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the night that ends at last
Lucy had always been afraid of the dark. The shadows that gibbered on her walls when she was a child seemed to follow her wherever she went, hiding behind common things turned strange. She never told anyone. They would never get the chance to think her a weak, frightened girl.
And then she met Harold Saxon. There was darkness in his eyes, but it called to her, promising everything. Promising power. “You should be afraid of me,” he said, smiling, like a dragon would to a particularly fine jewel in his hoard.
“I know,” she said. “I am.”
He kissed her then, and Lucy forgot why she was afraid of the dark.
the beating of your heart echoes the beating of the drums
Their plans thrilled her, every word filling her like a drug. World Domination. Infinite Power. Revenge. Delicious, all of them. And the lovely, lovely irony of it all: the classic paradox turned inside out and held in balance by her husband. Thousands upon thousands of humans swarming over the world and killing their grandfathers before they were born. And then war against the universe, a war to end all wars. “Can you hear them?” Harry asked her, insisting, his face alight with terrible joy. “The drums?”
Lucy thought she could.
the color of desire
Harry liked her in red. At first, it was small things. A red purse when another woman might have carried black. Fingernails painted perhaps a shade darker than propriety called for. A garnet on her engagement ring. Red dancing shoes at their wedding. The tabloids called her daring; Harry laughed, and called her his, and kissed off her lipstick.
Then, after they had triumphed, she wore long red evening gowns and let her hair spill down her back. There was no reason not to, not anymore. She rather liked dressing herself in flames. After all, the whole world matched.
But it wasn't enough for Harry. He would kiss her lips, her throat, her wrists, until she bruised and bled, and then he would watch in fascination at the red that pulsed and stained her skin as he whispered softly to her. "You humans, Lucy. You're so unbelievably fragile. Only one heart, only eight decades of life. That's nothing, Lucy mine, nothing." And then, sometimes, most times, he would bandage her oh-so-gently, and wash her blood away, and kiss her softly. But he would leave the tears on her cheeks.
the color of despair
It took her months to realize her mistake. He had told her that Harold Saxon didn’t exist, was nothing more than a temporary disguise for the Master. But somehow she had thought that he would stay Harold Saxon for her, because she was still desperately in love with him. But the Master he was, forever and for everyone. And a Master does not need companions. Only servants.
It was no one’s fault but her own. And so she hid the bruises and let them talk and loved him and felt herself die.
beggar at the wedding feast
She envied the prisoners, sometimes. Their cells weren't made of silk and linen or silver and gold. They hadn't sworn to love, honor, and obey the Master til death do them part. They didn't fear him, or not enough. And so he killed them in droves while she stood next to him and watched, despising herself for her weakness. But vows were vows, and she would keep hers if it killed her.
there is a castle on a cloud
It was easier if she didn't let herself realize what he was doing to her until it was done, irreversible, and there was nothing she could do about it. She let her mind wander to all the places he'd told her about, back to the days when victory was still a thing to look forward to and not a terrible reality, and ignored him. If it made him angrier, she never knew until she came back, and by then it was morning and he was long gone.
the blood of angry men
The Master (he wasn't Harry, he hadn't been Harry for a long, long time) ignored her now, focusing instead on crushing the Doctor. (She wondered if that meant he was bored with her, or if she had been crushed already. Or both.) Every day, with each new batch of prisoners, the Master selected the weakest, the most vulnerable, the most human of the lot and took them up to the operations room to be tortured and killed in front of the Doctor.
Some of them screamed. Some of them pleaded. Some laughed. Some cursed the Master to the depths of hell and back again. One girl taunted him until he was almost foaming at the mouth, and then poisoned herself before the Master could kill her. (He took that anger out on Lucy, later.) One thing they all had in common: they all broke the Doctor's hearts.
The Master's favorite execution had been that of Sarah Jane Smith. The Doctor had wept the most for her death. But no matter how many rebels were killed, there were still more. And all, all of them had hope. Lucy watched all the executions. They were her deaths, as much as the Master's. She had chosen this. Let them hate her for it, let them call her a traitor and a whore for power; it had been her choice, and she would choose it again.
turning through the years
One year had passed. One year and one day, and all the Master’s dreams were coming true. Martha Jones was captured. The Doctor was powerless. The toclafane were ready to fly across the universe, burning and killing for their father. Only three more minutes and everything would be his.
But then Martha Jones spoke. She told the Master of a story, a story that kept her going across the world, a story that kept the human race resisting, a story that would change everything. The humans had put their faith, their hope, their lives into that story, and that gave it power. And then the countdown ended.
“Doctor.”
Lucy could see the power surrounding him, could see the Master’s panic, could see the end of her world, and still she spoke his name. “Doctor.” (I’m sorry Harry, I’m sorry my love, but I cannot live this way anymore, and you are as good as dead, so I can betray you without a lie.) “Doctor.”
She watched as the Doctor was restored and advanced towards the Master. The Master screamed, tripping down the steps and curling into a ball. The Doctor came down, and took his enemy gently, lovingly into his arms, and whispered, “I forgive you.”
spit his pity right back in his face
No. No. The Master was unforgivable. Lucy stood frozen, as the world rewound and erased the last year. Forgiveness? From the only person who knew the Master deeply enough to forgive? No. It would kill him.
This was the Doctor’s mercy, to keep her husband prisoner for the rest of eternity and torture him with unwanted, hateful forgiveness. That was a terrible, terrifying goodness and it was as wrong in its purity as the Master had ever been in his evil.
granted me my life today...killed me even so
She picked up the gun that had fallen at her feet.
Lucy Saxon shot her husband.
a grief that can’t be spoken/i feel my soul on fire
Lucy and the Doctor were the only ones at the funeral, and only she stayed until the Master was entirely gone. The flames were beautiful, leaping against the sky without rhythm, impressing themselves against her eyes. But they died, the ash grew cold, and then there was nothing left to say.
round and round and back where you began
Lucy was always in the dark now. Shivering, in the dark, shadows everywhere and forever. She remembered Harry, but he was dark now too, and there was nothing to do but wait. She was still afraid of the dark.
forgive me that I live and you are gone