The Time of Change

And the Answer

The Doctor stiffens, the hand interlocked with her own growing clammy. He understands he can tell her now—since they are married, the verbal block on his Gallifreyan name has vanished—, but this is not what gives him pause. It is the mere mention of it that he fears could endanger both of them. What if it were to be overheard among the cosmos when he spoke it aloud? What if it echoed throughout the universes and made its way to his enemies' ears? What would happen then? Would anything happen?

The fear of his own name is somewhat irrational, and he knows that. When he was chosen to attend the Academy, his instructors always cautioned them never to even attempt to speak their own birthnames or those of others because the result could be catastrophic. This cryptic warning was a moot point, however; it did not take long for the young Timelords and Timeladies to realize they could physically no longer say the names their parents had given them. Some found the idea frightening while others were angry. It never quite made sense to the Doctor. All of the sudden at a ripe young age, he was no longer who he had always been but someone else entirely, a person he had to become, a person he did not know yet. Why?

Over the years of his training, it was explained that because of who they were in the scheme of things, the names of Timelords were something close to sacred. They controlled everything in their realm and all others: each day, the decision of whether or not reality would crumble to ash was up to them. The Doctor came to learn that he was not forced to disregard his birthname as unimportant, but he had no choice but to pack it away because of its worth. It tied him to his family, and for someone as influential and extraordinary as him, family was a weakness that would ultimately trigger his self-destruction. Trained, practiced Timelords had to be the strongest of the strong and bravest of the brave no matter what—even if the cost was the things that mattered most.

Sometimes the Doctor found himself resenting being what he was because of the sacrifices it required. He used to wonder how his life would look if he could have chosen who and what he had been born into. If he is honest with himself, he still does, though not nearly as often. Along with the significant guilt, there is a deep, humble pride that comes with knowing he is the last of such a great and noble race.

But when he looks into his wife's eyes as they sparkle familiarly, with their clear gleam and streaks of darker blue branching out from the pupils, all of those conflicting emotions melt away. What is left is the gently encouraging smile of somebody who has no ulterior motive, no endgame, no hidden agenda. What is left is the warm memory of their impromptu wedding and how he broke his name up into separate syllables, scattering them throughout the vows he read to her. What is left is the understanding that perhaps weakness is not as detrimental as he has always believed.

He sighs. "Everyone who knew my name is gone now," he says in a low voice. "You'll be the first to hear it in two millennia."

Annalise's eyes caress his face in a way he can almost tangibly feel, and she replies softly, "I can start if you want." She glances around her as if to check for eavesdroppers. Then she leans toward him conspiratorially, quirking her eyebrows. "My middle name is Mae with an E and not a Y because Mum was so high on Demerol after labor that she forgot how the month was spelled."

The Doctor feels himself laugh before he can even register it happening. His wife beams at him, satisfied. "Is that really true?" he asks through chuckles, and she nods. "Wait, what's Demerol? Is that like a painkiller?"

She gives him a curious look. "You know, I'm starting to think you aren't a doctor at all!"

Again he chortles, shaking his head, and gazes down at their hands. He shifts his fingers slightly, watching them move around her own like they are foreign to him. With her other hand, she reaches over and touches his wedding band with the tip of her index; she cracks a soft smile when it catches the light. "I just want to know you," she quietly says, half to herself.

His hearts swell, and he understands now that if he holds a part of himself back from her forever, he will never be able to fully experience what Malohkeh said he saw in them: true love.

Putting his mouth so close to her ear he can feel goosebumps erupt on her skin, the Doctor whispers his name.

When he pulls away, her bright blues trained on him, and sees there is no approaching cataclysm, he smiles. The air around them does not fluctuate uncomfortably, nor does it become dense and stifling. There is simply the feeling of standing in a vast empty room, staring around at the corners as the sensation of being exposed settles in. Contrary to what he expected, it is not unpleasant; he finds the vulnerable position in which he has just placed himself to be rather freeing.

Annalise nods her head once, a slight movement to say she understands she cannot repeat what she has been told. He presses his lips to her forehead and rises from his seat beside her, making for the console. "You should rest a while," he tells her, "and maybe stop by the kitchen to eat something. It's been a day."

He hears her go to the ramp and steps, climbing slowly, like her thoughts themselves are heavy. His fingers fiddle with buttons with no clear motive in mind. After a moment, her gentle voice says behind him, "Goodnight, Doctor."

Again he finds himself smiling before the accompanying happiness makes itself known.