The TimeLord

This is a Doctor Who fanfic, a headcanon I developed a while back to explain some of the more puzzling aspects of the Whoverse. The characters are of course not my own. If you’ve seen the show, I hope you enjoy this piece. If you haven’t seen the show, you won’t get anything out of this, but I highly recommend checking it out. Not all of Doctor Who is great, as the show can be quite hit-and-miss, but it’s got some of the finest individual episodes of television I’ve seen, and stars one of my favorite characters of any medium. Anyhow, here be the piece:

 

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Rory knows the Doctor’s arrived the same way he always knows: by the labored, yearning breathing of a living machine not yet there. The Doctor’s partner in crime, the TARDIS, appears stubbornly, rejecting the notion of a helpful disguise as thoroughly as it rejects the laws of space and time. Its presence feels as impossible as it is familiar, though the creature that steps out of this TARDIS is neither.

“Strange,” the TimeLord says, with a voice unrecognized until he is seen, and then unrecognized even after, ”I never expected to see you again.”

Rory starts. “Have we, um, met?”

“Judging by your age and the taste of the year, yes.”

The Doctor, who has never seemed more alien to Rory than now, explains himself. He explains how he acquired his current garb—a top-buttoned coat of black above red, the face of some ancient, grizzled Roman, and an accent as cross as it is Scottish—many years ago. He explains how he endures an abrupt change in personality every time he skirts too close to death, as is his species’s habit. And he explains it as well as a well-liked professor would, but Rory listens with impatience and then interjects:

“Wait. You said you never expected to see me again. Why? Do I die?”

“You’re Rory Williams. You’re good at dying.”

“I mean die for real. Do I die and then not come back?”

“Don’t be so dark. Of course you do. Oh, don’t give me that look. Everyone dies, but you’ll get one of the happy endings.”

“Oh.”

“Although it didn’t feel like it at the time.”

“Um.”

“What did you call me for? You still haven’t said. I’d love to stay and chit-chat, I really would, but”—the TimeLord gestures to his now wizardly visage—”I’ve changed. Times have changed. Spit it out, Rory.”

“I’m going to tell you. But you have to promise. Okay?”

“Yes?”

“You have to promise not to change the subject, like you’re so good at doing, not to distract us with some other mystery or danger that’s always so urgent that we forget what we were asking about in the first place. And no lies! I’ll know if you’re lying to me, Doctor.”

“You said ‘us’.”

“What?”

“You’re here alone, but you said ‘us’.”

“Of course, I’m talking about me and Amy. Anything you tell me I’ll tell my wife.”

“Depending on what you ask, you might want to reconsider that very carefully. Amy won’t be as quick to understand that her Raggedy Doctor has worn many faces, not all of them good.”

“Do you promise?”

“Of course I promise, I’m still here aren’t I?”

Rory takes a deep breath before he begins.

“Sometimes I think it’s still a miracle that me and Amy are still alive, after all the close-calls we’ve had. Sometimes I know it’s a miracle, and I know that the miracle is you. We understand the risk of travelling with you, and we accept that risk. The TARDIS guarantees your safety, and only tries its second best for us, and you know what? That’s fine. What we do together, the worlds that we save together, is worth it. That’s not the problem.”

“What is the problem?”

“The problem is that it’s not just me and Amy. It’s everyone. Everyone, Doctor. One week we stop the Daleks from invading. Another week we stop little black cubes from killing everyone on the planet. Next week, I don’t know, we’ll be stopping sentient snow monsters or deadly Wi-Fi.”

“You make it sound like saving the world is a bad thing.”

“It IS a bad thing. How can the world need so much saving all of the time? Could any humans have survived at all if it weren’t for you?”

“Ah.” The TimeLord looks closely at Rory, as if for the first time since stepping out of his box. The TimeLord’s face is old, but his eyes seem strangely new—certainly newer than the rest of him, somehow. “I see now why the TARDIS chose my current face to have this conversation.”

“I said I wasn’t going to let you distract me, Doctor,” Rory says, not shrinking from those strange eyes, “but you did promise. Fine. Why the, the, why you?”

“Why look at this scowl. Look at these eyebrows! I’m far better suited for delivering bad news than what with my previous frivolity. Good thing I’ve only had to deliver this particular bit of bad news a few times. Fortunately, most of my companions don’t think—or far preferably—don’t care to ask. They’re only human. I don’t blame them. You see, I’m a TimeLord, Rory.”

“I know you’re not human, Doctor, I’ve known that for-”

“I’m a Time Lord, not a Time Lord. Time modifies the noun after it, not the other way around—an ambiguity of language allowed by English but not by Gallifreyan. My species were Lords long before we could tamper with Time, and our history is such that it couldn’t have been otherwise. The answer to your question, Rory, is no.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Sorry, which question?”

“There could not have been any humans if it weren’t for me. Didn’t you ever wonder why we look so much alike, TimeLords and humans? Because I created you.”

The TimeLord claps his widely outstretched hands together to punctuation the statement.

Rory, for his part, looks exactly every bit as pensive, determined, and puzzled as he did the moment before.

“Are you happy now?” the once proud Gallifreyan asks, “Happy that you asked? Can I go back to my TARDIS now? I’m sure she’s got other unexpectedly unpleasant detours scheduled for me today, after all, I’ve got the face for it.”

“You created us. In your own image. Like…”

“No, no, no, nothing like that. I’m not a god. More like a great, great, great grandfather, except further back than you can imagine, and with a healthy dose of spontaneous mutation capable of resulting in, for example, a missing heart. It’s like our regeneration process, except far, far more hit-and-miss. More misses than hits, really, which is one reason we TimeLords don’t do it often.”

“You were the first human’s daddy?”

“Don’t ever say that again. I’m delivering on my promise, the least you could do is promise me you’ll never, ever refer to me in that way again.”

“And that’s why you take care of us.”

“Nope. Not at all. I do that because I’m the Doctor.”

“Other TimeLords…”

“Other TimeLords don’t care so much for their mutant children. That’s why you don’t ever see any of them exploring the universe. And when you do see them you wouldn’t want to see them, do you know why?”

“No?”

The old, new TimeLord puts his hand on his blue, borrowed box, pats it, and waves his once constant companion inside.

“Look at this big, beautiful machine, Rory. Basically another dimension, packed inside where it shouldn’t belong. Can you imagine how much work it took to design? So much work, over so many lifetimes.”

Rory notices a cherry-red guitar in one corner, to which the TimeLord explains, “I’ve gotten quite good at that, I have. But this story requires a more somber instrument. A violin, perhaps. But no, silence will have to do for the stories you would rather forget. Please, sit.”

Rory looks confused; there are no chairs. The TimeLord simply sits on some slightly more sanitary looking patch of floor, his back to blue steel whirring lights.

“When TimeLords die we regenerate into new forms. We’re good at dying. We’re much better at it than our mutant children. Sorry, should I have called you a mutant? It’s what you are, but around the twenty-sixth century you humans get picky about these terms. The regeneration process is only inherited by other TimeLords. Now think, why is that important? Think. It’s the most important dichotomy TimeLords have with their creations, because immortality is exactly what’s needed to inspire fear, respect, and,” he says, with disgust, “and worship. An entire species that owes its existence to you and yet never replaces you when you never age and never die. A species weaker in both mind and body, I’m afraid, though not in spirit. I’m sorry, Rory. I really am. The Lords use their creations as slaves. The first TARDIS was built with the labor of slaves.”

They two former friends are quiet a moment, sipping at tea that surfaced at some point from the TARDIS’s behemoth insides, while Rory musters the courage to ask, “Did you… ?”

“Me? No. Surely you know me better than that. No, I try to protect you—though I attract as much danger as I defeat—but I try to respect your choices. I don’t intervene with those who don’t need help. I’m no Master.”

“I see.”

“There. I kept my promise. You’ll keep yours?”

Rory thinks a while, then nods.

“Yes. You’re right about Amy. I won’t tell her.”

“You’re upset.”

“Of course. I’m always upset when you’re right-er about Amy than I am.”

The TimeLord gives a not quite weak, not too grim, and not too terrible a smile.

“I’ll still call you the Doctor,” Rory says, while appraising this saver of worlds who has never seemed quite so vulnerable, ashamed, and never so human as now.