Companion of Death - A Doctor Who Fanfiction (Thasmin)

Prologue: Secrets of the Globe

'What's past is prologue', and so is this. I realized halfway through writing this that I knew, mentally, what Echo's – or rather, Oswin's – book was about, but had not once said it in so many words. So here it is: an excerpt from her book.

Also a heads up that what is prologue is past, as well. This takes place around a year before the main part of this fanfic.

I like getting feedback from my readers. Constructive criticism helps me improve my writing. But I don't appreciate people bashing my work. Don't like, don't read.

Harrison takes in his surroundings and nods in satisfaction. Everything is perfectly in place for the performance. Now, all that is left is time. Oh, time. The curse of this world. It just runs on and on, and no man can escape it. But that will change. And how. Harrison has found a way to displace himself in time, sending him into the far future where he can finally be at peace.

"What's past is prologue," he quotes under his breath.

Nothing happens. But of course, because he has to wait for the performance. Only then will the ambiance be right. This magic relies on it. He wishes he could call it a science, for that sounds more impressive in the future, but the fact remains that it is not. Not in the general sense of the word. Harrison's science relies on art, rather than mathematics.

"Fourteen sides of the Globe theater," he mumbles. "The words of the Bard. Then I can return to my people."

(AN: I only now realize that this is a similar idea to what the show did with Love's Labor's Won. I didn't steal their idea.)

His family's enemies cast him out and entrapped him in the past. For near a century, he tried finding ways to get back home. But it was all for naught. There was nobody whose words could get him back home.

And then comes along a man named William Shakespeare, whose words hold power beyond belief. The playwright is completely unaware of it. There is such danger in words of power when wielded by the wrong person. But that is not Harrison's concern. He will not destroy the universe in getting home. In fact, nothing will happen besides him getting home. The year 1610 will not suffer without him.

The day of the performance finally arrives. Harrison takes his seat far back in the theater and waits for the words to be spoken. He is not watching the play, and he is barely even listening. He does not care for Shakespeare. The man wrote too much in verse and not enough prose. But the words that will send him back home are too be spoken, so he must lend half an ear to the actors.

"And by that destiny to perform an act Whereof," the actor says finally, after Harrison has suffered through a whole act of the play.

"What's past is prologue," he intones as the actor speaks the same words.

A hole opens up in time and Harrison is taken by it. He accelerates through it and it deposits him exactly where he was, four hundred years into the future. He grumbles, knowing that somehow he messed up. It was supposed to take him five hundred years into the future.

"What to come In yours and my discharge," the actor on stage finishes.

Harrison grumbles again. Of course there has to be a play on in the time where he landed. Naturally, it is slightly different from the one in the past, but he was not intending to watch a whole performance. He only needed the art of it to send him forwards in time. He was not expecting to latch onto another performance and use it to pull himself forwards in time.

Making excuses to get out, Harrison manages to escape the Globe theater. He knows that to try again, to go forwards another hundred years, is too risky. It is in part a matter of trial and error. He got close enough. He will not try again. He can land at any time, too early or too late. This is another reason why his magic cannot be called a science. It is too inexact. He is, for all intents and purposes, stuck in this time.

***

I saved the document for the last time and attached the final copy to an email to the publisher. Soon, the world would know my name. Oswin Foreman, science fiction author. My mugshot would be in the back of the book. And soon everybody at home would know me. Small town though it was, Earth got all the good books in. It would take a while, but the new releases always hit the bookstores.

And that was just fine. I didn't need my classmates reading my book just yet. That would only give them more reason to bully me. I could just imagine what they would say.

"Echo Keaton, thinks she's a punk but she's really the biggest nerd who ever lived!"

"Ooh, we've got a celebrity in our class!"

"Latest big author is a kid!"

"Geek!"

Damon was supportive of my writing, though. He thought it was cool. He read my drafts and offered opinions, most of which were good ones that I included in my edits.

He was getting more distant, though. His bachelor's in psychology was taking over all his time. We still spoke, but it was stilted. He read my drafts, but his comments were often curt.

I stretched, sighing. Of course he was remote. There was only so much he could do. With Mom dead, he was my legal guardian. He took care of me, but between his studies and his boyfriend, that was all he could give me. He was aloof with his boyfriend, too. It had been a while since he had last gone out with Gus.

"Your story finished?" Damon asked, poking his head into my room.

"Yeah," I answered wearily. It was late, and I had school the next day. I spent way too much time writing.

"Do I get to read it?" my brother asked.

"No," I replied. "This time you get to wait until it hits the shelves."

"You know it won't," Damon protested.

"You'll see it one day," I said, yawning. "I think it's time I went to bed."

Damon left, and I got changed. But I couldn't sleep. The stress of what the publisher would think was overwhelming. What if they thought it was bad? What if I had just wasted a year writing, editing, and rewriting just to be rejected? I had been turned away before. There were so many publishing companies who refused to believe in a kid like me.

"Sweetheart, you're sixteen," they'd tell me. "Focus on your schoolwork for now. Come back in five years with something better, and we'll consider it."

I was used to being patronized about my young age. But that didn't make it any less discouraging. I knew I was a good writer; otherwise, I wouldn't waste my time trying to get published.