TIME LORDS DON'T CRY
This story, Time Lords Don’t Cry, was originally written in July of 2006, and published on a website later that summer. It’s a rather long story, 20 chapters, so it may take some time to edit, polish (re-write) and post everything. I didn’t have half the knowledge of fiction writing–especially for the internet—back in 2005, as I do now. My college training in the first half decade of the 21st century, prepared me mainly for essays, poetry, plays, broadcast and feature writing and research papers. I didn’t have a clue about fan fiction writing. On that premise, I thought I’d give this story another go, editing and re-writing the story to make it more readable.–nbg, (playwrite27) CHAPTER ONE The Tardis was spinning out of control through the void of time and space. The Doctor lay unconscious, sprawled out below the console’s deck. He’d been fine-tuning the time-relay circuit, in hopes of finding a way to return to Rose, someday. That’s when he’d accidentally touched the wrong wire. “Not a good thing to do, with a time-relay circuit.” He’d reflected, in the split-second before he’d been blown several meters away and blacked out. Now, the Tardis spun fitfully. She was meandering around this way and that, trying to find her way through the universe alone. That’s when she felt a faint tug. A psychic vibration in the time-space continuum, very similar to the Doctor’s…but not. The thread coming through the cosmos was something that was familiar, but at the same time, vastly different. With no one to control her, the Tardis decided on her own to follow that intriguing sensation. Marie shivered in the darkness. In the early dawn, her breath rose in clouds to dissipate into the towering pines that crowded the path she walked. The rain fell in sheets as she threaded her way carefully through the mud and puddles, from the tumble-down old barn to the weathered gray farm house. She was wearing a dark green and black plaid wool shirt over her grey sweatshirt. The floppy blue felt hat she wore drooped, water streaming from its brim. Her faded jeans and scruffy work boots were both soaked through, as was the rest of her. Her clothing was clearly inadequate protection from the deluge tumbling from the November sky. ‘Uncle Tobias won’t be happy.’ She muttered under her breath. ‘Which means I’m really in for it, this time.’ shuddered violently, partly from the chill and partly from the icy fear that was slowly crawling about the pit of her stomach. She’d gone to the barn to fetch some eggs for Uncle Tobias’s breakfast, only to find that a fox or weasel had found its way into the henhouse. Surveying the blood and feathers scattered across the ground, she’d been tempted to just run away into the woods. Unfortunately, her uncle kept some very effective hunting dogs. They’d track down anything: Raccoons, fox, deer, even people. They’d find her, and he’d drag her back and there was no telling what he’d do to her. That’s because Uncle Tobias was insane. He wasn’t always so. Mind, he’d never been actually caring of her, but ever since the night he’d gone hunting last month, he’d been acting all strange, different. It had been a full moon that night, what some people called a Hunter’s Moon. So bright that it caused the trees to cast long shadows across the mountain meadows. He’d taken his shotgun and gone into the woods with the dogs. Many hours later, the dogs came back without him, slinking under the porch, uncharacteristically silent. She thought back to that mysterious night. Despite the clear weather, shortly after midnight, a heavy mist had rolled in out of nowhere, obscuring field and forest alike. All sound had ceased. The night breeze that skittered the fallen leaves across the barren farmyard half the night had vanished. The moon had become a ghost of itself, a faint silvery blue glow shrouded behind the deep, damp white curtain. Marie had stayed on the front porch, afraid to venture any farther. Something didn’t feel quite right. Despite her uncle’s lack of attention, she was worried for him. Her late mother had long ago tried to instill in Marie a strong sense of caring. Having spent the last few years of her life, being passed around from relation to relation, the young orphan had also learned a sense of independence and personal responsibility. Standing on the porch, she’d watched the mists drift in an oppressing layer across the yard. At one point, Marie had attempted to walk towards the forest. However, she was driven back, almost by sheer force, by a strong sense of only what could be described as pure evil. It had been as if all the ice of the Devil’s heart were crushing her. The feeling towered over her soul, like the humid sticky build up green and purple clouds before an extremely violent summer thunderstorm. So, she’d stood the whole night long, wrapped in an old quilt to combat the cold clammy air, waiting. About an hour later, she heard the screams. Wrapping the quilt around her more tightly, Marie had curled into a ball in the corner of the porch, eyes wide with terror, and shuddered. It had been her Uncle Tobias’ voice, she was certain. The hideous screams dragged on for minutes, then abruptly died away. The silence once again prevailed. Shortly before dawn, the mists vanished as swiftly as they came. The dogs beneath the porch began whining piteously. Just before sunrise, Uncle Tobias came home. In the early morning light, some whitetail deer browsed in the trees ringing a small glade in the forest. Switching their tails, they raised their heads cautiously every few minutes, ever on the alert for hunters or dogs. As the nighttime rainstorm came to an end, the mists rose from the nearby river and rolled across the land. Water dripped steadily from barren trees, streaking their grey trunks with blackened fingers of dampness. In the woods, the thick carpet of brown, red and yellow maple, elm and poplar leaves lay plastered to the ground. In a solitary tall eastern white pine on the edge of the meadow, a large crow cawed defiantly to the morning. The high brown meadow grass waved gently in the first stirrings of what would later become a brisk autumn breeze. Grey clouds scuttled swiftly across the skies, allowing only the occasional opening for an errant bit of powder blue sky to show through. Abruptly, the deer raised their heads. Without warning, a raucous wheezing and groaning noise disrupted this tranquil scene. Objecting loudly, the crow flapped away to other, more quiet neighbourhoods. The deer swung their feet gracefully about, and in one bound, were gone into the deeper recesses of the forest. Seemingly appearing out of thin air, a blue box which bore a remarkable resemblance to a mid-twentieth century British police call box materialized into the glade. The Tardis had finally landed.
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