The Doctor's Angel

Human Nature

Resting in the warmth of her cottage—one that had belonged to her vessel long ago—Merandria lay sprawled on the worn leather couch, engrossed in a well-loved copy of *The Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes.* For once, she felt truly at peace. The quiet solitude of the moment, the flicker of candlelight casting soft shadows across the room, and the rhythmic turn of pages made it seem as though time itself had slowed. A small smile tugged at her lips as her eyes scanned the intricate words, delighting in the detective's cleverness.

But the tranquility didn't last. That familiar pull stirred inside her, duller than usual, like a muted tug at the edges of her awareness. Her brow furrowed. The Doctor. Something was wrong. He didn't feel like himself. With a snap of her fingers, the world shifted.

She found herself standing in the cold metal corridor of a spaceship, head tilted as she curiously surveyed her surroundings. The dim lighting and sterile hum of machinery reminded her of technology far beyond the Earthly cottages she'd come to love. Before she could fully grasp where she was, the doors to the spaceship hissed open, startling her.

Merandria blinked, her black wings rustling slightly in surprise as a familiar figure stood before her—Martha, the Doctor's companion. The woman stared at her, confused but not shocked."Merandria? What are you doing here?" Martha asked, her voice laced with both relief and bewilderment.

Merandria stepped forward, her eyes narrowing slightly as she leaned down to flick Martha's forehead, an odd gesture of reassurance. "I'm here for the Doctor, obviously. Is he in danger?"Martha nodded, her expression growing grim. "We're being hunted by... by this family. We ran, and he... he turned himself human."

Merandria's eyes widened, disbelief flickering in her gaze. "Lovely. Just lovely. And how does he turn back?"

"There's a watch," Martha explained, her tone softening with worry. "It holds his Time Lord essence. But if we open it, they'll find us."

Merandria sighed, a long, tired breath. "Well, I'm here now. I suppose I'll just have to stay close." She turned toward the doors, fully intending to leave and find the Doctor, but Martha grabbed her sleeve.

"Dressed like that?" Martha glanced at Merandria's black pants and black trench-coat. "Just... stick by me. If anyone asks, you're my sister-in-law."

Merandria blinked, her head cocking to the side. "What's a sister-in-law?" Her voice was innocent, curious.

Martha pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing again. "It means you married my brother."Merandria's wide eyes blinked in confusion. "But I didn't marry him?" Her innocence shone through, her confusion genuine.

"It's a lie, Merandria. A clever lie," Martha explained, clearly exasperated. "Just stick to it."Merandria nodded, satisfied with the explanation, and followed Martha out of the ship and across the fields, the two of them heading toward the school where the Doctor—now John Smith—was hiding in plain sight. The world around them was deceptively calm, the distant sounds of a village setting blending into the background as they made their way to their shared room.

---

Days drifted by, and Merandria kept mostly to herself, hovering in the shadows as she silently observed the Doctor from a distance. His transformation unsettled her deeply; he seemed so... mortal now. The eternal energy that once thrummed through him was dampened, dimmed in a way she couldn't quite understand. The Doctor's vulnerability stirred something in her—a discomfort she hadn't anticipated.

The sun was setting one evening, the sky painted with hues of burnt orange and deep purple, when Martha burst into the room with her usual vibrant energy, practically lighting up the space. "Merandria, you're coming with Jenny and me to the pub!" she declared, her voice cheerful yet firm, as if this decision had already been made for her.

Merandria blinked, pulled from her quiet reverie by the window. Her violet eyes, still distant with contemplation, turned to Martha. "What is a pub?" she asked, her voice soft but curious, as if the very word tasted strange on her tongue.

Martha laughed, shaking her head with a knowing smile. "It's where people go to drink, unwind with friends, and—sometimes—get drunk."

Merandria tilted her head slightly. The concept of drinking, of socializing in such a way, was foreign to her. Her life had been filled with grand celestial purposes, battles, and cosmic decisions—not... "hanging out." She considered the idea for a moment longer. "Are we... friends?" she asked, her gaze locking onto Martha's with an almost childlike curiosity, wide-eyed and sincere.

Martha raised an eyebrow, smirking with a hint of affection. "Of course we are. Now, come on, get your shoes on. We're going!"

Merandria, still processing the unfamiliar idea of friendship, nodded slowly and, with a touch of hesitation, slipped on her shoes. The evening air wrapped around them as they ventured out into the village, the crispness biting at their skin. Martha and Jenny walked ahead, their laughter floating in the night like warm notes of a familiar song, but Merandria trailed just behind. 

The pub, a bustling hub of warmth and noise, did little to entice her. The cacophony of voices and clinking of glasses clashed with her natural inclination towards silence. The human interaction, so loud and chaotic, felt foreign to her very essence. She preferred the quieter spaces just outside its walls, where the night hummed with a different kind of life—calmer, more grounded.

Refusing the offer of a drink, knowing full well that it would be nothing but tasteless matter to her, Merandria settled herself against the outside wall of the pub. She sat on the ground, drawing her wings in close as she tucked her legs beneath her. From her spot, she watched Martha and Jenny, the glow of their friendship, and the warmth they exuded—a kind of connection that still felt out of reach to her. The noise of the pub was muted now, the voices blending into a soft murmur in the background as she focused her attention elsewhere.

Martha raised her hand, gesturing towards the sky, her drink swaying slightly. "That's where I'm going. Into the stars. All the way out..."

Merandria's brows furrowed slightly. "Why would she go to heaven?" she wondered to herself. The literal words seemed to click into place within her mind, but the true meaning still eluded her. She watched Martha's eyes shine with excitement, entirely unaware that Martha meant space, not some celestial plane.

Suddenly, something bright streaked through the sky, cutting through the night like a blazing arrow. It wasn't just a star. No... it was something else. Merandria's eyes sharpened instantly, her senses heightened. Martha's drink nearly slipped from her fingers as she shot up, her excitement replaced by a sense of fear.

"Did you see that?!" Martha asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Merandria nodded, though her eyes remained fixed on the sky, her mind turning over what she'd just seen. That light—its brilliance, its speed—there was something eerily familiar about it, yet entirely foreign at the same time. It wasn't a shooting star.

As Martha sat up straight, her senses attuned, she murmured, "Did you hear that?!"

Jenny shook her head, taking another casual sip of her drink, oblivious to the shift in the air. "I can't hear anything."

Merandria raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. How could Jenny not hear this?

Martha's eyes widened in a mix of fear and anticipation. "Merandria, you heard it, right?!"

Merandria nodded, the weight of her acknowledgement settling heavily between them. The realization hit Martha hard—whatever was happening wasn't just in her mind.

Before they could speak further, a woman came rushing toward them, her face pale and marked with confusion. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she stumbled over her words, "Oh, did you see it? Did you see that?"

Martha was immediately on her feet, her voice calm but firm. "Matron, are you alright?" Merandria's eyes narrowed, studying the Matron. Who was this woman? And why did she seem so...?

"There was... something in the woods," Matron whispered, her voice shaking as she pointed toward the distant tree line. "A light..."

Before anyone could respond, a familiar voice called from the pub, cutting through the tension like a blade. "Anything wrong, ladies?"

Merandria's head snapped up, recognizing the voice instantly. Her expression remained neutral, but her mind raced. Why would he be here now?

"It's rather too cold to be standing about in the dark, don't you think?" His tone was casual, almost dismissive.

"There! Look, in the sky—" Matron's voice cracked with urgency as she pointed again.

They all looked up. A shooting star—or something that appeared to be one—descended slowly toward the horizon. Merandria's breath hitched slightly, her celestial senses tingling. This wasn't just an ordinary cosmic phenomenon. It was... wrong.

Her eyes widened, her heart thrumming in her chest. "That is no shooting star..." she muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible.

Martha's gaze darted toward her, nodding in agreement, her own wonder slowly giving way to worry. Something was coming, and Merandria could feel it deep in her bones.

Merandria had never understood the depth of human emotion. The intricacies of their feelings were as foreign to her as their mundane traditions. Yet, as she sat there, frozen in place, she felt something deep, unfamiliar, and painful. It started in her chest—a tight, suffocating pressure—and radiated outward, gripping her heart with an iron fist.

John's voice echoed in her ears, sharp and accusing. "She's the devil!" The words hung in the air, cutting through the cool night like a blade. His gaze was searing, wide with fear and hatred, all focused on her. Merandria's wings—once regal, grand, and black as the void—now felt heavy, sagging at her back as though the weight of his words had somehow physically wounded them. She didn't understand.

Why?

Her pale brow furrowed, confusion clouding her blue eyes as they darted between John's face and the others around her. Her breath quickened, an unfamiliar tightness forming in her throat. The Matron looked back and forth, torn between John's fearful retreat and Merandria's shifting expression—one of deep, raw hurt. The accusation stung more than any blade could.

How could he think that? She was an angel—a warrior of the heavens, a servant of the divine. Lucifer was nothing like her, she wasn't the devil. Her lips trembled as she tried to form words, her voice soft and shaky, a stark contrast to her usual confidence. "I-I am no devil," she whispered, each word felt like a plea, but John only shook his head, his eyes filled with mistrust and horror.

"Get out of here," John spat, his voice a mixture of panic and disgust. "Leave us be."

The finality of his words struck her like a blow. Her chest tightened further, and for the first time in her long existence, she felt a sensation she couldn't comprehend—her cheeks... wet. Warm streams slid down her face, and she reached up, fingers trembling as they touched her damp skin.

What was this? What was happening to her? Why did her heart feel like it was tearing apart?Martha watched the entire scene unfold, her lips parted in shock and disgust, but not at Merandria—at John. How could he accuse her of something so vile? Beside her, Matron and Jenny exchanged worried glances, their faces a mix of disbelief and silent sympathy as they looked toward Merandria, who stood visibly shaken, her wings drooping as though wounded by the words hurled at her.

Merandria willed herself to stay composed, to keep her strength, but her legs felt unsteady beneath her. She longed to teleport away, to vanish into the night and leave this crushing feeling behind, but she knew that would only fuel John's suspicions. She couldn't give him that satisfaction.

Slowly, shakily, she turned to Martha, her blue eyes wide, shimmering with unshed tears. Her voice barely above a whisper, broken and fragile, she stammered, "I... I'll see you later, Martha." And with that, she turned and bolted, her legs carrying her as fast as they could, her wings trailing behind like a shadow of the grace they once held.

The others watched her retreat, their expressions tense with unspoken frustration. John let out a sigh of relief, but Martha, Jenny, and the Matron exchanged dark looks. The Matron stepped forward, her disappointment evident as she spoke with quiet disapproval. "She was no devil, Mr. Smith How could you accuse her of such a thing?"

John's face twisted in confusion and stubbornness. "But... you all saw! The wings! Black wings! They're the mark of evil! She had to be—"

"No wings, John," the Matron said firmly, her gaze hardening. "You're seeing things. Come, let's get you inside." Her voice was clipped, resolute, as she reached out to guide him away from the group. But even as they walked, John's thoughts spun in circles, trying to make sense of what he'd just witnessed.

As for Merandria, she ran until her legs burned and her breath came in sharp, ragged gasps. She didn't stop until the TARDIS was in sight, the familiar hum of its ancient engines a comfort in the darkness. But even then, as she collapsed against its doors, her wings curled protectively around her body, she couldn't shake the ache in her chest.

For the first time, she had felt something deeper than she had ever known—a wound not of flesh, but of spirit. And it hurt more than anything she had ever endured.