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Somewhere in the Highlands, 17th century
The fire snapped and hissed in the stone hearth, throwing wild shadows across a low-beamed ceiling. The smell of peat and heather and distant smoke clung to everything, thick as memory. Outside, the wind prowled around the cottage, pressing at the shutters like a creature that wanted in. Inside, the children leaned forward on the rush-covered floor, eyes wide, mouths already open in silent anticipation.
“Tell us a story, Nana Ailis,” whispered a small boy.
The old woman, wrapped in a wool blanket, stared into the flames. The firelight carved deep lines in her face, and in her eyes glimmered that far-off look of someone remembering something that shouldn’t be remembered.
“All Hallows’ Eve,” she murmured. “Aye, the night when the veil’s thin as a cobweb.” She rocked gently in her chair. “Which tale, then? We’ve a good many ghosts in these hills. The one wi’ the pale crow? Or the one that danced in the storm?”
“The real one,” said the smallest child. “The one wi’ the witch.”
Nana smiled, slow and secret. “Aye. Thought so.” She poked at the logs until sparks leapt like startled fireflies.
“She came out o’ the woods one autumn evening, much like this one. The air was sharp wi’ frost, the moon a sickle, the fields already whisperin’ o’ winter. She wore a coat blue as twilight. Said nothing. Just walked into the square as though she’d always belonged there.”
The children edged closer. Even the wind seemed to hush, listening.
“They called her foreign. Called her odd. Cursed, even. But still they went to her — for herbs, for dreams, for answers they dared not ask the priest. Some say she healed a blind man wi’ nothing but her hands. Some say she spoke to foxes, and they answered in kind. Others swear she found a lost bairn by singing to the stars.”
The fire popped. One of the children flinched.
“But I’ll tell ye what made her dangerous,” Nana said softly. “It wasn’t her herbs, nor her songs. It was the way she looked at men — like their shouting meant nothing. Like she could see straight through them. And that’s a kind o’ power no man forgives.”
She leaned closer to the fire, her voice dropping to a whisper. “They came for her, of course. Men wi’ fire in their mouths and ash in their hearts. They held a trial. Tied her to the stake. Right in that square where they sell onions now.”
A gust rattled the shutters. The flames sputtered.
“But the fire,” said Nana, “wouldn’t take.”
The children gasped. The old woman smiled, faint and knowing.
“They say the ropes burned off her like spider’s silk. That the flames curled round her like they were her pets. And when the smoke cleared, she was gone. Just a blue ribbon left behind.”
She settled back, eyes far away. “So, if ever ye hear your name whispered in the trees on a night like this, don’t answer, unless ye’ve a story worth telling.”
The wind sighed through the thatch. Somewhere beyond the shuttered windows, a fox barked once, sharp and clear.
Nana lifted her mug, as though toasting the unseen.
“Now, off to bed wi’ the lot of ye,” she said. “Before the witch in the blue coat comes askin’ why ye’re still awake.”
Thirty-four years before that story was told…
The TARDIS didn’t land with its usual wheezing roar but with something softer - almost a sigh. The sound drifted away into the quiet like breath on glass.
Autumn had gripped the Scottish Highlands: the heather had faded, the bracken was rusty and gold. The air had that sharp taste of late October: damp, but expectant. And yet somehow, impossibly, a carpet of bluebells had forced its way up through the cold earth. Their colour shimmered faintly in the weak morning light.
Donna stepped out first, squinting against the pale sky, tugging her blue coat tighter around her. It looked too bright in that landscape, the colour almost too alive against the browns of autumn.
She knelt and brushed her fingers across a cluster of bluebell petals. They were ice-cold but alive, trembling as if with a pulse.
“You said you were taking me to see the spring heather.” she asked. “Did Scotland decide to skip the calendar? Or did you?”
The Doctor crouched beside her, running his hand through the frost-rimmed grass. His face shifted, curiosity turning into unease. “This feels… unsettled,” he muttered. “Like the air’s trying to remember something.”
Donna straightened, folding her arms. “Ominous,” she said, half to herself.
A breeze wandered through the trees, carrying the smell of woodsmoke and something older - peat, herbs, and that faint electric trace of rain that hadn’t yet fallen. From somewhere far off came the sound of a bell tolling, slow and hollow.
They followed a path down into the valley, and a village revealed itself by degrees: a scatter of stone cottages crouched against the wind, thin threads of chimney smoke curling up into the pale sky.
As they drew closer, the news of their arrival had clearly carried. Curtains twitched. Doors half opened, then closed again.
“Charming lot,” Donna muttered.
The Doctor tilted his head. “Superstition. See the crosses over the lintels? Sprigs of rowan, bunches of thyme. Protective charms. They’re frightened of something.”
“Aye,” came a voice from a doorway. An old man, gnarled as the lintel he leaned on, watched them with clouded eyes. “Aye, we’ve reason right enough. Ye’ll no’ be stayin’ long, strangers.”
The Doctor smiled his disarming smile. “Oh, we’re just passing through. Lovely weather for it.”
The man spat into the mud. “Ye’ll not find it so lovely when she takes notice.”
Donna blinked. “She?”
“The witch,” he said flatly. “The one in blue. Comes from the woods. Seen her myself, once, by the river. Coat the colour o’ twilight, hair like fire. The beasts go quiet when she passes.”
The Doctor’s gaze sharpened. “And when was this?”
The man shook his head, already retreating. “Too long ago. Or no’ long enough. She’s made time turn on itself, that one. Best no’ speak her name after dark.”
The door slammed shut with a finality that brooked no argument.
By the time they reached the village green, the wind had teeth. Smoke rose from chimneys, and no one smiled.
At the square’s centre stood an old well, its stones slick with moss. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the wooden frame above it, swaying faintly in the wind like charms.
Carved into one of the stones, half hidden beneath the moss, was a short sentence.
Donna crouched, brushing away the damp green veil. The letters glistened as though freshly carved.
Her stomach turned over. “Doctor…”
He was already kneeling beside her, the sonic’s hum a quiet pulse in the heavy air. The letters shimmered faintly under the scan.
He met her eyes, and whispered in a low voice, “Do you recognise it?”
Donna nodded. “It’s a line I wrote once. A bit of poetry, daft really. ‘The fire bends for those that need it.’ “.
She swallowed.
“But I never showed it to anyone.”
For a moment, even the wind seemed to hold its breath. The words sounded wrong here, half prayer, half prophecy.
The Doctor exhaled slowly. “You’re quite something, Donna. You’re never just in the story,” he said. “You write it. Or…” He glanced toward the bluebells trembling beyond the square, at the strange shimmer in the air. “…you will.”
A shiver chased down Donna’s spine. The world felt too still, as if the sky itself were waiting to see what she’d do next. She forced a smile, trying to shake it off. “Brilliant. Bet they’ll blame my hair for the chill in the air next.”
The Doctor blinked, halfway between a grin and a wince. “Well… Redheads have been accused of worse.”
They started walking again, the joke hanging thin and nervous in the frost. Every doorway seemed to breathe, every shutter a watching eye. Every whisper they passed caught her name and twisted it into something else.
They stopped outside a lopsided timber building hunched against the wind. Its sign - a crude painting of a stag - swung on one hinge, creaking in protest. From inside came the low drone of voices, the thump of a tankard on wood, a dog’s bark abruptly silenced.
“Local pub,” said Donna. “Always a good place to start. Gossip and drinks.”
The Doctor grinned faintly. “And trouble.”
The door gave way with a reluctant groan, spilling heat and noise into the chill street. For a moment the rush of warmth - the glow of firelight, the smell of roasting meat - felt almost welcoming, but underneath came the sharper scents of the 17th century: sour ale, damp wool, sweat, and smoke thick as fog.
Inside, the ceiling beams were low enough to threaten the Doctor’s hair. The crowd was packed close to the hearth, and conversation dulled as they stepped in. A dozen pairs of eyes turned their way, and Donna felt them linger on her hair - the copper gleam catching the flames like a spark.
The Doctor headed to the bar, ordering something that hissed faintly and smelled of despair. Donna stood awkwardly, trying not to fidget under the scrutiny.
At the far table, an old woman leaned toward her neighbour, voice like dry leaves. “Red hair,” she hissed. “Mark of the cursed.”
Donna rolled her eyes. “Oh brilliant, that old chestnut.”
Then a man lurched to his feet, face flushed with drink and fear. His voice squeaked as he shouted “Witch!”
The word cut through the room. For a heartbeat, everything and everyone went quiet.
Donna opened her mouth to protest, but the Doctor’s hand closed around her arm, firm and quieting.
The man jabbed a fearful, trembling finger at her. “The witch of the blue coat! Of the fire that bends! She’s come back!”
Murmurs swelled. Someone crossed themselves. Another spat over his shoulder.
The Doctor’s tone went low, edged with steel. “That’s enough. She’s not a witch, she’s…”
“She’s marked!” the man barked. “Hair like flame, coat like sky. It’s her, I swear it!”
The innkeeper slammed a mug down hard enough to crack the handle. “Out, both of you. Before the witch-finders are called.”
The Doctor moved fast, in a blur of charm, apology, and long coat, steering Donna expertly toward the door. The roar of voices followed them into the night, cut off only when the door slammed shut.
The cold air hit like water. Donna stood in the street, chest heaving. “Witch, Doctor. They shouted witch at me. That’s your cue to say something clever.”
He didn’t. He was already scanning the air with the sonic, its blue light sliding over cobbles slick with frost.
“Residual temporal energy everywhere, bleeding into local perception,” he muttered. “They’re remembering you before they meet you, which is… impressive, terrifying, bit of both. Future stories leaking backwards. Love it when time gets dramatic.”
“Oh, brilliant.” Donna blew out a breath. “Now I’m famous for something I haven’t even done yet.”
From a shadowed doorway, a small voice piped up. “Ye are her, then.”
Donna turned. A girl stood there, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, a shawl wrapped tightly around her. Her dark curls were tangled, but under them, her eyes were steady, curious and held absolutely no fear.
The Doctor took a step closer, his tone gentle. “And who might you be, eh?”
“Ailis,” she said. “Folk say she’ll come back. The witch, the woman in the blue coat. I dreamed of her last night. She was standin’ in the fire, and the flames bowed like dancers, just like in the tales.”
Donna felt her stomach drop. “That’s… specific.”
Ailis smiled, shy but certain. “Ye shouldna be afraid. She didna burn. She went intae the sky.”
Donna gave the Doctor a look - half exasperation, half disbelief. Oh, brilliant, here we go again.
He offered a sheepish shrug, and that faint, guilty smile of someone who’s seen this pattern too many times and still can’t explain why.
A shout split the night. Then a bell began to ring at the edge of the square, urgent and metallic.
The Doctor straightened. “Right. I do believe that’s our cue to run, Donna.”
They ducked into an alley, breath fogging the air. Behind them, shouts swelled, panic racing ahead of reason, and the coming of the witch was already spreading like fire through dry grass.
They didn’t stop until the shouts and bells had faded to a distant echo.
The Doctor pulled Donna into the shelter of a half-ruined barn, its roof caved in, and hay strewn like old gold across the floor. The air smelled of smoke, wet wood, and sweet apples.
“Doctor,” Donna huffed, “tell me I’m not the witch they’re all talking about.”
He gave her a grim smile. “You want the truth?”
“Not really.”
“Then no,” he said. “You’re not the witch.”
Donna leaned against a beam, catching her breath. “You know, next time you say ‘we blend in,’ maybe don’t pick a century that doesn’t like redheads.”
The Doctor was already pacing, scanning the shadows with the sonic. Its hum flickered blue against the barn walls. “This isn’t ordinary paranoia, this is... this is wrong. The temporal field’s thickening, like someone’s taken a razor to reality. Thin, yes, but sharp - oh, very sharp.”
He turned the sonic toward Donna; the blue light jittered across the barn wall. “And yep, it’s latched on to you. Brilliant. Because of course it has. The universe has taste.” He paused. “You know, I’ve never actually landed in Scotland for Samhain - oh, clever bit of timing that! Maybe it really is that whole ‘veil is weak tonight’ thing.” He flicked his fingers in exaggerated air-quotes.
Donna gave a short laugh. “Oh. The one night a year the universe does fancy dress, and I’ve shown up as the witch.”
Before he could answer, the barn door slammed open, and Ailis stumbled in, cheeks streaked with tears, breath coming in ragged bursts.
They’ve gone tae the woods!” she gasped. “All o’ them - the men - with torches. They’re sayin’ Iain’s gone missin’. They say the witch took him. But I know she didna. Ye didna.
Donna knelt beside her. “Who’s Iain?”
“My friend,” the girl whispered. “He went lookin’ for conkers. By the bluebell patch.”
The Doctor’s expression sharpened. “The bluebell patch. Where we landed. That’s where the time-fracture’s strongest.” He pocketed the sonic. “If they find him first, they’ll blame you, Donna. If we find him first… well.”
“We save him,” she finished.
He nodded once. “Exactly. Save the boy, save the legend, rewrite as little of history as possible. Easy.”
They moved fast, Ailis leading them through lanes slick with fallen leaves. Smoke from the village bonfires blurred the stars. The air was thick with whispers, fear running ahead of them like wildfire.
When they reached the bluebell patch, the moon was a thin blade above the trees. Frost glazed the petals, and where the moonlight touched them, they shivered like tiny mirrors.
Ailis called out, “Iain!” Her voice cracked through the quiet of the clearing, but no reply came, only the sigh of the wind.
The Doctor swung the TARDIS door open. “Better sensors than my sonic,” he muttered, darting inside. Ailis hesitated at the threshold, eyes wide at the impossible light spilling from within.
The sound deepened into a low harmonic thrumming, like the first note of a song too vast for human lungs.
Around the clearing, the bluebells quivered, their frost-tipped petals catching the vibration until each one shimmered with its own faint glow.
The light spilled higher, striking the thin veil of smoke above the trees, drifted over from the village hearths. The glow of the bluebells and the TARDIS refracted upward, and threads of blue weaved through the night until the clouds themselves seemed to hum. To anyone watching from the valley, it would look as though the stars had descended to answer a call.
Ailis whispered, “It’s like the stars are singin’ back.”
Outside, Donna shaded her eyes. “Doctor, you’re lighting up half of Scotland!”
“Got him!” he shouted over the wind. “North, and not far. He’s alive. Probably terrified, but alive - that’s a start.”
They found the boy half-hidden beneath an uprooted tree, shivering, eyes wide. He looked up at Donna as though he’d known her forever.
“Are ye the lady from the fire?” he whispered. “Were ye singin’ tae the stars just now?”
Donna froze. “No, love, I’m just here to get you home.”
The air around them still shimmered faintly blue, like heat over stone.
Ailis clutched Donna’s hand. “They’ll think ye did magic.”
“Maybe we did,” Donna said grimly. She wrapped her coat around the boy and helped him up. “Let’s get you back home to your folks, eh?”
They stumbled out of the bluebell wood, their breath puffing out in small white clouds, and mud clinging to their shoes.
Ahead, the torches were gathering - dozens of them, bobbing like angry stars.
Then came the sound of hooves. A single rider broke from the darkness, the horse’s eyes wild, its flanks steaming.
“By order of Church and Crown,” the rider bellowed, “bind the witch and bring her before the Lord’s judgment!”
The villagers fell silent as the man dismounted. His cloak was black and rain-streaked, his boots too polished to be sullied by any local mud. A broad-brimmed hat shadowed a narrow, hungry face; a gleaming cross hung at his throat like a weapon.
The Doctor’s jaw tightened. “Ah,” he said. “That’ll be the witch-finder.”
Donna set the boy down gently. “And I suppose he’s not just about finding witches, right?”
“No,” the Doctor said softly. “He’s the sort that will set fire to what they doesn’t understand.”
The witch-finder swept off his hat with theatrical precision, revealing sharp eyes and a smile that didn’t belong anywhere near mercy. “Malachy Broon, Witch-Pricker to His Majesty’s service. And you,” - he pointed a slender rod at Donna, “must be the famous Lady of Fire. You’ve been most inconsiderate, appearing without a proper introduction.”
“Malachy Broon?” the Doctor echoed. “Oh, splendid. Sounds like someone who files complaints in triplicate.”
Donna folded her arms. “Sorry, advance notices of my arrival must’ve gone up in smoke.”
Broon blinked, momentarily wrong-footed. “She jests?” he demanded, incredulous.
The Doctor stepped forward, hands in pockets, calm as a cat. “Oh, yeah, she does that. It’s what we call wit. You might try it. Less messy than witch-burning.”
A ripple of uneasy laughter ran through the watching villagers; Broon silenced it with a glare.
“Seize her,” he snapped. “Before she speaks more blasphemy and turns your ears to serpents!”
Two men moved hesitantly forward, ropes in hand.
“Now hold on just a second,” the Doctor said, tone sharpening. “No one’s getting seized or burned tonight. Let’s all take a deep breath. Preferably not the smoky kind.”
Broon fixed him with a cold smile. “You travel with her, stranger?”
“I do.”
“Then you share her damnation.”
Donna groaned. “Now it’s damnation.”
The Doctor’s mouth twitched. “Not yet, it isn’t.”
But even as he spoke, the bluebells at the forest’s edge began to glow again, ghost-light rippling through their petals. The torches flickered uncertainly, smoke twisting upward into strange shapes.
Broon’s eyes widened. “Behold! The Devil’s glamour!”
“That’s not the Devil. That’s my TARDIS ….”
The witch-finder lifted his face to the wind. “The heavens themselves bear witness! Bind the witch!”
Thunder rolled across the sky.
They were locked up in the church crypt.
The little window high above showed a sliver of moon tangled in bare branches. From somewhere distant came the muffled roar of the villagers - torches, drums, the sound of fear.
Donna sat on the cold step, arms wrapped around herself.
The Doctor leaned against the opposite wall, studying the mildew patterns like a man trying to read the universe from rot and stone. The blue glow of the sonic flickered once, then faded.
“So,” Donna said at last, her voice echoing softly in the gloom. “Any chance we can sonic our way out before they decide to have a bonfire in my honour?”
He didn’t answer straight away. When he did, his tone was quiet. “Probably,” he said softly. “Oh, in a heartbeat. But it won’t matter. Not this time.”
She frowned. “Excuse me?”
“See, I think that this - this is a fixed point, Donna. The fire, the legend, you. You’re supposed to walk through it. You already have. That’s how history remembers it. If we break that, if I save you the wrong way, history comes apart at the seams.”
Donna stared at him. “You’re saying I’ve got to actually do it? Stand in a fire because the universe has - will have - oh, gosh, time travel - has a good memory?”
He gave a small, pained laugh. “I’m saying,” he rubbed a hand through his hair, words tripping over one another, “time here isn’t linear, it’s… folding. Like paper, or like a song stuck on repeat. You were always going to be the witch who didn’t burn. The story has already happened, just waiting to catch up. Even the bluebells - out of season, out of sense, it’s the world trying to correct its own tale.”
She let out a slow breath. “Great. So the universe is writing a story about me.”
“It’s writing myth, Donna. And myths, oh, they’re stubborn. They dig their heels in and dare you to blink first.”
Silence settled again, broken only by the steady drip of water from the ceiling.
Donna looked up at him. “You’ve seen this before, haven’t you? People trapped in stories.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “And the ones who make it through, they’re always the ones who take control of their own story.”
Donna managed a grin, brittle but brave. “Well, I do like being the main character.”
He huffed a laugh. “That’s the spirit.”
For a long moment they just sat there. The Doctor with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, Donna staring at the flicker of candlelight across the damp stone.
Then she said, very quietly, “You’ll make it safe, won’t you?”
He didn’t look at her when he answered. “I’ll try.”
And the candle guttered, as if even the flame wasn’t sure.
Night had folded over the village, all smoke and whispers.
A soft scuffing came from outside the crypt door, followed by the long, low creak of hinges.
Donna stirred from a half-dream, heart thudding, as the Doctor lifted his head, sonic already in hand, eyes sharp.
The door eased open, and a thin shape slipped through: Ailis, clutching a bundle in her arms. Beside her, Iain hovered, wide-eyed, his breath a pale cloud in the chill.
Donna’s breath caught. “Sweetheart, what are you doing here? If they find you…”
Ailis shook her head fiercely. “Nae one saw us.”
She unwrapped the bundle: a hunk of bread, a little jug of cider, a strip of blue ribbon. “For luck,” she whispered. “It’s the colour she wears. The witch who doesnae burn.”
Donna took it slowly, feeling the coarse weave between her fingers. “You shouldn’t believe everything they say, love.”
Iain stepped closer, voice trembling. “But ye did find me. Ye called the stars, an’ they showed ye where I was. That’s what I told folk.”
Donna looked helplessly at the Doctor.
He crouched beside the children, voice gentle. “Sometimes, stories get mixed up with truth, and it’s hard to see where one ends. But you remember this, she helped you. She’s a good person. The best. Whatever they say tomorrow, you hold on to that.”
Ailis’ eyes were bright, reflecting the candle flame. “Ye’ll come back, will ye no? After the fire?”
Donna forced a smile. “Course I will. Someone’s got to keep you out of trouble.”
From outside came the thud of boots on stone, the ring of hammers on wood.
The Doctor turned to the children, his voice low but urgent. “Go. Quietly now. And thank you, for the food.”
Ailis hesitated, then pressed the blue ribbon into Donna’s hand. “For luck,” she whispered again.
The door closed behind them with the softest click.
For a long moment, only the candle’s sigh filled the crypt. Then Donna looked down at the ribbon, running her thumb over the weave.
“Guess I am to be the witch who doesn’t burn,” she said quietly.
The Doctor didn’t answer. He only looked at her - eyes bright, jaw set - as the faint smell of smoke drifted down through the cracks in the ceiling.
The first grey of dawn was seeping into the cracks of the crypt, that colourless light that doesn’t belong to night or morning.
Somewhere above, the shouts began. Wood clattered against wood, ropes strained and tightened, and the sharp report of hammer on stake rang through the stones. Another crash. A scrape of metal on stone. Someone screamed, “She’s cursing us! Even locked up she curses us!”
“They’re afraid,” the Doctor said quietly. “And fear’s faster than reason. Especially if it concerns witchcraft.”
Wood scraped against the floor, and the crypt door swung open.
Lantern light spilled across the damp stone, and Malachy Broon stepped inside. Without his horse and the wind at his back, he seemed smaller now - compact, self-important, a man whose power came from other people’s fear. His boots clicked sharply on the ground, each step an announcement.
“Ahhh, Malachy!” the Doctor said brightly, arms flung wide in mock greeting. “Let me guess. You ride in like thunder, fire in your mouth, righteousness in your wake, that whole routine memorized for maximum drama, yeah?”
Broon blinked once, and his expression shifted - not into confusion, but irritation. The kind that comes from being laughed at in a room where you expect to be feared. His mouth curved, tight and humourless, as he turned his attention to Donna.
“I’ve heard of you, woman.” He stepped closer, the smell of wet leather and horse clinging to him like a second skin. “The herb-witch. The moonwalker. The one who didn’t flinch when men shouted. The one who looked at a magistrate like he was a commoner.”
Donna stood, chin held high. “You’ve got a flair for gossip, I’ll give you that.”
“You do not run,” Broon said softly, almost to himself. “You will invite me to tea. And the town will hold its breath when I come out pale and silent.”
The Doctor frowned. “Wait - how…?”
Broon turned toward him, eyes bright in the lantern’s glow. “Because I’ve dreamt it. So often, that same dream - a woman in a blue coat, standing in fire, looking at me as if I were the one on trial.”
Donna swallowed. “So, this is déjà vu for you.”
The witchfinder’s voice hardened. “Call it prophecy. Call it fate. Either way, I mean to end it.”
He gestured, and two guards stepped forward. “Bring her to the square at dawn. If she is innocent, the flames will show mercy. If not…” His smile was thin and sharp. “Well.”
“Oi!” the Doctor snapped, stepping in front of Donna. “Try facts for once. Wrong woman, wrong time, wrong everything.”
Broon barely looked at him. “You’re a man. Therefore harmless. You may keep your life.”
Both the Doctor’s eyebrows shot up, and Donna’s followed a heartbeat later. “Harmless,” the Doctor echoed under his breath, eyes flashing. “Well, that’s new.”
Broon turned on his heel. “But hers is forfeit to truth.”
The guards seized Donna’s arms. She didn’t fight. She lifted her chin and met the Doctor’s eyes.
“All right, spaceman,” she said, voice steady but soft. “Looks like the fire is waiting for me.”
“Trust me,” he began, “I’ll think of something. I won’t let you-”
The door slammed shut, cutting him off.
The candle guttered in the draft, and the Doctor stood alone in the half-dark, listening to the faint, rhythmic hammering from above. For a moment he didn’t move. Then he drew a slow breath, turned toward the crypt door, and walked out.
Dawn had not yet burned the mist away, and the world felt half-dreamt - breath steaming, frost glittering on grass. And yet, the square was already crowded. A makeshift table had been dragged to the centre - Broon’s “tribunal.” His instruments gleamed on the boards: a needle, a shallow bowl of water, a quill for recording damnation.
Donna stood between two guards, wrists bound, the blue coat bright against the grey morning.
“By the authority of Church and Crown,” Broon declared, “we seek proof of the witch’s mark and the Devil’s covenant.”
Donna looked from the needle to Broon and back again. “You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s your test? A fancy pin and a puddle?”
Broon ignored her. “The witch’s flesh will not bleed when pricked by holy steel.” He gestured to the crowd. “Witness! For truth fears no blade.”
The man with the needle approached, hands shaking. Donna held out her arm. “Go on then, let’s get this over with. I’d ask you for a band-aid, but I’m guessing they haven’t been invented yet.”
The point touched her skin. A bead of blood welled instantly.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Broon frowned. “The Devil deceives! The mark hides elsewhere.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Donna snapped. “Pick a spot, any spot! It’s biology, love. It’s how bodies work.”
Murmurs spread – and doubt, thin but real, moved through the villagers. Broon saw it and slammed his hand on the table. “She mocks God with her tongue! Bind her! We’ll see if fire tells a truer tale.”
The Doctor tore across the green, coat snapping behind him, boots skidding on the frost. He dropped to his knees beside the stacked wood, half-hidden from the square, rummaging through his pockets like a man searching for the universe’s spare parts.
“Thermal refraction field,” he muttered, crouching lower. “Bend the heat, twist the photons, hope the universe is in a cooperative mood. Easy!”
He jammed the copper wire into the damp earth. Sparks leapt, the air sharp with ozone.
“Come on, come on… just a bit of quantum resonance—there!—and a smidge of sympathetic particle alignment... typical Tuesday!”
Sparks danced between the circuits, a faint blue shimmer spreading through the woodpile.
He glanced toward the village, hearing the crowd’s unease gathering like thunder.
“No pressure,” he said through gritted teeth. “Just rewriting myth, defying thermodynamics, and possibly inventing spontaneous sainthood. Allons-y.”
Back in the square, Broon was circling Donna like a carrion bird. “You stand accused of consorting with unclean spirits,” he intoned. “Confess, and the flames may spare your soul.”
Donna straightened, shoulders back, chin high, the ropes biting into her wrists. “You’re serious? You actually believe your own nonsense?”
His eyes narrowed. “You will confess.”
“Fine,” she shot back. “I confess I’m freezing, hungry, and I’ve had about enough of men with sticks telling me what the universe wants.”
The crowd was half scandalised, half in awe.
Broon’s mouth tightened. He raised his hand. “Then the fire will speak for you.”
The Doctor snapped the final wire into place. Sparks spat where copper met damp earth, the air sharp again with ozone.
The crystal flared, sending a thin pulse of blue light up through the centre pole. It climbed the wood in a trembling ribbon, then rippled outward - barely visible, like heat over stone, but spreading all the same.
He wiped a trembling hand across his face. “That’s it,” he whispered. “Come on, now Donna. Your turn. Hold it together.”
They took Donna to the pyre.
The villagers pressed close, faces flickering in the torchlight, eyes wide with a hunger that wasn’t quite faith. Overhead, the mist clouds hung low and bruised, heavy with rain that refused to fall.
Next to it stood Malachy Broon, his cloak snapping like a banner. “Let the fire cleanse her,” he intoned. “If she be pure, the flames will turn aside.”
Donna stood tall, unbound but surrounded. The blue coat hung steady against the wind, its edges glimmering where the torchlight caught the worn velvet. Ailis’ ribbon was still tied round her wrist, bright as defiance.
Hidden beyond the crowd, the Doctor crouched beside a stack of barrels, breath misting in the cold.
Donna searched the crowd, eyes stinging from the smoke, desperate for a glimpse of him. And then she saw him, half-hidden beyond the barrels, coat catching the wind, eyes fierce and bright even through the haze.
He lifted a hand, the smallest of gestures, maybe a wave, maybe a thumbs-up, and she almost laughed, because of course it came down to this: blind faith in a man with too many pockets. She couldn’t hear his voice, but she knew what he’d be saying. All right, Donna Noble, you magnificent human. Trust me.
Then the torches lowered.
The fire kissed the kindling.
Smoke coiled upward, slow and uncertain, before the world exhaled in flame.
“Spaceman, if you’ve got this wrong,” Donna whispered. “I swear I’ll come back and haunt you forever.”
The pyre roared. The crowd gasped as the first tongues of flame reached for her. The heat shimmered around her, wild and invisible. The flames flickered higher, clawing for the sky.
“Come on, come on, you beautiful bit of physics,” the Doctor muttered. “Hold steady. Keep her safe. Don’t you dare give out on me now.”
Donna felt it then: a coolness creeping over her skin, like a veil of silk drawn from crown to heel. The air thickened with colour - blue and gold bleeding through the smoke, in hues that had no name.
And inside that impossible calm, just at the edge of her vision, faint letters flickered: RUN AT THE MARKER COUNTDOWN. THEY WON’T SEE YOU.
Her breath caught. “Oh, clever man,” she whispered.
The ropes turned to ash before they touched the ground. Flames surged, haloing her in light but never burning. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and wild herbs.
She lifted her chin and trusted the impossible.
Three…
Two…
The light folded inward, silent as a held breath.
One.
It burst outwards, bright and brief as a dying star.
When the smoke cleared, the pyre was empty.
No body.
No ash.
Only a single scrap of blue cloth, drifting down through the thinning air like a feather. It landed on the charred wood and curled softly in the breeze, still warm, still impossibly whole.
A hush fell. Even the wind held its breath.
Malachy Broon sank to his knees, mumbling prayers that sounded too much like apologies. The villagers stared, uncertain whether to cheer or flee.
At the edge of the square, Ailis clutched her blue ribbon tight against her heart. She had seen it all - the fire that bowed, the woman who walked through it, defying the men.
The wind rose and caught the fallen scrap of blue cloth, carrying it toward the dark hills. It danced on the air, a whisper of colour against the dawn, carrying the scent of smoke and stories yet to be told.
The TARDIS hummed softly, a heartbeat of home.
Outside her doors, the storm of centuries had passed. Inside, the air smelled of cocoa, ozone, and the faint singe of circuits that had been pushed just past their comfort zone.
Donna sat on the jump seat, both hands wrapped around a mug. The steam fogged her fringe. “Next time,” she said, “I pick the century. Preferably one without witch trials.”
The Doctor’s legs stuck out from under the console, a sprawl of coat and wires. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Oh, I am grateful,” Donna said. “That I'm not crispy. Which, apparently, was the plan B.”
He wriggled out, face streaked with soot and triumph. “Worked, though. Fire bent, legend fulfilled, not a blister on you.”
“Miracle of science and stupidity,” she said dryly, taking another sip. “So tell me, should I dye my hair? Might stop people calling me a witch.”
He blinked. “Dye it? Why on Earth would you? Red hair’s brilliant! Always wanted to be ginger myself.”
She gave him a look. “Yeah, well, next time you can do a trial by fire.”
He grinned, leaning against the railing. “Deal. Though I think the flames would lose interest halfway up.”
Donna snorted into her cocoa.
He chuckled. “You were brilliant, Donna. Brave. Clever. Very nearly terrifying. They’ll be telling stories about you for centuries,” he said, softer now, “The Witch Who Didn’t Burn.”
She nudged his shoulder. “Still, next time, let’s find a story that doesn’t involve anyone catching fire, yeah?”
He tilted his head, a spark of mischief returning. “Somewhere with beaches. Palm trees. Absolutely no witchfinders.”
“And cocoa on tap,” she said firmly.
He flicked a switch. The TARDIS shuddered, lights dimming to gold. “Cocoa dispenser, third panel on the left.”
Donna blinked. “You’re joking.”
He wasn’t. A quiet whirr, and another mug appeared, perfectly steaming.
She burst out laughing. “All right, spaceman. Maybe you are a genius after all.”
The Doctor lifted his mug in salute. “To the witch who didn’t burn.”
Donna clinked hers against his. “To the idiot who made it happen.”
The time rotor pulsed, deep and steady, carrying them back into the stars.
And somewhere in history, an old woman by a hearth began a story about a woman in a blue coat, and the fire that bowed to her.
END