Doctor Who - 04 - On a Pale Horse

.16. What Dreams May Come

His robe was beautiful and hateful, and the high collar was chaffing at his neck like mad, and his teeth were familiar and strange at the same time. His body tensed and arched like a bow, throwing him to his knees, the heavy robe spreading around him in stiff folds. For a moment he admired gorgeous tiles underneath a layer of dust, the patches his hands had cleared on the floor glimmering in the redness of a setting sun. Such attention to the detail. At some point all art turns unto itself, and then degenerates, withers, ends. "I would make the world better," he whispered. There was a falling sensation as one of his hearts faltered and then stopped completely, a resounding silence on the right side of his chest. Now tiles crumbled and there was a chasm of time and space looking back at him, making him feel small, unimportant, just a speck in a vast, godless universe. He convulsed and screamed at the responsibility that universe imposed on him. "It's not my fault!" The pain was overwhelming; the cells of his body dispersing into nothingness and oblivion. "Pride is considered to be the worst of sins." Who was speaking? Was it himself talking to the tiled floor? "If there's a hell, it's build on a foundation of pride." Was he proud? With his face inches from the dust covering the floor; was he proud? His body was failing; blood flow slowing down; internal organs switching off one by one. Dying. He reached out and his hand rested upon the cold stone of Rassilon's tomb. Everything dies. Why was he so surprised? The old friend's stony eyes pierced his defences. Reminding him that he could, if he wanted to, tear the wholeness of the known world apart, destroy it, rebuild it, make it his own, his kingdom, his hell. One step at the time. Omega would do it. "I did it."

"Hush now, Doctor. You're delirious."

Right. Understatement. He was running now, still carrying this hateful, stiff robe on his shoulders, its rim flapping around his ankles, pointy shoes kicking up clouds of dust. Running away from the schism that looked back at him as he peered into its heart. A howling abyss of possibilities he somehow memorised... or not memorised... not really... They burned themselves into his very being – a dark mirror revealing his real face – the face of a coward. "I could have turned the key in the door of the universe. It was there, in my hand, waiting. But I just let it tick away." A red hot blast of explosion hit him square in between his shoulder blades and his body arched again, searing pain flowing from the centre away to the extremities, then back, in confusing, uneven waves which made him convulse and scream out.

"What's going on? What is it? Is he in pain?"

Please, help me. He tried to call out their names, but no names came. He used to know so many people – friends and enemies. Frozen with fear he searched his mind over and over again, but they were gone, erased. He was mumbling now; he could hear his own voice – moaning and whining and begging them to stop, stop, STOP!

"Doctor?"

Who? What Doctor? Was it supposed to be his name? It was a joke, a meaningless sound – nothing more. His was a different name, a proud name, an old name. A name he could no longer remember. He halted and lifted his hands to his throat, fumbling with a clasp at the high, circular collar. "President! President, wait!" There was a brooch there, round and cold, engraved in ancient symbols; but then everything was ancient here, everything was turning unto itself, degenerating and dying, and he had to escape the stench of death. "But there are rules and regulations, you know. Can't walk against the tide, can I?" His fingers bled, but the clasp gave way and he shrugged off the hateful robe. There was a smooth fabric of a brown, pinstriped suit underneath, and his bleeding fingertips rested for a second on a loose knot of a silk tie. One disguise into another. While he hesitated (he almost found himself, it was so close, the name, buried away, but still alive), they caught up with him, and as they couldn't stop him, they stabbed at his back. Cold steel sunk into his flesh and he gasped, not able to shout or cry anymore.

"Just... just hold on, Doctor! Fight it! Please, fight it!"

How could all of it be gone? He reached deep inside his mind, desperate to find an anchor, to stop himself from falling, and there it was – a name.

"Donna?"

"Doctor!"

Blimey, she could yell!

"Donna."

He opened his eyes. The world flipped back into its rut. He wasn't running and nobody was stabbing him on the back. He was lying flat on the bed, a rough blanket on top of him, heavy as sheet of lead. There was an arched ceiling above and a pale light was seeping through the small window. His eyes focused slowly. There she was – her ginger hair curtaining her pale face.

"My... noble... Donna..." he whispered with effort.

"You dummy!" she whispered back.

He smiled at her. But it wasn't all right. He knew it as soon as his back arched again, sending a bolt of agony through his muscles and nerves.

"Kathryn!" Donna yelled. "Kathryn, do something!"

"At this point..." the other woman begun, but Donna wouldn't let her finish.

"I don't care what point it is! Why is he doing that?!"

"Do you really want to know?"

A moment of hesitant silence. Then: "No."

"I can make him comfortable," Kathryn said.

"Please, do," the Doctor thought.

"He... He can't," Donna whispered. "He's not even human. He has... He has this... binary cardiovascular... system... you know... Two hearts..."

"Which means his lungs capacity is considerably smaller than human's," Kathryn said slowly. "He is suffocating. I'm sorry, Donna, but two hearts can't help him now. At this point his whole organism is septic; it is shutting down, and convulsions are just a symptom of his body screaming for oxygen..."

"Enough!"

Blimey, she could yell!

"She's right," he whispered. He felt Kathryn's cold hands as she injected something into the crook of his elbow. Pain subsided a little and his mind cleared a further notch. "Donna, she's right. Don't... don't yell at her. She can't help. There's no cure. Not for me."

"Stop it! Both of you! Stop it!"

"I'm sorry, Donna," the Doctor tried to say clearly and bravely, but he didn't feel brave at all, and his voice was just a harsh rasping sound. "I'm so sorry. I should... never..."

And that was it. His throat tightened, he gasped for air, there was no air, Donna's face blurred and turned into a pale oval surrounded with flames, then it all went grey and he had to open his eyes wider to see anything in the haze, didn't even try to breathe anymore, that was too difficult, just tried to find her face in the long, dark tunnel, a tunnel vision, no air to the brain, he blinked and after that all just turned dark. That was it.

But then it wasn't.

He breathed in and his hands shot upwards, trying to catch something. He was falling. The right hand caught the fold of Donna's sleeve. An anchor. He breathed out. And in. And out again. His vision returned and he saw her face above his face – funny, no tears this time, just pale cheeks and large, shocked eyes.

"Oh... my... God!" she said.

They were both on the floor and the Doctor's head was resting on Donna's lap. That was weird. But comforting. He rolled to his side, away from her scared eyes, turning his back on her like a sleepy kid in his bed, grabbed Donna's knee as if it was a side of a cushion and pressed his cheek to her legs, coughing and gasping until his breathing slowed down and his body relaxed. Then he closed his eyes and sighed quietly. He felt safe, with Donna's hand softly swiping his hair away from his forehead. Safe enough to fall asleep. Just not yet.

"How do I look?" he mumbled.

"What?"

He checked his teeth with a tip of his dry tongue. "Am I... ginger?"

"You wish," Donna said.

"I didn't regenerate."

"No, you didn't."

"Hmmm..."

He closed his eyes again, immediately sliding into sleep. Thankfully, he didn't dream this time.