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Time-Lords.
They’d always been known to be cruel. The most evolved specie in all time and space, there was no limit to the hurt they could inflict. They had the means to the end. The Doctor had told her about them. About how far they would go to get what they wanted. He had told her stories, legends of his own people, things that would give any living thing nightmares for years.
They can’t be that bad , she had told him. You are one of them, and you are nothing like that.
I turned my back on the Time Lords a long time ago, Clara. But I can be just like them. I can be cruel if I want to. If I need to.
The Doctor isn’t cruel.
I can’t be the Doctor all the time.
That had made her scared, not for herself but for him. She knew him too well. Cruel didn’t suit him, and even if he had to be, he would never forgive himself.
But he was right. Of course, he was.
Time-Lords were cruel.
And she only realised it when she woke up in an unfamiliar place. The last thing she remembered was trying to return to her own Timeline on Gallifrey — the rest was a blur. Hands, screams, voices… She hadn’t reached her goal, which she was sure of.
She tried to move; she tried to speak. No words could escape her mouth. Her body wouldn’t respond to her desires. It felt like being trapped in a body that was not her own. What had they done to her? Panicking, Clara tried to scream and fight off whatever this was. All her efforts were vain. No matter how hard she tried, it just wouldn’t do.
As she looked around, she noticed a screen in front of her, turned off, reflecting her figure. Horror struck her — this wasn’t her. This was not her body. Her hands weren’t long, scaled. Her face wasn’t covered by a veil. She wasn’t that tall, that lumpy. What was happening? Where was she? Why was she here? It felt like her mind; her soul was trapped in a body that wasn’t hers. It had happened before, of course. She could remember it clear as day, the day she had found herself stuck inside a Dalek, unable to get out, unable to scream. Here, she had no control over anything — all she could do was watch. And maybe that was the purpose of it all. To make her a silent witness to whatever horrors were about to happen. And she knew it would. Why else would she be here?
What kind of sick people would do that? Time-Lords, of course.
They were cruel, after all.
Hands binding her. Her screams. You can’t kill me! I’m already dead!
The flashes were gone before she could understand what had happened to her, and suddenly, her body was moving. Her body was slow, heavy. She could hear the noise it made as she walked down the corridors, the stairs. She could feel everything: the ground beneath her feet, the breeze making her veil float, the waves crashing on the walls. She observed everything about the place, but nothing seemed familiar. The stones, the cogs, the never-ending corridors — in all of her journeys through time and space.
And then, she saw him. Against all odds, he was there. It was a glimpse, at first, but enough to break her heart. She would know him anywhere. How long has it been since she had last seen him? Too long. But there he was, looking at her, curious and frightened. His eyes — his beautiful blue eyes had lost all their warmth, and his lips were not forming that kind smile she had grown to like. He was scared, properly scared. She had never seen him like this. Even after all those years, she still discovered new things about him.
It’s okay, Doctor; It’s me. I won’t hurt you. It’s me.
But he couldn’t see, could he? He could reach past this horrifying body she inhabited, couldn’t feel her soul residing beneath the veiled figure. She couldn’t blame him. She had died in front of his very eyes. He had not saved her yet. As far as he was concerned, this was yet another monster he had to face. Besides, he didn’t have it in him to imagine what the Time-Lords had done to her. He wasn’t cruel; he wasn’t cowardly. No, she couldn’t blame him for not seeing. Yet, it hurt.
She looked at him again; he was confused, lost, running away, stumbling, trying to find a way out. He met a dead end — a closed door that refused to open. He tried and tried, but it was of no use. His hands shook slightly on the wood, his forehead resting against it. She smiled. He was trying to open it telepathically, something he hadn’t done in a very long time. It worked; she felt joy bubbling inside of her.
You’ve still got it , she thought.
“See, Clara? I’ve still got it.”
She shivered at the sound of his voice calling out her name. His blue eyes seeking hers nearby, only to find out that she wasn’t there. That she would never ever be. The pain, the hurt replacing that shimmer of light, the drop of his lips — She could hardly breathe. It was too much, too raw. And Clara wanted to scream. She wanted to tell him that she was there. If only he could see her…
Her body was reaching out for him — her hand, outstretched, coming closer and closer still. She needed to feel him, but something told her that if she managed to reach him things would end badly. Oh, but how she wanted to feel him close, her entire being buzzing with the need to slip her hand in his, just to feel it one last time.
Hold my hand , she’d tell him.
Are you okay?
I’m not.
Me neither.
But she didn’t get to do that. Instead, her hands were mere inches from his face, his eyes widening in horror as she closed hers. She didn’t want to see whatever was about to happen. She refused.
“I’m actually scared of dying.” He admitted.
She stopped. Everything did. Not a sound, not a beat. Nothing. She opened her eyes. She couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but stare at him. And he stared back, studying her veiled face, eyebrows frowned, elaborating hypotheses before running away. The walls around them moved, and the rooms changed. Where was she? How could this be? His confession dial, yes, she had gathered that. But how did it work? Oh, if only he had told her more about what he had been through…
She continued to follow him. She followed him everywhere he went, to the garden, to the top of the tower, an endless chase. And he was running, always running away from her, away from the love she had carried for thousands of years, the only recipient of their story. He kept saying her name out loud, calling out to her when he thought she couldn’t hear. It was pure agony. To see him, so close, so heartbroken, and unable to do a single thing about it. To know that her touch could end his life.
She watched him run, her clever boy. He fought off for a long time, how long she couldn’t tell. He confessed multiple times. About himself, about the Hybrid. She could feel the creature shivering at the mention of Gallifrey’s most famous prophecy. This was what they wanted. And she could have given the answers they sought; she would have if it had prevented him from going through all of this. But they weren’t interested in her. They wanted him to suffer.
He was cornered now. Nowhere to run, nothing to confess. Nothing that would matter. Nothing that would make her body stop. He turned around and looked at her, defiant.
“You may know my fears, my past, but here’s something you obviously don’t know: I will never give up the information you seek. You can try all you want, for however long you desire, but I will not give up. I never do.”
I know , she thought.
Her hands touched his face — but this time, it wasn’t to stroke his cheek or to force him to look at her. This time, her touch elicited a scream of agony from him, burning through the layers of his skin. Their pains meddled to form one. His screams echoed the ones she couldn’t voice. He fell limp in her hands, and she knew it was too late when he finally touched the ground. He was gone.
And so was she.
Suddenly, she could feel herself fainting — fainting away until there was nothing.
She tried to hold on; she wanted to stay, to guard his body for the rest of eternity.
Was it what death was like?
Hands, grabbing her. Voices in her ears, whispering.
You’ll be the tool of his pain.
Her scream, trying to get away — hands holding her tight.
She woke up.
She saw him.
She chased him.
She killed him.
Hands, holding her tight. You’ll watch him suffer. You’ll be the tool of his pain.
She woke up.
(No more)
She saw him.
(Just see me)
She chased him.
(Don’t run; stay with me)
She killed him.
(I’m sorry)
And she woke up again. And again.
And everything was the same. Except for the skulls that kept pilling up at the bottom of the sea. His skulls. Many versions of him laying on the seabed: proof of his sacrifice. He was making progress, slowly but steadily. He had found Room number 12 and his way out of his personal hell. He had left clues for himself, scattered across the entire castle—his torture chamber.
And he kept on running, kept on trying to escape, refusing to give the one information that would set him free. Why? I have a duty of care , his voice, desperate, whispered in her ears, breaking the remnant of her heart.
She watched him run; she watched him cry. She watched him call her name, over and over again, as if this time, she would come back to him. And she never did. She watched him paint her portrait, little by little. Her eyes, her mouth, her nose he had made fun of so often. He painted her with all the love, all the rage that was bubbling inside of him; it was both sad and beautiful. Part of her was almost relieved to see the strength he drew from the mere sight of her; the other was scared. The more he looked at it, the angrier he seemed, as if the mere sight of her face gave him enough will to keep fighting. Keep on punching a wall that was slowly crumbling down.
She watched him die and get back up, and each time, it hurt more. She was killing him — physically and mentally. He loved her too much, too deep. He was unable to let her go. And for that very same love, he kept on hurting himself. It was all for her. She could see it now, with her own eyes. All of this was for her. He was bargaining to save her life. But watching him do that, die again and again in hopes of saving her —
Hands, voices, You’ll be the tool of his suffering. It will only end when he leaves.
How long had he stayed here?
Four and a half billion years , Ohila’s voice echoed in her head.
Four and a half billion years, watching him fight a war in her name, a battle she had never wished any part in. Seeing him hurt himself in the hopes of saving her.
This was torture for him and for her.
All of that, from the hands of the Time-Lords.
And with each loop, her anger, her resentment grew. She wasn’t desperate anymore, merely furious.
She hoped they would rot in hell for what they did to them. She hoped that someone — not the Doctor, never the Doctor — would make them pay for all the hurt they had inflicted. Once or twice, she found herself wishing she would be the one to crush the terrible Time-Lords, seeking her vengeance.
It will end when he leaves. Only then will you truly be free. He will live, and you will die. Only then will you truly be free.
His victory meant her end. Had he known that, would he have kept on fighting? Would he have carried on had he been aware that the moment he won, she would die? For real this time. There would be no turning back. The moment he left, they would throw her back inside her own timeline. She would face her fate, face the raven, and it would all be over.
No more pain, no more suffering. Simply the quietness of respite.
It was all she had wanted.
Not anymore.
He will live, and you will die.
Get it over with. Just kill me already. Don’t make me watch again.
But it kept on going and going, each time more hurtful than the last. Each time, her hands reached out for him — what for? They were trying to get his confessions. Couldn’t they see? They would never get them.
She wanted to touch him. Not for comfort, neither hers own nor his. She just wished that this time, he would cave. That this time, he would stop. How long could he go on like this?
Please, no more. Don’t do this to yourself. Not for me, Doctor. I’ve never wanted this.
But he would never stop. And she knew that. History had proven it. And she knew him too well. She could tell that he was feeling guilty, somehow responsible for her death. He wasn’t. He had never been. She was the only master of her own destiny, and she had chosen this path. He didn’t have to go through the nine circles of hell to atone for a crime he never committed. And it killed her — it killed her not to be able to do anything about it.
He lived; he died.
And she watched it all.
Again and again, on a loop.
She had thought with time it would have gotten easier.
It was not the case.
Time Lords were cruel.
They knew what they were doing.
Dust was gathering everywhere.
Thousands of skulls lay in the seabed.
Her painting was fading.
There was a hole in the wall — not long now.
She could see it: the end of the corridor.
The end of their suffering.
Her death; his freedom.
Their end.
He punched the wall, his path to his destiny.
He punched the wall, telling her a story, showing off too.
He screamed.
She cried.
She watched him, proud, angry, heartbroken.
She watched him punch the wall.
Hurting himself.
Until one day, it fractured.
And there was light.
Rock falling, her body stopping.
He turned to her, the Time-Lord victorious.
He turned to her, one last time, his chin high, his eyes shimmering.
His eyes — his face.
And his voice too.
She felt her body crumble like the wall he had relentlessly punched.
She didn’t have time to say goodbye.
And then, there was nothing.
She woke up — and for a minute, she thought she was back inside the castle, inside their torture chamber. No, no, please. Just stop this. I can’t do this any longer . And so she waited, her eyes closed. She waited for her body to move, waited to hear his voice, but nothing came. No noise, nothing. She opened her eyes again, confused and looked around. Everything was white and stale, and she was lying on her back, on what seemed to be a table. She looked at her hands and moved them slightly. She was shackled, and tubes and syringes riddled her arms, connecting her to a machine that was beeping. She was back inside her own body. A sigh of relief passed her lips, and Clara let her head fall back on the table. It was over. She was free. Free to die, free to forget.
She laid there for a while, taking it all in.
And when she tried to get back up, she noticed him.
On the other side of the room, there was a man. He was sitting on a chair, looking at her intently, barely moving. He didn’t seem surprised nor confused, and when his dark eyes met hers, he didn’t flinch.
“Who are you? Did you do this to me?” She asked, scared, confused.
And then, she felt it. The anger she had been bottling up for the past billion years threatened to wash over her until there was nothing left. But the stranger shook his head and rose, coming closer to her. He was dressed rather elegantly, if not a bit old-fashioned. He was a time-lord, that much she could tell. But which one?
“Welcome back, Clara. I thought I’d find you again — eventually.” He said as he took his place next to her. He unplugged her, ripping the syringe from her arms. She didn’t wince. She didn’t flinch. She couldn’t feel pain, not that kind. And his eyes shimmered when he saw no reaction on her face. He held out his hand to help her get up, but she refused, eyebrows frowned. Who was he? What did he want? She sat, facing him. A smile, dangerously charming. “Oh, my Clara. You don’t recognise me. Well, I can’t blame you. I was quite different when we last saw each other.”
His eyes sought hers. Equally dark. Very mesmerising. She’d seen these eyes before, and although they were a different colour, she knew them. There was a coldness in these orbs, age — someone who had been hurt. Someone who had inflicted pain. My Clara , he had called her. There were only two people in the Universe who had called her that. One, she knew was a long time gone. As for the second, on the other hand…
“And so the Penny drops.” He whispered, chuckling.
She stared at him, at his outstretched hand, trying to understand how it was all possible.
“You are the Master?” Clara croaked.
He shot her another dazzling smile and bowed, feigning to tip off his hat.
“At your service.”
How could this be? What about Missy? Or was he a previous version of her? One she had never encountered? Anything was possible, especially when the Master was involved. Clara fought off a shiver — one she couldn’t help around the Doctor’s oldest friend. It took her a moment to remember that no matter what, he could neither kill nor hurt her, something the other Time-Lords had managed to bypass. But from the way he looked at her, she could sense no danger. Not for her anyway.
She placed her hand in his, and as she rose, she noticed the bodies on the ground, in a pool of blood. About half a dozen Time-Lords, face on the ground, still, drowning in their own fluids. She stared at them, but after the horrors she had seen, she wasn’t horrified or shocked.
“Did you do this?” She asked, her tone flat.
“Yes.” He simply replied, his lips shivering in a snarl.
She could feel his anger, his rage. He was shaking, his fists clenched as he, too, looked at the result of his actions. There was no regret, no shame in his brown eyes. Simply an untamable fury.
“Why?”
“They deserved it.”
And she hated the fact that she agreed with him. But after what they had done to her, what they had done to the man she loved, she had to admit that a part of her was relieved that they had paid for their actions. And it was wrong, she knew it was. Vengeance was a bad look on her, but perhaps she was done forgiving. Perhaps, at the very end of her life, she was allowed to break her own rules.
“Time Lords are cruel, Clara Oswald.” The Master said, cupping her hands in his. His skin was warm, almost boiling. “Look at what they did to you! Or me! Or your precious Doctor!” His lips were wavering as he spat his words, anger spilling between each one of them. “They lie, they hurt, and they think they are untouchable. Well, I’ve come a very long way to prove them wrong.”
“What will you do?” Clara found herself saying, under his spell.
There was a beat. A comfortable silence. His hands held hers tighter as his eyes dove right into hers.
“I will burn Gallifrey down to the ground.”
It was a statement. It was a promise. And one she knew he would not break.
Gallifrey. The Doctor’s home. The place he spent years mourning. The place he had sought to find all his life. She couldn’t let him do that.
Gallifrey. The home of the Time-Lords, the people who had done this to her, who had done this to him. A place she had learnt to hate. She couldn’t let them get away with it.
“Join me.” The Master whispered as if he could feel her hesitation, “Make them pay.”
It was tempting. Oh, so tempting. And she wanted to say yes. Because she was angry, and emotional. Because they had taken everything from her. But she couldn’t. For the Doctor’s sake, she couldn’t destroy the place he had worked so hard to salvage from the Time War. She couldn’t burn down all of his efforts. Out of respect for him, she couldn’t give in.
“No.” She stated, retreating back.
And the Master let her go. She was almost shocked that he did. He wasn’t one to give up that easily, was he? Or perhaps this version was different. After all, he didn’t seem surprised by her refusal, let alone angry.
“Are you going to try and stop me?” He asked.
Yes , her old self screamed in her head.
“No,” Clara replied.
The Master smiled, obviously pleased with her answer. She could not bring herself to feel the same way. Yet, she didn’t regret her decision. She would go back to the extraction chamber and get back to her own timeline. She would die, knowing that they had been avenged. There would be no blood on her hands, nothing tying her back to this. She wouldn’t betray her friend, and she would get what she wanted. What they deserved.
The Universe owed them this.
One victory.
“You would have been a good Time-Lady, Clara.” The Master said, smiling madly at her.
Because Time-Lords were cruel.
And she was about to look the other way, and let a storm ravage an entire planet.
She was being cruel.
She was being cowardly.
But she wasn’t the Doctor. Maybe once, not so long ago, she had been too much like him.
But not this time.
This time, all the pain and suffering would end.
This time, she would win.
I’m sorry, Doctor , she thought as she left the room and the Master behind.