Doctor Who_ Fallen Gods Part 2

That night, she flies alone again, going high enough to lose the light of the soldiers' fires. She hovers in the wind, lets it play over her, in sky so moonless that it makes no difference whether her eyes are open or closed. Hoping that somehow paring it all away will make it make sense.

That first night, after the attack, she'd walked back into the city with him under cover of darkness. Back then she'd still thought he might be a source of answers, rather than new questions.-If someone just wanted to humble us, why do it like this? Why send a divine bull?

-Is that what you see?

-What do you mean?

-When you look at the demon, what does it look like to you?

-A bull, a flaming bull - -Don't summarise. Describe. What is it?

-A huge animal. Pounding. Uncontrolled. Topples buildings.

-Go on...

-Awe, fear, a force of the G.o.ds. Fire, burns everything it touches. Turns people to dust. Everything crumbles.

-Yes ...

-So what is it?

-Don't you know?

-I know it's a bull.

-No. It's time.

-A small burst of animated time, given just enough consciousness to be directed.-In the form of a bull?-That's the face you put on a natural force in pure concentrated form ... a ripple of age and rot and decay and dust. All the forces of the world bound up together. An earthquake on legs. Seasons battering you in a second.-So they are are G.o.ds. G.o.ds.-If that's your definition. You see them as G.o.ds, you know your G.o.ds take the form of the bull, so you see a bull.-But why do I see them afire?-Is there another element that's better suited for time? Earth is always earth. A wind blows you, another can blow you back. The rain drenches you, you'll dry out again. A fire burns you ... you stay burned. Time's arrow is afire, it burns us all.

-So how do we fight time?

-We don't.(And here he had turned to her, with a grin that had made her want to run for cover.) -We bluff it.

She moves now in slow motion, miming punches and kicks to precise spots an inch in front of his face. Her new muscles are held taut, keeping her exactly two inches from the ground.-So what is it that brings the demons here? she asks him.-Someone summons them. They're sp.a.w.ned from the same energy source that produces the currents in time ... natural time, but distorted, bent by something powerful.

-Something on Kamenai.

-That's the centre of it, yes.

-Is that why I can sense the currents? Because I spent so long living right there?

-Could be, could be.

-So someone else from over there could do this as well?

He nods, saying -Go on.

She thinks about it. She can't say anything. She feels the pebbles brush the underside of her feet and concentrates all her thoughts on lifting herself, steadying herself, not letting the gnawing thought drag her downwards into darkness. She holds herself tight and tense.

-How could they? she whispers. -Who could unleash something like that?

-Either someone who doesn't know what he's dealing with ...

-Or?

-Someone who does.

The trick is, he tells her, it's got to see your attacks, so it'll react to them. But if it can tell you're pulling your punches, it'll work out that you can't really hurt it. Make it think it's managing to duck your blows - flattery will get you everywhere. That'll keep its attention. You need only to keep it busy for a few minutes ... waves break, winds fade, fires burn out.

And you? Duck, dodge, misdirect. The best way not to get hurt in a fight is not to be where the blows land. Tae Kwon Doc: the art of running away while you fight. And find your weapons where you can. They won't last, for long.

She notices that he applies the same driven energy to sleeping as to his waking work - racing through a night's rest in half an hour or less. He seems refreshed enough, though she wonders if he hurries through the night to keep the dreams from taking root.

One midnight, half awake, she hears the creak of the door. She rises and follows him, making no sound. From behind and far above, she watches him, a tiny figure prowling through the narrow streets of the Akrotiri labyrinth. She wills herself to be as unnoticeable as possible: a wisp on the wind, a stray bit of moonlight.

When he reaches the beach, he discards his clothes behind a rock, then disappears into the murmuring waves. He swims straight away from the island, chopping a hard rhythm through the water, while she wheels slowly above. The wind is faint, just making her skin tingle. The moonlight is barely enough to pick out his pale form under the skin of the water. On and on, till she's lost all sense of time, and the island behind has disappeared in the darkness. Even the horizon has been lost, the black sea blending seamlessly into the black sky.

Finally he stops, in the centre of the ocean. It becomes the centre because of his presence, with the uniform surface stretching equally in all directions. She watches him tread water, catch his breath - then roll onto his back and float. Instinctively she rears away in the sky, but he gives no sign of having seen her. Slowly she lowers herself, close enough to study his face: eyes gently closed, mouth slightly open, an unfamiliar look of peace.

He has stopped. She hangs there, watching him, but he doesn't move, his moment of joy stretching onward. Retreats into the sky, sees how small he is at last. The currents buoy her upwards; he recedes even further, a glimpse of white surrounded by depths in all directions. Again she watches, the water lapping against him, until she too begins to lose the centre, lose herself. All that remains is her grip on the currents supporting her, like the instinct of her breath.Finally with a jolt of waking she realises he's rolled in the water and started the long swim back. She shadows him home, keeping watch over him, even as she knows he doesn't need it. Once he's safely emerged onto the beach she sweeps on ahead, hurrying into her house and taking her place in her bed, so he'll never have to know he's been seen.

She laughs now, flitting side to side, dodging each blow the Doctor throws at her. He grins as their dance zigzags through the scrubland. Hair flying, he swings again, and she pulls back and upwards. She knows in her blood exactly how to move.

-Yes, you've got it. Keep moving, keep him interested. One step ahead. Float like a b.u.t.terfly, duck like a ... duck.

She throws her own punch, leaning into it with the full force of the wind behind her. It sweeps just past his head, right where she wanted it. Duck and twist, pike her legs to pull them clear, whip round to face him again. The rhythm is thrilling.

-Good, good. Not good enough.

-Not good enough?

-You look like you're playing. You've got to convince this thing you're a threat to it. That if you ever did t did touch it you could kill it, as easily as it could kill you. You've got to make it see your determination. Feel your anger.

-I'm not an actress.

-It won't be acting.

He jabs again. Her hand leaps up to block it. She flinches; if this were the demon, she would just have lost the arm.

-Look at me. I'm the thing that tore your city to pieces. You want to kill me. You're enraged.

She hesitates, he sees it. She's breathing a bit too hard, the anger caught in her throat.

-Don't fight it. Repression leads to numbness, numbness leads to apathy, apathy leads to narrowness, narrowness leads to constipation and all sorts of problems.-They say anger's a two-edged sword.-Well, of course it's a two-edged sword how many good swords do you know with only one edge? That would just be a b.u.t.ter knife with along handle, really.-All these years ... they've told me ...-Oh, yes, be a good little girl, don't make a mess in the temple. Don't shout too loud, you might wake something.

A sudden rain of blows. Duck, twist, retreat a jolt, a sting across her chin she shakes her head in shock. Her legs kick uselessly in the air. She hadn't leapt back far enough. He wasn't pulling his punches, just relying on her skill to make him miss. Gasping for balance, she stares at him.

He won't let up. She twitches, flinches away by reflex, but he keeps pus.h.i.+ng. -Go on. Feel it. Wield it. You've got to learn to handle both edges.

Nisus. Neleus. Oxylus and Anaxibia and all the silent G.o.ds. Those who sent the demons and those who used them to their advantage. Those who unleashed horrors, those who rode on their backs, those who stood by and let it happen ...Her hand crashes down.Now, he flinches, blindsided. His last, punch flickers towards her, but she's already diving, wheeling around so the roll sets up a sharp thrust of her legs. The jab stops his advance just short of her heels.-Yes. That's it ...Horizontal in the air for a moment. She jack-knifes, getting clear, turns upright to pound the air. He dodges she sees just how he's dodging she could lead him right into her next punch if she wanted. The fire rages in her chest, but she owns it lets out just enough to power each controlled blow.

-Though I suppose there are scimitars and suchlike with only one edge. But if you really wanted a one-edged sword, how about one like a mobius strip? Now, that would be twisted. Imagine fighting with one of those -You're playing playing, she growls.

-Well, yes, any chance I get He shuts up as her beaded bracelet catches his nose. Off-balance now, he backs away, bobbing and weaving. Tries to smile encouragingly, but her own smile of triumph is louder.

Suddenly he's down, his back in the scree at the foot of the slope. Lost footing. With a final leap, she descends upon him, hands to his throat.

Stops there, crouching across him, every muscle thrumming. His eyes are unguarded. The mockery is silenced, the pride now a gift to her. She's ready to choke him, to kiss him, to throw back her head and howl.

-Hold on to that, he murmurs. -It's as much a part of you as the currents are. Laugh, cry, scream, whatever it takes to get you through the day.

Her legs, trembling. She climbs off him, stumbles a step away. Arches her back, chest to the sky, driving out a cry that pulls from far deeper than the bottom of her lungs. Feeling each drop of sweat on her bare ribs, head thrown back, the tears now running sideways across her cheeks.-It's all right, he tells her, but she already knows.Finally she straightens herself, the exhilaration settling into a hard, warm coal inside her. As she walks to him, offers him a hand, her heels don't quite touch the ground. She can't tell whether it's the current lifting her, or just the way she moves now.-We can beat these things.The words sound odd in her mouth, but less odd than she thought they would. He nods, the playfulness sc.r.a.ped off his face. -Oh, yes. We'll destroy them. And we'll find who sent them, and bring them cras.h.i.+ng down.-You've never even sounded angry about it.-Well, of course not. (His eyes vanish behind another smile.) -You just keep the sword sheathed, that's all.

Finally, one day she feels it. She steps off the cliff and waits, feeling the wind. Kamenai sits below her, its peak miles away and two hundred feet down. She watches the breath of smoke from the volcano, lets it pa.s.s through her.-It's coming, she says quietly. -Maybe even tomorrow morning.-Well, then. He offers her his hand with courtly grace, and she steps gently back onto the ground. -Perhaps we'd better get it finished. She works late into the night, losing herself in the tactile ease of moulding soft clay. Finis.h.i.+ng the last, of her outstanding orders. If she burns tomorrow, she won't have let any of her customers down. Rapt in her work, moving from potter's wheel to painting-table to kiln, only at the end does she realise that her feet have never quite touched the ground throughout.-Hold still.He's draping delicate fabric over her skin. The remains of his rainbow parachute, taken neatly into sections, one colour at a time.

He works on her as she works on the clay, wrapping his chosen clothes around her and pinning the fabric into position. Finally she stands, as his tailor's dummy, watching the pots harden and glow in the fire.-I still don't see the point of wearing this.-Camouflage. Confusion. It won't know where to hit you if you're billowing all over the place.

And the loose silk does do a good job of hiding her form, the wide sleeves spreading like triangular wings. Tapering in at her waist and flaring out to the tailfeathers of her feet. It also looks appallingly easy to trip over, until she convinces him to take up the hem a bit.-I'd feel more comfortable fighting in this, she says.She indicates her own garment underneath as he peels the top layer away: soft woven linen, short sleeves, the open bodice presenting her kohled highlights with careful dignity, the layered skirts with their pinched waist. The ceremonial style, a relic of the temple, which she had unearthed just for this occasion.

-Oh, heavens no, that's probably the worst thing to fight in you could imagine. Limiting your breathing, constraining your legs, and at the same time exposing the bits that you most want to protect.

His hand rests for a moment on top of her left breast, pressing in to indicate her heart. -It's almost as ridiculous as fighting in a chainmail bikini.

Even so, the thought chafes at her: the ceremonial clothing comes from her life, the priestess's silhouette is familiar to her. But she won't recognise this shape he wants to unleash into the sky. The shape she's been letting herself be moulded into.

-So you really think it's a good idea for me to wear vast swirls of fabric near a flame creature?

-Oh, that's the beauty of it. This stuff's also a little bit fire-r.e.t.a.r.dant. For this kind of fire, at least. Here.He wraps sc.r.a.ps of the fabric around her hands, bandaging her palms.-It won't be enough to save you from a full attack, but you might get away with a glancing blow. Now, the final touch ...

He takes a remaining strip of white silk, and wraps it around her forehead like a scarf, binding her long braids. The end of the fabric trails away over her shoulder.

Then he slows and stops a moment to consider her. His eyes are years away.

-I didn't mean for you to look like an angel.

-A what?

He doesn't elaborate. Instead he continues undressing her, marking and unpinning each piece of the fabric. Then he sits against the back wall, st.i.tching with the ease of a practised sailmaker, his face half-lit with all the flattery that flickering light bestows on a lover's body. His hands look slightly outsized, she notices: like they belong to an even bigger man trapped in a normal-sized body. It makes the deftness with which he handles the tiny sewing-needles all the more surprising.

So even he is surprised by the new shape he's given her. Oddly, this rea.s.sures her: he may be turning her into something she doesn't recognise, but the new faces come from somewhere inside her, beyond his reach. Before he came, she would never have recognised the currents flowing through her, and now they're as much a part of her as her breath. So she surrenders this last, point to him; perhaps these coloured silks too will become her.

She stares into the kiln and watches the new colours harden into the pots.

-Let me take you up tonight.

He shakes his head, tries to brush it off again, but she can feel how few hours remain.-You've given me this gift, this is the least I can give back.

-Oh, that's just it. It's the least.He tries to turn blithely away. But the house is too small and cramped for him to avoid her, the atmosphere from the kiln too hot and sweaty for the tension to release.

-You can't be afraid ...

-Afraid? No. Infuriated.

The word's not aimed at her, she tells herself. His eyes were turning inward again. But with nothing else to do, suddenly the argument is the most important thing in the world, and she can't stop her own words.

-Because you'd just be a pa.s.senger? You don't like being out of control?

-No, it's more than that.

-Then what?

She swoops in on him, corners him near her bed. If nothing else makes sense tonight, she swears this will.

-Because I can't go there.

-Why not?

-It's not my choice, I can't. It won't let me in.

-What does that mean?

-Just listen! Listen ...

His fingers pick up the tortoisesh.e.l.l lyre, discarded by the bed, and flick across the strings. Without even looking, he sets up a frantic, jittery rhythm on the two lowest strings his face impa.s.sive, his hands agitated. She stands, frozen.

-I can play notes, he says. -As many as you like. I've got enough skill, enough enthusiasm, to make it sound convincing. But I don't feel the music. I can't.

A final flurry of notes, and he pulls his hand away. The phrase dies unresolved.

-I know the beauty's there. I can feel it from the outside. A virtuoso human can play and make me cheer, sob, dance, anything. Overwhelm me with it.

-It's something big enough to lose yourself in, she says quietly. - Like the sea. Or the sky.He nods, a ghost of a smile. -But it won't let me in.He sinks onto the bed, all the nervous energy suddenly drained. Her own frustration suddenly seems horribly rootless, about to blow away.

He fumbles for words. -I want to join in the dance. But when the best I can manage is my own limping flightless theatrics ...

-But you guided me in, she says uncomprehendingly. -You taught me.

-I knew the currents had to be there. I could give you a digital description. But I could never feel them myself, not in a million years.

It's like she's falling now, without having taken flight. The ground has just drifted away from under her feet.

-All the times you described how they felt ...

He grins faintly. -Yes. Well. Glad you bought it.

-But they were there, she tells him. More firmly, then. -They were real.