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The TARDIS was quiet. In the control room, the wooden floor and towering beams were bathed in the same blue light, the haze rippling as the time rotor rose and fell. The motions at the heart of the dais, steady like breathing, grated faintly against the mechanisms within the console. They were the only disturbance in the silence. A thin film of dust had settled in as the sole presence in the room; leather-bound volumes of literature remained untouched on their shelves, insubstantial in the gloomy corners of the room made darker by the unlit candles. The TARDIS was quiet, but not unoccupied.
Deep within the vessel, at the end of a snaking maze of stone corridors, an imposing door loomed tall in its ancient frame. Both metallic ring handles adorning its front had grown stiff and rusty, withering like the space around them in the thrall of sprawling cobwebs; the flames of every sconce on the walls had dwindled to sputter impotent flickers upon the crumbling masonry. The sealed door, keeping its vigil, remained unlit, the chamber beyond unseen, the body within unharmed and unchanged for the fourth consecutive day.
Once a pleasant colonnade animated by sprawling ivy and artificial sunlight, the cloister room now stood as a vast cathedral, its simulated breeze surrendering to ambient echoes from impossible places, its open ceiling replaced by a glass dome through which the serene infinity of the universe blazed in the glow of distant stars. But, in the centre of the room, an enclosure on a raised platform held within it a sight more incredible than the myriad galaxies overhead; contained within an orb of mottled stone and nestled firmly in the core of the cloister room was the Eye of Harmony, a source of incalculable power that propelled the TARDIS through time and space—but there were places it would never – could never – go.
Three of the four short inclines leading up to the platform were empty. On the walkway facing the door was the supine form of the Doctor. With his eyes closed and his hands folded atop one another on his chest, one would assume him to be a corpse. But the Doctor was still alive.
He hated that he was still alive.
The weight of the temporal interocitor in his breast pocket pressed against him, the only sensation he allowed to intrude upon his contemplation. Contained within its circuitry was a recording that the Doctor had already played and replayed more times than he could count, and, as he lay still in complete isolation, the message continued to swirl around his mind.
‘And I’ll give you a kick in the shins,’ it said, ‘and you’ll say, “Ow, that hurt.” And I’ll say, “I’ll take that as a yes, then shall I?”’ The familiar, musical chuckle that followed rang through the hollow space between his hearts. It haunted him, but brought in its wake the ghost of a smile to his face, the last impression the Doctor would ever have of Lucie Miller. ‘Yeah, maybe that’s how it’ll go,’ she said, the details of her imagined face twisting into a playful smile in the Doctor’s memory. ‘That’s what I’d like, Doctor. That’s what I’d really like.’
When the Doctor finally opened his eyes, he sat up with a weary sigh; he patted his pocket, found the device remained in its right place, and, as his hands moved to his head, reluctantly recognised the familiar contours of his face—he was still alive.
As a Time Lord, he could feel every second come and go. When the Doctor entered the cloister room, however, he detached himself from his senses, the idea of confronting the truth of his new reality too repulsive to humour. He had no desire to know how much time was passing while he remained in the trance—even a second without Lucie was one second too long. But, as he looked around the empty space, there was no recourse but to accept the unacceptable: he had survived while too many had died.
At the sight of the Seal of Rassilon above the window in the farthest wall, the Doctor’s thoughts, having crowded around Lucie for so long, began to diverge; the reminder of Gallifrey, of his home and his heritage, brought with it a reminder of his family and his great-grandson, Alex Campbell.
The Doctor had only just become a steady presence in Alex’s life when he sacrificed himself. Now he was gone. He took after David, his father, the Doctor thought; David dedicated his life to resisting the Daleks’ invasion and rebuilding Earth, and Alex was just as determined, just as passionate, and just as human—just human, the Doctor remembered.
There was no regeneration for Alex. He died where he stood, gunned down by the Daleks. His lifeless body would retain its youth until it decayed, the only face he had being uniquely his, even in death. Though he was one of several who died that day, though he would be remembered by the survivors on Earth as one casualty among untold millions, Alex Campbell was seared onto the Doctor’s hearts for the rest of time.
Eventually, the Doctor departed the cloister room. He lingered for a moment in the doorway and looked over his shoulder as an earlier memory returned to him; the Doctor observed the staircase at the other side of the room with a steely expression that dissolved into a faint smirk when his gaze flicked towards the Eye of Harmony. ‘Goodbye,’ he called out, the usual passion absent from his voice, ‘old friend.’
By the time he arrived in the control room, the Doctor had restored enough strength in his body and mind to be somewhat aware of his surroundings. He paid no attention to the dust and neglect evident on every surface but, as he approached the console, he stopped before he could trip over the book in his path. It was an impressive tome in both size and design but lay with its cover to the floor. The Doctor knelt down to pick it up but, as he turned it over, he regretted ever noticing the book was there.
The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe.
‘Nevermore,’ the Doctor said to himself with a mirthless smile. ‘Remember Morella, Tamsin? I do. I remember it all…’
He resisted the urge to throw the book. Instead, the Doctor walked briskly to the nearest armchair, tossed the book gently into the seat, and returned to the console.
‘Too many dead,’ he muttered, ‘too many. One is too many, let alone millions. Billions.’ His thoughts threatened to run away from him. ‘Three. Lucie, Alex, Tamsin… I’m sorry. I failed you, all of you.’ The Doctor circled the console, his languid expression slowly returning to life as his eyes began to scan each control. ‘I made a promise to your mother, Alex. A long time ago. I told her that I would come back, and I kept that promise. I took the long way round, but I kept it.’
The TARDIS console trilled and beeped a reply. The Doctor grinned at the time rotor and at his distorted reflection in the glass.
‘One day,’ he said, his tone bristling with a reignited conviction, ‘I shall go back. But for now, old girl, I know exactly where I need to go.’