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The creature gave Turlough a shove, and he stumbled out into the arena, rubbing at his wrists where the handcuffs had bruised him. He wasn’t even sure that was intentional mishandling—his skin was just that sensitive.
Him and the Avokan’s champion both spotted their swords at the same time, pulling them from the sand. The great electronic banners above them flashed the Misos triangle twice, then the loudspeaker began transmitting.
“Trions aaand Avokans, welcome to the match to define the future of this planet,” the Avokan announcer began. “We have the champion of the Avokans that you all know and love, Ra’kessa! And new to the arena now is the champion of Trion—one Vislor Turlough! Give it up for the greatest match so far!”
The Avokans side erupted in applause and strange, mechanical screaming, with a reluctant smattering applause from the Trion side.
Great, Turlough thought. They already all hated him. Now they would hate him for costing his planet in a single gladiatorial match.
At least the army he had hired had let the Trions and the Avokans stand on fairly equal ground. And the hostage deal he’d made had permitted him his one shot at saving his planet.
If he failed—well, along with his death and the loss of his planet, he’d lose the Doctor and Peri too.
It took a few moments of circling Ra’kessa to realise that the gladiator ring had been converted from the gardens of the Winter Palace. He had played here as a child. Now all the foliage was replaced with soft sand.
Ra’kessa feinted, and Turlough jumped back, meeting its sword with his own. It was double his height and covered in thick-plated armour with spikes. He wasn’t going to win this in a fair fight unless he found a gap in its armour or pried some off; Trion had been occupied for several months now, and no one had reported any Avokan weaknesses.
“Vislor Turlough,” it hissed, and Turlough saw the black flicker of a tongue behind the helmet. It pronounced his name strangely: Vees-lor with a rolled r, and Tur-loff. It had just heard it pronounced correctly. He didn’t flinch. “Is Turlough a family name?”
“Yes,” Turlough said, diving to one side as it swung with its sword in one hand and attempted to spear him on its shoulder spikes with its other side. There was no point lying; the Avokans knew the name of the royal family.
“Strange.” It lumbered towards him again as he scrabbled to get back up. “I have spilled much Trion blood in this ring.”
“I am aware,” Turlough said through gritted teeth. He swung, not to slash but to try and catch between plates. It worked, but Ra’kessa knocked his sword aside only moments after. He barely kept a grip on it as he was forced backwards across the ring. He could hear cheering, booing. He couldn’t tell what was from what side.
“There was a boy I killed,” it continued. Turlough took another swipe at the same plate. He thought it seemed a little looser. He wondered if its heart would be under there, too. “A young lad, barely old enough to be called an adult. He looked like you. He was very brave, but weak. Poor thing.”
“Shut up,” Turlough snapped.
“I cut his arm off to disarm him before I killed him, you know. He tried so hard not to cry, but cried anyway. I laughed in his face.”
Turlough made another attempt at dislodging the plate and ended up falling to the floor trying to dodge the return swing. “Shut up.”
“But I always know my opponents’ names,” it said, and stepped closer. “His name was Malkon Turlough. I don’t suppose you knew him?”
He stopped moving, his hand poised over the pommel of his sword. “You lie.”
“Why bother?” it asked, and swung at him.
He rolled out of the way, kicking his sword with him. He had to get back on his feet. “I would know if Malkon were dead. Someone would’ve told me.”
“Who would’ve had the chance? You’ve been busy.”
“He’s not dead,” Turlough snapped, but the world was lurching around him. He was stumbling backwards, feet slipping over sand. Ra’kessa was getting closer.
“He said he had something he wanted to say to you, but if you don’t believe me…”
“What did he say?”
“I don’t know,” Ra’kessa said. “I killed him before he could tell me. I’m not in the habit of passing messages between brothers.”
Turlough gaped, and barely remembered to move in time. The sword slashed through his sleeve, leaving a bright scarlet streak on his arm.
“Oh,” Ra’kessa said, still moving forwards, swishing its sword experimentally. “He had that same triangle symbol. Is it a ruling class thing?”
“You killed Malkon,” Turlough said, words coming out of his mouth slowly, distantly, like someone else was saying them. “You—you killed Malkon.”
“Finally catching up?” Ra’kessa laughed. It swung its sword at Turlough, but this time he was faster, parried its blade even with one arm bleeding. “The last word out of his mouth was your name. And he died like a coward.”
“Shut up,” Turlough snarled. “You killed my brother.” He ducked—swung—and plunged his sword into the gap between the plates he’d made. It made contact, and sunk. Ra’kessa made a small sound, like all the air had been punched from its lungs, and fell to its knees. Turlough pulled the sword out with a wet schlick.
It still bled red, he realised. His sword was red. Red was leaking from the wound—fatal, it had to be—and spilling everywhere. He backed away from the soon-to-be corpse.
“And Vislor Turlough wins for Trion,” the Avokan announcer said, notably less enthusiastic. “Congratulations on the successful liberation of your planet and your hostages. Please return the corpse to command for your reward.”
It took a moment to force his body to cooperate. He fumbled with it, then realised it was far heavier than it looked. Fine. He could drag it.
The world felt very far away. He was stumbling across an arena. He didn’t recall putting down the sword, but he was no longer holding it. His hands were red, his jumper wet. His mouth was thick with the smell of it, cloying copper. He could remember the smell of his mother when he found her body. His knees felt weak.
The gate to the arena opened and he must have passed through it, must have let go of the corpse, because then he was stumbling away from the arena and the Doctor was there, the Doctor—
“Congratulations, Turlough,” the Doctor said. “You just saved your planet. I hear it was one on one combat—it must be those impressive muscles you’ve gained since we parted.”
“Doctor,” Turlough said. “Doctor. I—oh, gods.”
“Are you alright?” His tone was so gentle. Like Turlough was some fragile thing.
Except Turlough was shaking so hard his teeth were chattering, and he couldn’t stop smelling blood, and his hands were tacky with it drying on his skin, and, and, and. “I killed it,” he got out, his voice cracking. Blood on his hands, his skin, his clothes. In front of everyone, Turlough had killed it.
“It’s alright,” the Doctor was saying. “It’s alright.”
“How can it be alright? I killed someone.” He went to scrub at his eyes but only succeeded in streaking blood across them. “I—fuck—Doctor, how am I supposed to forgive myself?”
Hands touching his, despite the blood. He looked down and saw it smeared across the two of them. “Turlough,” the Doctor said, “Turlough. Look at me.” Then again, stronger: “Look at me. I forgive you.”
And then, embarrassingly, Turlough found himself choking on tears, like a child. Malkon had been crying, he thought. My baby brother was crying and I wasn’t there. He wanted me. The Doctor was pulling him closer, Turlough scarcely able to resist, stiff as a rod but, gods, the Doctor was there and—
His fingers had curled around his waistcoat, staining it red. His face was pressed up against his chest. The Doctor’s arms were wrapped around Turlough’s shaking shoulders, and he was being held.
He sobbed.
“Shhh, shhh,” the Doctor was saying. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
“Doctor—” he gasped out. “Doctor.”
“You’re forgiven, Turlough,” the Doctor said again. “You’re always forgiven. Shhh, now. Come back to the TARDIS, okay? Come home.”
Home.
He took a shuddering breath.
Here, at the end of everything, the Doctor was offering him a home.
“Okay,” he croaked, but couldn’t bring himself to let go of the Doctor. “Okay. I’ll come.”
“Good boy,” the Doctor said, and ran a hand through Turlough’s hair. “You’ll be safe with me.”
But Malkon won’t, Turlough thought. But the concept of home appealed to him. He could tell the Doctor about Malkon another day, when the wound was less fresh. He could tell him another day.
Turlough let the Doctor lead him home.