The Time of Change

The Fields of Trenzalore

(author's note: unknown POV)

And so, to the fields of Trenzalore came all the Timelord's enemies, for this was the winter of the Doctor. Scores of his most feared foes attacked the little town of Christmas and its inhabitants. As he grew older, and as he aged, the Doctor began to would that he soon would not be able to protect his beloved new home as he had before. He enlisted the help of any brave townsmen who would volunteer, but before every battle, he would always rethink himself. Because, no matter what the Doctor believed, he was not a selfish man, and he could not bear to see any more people dying a death that was meant for him.

Never before had he lost sleep over an impending battle, for he had no reason to do so. He was the Doctor; why should he fear what was to come? He was the master of time, controller of things that others had anxieties over. He was the Oncoming Storm, the powerful wind in the middle of the night, shaking the house of a frightened child. He ruled his existence -- or that is what he thought.

The Doctor never realized, until the moment his nightmares became real, that he was at the total mercy of whatever came his way. He awoke each morning not knowing if he would survive to see the next. Day in and day out, thoughts consumed his conscious mind, attempting to shift him one way or the other. So many factors played into whether or not he would live to see the upcoming sunrise. And he so adored those sunrises. They seemed to give him a certain meaning to his life that he could not explain to anyone even if he tried. They filled him with hope, but not enough of it to stop the daunting, bleak reminders that he was no longer in control.

If he lived, he may not do so the next day, and he would have to continue to fight to breathe every moment. And yet, if he died, he died forever. So what else could he do other than become somewhat dejected? And although the dismal future hung over him with the intensity of a black thundercloud, he did not let any of the townspeople know of his dark fate. He would not allow himself to become overwhelmed by the sheer burden of his inevitable death, but nor was he underwhelmed at the thought of it. Each emotion was weighted carefully and accounted for, because, when approaching one's final days, one begins to recognize what the important things are in one's life. And for the Doctor, panicking was not an important thing.

And he was not afraid.

Therefore he carried on, this old man. He continued to defeat foe after foe, enemy upon enemy, and still had time to fix a little boy's toy car here, or a young girl's doll there. He repaired and mended the items, and the lives, of the citizens of Christmas, even when he could no longer keep himself from falling into atrophy. Days faded together in his wake, and after a while, the only thing that reminded him that he was still alive was the few brief minutes of glorious sunshine that set the town on fire.

During the times he was not fighting, or fixing, he stayed in his tower home, alone but never desolate. He kept himself company, the Doctor did. The company was not always welcome, and often drove him slightly madder than before, but he was never truly alone. The people of Christmas looked at this man, this doctor of the wounds of time, as their savior.

In time, when all other races had retreated or burned, only the Church of the Papal Mainframe remained in the path of the daleks. And so those ancient enemies, the Doctor and the Silence, all stood back to back on the fields of Trenzalore.

And the Doctor was not afraid.