The Doctor's Angel

The Last Of The Timelords/Swan Song P1

TW Graphic Torture. 

The first day of 365 was an unrelenting descent into chaos. The world spiralled into ruin as monsters roamed freely, the devil revelled in his tortures, and the only hope lay in Martha Jones. Armed with the angel blade gifted to her by Merandria, she embarked on her journey—a quest to topple the Master and restore what had been lost.

The Master, standing at the precipice of his conquered realm, gazed out with a twisted smile. The earth was his, every soul under his thumb, every scream a symphony for his sadistic pleasure. There were no angels left to stop him, no hunters to fight back. He had won, and now only one thing remained—breaking those who dared resist, starting with Jack Harkness and the angel, Merandria.

He gave a casual flick of his hand, his cruel grin widening. "Take him away. Chain him up. Have your fun. He's immortal, after all," he said with a cold chuckle. Jack was dragged away, kicking and screaming, but Merandria could only watch in silence. Her hands bound by cuffs etched with Enochian symbols, wings useless at her back, she was as powerless as a human. A shackle around her spirit, with nothing left but the looming spectre of the Master's twisted plans for her. Her fate was darker, crueller, and the devil himself had helped craft it.

The Master gripped a fistful of her hair, dragging her across the floor like a rag doll. His steps deliberate, he yanked her to a corner where the Doctor could see her clearly. She was forced to face him, to watch the old man's sorrowful gaze as he suffered under the weight of her failure to protect him.

In the beginning, the torture was almost clinical. She was muzzled, unable to speak or scream, forced to watch in helpless rage as the Master humiliated the Doctor, reducing him to a feeble shell living in a tent, eating from a dog bowl. Anger burned in Merandria's chest, but that wasn't what the Master wanted. He wanted more.

He started with beatings, and not even his own hands—just nameless, faceless minions who pummelled her day after day, fists crashing against her bruised flesh like waves on stone. Blood ran down her face in rivulets, mixing with the dirt. Yet Merandria refused to break. She clenched her jaw, only the occasional wince betraying her pain. Her eyes flickered between defiance and fatigue, but never submission.

The Doctor pleaded with the Master to stop, his voice filled with desperation, but it only seemed to spur him on.

As the days wore on, the Master's sadistic curiosity took hold. He experimented with her, using her as his personal test subject for the vulnerabilities of angels. At first, wooden stakes were driven into her heart—painful, grotesque, but ultimately ineffective. They achieved nothing but her cries of discomfort and the revulsion of Martha's family, forced to witness the horror. The Doctor's regret-filled eyes never left her, his voice cracking with each failed attempt to comfort her. But Merandria remained resolute, unyielding.

The Master grew impatient. One day, he strode into the room with a silvered dagger, gleaming in the dim light. A twisted grin crept across his face as he handed it to his minion. The moment the blade touched Merandria's skin, the reaction was immediate. The scream that tore from her throat was raw, visceral, the sound of pure agony. Blood spilled in thin rivulets from her wounds as the dagger sliced through her flesh like a hot knife through butter. Each cut sent waves of searing pain rippling through her body, causing her to tremble uncontrollably. Her defiance faltered, but still, it wasn't enough for the Master.

Then came the day he decided to take matters into his own hands.

With a flick of his wrist, he summoned the angel blade and a canister of holy fire. Merandria's eyes widened in terror, true and raw, as she realized what he intended to do. She pleaded, desperation thick in her voice. "No... Please, stop! It'll kill me! I won't survive this!"

The Doctor screamed at the Master, begging him to have mercy, but the Master only chuckled darkly, casting a smug glance over his shoulder. 

The first cut of the angel blade was like nothing Merandria had ever felt before. It carved through her essence as easily as it sliced her skin. A frantic, heart-wrenching scream ripped from her lungs, echoing off the cold walls. Her body convulsed, her wings thrashing helplessly as the pain engulfed her entire being. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the blood that dripped from her wounds, her strength ebbing away with each passing second. The Master wasn't finished.

He stepped closer, a maniacal glint in his eyes, and encircled her with a ring of holy fire, the flames licking hungrily at her form. The heat seared her flesh, the sacred fire burning deep into her very soul. Every nerve screamed in agony, and her cries filled the room, desperate and primal. She writhed, unable to escape the suffocating heat, as the flames singed her feathers and charred her skin.

In the midst of it all, her tear-filled eyes locked onto the Doctor's, her despair clear as day. She was breaking—no, cracking—but not yet fully broken. The weight of failure pressed down on her like a crushing boulder. And yet, in the flickering light of the flames, a spark of defiance still smouldered deep within her.

But even she knew... it was only the beginning. The apocalypse had begun. And there was no stopping it.