The Time of Change

Back to Church

The halls of the Papal Mainframe have changed since the last time I walked through them. Everything feels darker, seems darker. The air itself is heavy with some sort of dread that does not belong to me. There is a guard at every corner, all with mouths firmly clamped shut. I peer at each one in turn as Clara and I make our way to the chapel, where Tasha is supposed to be meeting us. The trek is rather slower than I'm sure Clara would like, seeing as I cannot walk extremely quickly with this limp, but she remains patient and by my side. We don't converse, but nothing is uncomfortable between us. It's as if the whole world is in disarray, but we've stayed the same.

When we enter the hall that leads to the chapel, I notice the door standing open at the end, and Tasha stands in its threshold. "She hasn't aged much," Clara says under her breath. I nod. "No, she's against aging." I feel Clara glance at me, probably amused, probably wanting to say something about how that's not technically possible. Before she can, though, a guard throws his hand out and stops us. She and I bow low in front of the Mother Superious. Tasha says briskly, "Approach."

"Confess," I hear someone whisper distantly. Clara's head whips around and focuses on a dark corner nearby. I follow her gaze and see something I haven't seen in a very long time: the Silence. It looks the same as it always has, and yet different. There's bound to be several lurking around here somewhere, all dressed in impeccable black suits. Hiding in the corners of this ship to terrify anyone who walks past them. "What are those things?" asks Clara. Her hands have clenched into fists, and I see goosebumps on her arms. Fear. "Confess," the Silence breathes again.

I clear my throat slightly. "Confessional priests," I explain, which isn't a lie. "Very popular. Genetically engineered so you forget everything you just them."

She looks at me, her eyes going blank. "Told who?"

"Well. There you go."

Side by side we slowly walk into the chapel. The bed that previously filled this room has been removed, and replaced by a large wooden table. Its polished surface reflects a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. There are three chairs at it, though it is long enough to comfortably seat twelve or more. Two at the heads of the table, and one next to the far right end. I sit at the far right head of the table, Clara seated by my side. Tasha opens a cabinet somewhere behind me, and when she returns to my line of vision, she's holding a large box in her hands. She sets it down on the table in front of me. I sit up straighter and peer inside.

"Satisfactory?" she inquires, sounding a bit annoyed. "Oi! Where's the pink ones?" I demand. She rolls her eyes. "You're hyper enough as it is," she replies vaguely, and I sulk. Clara glances between the two of us with her eyebrows furrowed in amazed confusion. "So," she says, most likely a little louder than she'd meant to, "this is sweet. Middle of a siege and you two have little chats?"

"She's right," Tasha concedes. "This situation cannot continue."

"It can't end, either," I tell her. Tasha's face hardens in a way that I've never seen before, and something inside me goes on red alert, a little siren in the back of my head going off. I watch as her eyes gloss over and her lips stretch out into a thin line. "Why did you ever come to Trenzalore?" she adjures.

"Well, the point is that I did come to Trenzalore, and nothing can change that now," I reply icily. "Didn't stop you from trying, though, did it?" Tasha moves away from me a bit, placing her hands on her hips. Her posture is tense and there's a scent coming off her that's strangely familiar, but not in a good way. "Not me," she tells me. "The Kovarian Chapter broke away. They travelled back along your timeline and tried to prevent you ever reaching Trenzalore."

"So that's who blew up my TARDIS," I comment, touching my forehead like it's shocking. "I thought I'd left the bath running." The strength in Tasha's voice intensifies with her words, like with every breath she takes, something gives her an extra push. She says, "They blew up your time capsule, created the very cracks in the universe through which the Timelords are now calling."

"The destiny trap," I quip. "You can't change history if you're a part of it."

"They engineered the perfect psychopath to kill you."

"Totally married her," I say sharply. "I would've never even made it here, nor would I be alive, if it weren't for Miss Song." Clara glances at me, a silent question in her eyes, but I don't pay much attention to it. I'm focused on how they had called her a psychopath, how they said they'd engineered her to kill me. I don't know how I knew what she was talking about, or how I knew that it was her. Was that really why she was created? Was that really the only reason why she kept coming back, time and time again, after she died in my place? Why would she die for me, though, if she was meant to destroy me? I don't understand. I thought I got it, I thought I knew what our pasts looked like, I thought that I knew her. Don't I? Didn't I? She was my wife, for time's sake. I ought to know who my wife was, and my wife was no psychopath, and she wouldn't have the heart to kill a fly if she tried, and if there was one thing she never wanted to do, it was cause me pain. And I refuse -- I refuse -- to believe that she was engineered to break me, to kill me before I ever reached this point. I will never believe that she came into existence with that one goal. I will never, ever, ever believe that she would ever try to hurt me. Because she wouldn't. Because I know her. Because even now as I think back on all the times we were together, the thousands of seconds we spent, I can't remember a single time when she did anything hurtful toward me. All she ever did was encourage and love me, and be a friend when I had none. And, although she told me that she was because we would lose a friend or a battle, or she would inadvertently hurt someone, or something else that was beyond her control, I will never believe that she was created for destruction. I won't do it. She was made for light and love, and that is what she was. Sunlight and moonlight and crystalline waves and calm summer breezes and brisk mountain air and brilliant blue skies and the crisp scent of sea salt and freshly mown grass and the kind of love that one only dreams about, personified.