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Day 7412
“Doctor? You're not leaving, surely? There's so much to be done.” The thought rankled. Oh, he had done plenty—that was his way. But could he not have done a little more?
“And I'm sure you'll do it splendidly, Madam President.” Wonderful. Formality. Twenty years a slave, a hundred more his friend, and all she got was a trusty Madam President. “Even with Vansell here still doing his best to mess things up.”
Vansell’s nasally whine cut through. “You mess up half the planet, Doctor, and leave just as the clearing up begins.” For once, she was inclined to agree.
“Well, I've got my own cleaning up to do,” Trinkett said. She swayed on her feet; had that dislocated knee really gone back into place properly? She doubted it. “Reldath has checked out Archetryx for me.”
“The devastation was extreme, but there are survivors, just as there are on the Monan Host world.”
“That's wonderful.” And that was Evelyn, the Doctor’s latest friend. Better than some of the riff-raff he picked up … had he resorted to blondes yet, or was that later down the timeline?
“And much to Vrint's delight, I'm sure. Do you need a lift?” Lift? Lift? Did they need a lift off this Otherforsaken rock? What kind of question was that?
“Reldath is taking me.”
“Ah,” said Evelyn.
“Romana, you will help these worlds recover, won't you?” the Doctor said.
She lifted her head and said, drawing on her last reserves of strength: “I will, Doctor. Just as I'll ensure Seriphia doesn't fall to the Daleks. Gallifrey will not—” She blinked, her vision blurring. “Gallifrey will not tolerate—”
“Romana?” The Doctor again. His voice was strange, tinny, as if he were moving further away.
“We'll never be defenceless again,” she rasped out, and fainted dead away.
Day 7413
“Your itinerary, Madam President.”
The droning was familiar; everything else was not. That was Coordinator Vansell, and—what? Where was this? Not Etra Prime, that was for sure. Not the TARDIS, either; the room, or space, or whatever it was, was quiet, with the exception of the background recycling of air. But that was normal, and said nothing except that this building was, in all likelihood, on Gallifrey.
That was all the energy Romana could muster: observation, the most basic of bodily functions. Listening was a struggle; lifting her head was impossible. All she could do was lie there and wait. She thought of her bad leg, thought of moving it, but—pain reared up, like a car barrelling round a corner, like nerves on fire, everywhere and inescapable. It had never not been there; she had merely been too deeply unconscious to register it, or indeed anything at all.
There was a soft beep, and a little jab as some needle pierced her skin. Then some drug flooded her system, numbing the pain.
“Never mind,” said Vansell, and was gone.
Day 7414
“Your itinerary, Madam President.”
The same tone of voice, the same pattern of steps. The same carefully measured distance from her—bedside, most probably. If Vansell was anything, he was reliable. No change for the wicked.
“For God’s sake, Vansell, go back to the CIA. Surely even you can tell that she’s in no state for governance.”
The Doctor’s voice. So he was still here.
“Orders must be obeyed,” Vansell said snidely. She could just imagine the lip curling. He was a man made for sneers.
“Yes, and what good is it if our dear president can’t understand those orders?”
“The president will recover,” Vansell said, “in due course.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“She is still our president,” Vansell said. “Democratically elected, and all.” A short laugh. The Doctor. “Would you have me violate our noble laws? Our ancient and sacred traditions?”
“Your hallowed and decrepit lies? Willingly, to save a friend.”
“You did not save the president,” Vansell said. “You did nothing. No, you did worse than nothing: you pranced and prattled about in your wretched excuse for a TT capsule for twenty years, uncaring that your friend was missing, and I imagine your next course of action is to swan off to the stars, whilst they incinerate your latest pet.”
“I never took you for a fan of violent fantasies.”
“I am not. I’m merely taking an educated guess as to your future.”
“Well, you’re wrong. Do you know—Evelyn is quite safely at home, no doubt educating students. As such, I am entirely free from a hero’s obligations. Though some hot cocoa would not go amiss.”
“I don’t know what that is,” said Vansell, “but I don’t believe even you are so intellectually stunted as to be unable to fetch yourself sustenance, which is what I presume you must be referring to.”
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
Despair radiated off Vansell in waves. But there was nothing interesting happening, except catty bitching; so Romana tuned out, and succumbed again to pain and painkillers.
Day 7415
“Your itinerary, Madam President.”
How Vansell managed to catch her on the edges of consciousness every time was a feat known only unto himself. Did he listen to her hearts monitor? Did she keep waking at the same time? Or did he just say it every time, until he detected a flicker of unusual brain activity? It was impossible to say.
“Gimme that—”
“What in Rassilon’s name are you doing?” Vansell said, with the same exasperated tones as a moron trying to keep Time Tots in line. “I am trying to—give me back that datapad!”
“Shan’t!” the Doctor said. Yes, there was the Time Tot. There was a scuffle, then a thunk, then—
“Coordinator Vansell,” said Irving Braxiatel. It was almost redundant to point out the smoothness of his voice, so sleek and shiny and analogous to a car advert was he. “Brother. What are the two of you squabbling over now?”
“We’re not squabbling,” the Doctor said petulantly, “we’re fighting. There’s a difference.”
“He took my—he took the president’s datapad!” Vansell cut in. “You see, I am on business, these are affairs of state. The Doctor is merely here to do what he always does: meddle, meddle, meddle. Why should a traitor, a lowlife, have access to the president of Gallifrey?”
“I really don’t know,” Braxiatel drawled. “Would you like to explain yourself, brother?”
“Vansell here keeps on bothering Romana,” the Doctor said. “She’s barely conscious, it’s ridiculous of him to burst in every other span to deliver news—what’s she going to do, pass out about it? You must see reason, Brax.” His voice turned urgent. “You must get this irritating, bothersome, loathsome and slimy creature out of here. This is a medical environment, he’s unsafe!”
“I’m flattered,” said Vansell, “that you care so much.”
“For Romana. Not for you.”
“Your perverted little attachments will do you no good here, Doctor—”
“Enough,” Braxiatel intoned gravely. “Neither of you is any better than the other, and frankly, neither of you should be here. Coordinator Vansell—kindly return to your duties, since I know you are neglecting them by being here. Doctor—don’t. And, my lady—” So he, like Vansell, knew she was conscious. Well, only dimly; it was wearisome to be awake, threefold when they were bickering. “This place is not a place of honour; nothing valued is here. The danger is to the mind, and it can kill. The danger is unleashed only if you substantially disturb this place physically. This place is best shunned and left uninhabited. Now, sleep.”
Was that some sort of Karn-esque hypnotic chant?
Never mind. She slept.
Day 7416
“What time is it?”
Romana did not know, in saying these words, who was by her side. But it seemed the logical thing to ask; what else was she supposed to do in this void of a hospital? If it even was a hospital.
“My lady,” said Braxiatel, “I daresay you are competent enough to answer that for yourself.”
Romana yawned, stretching her limbs. They ached with disuse; the right knee, dislocated a few too many times, begrudgingly flexed into place. “Just tell me, please.”
“You are a Time Lord,” he said, not unkindly. “You can’t very well not know what the time is.”
“Well, I don’t,” she replied. Her voice rasped, again with disuse. Maybe someday it would return to normal—but what even was normal? It was so long since her body had worked, with all the bounding energy of a fawn in spring. Even for a Time Lord, twenty years was a long time. Not forever, but long enough to make her working body a distant memory.
“Use your time sense,” Braxiatel coaxed, as though he were tutoring her.
“My—” Yes, time sense. Time, it was familiar to them … she focused on the ebb and flow of time, but nothing came: just hollowness. After twenty years of imprisonment, cut off entirely from causality, where was time? She could not find it. Oh, it was there, there in the same way it had always been … but she could not feel its hum. “I can’t.”
“Your itinerary, Madam President.” Romana chanced opening her eyes; in an instant she was blinded. It was so bright in here, so much brighter than that damned cell—or cells, who knew how many stinking holes she had been shoved into? But Vansell was here: she now knew that much.
“Oh, do shut up, Coordinator.”
“But you said—” said Vansell.
“I may not be on the Doctor’s side, but I never said I was on yours either.”
“Very well,” said Vansell, “commiserate without me.”
“Returning to the point,” Braxiatel said. “What do you mean when you say you cannot, my lady?”
“I mean,” she managed, “I can’t. There’s nothing. I don’t … it’s gone.”
“Impossible,” Vansell said.
“Not so,” said the Doctor, in his usual imperious tones. “In exceptional cases, a Time Lord can lose their usual abilities. Etra Prime was removed from space and time, yes?”
“Correct,” Braxiatel said.
“Then it stands to reason that Romana’s time sense has been—warped, shall we say. If you do not move your leg for a long time, then it becomes tired, stiffer. By extension, if you do not have the necessary exposure to time, it becomes much harder to detect. I imagine it’s recoverable, but it will take—well, time.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Romana said. It was the first useful thing anyone had said.
“You’re welcome,” he said, unusually tender.
“Disgusting,” said Vansell. “Affection.”
“Just sleep,” Braxiatel said wearily; equally wearily, she obeyed.
How many more days would she have to sleep through before she could handle them awake again?
Day 4533
She noticed the dampness first. Mildew, the smell of rot. Everything was dying here. The planet itself was being worn away, drip by drip by drip.
Her head ached. She had not slept since they put her here last. How long ago? An hour? Two? Three? Impossible to say: the time stretched flat before her, a tabula rasa. Her ankles chafed, even with the restraints gone; the red, raw strips which were barely recognisable as her wrists were never given enough time to heal in between interrogations. By design, of course. They wouldn’t want her too sane.
A grating sound. Dalek against stone.
“No, no, no,” she whispered; she could not chew on the stumps of her fingernails, she could not anxiously twirl her hair, and she could not take another torturing.
Still, here they were. It was routine by now, the examination: she would be forced to stand, then walked or dragged, whichever was quicker, to the room where all the psychic weapons were kept. Tied up, then cut or beaten or probed, damn it, the mind probes—oh, those were the worst. After that sometimes they would gag her, though this time they did not; no, it was a mental attack this time.
WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF GALLIFREY’S DEFENCES, UNIT ONE-ONE-SEVEN?
Those voices. So inhuman, so grating. But how could they be anything else?
“Nothing,” she said, “I, I am president of Gallifrey, I cannot—”
WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF GALLIFREY’S DEFENCES?
“Nothing, nothing, no, no, please—I am president of Gallifrey—I am—I—”
TELL US WHAT YOU KNOW, UNIT ONE-ONE-SEVEN.
“I can’t! I can’t! I don’t know who I am!”
MADAM PRESIDENT.
“No! No, no, no!”
YOUR ITINERARY, MADAM PRESIDENT.
She woke up, screaming her head off.
“Well done, Coordinator,” said Braxiatel, “your rabid desire to inflict order upon unsuspecting souls has finally broken our spirits.”
“Well, what would you suggest?” said Vansell. “Exposure therapy?”
“I would recommend putting you down.”
“Stop,” the Doctor said, a hint of genuine anger in his voice. “Can’t you see she’s in pain? Romana,” he said, softly, “Romana, can you hear me?”
She moved her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
“Don’t reply if it’s too hard,” he said. “Just focus on my voice … that’s it, just my voice. You’re on Gallifrey, yes?” She nodded mutely. “You’re safe. No on here is going to hurt you. You are safe.” Again, she nodded. “Do you want to hold my hand? It may ground you.”
“Yes,” Romana said. A word! A precious word.
“Wonderful,” the Doctor said, and reached out. She still couldn’t handle light very well: so she kept her eyes closed, and let him find her. His hand met hers; he was warm, sturdy, much as she remembered him. She traced her thumb over his knuckles, relearning the shape of him. She had missed a body, the one who dressed like the intergalactic war criminal that he was; this one was more likely the old one, her Doctor. Tall, alarming, ill-dressed—a familiar stranger. As for his hands, they were much the same as his fourth incarnation’s. “You’re doing well, Romana, you’re doing very well.”
“Doctor,” she whispered.
“Yes, Romana?”
“Stay.” Please stay.
In the frayed corners of her mind, his voice resounded: Always.
“I have all the time in the world,” the Doctor said. “I’ll be here for as long as you need me.”
“Rassilon almighty,” said Vansell, “we’re stuck with him.”
“I commend you, Coordinator, on your skills of observation,” Braxiatel said. “A necessary talent of any subpar spy.”
“Why, you—”
Romana listened on with something beginning to approach amusement. Vansell’s torment was rather funny, when she wasn’t in too much pain to think.
“That’s better, isn’t it?” the Doctor said.
“It is,” she managed.
“Good,” he said, “good.”
Day 7417
“What do you think of food, Romana?” the Doctor said.
“Agreeable, under the right circumstances.”
“And what do you think of eating?” he said.
“Necessary for the survival of most species, excepting Time Lords, who thrive on passive aggression and nostalgia.”
“Good,” he said, “you’re getting better. But I meant that you should eat some food—or at least try. You can’t live off sleep, I’m afraid.”
“I would like to.”
“You’ll rest if it’s the last thing I do. But you really must eat as well, or else you’ll only feel worse.”
“Very well.”
“Your meal, Madam President,” said Vansell, then added, unbidden: “It comes with an itinerary.”
“Go away, you nosy prick,” the Doctor snapped. “Torture some Shobogans, or whatever it is you do in your spare time. There’s plenty of them to be found.”
“No,” said Vansell, and that was that. “You forget, Doctor: your precious friend is also my president, and as such must return to office eventually. Since you cannot be trusted and Cardinal Braxiatel is away again—on business, or so he calls it—it falls to me to ensure that your meddling does not bring down our democracy crashing down around our ears.”
“I suppose assassination is your idea of lawfulness,” the Doctor sighed. “Vansell has brought food bars, as mild as they come.”
Romana opened her eyes. Why did everything have to be so blindingly white in this place? But she kept her eyes open long enough to locate a food bar. She ate it: it tasted claggy, sodden, like dirt or clay. It was no worse than anything that passed for food to the Daleks; nonetheless, it was foul. With some effort she swallowed down a meal, and sipped, slowly, at the glass of water provided. They did not bring back hunger or thirst. On Etra Prime, starved on the regular, she hd longed for food and water. But now it was freely available, she loathed the mere thought of eating. It would not stay down, not for long.
“Better?” the Doctor said, encouraging.
“It tastes foul.”
“Good,” said the Doctor. “That means you’ve eaten.”
She met his eyes. He was dimming: the rainbow of his suit was fading, becoming almost commonplace. But the lights were not going out—
Her vision was failing.
“Doctor,” she said. “Doctor—”
“Yes?” he said. “What is it, Romana?”
“I can’t—I can’t see.”
“You can’t see?” the Doctor said. “Are your eyes closed?”
“No, I—it’s as if I’m blind, I can’t see—Doctor, I can’t see!” Prison again. How foolish of her to think she’d escaped … perhaps this was not Gallifrey at all. But then, if it was not Gallifrey, where were the Daleks? “Doctor, I can’t tell if I’m not me!”
“And nothing is wrong with your eyes.” He pulled out his sonic screwdriver: she could tell from the bedamned buzzing. Really, he might as well switch to carrying a beehive around with him; it would be as much use, if not more.
“No.”
“Hm…” He scanned her, as a Dalek would. For imperfections, for flaws. Then he said, “Hmm.” She waited. “I think—perhaps it is psychosomatic.”
“You mean—”
“Yes, your brain has its wires crossed right now … I think, now that you’re out of the worst of it, your body is hitting as many switches as possible to try and fix things. Mostly the sleep switch, but sometimes the wrong switches.”
“And since I am in pain, it’s trying to turn my eyes off and on again. Brilliant.”
“You’re wonderfully clever, Romana,” he said. “Yes, that’s exactly it. It should resolve itself, given enough time. Perhaps sleep would be a good idea.”
She said—“I wish I didn’t have to sleep so much.”
“It will wear off,” the Doctor said. “But—and here’s the trick—only if you get enough sleep. You see the trap?”
“Ingenious.” Romana sighed. “Well, I have missed our debates, but I must try to sleep.”
“Sleep well, Romana,” he said. “We can discuss transtemporal explosions some other day.”
She nodded, and lay back down, intending to drift off.
Irritatingly, she passed out almost instantly.
Torture. What a pain.
Day 7311
Romana awoke nauseated. Not nauseous, as one Earth pedant had once insisted. It didn’t change the fact that she was going to throw up, though.
“Doctor,” she said.
“The Doctor,” sneered Vansell, “is currently indisposed. Anything you wish to share with him can be shared with me.”
“A bowl,” she said. She so dearly wanted to tell him to go away—but not now. “I need a bowl. Or a bucket, whatever you call it. Now.”
“Very well, Madam President.” He muttered something into his communicator. “Your wish is my command.”
Romana glanced around the hospital—or medbay, though this felt more like a private room for recovery—taking it in properly. It was white. It was clean. It had a bed, exactly three chairs, and one small table. And, next to Vansell, the Doctor was napping.
“Doctor,” she said. “Doctor.”
“I won’t be late, Innocet—oh, hello,” the Doctor said. What schoolboy nightmare had he been reliving? Innocet was supposed to be one of his family members, she’d read that on the report all the way back when she’d first been sent to put up with him, though Braxiatel had been nowhere to be seen on that report, even though he was the only member of the Doctor’s family anyone on Gallifrey had ever met. Romana had never met Innocet. Nor had she ever met Susan. Where were they? Dead? It seemed most likely. “Is this bother bothering you, Romana?”
“A little,” Romana said, “but more importantly—” She paled. Sitting up had not helped the nausea by any stretch of the imagination. It had merely contorted it into a different shape.
“Ah, I see,” the Doctor said. He yanked the communicator out of Vansell’s hand. “Hurry up!” he snapped, to whoever was on the other end of the line.
Sure enough, a few microspans later, a nondescript, empty container came up some sort of—chute, perhaps, in the wall.
“Voilà,” the Doctor said. “Time Lord ineptitude, on proud display.”
“You did not need to interrupt,” Vansell sniffed. “You changed nothing. All you did was harass one of the menials.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure they’ll survive. Menials, you say; do you really think they’re worthless?”
“They’re not my business,” Vansell said flatly, “and nor are they yours.”
“Their plight—”
“Is not yours! You didn’t care when we were twenty, thirty, forty, why must you save everyone now? Except,” he added nastily, “the president, who had to save herself because of your dreadful incompetence.”
“And yours,” the Doctor retorted.
“We could not find anything. It is very hard to trace a signal that doesn’t exist anywhere in the known universe. You didn’t even know she was gone.”
“Well, do better next time,” the Doctor said crossly.
Next time? Romana groaned: at the idea, and at her rising nausea.
She steeled herself, held the bowl before her, and retched, viciously, until any last trace of food was gone from her system.
It was all water, anyway. There was barely anything in her system. Just drugs and blood and more drugs.
“Cardinal Braxiatel recommends nutrition at regular intervals,” Vansell said. “It will replenish your energy, Madam President, and allow you to read your itinerary.”
“Bugger off,” the Doctor said to him. “That will allow Romana to replenish her energy. I’m afraid, old friend, you won’t find adjusting easy. We may be sturdy creatures, but even we need regular food. I wouldn’t advise eating—or talking to—anything difficult. May I—?”
She nodded. He traced gentle, soothing circles into her back: as if she were a child.
Invalid, Romana. Not a child.
I am not—
You’re as ill as they come, and I won’t stand for anything else. It’s not a criticism; it’s just true. Did you really think you could just get back up again?
You seemed to think so, she retorted bitterly. I’m sure I’ll do it splendidly!
I didn’t realise the extent of the damage.
“I can hear everything you’re saying,” Vansell said, “and I must say, it’s quite sordid.”
“Stop listening, then!” the Doctor said.
“No.”
“You can hear me?” Romana said. “But I—”
“Indeed, Madam President. You’re practically broadcasting your thoughts.”
“My defences…”
“Are not quite what they used to be,” the Doctor said gently. “Hardly surprising, after such a deluge of psychic attacks. They’ll heal—but all of it will take time.”
“How much time?” she said. “I only have so much of it, Doctor.”
How long until I’m normal again?
Twenty years?
“As long as it takes,” the Doctor said.
“Which could be any time at all.”
“There is always regeneration,” Vansell said. “A fresh start.”
“No,” she said. “No! I won’t, I won’t, you can’t make me—”
“It was just a suggestion,” the Doctor said soothingly. “Vansell is right that it would improve your situation in the short term, but it would come with a whole array of drawbacks—like, oh, having to recover from regenerating.”
“I won’t,” she said, tears pricking at her eyes, “I—I—”
Words failed. Romana turned around and clung to the Doctor, burying her face in her shoulder. If she must show weakness—Vansell could not see it. It was unthinkable. She shuddered and sobbed, wringing herself dry of tears, for some time. When the courage to face the world returned, she saw that Vansell had gone.
Good.
“Someday,” said the Doctor, “you’ll find a beautiful princess on another planet, and you will be able to stomach regeneration again. I seem to remember that was how it went last time.”
“It was for a dare,” Romana said. “I think. I don’t entirely remember.”
Fine the first day, giddy with regeneration. But in the night she has crashed, and discovered for herself just about every aftereffect under the suns.
That had not been a fun night. What she had done was, after all, suicide; it was arrogant to assume it would have no consequences.
Now the mere thought of regeneration seemed intolerable. She had fought so hard, so hard, not to die—regenerating would just be giving in. This thing, this battered old body—it still worked, didn’t it? Not nearly as well—the joints would never be the same—but it was the one and only thing that had been hers. Even when the depersonalisation was at its worst, when Etra Prime was an unreality viewed through a dissociative haze—she’d had to come back to this eventually. Short, blonde, dressed in rags. Alone.
Though she did miss her old dark curls.
For the first time she took in her clothes: a shapeless shift, unrelentingly white, but soft as anything. It was so much better than the old presidential outfit. By the end of those twenty years it had rotted almost to nothing, but it wasn’t like there had been anything else to wear.
“I have never regenerated for vanity in my life,” said the Doctor. “That I’m so handsome every time is merely a fortunate coincidence.”
“Is it, now?”
“Yes, really.” He smiled. “There, you see? You still have some of your old spirit. Soon enough you’ll be up and insulting my every move.”
“The hair is silly,” she managed. “You should invest in a comb.”
“Very good, very good. Now, my old friend, you should rest.”
She took his advice gratefully. Sleep was still far too easy.
Day 7418
Romana slept.
Day 7419
“Your itinerary, Madam President.”
Had she not been bedbound, violence would have ensued. “Stop saying that, Vansell! Say it one more time and I’ll have you consigned to the Oubliette! No, worse—I’ll cut your heart out with a spoon! I’m sick of it, utterly sick of it—I will get to it when I get to it, and if I have to hear the same thing from you again and again then you’ll find yourself out of a job, and Dalek food. You sound like one of them, anyway! Madam President this, Madam President that—why not just cut to the chase and call me Unit 117?”
“Unit 117?” He looked as confused as the Doctor.
“Yes, that was their designation for me, you illiterate peon—”
“My lady,” Braxiatel entreated. So he had returned from his holiday. “Please do not fire Coordinator Vansell, I can’t bear to think of him being replaced.”
Vansell relaxed. “Thank you.”
Of course, there was a catch; this was Braxiatel, after all. “Only because the alternative is so deplorable. Imagine that bore, Narvinectralonum, in charge of the CIA. He’d be possessed before the day was out!”
“I assure you,” said Vansell, “that my agents are perfectly capable.”
“The whole CIA is a waste,” said the Doctor, a political view even more radical to a Gallifreyan than the idea of not owning a kettle was to an Englishman. “We should just destroy the Citadel and start over.”
“Absolutely not!”
“I must not kill my brother,” Braxiatel intoned. “Killing my brother is the brother killer.”
“Since when have you read Dune?” the Doctor said. “Hardly the great literature I would have expected from you. The Great Gatsby, for one, seems more your thing.”
“The first rule of dealing with my brother is that there is no brother,” said Braxiatel. “Unfortunately, he persists.”
“Hello?” Romana said. “Do you mind?”
“Yes, yes, sorry,” the Doctor said. “Well, are you alright, Romana?”
“I was, until the two to you began to talk. None of you will shut up!”
The Doctor mimed zipping his mouth shut. Vansell just stared ahead.
“I just want quiet,” she said heavily. “I want to be left alone. And I want—I would like very much to recover, but I cannot see how I am to do that with you imbeciles sniping at each other constantly. So, if you wish to pacify me, be quiet. Please and thank you. Understood?”
Braxiatel opened his wretched mouth first. “Understood.”
The Doctor smiled. Vansell again said nothing.
Romana slumped backwards. Twenty years of manual labour and torture, stubbornly endured, and now a little talking took the energy out of her.
Pathetic.
Day 7420
“Have you tried getting out of bed at all?” said the Doctor. “It will be difficult, but it may do you some good.”
Eight days in bed was more than enough. Romana sat up, swang her legs round. A burst of pain: she closed her eyes, and breathed deeply. Then she steadied herself, and stood up.
Her knee buckled. The old reliable: the right joint gave out, and she collapsed back onto the mattress.
“I can’t do it,” she said, “I—” She tried to put her weight on the right leg. “It doesn’t work.”
“You walked very well out of Etra Prime. I imagine—”
“I’ll learn to hide the limp?” Romana said.
“No, that you’ll heal with time. All of this will take time, Romana. I am a doctor—”
“I thought you were the Doctor,” Romana said. “The superlative.”
“The original, you might say. But I happen to know a fair bit about medicine, as well. Mostly how to avoid bleeding out on the run, but a little bit of physiotherapy here and there. Lean on me, why don’t you? Then you won’t have to carry all your weight on one dodgy knee.”
“I should—”
“No shoulds,” he said. “What you have is what you have; you must bow to your body, not the other way round. Else you’ll burn yourself out: you did that before, and it’s not recommended.”
“I didn’t burn out, I just passed out.”
“One way or another, it’s never good if I have to carry you around twice in one day.”
“You brought me here, then,” she said.
“No one else was willing to catch you. Oh, Evelyn has the excuse of age, and Vansell has the explanation of being a deplorable entity, but he still could have tried. He did not. Thus, I am here!” He beamed. “And entirely off-duty.”
“I don’t believe saving the universe has a rota.”
“It would certainly make my life easier if it did. Here.” He gently guided her hand to his shoulder. “Now, don’t look at the suit, and when you feel ready, try to stand up.”
Romana readied her left leg, and levered herself up. She did not dare lean on the right leg. “I thought you liked the suit.”
“I do! But not all of us had taste. That’s it, Romana … very good. I’m impressed.”
“There was a time when I was more impressive than you,” she murmured.
“I don’t remember that time. In fact, I’m quite sure it never happened. What I do remember is meeting a young Time Lord of equal wit to me, a long time ago. She was very brave, very bold, occasionally very stupid—and really, what was that shapeless pink outfit about? Newton—marvellous chap—would have been appalled. She went missing for twenty years; but she’s back now, and sooner or later she’ll wreak havoc upon this ridiculous meritocracy. And those soulless toffs will have something to fear—but only when you’re ready. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes,” she said. Her knee wobbled, but it did not give way. Please, please, please… She put down her right leg, and it didn’t quite crumple below her. “I believe in—me. I am—” She took a step forwards, tentative. Her legs held; the Doctor supported her. “I am Romanadvoratrelundar.”
“And you are free.” The Doctor pushed her hair out of her face, tidying it gently. “I’ll believe in you, if no one else will.” He kissed her forehead: tenderness the likes of which she had not known for twenty years or more, a century and counting, an abominably long time since he had just been a goggle-eyed idiot in a long scarf.
She staggered back to the bed and crumpled shamelessly into his arms, warm and safe and coloured like a rainbow had thrown up on him.
I love you.
“I love you too, Romana,” he said, and let her doze off like that, in what for the first time in twenty years genuinely felt like sleep. “I’ll always be there when you need me.”
She closed her eyes, and knew peace.