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They say, as you are dying, your life flashes before your eyes.
Snapshots. Bits and pieces of human memory, the fondest and the worst, splayed out in a vibrant scrapbook as a farewell note to life.
But Sandrone’s sure none of this is anything she’s bore witness to before.
Last she recalled, she was falling, felled by the Doctor’s hand. Last she recalled, everything hurt.
Nothing hurts here.
She can deduce, quickly enough, that none of this is real, for she’d be hissing and writhing at her injuries had any of this taken place in the real world. The irony of her environment adds to it, too. The roof above her is that of a church, and the rainbow sprays of stained-glass shadow shine upon her as she fully comes to, depicting each of the Seven, staring emptily down at her.
Sandrone would never voluntarily enter a place of worship. This is foolishness.
She’s in this creamy-white gown, embroidered and beaded with tiny dots of pale gold, but the fabric is washed a multitude of colours by the vibrant glass reflecting onto the marble. She looks down, and finds herself on the church’s altar; up, and sees naught but darkness.
Above her, the moon is flushed, a striking red, the heavenly tint of a maiden’s blush. A full eclipse.
And then, behind her, she hears a rustle.
She can tell who it is before she even turns around. She knows exactly who those footsteps belong to.
She opens her mouth to shout, on instinct, for she has spent decades screaming this name, and she is unable to say it in any other way.
But then it catches in her throat, and she cannot raise her voice.
“—Columbina,” she starts. It comes out barely a croak.
And then stops, because she does not know what more to say.
Was it all in vain? Did I save her?
—Was it all for nothing?
She swallows down those thoughts, for fear of breaking this almost-eerie peace, and turns to face her.
What surprises her, then, is that Columbina, too, is all in white. It’s not pristine-white like Sandrone’s; it’s mistier, the ever-evolving gray of a late summer sky. Her hooped skirt puffs up around her as she walks, holding the swishy silk in between her elegant fingers. And her face is draped in a veil, pale and calm as moonlight itself.
For the first time in years, her eyes are wide open, milky-violet shining within the darkened space enclosed by the cathedral walls.
She looks, Sandrone thinks deliriously, like a bride.
All in all, it makes Sandrone want to come running over to her and grab her by the shoulders. Shake her, scold her, make sure she’s okay.
But an invisible force keeps her rooted in place, unable to take a single step forward, and by the time Columbina reaches the altar, Sandrone’s still fumbling for words.
Blearily, she finds some, bobbing in the shallows of her roiling mind, and scoops them up before she can make this encounter awkward. The words come tumbling from her mouth in a hasty rush that’s most unlike her.
“Where are we?”
She curses herself inwardly for blurting this out last-minute, but Columbina doesn’t seem to mind.
A smile. Serene, sweet, reassuring.
“You’re dreaming, Sandrone.”
Sandrone stares back, incredulous.
“But—”
Things like her, they don’t dream. There’s no program in her system that allows her to relive memories in the ways humans do; and thus this, obviously, is no memory either.
It is a mirage.
Something borne from mismatched pieces of her mind, from absent-minded wishes, a too-perfect scene, made to comfort her in a time she needs it most.
Her previous sentence is overridden by a quiet realization.
“...I’m dying,” she acknowledges. “Aren’t I?”
"Sandrone..."
Columbina's silence that follows only gives her a cruel confirmation of the truth.
Sandrone’s mouth opens, then closes, at a loss for words.
Now what?
She wasn’t expecting it, but something tears at her heart, the implication that nothing will come after this. That she’s come so close to finding something resembling satisfaction with her life, only to have it snatched out of her hands before she can savour it.
She’d told Alain, once, that she had no wishes for herself. And she doesn’t. Really.
But what she does have, in its stead, are regrets; and one more regret she has to add to the list is this miserable failure of hers.
Her shoulders slouch. She stares at her fiddling hands, and something on it catches the light. Glints, in that red-tinted shadow sweeping over the two of them.
A ring, encrusted with a single ruby, slipped onto her index finger. Depicting the life some part of her so desperately wanted to have.
Something inside her breaks, and she lifts her hand to the light.
“Columbina—”
Her voice trembles in a way she doesn’t like, and dies out.
“You’re sad,” observes Columbina, and that statement is so terrifically stupid it makes Sandrone snap temporarily out of her spell.
“Of course I’m sad, numbskull.” She doesn’t appreciate how it still sounds like she’s about to cry. “I’m dying.”
She half expects her to come up with another non-committal remark in response. Something accidentally off-handed, because she knows Columbina’s not familiar with comfort.
And then she feels it, catching her off guard, wrapped around her waist.
Warmth.
Not engine-heat, generated from artificial cores. True, genuine warmth.
Maybe, a year ago, she would’ve pulled away, appalled at the thought of affection so intimate. Would’ve scorned her and ran off to die alone, because why does an artificial puppet need comfort, anyway?
Now she stands there, feeling as if she’s being sliced apart by needles, and takes it in with no argument. She lets Columbina envelop her in a tight hug, even though it’s just a figment of her imagination.
She hadn’t realized how badly she’d missed being in the girl’s presence.
It’s another two or so minutes before Columbina releases her, and Sandrone has to fight down the swell of disappointment that rises abruptly in her chest. The world feels like it’s falling apart before her very eyes.
“I’m dying,” she mumbles, again, and Columbina places a finger against her lips to contain her before she can spiral further.
“Yes, but then, isn’t it nicer to spend your final dream in happiness, instead of misery?”
Sandrone blinks. It’s not like Columbina to impart to anyone words of wisdom.
Then again, it isn’t really her anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. She can only manage a hollow laugh in response.
She tries not to sound too angry. The attempt is ineffective.
“It’s so… not fair.”
Columbina doesn’t say anything, but Sandrone feels a hand give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. It does little to quell the frustration boiling inside her.
“I would have killed him for you,” she snaps, balling her hands into fists. She paces the altar, the light splitting around her cheeks alongside her motions. If it weren’t for that gods-damned scientist and his stupid ambitious experiment, she’d be home right now. Home, sitting for a tea party with the rest of her colleagues, instead of dead in pieces on some battlefield. “I was going to kill him.”
Columbina smiles. Faintly.
“I know.”
But knowing is hardly enough, is it, when he’s still out there at large and all she did was get in the way, get herself killed like the idiot she is.
“And I couldn’t,” she mumbles, face ashen.
Something is brimming inside her, and this time, she doesn’t have the energy to shove it down.
She’s so stupid.
No failsafe, no anything.
She’ll never know if her sacrifice was in vain. If the Doctor’s already won, and all this is just pointless, wishful thinking.
“They’ll be alright,” soothes Columbina, leaning in close and resting her chin on Sandrone’s quivering shoulders. “Don’t think too much of it now, Sandrone.”
“You don’t know that.”
It is her fault. That, she cannot change. She can only hope the others fight on in her absence.
She is trapped here, in the momentary space that’s a prelude to her death, while the rest of the world marches on forward, attempting to cover up for her foolish mistake.
“Do you want to talk?” offers Columbina. “If there is anything you’ve got left to tell me.”
Sandrone shakes her head. She doesn’t think she’d be able to say anything at all, even now.
And she’s never been good with long speeches, anyway. She always ends up blurting out things she doesn’t mean to say.
She never got to tell the real Columbina how much she meant to her. That’s another thing she’ll regret forever.
But she doesn’t have a lot of time left. A few minutes, at best. She can see the edges of the dream beginning to cave in, crimson moonlight waning into sunset orange, an eclipse drawing to a close.
That, Sandrone knows, is her sign to say her final goodbyes.
“Columbina,” she starts again, and lifts a hand to her veil. It’s lighter than she expected, with the consistency of cobwebs, and she tucks it aside with ease to reveal Columbina in all her soft, angelic glory.
This time, her voice is steady.
So they go through the motions, hands in each other’s, like they’re getting married.
Sandrone lifts her head up. Offers her a tentative, anxious smile most unbefitting of her, and recites the beginnings to a vow in her mind.
She doesn’t need to say it. She knows.
I, Sandrone, take you, Columbina—
Columbina smiles back, twining their fingers together. An identical amber ring glows on her finger.
—to be my partner—
And the concept of being tied to anyone would’ve been laughable to Sandrone, once, but right now, she looks at Columbina with such solemnity that even she’s surprised by herself.
—to have and to hold from this day forward—
And there’s nothing ahead of them, Sandrone knows this much, but maybe, just this once, she can play pretend.
—for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer—
Maybe. In another timeline, one that’s better, kinder, where they’re not thrust into these kinds of life-threatening situations, where she’s well and alive and free to do whatever she wants. Where she’s maybe a normal mechanic, or a researcher, and Columbina’s an ordinary mortal too, and they can live together, age together, die as one.
—in sickness and in health—
And isn’t it ironic, because she’s in bits and pieces in the real world, with her engine broken, and she can sense the foreboding sweeping over her, the walls of the cathedral collapsing into shadow; she doesn’t even know how Columbina’s doing out there, just that she’s alive, somewhere, their sole hope for salvation.
Everything crumbles. Sandrone doesn’t move to stop it.
She leans in. It’s instinct by now. The scent of strawberries and moonflowers is ever-familiar. She takes it in like it’s what sustains her, hoping to go down awash in the comforting smell that emanates from her Columbina.
Their lips meet,
—until death do us part.
in the most chaste of kisses, anxious, unpracticed, but devoted all the same.
And as the moon’s red seeps away, fading to dusty white, she lets the moonlight scoop her up and fold her into its waiting arms.