Of Kings, Queens, Lords, and Ladies (Part 3)
Title: Of Kings, Queens, Lords, and Ladies (Part 3)
Author: shegrewhearts
Fandom/Characters: Doctor Who, Eleven/River
Rating: PG, Eventual R
Word count: ~2400
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC, no profit or infringement is intended with this piece of fiction.
Summary: The Doctor wakes up late for the first time that he can remember.
A/N: Thanks everyone for the support! I'm glad people are interested in the alternate reality. Sorry it took so long to get up this next bit; I've been having some writer's block. If you have any feedback or suggestions, please let me know!
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The Doctor wakes up late for the first time that he can remember.
He misses breakfast and lunch and has less than an hour to ready himself for the drafting meeting by the time he's out of bed, which, as it happens, is an incredible feat in itself. He throws on a too-short pair of pants and an alarmingly red bow-tie that rivals the blooming tulips of the kingdom's garden. Slicking his hair back with a lumpy goop bought, or rather stolen, from a vain sheep-herder in the center cities, the Lord Doctor paints on a charming smile before shoving the doors aside and practically skipping to the Grand Hall.
Queen Amy rolls her eyes when he strolls in ten minutes late but King Rory could not look more relieved to see him and his stupidly tight trousers. The monarchs are in the middle of a long table that is currently housing men of all estates and sizes, with puffy, enflamed cheeks and matted salt-and-pepper beards. He coughs and saunters over to his chair beside Amy, feigning nonchalance. There's no purpose in acting weak in front of these men so eager to pounce on frailty.
He awards the room his most endearing smile as he settles into his place and says, "Now, where were we?"
Two hours later the table has made no progress and the Doctor can't help but let his mind wander back to his night of chess and faded cloth. He remembers candlelight on golden skin, sage velvet, marble knights and rooks and pawns moved by deft fingers and deep thought. Pearly-white teeth and pretty ringlets and my god he lost a game of chess to her, and suddenly the Queen is slapping his arm to get his attention.
"My Lord," she repeats, obviously irritated. "Doctor," she whispers. "What are your thoughts on the matter?"
"Oh, my thoughts, yes, of course," he begins, eyeing the King warily. Rory shrugs, as if to say: your problem, mate. "On, uh, what exactly?"
The table groans and the Lord feels his cheeks redden, but he perseveres and keeps a steady expression. Amy sighs and leans back into her chair, rolling her eyes. "The rogues, Lord Doctor? What this whole meeting has been discussing for the past hour? They're terrorizing my people and I won't have it."
"Our people," Rory amends. "Our people."
She ignores him. "Like I said, I won't have it. Now, what do we know about them other than their choice of attire?"
The room snickers and the Doctor thinks back to the faded black patch buried in his coat pocket. "Do we know what they want?"
The King shrugs, folding his arms across his chest. His brow furrows forward in the way that means he's thinking, his expression as determined as a sword in a man's breast. "So far they have targeted mostly inns and bars, with the exception of one or two whorehouses. None of their victims have anything in common; trust me, I've checked. No common threads at all in anything - nothing, that is, but their use of a fabric eye-patch."
The Doctor coughs. "Well, what does that tell us? I'm blind, it's right in front of me! I know it is! What am I missing?"
"Sorry I'm late."
The whole table collectively turns and gapes as Lady Song strolls into the Grand Hall, all gold curls, painted lips, and fabricated smiles. She walks with graceful purpose to where the assembly sits, hands on her hips and smirking. She looks sufficiently pleased with herself.
"Glad you could join us, Lady Song," the Doctor says in a voice dripping with mockery. She turns her head sharply and it's as if she hadn't noticed him until now, meeting his gaze with wide eyes.
"Lord Doctor," she drawls in a low, sultry voice that sends unexpected shivers up and down his spine. "What a surprise."
Queen Amy eyes them warily and coughs, nodding for Lady Song to sit beside the Doctor. She complies.
"Lady Song," the King begins. "We'd love to hear your counsel."
"What?" the Doctor exclaims. "You haven't even let me figure it out yet!"
This time, it's the Lady who rolls her eyes. "Frankly, I think the whole situation is rubbish."
"Insightful," the Doctor murmurs. Amy elbows him in the side.
"Indeed," she agrees. "Nothing fits together."
The Doctor forgets to resent her as he watches her talk, mesmerized by the steely determination that has pervaded her speech. Her hands fist together in her lap and he notices tension all along her neck; she sits as straight as a column. Her left thumb twitches every few moments or so, and as he scrutinizes her hands he notices scars on the insides of her wrists. He peers carefully and concludes they are burn marks, and the closer he looks he realizes the scars stretch all the way up her arm.
Lady Song, as far as he knows, is a Lady of high estate. Born wealthy with a face of personified beauty and quick to mock, she has had no need for labor in her life. Her life has been easy. And yet, she bears scars like those of an old soldier; why?
She catches him staring and subtly turns her arms over so they face downwards into her lap. He resumes listening with a newfound curiosity.
"And so there is good reason to believe," she continues, apparently having talked for the entirety of his scrutiny. "That they have been around longer than they have been active. They are too organized to be a couple of bandits. Whomever they are, whatever they are - they're clever. We mustn't underestimate them."
"And what do you suppose we do, Lady Song?" the Lord Doctor looks her squarely in the eye, testing her. Amy said she was clever but he'd like to find out for himself.
She grins, not breaking contact. "Nothing."
The room erupts in rumbled murmurs and disbelieving gasps, with even a few guffaws from the far end of the table.
"Nothing?"
She smiles again, cracking her knuckles. "Absolutely nothing. Wait and see what they do. If they've been inactive, they haven't been submissive - just dormant. Waiting. Looking for the perfect opportunity to rise up and-" she pauses, peering around the table. "Strike."
He nods. "And if they have an army?"
"And if they don't? My point exactly. We know nothing about them. Let's not rush into a lion's den blind and helpless with nothing to hold up but honor. Lions don't care about honor."
She's right; she's absolutely right. He knows she is.
"Okay," Queen Amy says, after a prolonged silence. "Meeting is adjourned. We'll meet ten minutes later, tomorrow." She narrows her eyes at the Doctor. "Try to be on time."
People wander out of the hall at their leisure, chatting and joking about the day's festivities. The Doctor lives up to their stories and is always coming in late, keeping to his own time schedule, speaking madly in words that don't ever really make sense. But Lady Song has her own stories too, and now he wants to know her better more than ever.
"Lady Song," he begins, turning in his chair to smile at her. "Care to join me for a walk?"
He escorts her to the garden, his hand in hers, and the minor touch sends tremulous spasms all throughout his body. They wreak havoc on his nerve endings.
The garden is at its height, here in the summer, and flowers spill over their containments onto the cobblestone path. The path winds around in circles and would be easy to get lost in, should he decide to steal them away for a few hours. At this point, any excuse to be alone with her will do.
Deep scarlet, pale pinks, and ocean blues tumble over iron fencing, reaching out to touch the two promenaders. The flowers stretch out to envelop them, wanting to swallow them whole. He dodges the twining vines like they are alive.
She laughs when he trips over himself and almost lands flat on his face, saved only by the top of a green hedge acting as a railing. He holds himself steady.
"So, Doctor," she asks, not unpleasantly. "What did you want to ask me?"
He gapes and forgets to close his mouth. "What?"
"Please," she laughs. "You didn't really think I didn't know. Of course I do."
His fingers twitch at the thought of the black cloth in his pocket. He holds his breath.
"River." she smiles, as if what she has said is the biggest secret in all the world. "That's my name. River."
He releases a sigh of relief. "That's a lovely name."
"Nice of you to think so."
She has chosen a purple dress today, one that scoops low on her chest and rustles softly behind her as she walks. Silver lace trims her waist and bosom and the bottom hem, and he wonders why he didn't notice it before. The sleeves are kept short, cutting off at the shoulder. It's bold, even in the court, but she pulls it off rather nicely. He appreciates her boldness.
"What are you doing at court?"
She stops her gait, looks at him. Looks him over. "You're braver than I thought. Stupid. But brave."
He gives her a sly grin. "No reason to pretend that's not why I brought you out here this afternoon."
"You brought me, did you?"
He blinks. "You're here, aren't you?"
"Have I no free will of my own?"
He doesn't know what to say to that. Court is plenty full of old traditions and even older, stuffy men who insist that women belong by a man's side and not a foot ahead. The Doctor, on the other hand, believes a woman can walk by herself. He's radical, especially for the court.
He keeps mum on many of his beliefs, not feeling the need to set the rumor mill spinning any more than it already does. But when she looks at him like that, he can't lie.
"I suppose you do."
Something in her eyes softens and she grins. "Brave, stupid, and radical. What a mix."
He rolls his eyes. "Indeed, my Lady. Because you aren't the slightest bit odd yourself."
"Odd?" she scoffs, feigning injury. "That's no way to speak to a lady."
He sighs. "Not odd, then. Unusual, if you will."
That makes her smile. He decides her smile is the only thing he wants to see cross her face again.
"Unusual," she muses. "I like it."
Her eyes are green in the sunshine, catching golden flecks in almond eyes. A small smile lights them up like the sun on amber grain, and he is lost, for a moment, in the wave of her hair and the ribbons of purple satin. He studies her delicate neck, her arcing collarbone, the color of her skin against her robe and-
"River."
A roughness in his voice startles her, and she looks up from the flower she is inspecting. His gaze matches the urgency in his voice. "What's wrong?"
He takes the edge out of his tone before responding. "How did you get those scars?"
Her expression turns from thoughtful to stony in the blink of an eye, and she quickly turns away from him. Fingering the petals of a rose between her thumb and forefinger, she sighs. "I wasn't born a Lady."
She is playing games, but he'll abide by her rules for now. "River Song of where, exactly?"
She frowns. "Nowhere."
"Nowhere?"
"Nowhere."
He frowns in return. "And how's that?"
She lifts her eyes to him, slowly, and all joy has left, replaced with age-old sadness and festering wounds. He looks into her eyes and sees only two empty holes that have forgotten what it means to be happy. "Five coppers if you can guess." The playful response belies her meaning.
"You've earned your title, then."
She laughs curtly. Dropping the rose to the ground, she takes a step towards him. "I've earned everything in my life, Doctor. I've earned the title, the clothes-" she gestures to her figure. "-the respect." She stiffens. "And the scars."
"We've all done things we aren't proud of." Coming from anyone else, it would be a weak attempt at comfort; but she senses the honesty behind his words and it stops her in her tracks.
She looks at him curiously. "The Doctor: a man of peace. Or so I've heard. Always there to keep the peace throughout the kingdom, that's what you do."
He smiles sadly, turns away from her. "I never took you for a gossip."
"I never took you for a saint, either."
He looks up sharply, watches her watch him. They each take a step towards the other, two magnets pulling and tugging with an invisible gravity. She matches him stroke for stroke, whether in chess or walking or wit, and he searches her eyes for something deeper than the beautiful surface. She dons cloudy eyes and stable stares, refusing to reveal more than a light green color and carefully hidden sadness.
He gulps. "Who are you?"
"Secret." she whispers, but it is no longer smug. This time, all he can hear is remorse.
Then she is gone, spinning on her heels and darting down a path. He gathers his wits and follows her, follows the click of heels and wave of purple fabric. He sees her dress round a corner and he runs after it, chases it; he stops at an intersection and looks to his left, to his right. He hears the chirping of birds and soft, murmuring voices from far away but he doesn't see her. She disappears like she lives, mysteriously and on a whim.
He walks for another hour before finding his way back to the castle walls, where he slumps against the stone and slides down to the ground, his face in his hands. After a few moments, he pulls the eye-patch out of his jacket pocket and sighs. The fabric is soft and somehow comforting, which frightens him. He crumples it in his fist and looks up at the sky when he feels a drop of water on his forehead.
Gray clouds the sky and promises rain, and he sighs again. Rain reminds him of his scars.