Fic: Of Flesh and Blood
Title: Of Flesh and Blood
Rating: R
Characters/pairings: Ten/Rose
Warnings/spoilers: Depictions of violence and torture.
Authors Note: Please heed warnings! This story is dark and may be disturbing to some. Also, this might be a teensy bit A/U
She had been called, summoned, freed from the endless blackness in a blissful outpouring of hot blood, terror, and the intricate dance of words of power. As the world around Her, the solid world pulsing with life and untapped energies, began to take shape before Her eyes, Her attention was drawn to the one who had called Her forth. The creature stood on two legs, swathed in a white linen shift, slender and small and gracefully built, with waves of dark hair cascading down its back. It looked so fragile, but She could feel the tumult of madness and blood-lust pulsing within it, and it was so delicious.
“Obey ye, obey ye,” the feeble little thing said. “Behold the symbols and names of the creator. Be ye gentle and peaceable, and obey in all things that I shall command ye!”
Because She was still somewhat disoriented and overwhelmed with the sudden sensation of life, She did not rip the heart from the breast of the presumptuous, inconsequential being before Her.
“You will take a form pleasing to my eye,” the creature said, and, because She was curious and so very glad to be free, She assumed the form of a being similar to the creature before Her so that She might hear and understand what the creature had to say. As She assumed the form, reaching into the consciousness of the being before Her, the word for the shape She was adopting floated into Her mind. Human. And then, Woman.
The human woman in the white shift stretched pale hands to the being who had assumed the form of a woman and said, “If my soul is to be damned, help me to preserve my body.”
~~~~
Five Years Later
Of course, Rose thought as she stepped from the TARDIS. His driving skills still haven't improved.
She turned to him, a smirk quirking one corner of her mouth. “Woodstock '69, Doctor?”
Her friend was looking rather bemused, turning slowly on his plimsolled heels to take in the houses built of timbre and thatch, the dusty stretch of dirt that served as a road, the stone church. The sky overhead was heavy with clouds, and hazy mountains loomed all around them. Rose shuddered off a chill, rubbing her arms. The Doctor glanced at her, shrugging. “Right. I may have steered us a little bit off course...”
Rose shook her head, chuckling. The Doctor frowned fiercely at her. “Oh, come on, now! It's not that bad. See? Nice little village in the mountains. Nice and quiet. Picturesque. I like that word, picturesque, don't you?” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his pinstriped suit jacket, letting his long coat flare out behind him, and began to walk, gazing around. Rose kept stride beside him.
“Since when do you like quiet?” she asked.
“Oh, I do love a spot of quiet,” he replied absently, his attention drawn to a small procession that moved slowly towards them. A rough wooden cart drawn by two tired-looking horses was accompanied by three black-robed men and a number of villagers dressed in simple, dark clothing. The sound of low singing wafted on the air; the men (priests, thought Rose) seemed to be chanting.
“Oh, you do not,” Rose laughed. “You hate the quiet. You're the most un-quiet person I know.” She turned her attention to the procession. “What is that? A funeral?”
“Yes,” the Doctor said, frowning. He began to walk towards the cart.
“Any idea when and where we are?” Rose asked, hurrying to keep up with him.
“Oh, judging by the architecture and the dress, I'd say sixteenth or early seventeenth century Europe. Somewhere in the Carpathians, I think.”
“The Carpathians? You mean like Transylvania?” Rose was watching the funeral procession. She caught a glimpse of a simple wooden box in the back of the cart as it rounded a bend and began to pass by them. The box looked too big for just one person, she thought uneasily.
“Yes,” the Doctor said. “Like Transylvania.” He, too, was looking at the coffin. He turned to one of the villagers that was following the cart. “Excuse me. I'm new to these parts, only just passing through today, and I couldn't help notice. Might you tell me who this funeral is for?”
The woman, small and wrinkled with a few wisps of iron-gray hair peeking from beneath a scarf, looked at him with dark, glassy eyes. She had the blank stare of a woman far too acquainted with grief. “Three of our children have succumbed to the cholera,” she said softly. “Three girls. My own Angyalka was one of them.” She glanced at the casket, and Rose saw a flicker in those hollow eyes that may have been fear. “A maid, she was. She worked for the Countess at Csethje.”
The Doctor's eyebrows raised. “Csethje,” he murmered. “Interesting.” He smiled gently at the woman. “I'm sorry, just one more question. Might you tell me what year it is?”
“Do you not know?” The woman shook her head, but shrugged, evidently too exhausted emotionally to question it too deeply. “It is the Year of Our Lord, sixteen-hundred and ten.” She turned away and continued to follow the procession.
Rose watched them move into the distance while the Doctor seemed lost in thought. “That poor woman,” she said softly. “Then there's a cholera outbreak in the village? Why were they all put in the same coffin? Is that normal?”
“It's not a cholera outbreak,” the Doctor said.
“What? What d'you mean?”
The Doctor looked at Rose, his eyes unreadable. “We should go. We... we need to go.”
Rose took his arm and looked at him closely. “Why?”
“Because what happens here is a part of history. It can't be changed.” He began to walk, but Rose held his arm and refused to budge.
“Will you just tell me what's going on here? I want to know.”
“No, you don't.”
She tugged on his arm, and he turned to face her. “Don't tell me what I do or don't want,” she said softly. “That's not your place.”
He sighed, and closed his hands on her shoulders. “Rose, this is a village under the rule of one of the most notorious serial killers in history. The Countess Erzsébet Bathory.”
“I haven't heard of her.”
“She tortured and murdered hundreds of teenaged girls. Servants and maids, young girls found by her accomplices and brought to her from as far away as Austria. It's said she bathed in their blood to retain her beauty. It's also said she was a vampire.”
Rose grimaced, her stomach twisting. “That's horrible. Was she? A vampire?”
“No. Well, probably not. I don't think so.”
“You talk like you think it's possible. Are there vampires, Doctor?”
“Yes, yes, of course there are. Where do you think all the stories came from? You have your Plasmavores, and Haemavores, and the Great Vampire.” He paused. “Granted, half the old European stories resembled zombies more than what you lot usually think of as vampires. The tales were mostly brought on by a lack of understanding how bodies decompose, coupled with superstition.”
Rose chewed her lip; he was rambling again, but his eyes were carefully blank. She took his hand. “But there's nothing we can do here.”
“No.” He looked at her silently for a moment before saying, “But, this is the year she and her accomplices are finally brought to trial. Bathory's noble status only protects her for so long.”
A small voice cut into the Doctor's words. “The witch whispers to her.” Rose looked down and saw the owner of the voice, a child with a smudged face and dark brown eyes. She couldn't have been more than seven.
The Doctor crouched before the girl. “Hello,” he said softly. “What's your name?”
The child looked at him solemnly. “ Franciska.”
“What do you mean, the witch whispers to her? Do you mean the Countess?”
“The witch. The forest-witch. She whispers to her ear. She tells her how to live eternally, to be young eternally. She mumbles incantations and flies through the air at night.” The child shuddered, her eyes wide. “I saw her fly.”
The Doctor frowned thoughtfully. The girl wrapped her arms about herself, looking away. The Doctor coaxed, “Tell me what else you saw, Franciska.”
“She plays with dolls. I saw her. She was hiding behind the church, but I saw her. She plays with dolls that... make people do things. Forget things. Ignore things.”
He rocked back on his heels. “Dolls. Dolls, dolls....” He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand in halfhazard spikes. “Dolls that control people?”
“What?” Rose asked. “Like voodoo dolls?”
He glanced at her. “Well. Yes and no. More like... a DNA replication module?”
“That doesn't sound like something you'd find in seventeenth century Transylvania.”
“No. It doesn't.” He looked at Franciska, giving her a reassuring smile. “Thank you, Franciska. Run along home now. Don't tell anyone you've talked to us. And stay away from any castles!” He stood and turned to Rose, looking troubled.
“Doctor,” Rose said softly, after the child had run off. “You think there's something... alien going on here, don't you?”
“The Countess was rumored to have had a witch as an adviser,” he said. “Fear of witchcraft is still rather prevalent these days, especially in the more rural areas. Mostly, it's just people persecuting midwives and herbalists, or holdovers from the old religions who've refused to assimilate, or even good, old-fashioned neighborly rivalry. 'She has two more chickens and a nicer house than I do. I think I'll accuse her of witchcraft.' That kind of thing.” He sighed. “But this girl. She saw something. I would bet one of my lives on it. She saw something that she didn't understand, and it terrified her.”
“Then we're goin' to investigate.”
The Doctor took a deep breath, running a hand down his face. “All right. Yes. Yes, we'll stay and investigate. But, you.” He gave her a fierce look and waved a finger in her face. “Do not wander off. Not here. Stay with me at all times while we're doing this.”
“I should pretend to be one of her serving girls,” Rose said.
The Doctor's eyebrows shot up. “I just said you need to stay with me at all times! Don't think you can do that if you're setting yourself up as bait!”
“Well, how else do you suggest we infiltrate their household? You've said it yourself before-- the staff hear and see more than anyone. Besides, think we might stand out a bit if we just waltz in asking where the aliens are.”
“No.”
“Doctor, it's the only way we'll get close enough to find out what's going on--”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“-- and figure out what we need to do about it.”
“Rose.” He took her by the shoulders, his grip a little tighter than was comfortable. “Please, listen to me. The Countess gets her thrills by torturing her serving girls. Do you understand what I'm saying to you? If you look at her the wrong way, or if your dress is wrinkled or crooked, or if you drop a feather duster, she will....” He broke off, and the look he leveled at her caused her heart to lodge in her throat.
She touched his face, gently tracing his jawline with her finger. “It's me, Doctor. I'll be fine. This is the best way to go about this, and you know it.” He shook his head, but she could see his resolve wavering. She smiled at him reassuringly, her eyes pleading.
He sighed, defeated. “Oh, all right. Knowing you, you'll just find some way to do it anyway even if I tell you not to. But do not go anywhere near her private chambers, do you understand me? If she acts the least bit threatening towards you, run. Don't try to take her on yourself.”
“All right.”
“Promise me.”
“Doctor, I promise.”
He looked at her silently for a moment, still gripping her shoulders, before saying, “Good,” and leaning down to drop a kiss to her forehead. Then he let her go.
~~~~
Rose adjusted the shoulders on her rough-spun dress and glanced around the spacious room. It was elegantly decorated and furnished, with intricately woven carpets, furniture so richly made it almost appeared gaudy, paintings by what she presumed to be the latest fashionable artists, and classical marble sculptures gracing ornate pedestals; all arranged in aesthetically pleasing positions throughout the room. It was always a shock to her to see how the aristocracy lived in comparison to the villagers. She felt her stomach turn as she thought again about what this particular aristocrat did with her spare time.
She and the Doctor had found suitable clothing for her in the TARDIS wardrobe room; he still insisted, predictably, on wearing his typical brown suit, overcoat, and chucks. Then, they had made the trek on foot to the Castle Csejthe, situated some distance from the village at the edge of a bluff. He introduced himself as Johanne Schmidt, and Rose he introduced as his Austrian charge Tanja Filipović, to be brought into service as a maid to the Countess.
Rose had been hurried to what she presumed was a drawing room or foyer or some other waiting area for guests, and the Doctor, as her escort, had been dismissed. He had glanced rather anxiously at her before slipping away, but Rose knew he wouldn't be too far.
She wasn't about to let him know how uneasy she was. Something about this place sent shivers down her spine. The air felt thick, unbreathable. The shadows stretching across the floor and spilling up the walls seemed to flicker with movement.
She was being watched.
“Ah, I was told a new girl had arrived. And so, here you are.”
Rose spun, her heart pounding. An older woman stood framed by the doorway. The light was too dim to see her features. Rose flashed a smile. “Yes,” she said. “I'm R-- Tanja. Tanja Filipović.” She breathed deeply, relieved that she had caught herself before giving the wrong name. Get a hold of yourself, she told herself crossly. She straightened her stance, peering at the woman, trying to see through the darkness. “I'm here from Vienna. I was brought here as a household maid.”
The woman nodded, moving forward. “Yes. So I was told. We were not informed of your employment here, Tanja.”
“Yes. I know. They said the letter got lost or somethin'. You know those mail carriers. Always putting things in the wrong box.” She laughed nervously.
The woman stopped in front of Rose, looking at her closely. She was indeed older, though her age was impossible to tell. Her features were sharp, her eyes nearly black but uncannily bright. Her hair was wispy and grey, tied into a severe knot atop her head. She looked at Rose with those unsettling eyes, and Rose began to feel as though she had no secrets from this woman. She took Rose's jaw in one surprisingly strong hand, tilting her head this way and that as fingernails dug into soft flesh, as if examining every crease of skin. “How old are you, girl?”
“Sixteen, ma'am,” Rose lied.
“A touch old.”
“Old?” Rose sputtered. “I'm not old.”
The woman backhanded her. “You will learn your place, girl.”
Face stinging, Rose almost snarled a retort, before remembering that she really did need to be playing this part. “I'm sorry, of course. I'll learn my... place.” She forced a smile. “And what should I be calling you, ma'am?”
“You do have a mouth on you. It is a vice that will be remedied, I assure you. I am Anna Darvulia. You answer to me, directly.” She lifted a loose strand of Rose's hair, running it between her gnarled fingers before tucking it behind one ear. “Have you ever known the pleasures of love, child?”
Rose faltered. “I-- I. What? I mean.” She thought quickly; probably best to say no. “I haven't, Lady Darvulia.”
Darvulia nodded, her ebony eyes blinking like a bird's. “Very good.”
~~~~
He didn't like this idea. Not one bit. She was going in there like a sheep to the slaughter. Why did she always have to be so brave? His brave, foolish Rose. What was he thinking, letting her do this?
He walked, peering into rooms and examining corridors, until reaching the doorway of the small household chapel.
He stood on the threshold, his eyes sweeping the room. Washes of brilliantly colored light poured through stained glass to pattern the floor and across the pews, wrapping around the slender figure of a woman who knelt before the altar. Her cloak was spread about her, dark hair tumbling loose past her shoulders. She did not bow her head, but gazed upward at the crucifix on the wall, her shoulders set and straight.
“My husband was Catholic,” she said after a moment.
The Doctor nodded. “I know.”
The woman continued. “Yet in my childhood, I was taught that only a certain few, a numbered Elect, would be allowed into paradise. I am told that he was not amongst them.” She was silent for a moment, silent and still, an ethereal vision. “Do you think I will see him when I leave this world?” she finally asked, before laughing softly. “Perhaps it would be better to never leave this world at all. I have no wish to see that bastard again. Even in hell.”
The Doctor did not answer. The woman rose then, her movements silken and graceful, and turned to face him. She was regal and beautiful, with a high forehead enhanced by the shearing of her hairline. Her eyes were cold but very keen, her skin pale and smooth. “Who are you?” she asked.
He fished out his psychic paper, handing it to her. “Johann Schmidt. I've come from Vienna, accompanying Tanja Filipović, daughter to Guenther. You know Guenther, yes? Tanja's to be in your employ as a household maid.”
“I know of Guenther Filipović,” she said. “I wasn't aware he had a daughter.”
“Didn't you? Well, he does. He deems it a great honor that you give his daughter a place in your household.” He paused, looking at her coolly. “Countess.”
“Why was I not made aware of this?”
“Your servants perhaps slipped in the lines of communication. These things happen when traveling abroad.”
She smiled. “Indeed, they do. And you, sir? Are you the girl's brother?”
He shook his head. “Her brother? No, no, only an escort.”
“Her only escort? Strange. But you know her.”
“Yes. I know her.”
“Tell me of her. How does she appear? Is she very young and fair?”
The Doctor took a breath to quell the fury that suddenly began to build within him. “You'll see her soon enough, Lady,” he said, his voice carefully smooth and devoid of inflection.
The Countess looked him in the eye. He stared hard, and she did not flinch. Eventually, she smiled. “Very well. Do make yourself comfortable in my home during your stay.”
“Oh, I intend to. Thank you.”
~~~~
Rose tugged again at the sleeves of her dress; the rough-spun cotton was beginning to chafe. She swept her feather duster halfheartedly over an ornate lamp, peeking from beneath her fringe at the girl who was busy brushing the carpets with a soft broom. The girl had been quiet, reserved, focusing intently on her task and barely giving Rose a second glance.
Rose smiled, looking openly at the girl, trying to get her attention. “I'm Tanja. New here, actually, first day and all. Still trying to learn my way around. What's your name?”
The girl smiled briefly. “Zsophia.”
“Pretty name, Zsophia. I like it. Where are you from? You come from one of the villages around here?”
“Yes. I'm from Újhely.”
“Oh. I'm from Austria. Vienna.” She swept the duster in a lazy circle, contemplating how to get the girl to open up a little. “This must be a big change for you, living in a castle all of a sudden. What's it like here? Place is a bit creepy, if you ask me.”
“I don't know. I mean, it's work. Helps to provide for my family. I don't know much. Only my chores.” Zsophia looked at Rose, her eyes pleading. “Really, Tanja, you shouldn't ask questions. That's... frowned upon. You'll find out soon enough.”
“Find out what?”
“You shouldn't ask.”
~~~~
The Doctor looked at the readout on his sonic screwdriver. “Off the charts for psychic energy,” he muttered to himself. “Far more than a human's capable of. But where does it originate?” He made a few adjustments to the device and began to walk, scanning every few feet. The readings built in intensity as he approached the servant's quarters. He scanned each room briefly. “Curioser and curioser. And what do we have behind ...” Scan. “Door...” Scan. “Number... “ Scan. “Four?”
He tried the door. It was locked, which in itself should be telling, given the fact that he was in the servants' quarters. He popped the lock with the sonic and stepped inside. The room was simply furnished, dimly lit by a high-set window, a private room, unlike the other rooms which housed several servants. A low cot stood against one wall, a small table with a few books and a burned down candle against another, and a wooden wardrobe to the back. The sonic screwdriver hummed as he scanned again. “Ah, a wardrobe. Always a wardrobe, innit?” He opened the door and pushed aside the clothing, rapping his knuckles against the back in a hollow echo. “Yep, thought so.” He adjusted the sonic and swept it across until he heard the click of a latch. He slid the hidden door open and stepped through, removing a torch from his coat pocket and switching it on.
“Yep, I'd say I found something,” the Doctor said softly, slowly passing the light across the hidden room. A plethora of sinister-looking artifacts, masks, and painted symbols adorned the walls. A low, long table held an assortment of daggers, needles, gnarled rope, candles, and other implements that he did not want to think about. A wooden box rested on the table; he lifted the lid to reveal several straw-and-cloth dolls lying side by side at the bottom. Some of the dolls were bound with rope; others had their eyes or mouths covered. Others were pierced with needles. A crystal perfume bottle that appeared to be filled with blood was nestled between the dolls. He closed the lid to the box and looked to where a large, rusty cauldron stood over the cooling embers of a firepit in the center of the room. A sickly green glow wafted above the rim.
He stepped to it, and looked into the liquid. Something snapped and tugged at his mind, and suddenly he could see an image forming on the surface of the liquid. A figure in tattered black robes, its face bony and beak-like, hovered as though in the air. A sharp screech like that of a bird echoed in the Doctor's mind, and as he watched, the figure shifted and warped, to appear more human. An older woman with sharp features, unnaturally bright black eyes, and gray hair bound tightly atop her head stood in the creature's stead.
~~~~
“The girl is not what she seems,” Darvulia said. “The name she gave was not true.”
Erzsébet slowly drew the hairbrush through her hair, studying her reflection in the glass. She had celebrated her fiftieth birthday last month, as the last warmth of summer began to fade. Her skin was as white and smooth as it had been when she was a young woman.
“The man she was with spoke with me today,” Erzsébet said softly. “It is true. These two are not what they appear to be.”
“That is easily remedied. You need not fear. Anna will take care of you, child. As always.” Darvulia stepped behind Erzsébet, touching the soft, fair face with a wizened hand.
The Countess placed her hand over Darvulia's where it rested against her cheek. “I am no more a child, Anna. But still, my youth lingers. You've shown your power.”
Darvulia picked up a long-bladed knife from the vanity, lightly running one finger along the deadly sharp edge. “There is much power to be found in the art of torture and death and terror. It is an old magic, much older than your young mind can fathom. A magic beyond this world.”
“Do not speak to me of the depths of hell, of the damnation of eternity. I will not face it.” She laid the brush on the vanity, closing her eyes.
“You need not.” Darvulia stepped away from Erzsébet, to stand over the bound and gagged form lying on ash-strewn floor. Zsophia looked up at the two women, trembling and whimpering. Erzsébet moved over, and the girl flinched when she knelt beside her. The ashes shifted beneath her legs, revealing a dark, flaking gore hidden beneath.
Erzsébet stroked Zsophia's cheek with a soft white hand. “Shhhh,” she soothed. “It will be all right.”
Darvulia handed the Countess the knife.
~~~~
Where was she? Where was Rose? Damn the size of this castle. The Doctor considered the wisdom of putting a homing beacon on his companion the next time they went anywhere. It would make things so much simpler when Rose inevitably got herself in imminent danger.
Imminent danger. He tried not to think about that too closely.
A scream cut through his thoughts, and he spun, hearts pounding wildly. He began to run towards the voice as it reverberated again through the corridor, and he realized with a rush of relief that it was not Rose's voice.
Through an open archway and into a small sitting room he ran, until he came to a stop before a tapestry-covered wall. He could hear soft whimpering coming from some distance behind it. He tore the tapestry from the wall and, with the help of his sonic, quickly found and released the latch on the door. “You do like your hidden rooms, Countess,” he murmured to himself as he stood at the top of a small flight of stone steps.
Below was a space furnished as a bedroom. A large, sheer-curtained bed stood on a raised platform. A huge stone fireplace graced one corner, and an ornate vanity stood against one wall. On the floor beside the bed, the Countess knelt beside a prone, writhing form.
The Doctor leveled the screwdriver and descended the steps as the Countess turned to look at him. She was drawing a bloody hand across her breast, thinly covered in a white linen shift. Her eyes were shining, the pupils dilated, as though she were in a trance. Darvulia stood nearby, watching him with wary, unblinking eyes.
The Doctor smiled coldly. “I know what you are,” he said to Darvulia. The old woman's eyes widened. “Oh, yes,” he said. “The Eternals banished your kind, eons ago. But how did you come to be here? How did you escape?” He took a step forward. “And,” he said, and his voice was very soft, edged with menace. “Where. Is. Rose?”
She was silent.
“Answer me,” he snarled. “I know you, Carrionite! Answer me!”
The word Carrionite had no sooner left his lips, than Darvulia's scream tore through the room. And then, abruptly, in a blinding flare of golden light, she was gone.
The Doctor stared.
“What did you do?” Bathory hissed, backing away from him. “What power is this?”
And then he realized. He looked at the Countess, who looked like some sort of wild thing, disheveled and covered in the girl's blood. “That is the power of a Name, Erzsébet. A true Name.” He took a step toward her, and she growled low in her throat at him, glaring at him defiantly with glassy eyes. “Would you like me to use yours?” She said nothing. “I'm going now,” he said. “And I'm taking this girl with me.”
He crouched by the weeping girl and quickly freed her bonds. The ropes had been tight enough to cut into flesh. Helping her to her feet and supporting her, he quickly guided her up the steps and into the sitting room.
He glanced up to see Rose striding toward him. He glowered at her. “Where have you been?”
“Battling hordes of evil dust,” she snapped, as she quickly moved to the girl's side. “Zsophia. Oh, God, will she be all right?”
“The wounds are all superficial. I got to her early on.”
“Good... I heard screaming and came looking, saw the fake wall standing open.” She gently took Zsophia's hand. “Come on, sweetheart. You'll be okay. The Doctor and I, we'll look after you, a'right?” The girl nodded, still too traumatized to respond.
~~~~
Anna Darvulia curled on the floor of her hidden chamber, her body still wracked with agony from the stranger's use of her Name. She had shifted herself to her room before any real damage was done. She dragged herself to her feet. No matter. This situation would be averted in short order. This Johanne Schmidt, whomever he may be, was living on borrowed time.
It had been five years since she had been freed, five years of living as the only of her kind in the world. Erzsébet was everything to her, one of the few who could understand her, and so very deliciously cruel. Darvulia soaked in the pain and suffering her charge inflicted, breathing it like oxygen. It made her feel so... very... alive.
That man would not end all of that for her.
She moved to the wooden table, lifted the lid to the box containing the poppets. She had very painstakingly made each doll to represent certain people that needed to be controlled and convinced to look the other way, obtaining the genetic material needed for the links using the greatest of stealth. She lifted one doll in particular. Yes, he would be most useful.
~~~~
The Doctor had directed Rose to get the girl-- Zsophia, he remembered-- out of the castle and to safety. He knew that being given charge of the safety of the young maid was about the only way she would willingly leave his side and find someplace safe to wait for him.
Assuming she waited, and didn't come back to look for him. That was a rather big assumption, he realized.
He moved purposefully toward Darvulia's room. He needed to end this. He knew this now. Bathory's reign of terror ended not because a bunch of government officials suddenly decided to investigate the deaths of these girls, but because Darvulia's veil over their eyes was suddenly lifted. He would bet money, if he had any to bet, that Anna Darvulia was manipulating events somehow.
When a small contingent of guards, led by a suspiciously blank-eyed leader, converged on him and promptly attempted to skewer him on their swords, he was not surprised.
~~~~
Rose ran, keeping hold of Zsophia's hand. “It's just through this corridor,” she panted to the maid, who stumbled slightly. “We're almost out of here. You'll be safe. I promise.”
She nearly ran headlong into Anna Darvulia.
She gave a nervous laugh. “Oh! Hello. Um.” She glanced at Zsophia. “Run.”
The girl ran. Darvulia did not pursue her. Rose tried not to think about what that might mean.
“A name,” the witch breathed. “Your name. I see you; I see who you are not. And you, child, are not the daughter of an Austrian nobleman. Your name is not Tanja.” She smiled. “And your friend is not merely your escort. He is more, so much more than that, is he not?”
“Leave him alone,” Rose snapped.
Darvulia laughed. “Oh, he's well and done for by now, I should think.”
“You obviously don't know him, then.”
“I see much more than you give me credit for. Dear little Rose. I see what he feels for you. I only regret that he will not be alive to watch you suffer. His agony would be so sweet. Delectable.” She reached into the bodice of her dress and withdrew a small cloth doll.
Rose swallowed hard. “What is that?”
“I collect samples from all the girls who come to be in the employ of the Countess,” Darvulia said. “Just a precaution, really. A very useful precaution.” She pulled out a length of twine, and her voice lowered and reverberated as she began to chant and wind the twine around the doll. Rose shuddered, as she felt the words begin to wrap around her like coils of rope. “Thrice bound, thrice stilled. Thrice the youngling girl revealed. Thrice to hold her, thrice to take her, thrice to movement unfulfilled.”
Three times Darvulia wound the twine around the doll, and Rose collapsed, fully conscious but unable to move.
~~~~
The Doctor brandished the cutlass that he had found decorating a shield on a wall, trying to keep the guardsmen at a distance and block their blows without harming them. The head-of-guard watched, blank and empty, standing aside, repeating the same words again and again. “Kill him,” he said. “Kill him now. Kill him.” He made no attempt to fulfill his own order. The module controlling him obviously had its limits.
“Listen to me!” he shouted at the guardsmen, who were only being controlled by the orders of their leader. “Stop this. This man is being manipulated; can't you see that? Is he acting in any way normal?” He parried a particularly brutal slash from one of the men, sweeping his sword in an arc against the other man's and jerking it from his hand, catching it deftly. He took a defensive stance. “I don't want to hurt you. You hear me? Stop this. Now.”
They swept in on him, and he ran into a room, straight through to the door at the other end, dropping one of the swords and slamming the door shut. He sonicked the lock, sealing it. He spun to face his attackers. “You like that, eh? You like it? Blocked myself in, I did. How's that for strategy?” He lunged forward, flinging aside an attack with his blade, spinning and dancing out of the way. “Oh!” he shouted. “But did I truly block myself in? What is this strategy, you may ask?” He dodged around two more guardsmen, flashed a brilliant grin at the blank head-of-guard, dropped his sword, and ran as fast as his feet could carry him through the door he had just come through. He slammed it shut and sealed the lock. “That's my strategy,” he growled.
He turned and made his way back towards Darvulia's room. He had some things he needed to gather before he confronted her.
~~~~
“He is dead, you know,” the crone breathed. “I saw it, as I see things that are true. They bled him out, as you are going to be bled out.” Darvulia smiled. “Your death will be much slower, however.”
Rose glared at the witch, chewing on her gag. The spell, or whatever it was called, had been removed, but she had been tightly bound hand and foot and a dingy rag stuffed into her mouth and tied around her head. She was clothed only in a thin shift, and the Countess knelt beside her, gazing at her through heavily lidded eyes. Darvulia stood nearby, the crags of her face in sharp relief in the firelight, black eyes blazing.
Erzsébet trailed a hand down Rose's throat, her touch light, almost a caress. Rose cringed and growled through the gag. Her eyes followed the gleaming knife held in the Countess' other hand as it lowered and pressed against her collarbone, drawing a thin line of blood in its wake.
“Are you afraid, Rose?” the Countess murmured in her ear. The blade drew another cut, this time in her shoulder. “You're different. So says my witch. You have so much power in your blood.” She leaned forward and slid her tongue across the wound in her shoulder. “The taste of time and eternity. Of forever.” Erzsébet leaned forward, pressing her lips against Rose's shoulder. “And I will have that power.”
Rose screamed as Erzsébet's teeth sank into her shoulder, tearing deep.
~~~~
The Doctor, who had been moving hurriedly back to the Countess' hidden torture chamber, practically tore the concealed door from the wall when he heard Rose scream. Of course she had come back!
He flew down the steps and stopped, trembling with barely constrained fury and fear. Rose. His Rose lay bound and helpless and bleeding into the ashes on the floor, and he had let it happen.
“Move away from her, Countess,” he said, too softly. “Do not make me tell you twice.”
The Countess looked up at him, and with a sudden movement, slashed the bonds on Rose's ankles. Holding the knife to her throat, she dragged Rose to her feet and slowly backed away. “You will not interfere. Stay back.”
Darvulia crept towards the Doctor, one hand reaching out. He stood still, and looked at her. She hesitated.
“You made poppets for all the staff here,” he said, his voice still deceptively calm and quiet. “And, just in case things went wrong and you lost control of the situation, you made one for the Countess.” He removed a silk-wrapped doll from his coat pocket.
“Fool!” Darvulia spat. “You cannot effect change in that way. You are human. You don't have the psychic abilities needed to do this.”
“I'm not human,” the Doctor said. He withdrew a needle from his pocket and gave the doll a light prick to the head. The Countess collapsed. “I'm a Time Lord.”
Rose flinched to one side, moving away from the collapsed woman as Darvulia screamed and ran to her charge's side. She turned the limp form over, touching gnarled fingers to her neck. “Only sleeping,” she whispered, then smiled toothily at the Doctor. “Your magic is not as strong as you perhaps like to think, 'Time Lord.'”
Rose moved away from the Carrionite, eying the fallen knife. She crouched by it, maneuvering to grasp it in her bound hands, and began working at the ropes around her wrists.
“I didn't intend to kill her,” said the Doctor. “She still has a role to fulfill in history, as terrible as that role is.” He studied Darvulia. “You, on the other hand... you are an outside influence. You honed her bloodlust, channelled it, used it to feed your own depravity. You don't belong. And that's why I'm here.” He took a breath. “I'm giving you a choice. One chance; that's all you get. You can leave here now, disappear into the forest, survive off the wilderness. Have no further contact with humanity. Cause no more bloodshed. Not ever. Swear this, bind yourself with your own 'magic' so you can never rescind your oath.”
“And if I refuse?” Darvulia snarled.
“I will stop you.”
Darvulia nodded. Then she looked at Rose, who had freed her hands and was removing the gag from her mouth. With lightning reflexes, she grabbed a handful of Rose's hair and yanked. Rose cried out as her hair was torn from her scalp, and with a shriek tried to make a grab for Darvulia, but the witch had already swept herself towards the back of the room. She had Rose's module in hand, and was stuffing the golden strands inside. “Fresh genetic material, Time Lord. Strong enough to kill.” She laughed, madness making her voice shrill. “Will you stop me when I hold hostage the bright star of your heart? No, I think not. I will leave here, yes, but you have no power over me so long as you cannot find me, no? But I have power over her.” She spread her arms, the poppet in one hand, a long needle in the other. “And now, I leave.”
“Before you go,” the Doctor said quickly, before she could vanish. “There's something you should see.” He removed a small crystal bottle from his jacket pocket, a bottle darkened by the blood inside it.
“You've been to my inner chambers...” Darvulia whispered.
“I'm good at finding things,” the Doctor said. He withdrew another module and held it lightly in his hand. “Including your hairbrush. Careless of you, leaving it lying around like that where anyone could find it.” He removed the stopper to the perfume bottle and took a whiff, grimacing. “And this is, apparently, what, a souvenir? Blood collected from each and every victim you helped to torture, to mutilate, to murder.”
“Give that to me!” Darvulia shrieked, surging forward across the room.
The Doctor stepped back, holding up the doll in defense, and the Carrionite pressed the pin to the head of Rose's module, not quite piercing. Rose gasped, wincing.
The Doctor shook his head. “That was really, really the wrong choice, Darvulia. You see, the thing about psychic energy is that it exists in its raw, undeveloped form within the human mind, whether it is able to be channeled or no. It is emotion. It is thought. It is love and hate, joy. Rage. Pain. Fear.” He looked at the bottle. “The kind of fear these girls felt as their lives were torn from them so violently.”
Rose, her jaw set, retrieved a poker from by the fireplace and began to move stealthily towards Darvulia from behind.
“Put down the module,” the Doctor said. “Or I will use this.”
Darvulia stared at him for a moment. Then she smiled. “No.” She moved the needle against the head of the module, and Rose grabbed her by the wrist, jerking her hand back and away from the doll. Darvulia spun on her, snatching the poker out of her hand and shoving it towards her neck with a vicious thrust and a shriek. “I will take her with me!” Rose caught the iron prod with a quick movement, yanking it aside, but the point grazed the side of her neck.
And then, Darvulia screamed. She sank to her knees, clutching her head, and began to convulse, before collapsing in a twitching heap on the floor.
The Doctor tossed aside the module, now coated with the blood from the bottle. He hurried to Rose's side as she sank to her knees, pressing his hand against the wound in her neck, fishing in his pocket for a handkerchief.
“I'm okay,” Rose said, her words slightly slurred. She laughed, slightly hysterical. “S'only a flesh wound.” She looked at Darvulia. “What did you do to her?”
“Psychic backlash from all those girls she helped to torture and murder. It was bound up in that blood, and I directed it into her DNA module. It overwhelmed her, shorted her out.” He pressed the handkerchief against the wound in Rose's neck, and then pressed her hand against it, instructing her to hold it in place. Then he rolled Darvulia over.
“Still alive,” he said. “She essentially had a stroke; her brain burned itself out. At least, that's what the history books will say.”
He stood, helped Rose to her feet. Then he wrapped his arms around her, his face buried in her hair. He was trembling.
~~~~
The Doctor passed the hand-held dermal regenerator over the bite wound in Rose's shoulder one last time, leaving soft pink flesh in its wake. Rose sat perched on the exam table in the TARDIS' med bay, swinging her legs and looking bored. “Are you done yet?”
“Oi,” he said. “You can't rush this thing. Just sit still.”
"It itches." She fidgeted, drummed her fingers on the metal table. “Doctor?”
“Yeah?”
“What happens to the Countess?”
He glanced up. “The inquiry into her.... 'activities' begins this year. She opened a Gynaecaeum, a school of etiquette for noble girls, sometime last year, as a way to attract further victims.” He ran his thumb gently over the freshly healed skin of her shoulder. “With Darvulia no longer using advanced science disguised as 'magic' to control those who would investigate, she is finally brought to trial for her crimes.”
“So she will be stopped,” Rose said.
“Yes.”
“Just... not by us.”
“No. Not by us.”
“And what do they do to her?”
He took a breath, turning to replace the dermal regenerator in its charger. “They wall her up in her own castle, keep her alive by feeding her through a slit in the wall. She dies a few years later.”
Rose slid off the exam table, and the Doctor turned to look at her, holding her gaze for a long moment before putting his arms around her. They stood in each others' embrace, clinging to one another, Rose's face resting in the crook of the Doctor's shoulder, for far longer than either of them would have ever been willing to admit to any outsiders. Such things were never spoken of, only experienced. That was the way of it.
Rating: R
Characters/pairings: Ten/Rose
Warnings/spoilers: Depictions of violence and torture.
Authors Note: Please heed warnings! This story is dark and may be disturbing to some. Also, this might be a teensy bit A/U
She had been called, summoned, freed from the endless blackness in a blissful outpouring of hot blood, terror, and the intricate dance of words of power. As the world around Her, the solid world pulsing with life and untapped energies, began to take shape before Her eyes, Her attention was drawn to the one who had called Her forth. The creature stood on two legs, swathed in a white linen shift, slender and small and gracefully built, with waves of dark hair cascading down its back. It looked so fragile, but She could feel the tumult of madness and blood-lust pulsing within it, and it was so delicious.
“Obey ye, obey ye,” the feeble little thing said. “Behold the symbols and names of the creator. Be ye gentle and peaceable, and obey in all things that I shall command ye!”
Because She was still somewhat disoriented and overwhelmed with the sudden sensation of life, She did not rip the heart from the breast of the presumptuous, inconsequential being before Her.
“You will take a form pleasing to my eye,” the creature said, and, because She was curious and so very glad to be free, She assumed the form of a being similar to the creature before Her so that She might hear and understand what the creature had to say. As She assumed the form, reaching into the consciousness of the being before Her, the word for the shape She was adopting floated into Her mind. Human. And then, Woman.
The human woman in the white shift stretched pale hands to the being who had assumed the form of a woman and said, “If my soul is to be damned, help me to preserve my body.”
~~~~
Five Years Later
Of course, Rose thought as she stepped from the TARDIS. His driving skills still haven't improved.
She turned to him, a smirk quirking one corner of her mouth. “Woodstock '69, Doctor?”
Her friend was looking rather bemused, turning slowly on his plimsolled heels to take in the houses built of timbre and thatch, the dusty stretch of dirt that served as a road, the stone church. The sky overhead was heavy with clouds, and hazy mountains loomed all around them. Rose shuddered off a chill, rubbing her arms. The Doctor glanced at her, shrugging. “Right. I may have steered us a little bit off course...”
Rose shook her head, chuckling. The Doctor frowned fiercely at her. “Oh, come on, now! It's not that bad. See? Nice little village in the mountains. Nice and quiet. Picturesque. I like that word, picturesque, don't you?” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his pinstriped suit jacket, letting his long coat flare out behind him, and began to walk, gazing around. Rose kept stride beside him.
“Since when do you like quiet?” she asked.
“Oh, I do love a spot of quiet,” he replied absently, his attention drawn to a small procession that moved slowly towards them. A rough wooden cart drawn by two tired-looking horses was accompanied by three black-robed men and a number of villagers dressed in simple, dark clothing. The sound of low singing wafted on the air; the men (priests, thought Rose) seemed to be chanting.
“Oh, you do not,” Rose laughed. “You hate the quiet. You're the most un-quiet person I know.” She turned her attention to the procession. “What is that? A funeral?”
“Yes,” the Doctor said, frowning. He began to walk towards the cart.
“Any idea when and where we are?” Rose asked, hurrying to keep up with him.
“Oh, judging by the architecture and the dress, I'd say sixteenth or early seventeenth century Europe. Somewhere in the Carpathians, I think.”
“The Carpathians? You mean like Transylvania?” Rose was watching the funeral procession. She caught a glimpse of a simple wooden box in the back of the cart as it rounded a bend and began to pass by them. The box looked too big for just one person, she thought uneasily.
“Yes,” the Doctor said. “Like Transylvania.” He, too, was looking at the coffin. He turned to one of the villagers that was following the cart. “Excuse me. I'm new to these parts, only just passing through today, and I couldn't help notice. Might you tell me who this funeral is for?”
The woman, small and wrinkled with a few wisps of iron-gray hair peeking from beneath a scarf, looked at him with dark, glassy eyes. She had the blank stare of a woman far too acquainted with grief. “Three of our children have succumbed to the cholera,” she said softly. “Three girls. My own Angyalka was one of them.” She glanced at the casket, and Rose saw a flicker in those hollow eyes that may have been fear. “A maid, she was. She worked for the Countess at Csethje.”
The Doctor's eyebrows raised. “Csethje,” he murmered. “Interesting.” He smiled gently at the woman. “I'm sorry, just one more question. Might you tell me what year it is?”
“Do you not know?” The woman shook her head, but shrugged, evidently too exhausted emotionally to question it too deeply. “It is the Year of Our Lord, sixteen-hundred and ten.” She turned away and continued to follow the procession.
Rose watched them move into the distance while the Doctor seemed lost in thought. “That poor woman,” she said softly. “Then there's a cholera outbreak in the village? Why were they all put in the same coffin? Is that normal?”
“It's not a cholera outbreak,” the Doctor said.
“What? What d'you mean?”
The Doctor looked at Rose, his eyes unreadable. “We should go. We... we need to go.”
Rose took his arm and looked at him closely. “Why?”
“Because what happens here is a part of history. It can't be changed.” He began to walk, but Rose held his arm and refused to budge.
“Will you just tell me what's going on here? I want to know.”
“No, you don't.”
She tugged on his arm, and he turned to face her. “Don't tell me what I do or don't want,” she said softly. “That's not your place.”
He sighed, and closed his hands on her shoulders. “Rose, this is a village under the rule of one of the most notorious serial killers in history. The Countess Erzsébet Bathory.”
“I haven't heard of her.”
“She tortured and murdered hundreds of teenaged girls. Servants and maids, young girls found by her accomplices and brought to her from as far away as Austria. It's said she bathed in their blood to retain her beauty. It's also said she was a vampire.”
Rose grimaced, her stomach twisting. “That's horrible. Was she? A vampire?”
“No. Well, probably not. I don't think so.”
“You talk like you think it's possible. Are there vampires, Doctor?”
“Yes, yes, of course there are. Where do you think all the stories came from? You have your Plasmavores, and Haemavores, and the Great Vampire.” He paused. “Granted, half the old European stories resembled zombies more than what you lot usually think of as vampires. The tales were mostly brought on by a lack of understanding how bodies decompose, coupled with superstition.”
Rose chewed her lip; he was rambling again, but his eyes were carefully blank. She took his hand. “But there's nothing we can do here.”
“No.” He looked at her silently for a moment before saying, “But, this is the year she and her accomplices are finally brought to trial. Bathory's noble status only protects her for so long.”
A small voice cut into the Doctor's words. “The witch whispers to her.” Rose looked down and saw the owner of the voice, a child with a smudged face and dark brown eyes. She couldn't have been more than seven.
The Doctor crouched before the girl. “Hello,” he said softly. “What's your name?”
The child looked at him solemnly. “ Franciska.”
“What do you mean, the witch whispers to her? Do you mean the Countess?”
“The witch. The forest-witch. She whispers to her ear. She tells her how to live eternally, to be young eternally. She mumbles incantations and flies through the air at night.” The child shuddered, her eyes wide. “I saw her fly.”
The Doctor frowned thoughtfully. The girl wrapped her arms about herself, looking away. The Doctor coaxed, “Tell me what else you saw, Franciska.”
“She plays with dolls. I saw her. She was hiding behind the church, but I saw her. She plays with dolls that... make people do things. Forget things. Ignore things.”
He rocked back on his heels. “Dolls. Dolls, dolls....” He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand in halfhazard spikes. “Dolls that control people?”
“What?” Rose asked. “Like voodoo dolls?”
He glanced at her. “Well. Yes and no. More like... a DNA replication module?”
“That doesn't sound like something you'd find in seventeenth century Transylvania.”
“No. It doesn't.” He looked at Franciska, giving her a reassuring smile. “Thank you, Franciska. Run along home now. Don't tell anyone you've talked to us. And stay away from any castles!” He stood and turned to Rose, looking troubled.
“Doctor,” Rose said softly, after the child had run off. “You think there's something... alien going on here, don't you?”
“The Countess was rumored to have had a witch as an adviser,” he said. “Fear of witchcraft is still rather prevalent these days, especially in the more rural areas. Mostly, it's just people persecuting midwives and herbalists, or holdovers from the old religions who've refused to assimilate, or even good, old-fashioned neighborly rivalry. 'She has two more chickens and a nicer house than I do. I think I'll accuse her of witchcraft.' That kind of thing.” He sighed. “But this girl. She saw something. I would bet one of my lives on it. She saw something that she didn't understand, and it terrified her.”
“Then we're goin' to investigate.”
The Doctor took a deep breath, running a hand down his face. “All right. Yes. Yes, we'll stay and investigate. But, you.” He gave her a fierce look and waved a finger in her face. “Do not wander off. Not here. Stay with me at all times while we're doing this.”
“I should pretend to be one of her serving girls,” Rose said.
The Doctor's eyebrows shot up. “I just said you need to stay with me at all times! Don't think you can do that if you're setting yourself up as bait!”
“Well, how else do you suggest we infiltrate their household? You've said it yourself before-- the staff hear and see more than anyone. Besides, think we might stand out a bit if we just waltz in asking where the aliens are.”
“No.”
“Doctor, it's the only way we'll get close enough to find out what's going on--”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“-- and figure out what we need to do about it.”
“Rose.” He took her by the shoulders, his grip a little tighter than was comfortable. “Please, listen to me. The Countess gets her thrills by torturing her serving girls. Do you understand what I'm saying to you? If you look at her the wrong way, or if your dress is wrinkled or crooked, or if you drop a feather duster, she will....” He broke off, and the look he leveled at her caused her heart to lodge in her throat.
She touched his face, gently tracing his jawline with her finger. “It's me, Doctor. I'll be fine. This is the best way to go about this, and you know it.” He shook his head, but she could see his resolve wavering. She smiled at him reassuringly, her eyes pleading.
He sighed, defeated. “Oh, all right. Knowing you, you'll just find some way to do it anyway even if I tell you not to. But do not go anywhere near her private chambers, do you understand me? If she acts the least bit threatening towards you, run. Don't try to take her on yourself.”
“All right.”
“Promise me.”
“Doctor, I promise.”
He looked at her silently for a moment, still gripping her shoulders, before saying, “Good,” and leaning down to drop a kiss to her forehead. Then he let her go.
~~~~
Rose adjusted the shoulders on her rough-spun dress and glanced around the spacious room. It was elegantly decorated and furnished, with intricately woven carpets, furniture so richly made it almost appeared gaudy, paintings by what she presumed to be the latest fashionable artists, and classical marble sculptures gracing ornate pedestals; all arranged in aesthetically pleasing positions throughout the room. It was always a shock to her to see how the aristocracy lived in comparison to the villagers. She felt her stomach turn as she thought again about what this particular aristocrat did with her spare time.
She and the Doctor had found suitable clothing for her in the TARDIS wardrobe room; he still insisted, predictably, on wearing his typical brown suit, overcoat, and chucks. Then, they had made the trek on foot to the Castle Csejthe, situated some distance from the village at the edge of a bluff. He introduced himself as Johanne Schmidt, and Rose he introduced as his Austrian charge Tanja Filipović, to be brought into service as a maid to the Countess.
Rose had been hurried to what she presumed was a drawing room or foyer or some other waiting area for guests, and the Doctor, as her escort, had been dismissed. He had glanced rather anxiously at her before slipping away, but Rose knew he wouldn't be too far.
She wasn't about to let him know how uneasy she was. Something about this place sent shivers down her spine. The air felt thick, unbreathable. The shadows stretching across the floor and spilling up the walls seemed to flicker with movement.
She was being watched.
“Ah, I was told a new girl had arrived. And so, here you are.”
Rose spun, her heart pounding. An older woman stood framed by the doorway. The light was too dim to see her features. Rose flashed a smile. “Yes,” she said. “I'm R-- Tanja. Tanja Filipović.” She breathed deeply, relieved that she had caught herself before giving the wrong name. Get a hold of yourself, she told herself crossly. She straightened her stance, peering at the woman, trying to see through the darkness. “I'm here from Vienna. I was brought here as a household maid.”
The woman nodded, moving forward. “Yes. So I was told. We were not informed of your employment here, Tanja.”
“Yes. I know. They said the letter got lost or somethin'. You know those mail carriers. Always putting things in the wrong box.” She laughed nervously.
The woman stopped in front of Rose, looking at her closely. She was indeed older, though her age was impossible to tell. Her features were sharp, her eyes nearly black but uncannily bright. Her hair was wispy and grey, tied into a severe knot atop her head. She looked at Rose with those unsettling eyes, and Rose began to feel as though she had no secrets from this woman. She took Rose's jaw in one surprisingly strong hand, tilting her head this way and that as fingernails dug into soft flesh, as if examining every crease of skin. “How old are you, girl?”
“Sixteen, ma'am,” Rose lied.
“A touch old.”
“Old?” Rose sputtered. “I'm not old.”
The woman backhanded her. “You will learn your place, girl.”
Face stinging, Rose almost snarled a retort, before remembering that she really did need to be playing this part. “I'm sorry, of course. I'll learn my... place.” She forced a smile. “And what should I be calling you, ma'am?”
“You do have a mouth on you. It is a vice that will be remedied, I assure you. I am Anna Darvulia. You answer to me, directly.” She lifted a loose strand of Rose's hair, running it between her gnarled fingers before tucking it behind one ear. “Have you ever known the pleasures of love, child?”
Rose faltered. “I-- I. What? I mean.” She thought quickly; probably best to say no. “I haven't, Lady Darvulia.”
Darvulia nodded, her ebony eyes blinking like a bird's. “Very good.”
~~~~
He didn't like this idea. Not one bit. She was going in there like a sheep to the slaughter. Why did she always have to be so brave? His brave, foolish Rose. What was he thinking, letting her do this?
He walked, peering into rooms and examining corridors, until reaching the doorway of the small household chapel.
He stood on the threshold, his eyes sweeping the room. Washes of brilliantly colored light poured through stained glass to pattern the floor and across the pews, wrapping around the slender figure of a woman who knelt before the altar. Her cloak was spread about her, dark hair tumbling loose past her shoulders. She did not bow her head, but gazed upward at the crucifix on the wall, her shoulders set and straight.
“My husband was Catholic,” she said after a moment.
The Doctor nodded. “I know.”
The woman continued. “Yet in my childhood, I was taught that only a certain few, a numbered Elect, would be allowed into paradise. I am told that he was not amongst them.” She was silent for a moment, silent and still, an ethereal vision. “Do you think I will see him when I leave this world?” she finally asked, before laughing softly. “Perhaps it would be better to never leave this world at all. I have no wish to see that bastard again. Even in hell.”
The Doctor did not answer. The woman rose then, her movements silken and graceful, and turned to face him. She was regal and beautiful, with a high forehead enhanced by the shearing of her hairline. Her eyes were cold but very keen, her skin pale and smooth. “Who are you?” she asked.
He fished out his psychic paper, handing it to her. “Johann Schmidt. I've come from Vienna, accompanying Tanja Filipović, daughter to Guenther. You know Guenther, yes? Tanja's to be in your employ as a household maid.”
“I know of Guenther Filipović,” she said. “I wasn't aware he had a daughter.”
“Didn't you? Well, he does. He deems it a great honor that you give his daughter a place in your household.” He paused, looking at her coolly. “Countess.”
“Why was I not made aware of this?”
“Your servants perhaps slipped in the lines of communication. These things happen when traveling abroad.”
She smiled. “Indeed, they do. And you, sir? Are you the girl's brother?”
He shook his head. “Her brother? No, no, only an escort.”
“Her only escort? Strange. But you know her.”
“Yes. I know her.”
“Tell me of her. How does she appear? Is she very young and fair?”
The Doctor took a breath to quell the fury that suddenly began to build within him. “You'll see her soon enough, Lady,” he said, his voice carefully smooth and devoid of inflection.
The Countess looked him in the eye. He stared hard, and she did not flinch. Eventually, she smiled. “Very well. Do make yourself comfortable in my home during your stay.”
“Oh, I intend to. Thank you.”
~~~~
Rose tugged again at the sleeves of her dress; the rough-spun cotton was beginning to chafe. She swept her feather duster halfheartedly over an ornate lamp, peeking from beneath her fringe at the girl who was busy brushing the carpets with a soft broom. The girl had been quiet, reserved, focusing intently on her task and barely giving Rose a second glance.
Rose smiled, looking openly at the girl, trying to get her attention. “I'm Tanja. New here, actually, first day and all. Still trying to learn my way around. What's your name?”
The girl smiled briefly. “Zsophia.”
“Pretty name, Zsophia. I like it. Where are you from? You come from one of the villages around here?”
“Yes. I'm from Újhely.”
“Oh. I'm from Austria. Vienna.” She swept the duster in a lazy circle, contemplating how to get the girl to open up a little. “This must be a big change for you, living in a castle all of a sudden. What's it like here? Place is a bit creepy, if you ask me.”
“I don't know. I mean, it's work. Helps to provide for my family. I don't know much. Only my chores.” Zsophia looked at Rose, her eyes pleading. “Really, Tanja, you shouldn't ask questions. That's... frowned upon. You'll find out soon enough.”
“Find out what?”
“You shouldn't ask.”
~~~~
The Doctor looked at the readout on his sonic screwdriver. “Off the charts for psychic energy,” he muttered to himself. “Far more than a human's capable of. But where does it originate?” He made a few adjustments to the device and began to walk, scanning every few feet. The readings built in intensity as he approached the servant's quarters. He scanned each room briefly. “Curioser and curioser. And what do we have behind ...” Scan. “Door...” Scan. “Number... “ Scan. “Four?”
He tried the door. It was locked, which in itself should be telling, given the fact that he was in the servants' quarters. He popped the lock with the sonic and stepped inside. The room was simply furnished, dimly lit by a high-set window, a private room, unlike the other rooms which housed several servants. A low cot stood against one wall, a small table with a few books and a burned down candle against another, and a wooden wardrobe to the back. The sonic screwdriver hummed as he scanned again. “Ah, a wardrobe. Always a wardrobe, innit?” He opened the door and pushed aside the clothing, rapping his knuckles against the back in a hollow echo. “Yep, thought so.” He adjusted the sonic and swept it across until he heard the click of a latch. He slid the hidden door open and stepped through, removing a torch from his coat pocket and switching it on.
“Yep, I'd say I found something,” the Doctor said softly, slowly passing the light across the hidden room. A plethora of sinister-looking artifacts, masks, and painted symbols adorned the walls. A low, long table held an assortment of daggers, needles, gnarled rope, candles, and other implements that he did not want to think about. A wooden box rested on the table; he lifted the lid to reveal several straw-and-cloth dolls lying side by side at the bottom. Some of the dolls were bound with rope; others had their eyes or mouths covered. Others were pierced with needles. A crystal perfume bottle that appeared to be filled with blood was nestled between the dolls. He closed the lid to the box and looked to where a large, rusty cauldron stood over the cooling embers of a firepit in the center of the room. A sickly green glow wafted above the rim.
He stepped to it, and looked into the liquid. Something snapped and tugged at his mind, and suddenly he could see an image forming on the surface of the liquid. A figure in tattered black robes, its face bony and beak-like, hovered as though in the air. A sharp screech like that of a bird echoed in the Doctor's mind, and as he watched, the figure shifted and warped, to appear more human. An older woman with sharp features, unnaturally bright black eyes, and gray hair bound tightly atop her head stood in the creature's stead.
~~~~
“The girl is not what she seems,” Darvulia said. “The name she gave was not true.”
Erzsébet slowly drew the hairbrush through her hair, studying her reflection in the glass. She had celebrated her fiftieth birthday last month, as the last warmth of summer began to fade. Her skin was as white and smooth as it had been when she was a young woman.
“The man she was with spoke with me today,” Erzsébet said softly. “It is true. These two are not what they appear to be.”
“That is easily remedied. You need not fear. Anna will take care of you, child. As always.” Darvulia stepped behind Erzsébet, touching the soft, fair face with a wizened hand.
The Countess placed her hand over Darvulia's where it rested against her cheek. “I am no more a child, Anna. But still, my youth lingers. You've shown your power.”
Darvulia picked up a long-bladed knife from the vanity, lightly running one finger along the deadly sharp edge. “There is much power to be found in the art of torture and death and terror. It is an old magic, much older than your young mind can fathom. A magic beyond this world.”
“Do not speak to me of the depths of hell, of the damnation of eternity. I will not face it.” She laid the brush on the vanity, closing her eyes.
“You need not.” Darvulia stepped away from Erzsébet, to stand over the bound and gagged form lying on ash-strewn floor. Zsophia looked up at the two women, trembling and whimpering. Erzsébet moved over, and the girl flinched when she knelt beside her. The ashes shifted beneath her legs, revealing a dark, flaking gore hidden beneath.
Erzsébet stroked Zsophia's cheek with a soft white hand. “Shhhh,” she soothed. “It will be all right.”
Darvulia handed the Countess the knife.
~~~~
Where was she? Where was Rose? Damn the size of this castle. The Doctor considered the wisdom of putting a homing beacon on his companion the next time they went anywhere. It would make things so much simpler when Rose inevitably got herself in imminent danger.
Imminent danger. He tried not to think about that too closely.
A scream cut through his thoughts, and he spun, hearts pounding wildly. He began to run towards the voice as it reverberated again through the corridor, and he realized with a rush of relief that it was not Rose's voice.
Through an open archway and into a small sitting room he ran, until he came to a stop before a tapestry-covered wall. He could hear soft whimpering coming from some distance behind it. He tore the tapestry from the wall and, with the help of his sonic, quickly found and released the latch on the door. “You do like your hidden rooms, Countess,” he murmured to himself as he stood at the top of a small flight of stone steps.
Below was a space furnished as a bedroom. A large, sheer-curtained bed stood on a raised platform. A huge stone fireplace graced one corner, and an ornate vanity stood against one wall. On the floor beside the bed, the Countess knelt beside a prone, writhing form.
The Doctor leveled the screwdriver and descended the steps as the Countess turned to look at him. She was drawing a bloody hand across her breast, thinly covered in a white linen shift. Her eyes were shining, the pupils dilated, as though she were in a trance. Darvulia stood nearby, watching him with wary, unblinking eyes.
The Doctor smiled coldly. “I know what you are,” he said to Darvulia. The old woman's eyes widened. “Oh, yes,” he said. “The Eternals banished your kind, eons ago. But how did you come to be here? How did you escape?” He took a step forward. “And,” he said, and his voice was very soft, edged with menace. “Where. Is. Rose?”
She was silent.
“Answer me,” he snarled. “I know you, Carrionite! Answer me!”
The word Carrionite had no sooner left his lips, than Darvulia's scream tore through the room. And then, abruptly, in a blinding flare of golden light, she was gone.
The Doctor stared.
“What did you do?” Bathory hissed, backing away from him. “What power is this?”
And then he realized. He looked at the Countess, who looked like some sort of wild thing, disheveled and covered in the girl's blood. “That is the power of a Name, Erzsébet. A true Name.” He took a step toward her, and she growled low in her throat at him, glaring at him defiantly with glassy eyes. “Would you like me to use yours?” She said nothing. “I'm going now,” he said. “And I'm taking this girl with me.”
He crouched by the weeping girl and quickly freed her bonds. The ropes had been tight enough to cut into flesh. Helping her to her feet and supporting her, he quickly guided her up the steps and into the sitting room.
He glanced up to see Rose striding toward him. He glowered at her. “Where have you been?”
“Battling hordes of evil dust,” she snapped, as she quickly moved to the girl's side. “Zsophia. Oh, God, will she be all right?”
“The wounds are all superficial. I got to her early on.”
“Good... I heard screaming and came looking, saw the fake wall standing open.” She gently took Zsophia's hand. “Come on, sweetheart. You'll be okay. The Doctor and I, we'll look after you, a'right?” The girl nodded, still too traumatized to respond.
~~~~
Anna Darvulia curled on the floor of her hidden chamber, her body still wracked with agony from the stranger's use of her Name. She had shifted herself to her room before any real damage was done. She dragged herself to her feet. No matter. This situation would be averted in short order. This Johanne Schmidt, whomever he may be, was living on borrowed time.
It had been five years since she had been freed, five years of living as the only of her kind in the world. Erzsébet was everything to her, one of the few who could understand her, and so very deliciously cruel. Darvulia soaked in the pain and suffering her charge inflicted, breathing it like oxygen. It made her feel so... very... alive.
That man would not end all of that for her.
She moved to the wooden table, lifted the lid to the box containing the poppets. She had very painstakingly made each doll to represent certain people that needed to be controlled and convinced to look the other way, obtaining the genetic material needed for the links using the greatest of stealth. She lifted one doll in particular. Yes, he would be most useful.
~~~~
The Doctor had directed Rose to get the girl-- Zsophia, he remembered-- out of the castle and to safety. He knew that being given charge of the safety of the young maid was about the only way she would willingly leave his side and find someplace safe to wait for him.
Assuming she waited, and didn't come back to look for him. That was a rather big assumption, he realized.
He moved purposefully toward Darvulia's room. He needed to end this. He knew this now. Bathory's reign of terror ended not because a bunch of government officials suddenly decided to investigate the deaths of these girls, but because Darvulia's veil over their eyes was suddenly lifted. He would bet money, if he had any to bet, that Anna Darvulia was manipulating events somehow.
When a small contingent of guards, led by a suspiciously blank-eyed leader, converged on him and promptly attempted to skewer him on their swords, he was not surprised.
~~~~
Rose ran, keeping hold of Zsophia's hand. “It's just through this corridor,” she panted to the maid, who stumbled slightly. “We're almost out of here. You'll be safe. I promise.”
She nearly ran headlong into Anna Darvulia.
She gave a nervous laugh. “Oh! Hello. Um.” She glanced at Zsophia. “Run.”
The girl ran. Darvulia did not pursue her. Rose tried not to think about what that might mean.
“A name,” the witch breathed. “Your name. I see you; I see who you are not. And you, child, are not the daughter of an Austrian nobleman. Your name is not Tanja.” She smiled. “And your friend is not merely your escort. He is more, so much more than that, is he not?”
“Leave him alone,” Rose snapped.
Darvulia laughed. “Oh, he's well and done for by now, I should think.”
“You obviously don't know him, then.”
“I see much more than you give me credit for. Dear little Rose. I see what he feels for you. I only regret that he will not be alive to watch you suffer. His agony would be so sweet. Delectable.” She reached into the bodice of her dress and withdrew a small cloth doll.
Rose swallowed hard. “What is that?”
“I collect samples from all the girls who come to be in the employ of the Countess,” Darvulia said. “Just a precaution, really. A very useful precaution.” She pulled out a length of twine, and her voice lowered and reverberated as she began to chant and wind the twine around the doll. Rose shuddered, as she felt the words begin to wrap around her like coils of rope. “Thrice bound, thrice stilled. Thrice the youngling girl revealed. Thrice to hold her, thrice to take her, thrice to movement unfulfilled.”
Three times Darvulia wound the twine around the doll, and Rose collapsed, fully conscious but unable to move.
~~~~
The Doctor brandished the cutlass that he had found decorating a shield on a wall, trying to keep the guardsmen at a distance and block their blows without harming them. The head-of-guard watched, blank and empty, standing aside, repeating the same words again and again. “Kill him,” he said. “Kill him now. Kill him.” He made no attempt to fulfill his own order. The module controlling him obviously had its limits.
“Listen to me!” he shouted at the guardsmen, who were only being controlled by the orders of their leader. “Stop this. This man is being manipulated; can't you see that? Is he acting in any way normal?” He parried a particularly brutal slash from one of the men, sweeping his sword in an arc against the other man's and jerking it from his hand, catching it deftly. He took a defensive stance. “I don't want to hurt you. You hear me? Stop this. Now.”
They swept in on him, and he ran into a room, straight through to the door at the other end, dropping one of the swords and slamming the door shut. He sonicked the lock, sealing it. He spun to face his attackers. “You like that, eh? You like it? Blocked myself in, I did. How's that for strategy?” He lunged forward, flinging aside an attack with his blade, spinning and dancing out of the way. “Oh!” he shouted. “But did I truly block myself in? What is this strategy, you may ask?” He dodged around two more guardsmen, flashed a brilliant grin at the blank head-of-guard, dropped his sword, and ran as fast as his feet could carry him through the door he had just come through. He slammed it shut and sealed the lock. “That's my strategy,” he growled.
He turned and made his way back towards Darvulia's room. He had some things he needed to gather before he confronted her.
~~~~
“He is dead, you know,” the crone breathed. “I saw it, as I see things that are true. They bled him out, as you are going to be bled out.” Darvulia smiled. “Your death will be much slower, however.”
Rose glared at the witch, chewing on her gag. The spell, or whatever it was called, had been removed, but she had been tightly bound hand and foot and a dingy rag stuffed into her mouth and tied around her head. She was clothed only in a thin shift, and the Countess knelt beside her, gazing at her through heavily lidded eyes. Darvulia stood nearby, the crags of her face in sharp relief in the firelight, black eyes blazing.
Erzsébet trailed a hand down Rose's throat, her touch light, almost a caress. Rose cringed and growled through the gag. Her eyes followed the gleaming knife held in the Countess' other hand as it lowered and pressed against her collarbone, drawing a thin line of blood in its wake.
“Are you afraid, Rose?” the Countess murmured in her ear. The blade drew another cut, this time in her shoulder. “You're different. So says my witch. You have so much power in your blood.” She leaned forward and slid her tongue across the wound in her shoulder. “The taste of time and eternity. Of forever.” Erzsébet leaned forward, pressing her lips against Rose's shoulder. “And I will have that power.”
Rose screamed as Erzsébet's teeth sank into her shoulder, tearing deep.
~~~~
The Doctor, who had been moving hurriedly back to the Countess' hidden torture chamber, practically tore the concealed door from the wall when he heard Rose scream. Of course she had come back!
He flew down the steps and stopped, trembling with barely constrained fury and fear. Rose. His Rose lay bound and helpless and bleeding into the ashes on the floor, and he had let it happen.
“Move away from her, Countess,” he said, too softly. “Do not make me tell you twice.”
The Countess looked up at him, and with a sudden movement, slashed the bonds on Rose's ankles. Holding the knife to her throat, she dragged Rose to her feet and slowly backed away. “You will not interfere. Stay back.”
Darvulia crept towards the Doctor, one hand reaching out. He stood still, and looked at her. She hesitated.
“You made poppets for all the staff here,” he said, his voice still deceptively calm and quiet. “And, just in case things went wrong and you lost control of the situation, you made one for the Countess.” He removed a silk-wrapped doll from his coat pocket.
“Fool!” Darvulia spat. “You cannot effect change in that way. You are human. You don't have the psychic abilities needed to do this.”
“I'm not human,” the Doctor said. He withdrew a needle from his pocket and gave the doll a light prick to the head. The Countess collapsed. “I'm a Time Lord.”
Rose flinched to one side, moving away from the collapsed woman as Darvulia screamed and ran to her charge's side. She turned the limp form over, touching gnarled fingers to her neck. “Only sleeping,” she whispered, then smiled toothily at the Doctor. “Your magic is not as strong as you perhaps like to think, 'Time Lord.'”
Rose moved away from the Carrionite, eying the fallen knife. She crouched by it, maneuvering to grasp it in her bound hands, and began working at the ropes around her wrists.
“I didn't intend to kill her,” said the Doctor. “She still has a role to fulfill in history, as terrible as that role is.” He studied Darvulia. “You, on the other hand... you are an outside influence. You honed her bloodlust, channelled it, used it to feed your own depravity. You don't belong. And that's why I'm here.” He took a breath. “I'm giving you a choice. One chance; that's all you get. You can leave here now, disappear into the forest, survive off the wilderness. Have no further contact with humanity. Cause no more bloodshed. Not ever. Swear this, bind yourself with your own 'magic' so you can never rescind your oath.”
“And if I refuse?” Darvulia snarled.
“I will stop you.”
Darvulia nodded. Then she looked at Rose, who had freed her hands and was removing the gag from her mouth. With lightning reflexes, she grabbed a handful of Rose's hair and yanked. Rose cried out as her hair was torn from her scalp, and with a shriek tried to make a grab for Darvulia, but the witch had already swept herself towards the back of the room. She had Rose's module in hand, and was stuffing the golden strands inside. “Fresh genetic material, Time Lord. Strong enough to kill.” She laughed, madness making her voice shrill. “Will you stop me when I hold hostage the bright star of your heart? No, I think not. I will leave here, yes, but you have no power over me so long as you cannot find me, no? But I have power over her.” She spread her arms, the poppet in one hand, a long needle in the other. “And now, I leave.”
“Before you go,” the Doctor said quickly, before she could vanish. “There's something you should see.” He removed a small crystal bottle from his jacket pocket, a bottle darkened by the blood inside it.
“You've been to my inner chambers...” Darvulia whispered.
“I'm good at finding things,” the Doctor said. He withdrew another module and held it lightly in his hand. “Including your hairbrush. Careless of you, leaving it lying around like that where anyone could find it.” He removed the stopper to the perfume bottle and took a whiff, grimacing. “And this is, apparently, what, a souvenir? Blood collected from each and every victim you helped to torture, to mutilate, to murder.”
“Give that to me!” Darvulia shrieked, surging forward across the room.
The Doctor stepped back, holding up the doll in defense, and the Carrionite pressed the pin to the head of Rose's module, not quite piercing. Rose gasped, wincing.
The Doctor shook his head. “That was really, really the wrong choice, Darvulia. You see, the thing about psychic energy is that it exists in its raw, undeveloped form within the human mind, whether it is able to be channeled or no. It is emotion. It is thought. It is love and hate, joy. Rage. Pain. Fear.” He looked at the bottle. “The kind of fear these girls felt as their lives were torn from them so violently.”
Rose, her jaw set, retrieved a poker from by the fireplace and began to move stealthily towards Darvulia from behind.
“Put down the module,” the Doctor said. “Or I will use this.”
Darvulia stared at him for a moment. Then she smiled. “No.” She moved the needle against the head of the module, and Rose grabbed her by the wrist, jerking her hand back and away from the doll. Darvulia spun on her, snatching the poker out of her hand and shoving it towards her neck with a vicious thrust and a shriek. “I will take her with me!” Rose caught the iron prod with a quick movement, yanking it aside, but the point grazed the side of her neck.
And then, Darvulia screamed. She sank to her knees, clutching her head, and began to convulse, before collapsing in a twitching heap on the floor.
The Doctor tossed aside the module, now coated with the blood from the bottle. He hurried to Rose's side as she sank to her knees, pressing his hand against the wound in her neck, fishing in his pocket for a handkerchief.
“I'm okay,” Rose said, her words slightly slurred. She laughed, slightly hysterical. “S'only a flesh wound.” She looked at Darvulia. “What did you do to her?”
“Psychic backlash from all those girls she helped to torture and murder. It was bound up in that blood, and I directed it into her DNA module. It overwhelmed her, shorted her out.” He pressed the handkerchief against the wound in Rose's neck, and then pressed her hand against it, instructing her to hold it in place. Then he rolled Darvulia over.
“Still alive,” he said. “She essentially had a stroke; her brain burned itself out. At least, that's what the history books will say.”
He stood, helped Rose to her feet. Then he wrapped his arms around her, his face buried in her hair. He was trembling.
~~~~
The Doctor passed the hand-held dermal regenerator over the bite wound in Rose's shoulder one last time, leaving soft pink flesh in its wake. Rose sat perched on the exam table in the TARDIS' med bay, swinging her legs and looking bored. “Are you done yet?”
“Oi,” he said. “You can't rush this thing. Just sit still.”
"It itches." She fidgeted, drummed her fingers on the metal table. “Doctor?”
“Yeah?”
“What happens to the Countess?”
He glanced up. “The inquiry into her.... 'activities' begins this year. She opened a Gynaecaeum, a school of etiquette for noble girls, sometime last year, as a way to attract further victims.” He ran his thumb gently over the freshly healed skin of her shoulder. “With Darvulia no longer using advanced science disguised as 'magic' to control those who would investigate, she is finally brought to trial for her crimes.”
“So she will be stopped,” Rose said.
“Yes.”
“Just... not by us.”
“No. Not by us.”
“And what do they do to her?”
He took a breath, turning to replace the dermal regenerator in its charger. “They wall her up in her own castle, keep her alive by feeding her through a slit in the wall. She dies a few years later.”
Rose slid off the exam table, and the Doctor turned to look at her, holding her gaze for a long moment before putting his arms around her. They stood in each others' embrace, clinging to one another, Rose's face resting in the crook of the Doctor's shoulder, for far longer than either of them would have ever been willing to admit to any outsiders. Such things were never spoken of, only experienced. That was the way of it.