#seeing through still water ‖ Oswald.

[solomons-finest-rum]

“As The Crow Flies” (Alfie Solomons x fem!Reader) — PART 4 (FINALE)

SUMMARY — By all accounts Anna Gray died in Australia and had no business standing in Alfie’s living room, nor calling the man “darling” for that matter. But there you were, identical to the picture they took when they shipped you off to the colonies.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — I feel like, perhaps, that is enough said in that little Alfie corner of mine. I'm not sure if I will return with any more stories. Thank you so much for the support along the way! I love you all dearly. One more note, some dialogue here is directly stolen from the show, because it was just too good not to.

💗💗💗💗💗

WORD COUNT — 2,434

Masterlist

You stayed observant through that bizarre meeting at Tommy’s equally bizarre mansion and gathered information as quietly and efficiently as you were taught to do. As you quickly learned, in Tommy’s new circles nobody suspected women of anything. This, you suspected, would surely be their downfall.

Jack Nelson was as infuriating as you had expected him to be. Not only did he insult your entire family by pretty much assuming you all still lived in caravans and told fortunes, he continued to be offensive even when he didn’t speak. Which wasn’t often. The man loved to hear the sound of his own voice and didn’t try to hide it.

Your infamous sister-in-law, Gina Gray, didn’t take too kindly to another woman present at the table—but seeing as she had felt so emboldened to restructure the Shelby organisation pretty much straight off the boat, you didn’t pay her any mind. She earned herself no favours with her ill-placed boldness.

What did amuse you most was the perpetual scowl on Lady Diana’s face, along with Oswald Mosley’s poorly concealed surprise at your presence. For a split of a second you regretted you had agreed to the plan. Perhaps you should have stayed in Margate… As your husband would say, life was so much easier when you were dead.

But it was too late to dwell on it. Somehow, both sides of your family came to accept a consensus those weeks ago, when the Shelbys invaded your seaside sanctuary on a misguided rescue mission. If there ever was a moment to compare your life to “Beauty and the Beast,” that would probably have been it.

Now one foot in the Shelby camp, one with the Solomonses, you really had to try very hard not to laugh in Jack Nelson’s face when he opened his mouth once more and the following came out:

“So you’re the sister,” he pointed to Ada whose scowl in comparison to Lady Diana’s was truly unmatched, “you’re the aunt,” he looked at Polly, “and you… You are cousins with Thomas, which I suppose makes you the sister-in-law to my favourite niece. How queer.” 

“Astute observation,” you muttered.

Jack Nelson remained unaffected. It seemed he could only pay attention to the words he spoke, the rest was lost to him.

“So it seems you and I are in the minority, Mr. Mosley. This,” Jack let out a humourless chuckle, “this feels too much like a witch coven and too little like a business meeting. Meant no offence, ladies.”

“Oh, Jack, you’re so blunt!” Gina rolled her eyes and gladly accepted her drink from Mosley.

“How refreshing,” sighed Lady Diana, “a man who isn’t careful with his words.”

Fish out of water, you didn’t comment, but Polly then spoke for the both of you:

“Yes, surely speaking your mind around gangsters should prove most beneficial.” She lit a cigarette in her usual dramatic way and handed you a match. You lit yours, too.

Jack looked at you both with an incredulous look, then let out a most uncomfortable chortle.

“I can see the family resemblance, you know…” He pointed towards you then turned to Gina. “Doesn’t she look just like Michael with that stony stare? I wondered… I wondered, sister dear, if you weren’t a fake, but now I see the Shelbys have not one lying bone in their bodies.”

How about the Solomonses?, you thought to yourself, but otherwise responded by leaning back in your seat and blowing out the cigarette smoke at the ceiling. Fortunately, the details of your marriage remained undisclosed for non-family members, because they weren’t yet useful.

And you didn’t consider the Americans your family.

Your indifference didn’t earn you any allies, but at least it seemed that Jack Nelson was most content when monologuing, so you let it be. Better they thought you a moron instead of suspecting the plot.

“Now, see, this is what I was hoping to hear from Thomas Shelby himself, but I wonder… What does Shelby Company Limited actually do?” Jack asked then, looking like the cat that ate the canary.

Oh, he thinks himself so smart, you thought, still silent as a grave.

Ada glared at him instead, like one might at a roach, and you started to wonder how many in the present company were actually holding any weapons. Gina looked too doped to care, you reasoned, and Lady Diana would never get her hands dirty, this much you could already tell after having known her for about thirty minutes. Jack might be carrying a piece and Mosley too, but both looked entirely too placated and confident in the company of women.

Of course, having predicted your fiery nature, you remained under strict orders from Tommy not to murder anyone. Yet. Alfie judged him well, you thought. Tommy truly could read anyone’s character like an open book.

But, as things stood, you were under no orders that concerned you plotting, and so you plotted in silence. Killing one of them would probably mean the other would attack immediately, but which would be easier to subdue should the occasion arise? You considered that precise conundrum when the door to the parlour opened once more and in it stood Tommy Shelby.

“Apologies for the delay, gentlemen. Ladies.” 

Now Tommy, you reasoned, he’d probably be greatly opposed to you starting a shootout in his home, but then he wouldn’t dare to kill you, not in front of Polly, and probably not while Alfie still drew breath. But by gods, you were growing tired of Jack Nelson’s tongue.

As Tommy sat down, a cigarette between his lips and a glass of Irish whiskey in his hand, you looked him in the eye and let yourself smile just a little. As far as cousins went, Tommy wasn’t so terrible.

“Tommy,” Gina cajoled. “Care to finally clue us in?”

“In what?” Tommy asked, his face a stony mask that revealed nothing, but somehow you already knew he despised the woman just as much as you all did.

Despite Jack Nelson’s sincerest efforts in assumption, though, your family wasn’t yet adept in mind reading and further explanations had to follow:

“Now, Mr. Shelby, Gina tells me this young lady there, your cousin, was presumed dead for the past decade or so,” said Mosley. “How curious indeed. I wonder why she is then present at the meeting? Is she sympathetic to the cause?”

The thought of a shootout came back to you like lightning. This time you got slightly panicky. You had no idea where the fascist’s reasoning would lead and you didn’t want to find out. 

Tommy looked at him as he lit his cigarette, then back at you to give you the tiniest nod of approval. You almost laughed. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe his grandfather’s gift truly allowed him to hear your thoughts.

“So not only can you Shelbys reach the dead, you can also raise them. My, my, Mr. Shelby, that will soon prove to be a very useful skill,” Mosley commented and Diana gave him a brilliant smile.

These people, you concluded, were trained parrots and fucking idiots. With the exception, perhaps, to Gina, who all in all seemed to have been trained in nothing.

“That remains to be seen.” Tommy took a long drag of his cigarette.

“Seeing as we’re all women and scarcely any men here,” Jack swiftly changed the subject, “I wonder where the husbands are? Are they not involved in family meetings?”

An ice-cold shiver went through you and Polly grasped your hand in hers to stop you from reacting. But you already felt panic settle in. Either this was idle talk or Jack Nelson wasn’t as ill-informed as you had judged him.

“Mine’s sadly dead now,” Ada answered sharply to Jack Nelson’s provocation, “but of course we speak often.”

If looks could kill, the one she sent Jack would burn him to a crisp. You smirked at the thought.

“Well, I’m bored now,” Gina announced and Ada rolled her eyes at the bratty behaviour. “Are we waiting for anyone else? Or can we finally get to business?”

Funny she should speak of business, you thought, seeing as she had no say in any. You, on the other hand, remained most curious on the subject of vendetta. Polly turned to Tommy and gave the slightest of nods.

“Perhaps, Mr. Mosley, we can turn to what practical things Mr. Nelson can do to further our cause, while he’s in the country,” Tommy said.

“Wouldn’t you I rather whisper in the President’s ear?” Jack Nelson smirked. “That is kind of why I’m here, right?”

Mosley seemed either pleased or exasperated at the suggestion, you couldn’t quite tell. His eyes remained dark and lifeless.

“We do, indeed, have things for you to pass on to the President,” he murmured, “but not while we share the table with Jewish whores.” He turned to you and in an instant you knew the charade was over. “Mr. Shelby, I truly expected better from you, but then again… Some blood runs thicker.”

There would be no swaying the room. Not when Mosley turned sharply to Jack and Gina and declared:

“That woman is the widow of Alfie Solomons, the late… king of Camden Jews,” he scoffed. “She is no aid in our cause, but a spy. One, I must say, very poorly concealed, Mr. Shelby.”

“Is that true?” Gina turned to you, eyes bright and wide from prolonged cocaine use. “You’re his wife?!”

“The widow,” Lady Diana corrected snidely, not without satisfaction. “His motley crew of sewer rats is no threat to anyone anymore, I assure you.”

You tried your best to remain calm, but the thought of the knife you kept concealed in your skirts grew stronger. The fascist idiot didn’t know your husband yet lived and while the information wouldn’t exactly help you right then, you held onto it for dear life. Nothing would happen to you while Alfie drew breath, this much you knew.

“Well then,” Ada sighed, “I’d say the negotiations are over?”

“Well,” Lady Diana chuckled humorlessly, “I’d say it was a pleasure, but my parents raised me better.”

Polly stood up first and perhaps that would be the end of it, had Lady Diana kept her mouth shut and didn’t whisper to her what she did:

“Gypsy scum.”

The movement was swift and sharp—obviously well-practised. One moment the hairpin was holding up Polly’s rich brown curls, the next it was firmly lodged in Lady Diana’s nose, all the way to her brain; Lady Diana’s face froze, twisted in pain and horror, and blood dripping through her eyes. 

Then, chaos ensued. Everyone rose from their seats, but only Tommy remembered his drills and, unlike Mosley, he would never be as arrogant to have come unprepared. 

“I will have no gorja speak like that of my kin,” he said calmly as he raised his revolver to Mosley’s head. “So when you meet the devil, say my greetings for me.”

Tommy shot him in cold blood and that, alongside a curse in his tongue of old, seemed enough to subdue even a man like Jack Nelson. Of course, to your great satisfaction, Gina swiftly joined her uncle’s bloodied corpse on the beautiful Persian rug—the corpse with your knife stuck in his neck.

“Now then, Tommy, what are we to do with you, hm?” Alfie exclaimed as soon as Tommy’s men let him inside the parlour that was now undergoing impromptu redecorating efforts. 

To their credit, Tommy’s maids scrubbed the blood off the furniture like it was their lives true calling, all the while you sat side by side with Polly and Ada, smoking cigarettes and pretending to be fine.

“Hello, Alfie,” Tommy hummed his usual greeting and handed Alfie a drink the man obviously refused.

“Nah, I don’t touch that stuff, mate, but I should see to my wife, perhaps, she looks like she dearly needs some looking after, right, especially since you Shelbys remain savagely as per fuckin’ usual!”

Tommy smirked at that, then motioned Arthur inside as soon as he saw his brother in the hall.

“Is it done, Arthur?”

“We burnin’ them outside, Tom, like you said,” the elder Shelby grunted.

“And can I say, right, about fuckin’ time that fascist burns in hell!” Alfie roared and came closer to place an affectionate kiss on your cheek.

“You alright then, sweetheart?” he asked and you nodded, reaching for his hand.

“She’s fine,” Polly scoffed.

“Right, high time I take my bride back home then, Tommy, since your war efforts are quenched, I hope, yeah, an’ I now find myself avenged,” Alfie concluded, thoroughly ignoring Polly’s implications. “Don’t think on any debt collection, though, Tommy, I know ya well enough and one look at this mangled face should halt any such notions from you, all right?” 

You stood when Alfie offered you his arm and smiled at Polly affectionately, seeing as she still remained vigilant around the man. Perhaps that would be their way.

“Hope to see you again, Cousin?” Ada grinned at you in a manner that greatly reminded you of Tommy—something feral in that smile still kept you on your toes.

“I hope so as well,” you said.

“Perhaps we should turn to Boston, dearest?” Alfie’s gruff voice brought you back to reality. “I hear my uncle remains a man of wisdom, even now he’s past sixty. But such is the way in my family, don’t you worry. I ain’t leavin’ you a simperin’ corpse anytime soon…”

As you said your goodbyes to the Shelbys, despite Alfie’s annoyance and pointedly showing you his pocket watch, your heart felt fuller than ever before in your tortured existence. You entered your curious marriage an orphan and somehow along the way found you had a clan to call your own on two continents.

“Lead the way, husband,” you chirped as Alfie led you to his car.

“Aye, I should hope to finally lead you away from the viper’s nest, wife,” Alfie grumbled, though you could tell he was only mildly annoyed. “Now that ya saved England with your damnable cousins might I humbly persuade you not to leave my side for the foreseeable future?”

“Why, Alfie, with talk like that people might think you grew fond of me.”

“People can well think what they fuckin’ like,” he scoffed and then kissed you the way he knew you liked to be kissed—like the world stopped for a second around you two and nothing mattered, just as long as your gangster husband would not stop kissing you.

[musketeers-brothersinarms]

Chapter Three: Window Washing and Wishing

Julius had always been deathly afraid of heights. When he was little, he never joined his brothers in climbing trees or leaning over bridges to watch the Seine slip by below. Even glancing up at the towering spires of the cathedrals they walked past was enough to turn his stomach.

So it was with horror that day that he read the first entry on the daily list of janitorial tasks Pete had tacked to the door of their quarters: Clean Hall windows inside and out.

No, please, no, he thought helplessly, sitting down heavily on the bed and putting his face in his hands.

“What’s wrong, Jules?” Oswald asked from the table in the corner. He and Mickey sat with two cups of coffee and a stack of crepes that they were busy tucking away. “Did Pete give us stable cleaning again?”

“Worse,” Julius groaned, the list crumpled up in his fist. “We have to clean the windows today. Inside and out.”

“Ah,” Oswald said, furrowing his eyebrows. “Well, that’s unfortunate.”

“He KNOWS I hate heights!” Julius cried in despair. “He’s doing this on purpose!”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Mickey said thoughtfully, cupping his coffee mug in two hands.

Julius felt dread pulsing in his stomach, threatening to upend the crepes he had eaten. Meanwhile Oswald tapped the side of his mug, thinking. “Maybe you can work on the ground windows by yourself?” he offered. “Then me and Mickey can do the higher floors.”

“He’d think I was trying to slack off,” Julius muttered, then clutched his upset stomach. “I’m gonna be sick.”

“Oh!” Mickey said brightly. “If you do get sick, hen he’ll think you're ill and you can lie in bed while we clean.”

“That’s a non-factor in Pete’s mind,” Oswald countered. “Remember last winter when we all had the flu? We still had to scrub floors for three hours.”

“Oh yeah…” Mickey paused. “Shoot. Well, maybe we can blindfold Julius, so he doesn’t see the ground from up high?”

“Then he can’t see what he’s cleaning, doofus. Maybe we could get a dummy of Julius and make Pete think he’s cleaning with us, and he can sneak off and work on something else.”

As they started shooting more hare-brained ideas back and forth, Julius smiled slightly in spite of himself and set the list down on his bed. “No, I can do this, guys. I’ll be fine. We’ll need all three of us to get everything done on time, anyways. If Pete wants to give me chores I hate, fine. I’ll just… stomach my way through it.”

He stood up, handed them the list, and started gathering tools from the corner cupboard to keep his hands busy. Mickey stuffed another crepe in his mouth while he read it through. His ears drooped at the massive list:

-polish furniture in the ballroom

-clean and polish the floors of the throne room

-shovel gravel on the garden paths

-set up rat traps in the cellars

-scrub ballroom stairs

-clean all the fireplace grates and chimney

-replace leaking water pipes in the basement

And that was just the first side of the paper, he realized, flipping it around and seeing another long list on the back.

“Does he think we can freeze time?” Oswald exclaimed in shock, reading the list over Mickey’s shoulder. “We can’t do all this in a day! And some of these aren’t even our duty,” he noticed indignantly, pointing to a task that read -clean musketeer capes in storage. “We’re not maids!”

“I suppose all the maids and court servants must be busy with the coronation preparations,” Mickey reasoned, although he too was frowning at the list. “We’re going to have to skip dinner and maybe supper to get this done… We should probably grab some food to bring with us.” He stood and stretched, then grabbed his musketeer hat and put it on.

Julius held out a bucket and rag to each of them. “Guess we’d better get started, then? If we hurry, we can fix those pipes before we start on the windows.” He was mostly successful at keeping the shakiness out of his legs. Mickey nodded in agreement.

Oswald sighed and gulped down the last of his coffee, then picked up his bucket and rag and followed his brothers out the door. It’s going to be a long one, he thought.

~~~~~~

The morning went by much too quickly for Julius’s liking, and as much as he tried to cherish the moments spent soaking wet and wrestling with pipes in the basement, before he knew it they were headed outside to begin the window cleaning. Mickey and Oswald chatted aimlessly as they walked ahead, letting Julius lag behind them. 

It frustrated the cat how easily heights filled him with terror. He wasn’t entirely sure what had borne the fear inside him- It was just the thought of being so high up in the air with nothing underneath him, falling and plummeting forever, dropping like a rock through the sky to the ground with the wind rushing by and everything so far below and nothing to catch him or save him— He shook his head furiously, heart thumping wildly in his throat. Thinking like that isn’t going to help you, Julius! Just bite the bullet and get through it. You’re just going to wash some windows 50 feet in the air. It’s not that bad. Steeling his nerves, he jogged ahead to catch up with Mickey and Oswald as they reached the shed.

The suspended scaffolding system used to maintain the higher floors of the palace was nothing more than a few rickety wooden boards lashed together with twine, two pulleys strung with frayed rope on either side, and a couple of loosely nailed-in iron railings, all of which lay cobbled together and largely unused in a shed outside the Great Hall. It was, in Oswald’s humble opinion, the worst feat of engineering in the entire world. I wonder what it would take to convince Pete to let me fix it, he thought offhandedly as they carried it around to the front and began attaching the ropes to the pulleys. 

Julius took a minute to pull himself together as he gathered the supplies and lifted them onto the platform next to a couple of dusty empty crates. You’ll be fine, it’s going to be fine, he chanted desperately in his head as Mickey and Oswald started tugging at the ropes to lift the scaffolding into the air. The courtyard fell slowly but surely away from under him, and he felt his insides once again lurching as if trying to escape his abdomen. He clutched the bag of food they had brought along with trembling hands.

“Alright, first window,” Oswald announced as he and Mickey stopped tugging and tied the ropes into place. Julius swallowed hard and tore his gaze away from the ground twenty feet below to start work on scrubbing the windows. It was slow work, but gradually the grime and muck disappeared under the determined scrubbing of the three brothers. For a while they worked in silence, save for the squeak of wet cloth on glass and the occasional splash from the water bucket; after a while, Mickey broke stillness with a small sigh. 

“This is going to take all day,” he said despairingly. 

Oswald rubbed at a spot on the window and shrugged. “Maybe, but all we can do is just keep working at it. We’re almost done with this floor, at least.”

“But we have the whole rest of the list to finish on top of this,” Mickey replied, wringing out his rag anxiously. “And Captain Pete wanted all of it finished today!”

“Honestly, Mick, Pete has to know we can’t do all that in one day. If we have to push some of those tasks into tomorrow, then we’ll do that,” said Julius resignedly. “And he’ll just have to deal with it.”

“But he’d think we weren’t trying hard enough. He’d think we’re incompetent, or… or lazy.” The small mouse dipped his rag back in the bucket with a quiet sploosh. “It’s just… I guess I want Cap’n Pete to see me as a hard worker. I want him to think I’m trying my best.”

Julius frowned. “You are a hard worker, Mick. I’ve told you that.”

“But… he doesn’t think I am,” Mickey sighed. “We try so hard every day and he still doesn’t take us seriously. And if he doesn’t think we’re hard workers, if he doesn’t think we can work together, then he won’t... I mean, we have a bad track record, but couldn’t he change his mind? Couldn’t he just see we really want to be musketeers?”

So that’s what this is all about, Julius realized. That’s what was bothering him this morning too, I bet. He shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably; what could he say? He wanted nothing more than to reassure him and Oswald that of course Pete would make them musketeers, but that would just be lying. The last thing he planned on doing was sugarcoating anything for his brothers; at the same time, he didn’t want to voice his real doubts. His doubts about whether they should be musketeers at all, whether it would really ever work out for them. No, that would just discourage Mickey further. The best option, then, was uneasy silence. 

“Well… I think there’s a chance,” Oswald pitched in, hands on his hips. “I mean– Pete’s not an easy one to persuade, and it’s not like he’s ever presented the opportunity to us in the past five years, and he likes reminding us about how much he loathes us every chance he gets,  but…” he shrugged. “Rome wasn’t built in a day, so we might as well keep trying and keep hoping, right?” 

He grinned and twirled his rag jauntily, and Mickey smiled back gratefully. “Anyways, whether we’re musketeers or janitors, I don’t see the hurt in working hard. That doesn’t mean we need to bust a gut doing an impossible amount of jobs in one day, though. Let’s just take it slow.” Mickey nodded, looking relieved.

Julius sighed quietly. “Well,” he said, examining the windows one more time. “If we’re done on this level, then we’d better get to the next floor.” Mickey jumped up quickly and ran to the first pulley, Oswald heading to the other. Julius, suddenly remembering they were suspended in midair, swallowed hard and busied himself with the buckets. 

The platform had started to rise shakily, when suddenly there was a creak of doors opening below and the sound of crunching boots and chatting filled the air. Mickey gasped in excitement, straining to see down to the ground while pulling on the rope. “The musketeers are coming out to drill!” Oswald leaned over the rail to watch, his eyes glowing.

“Keep going up,” Julius reminded them, staring at the sky now, and Mickey gave an absent tug on the rope in reply. The musketeers had formed into rows and were listening to orders commanded by the hulking figure of Captain Pete. Soon the chinking of steel on steel filled the air as the musketeers sparred together. Mickey and Oswald were entranced, following every move, window cleaning forgotten. Sensing no movement, Julius tore his gaze away from the clouds to see his brothers leaning over as far as they could to watch. “Can we go UP?” he demanded impatiently. Startled, Mickey gave the rope a hard tug- too hard, it turned out.

The mossy old ropes in Mickey’s hands, unused to the sudden stress, groaned their last and snapped. Julius barely had time to yell in fright before the entire end of the platform swung downward, throwing him over the side. Oswald was the luckiest- his grip on the ropes gave him enough support to stay in place. Mickey, however, was thrown stomach-first against the railing, punching all the air out of his lungs.

In a moment of panic he gasped painfully, blinking stars out of his eyes as his feet found traction on the wood. The ground swung back and forth below, a blur of stone and gravel. A frayed rope swung through the air, snapped in half. The sounds of training below had been replaced with shouts as the musketeers stopped drilling, although their attention barely registered in Mickey’s mind.

“Are you okay?” Oswald asked, his voice panicked. “Where’s Julius-?”

A puffed up white tail appeared over the edge, followed by the terrified face of Julius as he scrabbled at the railing. “HELP-!” he yowled, terrified. Mickey jumped out to grab his hand, attempting to haul his brother back up onto the platform with much yelling and clawing and wild thrashing (mostly from Julius). Oswald, clinging to the other rope at the top, started to feel it straining and snapping under his fingers. He barely had time to close his eyes with a heavy sigh before another loud SNAP pierced the air, completely severing the ropes holding up the lift.

For a few comical seconds, they hung in the air- three brothers, a rickety platform, and a sudsy soap bucket. Then those seconds ended, and the only thing Mickey and Oswald could hear was jumbled yelling and wind whistling by as the earth rushed up towards them like a giant stone fist ready to punch their brains out.

~~~~~~

“Are they dead?” “Sacre bleu… “It was those janitor boys again, of course." "Really? I thought the Captain already fired them." “How on earth did they do this…?” “I don’t see any movement.”

A crowd of musketeers surrounded the pile of wood and rope that lay in the courtyard, muttering and staring in shock. Dust swirled about underneath polished brown boots and swishing blue capes, and a few musketeers shook their heads, used to the shenanigans of those janitor brothers.

A small mouse, his head and shoulders poking out underneath a rotted board, blinked his eyes open blearily and looked around, dazed and disoriented. Through a raging headache he vaguely heard a booming voice commanding musketeers out of the way, not quite registering as a hulking figure made his way forward to stand, seething, over the wreckage. It wasn’t until a large, meaty hand shot out and grabbed him by the arm, yanking him free from the rubble with a swift tug that he came to and realized the dire situation they were in.

Dangling in the air by his arm, staring into the cold glaring eyes of Captain Pete, Mickey swallowed hard and smiled nervously. “Morning, Captain. I, uh, guess you might be a little upset…?” Upset wasn’t quite the word for what the snarling captain was. More like collasally, tremendously, completely pissed off. Mickey barely had time to mutter a prayer to Mère Marie before he was being dragged off across the courtyard under the glaring sun to an unknown, but almost certainly painful, fate.

____

A/N: GOD, FINALLY I'M DONE WITH CH 3!! I'm literally so sorry it took so long to post, I've had so much happening in my life and then of course writer's block hit... anyways, I plan on releasing chapters WAY more frequently now! Also sorry there was no illustration this time- more technical difficulties :( Anyways thanks for reading!!

[okwabii]

This is like, the first ever actual post I’ve made on here and it HAD to be a little oneshot of my favorite man. ( I have father issues and I need him as my dad or else. )

I’m in love with the dc and batman franchise as a whole and I’m even more in love with Matt Reeves rendition of batman and the other characters. So, please enjoy my newbie writing :D

Edit: I just finished the finale of the show. Oh my god… I’m sobbing. When I catch you Ozwald, when I fucking catch you. Unfortunately, I still have father issues. If and when you guys see it, I’m so sorry. I love you and I’m hoping you have enough tissues. Drink some water too 💗💗

Safe Haven

The rain in Gotham was relentless, hammering down on you and the rest of the unsuspecting victims as you pushed through the heavy doors of the Iceberg Lounge. The warm lights and murmuring voices inside felt like a haven from the cold, harsh city streets you’d just come from. You kept your head down, hoping to slip through the crowd unnoticed.

But you should’ve known better. Oswald Cobb had eyes everywhere.

“Hey, kid,” his gruff voice called from across the room. “Whatcha doin’ here?”

You turned, bracing yourself for the usual lecture. You weren’t supposed to be wandering the city this late, especially not in Oswald’s domain. But as much as he puts on a tough front, you knew that he’d always let you stay. Even if it meant wearing that disapproving scowl of his.

“Just needed a place to clear my head,” you mumbled, not quite meeting his gaze.

He sighed, waving you over to his booth. “You know, for a kid who doesn’t get out much, you sure do end up in this place a lot,” he muttered, but he moved over, making room for you beside him. When you hesitated, he patted the seat impatiently. “Come on. Sit.”

You slid into the booth, shivering slightly. He noticed and grabbed his jacket from behind him, tossing it over your shoulders. “You’re drenched,” he observed, his voice softer now, a bit concerned.

“Thanks captain obvious,” you uttered quietly, tugging the burly jacket closer around yourself.

There was a long pause as he studied you, his eyes sharper than usual. “You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on? Or do I have to guess?”

You shrugged, the weight of everything slowly creeping in. “It’s… it’s kinda lame. And complicated.”

Oswald let out a low grunt, rolling his eyes at the lame part while leaning back in his seat. “Yeah, well, life usually is. But you don’t gotta carry all that on your own, you know.”

You looked at him, surprised. He rarely showed this side of himself, this softer side he tried so hard to bury. But tonight, the walls seemed to be down a little, and you found yourself wanting to tell him what was going on.

“I just… things at home aren’t great. And school’s been rough. Everything’s just a lot right now, s’all.”

He nodded slowly, as if he understood, his gaze softer than usual. “Hey, listen,” he said, his tone almost gentle. “I know what it’s like to feel like you’re carryin’ the world on your shoulders. But you got me. You come here anytime, a’ight? No questions asked.”

You felt a lump in your throat, touched by his unexpected kindness. “Thanks, Os,” you whispered, genuinely grateful.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t go getting all mushy on me,” he grumbled, though there was a hint of a smile on his face. “Now, you gonna eat? I’m not lettin’ you leave until you’ve had somethin’ warm.”

You couldn’t help but snort, a small, genuine sound that seemed to surprise him. He raised an eyebrow, looking almost amused.

“There it is,” he said, leaning back with a smirk. “Knew I’d get a smile outta you eventually.”

For the first time that night, the problems you’d been lugging around felt a little lighter.

[hermesserpent-stuff]

spoilers for Transmutation of the Soul

reader beware theres spoilers in there!

Ryker feels a note of hopelessness as he stares at the empty spot that the Bloodwrath brothers normally rented. He tries to breathe. And he succeeds. Kind of. He manages to ruthlessly shove down all the pain in his heart for the moment. He walks away, hands tightening into fists. It would be easier to feel anger. It would be easier if he could blame someone other than himself. But ultimately it is his fault. He had pressed for adoption and it is his pressing that got Viggo to agree and then they had…

He tries to distract himself by heading to the food vendors. His feet take him to the honey oatcake stall where the lady looks up at him and tilts her head slightly.

“Are they with you? I heard they were on your island from your hunters a little while ago.”

The seller asks and there is no need to clarify the who of her question. 

“We… we had hoped to find them here.”

He admits low and careful not to crack. Not to yell. Yelling would not help here. 

“They haven't been here in two months.”

She says softly and he finds himself leaning against the counter of the stall. The seller rounds the counter, gently touches his arm, and delicately pulls him into the closed off part of her stall that is hidden from the rest of the Market. Ryker finds his hands shaking as he is guided to a stool. His mind is swirling and rage at himself battles with a wave of despair. They had searched all over the seas for the two brothers. They had found Dagur’s Grimborn leather band in one of their nets. He has to hope they are not dead. That they had not driven them so far away that no one could help them. If they stopped coming to the market, there is no guarantee that they will be able to get the supplies they need. Like medication for Hiccup, or food supplies. 

A hot mug is pressed into his hands cutting into his thoughts. The seller raises an eyebrow as he blankly stares.

“Hot honey water. Drink it. And… From what I know of men, it is easier to cry in private away from prying eyes than it is to mourn in public. I will be back in a little bit when youve had time.”

And then she is gone through the flap.

Just like that, tears sting his eyes. He had not shed a single tear since the hunt for the two boys had started. He had yelled. He had screamed. He had fought with his brother over and over and bruised his hands punching dummies and railings of ships. The warm cup is nice against his aching hands. He bends his head and lets a few tears out. He sips the drink slowly and rebuilds his walls as best he can, blinking away further tears. The heat of the drinks settles him and grounds him to the here and now. 

The lady comes back in a little bit and settles on another stool and picks up a box.

“Are you steady?”

She asks kindly. He nods slowly. 

“Good. Now I know you because you’re Ryker Grimborn, but I don't assume you know me. I am Clelia Claudius Malleola. And I like those boys. And I assume that you like them too. And I love information.”

She taps the top of the box. Ryker swallows. He is not as good at talking as Viggo. Viggo who had been driving himself nuts since the boys had fled.

“I see.”

He does not.

“First though… I want to know what happened. I know from the hunters who passed that they were stranded at sea sick and were brought back to your island. And were there for a while.”

Ryker swallows again.

“We offered to adopt them. And they ran off.”

“Ah… Well. That's less than ideal. That could make them avoid the Markets. But… my other theories could still stand.”

Ryker scrunches his nose.

“Thanks for reminding me.”

She shakes her head. 

“Those boys are damaged and hurting. You offering to adopt them is sweet. But they are likely to never respond normally to that sort of thing. Especially with a father like that Oswald fellow, or with tribes like the Hooligans and Berserkers. Where Hiccup should have died and Dagur was always under threat.”

Ryker tenses, familiar licking his bones. He can work with anger. It is despair and sadness he cannot handle.

“Tell me.”

He leans forwards. Clelia tucks a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear and then opens the box. It is full of papers, books, and a few knick-knacks. 

“When the boys first failed to show up, I started digging about the two tribes that were mentioned. I thought they might have been dragged back down to the Barbaric Archipelago. I cornered Johan, the chatty rat, and got Rune to help me do a shake-down. Rune’s none to pleased that Johan’s loose lips got Oswald to come up here after them.”

She huffs and clicks her tongue. Then keeps going.

“So I got everyone in the market whose a regular to pitch in info on top of what Johan was scared into giving. Tove was particularly heartbroken when the boys did not show up, so he added the most. We then stopped when we heard they were with you, but now we’ll get to digging again if there is any chance that their status as ex-heirs might have gotten them taken to the south. Here.” She hands over the box. “For you and your brother. You have more ships and manpower than we do. And we all know you love those boys as much as we adore them. Find them. Bring them home.”

She demands and he finds himself nodding as he takes the box and holds it close. 

“We will. If we have to burn down Yggdrasil to do it.”

[alanshee-keeper-of-realms]

Do I say I do?

Synopis: In 1945 Congress and the Senate demand that the Toon Studios of Warner and Disney settle their differences after both are caught forming battlelines. The government forcing them to choose one toon on either side that would be married to each other to cement this bridge.

After being locked up in the water tower in 1934, James Rabbit Aka Yakko Warner would do anything to free his siblings but is he willing to be married off to some Disney Toon named Max Goof for that freedom?

A/N: Something I cooked up for the Yax folks have this sneak peak that I'm sure will make you just as mad as Goofy is over this situation. Yakko is trans as well so TW for misgendering and Misogyny

.........

He growled lowly as the man grabbed his face, Walts eyes narrowing,

"Behave yourself," he said sharply as he moved Yakkos head, looking closely,"Mmm, and you say she's a Warner? Some of the linework it is like ours."

The Warner boss grinned asking innocently,

"Didn't you hear me, Mr Disney? She is from one of your creations. It is why we figured over at Universal and Warner, Yakko would be perfect for your little Max. She is the daughter of Oswald and Ortensia, the Niece of Mickey it would assist in tying the Goof and Mouse families together as well." The CEO chuckled as Walts eyes lit up, his grip tightened, making Yakko wince at the vice like grip, before letting go,

The Animator turned going to his desk,

"She will do then, Max is being redesigned, and she should be as well, I had to go through Marceline over that." He sighed, Yakko could see in his eyes he was tired, he shrugged, pulling out a cigarette,

"It is the government, though. I told her that unless someone else wishes too then this is the only option." He put the object to his lips and lit it, taking a drag he muttered with a shake of the head,

"I don't want to make children grow up faster than they should. However, it has come to this. Just thanking the Lord above that they aren't forcing em to produce offspring, I know Max still has the mindset of a 6 year old, Yakko is that of a pre teen, she has no manners either, one of us would be stuck raising the mongrol to make sure they didn't end up feral."

He took another drag, James had already decided he didn't like this Walt Disney. But it also seemed like he had prior history with his Dad, so he'd play nice for now, putting on a smile fiddling with the skirt he couldn't wait to get out of,

"We are already working on that redesign." The Toon blinked horror shooting through him,

He knew how these animators treated female toons, let alone he didn't want to be, but he remembered Bugs warning of

Keep yer head down, kid, whatever they do to ya, you'll always outlast em and in the future you'll hopefully get to be who you wanna be with your sibs also loose,

"Yakko!" The sharp call made him snap to attention, he realized Walt was looking at him, softening his voice to be like they wanted,

"Sorry sirs, I got lost in thought, you were saying?"

"I was saying that you should go with Minnie and Lillian and get your wedding dress sorted this weekend. The event is 7 months away,"

"And I agreed since your redesign is tomorrow"

[serendertothesquad]

Seren's Studies: Odd Squad UK -- "Bad-Luck-itis" Episode Followup, Part 2

Reaching the climax of this one. Will Ozzie manage to implode the universe? Or explode it? Find out below the break!

HE BROKE THE FUCKING TUBES?!?!?!?!?

Man, at this point he's gonna have a coronary as the icing on the ca-

Fuck you.

Genuinely, Rob? Fuck you.

Fuck this bait-and-switch with the fury of 999 quadrillion suns.

This wasn't needed. It really wasn't.

Fuck. You.

"Not to exaggerate, but you're going to destroy us all."

Not even the franchise being under the helm of BBC Studios Kids and Family can remove its "destroy is a fancy word for die" curse. Thanks, PBS!

(And I mean that very sarcastically, thank you.)

Lmao at me thinking this is a rip of "Into the Odd Woods" or "A Case of the Sillies" when it's actually ripping off "The Odd Antidote".

The "magic water" bit was a dead fucking giveaway.

Either this is a sign of Rob wanting to break free because this was a shitty job, or this is a sign that he thinks meta jokes are funny.

Which they are. But what Orli's doing ain't it.

Case in point: if Orli were really in a rush, she and Osgood would take the container of water and run.

Instead, she sticks around.

We know why, of course. But in-universe, she doesn't have much reason to stick around.

What having a writer with absolutely no resume does to a motherfucker.

Did they grab this guy off the street or did they go through the proper channels AND THAT IS A VERY LEGITIMATE QUESTION THANK YOU.

HE EVEN HAS A PINK WATCH AS A FOOD AND BEVERAGE WORKER???? LMAOOOOOO.

Took them 8 years, but the bastards did it.

...Okay, I guess that answers the question of why they couldn't take the container and run.

Still stupid self-awareness, though.

God damn, PBS just can't stop Americanizing everything, can they? At this rate they could go 4Kids and remove all the British names and replace them with American ones!

(...They won't. But have fun with that mental image.)

I much preferred when the Guardian of the Rocks was asking about how long Opal and the Van Computer have been partners.

You can't get any more golden than Oswald's face utterly drooping in mild shock and disappointment.

this episode has a rainbow dragon

next episode has a gay triangle villain

One point to Rob. One. Only one.

They absolutely knew what they were doing.

This is the Odd Squad equivalent of firing a gun when you're sick.

No one smart enough fires a gun when they're sick. That's just downright fuck-all stupid.

I mean...okay, this effect is kinda cool. Kinda. Sorta.

Doesn't erase this episode's sins, though.

"Oh, what a day."

Yes...yes, it was a day. Just a day. No adjective. Just a day.

In some cosmic twisted way, this means you can watch "The Odd Antidote" and have the two episodes infinitely loop with each other.

Someone call the FBI, I have a new torture method!

It's contagious...but somehow Orwell didn't get it? And he's the one who got saddled up with Ozzie, so either the man's got a hell of an immune system or it's like "one and done, now you're immune".

And your credits for this episode. Featuring the Three's Company for Witches family!

-----------------------------------

Overall...this was tough to stomach. Easily the worst out of the "find the cure" episodes we've gotten. Season 3's, by comparison, were much better -- "Into the Odd Woods" at least had cuts to Omar completely sending Orla for a whirlwind with his clowning around, while "Off the Clock" brought a unique approach to the cliche and brought a bit of lore to boot.

This one...shot and missed the mark. Ozzie's repeated going into rooms and utterly destroying them was hilarious, and the wizards were fun, but I wasn't invested in Orli's and Osgood's quest through the Mystical Glade nor was I a fan of Orli's painful self-awareness. On that note, Oswald's gripe with technology and reliance on books was far more fun to see, even if just for a one-note wonder.

But of course, having dealt with writers who have lacking resumes, perhaps this shouldn't surprise me. I'd recommend Rob get more practice before returning to the franchise, because oh fuckin' boy does he need it.

Next time will be "The Triangle Sisters", and you can bet your ass I will gush about gay triangle villain. So, so much. We've got disability rep, now let's take the next step.

Seren out!

[reneethegreatandpowerful]

The Restless Vestra

Fire Emblem Siblings Week Day 2: Fears

Length: Best guess is around 1200 words.

Rating: E for Everyone.

Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked. Oswald lay under his blankets, staring through the half open doorway into the empty hall beyond. The clock was the only thing making any noise. Well, if you discounted the creaks the house kept making. They happened every now and then when he started to relax. He knew they were just caused by the wind, but that didn't mean he had to like them. He turned and looked out his window, and saw a bat flutter past in the moonlight. His brother had once told him that if a bat bit you, you could go mad. Which had left Oswald a bit leery of them, but also mighty curious.

He lay back down, tapping his foot up and down on the bed. He just wanted to sleep, but his body said no. And lying here was boring. Boring, but what else could he be doing? He couldn't read, because he wasn't allowed to light candles unsupervised. He still blamed the cat for the burn mark on the parlor rug, but rules were rules. Rules could also be broken, but he would have to find matches, and that meant venturing out into the dark, wide house.

He got off his bed and crept slowly over to the doorway. He peered out. There was no sound besides the clock ticking, and of course, the creaking. At least this creaking was quieter. He looked right, and then left, and saw nothing except closed doors and shadows. He was incredibly bored in his room, but he decided his mom would kill him if he stole matches. Well, maybe he could sneak a snack. She probably wouldn't be too mad about that. He slid one slippered foot and then another into the hallway, staring over his shoulder, his eyes fixed on a particularly dark shadow near his mother's room.

Walking one way and looking another isn't the best way of getting around. Especially when you step on something wet.

He stared down in dismay. It seemed to be a small animal. A mouse? Or a bat?! What if it was still alive and bit him so he went crazy, like Hubert had said? He backed away from it. He wasn't sure what to do.

Well, who better to ask for advice and a light than Hubert himself? Assuming he was awake. Oswald didn't know what time it was, and didn't want to rouse him, because he might get angry.

He quietly stepped over to his brother's door, trying not to shy from the shadows nearby. He put his ear to it. All was silent within. He didn't even hear the scratch of Hubert's quill. So he was asleep. Oswald hesitated. Who better to wake, his brother or his mother?

The door opened. Oswald yelped.

"Hush! What are you upset about?" said Hubert, his tall figure framed in candlelight.

"I didn't think you were awake," Oswald whispered. "But listen- I think I stepped on a dead mouse over there."

Hubert raised his eyebrows. Then he slipped past him and out into the hallway, where he crouched down in one swift motion beside the small, dark thing on the floor. Oswald watched him from the doorway.

Hubert looked at it for a few seconds, then scooped it into his hand and came over to Oswald. As he approached, the candlelight crept onto his grim expression.

"Hand," he said.

"Huh?" said Oswald.

"Hand!" Hubert whispered harshly, gesturing at him.

"No!" Oswald said, but seeing Hubert's face, he complied and held it out.

Hubert dropped the wet thing onto it.

Oswald uttered a quiet yell, turning his face away. Then he turned it back to look at the thing in his hand. It was a cat toy.

He looked up at Hubert, who was shaking with tiny chuckles.

"Very funny," said Oswald. "I can't see in the dark, I didn't know what it was!"

"Well, you didn't bother to look very closely, did you? Ah, well. Seems this fellow's had a swim in the water dish." Hubert tossed the toy back into the hallway, against the wall this time so it wouldn't find another foot. "Come on, before we wake Mother." He pushed against Oswald's back so he went inside, then shut the door behind them.

He went to his desk and sat down. Oswald came and stood beside him.

"You can sit," said Hubert, waving at his bed. Oswald got on it, and sat looking at him, kicking his legs.

"So, why were you stumbling around in the dark like a blindfolded monkey?"

Oswald huffed. "I can't sleep."

"Ah," said Hubert. "And why, pray tell?"

Oswald shrugged. "I don't know. Just not tired enough, I guess."

"I see." He picked up his quill with one hand, and one of the many papers on his desk with the other.

"What are you doing? Something boring?"

"Yes."

"Do you wanna do something else?"

"No."

Oswald looked down at his feet, and kept kicking them.

Hubert leaned back in his chair. "What did you have in mind?"

"Oh! Uh. Nothing, I guess. I don't know. -Do bats really make you go mad, Hubert?"

Hubert let out a laugh. "Where did that come from? Yes, getting bit by one can give you an unpleasant mind altering disease. Can. Not necessarily will. But I don't know why you bring it up." He watched Oswald for a few seconds. "Are you just going to sit there, then?"

"Well...I don't know. Wait." He smiled hesitantly. "Will you read me a story?"

Hubert looked at his papers, then pushed them away. "Aren't you a little old for that?" He was already getting up and turning to his bookshelf.

Oswald kicked his legs again, this time out of happiness. "No," he said. "Well, maybe, but I still want one."

"Then move over, or do you want to make me sit on the floor?"

Oswald scurried to the side of the bed, letting Hubert sit down and stretch his long legs down the quilt. He opened the book, and Oswald huddled up against him. Hubert sighed.

"What are you, a little child?"

"No," said Oswald, clutching Hubert's arm so he couldn't escape. Hubert shook his head. He put his arm around his brother and read to him awhile, until he fell asleep. When he did, with his head resting against Hubert's side, Hubert rose from the bed. He carefully pulled the quilt down and then over him, sneaking off his slippers at the same time. He tucked him snugly, then looked at him for a moment. He smiled to himself.

"Good night, Oswald," he murmured. He went back to his desk, where he himself fell asleep soon after.

[thevessaliuz]

[ chin up ]

non-verbal angst prompts | @gloomy-glen

Jack shouldn't loose his temper like this- he'd just yelled at Oswald. Even when he knew that he shouldn't. And now his eyes are burning, he feels the tears welling up, his head is bowed, he's hiding his face behind the hair that's covering his vision. He hopes Oswald would not notice.

But then Oswald lift his chin with cold fingers, and he's exposed. His treacherous hair falls away, and he meets Oswald's cold, dark eyes.

And Jack feels fear.

Like the first time, when Oswald saw through him and he'd poured the glass of water on him without thinking. To hide himself, to break the contact, because he feels naked when Oswald looks through him like this.

Because Jack wants to hide his emptiness.

His different personas are not enough to decieve Oswald.

When Oswald told Jack that Lacie will die, he did not cry. Yet, now, he is crying. She's left him the earring. He almost can't believe it.

He is standing with the ribbon clenched in one hand, looking out the window- the sun is still beaming. The cruel days continue, regardless of what happens. He hears the door open, turns his head too fast, sees Oswald enter. Knows that Oswald sees him too, sees the tears running down his face. He tries to hide them with his head down, the hair falling across his face.

What an embarassment, to be seen like this. By Oswald of all people.

Will he think Jack is foolish, crying about the inevitable ? His hair can hide his face, but the tears that fall onto the wooden floor make sounds that are loud enough to be heard. He wishes Oswald didn't see...

[sheliesshattered]

Whouffaldi non-canon AU. 8 chapters, 32,000 words. Rated Mature for heavier themes in later chapters, alluded to and discussed but not shown; please contact me privately if you’re worried about triggering topics.

Clara Oswald/Twelfth Doctor. Mystery, pining and angst with a happy ending. Available on AO3 under the same username and title. Originally posted in 2020.

This Isn't A Ghost Story

Chapter 1 - The House

14 November 2014, London

There was a certain amount of irony, Clara reflected, that her first reaction was I’m going to kill him.

Her ‘special friend’ had just cost her the sale of her late grandmother’s house. Again. This had to be roughly the twelfth adorable family or nice couple that had stepped into her ancestral family home only to turn tail and run before they’d even had a chance to hear about the antique hardwood floors or the fully restored kitchen. At this point, he wasn’t even being subtle about it anymore.

The longer the house sat on the market, the fewer calls she was getting to schedule walk-throughs of the property. She was beginning to worry that word of the house’s strangeness was getting around the local real estate community. If things kept up at this rate, she was going to end up permanently saddled with an inheritance whose tax burden she could barely afford, in the form of a one hundred and thirty year old, gorgeous, sprawling, haunted house.

Clara used her key to let herself in through the ornate front door, grumbling under her breath. As soon as she closed the door behind her, the cabinets in the kitchen began to rattle ominously.

“Oh, shut up,” she snapped, dropping her purse and keys on the small table in the foyer. “It’s just me.”

The door to one of the bedrooms upstairs slammed shut.

She groaned and buried her face in her hands and counted to ten before looking up again. “Listen, I get that you’re cross with me for bringing people by, but I am beyond livid with you, so let’s skip the part where I yell and you throw things and just agree to be angry with each other in silence, okay?”

The house went quiet in a manner entirely too creepy for her liking. If not for the undercurrent of petulant passive-aggressiveness, she might have actually been scared.

Not that Clara had ever really been scared of the ghost that lived in her Gran’s house. He had never once made her feel unsafe, not since she’d first spoken to him as a small child. But the sudden silence was still unnerving.

“Well, good,” she said into the preternatural stillness, more to prove to herself that she wasn’t scared than anything else. “It’s nice to actually be able to hear myself think, for a change.”

The top step of the staircase creaked once, as if to make a point.

“Still shut up,” she grumbled.

She went about the short list of tasks she’d come to see to, putting away the food she’d set out for the potential home buyers, watering the plants, closing the curtains, and flicking on a few lamps to make the house look lived-in. Of course, she didn’t envy anyone who tried to break into the house while it sat apparently empty. At some level, a poltergeist was better home protection than a dog could ever be.

Her chores complete, Clara returned to the foyer to find her purse where she’d left it, but her keys conspicuously missing. She sighed, hands on her hips, and turned towards the cold spot she could feel forming near the foot of the stairs. He was nothing but a faint wispy outline in the direct light of the setting sun filtering through the stained glass window over the front door, but even that outline was familiar enough that Clara was able to find his eyes and fix him with a displeased glare.

“Where are my keys?” she demanded. She still hadn’t forgiven him for his behaviour earlier, and she was in no mood to play find-the-lost-trinket tonight.

“I didn’t want you to leave before I could apologise,” the ghost said, not quite meeting her gaze. His voice raised gooseflesh along her arms, as usual, but she much preferred the low rumble of his Scottish brogue to the slamming of doors and rattling of cupboards. Not that she would ever openly admit that to him.

“So apologise and tell me where you’ve hidden my keys!”

“Clara,” he said, and she clenched her teeth against the shivery reaction she always had to the way he said her name, like it had been invented just so he could say it. There were days when she lived for that rush — and many, many lonely nights, in her love-struck teenaged years — but today was absolutely not one of them.

“...Was there more to that sentence?” she asked when he didn’t go on. “Saying my name does not constitute an apology.”

He glanced up at her, looking increasingly solid as the sunlight waned. “I’m sorry I upset you. That wasn’t my intention.”

“No, your intention was to make certain I can’t sell this house, and don’t bother to deny it.”

He chewed his incorporeal lip for a moment, then shrugged. “I won’t deny it. I don’t want you to sell the house. But I’m still sorry I upset you.”

Clara sighed. “I have to sell it. You know this. And someday, someone too brave or too stupid to fall for all your clattering will decide to buy this place, and that’ll be that.”

“Don’t say that,” he pleaded, his eyes glinting blue in the gathering dusk.

“It’s the reality of the situation, so you’d best start making peace with it,” she said evenly. Another irony not lost on her: arguing the state of reality with a man dead nearly a century. “Now, where are my keys?”

Her ghost hesitated. “You don’t have to leave,” he said. “You could stay?”

“I never stay the night in this house. That was your advice to me, more than twenty years ago. No sense in breaking with tradition.”

“I think maybe I was being overly paranoid at the time.”

“And I think maybe you’re acting like a lonely old man now,” Clara snarked back.

“Alone in a house that you of all people are dead-set on evicting me from? I can’t imagine why I’d be lonely!”

“It’s not like you’re stuck here! You’re not tied to the house, you can go anywhere you want!”

“But it’s my house!”

“Keys, now!” she snapped. “Traffic is already going to be horrendous—”

“All the more reason to stay,” he said petulantly.

“But,” she went on forcefully, speaking over him, “tomorrow’s Saturday, so I have the day off work. If you tell me where my keys are, I’ll come back first thing in the morning. I still need to finish going through all those old boxes in the attic. We can spend the day working on that together, okay?”

“You’re going to drive all the way home only to turn around and come back in the morning? Why not just—”

“Or I could spend the day doing something fun with people my own age, very far away from here,” she bluffed. “Your choice.”

“Oh, fine,” he said, shoulders sagging. “Your keys are hidden in the parlour, I’ll show you where.”

“Thank you,” she said mildly, and followed him into the next room.

--

As promised, Clara arrived back at her grandmother’s house early the next morning, take-away coffee cup in hand. There had been a moment, whilst she stood in the queue to order, when she’d found herself thinking she ought to get two coffees, bring her ghost a peace offering to smooth over their row from the night before. Thankfully she’d realised how ridiculous that sounded before it was her turn to order, but she still felt strangely off balance as she unlocked the front door and let herself in, like she had forgotten something important.

“Hey,” she called to the empty house, as soon as she closed the door behind her. “It’s just me, no need to go rattling the hinges on my account.”

Her ghost appeared in a shadowy corner of the foyer, smiling at her shyly. “Good morning, my Clara,” he said. “You look lovely today. Have you had a wash?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to ignore the somersaulting of her heart at the way he said her name. My Clara. “Why are you being nice?”

“Because it works on you,” he shrugged nonchalantly. “And because I really am sorry about yesterday,” he added.

“Well, apology accepted,” Clara said. “And I’m sorry I yelled at you. The process of selling this place has been entirely too stressful, and I’m really starting to worry it won’t happen before the property taxes are due,” she sighed.

He ran a semi-transparent hand through the short curls at the back of his head, the ring he wore on his left hand briefly catching the light. “Yeah, about that...”

She winced. “What did you do?”

“The post came early today,” he said, voice even more apologetic than before. “I didn’t open it, but one of the envelopes has a rather official looking return address. I put it on the dining room table for you.”

She left her keys and purse on the table by the door and trudged off to the dining room, unable to contain her groan when she saw the envelope in question. Opening it, she found that he was right: property taxes were due in six weeks, the total even higher than she had anticipated. It was more than she made in a month at her teaching job. Even with the small amount she had stashed away in savings, she would hardly be able to pay it and the rent on her flat, and still expect to feed herself.

“What about the rest of your inheritance?” he asked, sounding genuinely worried.

“I put it all into fixing up this place to sell,” she said.

“Which I’ve made impossible,” he murmured.

Clara covered her face with her hands, trying not to cry and hoping he wouldn’t notice. Yes, he was the reason she hadn’t been able to sell the house to any of the dozen or so buyers who had shown initial interest. But he was also the only one in her life who even knew or cared what she was going through.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she told him honestly, still hiding behind her hands. “If I don’t pay it, they’ll just add late fees on top of that already ridiculously large sum. If I can’t sell the house soon...”

She felt a cold touch drift across the back of her hands, felt her hair stir in a nonexistent breeze, and wished, not for the first time in her life, that her ‘special friend’ was the sort of friend who could offer a hug when she so desperately needed one.

“I don’t suppose there’s a secret stash of diamonds in the attic?” she asked him, only half joking. “Or a map to buried treasure?”

“You are descended from a line of exceptionally adventuresome women,” he replied, voice sounding distant and thoughtful. “I haven’t been up to the attic in years. I don’t know what all is in there, but anything is possible.”

Clara dropped her hands from her face and squared her shoulders, not looking at her ghost until she was certain she wouldn’t spontaneously burst into tears. “Well, let’s hope there’s something up there that will help.”

--

The attic had never been Clara’s favourite place in her Gran’s house, cramped and dusty and full of ancient boxes that gave off a far creepier vibe than the literal ghost had ever managed to do. But on the plus side, it was also windowless, dim enough that he was able to appear to her in a fairly solid state and even move lightweight objects as though he were a real person existing in the real world.

She had removed the larger pieces from the attic weeks ago, furniture and blanket chests and trunks of old clothing, all sorted through and donated to charity or brought back to her flat, or else restored to the best of Clara’s ability and set out to decorate the house in a manner befitting its age. All that remained were boxes of keepsakes, photographs and journals and old letters, small family things that required far more of her attention to sort through.

Despite the lingering threat of the taxes due, it was a pleasant morning, sitting together amidst the papers and dust, slowly uncovering the history of her family, layer on layer, like an archaeologist digging through levels of sediment. Her Gran had spent her entire life in this house, from the time she was a baby, used it as a homebase during her adventurous youth, married and raised her own daughter in it, and continued to live in it after her husband died. The boxes that littered the attic bore witness to all those many decades.

“Oh my god, these photos of Mum,” Clara said, turning the yellowed album towards her ghost so he could see them, in all their early 1970s glory. “She must have been, what, about fifteen in these?”

“Ellie’s first formal school dance,” he confirmed, leaning in to examine the photos. “With that older boy, I forget his name. Your grandfather did not approve.”

Clara snorted. “Can’t say I blame him. Look at those sideburns. I’m not sure I would have let her go out with him at all.”

“They had a huge row about it, if I remember correctly. In the end, your grandmother took your mother’s side, and she was allowed to go.”

“Why didn’t you ever appear to any of them?” she asked, flipping through the pages and pausing to linger on what looked to be polaroids of a rugby game. “You were here all that time, but you never talked to anyone until I came along?”

He shrugged. “You were the only one that was you.”

“Thanks. That clears it right up.”

“It’s the only answer I’ve got,” he objected.

“I scared the daylights out of Mum and Gran when I told them about you, I was probably all of six years old at the time.”

“Five, I think,” he said quietly.

“God, five. I might have a heart attack if my five year old started talking very confidently about her special friend the ghost that lives at Gran’s house.”

“I seem to remember advising you against telling them.”

“And in all the time you’ve known me, when have I ever taken your advice?” she asked archly.

“Hmm. There was that one time you actually listened to me, about that chap you were dating, what’s-his-name.”

Clara winced, remembering it all too well. “I thought we agreed never to speak of him again.”

“Gladly,” her ghost replied emphatically.

She shook her head, more than happy to dismiss the subject. “As a child it didn’t make sense to me not to tell Mum and Gran about you. You live in Gran’s house, the house where Mum grew up, I just assumed they already knew about you. I mean, why wouldn’t they?”

“I’m not sure I could have talked to them, even if I’d wanted to. And I never did want to.”

Clara turned her gaze to him, studying his face in the dimness. Without direct sunlight, he looked almost human, almost alive, the blue of his eyes and the salt and pepper of his hair appearing so very real, so very close at hand. He still seemed as ageless to her now as he had when she was a child. Ageless and ancient, wise and funny, solemn and sardonic. She thought perhaps she knew his face better than any other, living or dead.

“But why didn’t you ever want to talk to them?” she pressed.

“Why do you need a key to enter the house?” he asked in response.

She felt her eyebrows come together in consternation. “Because the door is locked.”

“But why that key?”

“Because... that’s the key that fits. That’s the key that goes with that lock.”

He shrugged, most of his attention on the page of the journal he’d been perusing. “You are the key that fits. I can’t give you a better answer than that.”

Chapter 2 - The Box

When Clara’s stomach informed her that it had to be well past lunchtime, she glanced up from a shoebox full of black and white photos of her Gran’s travels and spotted the ghost standing in the far corner of the attic, staring at a dusty and crumbling box she didn’t recognise, a calculating expression wrinkling his brow.

“I forgot this was here,” he murmured so quietly she almost didn’t catch it.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Oh, just letters and photos and journals and such,” he said louder, not shifting his gaze. “The same as the rest.”

“I’m not sure I like the way you’re looking at it,” she told him playfully, shuffling through the photos in her hands. “What are you thinking?”

He hesitated. “I’m wondering if I can get it downstairs now,” he said slowly, “or if I’ll have to wait until after sunset to be able to move it.”

“Why do you want to take it downstairs?” she asked absently.

“That’s where the fireplace is. Probably ought to keep it contained. Don’t want to burn down the whole house.”

That caught her attention, and Clara put down the photos she’d been concentrating on, giving him her entire focus. “What? Why would you want to burn it?”

“It’s for the best,” he said obliquely.

“What is in that box?” she demanded, standing and crossing the cramped space towards him to get a better look at it.

“Clara,” he admonished, trying ineffectually to block her view of the box.

“That’s my family history you’re contemplating burning there, mister,” she told him. “I think I should at least get to see it first.”

“I would really rather you didn’t—”

She felt his cold touch brush against the back of her hand as she reached into the box, but it wasn’t nearly enough to deter her.

“These photos are ancient,” she said, noting the sepia colours of the few she’d managed to snag. “Who is the woman in these pictures? It’s not Gran.”

“Clara, would you please just—”

“You don’t want me to see these,” she said, putting together the pieces. “Why?”

“There are parts of the history of this house that you’re better off not knowing,” he said, more ominous than the rattling of cupboards that had scared away so many potential buyers.

“No, hang on a second,” she said, looking closer at the photos in the dim light. “Who is this? She looks exactly like—”

He winced. “Please don’t.”

“Exactly like me.”

“Clara, please.”

“What is going on with you?” she demanded, turning her gaze to him. “In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never behaved like this.”

His jaw worked soundlessly for a moment before he finally said, “That’s your great-grandmother. The one you’re named for.”

She peered at the photos, pacing closer to the bare lightbulb hanging from the slanting ceiling to try to see them better. “Okay, but that is actually creepy. I look just like her. Why has no one ever mentioned that?”

“No one alive now remembers what she looked like. She died when your grandmother was a baby, you know that.”

“Why would you not want me to see these?” she asked, a chill working its way down her spine.

“Clara—”

“You’re scaring me,” she told him. “Really, properly scaring me, for the first time in my life. Why would you want to burn this box, rather than let me see these photos?”

“Sometimes the past is better left buried.”

“But this is ancient history! Nearly a century ago! What harm could it possibly—” she cut off as he abruptly disappeared, leaving her with the dust and her lingering questions and the echoes of familial pain.

--

After their confrontation in the attic, Clara didn’t want to leave the strange old box alone with her ghost, so she carefully carried it downstairs with her, setting it on the kitchen table as she scrounged up a make-shift lunch out of what little food there was on hand. The house had gone eerily silent after he’d disappeared, and she found herself humming under her breath as she ate and cleared up, trying to calm her jagged nerves.

“Could you not?” his voice came from behind her, and she jumped, spinning to face him. He was hazy and translucent in the early afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows near the table, but she could tell his eyes were fixed on the box and not on her.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Would ghostly footsteps really have been any better?” he asked sourly, cutting his gaze to her briefly.

“When I know they’re from you, yes! And since when has my humming bothered you?”

“It’s not the humming so much as your choice of song.”

Clara blinked at him, trying to remember the tune. “I don’t even know what it was.”

“That’s exactly my point.” She watched him try to grasp one corner of the box, his hand passing through it, as insubstantial as cobwebs. He made a face and dropped his arm, but didn’t move away from the box.

“You still want to burn it,” she said, not quite a question.

“I’m reconsidering my stance on burning down the entire house, if that’s what it takes. Would you still have to pay the tax bill if the house were no longer here? What’s the insurance situation like?”

“I cannot believe I have to say this, but please don’t burn down the house. I will figure out how to pay the taxes, one way or another. And whatever is in that box can’t possibly be that bad.”

He looked up at her and held her gaze across the width of the kitchen. “Can’t it?”

“What is it that you’re so afraid of me knowing?” Clara asked, and he turned away, staring down into the box again. “So I look like my great-grandmother, what of it? I’m named for her, too. It’s just family resemblance, it’s hardly surprising.”

She honestly wasn’t sure which of them she was trying to convince. She’d hoped that in the bright daylight and modern setting of the kitchen, a reexamination of the photos would prove that she only somewhat resembled the long-dead woman, but her ghost’s odd behaviour was throwing that fragile hope into serious doubt.

“It’s more than that, and you know it,” he murmured, still faced away from her. “Deep down, you know it. And now it’s only a matter of time until you realise...”

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and her heart thudded against her ribs. “Please tell me what’s going on,” she breathed.

He reached into the box, the shadow cast by its raised edge allowing him enough substance to shuffle through the contents within. “I never spoke to Margot — your grandmother,” he said, voice distant and detached. “Or anyone else after she was born, not until you were old enough to talk to me. But I’ve always been here. I moved things, when no one would notice. Hid things. I hid this box so long ago, I’d forgotten it was there. But I’m certain Margot never found it.”

“Why did you hide it from her? If it’s just old photos, then why—”

“I made a promise, Clara. I had a duty of care. Almost eighty-seven years keeping that promise, only for this box to resurface now.”

Clara frowned, confused. “But Gran wouldn’t have turned eighty-seven until next summer.”

“I didn’t make the promise to Margot. I made it to the only person I’ve spoken to since my death. The only one who could ever see me.”

“Besides me, you mean.”

He glanced at her over his shoulder, his expression like an open wound. “Clara.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” she asked again, trying to shake the unnerving feeling that look elicited. “There’s some deep, dark, family secret, I’m getting that much. But why does it have to remain a secret? Whatever it is, everyone connected with it is gone now. There’s only you and me left.”

He turned back to the box, gaze fixed on something inside that she couldn’t see. “I would like to think that I could tell you the basics of it and you’d leave it be. The trouble is, I know you too well for that. I know you won’t stop digging until you’ve uncovered all the gory details. If I can spare you any part of that pain...”

“I think I’d rather have the truth,” she told him bluntly.

“I know,” he said, sounding resigned. Carefully, as though it took all of his focus to accomplish, he lifted a single photograph from the box. When his hand cleared the edge of the box, the sunlight rendered it insubstantial again, and the photo drifted down to the tabletop, unsupported. “You always did demand absolute honesty from me, Clara, my Clara.” He met her eyes once more, and then was gone.

Alone again in the silence of the kitchen, Clara hesitated before crossing to the table to pick up the picture he’d taken from the box, curiosity eventually winning out over her lingering fear.

Like the photos she’d seen earlier, it was composed of monotones of brown, surrounded by a thick off-white border, but it was the image captured there that made the breath catch in her throat. A man and a woman stood side by side, gazing at each other rather than out at the camera, both smiling broadly. He was dressed in a dark suit and crisp white shirt, and she wore a pale satin gown with a dropped waist and a boxy cut. She held a bouquet of flowers in her hands, and there were more flowers in her short dark hair, formed into a circlet that held a long lace veil in place.

Any hope that Clara might have clung to that she bore only a passing resemblance to her namesake was shattered, the longer she looked at the photo. The likeness was uncanny, and downright eerie given the fuss made over this box. So far as she could tell, they were identical in every way, from their height and their facial features to the dimple that only appeared when she smiled. It easily could have been her in that photo. If she didn’t know better, she would have sworn that it was.

And if there was any other face that she knew as well as her own, it was that of her ghost. His ageless, expressive face had been seared into her consciousness since childhood, doodled in the margins of homework assignments in adolescence, and featured in her dreams for as long as she could remember. There was absolutely no question in her mind, not at first glance nor after careful examination, that the man stood beside her great-grandmother was one and the same. She would know him anywhere. His hair was perhaps a touch longer now, more untamed, but he didn’t look like he had aged a day.

Turning the photo over, she found a short inscription on the back. Clara and John, 12 May 1923 was written in large block letters, but John had been neatly crossed out, and above it small, looping handwriting had added the Doctor in its place.

She’d never known her ghost’s name, and when she had prodded him for personal information as a child, he had given her only a few sparse details. It had never particularly bothered her — she knew him, so as a child she had simply accepted that he was her ghost, and she was his Clara, and that was all that mattered. Besides, it wasn’t as though she could speak to anyone else about him, certainly not after the way her Mum and Gran had reacted.

But she wondered at it now, at the life he had led, long before she was born. She wondered about the man in the photograph, John or the Doctor or whatever he preferred to be called, this man that was so clearly her ghost. Had he had a good life? And what had made him want to linger in this house after it had ended?

She turned the photo back over, her eyes catching on his familiar face again. He looked so very happy in that frozen moment, gazing with absolute adoration at the woman who could have been her. Her great-grandmother wore a matching expression, giddy with happiness and clearly very much in love. Clara didn’t think she had ever looked at anyone that way. In her nearly twenty-eight years of life, she had never once felt for anyone what the two people in that photo so obviously felt for each other. Not anyone, except—

That thought cut short at the sound of music drifting down from upstairs, ethereal and haunting, even discounting the fact that she knew it was played by a man dead almost a century. Still cradling the photograph in both hands, Clara followed the music up the stairs, and found him in the dim back bedroom, perched on an old blanket chest with an acoustic guitar across his lap. He glanced up at her when she paused in the doorway, but didn’t stop playing. She didn’t want him to stop.

Clara watched his long fingers move effortlessly across the frets, felt the way the familiar melody reverberated out from the guitar, full of love and longing, and thought again about the expression he’d worn on that long ago day, captured in the photograph in her hands. As a teenager she had entertained fantasies that he might one day look at her like that, but as she’d gotten older she had come to accept the futility of it. He was a ghost, dead decades before she was born, and no matter how special he was to her, or she to him, there would never be any way to alter those facts.

But now she found herself confronted with something almost infinitely worse: here was her ghost directing that look at her great-grandmother. The familial implications were obvious, and distressing in a way she couldn’t even quite articulate to herself. It wasn’t just the likelihood that she was descended from this man who had featured so prominently in her life, or that he had never bothered to reveal that bit of information to her. It wasn’t even jealousy, exactly, but rather a sort of longing for what could have been. It could have been her in that photo. It should have been her.

She leaned in the doorway and listened to him play, and tried to imagine a world in which he wasn’t dead, and she was free to love him.

“That’s the song I was humming earlier,” she said softly, once the last note had faded away. “What’s it called?”

He was silent a long moment. “It’s called Clara,” he murmured, carefully setting aside the guitar and not meeting her gaze. “I wrote it, a very long time ago, for your great-grandmother. I used to hum it for you sometimes, when you were a baby. I don’t know if you were always that fussy, or if you’ve just never slept well in this house, but it seemed to... help, I suppose.”

“I didn’t know you appeared to me when I was a baby,” she said. “But I guess it makes sense.” She glanced down at the photograph in her hands, thought again on the familial relationship that could be inferred from it. “I’m not sure I have a first memory of you,” she told him honestly. “I remember the first time I spoke to you, the first time you responded, but even before that, you were always just there, every time I visited Gran.”

If she didn’t know his face so well, she would have missed the sad smile that briefly curled one corner of his mouth. “Ellie brought you here when you were a week old. Your grandfather’s health was failing, and he hadn’t been able to visit her in hospital. She let him hold you, but rather than look at him, you looked directly at me. Focused on me like I’ve never seen out of a newborn. It’d been fifty-eight years since anyone had seen me, and then there you were, staring right at me. My Clara.”

Her heart flipped over in her chest, and she looked down the photo again and willed herself to speak. “I need to ask you something, and I need you to tell me the truth.”

“And there you go again, demanding utmost honesty from me,” he said with fond ruefulness.

She hesitated, chickening out and deciding to take a slightly different tack. She held up the photo so he could see it. “Is this you?”

He glanced from the photo up to her face, like he was surprised at the question. “Yes.”

“Are you my great-grandfather?” she blurted out before she could lose her nerve again.

He winced. “That’s a complicated question.”

“It’s really not,” she pressed, gripped with the need to know, no matter how much it might hurt. “Either you are or you’re not.”

“Clara—”

“This is a photo of you and my great-grandmother, on what certainly looks like your wedding day,” she said, pushing the words out in a rush, as though that would make it easier. “You said you had a ‘duty of care’ for my Gran, a promise strong enough to keep you here for the last eighty-seven years. So are you or are you not my great-grandfather?”

He sputtered a moment, clearly not wanting to answer the question. “Legally, technically, yes,” he finally said. “If you go digging into the paperwork — wills and birth certificates, that sort of thing — you’ll find my name there. But in reality? Biologically? No. Margot wasn’t mine. There was no way she could have been mine, and your great-grandmother knew it.”

A strange sort of relief washed through her, quickly followed by confusion. “Wait, that’s the dark and terrible family secret?” she asked in disbelief. “That you’re not Gran’s father?”

He hesitated. “That’s part of it, yes,” he hedged. “And if anyone had ever found out, it would have cost her this house and the rest of her inheritance, every bit of anything that provided her with stability and security, as a girl orphaned at three months old.”

“That’s why you were trying to keep it hidden from her,” Clara realised.

He nodded. “Margot lived her entire life never knowing the truth of her parentage, which is exactly what her mother wanted. That was part of the promise I made, to spare Margot from as much of that pain as I could.”

“Why have you never told me any of this before?”

“It didn’t seem right to speak of it while Margot was alive,” he shrugged. “But you’re right, there’s only the two of us left, now. And I suppose there are some things you are entitled to know, as much as I might wish for nothing to change.”

Clara watched him for a long moment, studying his face. “There’s more you’re not telling me,” she said, trying to keep her tone from turning accusatory. “What else is in that box?”

He held his hand out for the photo, taking it from her carefully when she offered it to him. “This was a good day,” he said, staring down at the man he had been, and the woman who could have been her. “We were very, very happy. But there were less happy days, memories I would protect you from, if I can. If you’ll let me.”

“You can’t protect me from everything,” she told him, gently but firmly. “I’m not part of your duty of care. I never asked you for that.”

He looked up from the photo to find her gaze again. “My Clara. You shouldn’t have to ask.”

Chapter 3 - The Journal

Clara couldn’t sleep that night. Alone in her flat, she tossed and turned in bed, the day’s events replaying on a loop in her mind. The revelation of the identity of her ghost, the family secret he had spent almost a century protecting, her uncanny resemblance to her great-grandmother, it all felt like a complicated knot she needed to untangle. Beyond everything she’d learned, there was still more her ghost refused to tell her, and the thought nagged at her, keeping her awake.

Shortly after midnight she gave up on sleep, getting up and padding down the hall to her small sitting room. Given that it was early Sunday morning, she wouldn’t have to be up for work in a scant few hours, so if she was awake anyway she might as well do something useful. She flicked on the lamp closest to the sofa and pulled over the ancient box she’d brought from her Gran’s house, positioning it at the near end of the coffee table.

Before she left, she’d managed to extract a promise from her ghost that he wouldn’t burn down the house while she was away. But she still hadn’t completely trusted him alone with the box that had caused so much upset, so she’d loaded it into her car and brought it home with her, uncertain of exactly what she intended to do with it.

It’d been obvious that he was no more comfortable with the idea of her in sole possession of the box than she was with the thought of leaving it with him. You won’t stop digging until you’ve uncovered all the gory details, he had said to her, and she knew herself well enough to admit that he was probably right. Now that she knew of the existence of this box, she could hardly just let it be.

But it was more than simply feeling entitled to her family history. There was something there, some hidden edge of the mystery that called to her, something she felt like she should know. It wasn’t just her resemblance to her great-grandmother, or her attachment to her ghost, or his unwillingness to explain the situation to her. It’s more than that, and you know it, he’d told her. Deep down, you know it. And now it’s only a matter of time until you realise...

Clara shivered a little, remembering his words, more unnerved in the silence of her flat than she’d been when he’d first said them. Whatever this was, wherever this led, she had to know.

Glancing into the box, she picked up the wedding photograph from the top of the pile of papers and leaned towards the lamplight to examine it again. It was less disconcerting than it had been earlier, now that she knew some of the context behind it, but it was still odd to see her own face in a photo taken more than ninety years ago, in the spring of 1923. Staring at it, she was struck again by the feeling of what should have been, of how fiercely she wished it was her in that photo, marrying the man she loved.

But it wasn’t her in the photo. It couldn’t possibly be her, no matter how much it looked like her and no matter how much she wished it was. Perhaps getting to know the woman depicted there, her great-grandmother and namesake, would help her shake the feeling that somewhere along the line, fate had gone horribly awry. With that thought firmly in mind, she reached into the box and began pulling items from it.

There was no sense of order to the box, but as she dug through it, Clara began to suspect that it was the contents of her great-grandmother’s writing desk, quickly and haphazardly transferred to the box, however long ago. It was a mix of correspondence and shopping lists, photographs and small pieces of memorabilia, all jumbled together, fragile with age. She took each item out one by one, sorting them into piles as she went — a stack for photos, another for letters, a third for keepsakes, and a smaller pile for the ephemera of everyday life, things she probably didn’t need to keep. She could spend tomorrow going through them in more detail, reading the letters and looking at the photos in the light of day.

At the bottom of the box she found what appeared to be a well-loved brown leather travel journal, thick with envelopes and postcards and loose leafs of paper fitted between the pages. The front was emblazoned with a globe and the words 101 Places To See. She smiled softly, running her fingertips over its dips and ridges, and thought of her own brief travels after university. When her Dad had balked at the idea of her travelling on her own, her Gran had declared it a family tradition for the women in their family to travel. Apparently it was one that went back further than Clara realised.

Curious about the sorts of travels her namesake had chosen, she leaned closer to the lamp and opened the journal to the first entry, written in the same small, looping handwriting as on the back of the wedding photo:

1 March 1921, London

I purchased this journal for my upcoming holiday, but I fear the title may be more aspirational than factual. Mother and Father have agreed to allow me a solo European tour, perhaps under the mistaken belief that giving me that much freedom will quench my thirst for more far-flung adventures. If they knew of my ambitions, they would certainly forbid me from leaving home at all. We shall see how far I can get on the stipend they have gifted me, before their disapproval catches up with me.

A family tradition indeed, Clara thought, smiling wider, and flipped ahead a few pages.

16 March 1921, Paris

Paris is lovely, if not so very different from London. It is, however, an excellent hub from which to book further travel...

The next several pages were devoted to cataloguing life in Paris in the early ‘20s, an era that had fascinated Clara during her literature studies at university. She scanned through the entries on the off-chance that her great-grandmother might have crossed paths with a famous name during her time there. Seeing none, she ran her thumb along the outer edge of the pages to jump further ahead and get an idea of where she had gone after Paris.

Of its own accord, the journal opened to a place where a small sepia photograph had been wedged between the pages, and Clara carefully prised it free to examine it closer. Though it wasn’t nearly as crisp as the wedding photo, the two figures in it were instantly identifiable as her ghost and her great-grandmother. They stood side by side, her arm slung around his back and his draped over her shoulders, smiling at the camera and squinting in bright sunlight, a desert landscape rolling away behind them. Surprised, she turned it over to find her great-grandmother’s handwriting on the back had labeled it Doctor John Smith, Thebes Egypt, 19 May 1921.

Egypt? Her curiosity piqued, Clara backtracked a few pages to try to find the context of the photo, and when exactly her ghost had first entered her great-grandmother’s life.

2 May 1921, Cairo

Egypt is enthralling, everything I had dreamed it would be. Thankfully I find I am able to stretch my budget further here than I could on the continent. I sent my last letter home from Athens, and carefully did not mention my future plans — my hope is that I can spend a few weeks here before returning to Europe via Malta and then on to Italy, and Mother and Father will never be the wiser. To that end (and to ensure I don’t run out of funds and thus be forced to resort to begging parental assistance), I have already booked passage aboard a ship departing in three weeks.

The next few days detailed her sightseeing in and around Cairo, and Clara scanned ahead until her eyes caught on an entry almost two weeks later:

14 May 1921, Cairo

I met the most fantastic and intriguing man at the museum party last night! We spoke like old friends for near an hour and a half before he was pulled away by his compatriots, and it was only after he was gone that I realised we did not so much as exchange names. At the time, names felt superfluous, secondary to my desire to know him, but this morning I find myself wishing I could put a name to the face that hasn’t left my mind these last twelve hours.

He is Scottish, an academic of some description, though his interests and expertise seem so wide ranging, I can hardly guess at what his specialty might be. His has the nose of a Roman emperor, more regal than the bust of Marcus Aurelius that lives on the shelf in my bedroom back home, but recently burnt to peeling by the hot desert sun in a way I found entirely too endearing. There is no question that he is significantly older than myself, but he carries none of the condescension I typically associate with such an age difference. He showed more than polite interest in hearing of my travels and my thoughts on all that I have seen, and in exchange told me stories of his many adventures.

He is exactly the sort of kindred spirit I have for so long dreamed of knowing, and yet I know no hard facts about him at all. I don’t suppose we will ever meet again — and isn’t that sad? To have met someone as singular as him, spent an hour and a half in one another’s company, only to be forever lost to each other in the shuffle of humanity. At least he will be a fond memory of my time in Cairo.

Gripped by this introduction to the ghost she had known all her life and the man she had never had the chance to meet, Clara turned the page and read on.

15 May 1921, Cairo

I wrote yesterday that I know no hard facts about the man I met at the museum party, but on reflection I find that isn’t entirely true. His friends called him only ‘Doctor’, though that hardly narrows down his identity, with so many educated men roaming about the country. He has lived in Egypt for several years, can read ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics, and mentioned he was in Cairo on a brief respite from some activity in Thebes, on which he did not go into detail.

But a ‘brief respite’, by definition, should mean that he will return to Thebes, shouldn’t it? And then there is the matter of his sunburnt nose...

The on-going archaeological work at Thebes is widely known in Cairo, especially amongst those who frequent the museum. Could it be that this ‘Doctor’, this man who has not left my thoughts since Friday evening, could now be found in Thebes? I so wish to see him again, even if only to exchange our names and other such information, so that I might send him a postcard from time to time. And perhaps more, if he is agreeable.

And if he is not to be found in Thebes, at least I will have tried. I will be able to board the ship to Malta knowing that at least I tried to find him.

Despite knowing that her great-grandmother would, inevitably, cross paths again with the man who would become her husband, Clara read on without pause, enthralled by the unfolding drama.

17 May 1921, en route

I have left Cairo for Thebes, though it may well mean I will miss my ship to Malta. He has not been out of my thoughts, and I find I cannot wait any longer. I cannot talk myself out of this. And if there were anyone in a position in my life to talk me out of it, I would not let them, either. My mind is made up.

An adventure, then. To see the archaeological work at Thebes, and perhaps recognise a friendly face. I do hope his sunburn has not got any worse.

The next entry, adjacent to where the photograph had been tucked away, read simply:

19 May 1921, Thebes

His name is John, and I am besotted. I fear I may never recover.

Clara set the journal down in her lap and picked up the photo, looking again at their smiling faces. She tried to imagine it, meeting an interesting stranger and then striking out into the unknown, alone, on the hope of finding him again. Studying the picture, she could almost feel the desert sun on her face, and the giddy joy of new love. In just under two years, they would be married, but it had begun there, with a conversation in the Cairo museum and her great-grandmother’s bold decision to follow him to Thebes.

In the spring of 1921, she would have been just barely twenty-two years old, and Clara couldn’t help but wonder about the age of her ghost. He looked so unchanged in the photographs she had seen, the length of his salt and pepper hair the only thing that indicated any passage of time. He had always been ageless to her, but her namesake had commented on the age difference, and as she neared twenty-eight herself, Clara had to admit that he still looked significantly older than her. In his forties, easily, perhaps fifties. He’d told her that if she dug into the paperwork she would find him there, and she decided to look into it in the morning, see what information could be gleaned from genealogical websites and the like, since he’d always shown such unwillingness to answer any sort of personal question.

She turned back to the journal, curious where their story had gone in the two years between meeting and marrying. The next section was filled to bulging with postcards and envelopes tucked between the pages — a period of extensive correspondence, clearly. Clara hesitated. Reading her great-grandmother’s travel journal was one thing, but in the current moment, alone in the post-midnight silence of her flat, she wasn’t sure she could bear to read the letters her ghost had written to his future wife as they fell in love. Instead, she flipped through quickly until she reached the last of the postcards, and then read the first journal entry that followed it.

4 March 1923, London

He is in Glasgow! After all these months of correspondence, of knowing my true feelings but being unwilling to divulge them via the impersonal medium of paper, the Doctor is no more than a train ride away. And yet after the fiasco of my extended stay in Egypt in ‘21, I cannot imagine that Mother and Father will react well to my desire to go to Scotland to see him.

His postcard did not say how long he plans to be in Glasgow, only that letters sent to the university there might reach him faster than if sent via the normal address. I worry that he will be this close by for only a short time. With all the news out of the Valley of the Kings these last few months, I don’t expect he will stay in dreary old Scotland for long.

I’m afraid that if I don’t seize this opportunity, I will never get another chance to tell him of my feelings for him in person. I worry that if I ask to go, Mother and Father will not permit it, and that if I take the initiative and go without asking, they will never forgive me.

And I am afraid that the Doctor does not love me as I love him, that he won’t be able to see past the differences in our ages to all that we could be, the life that we could build together. I worry that in running off to see him, I will destroy not only my relationship with my parents, but also my friendship with him.

What fear should I let rule me? Which worry is the most likely to be true?

No.

Instead, better questions: How will I live with myself if I let myself be ruled by fear? If I do not live by the truth of my heart, how can I live at all?

I will follow him to Glasgow, as I followed him to Thebes. Let me be brave. Let the fates do as they will.

The next entry was written a few days later, detailing her clandestine departure from home and the long train journey from London to Glasgow, peppered with her simmering fears at how her unannounced arrival would be greeted by the Doctor. Her worry and her longing were palpable, and Clara felt an odd sort of kinship with this woman, her great-grandmother and namesake, as she abandoned everything in her life on the chance to be with the man she loved. She had never done anything like it herself — she had never felt that strongly about anyone, besides her ghost — but somehow it felt like something she would do.

She turned the page, looking for their reunion, but found that the next entry was dated weeks later.

28 March 1923, Glasgow

The days have been too full and too happy to find a scrap of time to add my thoughts here, so in short: one of my fears was unfounded, the other not.

The Doctor loves me as I love him. It is the truth that will chart the course of our lives together, from now until the stars all burn from the sky.

And Mother and Father will never forgive me.

The pages that followed were filled with hastily jotted down notes, interspersed with little keepsakes: a visitor’s guide to the Kelvingrove art museum, a program from an orchestral performance, a short love letter scrawled on university stationary in handwriting Clara had to assume belonged to her ghost. She folded that one back up without reading it, then skipped ahead to the date on the back of the wedding photo and found that her great-grandmother had written:

12 May 1923, Glasgow

Tomorrow we will make our farewells to Scotland and start the long journey south to Egypt, but today marks the beginning of a different and far greater adventure: marriage!

It will be a very small wedding, with only a few of the Doctor’s friends and cousins in attendance, but I find I do not care. I get to keep him, and any other concerns fade out of existence in the blinding light of that fact.

Tomorrow will also be two years since our first meeting in Cairo, and I am looking forward to revisiting the scene of that fateful interaction, this time as a married woman. How wonderful it is to have not lost that intriguing stranger to the shuffle of humanity, after all.

The journal shifted in tone after that, chronicling their journey from Glasgow to Cairo and the beginnings of their life together in Egypt, as the Doctor returned to his archaeological work in the field. In the summer of ‘23, her great-grandmother decided to take up drawing, and many of the pages that followed were filled with pencil sketches of the monuments of Egypt, the series of small homes they lived in, and the familiar face of her ghost, growing ever more accurate as her skill improved.

Clara thought of her own childhood habit of sketching his face on any blank corner of paper she could find, and wondered how they might compare. Her great-grandmother’s drawings were occasionally dated, and by the spring of 1925, the journal shifted back to being more of a travelogue again, though the entries were more sparse than they had been before, and sketches continued to fill the margins.

15 June 1925, London

Even in the height of summer, London feels grim and drab after two years in Egypt. When I said as much, the Doctor merely laughed and pointed out that it could be worse: it could be Glasgow. He has spent so many years now, off and on, living in Egypt, moving from dig site to dig site as the work demands, and I think he is ready for a more settled existence for a while. The position at the British Museum suits him well, and will provide us with a more stable foundation on which to build our life — and as much as I enjoyed our transient circumstances in Egypt, there is a certain allure to building something lasting together. A new sort of adventure.

I had hoped that with our return to London, and after two years of marriage, Mother and Father might have found a way to forgive me, but it seems that door is forever closed. I am determined to focus on the future instead, and on the family the Doctor and I mean to create together.

Reading that, Clara felt a pang of heartsickness for this woman she had never known. She had been close with both of her parents before their deaths, and was grateful to have had that time with them. She couldn’t imagine her parents being so angry with her that they would shut her out of their lives, but scanning ahead, she didn’t see any indication that her namesake’s parents had ever relented. Instead, the journal dealt with the process of settling back into life in London, and her great-grandmother’s dreams for the future, with small sketches peppering the edges of each page.

As she turned the pages, Clara’s eyes caught on the rare use of colour in one of her drawings, and with a surprised blink she realised she recognised it as the stained glass window over the front door of her Gran’s house. The journal entry beside the drawing read:

1 August 1925, London

The House, as I have determined it must always be called, is a ridiculous rambling Victorian thing, all gabled roofs and ornate woodwork and stained glass windows, such as the one I have drawn here. It is entirely too large for the two of us, but it was love at first sight for both the Doctor and myself, and no house we have considered since has compared. At least there will be enough room for our ever-growing legion of books. And there are several bedrooms — perhaps it is too ambitious of me to imagine them someday filled, but despite all our failed efforts, I remain hopeful.

Having dealt so closely with her Gran’s personal details the last few weeks, Clara knew that she would be born barely three years later, in late August of 1928. Her great-grandmother died only a few months after that, and it felt strange to read of her hopes for a large family, knowing it didn’t happen in the end. Through reading her journal, it had become clear to Clara that they were alike in many ways, but on that one point they couldn’t be more different. She enjoyed children, she wouldn’t have become a teacher if she didn’t, but she’d never felt drawn to motherhood. She was almost the same age as her namesake had been when her Gran was born, and she couldn’t imagine having a baby now, much less hoping for multiple children.

Of course, she wondered if she might feel differently if she’d had the sort of fairy tale romance her great-grandmother had had. Starting a family with someone she loved felt a lot less abstract than the vague idea of having a baby. Maybe that was the difference. She could certainly understand her great-grandmother wanting children with the Doctor—

At that thought, it all came back to her in a rush, everything her ghost had revealed that afternoon, the truth of her Gran’s parentage — and with it, one of the few facts about him that she’d managed to wring out of him as a child. With dread turning her stomach, Clara quickly flipped ahead to the autumn of 1927, scanning the journal entries for any indication, any clue. There was a brief note in early November about plans for Christmas, but then nothing until:

1 December 1927

He is gone. He is gone, and I will never, ever recover.

The bruises may heal, but I will not.

Tears sprung to Clara’s eyes, but she blinked them away, reading on.

8 December 1927

Is it the House that is haunted, or me?

She stared at the words, knowing that almost eighty-seven years later, the house was very much haunted. She turned the page, feeling the tears begin to roll down her face.

12 December 1927

Perhaps it is only my mind playing tricks on me, but perhaps it is something more. Perhaps there is some magic that ties us together even now. I live in hope — for what other way is there to live, now?

The following pages were full of nothing but undated sketches of the Doctor, looking exactly as Clara knew him. I made that promise to the only person I’ve spoken to since my death. The only one who could ever see me, her ghost had told her, not twelve hours earlier. Gripped with the need to know, she turned the journal pages quickly, looking for her great-grandmother’s familiar handwriting amongst all the drawings of her ghost, until finally:

3 February 1928

I have counted out the days and counted them again. My memory of last November is far from clear, but there is no mistake in this: I am with child. And this is no parting gift, no consolation prize from the universe, only one more tragedy to heap onto the pile. This baby will not have the Doctor’s eyes or his smile or his laugh. This baby—

How am I to endure this? Alone in the House we had hoped to fill, how can I possibly find the strength to face what is to come?

I continue to dream of him, to have visions, even. Some days I fear I have gone mad with the grief, but other days, those visions are my only comfort, those dreams my only reprieve from the nightmares that plague me. Something in my heart refuses to believe that the Doctor is truly gone. Something compels me to speak to him, and hope that he will, somehow, impossible though it may be, hear me and respond.

And then:

8 February 1928

They are not visions, and I am not mad.

But more importantly — I am no longer alone.

Clara set down the journal, taking a moment to swipe at the tears on her face. She had known, deep down she had known that she would find only pain at the end of this story, and yet she hadn’t been able to stop herself. I know you won’t stop digging until you’ve uncovered all the gory details, he’d said to her, and he’d been right, of course he’d been right. Her ghost had tried to protect her from this, but she had charged ahead anyway, disregarding his warnings.

And that edge of the mystery still called to her, the unanswered questions still nagged at her. However much it hurt, she had to know. Picking up the journal again, she skipped ahead, flipping pages until she reached her Gran’s birthday.

21 August 1928

It is a girl. I have named her Margaret Eleanor, as we so long discussed. Our little Margot. None of this is her fault, and I do not love her less for it. I only wish I could love her more. I wish my heart were still capable of it. I wish I could have greeted her arrival with the joy she deserves. I wish I didn’t have to welcome her into the world alone.

The more days pass, the more I am convinced the Doctor meant what he said as a final goodbye. The last six months with him have revived me in a way I didn’t think possible, and to have that ripped away, to once again be facing the prospect of a future without him—

‘You are stronger than you know,’ he told me, and I wish I could believe it.

Even more, I wish he was still here. In whatever form, I wish he was here. Perhaps in time I will see him again. I must hold to that hope, for it is the last one I have.

The journal entries stopped after that, and again the pages were filled with sketches: a round-faced newborn with wispy hair, bits of the house that Clara recognised easily, and the Doctor, always the Doctor.

Turning the pages quickly, she came across one last entry in the journal, the following pages all blank. Her great-grandmother’s familiar handwriting was no longer small, neat loops, but instead scrawled wide with anguish, and Clara felt her heart skip a beat at the date at the top of the page.

23 November 1928

Where have you gone, my love? Why have you left me?

I suppose I cannot fault the dead for not keeping their promises. You did not choose this fate for us, and I do not blame you for it. I only wish it could have been different. I wish that we had a second chance at life, a second chance to build for ourselves everything we dreamed our life together could be.

I cannot live like this. I will not.

I will follow you, my love, wherever it is that you have gone. Wherever you are now, I will find you. As I followed you to Thebes and to Glasgow, I will follow you now.

I will see you again.

Wait for me.

Clara stared in horror at the final words on the page. Seized with a sudden nauseous dread, she dropped the journal on the coffee table and bolted up from the sofa, lurching towards her laptop on the desk across the room. Her hands trembled as she pulled up a search page, pouring out every scrap of relevant family information she could think of, ending with 23 November 1928 suicide.

The internet, that modern wonder, took only moments to confirm her fears. Tears filled her eyes again, blurring the screen in front of her, but she fumbled her way through printing the eighty-six year old coroner's report. She snatched up the paper still warm, jammed her feet into her trainers and pulled on a coat, grabbed her keys and her purse, and was out the door before she could change her mind.

Chapter 4 - The Past

By the time she arrived at the house, Clara’s hands were shaking so badly, it took her three tries to unlock the front door. Her tears hadn’t stopped the entire drive over, and in the two a.m. darkness her sniffling sounded loud in her own ears.

Finally managing to fit the key into the lock, she let herself into the foyer and closed the door behind her. She dropped her keys and purse on the table, but couldn’t make her fingers uncurl from the crumpled coroner’s report still clutched in her other hand. The house was silent, dimly lit by a lamp in the parlour and another at the top of the stairs, and for a moment she was seized by a sense of déjà vu so strong it was nearly vertigo. It had only been a few hours since she’d gone home for the evening, but it felt like she’d been away for far longer than that. She needed her ghost, she needed to talk to him after all that she’d read, she needed—

“Clara?” came his voice before she could call out to him, and she felt her breath leave her in a rush. She had never been so grateful to hear his familiar voice, and she looked up at him, finding him standing at the top of the stairs. “What are you doing here?” he went on, sounding concerned, as he descended the staircase towards her. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“I— I had to see you,” she said, her voice shaking almost as badly as her hands, and she swiped roughly at the wetness on her cheeks. “I couldn’t wait ‘til the morning.”

His steps quickened, and he didn’t stop until he was barely an arm’s length from her, seeming reassuringly solid and real in the dim light. “What’s wrong?” he asked, searching her face. “What’s happened?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she told him, stumbling over her words as her tears continued to fall, “and the box was— I had to know. I read her journal, I couldn’t stop myself. You were trying to protect me, and I just—” She cut herself off, shaking her head, trying to sort through her jumbled thoughts. “The twenty-third of November,” she forced out, looking up at him.

His expression shuttered. “What about it?” he asked warily.

“I was born on the twenty-third of November, 1986.”

“Clara, I am aware of your birthdate,” he said evenly.

She held up the crumpled paper in her hand. “Twenty-third of November, 1928. That’s the day she, the day my great-grandmother—”

“Yes,” he interrupted her.

“I was born fifty-eight years to the day—”

“Yes,” he said again, even more forcefully. “And? What is it exactly that you’re asking?”

She stared at him, grasping for the words as tears slipped down her cheeks. “Why?” she finally said. “Why would she do that to herself? Why would she leave her three month old child like that?”

He studied her face for a long moment. “I think you know why, my Clara,” he said softly.

“I don’t,” she shook her head, tears thick in her voice. “I’m trying to understand. I tried the entire drive over here, but I don’t— Why?”

He looked away, chewed at his lip. “You asked me once, when you were about eight years old, when it was that I died. Do you remember that?”

Clara nodded. “1927. You wouldn’t tell me the date, but you said it was in 1927.”

“I couldn’t very well tell you,” he said slowly, “at eight years old, that I died on your birthday in 1927.”

Realisation dawned. “She killed herself on the anniversary of your death.”

“Yes,” he said quietly, barely a breath.

“But... why?”

He looked at her in confusion, eyes glinting a silvery blue in the lamplight. “Why?”

“You said— you said you talked to her, after you died. Like we talk now. And in her journal she said— She hadn’t really lost you, so why would she—”

“I had stopped talking to her, stopped appearing to her,” he cut her off, voice soft. “Shortly before Margot was born. I wanted her to move on, even if I couldn’t. To live her life in the land of the living. I thought I was... a distraction from that. I worried if anyone found out that she was talking to her dead husband, that it would cost her everything, that she would end up in some sort of institution. Instead, I—” He stopped, swallowed harshly. “I was the one who cost her everything. By deciding I knew what was best. By ignoring her. By not protecting her like I should have done.”

She stared at him, tears still tracking down her face. “This is what you didn’t want me to know.”

“Clara...” He closed his eyes briefly, expression pained.

“You thought I wouldn’t be able to forgive you for it. That it would change the way I see you.”

He hesitated. “I didn’t want you to know about this, no.”

“...But?” she prompted, feeling like there was more he wasn’t saying.

His gaze found hers again. “What am I supposed to do, Clara? Which mistake should I repeat? Not protecting you? Or deciding that I know best?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, shaking his head. “You found out this much, you won’t stop digging until you’ve found every horrible thing there is to find. And I don’t know what that will do to you. I can’t protect you from yourself. I’m not sure I ever could. All I can do is be here to try to pick up the pieces.”

She studied his ageless face, so very dear to her. “Then promise me one thing,” she found herself saying.

He huffed out a humourless laugh. “Just the one thing?”

“Promise me you won’t ever ignore me like that.” She had to swallow down the inexplicable again that tried to append itself to the end of that sentence. “Promise me that you will never stop talking to me.”

“Clara—”

“If you love me—” The words caught in her throat and she stopped. It was an unspoken line never before crossed, a word never before spoken between them, and she quickly added, “—in any way, you’ll stay.”

One corner of his mouth curled up in a sad smile. “So long as it’s my power to stay, I don’t think I will ever be able to leave you, my Clara.”

“Good,” she said, her tears making her voice crack. “I refuse to lose you. I won’t allow it.”

“Five-foot-one and crying,” he said fondly. “I never stood a chance.” He reached up and brushed away a tear as it rolled down her cheek, his long fingers steady and just slightly cool against her skin.

Clara stared at him in shock, trying to fit this newest revelation into her over-full mind. “You’re... rather solid,” she said, more eloquent words failing her.

“Always am, this time of the night,” he replied, eyebrows drawing together. “It’s the lack of sunlight. I thought you knew that.”

“I’m never here this late,” she reminded him, shaking her head. Seized with a sudden realisation and an urge she couldn’t deny, she took a step forward and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly.

Her ghost went rigid beneath her touch, only slowly relaxing. “Clara,” he breathed against her hair, seeming to remember what to do with his arms. He held her carefully, like he thought she might shatter, but the substantial realness of him was better than anything she could have hoped for. “My Clara.”

“You cannot imagine how long I’ve wanted to do this,” she said into his shoulder.

“I have some idea,” he replied, drawing her closer.

Clara clung to him, unwilling to let the moment end. She had thought about hugging her ghost so often over the years, but the reality of being held by him far outpaced even her best dreams. It was exactly the sort of comfort she needed after all the discoveries of the day, and gradually her tears stopped.

“I don’t think you should drive home tonight,” he said quietly, gently pulling away from her. “You’re upset, and it’s late. Sleep here, go home in the morning.”

She stepped back and nodded, but said, “I don’t know if I can sleep. It’s all still clattering around my mind, everything I read.”

He carefully prised the paper from her hand, smoothed it out and read it. “Coroner’s report,” he said grimly. “As though the journal wasn’t bad enough.”

She hesitated, then asked, “You’ve read the journal?”

“Only the final entry. But I was there for most of the rest of it. Come on,” he said, clearly changing the subject, as he folded the paper and tucked it away in his trouser pocket. “There’s still some chamomile tea in one of the decorative tins in the kitchen. Maybe a cup will help you sleep.”

“Why do I get the feeling that you’re just trying to distract me?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Because I am,” he said dryly, then turned and led the way down the hall. Sighing, Clara followed after him.

She sat at the table and watched him move around the kitchen, confidently pulling items from drawers and cupboards as he prepared the loose-leaf tea. It was still strange to think of this as his house, as the house he had bought with his wife, where they had hoped to build a future together. And tragic, too, given the way things had turned out. Based on the dates in her great-grandmother’s journal, they had lived here for just over two years before his death, between the summer of 1925 and the autumn of 1927.

“Were you happy?” Clara asked into the comfortable silence.

Her ghost glanced over at her from his position near the stove, eyebrows raised in question.

“When you lived here with my great-grandmother,” she clarified. “Were you happy, together in this house?”

He brought her the cup of steaming tea and sat down across from her before he answered. “We were very happy,” he said softly, staring at his hands folded on the tabletop. “And very much in love.”

Clara’s heart clenched in her chest, and she didn’t reply until she was certain of the strength of her voice. “I’m sorry it didn’t end well,” she said, feeling like the words were horribly inadequate. “That you didn’t get more time together. You deserve to be happy.”

He looked up at her across the width of the table, his familiar face ageless and ancient. “Things end,” he said gently. “That’s all. Everything ends, and it’s always sad. But everything begins again too, and that’s always happy.”

“And have you been happy?” she asked before she could stop herself. “In the years I’ve known you?”

His gaze searched her face for a long moment before he said, “Very happy, my Clara. As much as a dead man can be. Now, drink your tea. It’s a few hours yet before dawn, and you should try to sleep.”

She decided not to argue with him, starting to feel fatigue pull at her now that the adrenaline of her discovery had passed. “You told me as a child that I shouldn’t stay the night here,” she said between sips of warm chamomile tea. “Why?”

He looked away and was quiet for so long that she began to wonder if he would answer at all. “You never slept well here, when you were small,” he finally said. “You would wake up crying, even screaming sometimes. Ellie seemed to think it was just being away from home, but I always worried it was this house specifically, something about it that you knew even before you were old enough to talk.”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t you.”

“What?” he asked, meeting her gaze, eyebrows drawing together.

Clara shrugged though a sip of tea. “Gran’s house is haunted. That’s the sort of thing that might scare some kids. Most, probably. But you’ve never scared me.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“I mean it,” she said, smiling at him over the rim of her cup. “If ghosts are meant to be scary, you’ve failed utterly.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said dryly, then after a moment added more seriously, “I’ll stay with you tonight, if you want. So you’ll know you’re safe. Hopefully I’m wrong, and you’ll sleep fine, but just in case.”

That longing for what could have been that she’d felt when looking at the wedding photo bubbled up again, but she shoved it away. He was her ghost, and she was his Clara, and that would have to be enough. “I would like that,” she said softly, her eyes on her tea. “Thank you.”

She led the way upstairs a few minutes later, choosing the back bedroom where he’d played her great-grandmother’s song for her earlier, and snuggled in beneath the quilts and blankets that she had laid out on the bed in a bid to make the house look inviting to potential buyers. Her ghost lingered uncertainly nearby until she patted the space beside her, but she drifted off to sleep before he’d finished making himself comfortable on top of the coverlet.

--

Clara woke suddenly, bolting upright and gasping for breath, all of her senses on high alert in the darkened bedroom. On instinct she reached for the Doctor beside her, her fingers curling desperately around his shoulder.

“Clara?” he asked, sounding confused.

“There’s someone downstairs,” she hissed, keeping her voice low, fear gripping her.

With a sigh, he put his hand over hers and squeezed it gently. “There’s not.”

“I heard a window break!” she insisted. “Someone’s in the house—”

“Clara, Clara, listen to me,” he said, sitting up beside her and taking her hands in his. “You had a nightmare,” he went on, leaning in close and trying to catch her gaze. “Just a nightmare, yeah? Everything’s alright. Trust me, there is no one in this house but you and me.”

She blinked at him, trying to make his words fit into her consciousness in between the frantic beating of her heart. “No,” she said, shaking her head, “I’m certain I heard—”

“It’s just your mind playing tricks on you. Nothing but a bad dream,” he assured her. “It’s over now, try not to think about it.”

There it was again, a noise like a rock shattering glass, coming from downstairs. “The window,” she whispered urgently, turning towards the bedroom door.

He shifted closer to her, cupping her face in both hands, commanding her attention. “It’s not real,” he said, gently but firmly. “What you’re hearing, it’s not real, it’s not happening now. Focus on now, this moment here with me.”

Clara tried to do as he asked, but it kept slipping away into the sound of breaking glass and the certainty that there was someone else in the house with them. She stared at him, forcing her frantic mind to react, to focus only on her immediate surroundings. The quiet stillness of the bedroom, the muted blue of her ghosts’s eyes in the low light, the familiarity of his voice, the feel of his fingertips, solid and cool against her skin. This moment.

“It was just a bad dream?” she said in a small voice, still not completely convinced.

“Yes,” he replied, holding her gaze. “And it’s over now.”

“It felt so real,” Clara said, unable to quite shake the lingering unsettled feeling.

“I know,” he said, his thumbs sweeping across her cheekbones soothingly. “I know it did. It’s alright.”

“Why do I have nightmares in this house?” she asked, the words bubbling out of her as soon as the thought crossed her mind. “I’ve never slept well here, since I was a baby, you said. Why?”

“Clara,” her ghost said in a warning tone, “just leave it be.”

She wrapped her hand around his wrist before he could pull away from her. “That wasn’t the normal sort of nightmare, was it?” she said, more statement than question. “You said earlier that you worried I knew something about this house, even before I was old enough to talk. What is it? What could I possibly have known when I was that young? What did I just dream?”

“I also told you that sometimes the past is better left buried,” he said, voice low.

“And sometimes not knowing the truth is a lot scarier than the facts themselves!” she shot back.

“And sometimes it’s not!” he snapped, surprising her. He sighed and shook his head in apology. “My Clara,” he said softly, his hands still gently holding her face. “Sometimes the truth is so terrible that you’re better off not knowing. Please let me protect you from this? Just this once?”

“Oh, god,” she said in realisation, nausea rippling through her. She wasn't sure how she knew, but she knew. “I wasn’t wrong about someone breaking into the house, was I? Only, it’s not happening now.”

“Clara, please.”

“Why do I know that? How? What was that dream?” The sound of footsteps downstairs drew her attention, and she looked to the door again. “Doctor,” she whimpered, her grip on his wrist tightening as terror surged through her, “there’s someone in the house.”

“Clara, Clara,” he said, leaning close to look into her eyes. “You can’t think about it. Focus on something else. Focus on me.”

She shook her head within his unrestraining hold. “You were there, too,” she said, sounding distant in her own ears. “I heard your voice from downstairs, and then a gunshot, and—”

“Not that memory,” he said quickly. “Anything else, any other memory. Please, Clara. You have to make yourself think of something else. The church in Glasgow. Think about the church in Glasgow.”

“The church in Glasgow?” she repeated, staring at him in confusion as her mind spun chaotically and her heart thundered.

He nodded. “It had stained glass windows and dark wood pews, remember? It was small, but we still only filled the first quarter of it.”

It was just a flash, there and gone, but for a moment she could see it. “It smelled of incense,” she said, utterly certain, the knowledge welling up from some deep, long-buried corner of her mind.

“Yes, good. What else?”

“I— I don’t know.”

“Your flowers,” he prompted. “That day at the church, what colour were your flowers?”

“Blue,” she replied immediately. “My bouquet was blue and white, and the flowers in my hair were blue. How do I know that?” she demanded, looking up at him. “That wasn’t me, how do I know that?”

“You know how, my Clara. Think it through.”

She heard breaking glass again, and looked towards the door. “The window,” she choked out. “Someone’s in the house.”

“There’s no one,” her ghost insisted, cool fingertips pressed to her face to pull her attention back to him. “It’s your mind trying to relive the trauma. Don’t let it. Think about— think about Cairo. The museum, yeah? The first time you saw me. Focus on that.”

“I can’t,” she said, a sob catching in her throat. Someone was in the house, and the gunshot—

“Try, Clara, please. For me. Think about Cairo, and the museum, and say the first thing that comes into your head.”

She took a deep breath and screwed her eyes shut, trying to force herself to focus on the impossible, to forget about the sound of breaking glass and think of the Doctor instead. “The first time I saw you, you were scowling,” she said, seeing it in her mind’s eye.

“Was I?” her ghost asked, sounding almost bemused through his worry.

She nodded absently. “And then someone said something to you, and you laughed, and I thought...”

“What did you think, my Clara?” he prompted when she didn’t go on. “Stay in that moment.”

“I thought you looked— interesting. Intriguing. With your angry eyebrows and your laugh-lines. I thought ‘that is a face I would like to get to know.’”

“Good, that’s good. What else do you remember? What did we drink that night? It was a party, what did they serve?”

“Champagne,” she said without hesitation. “But I didn’t like it, it was too dry.” She opened her eyes and looked at him, his face inches from hers. “How do I know that?” she demanded.

He didn’t answer her question, but pressed on instead. “You came to Thebes, almost a week later, do you remember that? Do you remember the first moment you saw me there?”

She searched within herself for the answer and somehow, miraculously, found it. “You were at the dig site,” she murmured, wrapped up in the unfamiliar memory filling her mind, crowding out everything else. “I saw you before you saw me, and you... You just looked so beautiful standing there, I wanted everything to stop. I wanted nothing to change, ever again. But then you looked up, and you grinned when you saw me. And I thought...”

Clara stumbled to a stop, feeling like the reality of what was happening was just outside her grasp, profound and unseen, some force of nature begging to be recognised. “I thought, ‘that is the man I want to spend the rest of my life with.’ No,” she corrected herself, staring at him, that same heartbreaking longing coursing through her, identical to that remembered moment standing in the bright sunshine of Thebes. “I thought, ‘that is the man I want to spend the rest of the life of the universe with.’ I didn’t even know your name, but I knew—”

Swallowing past the tears forming in her eyes, she shook her head, words failing her. It was too much, her own emotions twisted up with the impossible images in her mind, her love for him tangled together with memories that couldn’t possibly be hers. “But that wasn’t me,” she insisted, her voice breaking, even as she wished desperately that she had been the woman who had met him in 1921. “That was her. My great-grandmother. How can I know that? How can I know any of that?”

“You know how, Clara,” he said again, gently wiping away a tear with the pad of his thumb. “Deep down, you know the truth. I think part of you has always known.”

She flickered her gaze over his familiar face, trying to understand, trying to fit the scattered pieces inside her together. In that moment, she wasn’t certain of anything — except that she loved him, and had always loved him. Her whole life, as long as she could remember, she had loved this man, her ghost. Loved him even though it was impossible, he was impossible. He would never feel that way about her, there could never be any chance of a future together. It was utterly hopeless, but that had never been enough to change the way she felt about him.

“Please, just see me,” he murmured.

Her eyes locked with his, pale blue in the dim light spilling in from the hallway. She knew every fleck of green in those eyes, every line on his face, every streak of silver in his hair, with as much certainty as she knew her feelings for him. And maybe, in the end, that was all she needed to know. Maybe it all added up to the same thing. The photos and the journal, her birthdate and that nightmare, her love for him and her longing for what might have been. There had only ever been one answer to any of it, and finally, Clara spoke aloud the only truth she could find.

“It was me,” she whispered, sure of it down to her bones. “It was me that met you in Cairo, and followed you to Thebes and to Glasgow. It’s me in those photos.”

“Yes,” he said, voice soft and emphatic. “It’s always been you. You found me again, like you promised you would.”

She stared at him, the enormity of that truth somehow not overwhelming her but completing her, the missing piece she had been searching for all her life. “I love you,” she said, the words bursting out of her, unwilling to let another moment pass before she told him. “I didn’t just realise that,” she clarified. “I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember. But I didn’t know it was something I could say.”

Her ghost — the Doctor, the man she loved, her husband — smiled at her softly, wiping another errant tear from her face. “I have loved you for more than ninety years, my Clara. I didn’t think I would ever hear you say those words again.”

Leaning in, Clara closed the short distance between them and kissed him, her hands finding their way to his hair as he pulled her closer. It was miraculous, and ridiculous, and incredible, the solid reality of him against her. She had dreamed of this for so long, wished for it for so many years, without realising that it had always been hers to claim. Kissing him felt like coming home. She pressed closer to him, trying to remember him and memorise him all at once.

“Not that I’m complaining,” she said breathlessly when they finally parted, her forehead resting against his, “but I’m still a little unclear on the how of all this. If I’m her, then I— I died. How is any of this even possible?”

He gently kissed her eyelids and her forehead, then shifted them around so that he was leaned against the headboard and her head was resting against his chest, his arms around her. “Reincarnation is the word you’re looking for, I think,” he replied. “Rebirth. Same soul, new life.”

She mulled that over, adding it to the truths she had found inside herself. “That’s a thing that can happen?” she asked.

“Apparently. I know as much about this as you do. But it’s hard to deny the evidence in front of us.”

“So all those times I joked about us bantering like an old married couple...?”

“Well, one of us is old, anyway,” he said ruefully.

She pressed a kiss over his silent heart. “How long have you known?”

“There wasn’t a single moment,” the Doctor said, holding her close and running the backs of his fingers up and down her arm idly. “It was countless little clues, over the years. The fact that you could see me, for one thing. The way you turn your head, the way you laugh, a phrase here and there. Your kindness, and your never giving up. And your eyes, of course. The past few years you’ve started to look more and more like yourself, your previous self, but there was always something familiar about your eyes. It was only in the last decade or so that I became convinced it was really you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She felt him shrug. “At what point, exactly, would it have been appropriate to inform you of my suspicions? By the time I was certain of it, you’d never shown any signs that you remembered, not really. Not like tonight. And I thought...”

“What?” she asked when he didn’t continue.

He hesitated, his hand stilling, and then said, barely a breath, “I thought it might be best if you never remembered. If I remained just the ghost that haunted your Gran’s house, and you went on with your life, not knowing the truth.”

“Live my life in the land of the living,” she said, repeating his earlier words. “Is that why you didn’t want me staying the night here? You thought it might trigger my memories?”

“No,” he said, taking a deep breath and sighing it out. “I didn’t want you to have nightmares like the one you just had, and the ones I suspect you had when you slept here as a baby. If that was the cost of remembering, I didn’t want you to have to pay it. Even if it meant you never remembered me.”

“That was a memory, too, wasn’t it?” she asked in a small voice, already knowing the answer. “That nightmare.”

“Clara...”

“Doctor,” she said, angling herself to look up at his face without moving away from him, “I know you’re trying to protect me, but I need to know the truth. All of it.”

“You know everything important—”

“But I don’t, do I?” she interrupted. “There are key facts I still don’t know. How you died, who my Gran’s father was, what exactly it was I just dreamed about. If you won’t tell me, you know I can find the answers on my own.”

He sighed. “I have no doubt you will.” He was quiet a moment, then said, “If I give you the basics of it, will you stop digging for the memory and let it be?”

Remembering the terror that had gripped her when she’d first woken from the nightmare, she nodded against his chest.

“Alright then,” he said quietly. “But in the morning. Some facts are too terrible for this hour of the night, and you should try to sleep again, if you can.”

“What makes you think it’ll go better this time?” Clara asked, burrowing deeper into his embrace and trying to keep her mind from straying to the memory of breaking glass. It was strange to think that when the sun rose, she would be back to not being able to touch him, but in that moment she was unspeakably grateful for the comfort of being held, secure in the arms of the man she loved.

The Doctor ran his fingers through her hair soothingly. “I could hum the song for you,” he suggested. “It seemed to help, before. Maybe it’ll help now.”

“My song,” she said, smiling against his chest.

“Yes, your song,” he agreed, and kissed the top of her head. “The song I wrote for you, my Clara.”

She drifted to sleep to the sound of that song, and didn’t wake until morning.

Chapter 5 - The Present

Clara woke slowly to the sound of birdsong and the blue light that preceded dawn, feeling surprisingly well-rested, despite the night she’d had. Opening her eyes, she found the Doctor stretched out on the bed beside her. In the first of the daylight he looked pale but not yet translucent, a reminder that the hours in which she was able to touch him were quickly coming to an end. When he saw she was awake, he smiled at her softly, his gaze tracing across her face.

“Morning, sleepy head,” he said quietly.

Humming happily, Clara stretched against the pillows. “Good morning, Doctor.”

His smile widened. “It’s good to hear you call me that again.”

“Why do I call you that?” she asked curiously, rolling onto her side facing him and propping her head up in her hand. “The journal referenced it but didn’t explain. Why do I call you Doctor instead of John?”

He made a face at the mention of his given name. “By the time we met, most people I knew had been calling me Doctor for years. It started as a joke on my first archaeological dig — that with a name like John Smith, the most distinctive thing about me was my newly acquired academic title. The nickname stuck, and I’d never been particularly attached to John in any case.”

“Is that what your doctorate is in, then? Archaeology?”

“With a special emphasis on Egypt and its ancient languages,” he said, nodding. “That’s why I was at that party at the Cairo museum, the night we met in 1921, I was part of the team that discovered some of the artefacts that were on display in the new exhibit.”

Clara let her mind drift to the hazy memories of her previous life she had uncovered the night before, trying to will them into sharper focus. “I wish I could remember it better...”

“I’m glad that you remember it at all,” he told her. “It’s more than I’d hoped for.”

She hesitated, then said, “About the other memory, that nightmare—”

“Later,” he said, rolling away and pushing himself into a sitting position. “There’s something we should do before the sun is properly up. I hid another box, besides that one in the attic, buried it in the garden out back. If we get started now, I might even be able to help you dig it up before the sunlight makes me useless again.”

“What’s in it?” Clara asked, also sitting up.

“It’s, ah.” The Doctor shot her a sidelong look, not quite meeting her eyes. “What’s in it is yours, and you should have it, even if...” He trailed off, chewing at his lower lip.

Something about his tone chilled her. “Even if what?”

“Clara, I don’t want you to be tied to a dead man,” he said carefully, gaze on the bedspread. “You know the truth now, but you still have your life ahead of you. You should live that life, even if it’s without me.”

“We are not having the ‘land of the living’ argument again,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “I just got you back. There is no version of my future that makes sense without you in it.”

He turned to look at her. “I’m still a ghost, Clara,” he said, a note of self-loathing making his tone harsh. “That hasn’t changed.”

“But in the dark you’re as solid as I am!” she objected.

“And now that the sun is rising, that’s quickly going away.” He reached out one hand and ran his knuckles across the curve of her cheek, his touch faint and cool.

She resisted the urge to take his hand, worried that her fingers would pass right through his. “The sun will set again, it always does. It’s better than nothing. At least we’ll be together.”

“So you spend each day counting down to sunset?” he demanded. “What kind of a life is that? What sort of a life can I give you, as a dead man?”

“You don’t have to give me any sort of life!” she shot back, trying not to be offended at the old-fashioned notion. “I’ve done quite well constructing a life all on my own, thank you very much. All I want is for you to be part of it.”

“As a ghost,” he said derisively.

“Yes, as a ghost! I’ll take what I can get when it comes to you.”

“You deserve to have a real life, with someone who won’t literally disappear on you during daylight hours.”

“I have lived almost twenty-eight years only knowing you in daylight. Every moment I’ve spent with you in this life, that has been the deal. And even then, no one ever managed to measure up to you. I have loved you my whole life, Doctor, and that’s hardly going to change now. I want a life with you, whatever shape that takes. I meant what I said last night: I am not going to give you up. You promised to stay, and I am holding you to that.”

He dropped his gaze, looking away and fiddling with the ring he wore on his left hand — his wedding ring, she realised abruptly. “I’m not going to win this argument, am I?” he asked in a low voice.

“No,” she told him firmly. “Not unless you take away my say in it.” She didn’t add again, but she knew they were both thinking it.

He winced. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

She softened, watching him fold in on himself. “Don’t be sorry,” she said gently. “Make it up to me.”

He looked up at her sharply, hope hidden in the fading blues of his eyes.

“If you keep your promise and stay, you’ll have years to make it up to me,” she said, smiling at him. “Decades, even. The rest of my life.”

“And you’re sure that’s what you want?”

“Very sure.” She stared at his familiar face, the face she had loved for so long, watching him become fainter as the sun began to rise outside, rendering him back into the incorporeal presence she had known all her life. “Our story, Doctor... It isn’t the tragedy you think it is. This isn’t a ghost story. It never was. It’s a love story. And if I know one thing about love stories? They always have a happy ending, one way or another.”

“Clara, my Clara,” he said fondly, raising his hand to sweep his cool fingertips across her cheekbone with feather-light pressure. “How can I argue with you when you look at me like that?”

“Then don’t argue,” Clara said softly. “Promise you’ll stay.”

“I promise,” he murmured. “And that’s all the more reason for you to have what’s buried in the garden. Come on, I’ll show you where, while you’re still able to see me.”

They went downstairs together, and he waited as she pulled on her shoes and her coat, then let herself out through the kitchen door that opened onto the garden. He led her confidently to the base of the old maple tree at the back of the garden, its branches clinging to the last of their autumn leaves. She had to sidetrack to the shed to find a spade, but the sun was still low behind the roofs of the nearby houses, and in the shadow of the maple tree the Doctor had enough form to pick up a crimson leaf and spin its stem between his fingers for a moment before letting it drift back to the ground.

Clara dug in the spot between the roots that he directed her to, relieved when she hit something solid only a foot or so down. Reaching into the shallow hole and brushing away the last of the dirt, her fingers found a metal jewelry box about the size of a paperback novel, and she carefully lifted it out with both hands. The silver surface was tarnished, throwing the raised geometric designs into sharp contrast, but it appeared to be in good condition. She glanced up at the Doctor, who was looking more translucent in the gathering daylight, and he nodded at her.

“Go on,” he said when she hesitated. “Open it.”

Taking a deep breath, she thumbed open the latch and pulled up the lid, the hinges squeaking slightly. Inside, resting against the crumbling blue felt that had once lined the box, there was a black velvet ring box and several other pieces of jewelry, the largest of which was a wide silver amulet on a delicate chain necklace. Her ghost brushed his fingertips over the ring box, and she looked up to find his gaze fixed on it.

“I’m split between wanting you to have it right away,” he said softly, “and wanting to wait until I can put it on you myself.”

“We could go back inside,” she suggested in a matching tone. “The west side of the house should still be shadowy enough.”

He shook his head. “It’s best appreciated in the sunlight, anyway.”

Clara grazed her hand over his, feeling only the chill of his daytime insubstantiality but hoping he took it for the affectionate gesture she meant it to be. Setting the jewelry box carefully on the ground, she picked up the ring box and lifted the lid. The ring inside was small and delicate, a white gold setting holding an oval cabochon sapphire flanked on each side by narrow tapered diamonds. In the indirect light, the smooth rounded surface of the sapphire was a dark indigo blue.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

“It’s your wedding ring,” the Doctor replied. “Not very traditional, perhaps, but then, we never have been, either.”

She looked up at him, her heart in her throat. “May I?”

“Of course,” he said, raising his eyes to meet her gaze. “It’s yours.”

Carefully pulling it from its velvet box, Clara slid the ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand, where it settled naturally into place as though she had worn it there every day for years. “We really are going to have to go inside,” she told him when she had control of her voice, “so I can kiss you properly.”

He smiled at her fondly. “Go look at it in the sunlight, first. I’m looking forward to seeing your reaction to it all over again.”

She glanced at him curiously but did as he asked, putting the ring box back into the jewelry box and then pacing a few feet away. The early morning sun was casting long shadows through the garden, and she turned her hand until the ring caught the light. Clara gasped. As if by magic, a pale six-rayed star appeared in the depths of the sapphire, clearly visible against the luminous dark blue of the stone.

“It’s called a star sapphire,” the Doctor said, and she looked up to find him standing beside her, his form a faint wispy outline in the dappled sunlight. “When you found me in Thebes in ‘21, I took you to see the excavation work going on at the Temple of Hatshepsut, and you were particularly fond of a section of the ceiling that was painted with stars against a dark blue sky. I was immediately reminded of that when I saw this ring.”

It wasn’t a memory, exactly, just a quick surge of nostalgia and images she couldn’t quite hold on to. “Our first date, sounds like,” she said, smiling up at him.

His answering grin was warmer than the gathering daylight. “I suppose it was.”

Despite his spectral appearance, Clara felt herself swaying towards him, overwhelmed by the need to kiss him in this happy moment. She shook herself, squaring her shoulders. “Alright, mister, inside with you, before the neighbours catch me talking to myself in my pyjamas in the garden at dawn. The last thing we need is more gossip about how strange this house is.”

She quickly refilled the hole she’d dug and returned the spade to the shed, then led the way back into the kitchen, the Doctor trailing silently behind her. Pausing only long enough to set the jewelry box on the table, Clara continued on towards the large walk-in pantry just off the kitchen, casting her ghost a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure he was following her.

“Clara, what are we—” he started to ask as she closed the pantry door behind them, plunging the tiny room into complete darkness. The rest of the question was lost when Clara pushed up onto her toes and kissed him soundly, steadying herself on the solid line of his shoulders. She felt the reassuring pressure of his hands at the small of her back and hummed in happiness, deepening the kiss.

“See?” she said when they separated, her smug tone somewhat ruined by the breathless elation of a woman well-snogged. “No need to spend each day counting down until sunset when there’s a world full of darkened rooms.”

“You make a very good point,” the Doctor agreed, and kissed her again.

The growling of Clara’s stomach eventually forced them out of the pantry and into the daylight, and with it came the realisation that there was very little food in the house, and absolutely nothing resembling coffee.

“I should shower and change into real clothes, too,” she told him as he followed her into the foyer, the jewelry box again clasped protectively in her hands. “All the more reason to get back to my flat.”

Her ghost nodded. “Will you come back later today?” he asked, voice carefully neutral. “Or do you need to spend the day doing human-y things, preparing for the work week or shopping for groceries or whatever it is you do when you’re not here?”

Clara shot him a disbelieving look. “I do, in fact, need to do all that stuff today,” she allowed, watching as he nodded and glanced away, fiddling with his wedding ring. “But I just assumed you’d come with me?”

He looked up at her in surprise, his expression tinged with hope. “Seriously?”

“Of course, Doctor. When I said I wanted you to be part of my life, I didn’t mean here in this house. Our future isn’t here, it’s out there,” she said, nodding towards the front door and the world beyond. She hesitated, a thought occurring to her, and added, “You can leave, right? You’re not tied to the house?”

He nodded, his hands still nervously occupied with his ring. “It’s been a long time since I last left, but... No, it was never the house that I was tied to.”

“What is it, exactly, that you’re tied to, then?” she asked softly, almost afraid of the answer, of the power it held over their future. “What’s kept you here all these years?”

“What do you think?” he said, looking at her like he thought it ought to be abundantly obvious. “You. It’s always been you, Clara.”

--

After a none-too-brief detour to the small and blessedly dark coat closet, she finally managed to get them out the door and on the way to her flat. The Doctor sat in the passenger seat as Clara drove, faint and ghostly in the daylight, but with enough form that she could clearly make out his expression. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning at the way he stared out the window in wonder, angling his head to catch a passing skyscraper or an airplane flying overhead.

“First time in a car?” she asked, only mostly managing to keep the amusement out of her voice.

He shot her a sour look. “We did have automobiles by 1927, you know. And I’ve left the house since then, back when Margot used to travel. It’s just— been a few years, is all.”

“I can see how it would be jarring,” she said levelly. “I’ll try not to tease you. Too much.”

“Clara, my Clara,” he said on a sigh, shaking his head. “We both know that’s a lie.”

She shot him a quick look, finally letting her grin break through, and tried to keep her attention on driving and not on how unreasonably happy she was.

--

By the time they arrived at her flat, it was still early enough in the morning that not many of her neighbours were about, and Clara silently led the way up the flights of stairs and let them in through her simple front door that matched all the others, such a stark difference from the grand Victorian house where she’d always known her ghost. He trailed in behind her, looking around in interest at her clutter and her framed pictures, the dimness of the windowless hallway making him look almost alive again.

“Left it in a bit of a mess when I rushed out of here last night,” she said with a wince once she’d closed the door behind them, setting down her purse and keys and the jewelry box on the tiny table next to the door. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had company over, let alone someone whose opinion mattered to her as much as the Doctor’s. “It’s not much, but it’s mine and I’m fond of it,” she added, trying not to sound defensive.

“It’s intensely you,” he replied, leaning in to examine a photo from her travels after university. “If I wandered in off the street I’d know it was yours.”

Clara directed a bemused smile at his back, oddly touched at his first impression of her home. “Thanks, I think,” she said as she hung up her coat on the wall rack and toed off her shoes. “Come on, I’ll give you the tour, it’ll be quick.” She led him down the hall, indicating each room as they passed. “Kitchen is in there, that’s the loo, my bedroom, and the sitting room,” she said, pausing just inside the doorway and surveilling the chaos left behind from her late night efforts to make sense of the box they’d found in the attic.

“When you said you couldn’t sleep last night...?” the Doctor asked, looking at her sidelong.

“It looks worse than it is,” she said as she crossed the room and pulled the curtains closed over the door that led to the balcony, blocking out as much sunlight as possible. “I sorted everything into piles, maybe later we could look through it together? See if any of it sparks bits of memory for me?” she added, turning back to him.

The journal was still sitting on the coffee table, open to the scrawled final entry, and as she watched the Doctor leaned down and used what substance he had in the dim room to carefully close it, his fingertips lingering on the embossed cover. “I would like that, my Clara,” he said quietly, lifting his gaze back to hers.

She stared at him for a breathless moment, still trying to come to grips with their new reality, like something out of her teenaged fantasies come to life. “I should— I should shower, and eat, and all that,” she said, shaking herself. “I won’t be long, feel free to peruse the bookshelf or whatever, make yourself at home. Which,” she laughed, her nerves catching up with her, “if we sell the house, I suppose it is, or will be, at any rate—”

“Clara,” he said gently, crossing towards her. “This is just you and me, same old, same old. Nothing’s changed, not really.”

“Right,” she murmured, looking up at him.

He watched her, his expression concerned. “This doesn’t have to be anything more than you want it to be,” he said. “I can go back to being just your ghost, if that’s what you want.”

She realised she was twisting her wedding ring around her finger and dropped her hands. “No,” she assured him. “No, I want a future with you. I want... I want long evenings and sneaking into coat closets and waking up with you beside me. It’s just a lot to adjust to so quickly.”

“Take your time,” he said easily, grazing her cheek with his cool fingertips, “I’m not going anywhere.”

--

After her shower, Clara carried her coffee and her breakfast down the hall to the sitting room. She found the Doctor camped out on the sofa, a rag and the wide silver pendant from the jewelry box in his hands, and a bottle of silver polish and the jewelry box open on the coffee table in front of him. At her inquisitive look, he said, “I thought I’d clean these up for you. I noticed it’s all looking a little tarnished — not too bad, considering they spent the better part of a century buried in the garden, but no reason not to treat them to a good cleaning.”

“Why did you bury the jewelry box?” she asked, settling into the empty space beside him and taking a sip of her coffee. “And when?”

“End of November, 1928. A few days after you— after you’d gone,” he replied, not looking up from methodically working at the tarnish on the necklace. “I wasn’t really thinking straight. I’d just lost you, and I didn’t want to be there, but I couldn’t leave Margot.”

“Your duty of care,” Clara said quietly.

He nodded but didn’t elaborate. “There were strangers in the house, including your parents. Your former parents, I mean, not Ellie and Dave, obviously,” he clarified, gesturing with the polish rag. “I couldn’t stand the idea of them touching your personal things, not after how they’d treated you the five years or so prior. I reverted to some sort of archaeologist’s instinct, I suppose: bury the evidence and let someone in the future piece together the true story of what happened.”

“Not realising, of course,” she said, “that the someone in the future would be us.”

The Doctor glanced up at her then back down at the necklace. “I couldn’t have imagined something like this at the time. I know I wished for a miracle, when I buried this. Wished for a way to see you again, without breaking my promise to watch over Margot. But it just felt so...”

“Impossible,” she finished for him, thinking about how hopeless her love for him had seemed, even just twelve hours earlier.

“My impossible girl,” he whispered, gaze on his work. “I should have known you would find a way. Here,” he said more briskly, turning towards her and holding out the necklace. “Ready to wear again. If you want.”

She carefully took it from him, turning it in her hand so the details caught the dim light. It was a single piece of engraved silver, heavier than she’d expected, about two inches wide and maybe half an inch tall, with the necklace chain attached at the far ends. Now that the tarnish was gone, she could clearly make out the shape of long, finely feathered wings extending from a circle in the centre, and what looked to be a snake’s head flanking each side of the circle. In much the same way as her wedding ring, it felt familiar, both the design and the weight of it in her palm, but she couldn’t quite summon up a memory that fit with it.

“This was a favourite of mine?” she asked, glancing up at the Doctor. “It looks Egyptian.”

“It is,” he said, his attention focused on removing the layer of grime from a narrow bangle bracelet. “It’s a winged solar disk, based on an image found in many ancient Egyptian temples. It symbolised their concept of the soul, which they believed to be immortal and capable of rebirth.”

“So it’s ancient, then?”

“The design is, the necklace isn’t. I suppose it’s an antique now, but it was new when I gave it to you in 1925. Part of the Egyptian revival movement, Tut-mania and all that.”

Clara frowned to herself, thinking over the dates covered in her great-grandmother’s journal — her journal. “It hadn’t occurred to me that the discovery of King Tut’s tomb would have been right around the time we were in Egypt.”

The Doctor shot her a quick look then said, “Somewhere in that pile,” he nodded at the stack of photographs on the coffee table, “there’s a photo of you and me and Howard Carter, taken just outside the tomb in 1923.”

She tried to imagine it, but her mind snagged on the memory of finding the Doctor at the dig site in Thebes in 1921 instead. “What was Egypt like, when we lived there?” she asked, running her fingertips over the engraved surface of the necklace.

“Hot,” he shrugged. “Though I seem to remember you complaining more about the weather in England when we came back in ‘25 than you ever complained about anything in Egypt. It was an exciting time to be there, an exciting time to be a field archaeologist. There was plenty of excavation work still to be done, but the discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb had caught the public’s imagination, and there were more tourists than there’d been since before the war. You were far more swept up in it than I had expected, especially given the sorts of places I dragged you around to.”

She smiled in bemusement. “I read the journal entries from that time and she— I sounded happy. Even drew some of the little cottages we lived in.”

“‘Cottage’ is far too flattering a word,” he said, making a face. “Most were barely more than workmans’ huts, smaller than this flat, and a few didn’t even have indoor plumbing. And every time we moved into a new place, stepping into it for the first time, I’d think, ‘this is it, she’s definitely going to leave me now.’ But every time, every time, you would look at me with this sparkle in your eye and say—”

“‘Well, this will be an adventure,’” Clara said, quoting the words along with him.

The Doctor shot her a surprised look. “I didn’t think you would remember that.”

“I didn’t, not until right before you said it,” she replied. “But it’s like we’ve opened the door, now. It’s getting easier to remember little details like that.” She looked down at the necklace in her hand, running her fingers over it again. “Doctor,” she said slowly, keeping her gaze on the necklace, “we need to talk about that other memory. That nightmare, and the events that inspired it.”

He sighed loudly, and she looked up to find that he had closed his eyes, his hands gone still. “Why can’t you just leave it alone?”

“We can’t pretend it didn’t happen,” she said. “We can’t will it out of existence.”

“Why not?” he demanded, turning to look at her. “It’s the worst thing that ever happened to us, and you want to relive it? I can’t understand why!”

“I need to know what happened. It’s like it’s hovering at the edge of my consciousness, all undefined and foreboding. I have pieces of it but there’s still so much I don’t know.”

“I should have burned that damned box when I found it,” he said, scrubbing at the bracelet in his hands with more force than necessary. “I should have burned it years ago, as soon as I realised you were you.”

“You really think I would have been better off never knowing? That we were better off without this?” she asked, gesturing between them.

“I’m glad you remember me, but the last thing I ever wanted was for you to have to remember that night!” He tossed the rag down onto the coffee table and dropped the bracelet back into the jewelry box, his agitation evident in his movements.

Clara closed her hand around the silver pendant, grounding herself in the immediacy of its feathered edges biting into the skin of her palm. “I don’t want to remember it either, Doctor,” she said. “But if you tell me what happened, I won’t have to go digging for the memory. Please, I just— I have to know. Not everything, just the basic facts of what happened.”

“And what if telling you those facts opens the door to that memory, too?”

“Then I’ll be grateful I won’t have to sleep alone tonight,” she said, holding his gaze. “Or any night.”

The Doctor stood abruptly and paced away, bracing one arm against the bookshelf, his eyes downcast. “Why do you have to be so stubborn and headstrong?” he said in a low tone. “Why can’t you just let it be?”

“I know you’re trying to protect me—” Clara started, her voice even.

“Of course I’m trying to protect you!” he burst out, turning back to her. “I died trying to protect you, so you can see how it’s a bit of an important topic for me!”

“How would I know that?” she demanded, pushing to her feet as well. “If you won’t tell me what happened, how the hell am I supposed to know that?”

“You already know,” he said harshly. “You know everything important. But you have some morbid desire to revisit all the gory details that I frankly cannot understand.”

“I have to confront this,” she told him, sharp with honesty. “I’m not sure I ever did, before I died. I don’t want this unknown, half-seen thing looming over us. I want to be able to go into our future together with all of this firmly behind us.”

“Then just let it alone! Don’t go looking for trouble!”

“I didn’t go looking for it last night! That nightmare, that memory dredged itself up all on its own.”

“That’s just the house,” the Doctor said, shaking his head. “You’ve never slept well there.”

“Since I was a baby, you said. Last night you said you worried it was because I knew something about the house. Well alright then, here’s what I know: You died trying to protect me, so that means we’re talking about the twenty-third of November, 1927, yes?”

He turned his face away, seeming intent on not answering her.

“Someone broke into the house,” she went on anyway, “broke a window and came inside, the noise woke me up in the middle of the night.” She curled her hand tighter around the necklace, trying desperately to keep her mind in the current moment, keep it away from the memory of breaking glass. “And I woke you and asked you to go investigate. I heard your voice from downstairs, then a gunshot— ”

“Clara, stop,” he snapped, looking up at her. “I don’t see what good can possibly come from this.”

“I need to know. And if you won’t help me, I’ll piece it together on my own!”

“I am not going to indulge you in your self-destructive urges!”

“You said you would tell me! You said you would give me the basic outline of what happened that night. Why are you being so difficult about this?” she demanded.

“Because if you’re angry with me now you’re not thinking about what happened to you then!” the Doctor said, the words seeming to explode out of him.

She stared at him, flabbergasted. “What happened to me?” she repeated. “He shot you! I heard it! I saw your blood on the—” She stopped abruptly, the memory flashing through her mind in vivid colour, the chilling implications close on its heels.

“Clara—”

“I saw your blood on the floorboards,” she went on over his objection, her voice sounding far away. “I heard the gunshot and I came downstairs, and I saw... There was so much blood.”

“Don’t do this to yourself,” he insisted, “don’t think about what happened next. Not that memory.”

She shook her head. “Whatever it is you’re worried I remember, I don’t. There’s nothing after that. I came downstairs, terrified for you, I saw the blood — and then I woke up in hospital, and they told me you were dead. I’m missing that whole chunk of what happened in between.”

The Doctor was staring at her, his expression closed off and his gaze searching. “You always told me you didn’t remember it,” he said, his voice low. “But I was never certain if that was the truth. Or if you were just... trying to spare my feelings, I suppose. My guilt and my worry.”

“What did happen? Why don’t I remember? Please, Doctor,” she said softly. “I need to know.”

He sighed, and she could see the instant he relented, the shift in his expression and the way his shoulders dropped. “The man who broke in—” He cut himself off, shaking his head, then tried again. “He hit you,” he said, pushing out the words like each one took a monumental effort, “with the butt of the gun. He’d tried to shoot me a second time, but it had jammed, so he hit you with it instead. You were in and out of consciousness after that, for what came next.”

“I really don’t remember it,” she told him, searching her memory again and coming up completely blank. “Whatever happened next, I don’t remember it.”

He studied her face for a long moment. “Then that’s a small mercy,” he said quietly. “When they examined you in hospital, they said you had a concussion, along with all your other injuries, everything else that monster did to you. I’m sorry,” he added quietly, “I shouldn’t have doubted your word.”

Clara intentionally eased her grip on the necklace, letting the ache in her fingers ground her in the current moment, safe in the company of her ghost, home in her familiar flat, far away from that night in 1927. “But you remember it,” she said, not really a question. “You know what happened to me.”

Nodding, he turned away. “I saw it all,” he said softly, his back to her. “I was bleeding out on the floor of the home where we’d hoped to build our future together, but I fought to stay conscious, for you. I couldn’t just... leave you with him while he hurt you. I saw it, and if I can carry any part of that pain for you now, I will.”

She hesitated, then carefully approached him and touched his shoulder, grateful that he had substance beneath her fingers in the dim room. “You’ve carried it alone long enough, Doctor,” she said. He looked up at her, his expression anguished. “Let me be an equal partner with you in this. What happened next?”

“Clara,” he said, shaking his head, “if you don’t know, if you don’t remember, maybe we ought to keep it that way.”

The answer formed in her mind, even in the absence of first-hand memory, the pieces of the mystery fitting themselves together. The hints in the journal entries, the secret of Margot’s parentage that she’d asked the Doctor to keep, his insistence that she was better off never knowing what had happened to her that night. It all added up to only one possibility, one horrible truth. The realisation was jarring, grim and ghastly, and she found she couldn’t quite make herself think the single little word that would encapsulate what had happened to her.

“The man who broke in...” Clara said in a small voice. “He was Margot’s biological father, wasn’t he?” she said, avoiding that word and sparing the Doctor from having to say it, either. “That was the night she was conceived.”

“Yes,” he replied, his voice a harsh whisper.

“Oh,” she said on the breath that rushed out of her, dropping her gaze to the floor as she struggled with the enormity of that revelation. She had no memory of the man’s face, this stranger who had broken in and ruined everything. And perhaps that was a small mercy, too, that she had never had to look at her Gran — at Margot, her daughter — and see the resemblance to the man who had attacked her and killed her husband.

“Clara,” the Doctor said in a gentle, worried tone, drawing her attention back to him.

She looked up at him, blinking away her tears. “That’s what you didn’t want me to know,” she said. “That’s what you’ve been trying to protect me from.”

“I couldn’t protect you when it mattered,” he murmured. “I’ve spent the last eighty-seven years trying to make up for that.”

“Is that why you stayed, after you died? Because you felt guilty?”

“I stayed because I had to be sure you were alright!” he said, raising his hand to her face, his fingers cool against her skin. “Because I couldn’t stand to leave you.”

Clara stared at the Doctor with tears in her eyes, finally understanding the depth of his love for her, everything he had gone through to bring them to this moment.

“I don’t remember it well,” he went on, “my death or what came immediately after, but I know I could have moved on then. That that’s what I was supposed to do. But you needed me, so I stayed. I sat by your hospital bed, even though I didn’t yet know how to make myself visible to you, or even that I could. I just... I couldn’t bring myself to leave you.”

“I am so selfishly glad that you couldn’t,” she said, her voice breaking. “That we get this second chance.”

“My Clara,” he said, wiping a tear from her cheek with the pad of this thumb. “All I ever wanted was more time. We were supposed to get more time. It shouldn’t have ended like that.”

She smiled at him tremulously, and reached up to lay her hand over his. “We get more time, Doctor. This, right now, the rest of my life. We’ve stolen this time, and it is ours. We have our future back.”

Chapter 6 - The Future

They ended up spending the day huddled together on the sofa under the low awning of the blanket fort the Doctor helped her build. Its purpose was at least nominally to block out as much sunlight as possible, but after the emotional marathon of their conversation and the revelations of what had happened to them in 1927, Clara welcomed the comfort of the enclosed space, cut off from the rest of the world. In the darkness of the fort, the Doctor was solid beneath her touch, and she rested her head on his chest, curled against his side. He held her gently, combing his fingers soothingly through her hair, seeming to be as much in need of the reassurance of her presence as she needed his.

Clara’s mind felt overfull, crowded with everything she had learned since they’d discovered that dusty old box in her Gran’s attic. It seemed impossible that her life had changed so completely over the course of twenty-four hours, that her sense of self could shift so quickly. If not for the memories of her past life, as real as her memories of the last twenty-eight years, she might have doubted any of it was true. But there they were, vivid and visceral, memories formed almost a century ago, truths about herself she couldn’t deny.

Clinging to her ghost, curled together in the safety of the nest they had created for themselves, Clara found she didn’t want to deny any of what she had learned. She wanted to grab hold of their past with both hands and claim it for herself. The feeling of what might have been that seeing their wedding photo had elicited in her wasn’t some strange, misplaced jealousy, but rather the knowledge she carried deep in her soul, buried in her subconscious, that their story wasn’t over yet.

The path that had brought them to this moment had been anything but smooth, but somehow the universe had allowed her to keep him, her ghost, her Doctor. They had been gifted a second chance at a future, and that was more than worth the pain of remembering the tragedy that had marked their past. As much as she wanted to go into their future together with that night merely a terrible thing that had occurred long ago, Clara was glad to know what had happened. Glad that it wasn’t an undefined horror hovering at the edge of her consciousness anymore, and glad that the Doctor no longer had to carry the burden of remembering all on his own.

“I have a few more questions,” she murmured into the cosy silence. “About that night in 1927.”

He sighed, his breath ruffling her hair. “I suspected you might,” he said, sounding resigned. “And I suppose there is some sense in getting it all over and done with now. Not let it loom over us, like you said. What is it you want to know?”

She considered it, thinking about all the gaps in her memory, but decided that out of everything she still didn’t know, there was only one piece of information that nagged at her, only one answer she couldn’t move forward without knowing. “Did they ever catch him, the man who broke in?” she asked quietly.

“Oh. Yes,” the Doctor replied. “He tried to sell some of the items he stole from the house, not realising how unique and valuable they were. It took a few months, dragged on into the spring, but they caught him and convicted him of his crimes. He spent the rest of his very short life in prison.”

“You sound rather certain of that,” Clara said, not quite a question.

He was quiet a long moment. “There are some benefits to being a ghost,” he finally said, choosing his words carefully. “Places that you can get into that you couldn’t if you were alive.”

“What happened to him?” she asked when he didn’t go on.

“Clara,” he said, looking down at her in the dimness, a warning in his voice. “It’s not something I’m proud of.”

“I need to know,” she told him levelly, returning his gaze. “Not the details, but I need to know.”

His jaw worked for a moment, then he said, “I did what I could to make sure he left the world before Margot entered it. Let’s leave it at that.”

She pressed a kiss over his silent heart, mulling over that revelation, the lengths the Doctor had gone to keep her and Margot safe. “This is the secret I asked you to keep from her, isn’t it? I didn’t want her to know about her biological father, how she was conceived.”

“You didn’t want her to grow up with that hanging over her head,” he said, nodding, “or risk what it might mean for her inheritance. I don’t think anyone ever knew, besides the two of us. You listed me as her father on her birth certificate, and never gave anyone any reason to question that, so far as I know. But by 1927, we’d come to terms with the fact that we couldn’t have children — that I couldn’t father children,” he added with a sour twist to his voice.

A fragment of a memory flitted through her mind, a bit of conversation she could feel but couldn’t quite hold onto. “We’d come to peace with it,” she said, suddenly understanding how in this one aspect she could feel so very different from the woman who had written in 1925 of her hopes of filling their house with children.

He nodded. “We’d started to reconceptualise our future, in the absence of children. How we wanted to spend our life together,” he said quietly.

Clara smiled softly at the thought. “And what sorts of plans for the future did we make?”

“We talked a great deal about travelling, seeing Europe together,” the Doctor said, running his fingers through her hair again. “Which is almost funny now, with the hindsight of how turbulent the 1930s and ‘40s turned out to be. We also discussed writing a book about our time in Egypt, but my role at the British Museum made that a little iffy.”

“We could do that now,” she said. “Travel, I mean, not write a book — though I suppose we could do that, too. I did study literature at university, after all.”

“The book is the more realistic option, this time around,” the Doctor said in a low tone, his voice taking on a bitter edge.

“What do you mean?”

“How exactly would travelling together work now? You’re the only one who can see me, Clara. It’d be like you were travelling alone.”

“Except I would know you’re there,” she said reasonably. “We would still be together, see all those things together.”

“And what, hope no one notices that you talk to yourself, that you respond to someone who isn’t there? That seems like a recipe for disaster.”

“Don’t give me another variation on the ‘land of the living’ argument, Doctor, you are really never going to win that one. The world has changed in the last eighty-seven years, there are these wonderful things called mobile phones. At any given moment half the people you pass on the street are talking to someone who isn’t there. All I have to do is wear a little headset and no one will blink an eye at it. Besides,” she added, shrugging slightly, “as a child I got rather good at hiding that I could see you, after the way Mum and Gran reacted when I tried to tell them about you.”

“But you have a whole life here,” he pointed out. “A job and a flat, not to mention the house. You would give that all up? To travel the world with a ghost?”

“I would give up that and more to build a future with the man I love,” she told him with blunt honesty. “I did it in 1923 and I would do it again, without a single regret. Whatever we decide we want our future to look like, travelling or writing a book or anything else. Just so long as I get to keep you.”

“I’m not going anywhere, my Clara,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “But I don’t want you to think you have to give up something to keep me around.”

“I’m not giving up anything,” she said, curling closer to him and wrapping her arm around his middle in half a hug. “I have always wanted a future with you. We have that chance, now. We get to decide what we want our future to be. Together.”

--

They emerged from their cosy cocoon around sunset, reality feeling easier to face after their time spent curled up together. Alone in the kitchen, Clara stood for a moment grimacing at the contents of her fridge before she remembered that she was still only cooking for herself, same as ever. She supposed it shouldn’t surprise her, how easy it was to fall into domestic patterns with the Doctor. She’d known him for all of her nearly twenty-eight years of this life, and remembered bits and pieces of what it had been like to be married to him in her last life.

What might a future with him be like, she wondered as she cooked. The thought of travelling with the Doctor was exciting and enthralling, but there was also something so sweet about the idea of coming home from her work day to find him waiting for her. To spend long evenings and lazy weekends with him, reading together or writing a book about their life in Egypt, or anything else that grabbed their interest. Not since she was a teenager had her future felt this wide open, this full of possibilities — or this full of her ghost’s exhilarating presence.

The hiss of boiling water hitting the stovetop pulled her attention back to her task and the sudden realisation that she’d been so absorbed in daydreaming about their future that she’d quite nearly forgotten about her dinner.

Carrying her food down the hall to the sitting room, Clara found the Doctor perched on the edge of the sofa in the warm lamplight, going through the pile of sepia photos on the coffee table. He looked up when she entered, grinning at her and holding up a photograph.

“I found the one of us with Howard Carter,” he told her. “Valley of the Kings, July 1923.”

“And for those of us not fluent in Egyptology...?” Clara said, sitting down beside him and clearing a spot on the cluttered table for her food.

“He’s the archaeologist who discovered the tomb of Tutankhamun,” he said, carefully handing her the photo as she reached for it. “It’d been in all the newspapers for more than six months by that point, but it took him several more years to catalogue the contents of the tomb, he was so meticulous about it.”

The photo was of her and the Doctor standing beside a dark haired man with a wide moustache, the three of them posed in front of a rock-cut staircase descending into the earth. She was clasping the Doctor’s arm and smiling up at him, seeming completely unaware of the camera. “We must have been married, what, about three months?” Clara asked, glancing at him. “We look like such newlyweds.”

“Oh, we were,” the Doctor replied, accepting the photo back from her. “Disgustingly in love and probably annoying everyone around us with it.”

“Naturally,” she said, laughing. “Did we know Howard Carter well, then?”

“Quite well. He was the one who suggested you take up drawing, after you commented on his method of sketching each artefact in detail as it was removed from the tomb. Though I suspect he was simply trying to give you a hobby, in the hopes of getting my mind back on my work.”

Clara smiled at the mental image as she dug into her dinner. “We should frame that photo,” she said between bites of food. “And our wedding picture, and the one from Thebes in ‘21, maybe a few others from that pile. Find places around here to hang them up. I like seeing the two of us together, looking disgustingly in love,” she added, grinning at him.

He shot her a skeptical look. “Won’t that be hard to explain when you have company over? ‘Oh yes, that’s me in 1923, haven’t aged a day.’”

“Don’t often have company over,” she shrugged easily. “There’s no one I’m that close with.”

“Has your life really been so lonely, Clara Oswald?” the Doctor asked quietly, his gaze on the photos in his hands.

“No, not lonely,” she said, keeping her voice cheerful to balance out his maudlin tone. “I have my students, and friends at work, and until recently I had Gran, of course. But I think part of me knew...” She trailed off, thinking over the feeling, and how much it had shifted during the last day and a half.

“Knew what?” he asked when she didn’t go on.

“I’ve felt for a long time like I was waiting for my future to get here,” she said, looking up at him and holding his gaze. “I don’t feel that way anymore. I think part of me always knew I was waiting for you.”

--

When she finished eating, Clara went to her desk to fetch the folder with her lesson plans, and then settled into the corner of the sofa with her legs stretched out towards the Doctor as he continued to sort through the piles of photos and letters and keepsakes she’d taken from the box. They descended into a comfortable silence broken only by the rustling of papers, and she thought fleetingly about how easy it was to have him in what had always been her private space. In this life, she’d never had a relationship serious enough to tip over into this sort of domesticity, but she found herself enjoying the quiet companionship, the simple joy of existing in the same place together, wrapped up in their own thoughts.

It was easy to imagine a future with him full of days like this, but even as she tried to keep her mind on her work, her thoughts strayed again and again to the idea of travelling together. She’d gotten a taste for it after university and had always intended to see more of the world, but it took on an extra dimension now, the concept of seeing the world with the Doctor. Planning their destinations together, dreaming up where they might go next, seeing ancient monuments and modern marvels with the man she loved at her side. An extended holiday to travel the world wasn’t really something she could afford on her teacher’s salary, but maybe once they sold the house...

Shaking her head, she set the thought aside and tried to keep her focus on her task, determined to finish it as quickly as possible so that she could spend the rest of the evening with the Doctor.

Some time later, she felt his eyes on her, and glanced up to find him watching her fondly, a stack of letters forgotten on the coffee table in front of him.

“Lesson plans for the week?” he asked when she met his gaze.

“Mmhmm,” she nodded, most of her attention still on the outline she’d made when she taught this unit last year.

“And just what are you teaching the youth, these days? Nothing that’ll turn their brains to pudding, I hope.”

Clara huffed out a little laugh and shook her head. “My students are working their way through a selection of Shakespeare’s plays. Antony and Cleopatra currently.”

“Bah, the Ptolemaic pharaohs,” the Doctor groused lightheartedly. “Hardly even count as Egyptian.”

“Shush,” she told him, suppressing a grin and swatting at him with one foot. “Go back to sorting through those letters, I’ll be done with this soon.”

He caught her foot and tugged it gently into his lap, and she shot him a quick smile before turning her attention back to the last of her work. Just as she finished jotting down a note to herself about the homework she meant to assign her classes on Friday, her gaze landed on the date. She sat blinking at it for a moment, surprised at how easily it had snuck up on her.

“It’s next week,” she murmured.

“Hmm? What is?” the Doctor asked.

“The twenty-third of November,” she replied, eyes still on her lesson plan calendar. “My birthday. The anniversary of your— of our deaths. It’s a week from today.”

“I suppose it is,” he said quietly.

“I don’t quite know what to do with it,” she admitted. “How exactly am I supposed to mark it now?”

“As you have for the last twenty-seven years, I expect,” he said. “It’s your birthday, Clara.”

She looked up at him, frowning. “I know, but—”

“Given the nature of the human race, any particular birthday is also the anniversary of someone’s death,” the Doctor said reasonably. “Quite a lot of people’s deaths, in fact, if you consider decades or centuries of time. That doesn’t mean birthdays shouldn’t be celebrated.”

“True,” she conceded. “But it feels odd when it’s my own death that happens to fall on my birthday. Add yours to the mix and it seems like that ought to outweigh any sort of birthday celebration.”

“Weren’t you just saying that you want to be able to go into our future without the past hanging over us?” he asked rhetorically. “Birthdays are about the present and the future. We can’t do anything about the past, about what else happened on that date. But we can celebrate the fact that we are here, together, right now. We can celebrate you getting another year older.”

Clara hummed thoughtfully, unable to argue with his logic. “Reclaim the date, in a way.”

“Exactly.”

“And what about you?” she asked, closing her lesson plan folder and setting it aside. “When is your birthday, anyway?”

“Oh, no,” he said, chuckling softly. “One of the best parts about being dead is that I’m not getting any older. Let’s stick with celebrating your birthday.”

“Spoilsport,” she muttered.

“And anyway,” he shrugged, “I was always far more interested in celebrating our May anniversaries than marking my birthday.”

“Anniversaries?” she asked, tilting her head as she watched him. “Our wedding, and...?”

“The day we met,” the Doctor supplied. “Which are conveniently only a day apart — convenient, that is, for those of us who in life were known to be temporally-challenged and easily distracted by our work, or any other shiny object.”

She laughed lightly. “And you’re saying that in death, that’s changed?”

“No, I suppose not,” he said, smiling at her and squeezing her foot where it still rested in his lap.

“How long is it that we’ve been married now, anyway?” she asked. “This last May must have been, what, ninety-one years?”

He raised his eyebrows at her in surprise. “I don’t know that we can count the last eight-seven years.”

“Of course we can,” she said, running her fingers over the smooth rounded stone of her wedding ring. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“That sort of tallying usually stops at death,” he pointed out.

Clara narrowed her gaze at him. “That little church in Glasgow, the one with the stained glass windows, that smelled of incense...”

“What about it?” he asked, confused.

“Am I right in thinking we wrote our own vows?”

“Yes,” he allowed warily, clearly not sure where she was going with this.

“And did those vows in any way mention death?”

“Well, no, but—”

“No! No ‘but’ on the end of that sentence! At no point did we agree that this relationship would end at death. Until the end of the universe, that’s how long you’re stuck with me.”

He smiled softly, his gaze distant. “‘Until the stars all burn from the sky,’” he said. “That was the phrase you used at the time.”

“Until the stars all burn from the sky,” she repeated, nearly remembering that moment, in that old church in Glasgow, so long ago now. “That’s what we promised. Don’t think a little thing like dying is going to get you out of this relationship, mister,” she said, nudging his leg with her foot. “And just think of it — in a few years, we can celebrate our one hundredth wedding anniversary! Who gets to do that?”

“On one condition,” the Doctor said, pulling the foot she’d nudged him with into his lap alongside its mate. “You don’t make me go to Glasgow to celebrate it.”

“Deal,” Clara laughed. “Now, Egypt on the other hand...”

He looked up at her with interest. “You’d want to go back to Egypt?”

“Of course, why not?” she said, smiling at him. “The number of places I want to visit with you is only growing the more I think about travelling together — 101 Places To See and all that — and Egypt is definitely top of the list. I don’t remember it well, but your memory seems sharp as ever, you can remind me of any pieces I’m still missing. And maybe being there will shake loose a few more memories.”

He was gazing at her in that way she had spent so many years wishing he would, and she felt her heart stutter at the sight. “I would like that very much, my Clara,” he said softly. “Maybe when you have time off from teaching? Next summer perhaps?”

“Why wait? Maybe once we sell the house, I’ll resign from Coal Hill and break the lease on this place, and we can make it a much longer holiday. An extended second honeymoon.”

His expression shuttered and he looked down at her feet in his lap, his long fingers curling around her sock-clad toes. “You still want to sell the house,” he said in a low tone.

“Doctor,” Clara said gently, “I thought you knew that. We have to sell the house. I can’t live there, last night proved that. And I have no hope of paying off the property taxes if we don’t sell it soon.”

He took a deep breath and sighed it out. “No, you’re right,” he said, his voice still subdued. “Of course you’re right.”

She watched him for a long moment, but he didn’t meet her gaze. “Why have you been so against selling the house?” she asked quietly. “You must have frightened away a dozen potential buyers the last few weeks.”

“I didn’t want anything to change,” he murmured.

She frowned to herself. “But now everything has changed,” she said, worry creeping into her tone.

He looked up at her finally, blue eyes finding hers in the lamplight. “I don’t mean this, I don’t mean us,” he said, no trace of doubt in his voice. “I wished so many times for a second chance like this, though I knew I didn’t have any right to hope for it.”

“What do you mean, then?”

“Before all this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the piles of keepsakes on the table, “before your memories came back, the house felt like my last real tie to you. We bought that house together, we were happy there, we planned our future there. And when you came back... To this version of you, I was the ghost who haunted your gran’s house. Dropping the weight of our history on you didn’t seem right, no matter how much I wanted you to remember me, so I was just your ghost, and that was better than nothing.”

“But then Gran died,” Clara said softly.

He nodded. “It felt like everything was ending. Suddenly there were strangers in the house, forcing me to face the fact that I was losing you all over again.”

“So you tried to scare them off,” she said, not quite a question.

“I may have panicked,” he admitted. “I’ve never handled the prospect of losing you very well.”

“I don’t think either of us have handled that very well,” she pointed out, a surge of sympathy filling her. “I probably would have done the same, in your position.” She gently pulled her feet from his lap and shifted around so that she was pressed against his side, curling in closer when she felt his arm come to rest across her shoulders. “I have a lot of fond memories of that house, Doctor,” she murmured. “But it’s just a place. We were happy there because we were together. We can be happy in this flat, or in Egypt, or anywhere else we choose to go. So long as we’re together.”

“Until the stars all burn from the sky,” he whispered, holding her close, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

--

They sat beside each other late into the evening, looking through the contents of the dusty old box that had changed everything. The Doctor filled her in on the stories behind each of the photographs and keepsakes, and they read the letters they had written to each other while they were falling in love, so long ago, laughing about how much things had changed, and how much they remained exactly the same.

Eventually Clara pulled them away from the remnants of their past and off to bed, only too aware that her alarm clock would wake her well before dawn the next morning. The Doctor lingered nearby as she prepared for sleep, looking solid and real and nearly alive in the light of the lamp on the bedside table. His expression was soft as he watched her, his eyes full of that same adoration she’d seen him wear in so many of their old photos.

She had spent so long wishing he would look at her like that, dreamed of it so many times, never once believing that it could really happen. But somehow, impossibly, her ghost loved her as much as she loved him. Against all sense in the universe, she got to keep him, and their future felt wide open, full of possibility and promise. Lost in her thoughts, Clara caught a glimpse of her expression in the bathroom mirror as she brushed her teeth, and recognised it as the same she’d worn on their wedding day: giddy with happiness and very much in love.

When she returned to the bedroom she found him waiting for her, sitting at the foot of her bed. He’d removed his boots and the dark red velvet jacket she’d always known him to wear and set them neatly to one side of the bed, and he’d unbuttoned the top few buttons of his crisp white shirt. Evidently he hadn’t heard her approach, and Clara paused just outside the door, watching him, her heart thudding against her ribs. It reminded her of that day in Thebes, when she’d tracked him down to the dig site and found him standing in the bright sunshine amid the sand and artefacts and half-filled crates. He just looked so beautiful, sitting in her bedroom in his shirtsleeves, that she wanted nothing to change ever again.

Feeling her eyes on him, the Doctor looked up at her and held her gaze for a long, silent moment. Something seemed to pull taut between them, a tension Clara had felt before but had always assumed was one-sided, part of the love she had for him that he couldn’t possibly return. To realise that the Doctor had always loved her, that he had only kept his distance to protect her from painful memories of the past, put every moment they had ever shared into a different context. Her longing for him had never been one-sided, and standing there staring at him in that endless, perfect moment, she was certain that it wasn’t now, either.

“Ready for bed?” she finally asked, a little breathless.

“I wasn’t sure...” he started, trailing off. “I don’t really sleep, as a ghost,” he said instead, “but I thought I’d stay with you. If you want.”

“I do want,” she said, eloquence failing her. “I mean, unless you’d rather stay up and read or something, if you don’t sleep anyway—”

“No, I’d rather be here with you,” he assured her quickly. “If that’s alright with you,” he added, and it occurred to her that he might be feeling just as nervous about this new phase of their lives as she was.

She smiled at him and crossed the room to sit beside him at the foot of the bed, close but not quite touching. “Were we this awkward before?” she asked.

“We had our moments,” he said, returning her smile.

“What was it you said this morning? This is still just you and me.”

“Same old, same old,” the Doctor murmured, gaze tracing across her face.

“Right,” she said on an exhaled breath, forgetting everything she’d been about to say as she stared at him. “I, uh...” she trailed off and had to start again. “I usually sleep on the left side of the bed. If that works for you.”

“You always did before,” he said absently, still staring at her.

Clara shook herself, realising she’d been leaning inexorably closer to him, longing for something she hadn't let herself consider since her love-struck teenaged years. “See, those little insights into our past?” she said, getting up and walking around to her side of the bed. “That’s why I keep you around.”

“And here I thought it was my sparkling wit and stellar conversational skills,” he replied dryly.

“Oh, shush,” she said, laughing and tossing the spare pillow to him, strangely relieved at the break in the tension. “Just shut up and come to bed already.”

“Yes, boss,” he said easily, and joined her beneath the covers.

It took them a few moments to find the right arrangement, to shift around each other and relearn the ways that they were meant to fit together. Once they finally settled, Clara reached over to switch off the lamp on her bedside table, then paused, looking back at her ghost, a question on the tip of her tongue.

“Doctor, after you died, did we ever...?” She trailed off, not quite able to get past her awkwardness to ask outright. She loved him, she had loved him her entire life, but once she’d talked herself out of her teenaged fantasies about him, she had forcibly separated her mind from any thoughts that involved both the Doctor and sex. Undoing that would apparently take some effort.

“Did we what?” he asked, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

“Sleep together?” she managed, not exactly what she’d meant to say, but she hoped he took her meaning.

“Like I said, I don’t exactly sleep,” he said. “But I stayed with you most nights, like I did last night. It seemed to help.”

“No, not sleep sleep, I mean—” she started, stopped short, tried again. “Did we— you know?”

He peered at her as though waiting for that sentence to finish itself. “Clara, you should know by now that the obtuse thing, it isn’t an act. Sometimes I really don’t know what it is you’re trying to hint at.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath, and willed the words into existence. “When you came back to me in 1928, did we have sex?”

He was quiet for a long moment, and Clara squinted her eyes open to gauge his reaction.

His confused expression hadn’t changed. “No,” he said shortly.

Her stomach plummeted, but she tried to hide her disappointment. “Not an option, then?” she asked, willing her voice into a neutral tone and thinking of his lack of a heartbeat.

The Doctor blinked at her as though finally catching on to what she was really asking. “No,” he said slowly, “I don’t see why it wouldn’t be. Between sunset and sunrise, at least.”

Clara’s heart turned over in her chest, but she asked, genuinely curious, “Then why didn’t we, before?”

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “You weren’t... in a good place emotionally, in 1928. I stayed with you overnight, read to you or hummed your song when you couldn’t sleep, or just held you through your nightmares. But you weren’t ready for anything more. Maybe if I hadn’t left you at the end of that summer, maybe if we’d had more time...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, my Clara.”

“Doctor,” she said levelly, holding his gaze. “We have more time. This, right now, this is the time we wished for, this is our second chance.”

“Right, as you keep saying.”

“So...?” she said, raising her eyebrows at him.

“So?” he repeated, looking at her in bewilderment. She waited for the penny to drop. “Oh,” he said, realisation lighting up his face. “Oh.”

“Exactly,” she said, grinning at him, then reached over and turned out the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

--

In retrospect, Clara supposed she probably shouldn’t have been surprised when she overslept. She rushed through her morning routine as best she could, despite finding herself continuously and delightfully distracted by the Doctor’s presence as she darted from one task to the next.

“Alright,” she said, talking rapidly between bites of toast, all too aware of the time, “the curtains are closed, lamps are on, the flat is yours. Feel free to peruse the bookshelf or watch television or use my laptop or whatever,” she told him, brushing the last crumbs of her breakfast from her hands.

Leaving the kitchen, she headed for the front door with long strides, her ghost trailing along behind her. “I’m usually home by around four o’clock,” she went on, barely pausing for breath, “then marking until six, and then I’ll be yours for the rest of the evening.” She pushed up on her toes and kissed him, grateful for perhaps the first time in her adult life that her work schedule meant she had to be up well before dawn on weekdays. “I mean— I’m yours the rest of the time too,” she quickly amended, “but we can spend the evening together.”

“Clara,” the Doctor said with laughter in his tone, “stop worrying, I’ll be fine. I’ve had eighty-six years to get used to keeping my own company. I can survive a few hours alone.”

“I know,” she said, pausing in the act of gathering up her school papers to press a brief kiss to the corner of his mouth. “It’s just— things have changed a bit since Friday, haven’t they?”

“Oh, I see,” he said with dawning comprehension. “This is more about you not wanting to leave than any real worry about me being here on my own, isn’t it?”

She grinned at him as she pulled on her coat. “Can you blame me? If it was up to me, I’d drag you back to bed right now.”

“I take it we’re going for round two of ‘disgustingly in love newlyweds,’” the Doctor said, returning her grin, not even able to fake a sour tone. “And here I thought we’d gotten past all that.”

“Shush, ninety-one years married still counts as newlywed if we say it does. Speaking of—” Clara turned away from the front door, keys in hand, completely forgetting what she’d meant to say in favour of kissing him again, too overwhelmed with love to even care that at this rate, she would barely beat her students to class.

“Are you capable of finishing a thought without stopping to snog me?” he demanded playfully when they parted.

“Signs point to no,” she quipped back. “But as I was saying: give some thought to that second honeymoon idea, places we might want to travel once we sell the house.”

“Yes, boss,” he said, anticipating her next move and leaning down to kiss her. “Now go, or you really will be late. Go fill the pudding brains’ minds with Antony and Cleopatra, I’ll be here when you get home.”

“I love you,” she told him, pausing with the door partway open.

“My Clara,” the Doctor said, smiling at her with adoration in his eyes. “I love you too.”

Chapter 7 - The Museum

13 May 2021, Cairo

“I suppose it’s too much to ask that the museum stay open late for us, today of all days,” Clara said quietly, as they strolled side by side through the nearly empty Museum of Egyptian Antiquities. Even after so many years travelling the world together, she was still cautious about attracting any undue attention from curious strangers, aware as always that no one but her could see or hear her ghost.

“We’re lucky enough as it is that they’re open until nine p.m. on Thursdays,” the Doctor replied. “If the thirteenth had fallen on a Monday this year, we would have been stuck visiting before sunset, they close so early. In 1921, the museum was only open that late because of the party celebrating the new exhibit.”

“You know, until we started planning this anniversary trip, it hadn’t occurred to me that the thirteenth of May that year was a Friday,” she said. “So much for the unluckiness of Friday the thirteenth.”

“Actually, the ancient Egyptians considered thirteen to be a lucky number. To them it symbolised immortality, resurrection, and rebirth.”

“Well, there you go,” Clara said, laughing softly. “Or rather: here we are, a hundred years later. And you’re sure we met at nine?”

He nodded. “The lecture on the exhibit ended just before nine, and we met a few minutes later, as everyone started to disperse into the surrounding rooms. It was half past ten before my colleagues from the dig site were able to pull me away. Unfortunately the museum won’t let us stay that late tonight, but at least we can mark nine p.m. in the right place.”

“One hundred years,” she said, directing a quick smile his way. “Things have changed a bit since then, I suppose,” she added, looking around at the few remaining tourists, half of them reading information about the exhibits on their smartphones. She self-consciously adjusted the small bluetooth headset she wore for show, but no one seemed to be paying her any attention, thankfully.

“They have and they haven’t,” the Doctor shrugged. “The building itself hasn’t changed significantly since I first arrived in Egypt, and the public remains fascinated with the archaeology and the history of the region. Obviously the exhibits have been rearranged over the years, newly discovered artefacts added, but honestly it still looks quite like it did then.”

“I meant more the people than the place. I seem to remember the party in ‘21 being a bit more of a formal affair.”

“They still host black-tie parties here, now and then. We could come back for one someday, if you’re feeling nostalgic.”

“Might be worth another trip to Cairo, if we can figure out a way to get an invite,” she said. “Do you remember what I wore that night?”

The Doctor kept his gaze focused ahead of them and his face carefully blank, but Clara swore he would have blushed if he could. “Yes,” he said shortly.

She laughed fondly and leaned into his shoulder briefly, charmed by his awkwardness even after six and a half years of living as a married couple again. “You’ll have to describe it for me sometime. In a more private location.”

He hesitated then said, “We won’t be able to stay here long tonight, anyway. Play your cards right and I’ll describe it for you in detail once we get back to the hotel.”

“I’m going to hold you to that, mister,” she said, grinning.

They lapsed into comfortable silence as the Doctor led her confidently through the halls of the museum, ending in a smaller room tucked away from the main flow of the central corridor. They had the room to themselves, and Clara let herself relax, shedding her perpetual wariness of someone seeing her interact with her ghost.

“Oh, this wasn’t here before,” the Doctor said as they entered, sounding surprised and pleased. “This is lovely.”

“What is it?” she asked, bemused by his obvious interest.

“It’s a reproduction of the burial chamber of Thutmose the Third, which is in the Valley of the Kings, near Thebes,” he said, looking around at the illustrated walls and the stars painted on the low ceiling, his expression like a kid in a candy shop. “That’s the mummified pharaoh himself, just there,” he added, nodding to a glass-enclosed display case in the middle of the room. “And I imagine the other artefacts are from his tomb, as well.”

“The ceiling is just like my ring,” she noted, glancing up at the spindly stars against the dark blue and fiddling with her wedding ring, its stone opaque now in the diffuse artificial light.

“It was a popular artistic element in the Eighteenth Dynasty,” the Doctor said absently, as he leaned in to examine an intricately carved scarab figurine on display. “Thutmose the Third was the step-son of Hatshepsut, after all, whose temple I took you to see after you found me in Thebes.”

“I forget, sometimes,” Clara said affectionately, “that this is what you spent your life working on. Your true academic passion, above all your other many interests.”

He shot her a quick smile. “It’s why I was in Egypt in the first place, that night in 1921.”

“And you’re sure this is the right place?” she asked, looking around. “The room where we met?” Like the rest of the museum and Cairo in general, it felt vaguely familiar, but nothing specific jumped out at her.

“Quite sure,” he said, meandering around the edge of the room to join her again. “A friend of mine stood in that archway just there, off and on for the better part of an hour, trying to get my attention while I studiously ignored him.”

“Naturally,” she said lightly, “being that you were otherwise occupied with an intriguing stranger.”

“Luckily for me,” he said, smiling down at her.

“So, what are we looking at here?” she asked, gesturing to the complex mural of stylised stick figures that adorned every inch of the walls of the room. “Put that doctorate of archaeology to good use and tell me about this, as we count down to nine p.m.”

The Doctor stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her, and Clara leaned into him, glad for the relative privacy of the enclosed space and the rare chance to touch him while they were in public.

“It’s the Amduat,” he told her, his voice soft near her ear. “Which translates to ‘The Book Of What Is In The Underworld.’ It’s a funerary text that details the sun god Ra’s journey through the land of the dead each night, from sunset to sunrise, on a river that flows from west to east. It’s found painted in the tombs of several pharaohs and on various papyri fragments. The text is divided into the twelve hours of the night, the different gates that Ra — and the recently deceased, who travel with him — must pass through to reach rebirth with the sun at dawn.”

“The twelve hours of the night?” she said, glancing up at him. At his nod, she recited the last eight lines of the poem from memory:

He whispered, “And a river lies Between the dusk and dawning skies, And hours are distance, measured wide Along that transnocturnal tide— Too doomed to fear, lost to all need, These voyagers blackward fast recede Where darkness shines like dazzling light Throughout the Twelve Hours of the Night.”

“...Seriously?” the Doctor asked when she finished, his voice sour. “We’re standing in the middle of the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities and you’re subjecting me to Ashbless of all people?”

Clara laughed. “You say ‘The Twelve Hours of the Night’ and my mind spits out that poem. I studied English literature at university, it’s a reflex, I can’t help it.”

“You know, I’m not convinced he actually knew the first thing about Egypt, much less the Amduat. Most of the rest of that poem is complete gibberish.”

“He did live here in Cairo for a time,” she said reasonably.

The Doctor sighed in exasperation. “It’s two minutes ‘til nine,” he said. “Are we going to stand here and debate nineteenth century poets of questionable literary value, or can we enjoy the moment?”

Laughing again, she turned her head and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “Yes, let’s just enjoy the moment. Who else gets to celebrate their hundredth anniversary, after all?”

“Technically that’s not for another two years yet. And we’d have to go to Glasgow,” he added, and Clara knew without looking at him that he was making a face at the thought.

“Our wedding anniversary, sure. But I meant the anniversary of when I fell in love with you.”

The Doctor was quiet for a moment. “You think it was that night?” he asked softly.

“I know it was,” she answered in a similar tone, squeezing his hands where they were clasped low on her stomach. “I wouldn’t have followed you to Thebes otherwise. It just took me a while to put the word to the feeling.”

“You were — what was the phrase you used? — an intriguing stranger for me that night. But when you showed up at the dig site, that’s when I knew.” He took a deep breath and sighed it out, stirring strands of her hair. “I also knew you were less than half my age, far too beautiful for the likes of me even if you hadn’t been, and extremely unlikely to return my feelings.”

“And how’d that work out for you?” she asked playfully.

“Quite well, as fate would have it,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his tone.

Before she could reply, she felt him go rigid behind her, then sway in an alarming way. “Are you alright?” she asked, concerned.

“Bit lightheaded all of a sudden,” he said. “I think I ought to sit.”

She helped him to a bench at the back of the room, grateful that his hand remained solid in hers. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Possible explanations crowded her mind for why a ghost might feel lightheaded, none of them good.

“What is it?” she asked him, worry twisting her gut.

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice distant. “I feel strange...”

Clara knelt in front of him looking up at his face, so familiar and beloved, now alarmingly pale and drawn. Somewhere in the distance she could hear an announcement, repeated in multiple languages, that it was nine p.m. and the museum was closing. She ignored it and focused on the Doctor, and on her fear that something had just gone terribly wrong. There was a sudden knot in her stomach, a growing dread that this happy semblance of a life they’d managed to build together the last six and a half years couldn’t possibly last.

“Is this it?” she said, and she could hear the panic colouring her voice. “Have we run out of time? A hundred years exactly and I’ll have to lose you all over again?”

“My Clara,” the Doctor murmured, his low voice cutting through her frantic rambling. “All I ever wanted was more time with you...”

“No, you’re saying goodbye, don’t say goodbye!” she cried, cupping his face with one hand. The pain of that possibility rippled through her, the unimaginable thought of facing a future without him. “Don’t go. Stay with me,” she said desperately. “You promised. You promised you would stay.”

He found her gaze, his eyes red-rimmed as tears began to form. “Clara.”

“Everything you’re about to say, I already know,” she told him before he could say anything else, afraid that at any second, he would fade out of existence right in front of her. “I’ve always known. If this is it, if this is all the time we get—” Her voice cracked, her tears overwhelming her, and she shook her head. “Until the stars all burn from the sky, that’s how long you’re stuck with me. That’s how long I’ll love you. I will find you again someday. I promise.”

The Doctor took her hand from his face and kissed her knuckles tenderly, and she clung to the solidness of him, trying to commit it to memory one final time, in case this was the last moment of this life she had left with him. He had been abruptly stolen from her once before, on that horrible night in 1927, and suddenly the agony of that was fresh and new all over again, threatening to swallow her whole.

“I love you, my Clara,” he said despite her assurances that she already knew. He squeezed her fingers, and raised his other hand to wipe a tear from her face. “I’ll love you ‘til the end of the universe.” His gaze held hers, blue eyes flecked with green that she would never, ever forget. “And I know how much you like to be right,” he went on, his voice gentle. “But just this once... Do you think you could bear it if you were totally and completely wrong?”

She blinked up at him, tears catching in her lashes. “What?” she asked, uncomprehending, as he moved her hand to press flat against the left side of his chest. It took her a moment to understand, to register the strong and steady heartbeat under her palm, utterly strange and unexpected after so many years grown accustomed to the lack of it. She stared at her hand in disbelief, then raised her eyes to his face, realising that he no longer looked nearly so pale. “How?” she demanded.

He shrugged, smiling softly at her. “Honestly? I’ve no idea. Lucky thirteen, perhaps?” he suggested. “I can’t claim to understand it. But it feels so distinctly different from the last ninety-three years, I can’t really question it, either.”

“We get more time,” Clara breathed.

“We get more life,” he corrected. “A real second chance. Somehow, we’ve passed through the twelve hours of the night, and now the sun is rising again.”

She stared at him for a moment, her heart still stuttering in shock at the sudden reversal of their fortunes, then leaned up on her knees and kissed him soundly, reveling in the living warmth rolling off of him. Her living, breathing, very much not dead husband. The reality of it was better than anything she could have wished for, and she clung to him, hardly believing what had just happened.

“Sir, ma’am?” called an unfamiliar voice as they broke apart. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but it’s after nine p.m. and the museum is closing.”

“Quite alright,” the Doctor replied, his gaze never leaving Clara’s face. “It’s time we were getting home, anyway.”

Chapter 8 - The Temple

18 May 2021, Deir el-Bahari

“Do you ever wonder if we’ve done this before?” Clara asked, her voice hushed as they stood together looking at a wall full of hieroglyphs and painted figures illuminated by the sunlight filtering in through the open walls of the temple.

The Doctor glanced at her, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion. “Visiting the Temple of Hatshepsut was more or less our first date,” he replied. “A hundred years ago this week, in point of fact.”

“No, I mean— lived before,” she clarified. “Transversed the twelve hours of the night and come back out the other side. Rebirth and all that.”

“It’s possible, I suppose,” he said, frowning. “We know it’s happened at least once for each of us, so why not? What makes you ask?”

“There’s something... Not quite a memory, but a feeling, I guess.” She turned away from the temple wall in front of them and led the Doctor back to the large display near the entrance that informed tourists about the history of the Mortuary Temple of Hatshepsut. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the photo of an ancient artist’s sketch on a limestone chip depicting a man in profile. She glanced up at the Doctor and nodded at the drawing on the display. “Tell me about him?”

“That’s Senenmut,” he said, following her gaze. “He was the chief architect of this place, royal adviser to Hatshepsut, and tutor to her daughter, among dozens of other titles. Many people believe he was also Hatshepsut’s lover, even though he was a commoner and at least twenty years older than her.”

Clara made a thoughtful noise and walked a few steps further, squinting up at a towering statue set just outside. “And that’s her?” she asked, looking to the Doctor for confirmation. “Queen Hatshepsut?”

“She was Pharaoh in her own right by the time this temple was built, but yes, that’s her.” He eyed Clara curiously. “Why the sudden interest in Hatshepsut and Senenmut? I thought you’d be more taken with the ceiling.”

She pulled her gaze away from the statue to grin at him, and then stepped back inside the temple just so she could see that high ceiling again, a deep dark blue covered in spindly stars, so very like the star sapphire of her wedding ring, twinkling in the midday sun. “I do love that ceiling,” she told him, lacing their fingers together without looking away from the sight above. It had only been a few days since that miraculous moment in the Cairo museum, and Clara found herself taking every possible opportunity to touch the Doctor during daylight hours, still not quite used to finding him warm and solid beneath her hands. “If we ever settle down anywhere long enough to have a house or a flat again, I might just have to paint something like that above our bed,” she added.

“You should see the ceiling in Senemut’s tomb,” he replied. “Stars like these, but organised into detailed astronomical information. The oldest of its kind in Egypt. It’s not open to the public, but it’s just around the corner from here,” he said, gesturing vaguely back out at the desert behind them. “He wanted to be buried as close to Hatshepsut as he could possibly manage.”

“You’re practically making my point for me, Doctor,” Clara said, finally dropping her gaze from the ceiling and turning towards him.

“Which is what, exactly?” he asked, looking at her as well.

She used their joined hands to pull him back to the visitor’s information. “He has your nose,” she said, pointing at the ancient sketch of Senenmut. “Your chin, a bit, too. Give him your eyebrows and the resemblance would be downright uncanny. And her,” Clara shifted her attention to the other side of the information display, to a photo of another statue of Hatshepsut, considering it critically. “It’s not nearly as jarring as the first time I saw our wedding photo, but there’s something...”

“Your cheekbones and your giant eyes,” the Doctor agreed thoughtfully. “She was about your height, too.”

“It makes me wonder, is all. If this isn’t the first time we’ve done this, if we’ve found each other before. And there’s something comforting in that, I think.”

“How so?”

She shrugged. “Just the thought that maybe some things don’t end. Not love, at least, not always. That maybe there are dozens or hundreds of versions of us, out there scattered throughout history. Finding each other and falling in love, getting it a bit more right each time.”

The Doctor was quiet for a long moment, then said, “I’m not sure it matters to me, in all honesty. If we’ve done this before, or if this is the first time — I’m happy with this version of us, the here and now. That’s enough for me.”

“You mean the here and now where we’re stuck in Egypt while we try to fabricate enough of a legal identity for you to be able to travel?” she asked dryly.

“Since when have we ever been stuck in Egypt?” he snarked back. “I love it here, and I suspect you do too, your complaints notwithstanding. But maybe you do have a point. Maybe there’s a reason we keep gravitating back to this place in particular.”

“A reason you were drawn to study ancient Egyptian languages, and that I was so set on seeing Egypt in 1921.”

“Exactly. And you’re certainly right about one thing,” he added, studying the image of the pharaoh queen, “her face is weirdly round, just like yours.”

Clara snorted and elbowed him playfully.

“Ow, hey,” he said, rubbing at his ribs in mock-injury. “I can actually bruise now, don’t forget.”

“And sunburn, as it turns out,” she sighed, glancing up at him. “Your nose, again. Come here,” she said as she pulled a bottle of sunscreen from her bag. “I suppose some things never change: my round face, your sunburnt nose.”

“I could do with a little less sunburn,” he grumbled, bending down so Clara could apply more sunscreen to his nose.

“I’m happy, too,” she told him softly, her focus on her task. “This version of me and this version of you, and this second chance at a future we’ve been given. But who knows, maybe in the next life, we’ll get to travel the stars together,” she added, glancing up at the painted ceiling overhead, the rows of spindly stars against the deep dark blue.

“It’s a nice thought, my Clara,” the Doctor agreed, and leaned in to kiss her in the bright desert sunlight, standing together under those ancient stars.

--

Fin

--

Behind the scenes extras for each chapter

[protoslacker]

Sad like 1963

I've been sad reading social media posts in response to police beating Tyre Nichols to death. So many of us are experiencing a profound sense of grief.

This morning I saw a post by a dad who said his biggest worry is for his eight-year old son, that one day some cop will 'fear for his Life' and "murder my boy.” He went on to tell about his son. Children that age are so lovely and hearing this man speak of his son made it impossible not to adore his child.

I was seven-years old in 1963.  And for reasons I am not sure in grieving Tyre Nichols my memories turned to events that year from the perspective of being little then. TV was new to our house, we'd only had one for a year or so. The pictures I remember are from TV.

In April Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was jailed in Birmingham, Alabama were he wrote a famous letter from his jail cell. I didn't read the letter as a boy but I do suspect I heard his name. On May 2nd children who'd been trained in non-violent tactics marched. Hundreds were arrested. "By the second day, Commissioner of Public Safety Bull Connor ordered police to spray the children with powerful water hoses, hit them with batons and threaten them with police dogs."

The images I saw on TV stunned me, they made me feel sad and worried. I had a sense that I wasn't the only one feeling so. I have seen photographs many times over the years, but the picture that comes to mind is very close to one in the entry on photographer Charles Moore at Wikipedia.

On August 28, 1963 Dr. King gave his "I Have a Dream" speech. I can't place memories of watching coverage of the March on Washington. However I do remember loving to sing "If I Had a Hammer," one of the songs Peter Paul and Mary sang that day. My favorite part was: "It's the song account love between/ My brothers and my sisters/ All over this land." I have brothers and sisters, but I felt sure that this song extended beyond my home. Thar's the part which seemed so exciting!

On September 15th the 16th Street Baptist Church was bombed by a group of KKK members. Twenty-two church goers were injured and four girls were killed in the explosion. Childhood memories can be a bit suspect, nevertheless what I remember is hearing the children’s names read by the TV anchor: Addie Mae Collins, Cynthia Wesley, Carole Robertson and Carol Denise McNair.

President Kennedy was assassinated on November 22, 1963 in Dallas, Texas. My brother is four years younger and was deeply affected by watching President Kennedy's funeral on TV. I was probably at school Anyhow the picture that come to mind first is seeing Jack Ruby shooting Lee Harvey Oswald.

Grief moves through us. That dad worried for his son knows it. I feel sure his son feels some measure of grief over the violent death of Tyre Nichols too. In grief's wake we are changed. The traumatic events of 1963 were shared widely. The protest in Birmingham forced concessions from city leaders and business desegregated. In February of 1964 the Civil Rights Act was signed.  The KKK didn't surrender, of course, and the struggle continues to this day. The song about love between my brothers and sisters inspired hope in me and still does. That inspiration to love was shared  too. We are not powerless we can dream and create better lives for all.

[gible-love-nibles-archive]

Eternal Diva Fic (Part 3)

This part's kinda of a downtime part before all the puzzles and action 'n' stuff. Still, things certainly do happen here. ...I don't know how to write descriptions at this point. Still, enjoy!

Nothing to warn for here, I think

Word Count: 1.1k / Previous / Next

Giant lurches accompanied our host’s words, and I was nearly thrown off the balcony.  If there was any time to leave, it was now.  I just had to hope the professor and Luke would be alright.

I threw open the balcony’s exit and rushed through the main hall, thankfully not spotting any masked men.  But exiting the opera house quickly sobered me to why.

The Crown Patone was shifting parts all around, transforming itself into something else: a ship.  And we were already heading out to sea.

My feet moved me out to the deck without me realizing.  I struggled to come up with words. “What-- How--”

“The theater…”

“It’s really a huge ship!”

Those two familiar voices made me turn and gave me a little relief.  Finally seeing Layton and Luke was a comfort; if anyone could solve what was going on, it would be those two.

“Professor Layton!  Luke!” I rushed over to greet them.  

The professor turned his head and watched my approach.  He quickly smiled and tipped his hat my way.  “Well, this is a pleasant surprise.  I’m afraid I almost didn’t recognize you in that outfit, Miss Clare.”

“Clare!” Luke had a big bright grin on his face.  I didn’t realize until now how much I missed the enthusiastic boy.

“Is it just me, or have you gotten taller Luke?” I joked, ruffling his cap.

“I certainly hope so!” We both laughed a bit.  The professor’s grin seemed to widen.

“Unfortunately, it seems we only meet during the most dire of circumstances,” Layton pulled me back to the situation at hand.

I sighed. “Yeah, you’ve got that right.  And after I got dressed so nicely.”

“On the positive Clare, I’m sure you will be a great ally to this mystery.”

“I was thinking just the same thing, Professor.”

We were interrupted by one of the patrons of the opera-- a red-haired man with an extremely long nose-- running past us and jumping onto the ship’s railing.

“What are you doing?  Do you see a way out?” A brown-haired woman in a dark blue dress asked him.

“I know what I’m doing.  I’m swimming back!” He said confidently.

“I’m not sure that’s altogether wise.” Layton stood by the railing and pointed down into the water.  

Looking down revealed a chilling sight: a large shiver of sharks was swimming around the boat with strange metal accessories attached firmly to their snouts.  

“Very strange,” said a man dressed like a sea captain. “You don’t often see sharks.  Well, not in these waters.”

“They’re being controlled.” My words slipped out in anger.  My hands gripped the railing tight. “Look at those weird things on their noses.  Sharks wouldn’t circle a boat like this.  Maybe a fishing boat, but definitely not something this big.”

“It must be some kind of precaution then,” Layton hypothesized. “One that makes sure we stay on the ship.” When I didn’t respond, the professor patted my shoulder sympathetically.

The sounds of a whole orchestra made everyone’s attention shoot squarely to the theater.  We all ran back to find that the opera writer Mr. Whistler was responsible for the music.  Needless to say, the thought of playing music at a time like this was in a bit of poor taste.  But the other passengers said it for me anyway.

“What are you doing?!  Someone threatens our lives and you play music!?” The red-haired man from earlier yelled.

“We’re sailing out to sea, and there are sharks all around us!” The brown-haired woman also from before pleaded, sounding on the brink of tears.

Mr. Whistler finally paused his playing, but otherwise refused to address the small crowd that had gathered around him.

“Mr. Whistler.” A man with dark hair and bright orange pants squinted hard at the opera writer. “You were the one behind this opera.  Tell me: did you also plan this deadly game?”

Oswald stood up and turned as he gave his vague answer: “I was asked to perform an opera.  That is all.”

The dark-haired man clearly wasn’t convinced.  The three of us shifted uncomfortably, but a voice calling out to the professor distracted us.  It was the opera singer Janice Quatlane.

As the professor and Janice chatted, Luke pulled on my sleeve. “Um, Clare?  Why are you… dressed like that?”

“Why am I wearing a suit, you mean?”

“Yeah.  I-I mean--!  I don’t mean you don’t look nice, I just-- Don’t boys usually wear suits?”

“Well, it’s real simple Luke: I wanted to look nice, but I also wanted to wear pants.”

“Oh… And you can just do that?”

“Sure.  Who’s gonna care?”

“Woah…”

“I don’t mean to interject…” Layton said politely. “But Clare, what are you doing here?  As I understand, the tickets for this opera were extremely expensive.”

“Well, here’s the thing Professor: You sent me a ticket to come here.  You invited me.  Supposedly.”

“Wot?!” Luke interjected. “That can’t be right!  Me and the professor got our tickets sent to us by Janice.  We didn’t buy any!”

“But I have a letter that says you wanted me to come.  Right here.” I quickly pulled it out of my bag and handed it to Layton.

Upon reading it, the professor’s face grew more serious. “This is not my handwriting.  Close to it, but a forgery nonetheless.”

A pit started to form in my stomach.  I was liking this less and less. “Then… is this ticket not real?” I pulled that out of my bag.

“No, that is genuine,” Janice perked up. “You can tell by the golden edges and the special ink.”

Layton gripped his hat brim and his face was grim. “I hate to say it Clare, but it seems someone lured you here to the opera tonight.  Someone wanted you to play this game.”

I felt a slight chill go down my back. “But who?  I don’t want eternal life!  I don’t have money to throw around.  Why me?”

“That, I’m not sure of.”

We didn’t have much to dwell on that unnerving revelation.  The game master’s voice on the speakers returned.

“Ladies and gentlemen.  Now we are all passengers together on the Crown Patone.  It is time for our little puzzle-solving game to begin.  The rules are very simple.  The winner-- meaning the last player left-- receives eternal life.”

“Professor…?” Luke asked Layton worriedly.

“I don’t see that any of us have a choice but to play the game Luke.”

He was right.  When you’re stuck on a ship sailing shark-infested waters, what else can you do but comply?

…I was getting a very bad feeling, and it had to do with the game master’s voice.

I felt like I had heard it somewhere before.

[starryserenade]

Myth and Magic Ch. 7: Breath

Fic Description: When Tir Na nÓg--the fabled land of the fae--falls to a dark power, the destinies of two young mice are set in motion. As each struggle to make their way in an ever-darkening world, they must learn to trust one another, or risk forever losing that which they hold most dear.

Chapter Description: Six months after Mickey and Minnie escaped the forest. Days have grown brighter and bonds have grown tighter, but darkness looms just out of sight.

Links:

AO3

Prologue

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

~~~

Silence can be loud. Deafening, even. Oswald knew this better than anyone, and though he spent much of his time surrounded by nothing but quiet, he loathed every minute of it. Even more so now, as he trudged through dark tunnels which held only the sound of his own steps and the brush of his wings. It gave him too much time to think, and he would really have preferred to keep the subject of his trip from his mind until absolutely necessary. 

The smell of rotting wood flooded his nostrils the further he traversed beneath the Dara’s roots.  The tree had grown sicker and sicker over the past few months, though his subjects were far too drunk on enchanted food and drink to notice. Oswald snorted. Not much had changed since he was a child, but at least that made it easy to carry out whatever he needed to. The small uprising of rebels that had escaped Tir na Nog was the closest thing he had to resistance, but even they posed little threat.

No, instead his greatest concern rested with two little mice. Two little mice who had all but disappeared from the face of the earth. He swallowed nervously, and stared up at the gnarled archway standing before him. This was not going to be fun.

The enormous room he entered was entirely dark, save for a pool at its center. The waters within were clear, shining like a window to another world. In the heart of this, a single flame hovered within a hollow orb whose shell was made entirely of water...though never once did the flame and liquid touch. Oswald himself could not reach anything in the pool’s boundaries, though it would have been much easier if he could; one dip of that flame in the waters below, and his job would have been accomplished. 

Instead he made his way to the back of the cavern where a black mirror stood and, clearing his throat, pressed his hand to the glass.  Immediately, it shuddered, and a dark silhouette appeared. As it settled in the frame, two piercing eyes appeared within the shadow and it emerged from the glass in a cloud of smoke.

“I hope you’ve brought me good news…” it hissed, sweeping behind Oswald and making his fur and feathers rise on end. He drew in a sharp breath and wiped the sweat from his palms on his cloak. 

“There’s…still no sign of her,” he spoke, keeping his eyes locked on a knotted piece of wood just ahead. As he uttered the words, the shadow lunged right through him and came to meet him face to face.

“WHAT?” it shouted, voice bouncing off the walls. “Last we spoke you told me it would be not a day until you had her. How long has it been now?” When he didn’t answer, it drew up even closer. “How. Long.”

“Six months,” Oswald muttered, and the shadow erupted into a swarm of smoke and fury.

“UNACCEPTABLE!” It screeched. “First you LIE to me and now you dare to fail for so long?! You should have killed her when I first ordered you to do so!"

“My Queen, I’ve had the Sidhe looking everyw-!” 

“ I grow tired of your excuses. I’ve got half a mind to hand the Sidhe over to that pitiful mortal king. Perhaps he would be more keen to listen, since it seems your precious prize is no longer enough…”

“NO!” Oswald cried, panic in his eyes. “No, I…I can do this.” Then he straightened his posture and glared back. “I will do this.”

The apparition scoffed and looked over her shoulder.  “See that you do.” With a sweep of shadow, she approached the pool at the center of the cavern and stared into its depths. The flame flared but too much, as if struggling to keep ablaze. A rim of frost had gathered at the edge of the waters. “When I’m freed, I expect no threats to my rule. Is that understood?” 

Oswald responded with a brisk nod and, barely able to disguise his trembling, turned to leave.

“ And Oswald…” The shadow hissed after him. He stopped in his tracks, but didn’t turn around. “ That day at the lake–the Sidhe tell me the girl wasn’t alone. I do hope your emotions haven’t clouded your judgment…it would be a pity if I found you’d lied to me twice.”

Oswald’s fur pricked, and he swallowed hard. “The prince is dead. Whoever was with the girl…it wasn’t him.” He did not give her a chance to respond.  But as he marched out the archway, he felt her eyes drilling into his back.

As far as lies went, that made three.

~~~

Sunshine bathed cobblestone streets in a golden hue, and cheery laughter rang out all across the village of Stonehollow. Flowers cropped up on emerald riverbanks and in every window box. Butterflies floated through the air. For the first time in years, spring had come, and the whole town was aflutter with excitement.   Mickey raced through the crowds with a wide grin painted across his face, a bunch of colorful blooms clutched in his arms. Folks chuckled as they saw him pass and he shouted out a flurry of haphazard apologies in the moments where he almost collided with one or two of them. None of them minded much. As far as they were considered, this silly little mouse and his dainty, mysterious friend had brought nothing but good luck since they’d arrived. It was difficult to be angry at the ones who seemed to bring with them warmth and color everywhere they went. 

With a wipe of his forehead, Mickey flung open the door to Goofy’s tavern. The fireplace was dark but its light and heat weren’t needed today. Sunlight was streaming through the windows, shining on the delicate primroses scattered around the room in decorum, and the whole place was filled with a natural warmth. In a dining room that had been rarely used before, Goofy had been kind enough to build up a little abode for Mickey, which was convenient on the days where the mouse had promised to help out with the tavern. But today was his day off, so it was Goofy who served the patrons that sat around the bar with hearty smiles and playful twinkles in their eyes. When they saw Mickey enter, they all laughed.

“Lookin’ for yer cailíní, are ya, lad?” one chuckled. It was Moira, the rather boisterous woman he’d met when he’d first arrived all those months ago. She’d grown far more pleasant in recent months, though she still scoffed at the idea of fairies and enchantment.  It was funny, really, considering Minnie’s nature and all. But Mickey figured that only meant they’d done a good job of hiding it.

“Er, maybe!” He rubbed behind his ears, flushing brightly, and tossed a glance to Goofy behind the counter. “Did Min stop by?”

Goofy grinned, lifting his eyes only momentarily from the dish he was busy scrubbing. “Sure did! Said she’d ‘meetcha there’.”

“Gotchaokaythanks!” Mickey shouted over the snickers that followed, a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. He darted inside his room to escape their prying eyes and brushed through his fur as quickly as he could. The result was not exactly perfect, but Mickey had never been known for his sense of style. When he finished, he ran back then rushed out the tavern with a friendly wave. “Thanks, Goof! I’ll see ya at the festival t’night!”

Though Goofy had given him no directions, Mickey knew exactly where to go. He followed the river running through town until it branched off into a gentler stream, then traveled down those banks instead. The banks he traversed were green and grassy, and brush began to crop up the further he went. Eventually, the foliage grew so thick that it would have been impossible for an average person to fit through. But if you were Mickey’s size, this was not a problem. He slipped through the gaps in the bushes and thorns with ease. Though it was still within town, the little place to which he traveled was a bit more secluded. He’d discovered it when trying to find a place Minnie could enter the water without anyone seeing the secret of her curse, and it had been their own little patch of the world ever since.  

After a few minutes, the brush opened up into a more open space. Thick branches still surrounded the area on all sides, and even shrouded the sky above. When he had first found this place, those branches had been bare and colorless. But now, pink and green buds lined every inch, and sunlight dappled through onto a crystalline pond below. 

Mickey wrinkled his nose, looking about him. “Minnie!” he called, his voice absorbed by the foliage. He walked along the banks of the pond and waded into its waters until they came up to his knees, scanning the surface all the while. Nothing. Maybe she was late? 

He had resolved to wait back up on the shore when he felt a cold hand brush his leg. He yelped as it pulled and he lost his balance, plunging into the pool. The water surrounded him, but so did a familiar embrace. There was no danger here. He let himself go limp, and shivered as sweet lips pressed against his own.

He would have stayed like that forever, drowning be damned, had those gentle hands not pulled him to the surface. When he came up out of the water, his fur now dripping and matted, he found it rather hard to stay afloat. Minnie stared back at him, and her eyes drew all the strength from his bones.

“Gotcha,” she grinned, and he felt her tail flutter gently against his legs. 

“Mm…I dunno. I think y’should give it another go,” Mickey smirked and ducked back under the lapping waves. He was a strong swimmer, but few creatures could hope to surpass the speed at which Minnie could cut through water. That was all right, he was counting on it. 

She came up from behind him and tapped his shoulder. When Mickey whirled around, she was there to greet him with a hand to his cheek and a soft smile. Her beauty was striking even through the blur of his vision, and he grinned. She had come to seem more confident with her curse. Even the way she arched her back as she passed her tail back and forth, scales gleaming like pearls, spoke to an air of grace and strength–a comfort beneath the water that she’d tried to hide before.

His lungs burned but he didn’t care. He slipped a hand behind Minnie’s neck and drew her in to steal another kiss. This time, it was she who melted in his arms, her tail slowing its movement until the two had sunk to the depths of the riverbed and lay tangled together amidst the grass. After a few moments, Mickey, though he did he darndest to keep from doing so, pulled away. It was only then that Minnie opened her eyes and seemed to remember he did not share her skill for the water. She let out a tiny little gasp, bubbles flowing from her lips, then gathered him in her arms and swam for the surface. 

When they emerged near the shore, Mickey was caught between fits of coughing and laughter as he climbed up onto the bank, a sound that seemed much worse than it really was. Minnie, convinced she’d all but drowned him, threw out every apology she could think of before he finally looked back at her with such a look of absolute hilarity that even she couldn’t help herself from letting out a giggle. Mickey lent her a hand to help pull her up beside him, and the two collapsed beside each other in a bundle of smiles as Mickey’s fur and clothes dripped onto the grass and Minnie’s tail dissolved into shreds of white fabric about her legs. 

They found each other's hands a moment later, and lay with their fingers clasped as they stared up at the flowery canopy. Mickey sighed, blinking in the dappled light that settled over his face. He could not remember ever having felt so utterly complete…save for every other day he’d spent beside her.

“Hmm…” Minnie hummed, and he glanced her way. “What was it you wanted to ask me today?”

Mickey’s face turned red and he swallowed nervously.  “Erm…See, there’s this dance at the festival t’night…and, well I was just wonderin’ if mebbe you’d like to…”  “Go?!” Minnie interrupted and sat up, grinning from ear to ear. “Oh Mickey, I’d love to!”

“Ya sure?” Mickey chuckled. “I…well, I had flowers and everything for ya but…uhm…” He nodded to the water, where a variety of blossoms were floating in a sorry little clump near where Minnie had pulled him in. 

When Minnie saw this, she blushed. “Oops. Sorry about that…”

Mickey shrugged. “It was worth your ‘hello’,” he winked, and Minnie flung herself into his arms all over again. 

“I would love to go with you,” she whispered, planting a light kiss on his cheek. He drew in a sharp breath and did his best not to swoon too deeply. But a little bit could do no harm, right? With his arms around her waist, he pulled her close and buried his face in her neck.

“ Mo beag braon báistí…” he murmured without really knowing it. The words had sprung to his mind and felt familiar on his tongue, though it was only when Minnie murmured back that he realized he’d said them out loud.

“Your little raindrop, hm?” 

“Sorry! I dunn-”

“No, I like it,” she breathed before he could finish, and flourished her words with a little giggle. “I’ll have to think of one for you.” 

Mickey chuckled softly and managed to pull himself away, however badly he didn’t want to. But there was another question he was hoping to ask tonight, and he wanted to be ready. Minnie stared back at him with excitement in her eyes, her tail sweeping behind her in giddy joy as she grabbed his hand to pull him along. “Come on!” she laughed. “There’s so much to do before tonight!”

Mickey didn’t know the first thing about getting ready for parties, which is something he probably should have figured out beforehand. But he hadn’t, and he wouldn’t have known a thing had Minnie not gone on endlessly about dances and balls and all the different kinds of attire you were supposed to don for each one. So the remainder of the day was spent scrounging the town for any sort of formalwear he could get his hands on. Most of it was nowhere near the sort of style he could stomach, so he was almost relieved when absolutely nothing fit him. Except for the fact he now had virtually nothing to wear except his usual batch of clothes. He had a hunch Minnie would not be thrilled if he showed up in the same tunic and trousers he wore every other day but as the evening approached, he was running out of options.  

As he trudged back to the tavern, he bumped into a familiar face. Moira, who swayed heavily under the influence, grinned widely at him, then squinted her eyes and wrinkled her nose. “Oy dearie me, you’re not wearin’ that t’the dance now, are ye?”

Mickey frowned. “Awe, what’s it to ya?” he grumbled, preparing for a load of bad jokes at his expense. But instead the fox whipped out a lengthy strip of paper and began measuring him all over. “H-hey! What are ya doin’?” he objected loudly, flinching as she lifted each of his arms without permission and pursed her lips in concentration as she got every sort of dimension.

“Listen, lad,” she said at last, giving a careful eye to each of her measurements. “I haven’t been watchin’ y’swoon over this cailíní since ye came back with ‘er just to see y’act the maggot when it really matters. A month ago y’forgot to serve my drinks up when y’ran off t’meet with ‘er.  Just last week y’spilled my whiskey the second she walked in the room. What y’need is a good “win” so y’can start actin’ with some sense again. My drinkin’ habits depend on it, see?”

He didn’t, really. Half of what she said was complete gibberish to him, but he nodded anyway, curious where this was going. 

“Now, I used to be a seamstress m’self before the whole world went bonkers. But I figure…now that things’ve shaped up a bit, it couldn’t hurt t’whip out the ol’ needle ‘n thread.  It won’t be perfect, but give me an hour an’ I’ll have somethin’ whipped up for ye.”

Ah. Mickey wasn’t sure he trusted the fox with anything too serious, let alone an outfit the entire village–and Minnie–were going to see him in. But before he had a chance to object, Moira was already bounding away, orange tail whisking behind her. 

“I’ll be back in an hour, y’hear?!”

Mickey sighed, then groaned, as he walked through the door of the tavern. Goofy was not there anymore, nor was Max from what he could tell, and so the place was empty of both friends and patrons. They were all probably getting ready for the festival in the town square, which Mickey would have been excited for too had he not turned into a full bundle of anxiety over this whole outfit ordeal. Who knew fashion could be so hard? 

He opened the door to his room and began brushing his fur in front of a small mirror, far more careful with it than he had been earlier today. In truth, he didn’t understand why he was so nervous. Minnie had sworn up and down a thousand times that she loved him. Certainly, a little outfit wouldn’t change that? But even so, he wanted to impress her. Wanted to live up to the dignity he had seen crown her head in recent months. The uncertainty that had prevailed over her when they first met seemed to have all but vanished. When she looked at him, her eyes were deep and focused, and she held herself with a grace that seemed almost royal. 

This only changed when they spoke about two things: her past, and the idea of leaving. When he asked about her past–her home before the lake, her friends, or her family–she would simply grow quiet and ask to move on. 

“ The fairies took all that from me,” she’d murmur. He didn’t push the issue.

Then the one time he’d suggested traveling outside the village to explore the rest of Ireland by her side, she had vehemently opposed the concept, and seemed taken by a rare burst of frenzied desperation. 

Mickey was hesitant to trigger that conversation again, so he had left it, and knew only one thing. Whatever still plagued her, he wanted to take it away. Wanted her to feel safe and loved. If that meant staying here, he was willing to do it. He had little to offer her, but he hoped his heart would be enough.

If he had the courage to ask, he’d find that out tonight. 

Mickey had become so lost in his thoughts that he’d barely noticed the time, and didn’t think much of it until a knock came outside the tavern. He jumped up, hoping Minnie wasn’t early because he certainly wasn’t ready. When it was Moira who greeted him, he let out a deep sigh of relief. At least until she pushed herself through the door. She took it upon herself to light the lamps around the tavern then sat down on a stool and, digging into a large bag at her waist, pulled out a bundle of cloth. 

“Well? What d’ya think?” Moira asked proudly, holding up her creation.

Mickey had expected something much like the other checked patterns and loud designs he had seen elsewhere, but he was pleasantly surprised by what she’d brought him. The outfit was much like the one he wore daily–a simple black tunic and trousers, which were each just a bit more hemmed in than his usual attire. The biggest difference was a subtle embroidered design that ran across each pant leg and sleeve, and then lined the tunic’s collar. 

Mickey couldn’t help but grin. This was subtle, but formal enough. It was exactly what he’d hoped to find.

“Moira, I…well, I dunno what t’say!” he stammered.

“Well y’don’t have all night! Go try it on, why don’t ye!” she shouted, tossing the clothes in his arms.

When he had jumped into his room and finished changing, he found himself staring at his reflection longer than he’d be likely to admit. He’d never seen himself so dressed up before, and it took him a minute to recognize that the mouse staring back was, in fact, himself. 

Moira grinned widely as Mickey exited his room, total pride written across her face. “Toldja I could do it.”

“Really, thank you!” Mickey exclaimed, strangely excited. “But gosh…I don’t have anythin’ t’pay you back with!”

The fox rose from her seat and headed for the door, flashing him a wink. “Eh, I’ll expect a few extra whiskeys on th’ house is all,” she laughed. “Now get yerself ready. Yer lass is likely t’be expectin’ ye any minute now.” 

And with that, she was gone. Mickey was beside himself, and could hardly wait as he leapt out the door and onto the streets. Twilight was shining in the sky–a time he’d grown to adore–and a faint shimmer seemed to embrace the air for a moment before slipping away into nothingness once again. When he arrived at the home Minnie had chosen for herself–a dainty little cottage with flowers all over–he knocked three times, and announced his arrival.

“Minniiiie!! I’m here!”

With as much pride as he held in his own transformation, he really should have expected more from Minnie. The door slipped open, and it was all he could do to keep his jaw from dropping. Her dress was delicate, soft, and drifty. The seafoam fabric ruffled at every little breeze, blanketing the mouse in a heavenly sheen. Embroidered across its surface were tiny stems and flowers in gentle colors, echoing the crown of blossoms she wore about her ears. Her eyes sparkled against the green, and her cheeks shone with a shade as rosy as the flowers that dressed her.

“G-gosh…” Mickey gasped, hardly having the sense to hold out his hand. So she did the work, and stepped from the doorway on her own. With a finger to lift his chin, she whispered a kiss across his lips and then came to his side and leaned her head against his shoulder. 

“You look wonderful, Mickey,” she breathed, placing one more kiss on his cheek. 

When Mickey finally gathered his senses enough to begin travel, they walked towards the town square with light, flirty chatter. Mickey did his best to complement her ensemble, but found it hard to address her beauty without drifting into an endless jumble of stammering words that didn’t exist.

The sound of fiddles and joyful laughter drifted through the air, and the glow of lanterns led them to their destination. When they arrived, everyone was already busy prancing about with each other in time to every song. Some held drinks, others food, and others only the arm of their lover. Children raced about the square, sneaking extra dessert when their parents weren’t looking.  

When the current song had finished and the band lifted their instruments to begin another, Mickey kissed Minnie’s hand and held her gaze. “May I have this dance?”

She grinned that beautiful, pure grin of hers, and nodded sweetly. “You may.”

She followed behind him as he led her to the dance floor. His heart was pounding, his cheeks burning red. One dance, and then he’d ask her. One dance and then, maybe, she’d be his forever.

The players lifted their instruments, and the fiddler put her bow against the string. They drew in a breath and-

“STAAWWWP!” Came the cry echoing through the square, and Mickey was shocked to see Goofy running through. His eyes were wild with worry, and he ran his hands nervously across his head.

“Goofy!” Mickey called out, leaving Minnie for only a moment to bound over to his friend. “Goofy, what’s wrong?”

Goofy looked down at him, tears welling in his eyes. Mickey had never seen him quite so afraid. But when his friend answered, it all made sense.

“Max is gone!”

[urbuddynova]

Hi!! I found your art of Red/Dunce and I absolutely love the style, but you mentioned that you made up a whole backstory for the game, and I'm interested!! Is there any chance u can elaborate on the origin story you thought of for Rainbow Friends?/genq

Yeah sure!

i guess here goes my rant XD

Pretty much in my little version that Oswald and Trenton made a successful kids tv show. The characters were vibrant and had good morals at the end of each episode. The personality of the characters are kinda like this:

Blue: the leader (obviously-) , he is seen as that king like character who’s loyal, brave and always thinks things through before jumping to action. He’s pretty energetic and enthusiastic but has a running gag where at the start of the episodes he’s sleeping on his thrown and the kids have to wake him up by shouting his name.

green: green is the party goer, the one that plans and puts others before himself. He has impeccable eyesight and is able to see every detail imaginable to make sure a party goes PERFECTLY. Green is also blues best friend, always helping when the igns go wrong

orange: Orange is a pretty smart guy and is a train conductor on the railways. He’s quite the goofball and likes to talk a lot. He LOVES cake, a running gag for him is him chasing a piece of cake as the end credit of the episode, when the rainbow friends need i ride they can count on the fastest train conductor in the show!

purple: purple is a small little guy that has a fear of water and tight spaces. They’re quite the pipsqeauk but just like orange is a huge chatterbox and loves to help green witch parties. Whatever it is that’s exciting they’re down to help! As long as it doesn’t end up with them stuck in a high area or on a boat in the river.

yellow: yellows is an eccentric bird that is known to be the best flyer in all the show! No matter the height he can reach for the sky! Quite a social one like the others but also loves the spot light! Tight spaces? He can fly through! Closed areas? He’s great at gliding! The wind is his direction and the sky is the limit!

cyan: a sweet bubbly Dino! With an obsession with fun facts about bugs! If there’s a problem with any small critter she will know what to do! But she gets distracted easily and is abit of an air head so watch out! She will fight with you if you say spiders are a bug, (they are arachnids!!!). Overall is kind and curious.

Dunce: oh sweet dunce. An dumb little lookie that grew legs, doesn’t even know what to do with them! If you need help with math homework he’s the last person you wanna ask. Doesn’t speak but is expressive through chirps and hand gestures. Is a pro at baking sweets and will make you a cake on your birthday. Don’t worry the kitchen is the only thing he can’t mess up! He did blow it up once though-

all these characters with these personalities. Yet once they were recreate in real life their personalities and even physical traits were distorted. That’s what happens when you try to make life out of nothing…you get flaws. There are only snippets of their original personality.

Blue cannot think straight and has the brain power of a toddler. He will put anything in his mouth especially if he’s hungry. Don’t have food near him he will steal it. The only thing that was correct was his love to sleep. Especially in a sitting position.

Green came out completely blind. Couldn’t make a single sound except squeaks and party noises.Still surprisingly good friends with blue and silently follows him around when he hears his footsteps.

Orange…he’s just a rabid dog…he can’t drive he can’t speak the only thing he does is eat, run and sleep….he’s a strange thing. His live for cake is still there however.

purple. Wow…not only did they turn out HUGE. But they seemed to love dark murky areas where as their tv show counterpart despised it. They hate to socialise and stay in the vents. Do not put your feet near. No matter what you are they will grab you.

Yellow. Had it bad. They were created flightless. He needs a propeller on his back to help him fly. He’s not one to like the spotlight either and has become quite shy and secluded. He still has a live for flying…he just can’t do it indoors or as high as his tv show counterpart could.

Cyan. Aggressive, always alert. Still likes bugs but once only gazes at it. she hears something she will lock onto it. A true predator. Yet she’s still curious.

The scientist (or red). The one thing he keep was his love for baking. Despite not doing as often when he does he goes all out. He usually just makes the cake for the party room where the players go on the final night.

And if you wanted to know “dunce” was the one that tried to create blue and Oswald and Trenton mysteriously disappeared one day. It’s not known why they left but Mabye it was red to blame. They were at first happy to see him be so Intelligent and help them try and bring the friends to life. But as more of the rainbow friends were created and incidents happened….like blues….first and LAST friend incident…..They started to get upset and more agitated as to why he couldn’t have just been a dumb lookie. Red wanted to do something amazing and didn’t want them to slow him down from wanting be something more that just the “dunce”. He hates the name and when someone calls him that he seems upset. At least he still has his lookie family.

anyways here’s my little beliefs on how the characters were like. It’s abit silly since it’s late and I am not the best at putting words together to make a coherent sentence XD

[troybeecham]

Today, the Church remembers St. Cuthbert, Monk and Bishop.

Ora pro nobis.

Cuthbert (c. A.D. 634 – A.D. 20 March 687) is a saint of the early Northumbrian British Church when it was on the verge of the merging of the British Church with the Roman Church that had recently been established by missionaries sent from Rome under the leadership of St. Augustine of Canterbury in the southern Anglo-Saxon kingdoms.

He was a monk, bishop and hermit, associated with the monasteries of Melrose and Lindisfarne in what might loosely be termed the Kingdom of Northumbria in the North East of England and the South East of Scotland. After his death he became one of the most important medieval saints of Northern England, with a place of pilgrimage centred on his tomb at Durham Cathedral. Cuthbert is regarded as the patron saint of Northern England.

Cuthbert was perhaps of a noble family, and born in Dunbar in the mid-630s A.D., some ten years after the conversion of King Edwin to Christianity in A.D. 627, which was slowly followed by that of the rest of his people. The politics of the kingdom were violent, and there were later episodes of pagan rule, while spreading understanding of Christianity through the kingdom was a task that lasted throughout Cuthbert's lifetime. Edwin had been baptised by Paulinus of York, an Italian who had come with the Gregorian mission from Rome, but his successor Oswald also invited Irish monks from Iona to found the monastery at Lindisfarne where Cuthbert was to spend much of his life. This was around 635 A.D., about the time Cuthbert was born.

The tension between the Roman and British Churches, often exacerbated by Cuthbert's near-contemporary Wilfrid, an intransigent and quarrelsome supporter of Roman ways, was to be a major feature of Cuthbert's lifetime. Cuthbert himself, though educated in the British tradition, followed his mentor Eata in accepting the Roman forms without apparent difficulty after the Synod of Whitby in 664 A.D.

He was evidently indefatigable as a travelling priest, spreading the Christian message to remote villages, and also well able to impress royalty and nobility. Unlike Wilfrid, his style of life was austere, and when he was able to do, he lived the life of a hermit, though still receiving many visitors.

It was Cuthbert’s habit to walk alone down to the seashore after dark. Intrigued, one of the monks followed him at a discreet distance, hoping to see what it was that Cuthbert did at dead of night.

From his hiding place he watched Cuthbert wade out into the slate-black sea until the waters reached his neck, and then begin to sing psalms, a performance which he kept up until dawn.

The monk was still watching when back on the sands, Cuthbert became absorbed in prayer again. Suddenly, two otters scampered over to him and chafed his feet, numb with North Sea cold, and dried them with their fur. Cuthbert gave them his affectionate blessing, and they made off back to their homes.

The monk-spy could barely collect sufficient wits to find his way back to the monastery. Next morning, after confessing the whole story to Cuthbert, he promised to tell no one until after Cuthbert’s death.

Almighty God, you called Cuthbert from following the flock to be a shepherd of your people: Mercifully grant that, as he sought in dangerous and remote places those who had erred and strayed from your ways, so we may seek the indifferent and the lost, and lead them back to you; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, forever and ever.

Amen.

[daisylikesmedia]

Series 8 Episode 11 & 12: Dark Water & Death in Heaven

Woah is Daisy reviewing her first two parter since Series 6?? Yea she is. Hello everyone and welcome to my review of the Series 8 finale. I’ve absolutely loved going back and rewatching this series so far, and despite a couple of duds, overall the focused character arcs in this series have been a refreshing change of pace from the more high concept arcs of the 11th Doctor’s era. Does this finale do the rest of Series 8 justice? Let’s find out.

Dang Missy, you ARE so fine. Ok that pun was terrible but Michelle Gomez’s Missy is an absolute joy to watch. This story is at her starting point in her arc over the next 3 seasons, where she is a lot more familiar to a lot of Masters before and after, but it still works with her. She kinda does sexually assault the Doctor in Dark Water, which obvs is a yikes, but scratch that scene away and she just exudes chaos in the best way. She really is here exclusively to fuck with the Doctor and I am SO here for it. She’s the one that put Clara & the Doctor together, she’s the one who’s been harvesting the souls of the Doctor’s fallen enemies. Even in her defeat, she tells the Doctor about Gallifrey’s coordinates, and the scene following where the Doctor finds out she was lying… yea it’s an oof and it sells Missy’s impact on this incarnation of the Doctor. So so good.

Alongside Missy, we have the Cybermen, and we know I’m a bit of a cybergirl myself. But, this time, Moffat manages to nail them as a villain. In his 11th Doctor outings with the iconic villains, I feel like he didn’t focus enough on what makes the Cybermen good. They’re our friends and family converted into emotionless husks, lending from body horror stories to sell us on just how scary this is. And yea, they show us exactly this in this story. Danny Pink’s existential dread during his time in the Nethersphere, followed by seeing his wrinkled body forced into that Cyberman, is terrifying to see unfold. The way his guilt from his time as a soldier is prayed upon by the system to make him beg to have his emotions stripped from him is horrific, but his ability to power through and lead the Cybermen to saving the world proves his worth as a hero, and the Cybermen are utilised as a concept so perfectly to round out Danny Pink as a character.

One gripe I do have though is in regards to Kate and Osgood’s return. It is absolutely a joy to see them back on screen as always, and I love these characters to bits, but sadly they get sidelined very quickly in this story. Osgood via death at the hands of Missy, and Kate via getting booted out of the aeroplane, again by Missy. I do wish we got more time with them, and they got a little more agency in the story (especially if you’re gonna just off Osgood like that), but alas, they weren’t the focal point on the story so whilst it’s a disappointment, I can see why this happened.

And Jenna Coleman take a bow because her performance as Clara Oswald in this story is nothing short of brilliance. From her grief and following betrayal of the Doctor, to her so easily slipping into the role of the Doctor, to her arrogance and following heartbreak as she realises she was bragging about how chummy she is with the Doctor to Danny. Jenna was expected to have such a range in this episode. She needed anger and glee and sadness and everything in-between, so it’s a testament to her that she nails it all with ease. Yea she’s fantastic in this 100%.

I’m not even done because we haven’t talked about how AWESOME Twelve is here. This is his character fully evolved after the events of the series, and seeing him able to express empathy and be resolute after his rough start is super satisfying to see. His line after Clara betrays him, “Do you think I care for you so little that betraying me would make a difference?”, is my favourite Doctor line maybe of all time, because it is built up with an entire series of character development coming to fruition at that exact moment. Dare I say, this was the moment Twelve became my Doctor. Alongside this moment, his interactions with Missy are gold, and your heart breaks for him both when he sees that Missy lied about his home, and when he is forced to say goodbye to Clara with a hug. That last scene with Clara really wrenches my heart, and again Daisy gushing about cool lines but when she says “Thank you for making me feel special” I just lost it. Because that’s who the Doctor is, that’s what they do. They make you feel special. It sums up what I love about Doctor Who in one little line and yea it’s perfect.

TL:DR/Overview: Dark Water & Death in Heaven are a fantastic two-parter that rounds out the arcs of Series 8 incredibly well. Every single member of our main cast is written and performance to excellence, Missy and the Cybermen are both villains that are well utilised, working in tandem to bolster the story rather than stealing the limelight from one another, and it’s the kind of story that reminds me how special Doctor Who is to me. Sure, I have my gripes with how Kate & Osgood were handled, and there are a few things I wish didn’t happen, but the positives so heavily outweigh the negatives here that I’m S tiering it. Series 8 really is great huh.

[benadryltarantula]

Mission 2: CLOTHING OPTIONAL

With the nukes more or less out of the players’ hands as per the Colonel wanting to keep things on the down low and Dandelion’s downtime window coming to a close the pilots all got plenty of rest. Of course I saw fit to interrupt this by making them get up in the middle of the night in a rainstorm. Without so much as time to get dressed (or to get dressed with a minor penalty to time and being yelled at more) Dandelion was awoken by blaring alarms announcing incoming bandits on radar. Given their status as “probably the best pilots on base” and the entire purpose of their squad being a combination fast attack/special support unit they were sent out to intercept and hopefully buy their comrades time to prepare.

(No one really left their mech all mission, so the sprites kind of went to waste, we’ll use them later somehow.)

The trek out to intercept the low flying transport helicopters (just roll with it, there’s already mechs, animal people, and nuclear war) and their escorts was interrupted by a spotty distress call coming from a friendly patrol engaged in combat. After a brief discussion about whether or not this was a trap, the squadron course-corrected to save a bunch of kids in way over their heads.

(The composition on these fake screenshots keeps getting worse! There were also body sprites, but I still don’t know tumblr’s policy on posting that kind of thing yet.) A battle against some Gramiitian mechs and specialist troops ensued. I learned a valuable lesson about how annoying giving the players allied NPC’s is and the players learned that I’m not going all out on making them fail missions yet. We had fun. I even threw in an assassin hiding in some ruins at them.

After saving everyone who wasn’t already dead at the distress call like some kind of big shot heroes, the squadron went back to their initial job of intercepting the small invasion force heading right for their base of operations. The rescue mission only set them back a little bit and after an initial skirmish one of the transport helicopters demanded that the players lower their weapons as they are performing a nuclear inspection as allowed by post-nuclear treaties and international law. The exact situation of who shot first is kind of fuzzy given that the players weren’t there to see if the patrol opened fire or not. Honestly I forgot to have them announce this before the players started fighting because I was excited to use the guy who calls you slurs as an action. Oh well. One intense fight of downing helicopters and Oswald’s mech getting trashed, falling into a bog, and ejecting himself sideways into a rocky mudbank when his cockpit started filling with water later all the transports were shot down and their escorts/surviving occupants were chased off.

So now I had the predicament of having an hour and a half left in session, nowhere to be tomorrow, and a player with no mech and a character with a shattered arm. I decided to make a third and final sitrep for the mission while we went over how bad Oswald was taking his opiate dosing and mud-soaked undergarments.

He was stuffed into the back of Micah’s mech and allowed to perform a tech attack as a free action if he could manage it with one hand and being drugged up.

The way home was blocked by an invisible swordsman, a signal jamming puppeteer, and some guy with rockets strapped to his back who failed to do anything and exploded. It got pretty dicey as mechs started overheating, someone got nearly cut in half, and comms couldn’t be established, but they pulled through in the end. Next week: License Level 2, war!, and an intelligence agent.