The Time of Change

Memory Lane

Several hours pass and still the peace talks continue, but this time, there is no shortage of kindness or consideration. The Tenth and Eleventh Doctors converse with the two Kates, whom I have given up trying to tell apart by this point. I linger at the side of the room, watching but not engaging. I hear my husband say something along the lines of, "Peace in our time," before the conversation picks up steam again with the steady progression of ideas. Smiling to myself, I move past the two Osgoods, and one of them quips, looking down at her legs, "It's funny, isn't it? If I'm Zygon, then my clothes must be Zygon too. So... what happens if I lose a shoe or something?"

The other Osgood laughs, and a wheezing cough escapes her. The first hands over an inhaler, smiling. I feel my heart expand warmly at the sight.

Tearing my eyes away from the scene, I begin to peruse a nearby array of trinkets and relics that I recognize as the Doctor's. On a shelf is a shiny wooden recorder whose body is striped in two tones of blue. The remembrance of my ordeal in my husband's time stream comes to mind, and I recall that one of the men I saw—the Second Doctor—had this same recorder. I beam like it is an extension of him. It's propped up against an umbrella embellished with question marks, which I also smile at as the memories casually stroll through my head. Beside this shelf, a table is pushed against the wall. Photographs line its surface, some in color and some in black-and-white, but all of them would be beloved to the Doctor. In one, I see a young woman with dark, short-cropped hair, and my brain provides her name in an instant: Susan. I touch the frame with the tips of my fingers. I remember the Doctor saying once that she had somehow deluded herself into thinking she was his granddaughter, but I wonder how that worked. What horrors had she seen to be able to convince herself she was someone completely different? It's natural to want to latch on to the Doctor because he has a knack for making even dangerous situations feel safe. Still, it seems rather extreme for Susan to want to disregard whoever she was before and simply become "the Doctor's granddaughter." I frown at her grinning image and hope she never had to face that reality.

As I turn away from the photographs, I notice the Warrior sitting, isolated from everyone else, in the Seventh Doctor's old leather chair. My feet begin to carry me over to him without my head telling them to. I sit on the ottoman in front of him, and his wrinkly eyes rise to meet mine.

"Hello," I say, and shyness envelopes me like it hasn't in a long while.

He nods his head once with the smallest of smiles. "Hello."

"I'm Annalise. We haven't really met yet. Well, we have—you just don't remember me."

His brow furrows. "How do you mean?" he inquires. "I highly doubt I'd ever forget someone like you."

I bite my lip and look at his eyes as directly as I can without seeming creepy. "Before who you are now," I tell him, gesturing vaguely at his face, "you were a man who had dark curly hair and thin lips and pretty blue eyes, right?"

The Warrior swallows hard and replies, "How can you possibly know that?"

"Because I really started to fall for you when you were him," I answer with a tiny smile. "I was only around him for a short time, but I became very familiar with the air he gave off. You still have it, which means this man right now is the face between the one I fell for and the one I realized I loved."

"Then why have I forgotten you?" he asks me in his gravelly voice. I shake my head in response. My mind reels as it searches for an answer, but I cannot find one. All that I can remember is something I did not think was consequential until now: when I first saw the Ninth Doctor, he did not recognize me. It took several moments for him to realize who I was. This fact is something that only adds to the mystery, so for now, I just give the Warrior another smile.

After a beat, he says sincerely, "Well, whatever madness happened, I look forward to meeting you again." I blush. "So, what have you come to talk to me about? That surely was not your main course of action," he adds, his knowing expression taking the form of wisdom purely due to his aged appearance.

"The Doctor," I stutter. "Well, m-my... my husband. He told me about the day he did it, the day he wiped out the Timelords to stop the war. It took him a long time to be able to talk about it."

"One would be reluctant to share that."

"You wouldn't," I tell him at once, "because you haven't done it yet. It's still in your future."

He straightens ever so slightly. "You're very sure of yourself," he notes.

"Just this once," I chuckle. "He regrets it, you know. I see it in his eyes every day. He'd do anything—anything—to change it."

The Warrior sighs heavily, like the old man we both know he isn't. "Including saving all these people," he breathes. "How many worlds has his regrets saved, do you think? Look over there. Humans and Zygons working together in peace." His gaze narrows on me in suspicion and curiosity. "How did you know?"

I smile once more. "Your eyes," I explain softly. I can see him thrashing around, terrified, behind those deep hues, but I can also see that they hold much less weight than the Tenth's and my husband's do. They have seen less, lost less, and hurt less. "You're younger."

He blinks, giving me a despondently appreciative look, and something in the atmosphere shifts. "Then, all things considered," he says very slowly, "it's time I grew up. I've seen all I needed. The moment has come."

His eyes drift to a spot just above my right shoulder, and he sighs, "I'm ready."

The deep chill of realization settles in my bones, and all at once I understand why the Moment allowed me to see all I've seen. I wasn't just an onlooker at events from the past, nor was I randomly chosen to see her as she perched on his shoulder and gave him pointers. All this time, throughout this whole mess with the Zygons, she's been grooming the both of us for something bigger. I knew it the second I saw the illustration of the fallen Citadel.

Queen Elizabeth the First was not why we were brought here. Zygons are not why we were brought here. The painting is not why we were brought here.

We were brought here for Gallifrey.

I half-turn, hoping to see her standing behind me, and he leaves my field of vision for a split second. "Who's there—?" I ask as I face him again, but I'm too late. The Warrior is gone.