The Time of Change

Christmas is Protected

"Doctor!" a booming voice shouts menacingly. I jump back from the crack but don't move. Tasha? Is that who's calling me? How is she doing that? Oh, but I bet she's patched into this planet's atmosphere. And Handles said the message would be translated for all nearby living things. Of course, of course. Why didn't I work it out to begin with?

"Speak with me," Tasha demands from somewhere outside, and I slowly exit the room under the belltower. My movements are slow but I can control them. My head's no longer filled with that debilitating haze but my muscles are like lead, my blood fickly going between being solid ice and liquid fire. My veins feel as if they're going to burst at any moment but the snow out here falls on my face, my eyelids, and I smile because I remember how beautiful she looked when she saw snow for the first time since being a kid. I remember how she laughed and grinned and spun around with me, and I still feel like I'm home.

I see Tasha's holographic head hanging up in the sky, and several townspeople are gathered below her, peering anxiously at this odd entity. Before I get too close, I go back inside and quickly climb the stairs to the top of the tower, just below the bell that rings every hour and the giant clock. "Doctor!" Tasha growls. "Face me now!" I walk onto the platform just in time to see Clara sprint into the TARDIS about thirty meters away. I smile a little.

She'll be safe.

What good is that? I'll be alone.

I'm always alone.

But even she didn't follow the rules, forced the TARDIS to bring her back to me. Who's to say Clara won't do the same?

Shut up. You shut up. Now. I can't think about that. Stop it.

There's nothing stopping her.

Clara isn't as brilliant as she was. She's brilliant, but not as brilliant.

He's right.

She could do it. And if she comes back, she'll die. And that'll be your fault, too.

"Stop, stop, stop," I groan, grabbing the sides of my head. "It's not my fault. She can't work the TARDIS. It doesn't work that way. Stop it."

Tasha's face slowly turns toward me, like she heard me talking to myself. She probably did. With how loud these voices are, I wouldn't be surprised if the whole planet could hear them. I shiver in the night chill and stare levelly back at her. "Mother Superious," I greet her, bowing. My coattails flip out behind me. Bit of unexpected luck, that. Her lips do not twitch. I clear my throat and bring myself up to my full height. A blast of cold air rips through my bones and I fight the urge to draw my arms around myself, to try and keep myself warm, because it'll be no use if what I ask her is answered the way I think it will. The way I know it will. "There's only one thing I need from you. This planet..." I pause, not sure I want to hear it, but my mouth says, "What's it called?"

Tasha hesitates, quite briefly, but enough so that I see it. "Trenzalore."

The TARDIS's engines start running far off in the night somewhere but I don't pay attention to it. Or do I? I notice it more than I should, focus on the sound for as long as I can. That beautiful, hauntingly old sound. How to describe it? Whirring? No, that's not right. Scraping? Groaning? Are there even words in any vocabulary that are fit to describe such a perfect sound, flawless and uniquely itself? The sound is described simply as TARDIS and nothing else, because nothing else could do it justice, could it? Now, I listen. Really listen. I haven't done that in a very long time, many centuries. I've loved the sound, recognized it anywhere, but I've never stood or sat and just listened to it. And now that I do, I have to fight to swallow something large and horribly solid in my throat, and it burns all the way down. This'll be the last time I hear it, possibly, probably forever. Trenzalore. Trenzalore. Trenzalore. The simple name, that one single word, repeats itself over and over in my head, in different voices and tones and frequencies. It spins and twists and morphs and it doesn't even sound like a word anymore, after a bit. The volumes change, too, and it fills my head with millions more noises to add to the cacophony of madness that's usually in there. Sometimes the word is being whispered and sometimes it's being shouted and others it's normal, said as if it's a conversational topic. I grab the railing in front of me, not for support, necessarily, but because I need to feel something real, to touch something that actually exists. Just to make sure that I still actually exist, that I'm standing here. In the distance I see something flashing, and I know without looking that something faded blue and square is fading into nothingness, exactly as I will. And I am not afraid.

"If you speak your name," Tasha says coldly, "then the Timelords will return."

"If they return, they will come in peace," I shoot back. My tone is hard and sure, though inwardly I'm more unsteady than this wig on my head in the wind. Tasha's giant holographic head bobbles up and down, and I assume she's shaking her head no. "It doesn't matter," she replies. "They will be met with a war that will never end. The Time War will begin anew. You know that, Doctor."

I grab the side of my jacket, my fingers turning a sickly white color but blotchy and red near the nails. I can't feel them, I'm squeezing too tight. "They're asking for my help!" I shout at her. I throw my left arm behind me, gesturing underneath the tower to a room I'm positive she doesn't know about and the crack she's sure to have noticed. The citizens of Christmas are staring between us, looking frightened. It dawns on me how silly this must look, a man arguing with a huge floating head, but I haven't the time to dwell on it or even to smile as I usually might. No, for once, the situation is too serious for jokes. Far too dire, for me and for them. And I think that she'd be proud of me for knowing that.

"And if you give it, war will be the consequence!" says Tasha. Her eyes glint, although it's just a hologram, and I stare. "I will not let that happen," she continues toughly, glaring me down, trying to intimidate me. I don't give her an inch. "Speak your name and this world will burn."

"No," I say at once. I take a few steps backward and touch the freezing cold bell behind me, spreading my palm out on it. I feel frost parting under the warmth of my skin, melting against my life. "This planet is protected." I ball my hand into a fist and bang on the bell as hard as I can. The sound is so loud that I have to cover my ears, and I watch as townspeople who weren't already out here start to leave their homes, looking up at the tower. My hearts are pounding out of synch, competing over which can beat the fastest, the hardest, which can succeed in being the first to make me collapse. I won't let them. I refuse, because I am not afraid. Tasha's face disappears from the sky, and I wait for the anxious chatter of the people before I remove my hands, before I step up to the rail to which I was just clinging so desperately.

"So, you lot!" I call, waving my arms around my head. "A quick word? Thank you. Spot of news. Christmas has a new sheriff." I take off my top hat and bow over the railing, a bit precariously. The townspeople exchange glances, some worried, some curious, some amused, and some disbelieving. I put the hat back on my head and straighten, staring out at all of them. A few children poke at each other and point up at me. One boy blinks rapidly and grins. A little girl clutches a doll to her chest, peering up at the sky. Faces of the elderly, the parents, the children, the babies, they all pass in front of my eyes with a cursory glance and I make a vow. Right here, at this moment, a promise is made deep within the single space that connects my two hearts, and it's a promise that is strong and unbreakable and true. A swear, wordless but more powerful than any other I could make. Their faces confirm it; they're the priest that hears my confession, standing raw, vulnerable, lower than they could ever be. I look at their confusion and I know, for sure. I know, and nothing will sway me now. Nothing can ever sway me again, because this is where I'm meant to be, isn't it? This is where I'm meant to end up, where my chapter ends? And these people, they aren't tearing out the last page of the book of my life, as I've done with countless others. They're composing it, writing it into a beautiful symphony that will play out spectacularly.

"Hello, everyone," I say quietly, and the wind seems to halt so I can speak. "I'm the Doctor."