hear moving down the corridor with squeaks from his trainers. His eyes slowly returned to the glass and the liquid within and he slowly moved the faceted surface to watch the colors play across the surface.