Work Text:
I went down to the beach and there she stood,
Dark and tall, at the edge of the wood.
“The sky’s too big. I’m scared,” I cried.
She replied,
“Young man, don’t you know there’s more to life
Than the moon and the president’s wife?”
Once
Once upon a time, a boy-child in the Drylands of Gallifrey learned a poem.
It was an old poem, one passed between the Shabogans, one with roots that ran deep into the rust-colored sand. It was a sad poem, one that spoke of a bone-deep fear that Gallifrey had long forgotten, one that rippled through Time but refused to be tied to the Web. Some would say it predated the Web somehow. Some would say it was the Web.
Theta Sigma heard the poem and trembled. He felt how it rippled - and, for him, the ripples were more like waves. He didn't find this unusual. Perhaps he should have.
Twice
The boy-child named Theta Sigma - or perhaps not named Theta Sigma, or perhaps not a boy-child, or perhaps not a child at all - grew into a being named the Doctor.
And the Doctor was their name, no matter what the Eye had shown them, no matter what the Scrolls of Rassilon said about their past and present and future. Twice they stole a TARDIS - once a prototype, once an antique. Twice they stole the president's daughter - twice in one fell swoop, once for themself and once for their granddaughter. Twice they lost the moon - twice for the two moons of Gallifrey, twice for how they became a Renegade twice over.
Every Time Lord knows that Time has its cycles. Planets circle suns; stars form and die and form again. History repeats - thousands and thousands and thousands of years, but generations pass slowly. Different regenerations, different incarnations, but the triumphs and mistakes remain the same. Rassilon lies inside his tomb, but he lies only to be brought out in the moments of greatest need.
Gallifrey stagnates in these cycles. The Doctor, a Renegade twice over, manages to grow.
Once
Once she found herself on the other side of the black hole, shot on her last regeneration but somehow alive, she dusted herself off and went in search of answers.
Time and Space were both unfamiliar. The Web, so finely woven in her time, felt as though it could unravel with the faintest push, unravel and knit itself back together as easily as you breathe. The planet was Gallifrey but not - there were no rust-colored wastes, no silver trees, no mountains. The woods were dark obsidian; the faint sound of waves spoke of oceans not yet dry.
She hadn't time traveled. She would have felt time travel. She had simply - gone, somehow, to a different time and place. She could only walk and wonder at the difference, at how the difference had come about in the first place. She had stabbed himself in the back. He had shot herself in the back. They should have both died, but there was no tell-tale call of himself in this Time, and she was undoubtedly alive.
When she reached the edge of the forest, she froze. There was a girl-child standing on the beach, staring up at the moons and stars with tears pouring down her face. Even as she stared the girl-child turned. The wisps of Time around them both reached out, not threads yet but fibers through a spindle. Her thread stretched behind her, yearning to tie her to this not-yet-friend and not-yet-enemy. The girl-child's thread stretch before her, whispering "not yet, not yet."
"Who're you?" the girl-child said.
"Why were you crying?" she countered.
"The sky's too big," the girl-child said. "It wants to eat me again. I'm scared."
"It won't eat you." She was scoffing to cover her uneasiness. She had learned this girl-child's past, once upon a time in the future. She knew what there was to fear. "Look up. It's just moons and stars."
"That's what you think," the girl-child said. She flopped down on the sand, scrubbing away the last remnants of her tears. "Who are you, really?"
"I've had a lot of names. One day you will, too." The girl-child glared up at her. The stubbornness, the defiance, the curiosity and the fire - it was all so familiar, so reminiscent of what will be. "I'm Missy now."
"Missy," the girl-child repeated. Missy sat next to her, legs and skirt fanning out like the Weeping Angels of old. Or of new, in this Time. Perhaps of someday.
"This is so strange," Missy said musingly. "I shouldn't be here."
"So why are you?"
"I don't know," Missy said with a shrug, "but the Web is loose here. It can't capture one of your little pets, never mind us. No wonder you'll try to bust through it."
"I don't get it," the girl-child said. "What're you trying to tell me?"
"I don't think I'm trying to tell you anything at all," Missy said. "I can't do too much damage, though, with Time the way it is now. Someday we won't remember this."
"Are you sure?" the girl-child said. Missy looked over at her, took her in fully. This would be her friend-enemy-friend, some time so far in the future. They would lose each other; he would find her again. They would whisper together about the stars, some time when the ocean had dried up and the trees had faded from black to silver gilt.
And there would be a thread. There would be a poem.
"Maybe I'm not sure," Missy said. "After all, there's more too life than the moon and the president's wife."
Twice
After the Shabogan elder told Theta Sigma the poem, Koschei ran after him into the desert.
It was after nightfall when he found him. Thete had climbed up the ridge that led to the silver forest. He stood motionless in the darkness, staring at the sky.
When Koschei got closer, he saw the strangest look on his friend's face.
"Are you okay?" he said. Thete flinched, stumbling and almost overbalancing into the basin that held the Drylands.
"Koschei," he said. "What're you doing here?"
"Looking for you, of course," Koschei said. "You ran off. I - I thought something might be wrong." Theta Sigma looked back up at the sky.
"Didn't you feel it?" he said.
"Feel what?"
"Time."
"It's just an old poem," Koschei said. "That's why Time was weird about it. It can't hurt us."
"Maybe," Thete said quietly. He didn't sound convinced.
"Look at me, Thete," Koschei said. Theta Sigma tore his gaze away reluctantly. "I don't care how big the sky is, we aren't going to be afraid of it. We're Time Lords - you and me will have all of Time and Space. There's nothing up there that can harm us. Okay?" Thete nodded slowly.
"Okay," he said.
Years later, at the Academy, Theta Sigma would be the one to find his friend staring at the night sky. Time and distance had made the poem's Time shiver less frightening. Theta Sigma could hear it now, hear it and accept it as part of the Web.
He had no way of knowing what he would do to the Web later.
"Look at all the stars, Thete," Koschei said. Theta Sigma lay down next to him obligingly. One moon was full, the other half gone. The stars were the same as ever in their cycle.
"Why are you up here, Kos?" he said. "You know we'll get in trouble when they figure out we're not in bed."
"The sky's so big, Thete," Koschei said. "There are so many stars, so many places to go. Why do they always act like seeing them for ourselves would be such a bad thing."
"I don't know, Kos," Theta Sigma said. "It doesn't make sense to me either."
"I think they're scared," Koschei said. "All their ancient rites and Time-given power, and they're still afraid of what's out there." Theta Sigma reached over and squeezed his hand.
"We won't be," he said.
"We won't be," Koschei affirmed. "There are too many suns and planets to be afraid. The universe is out there, the stars are out there, and I'm going to see them all."
"Me too," Theta Sigma said. "We'll see them all together."