His second childhood proves far more idyllic than his first. Well, as long as he squints and doesn't think about everything up to the past two weeks. If he keeps to what's happening now, it's really quite lovely.
During his first childhood he was often lonely, both before the Academy and after induction. He was too different, too odd, too interested in the world, when his peers and mentors thought the world merely something to get through on the way to the next ceremony. And even when he'd tried harder to fit in, he was looked down upon as a genetic aberration. A Time Lord who wasn't full-blood Gallifreyan. Scandals like his parentage never faded on Gallifrey. They became solid, fixed, more permanent than his face. All the way up to the Time War, people looked at him and thought: There's that troublesome boy. Always knew he'd come to no good. Poor marks, stealing a TARDIS, hanging about with lower species and always meddling. He shouldn't have been brought to the loom.
Here there's no one whispering about him behind his back or even in front of him. He's never lonely. He's either with Lucy or the Master or both of them. He doesn't get bored because they always make sure he has something to do, letting him run outside or read or play games. He naps with his head on Lucy's lap, or near the Master as he works. Every day he feels a little stronger, a little healthier.
He's getting used to having his cuffs bound at bedtime. It's not really uncomfortable, especially because Lucy holds him at night. She's always there for him, doting and gentle. He likes the way he can make her smile, the cascading tinkle of her laugh. Once when he was napping outside and it started to rain, she took him into her arms and carried him inside. She sat down with him and he slept that way, curled in her lap. She was so happy after that.
That evening, after dinner, the Master had to bind him and leave him lying on one of the sofas for a few hours. He was told to keep still and quiet, and he did. He could hear them having sex for what seemed like forever, and nodded off on the sofa. He woke up between them in bed the next morning, just as always.
Time Lord healing is mostly about sleep. The body's systems can take care of all the repairs, but only as long as there aren't any other demands. But the scar on his front is gone now, which is a good sign. It means the inside-scars are fading, too. Like the hole in his heart, the stitches dissolved and the muscle mended.
He's not the same man as he was on Valiant, or even those first days as a boy. As soon as he stopped fighting this body's instincts the world became an easier place. Smaller, perhaps, but in all the right ways. This body is what he is. He sees through a child's eyes, thinks with a child's mind, and only the Master can change that. And the Master will keep him this way until he gets what he wants.
So the Doctor has settled into himself, and that's good. He knows it's good. That's what it has to be, because as far as his options go he doesn't have any options. It will all work out in the end, but for now... for now he's stopped fighting. And it's such a relief that he can't really bring himself to be upset.
"The same thing happened to me," the Master tells him later that day, when the Doctor is reading quietly while the Master works out the physics of universal domination. "I was turned into a child. Professor Yana really was found on the Silver Devastation. It wasn't a false memory."
"You turned yourself into a child?" the Doctor says, somehow surprised. He can't imagine the Master intentionally making himself weak. But as disguises go, there are few better, and the Master was always good at disguises.
"A human child," the Master says. "You've used the chameleon arch yourself. Do you think it hurt more than the Lazarus technology, or less?"
The Doctor considers the question. "Lazarus hurt more," he decides.
The Master nods. For a few minutes, the only sound is of his pen scratching against paper. The Doctor is about to go back to his book when the Master looks over at him.
"Now that you've been one, what do you really think of humans?"
"I think they're amazing," the Doctor says.
"Why?"
The Doctor bites at his lip as he considers this. "Because they have so much potential. Because they're brave and resourceful. They made it all the way to the end of the universe."
"That is true," the Master says, thoughtful. "When I was one of them, I was desperate to save them. I didn't want my species to die. I was even willing to sacrifice myself for them. And they were so grateful."
"But you're destroying them now," the Doctor says, trying not to resent the intrusion of reality.
But the Master just smiles. "I still want my species to survive. It's just the right one this time."
The Doctor looks away. "I was a rubbish human," he says, remembering Martha's words.
"You were also a rubbish Time Lord," the Master says.
"Was?" the Doctor asks, curious about the use of past tense.
The Master gives him an indulgent look. "Things are different now. We're doing things my way, not theirs."
"I'm hardly going to turn evil," the Doctor says.
"This isn't about evil," the Master says, calmly. "It's about survival. Isn't that what you want? I'm back now, Doctor. You don't have to be the last."
It's so much what the Doctor has been longing to hear that he can only stare. Of course he knows the Master knows it's what he wants to hear, so he doesn't entirely believe it, but that doesn't stop the sudden tightness in his chest, the wave of relief.
The Master sets down his pen and turns to face him. "I think it's appropriate. We're the ones they wanted the least. Gallifrey had no time for us, Doctor. And despite what you may think, I'm not destroying humanity. I'm saving it."
"What do you mean?" the Doctor asks, brow furrowed.
The Master shakes his head. "Not yet. When you're ready, and not before. You're still trying to save the past, but it's the future that matters. Our future."
"I don't understand," the Doctor says.
"You will," the Master promises.
Two days later, the Master presents him with a gift. A wide, flat box tied with a single ribbon. The Doctor takes it with a mixture of intense curiosity and wariness born from experience.
"Go on," the Master encourages.
The Doctor pulls open the bow and lifts the lid. Stares in amazement, then looks up. "Querency sticks," he gasps. He selects one of the polished, dark wood sticks and holds it up, turning it in the afternoon light. The silver engraving reveals itself as a six-petaled orchid, the Flower of Remembrance; it buds, blossoms, and fades with the turn, in miniature perfection. Overwhelmed, he puts it back and selects another: a Singing Fish that ripples as it swims. Another: the wax and wane of their moon, Pazithi Gallifreya.
"I thought I was supposed to look forward, not back," the Doctor says, at a loss.
"Don't be so linear," the Master says. "If you can't even handle a children's game, maybe I should take it back." He reaches for the box, but the Doctor pulls away, holds it close to his chest.
"It's mine," he says, and then realizes with a shock that it really is his. He stares down at the set and looks for the sovereign stick and finds his mark carved on it. He traces the thin lines with his thumb. "How..."
"If you didn't insist on collecting rooms like you collect humans, you might actually visit some of them. That granddaughter of yours must have brought it aboard, if you didn't."
"Susan," the Doctor breathes. He thinks of her last day on Gallifrey, how she must have had them in her bag when they hurriedly packed. He'd given the set to her when it was her turn for induction but he thought she'd left it behind. He'd never seen her use them during their travels, and he'd been too crotchety for games.
She'd brought it with her. Oh, Susan.
"Just like you to give me something that's already mine," the Doctor says, but he can't tear his eyes away. Can't stop running his fingers over the sticks. He gathers them up and holds them all in his fist, has to use both hands to keep them together. He closes his eyes and concentrates, and he can feel the faint hum of resonance.
Eight million years before this set was carved, there was an accident. A disaster that left miles and miles of land uninhabitable, soaked in huon and artron particles, the hearts of imploded TARDISes. The radiation soaked into the earth and ever so slowly decayed, until after four million years a forest grew. No ordinary forest, even for Gallifrey with its silver Kadenwood trees. These trees moved with the flow of time, reaching for it like the sun.
The heads of the great Houses ordered their wood turned into nursery toys. Children's games. What better way to teach young Gallifreyans to master their abilities to observe time, to feel it, to follow its flow? Once cut the wood was dead, no longer moving with time, but the toys resonated with it like tuning forks, tugged at it like magnets.
The Master reaches for the bundle of sticks, and the Doctor pulls them back, protective, possessive.
The Master gives him a tolerant look. "I'm not going to take them. Don't you want to play? Or did you forget how?"
That pricks at the Doctor's pride. "Of course I know how."
"Prove it," the Master says, holding out his hands.
The Doctor hesitates. "Harmony, Rassilon's War, or Arcana?"
"Your choice."
"Harmony," the Doctor decides. "I'll sort them." He shifts over and lays the sticks down on the table, then sorts them into two groups. It has been a very long time since he used these, but he remembers. All the carvings contain change, and in change there is life and death with the passing of a second. But there are two types of change: rebirth, which enables life to thrive, and decay, which appears as cycles or stasis only to those without true perspective. And then there is the sovereign stick which bears a carving of a Time Lord's regeneration, containing both rebirth and decay. Order and entropy. Regeneration and degeneration. The sovereign stick is set aside for now.
The Master sits across from him and holds out his hands. The Doctor places one bundle into each, and together they hold them, points down. The Master's hands look awfully large next to his own.
"We have to say the words," the Doctor insists.
The Master rolls his eyes.
"It won't work unless we do it properly," the Doctor says, with the sternness of a child. "Or have you forgotten how to play?"
"Hardly," the Master drawls.
"Then close your eyes." The Doctor waits until the Master has done so, and then closes his own. He takes in a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and finds his centre. Concentrates on the subtle resonance already present in the wood and the greater ripples of time that surround them. There's a pattern to it and the sticks want to follow it. All they need is help to get there. Their help.
"Time that flows and time that's still," they begin, faltering at first as the words are pull out of the haze of memory. "Crooked and entwined. Time that sings its endless song,
in this wood we bind."
The resonance grows stronger. They say the words again, their artron energies mingling in the wood, synchronizing, charging it like batteries. Then the third and final time, and the sticks are practically vibrating in their grips.
"In this wood we bind," they finish, and open their hands. There's a clatter of sound as the sticks hit the table. They open their eyes.
The Doctor looks at the chaotic mess in dismay. "You did it wrong," he says, dismayed.
"I don't think so," the Master says, giving him a look. "A child's game like this? I could do it in my sleep."
"Well, it wasn't my fault," the Doctor insists. The sticks should have arranged themselves in a flowing pattern. They should reveal the natural flow of time in the immediate area. He picks up the sovereign stick and runs it over the pile. There's an immediate pull, and he frowns. "That can't be the pattern."
The Master takes the sovereign stick and tests the pattern himself. He tuts. "You have made a mess of things."
"Me? You're the one who made a bloody paradox."
"Does this look like a paradox to you?" the Master asks, raising his eyebrows.
The Doctor stares at the chaos. A paradox would look completely different, orderly but inverted. "Not especially," he admits.
"No more Eye of Harmony," the Master sing-songs.
"Shut up," the Doctor says, crossing his arms. That mess is what's become of the timestream without the anchoring Eye and the Time Lords to keep order. He really didn't need the reminder, which is no doubt why he got it.
The Master gives a satisfied smirk. "Ready for something more challenging?"
"There's nothing wrong with Harmony."
"If you're eight," the Master says.
"I am ei--" the Doctor begins, then shuts his mouth with a click of teeth. How long has he been aged down? Forty days? No, forty one. Long enough, apparently.
"I always liked Rassilon's War best, myself," the Master says, breaking the pattern with the sovereign stick and sorting the sticks back into two sets.
"Why does that not surprise me?"
"Sore loser already?"
"I won that just as much as you," the Doctor retorts.
"Maybe against those weak-minded fools we called classmates," the Master says.
"Just because you made one paradox doesn't mean you can rewrite all of history."
"I don't need to rewrite that. I kept count."
The Doctor gives him a look. "Do you even know how obsessive that makes you?"
"Only about the important things."
The Doctor quietly tells himself not to take that as a compliment. He does anyway. "Well, you're not going to win this time."
"Your delusions are endlessly entertaining."
"I'm not a child anymore," the Doctor says, pointedly. "You haven't won since we left Gallifrey."
"Until now."
"A temporary victory, I assure you," the Doctor replies.
"All your victories have been temporary. The last is the only one that counts."
"Are we going to play or are you just going to blow hot air at me until bedtime?"
The Master's eyes narrow. "Shall we make it three thousand, five hundred and seventy six to one thousand, four hundred and seven?"
"Was it only that many?"
"I'd be happy to beat you as many times as you're willing to lose," the Master offers. "And even if you're not."
"I always thought we'd made an even five thousand."
"Need I bring up your grades in pure mathematics?"
"Please don't. I had enough of that from Romana."
The Master makes a face. "I won't, so long as you never compare me to Madame President again."
"Deal."
"And this time, I insist we say the words."
The Doctor scrunches his nose. "I always thought it was so... arrogant."
"You used to like arrogant," the Master says. "In fact--"
"Can we not go there?" the Doctor says, half-plead and half-whine. "At least until my voice drops."
The Master laughs, then holds up the sticks the way the Doctor did before. The Doctor leans forward, takes hold of the bottom halves, and shuts his eyes.
There's still a charge left from Harmony, but that doesn't matter. Rassilon's War doesn't depend on anything external. It's a test of wills, and the winner is the one whose will is dominant enough to force the sticks to fall into the pattern of their mark. The Master's stylized K might have formed more often than the Doctor's slashed circle, but it was always a close result. The Doctor's stubborn pride was always a match for the Master's arrogance, long before they took those names.
"As Rassilon held the universe, I hold this wood. I am a Time Lord. Bend to my will!"
The words are said only once; the rest is pure concentration. The Doctor's brow furrows and he grits his teeth as he focuses on the image of his mark, on pouring his will into the querency sticks. He can feel the push of the Master's mind against his own and struggles against it, determined to show him who's really in charge, despite his situation, his captivity, his youth. He's beaten the Master before, stopped him before, made the sticks fall into the pattern he demanded.
The human equivalent to the battle would be arm wrestling, but this is so far from that merely physical challenge. But as with that the War lasts as long as it has to, until one overpowers the other. The Doctor's palms grow damp with sweat as he grips the sticks for minutes on end, his will and the Master's pushing back and forth but never quite passing equilibrium. Neither of them is willing to lose. They never were. It's why they kept playing.
Five minutes. Ten. The Doctor's arms are trembling with effort now, and he curses this young body. If he was grown he could do this for thirty minutes, even an hour. He makes frustrated sound as he feels the balance tip against him, the Master's mind pressing his own down and out of the sticks. His whole body coils with tension as he strains for one last burst of strength, but it's not enough. He lets go of the sticks and so does the Master, and they clatter to the table and into three lines: the Master's stylised K.
The Doctor falls back against the couch, breathing fast. He wipes at his forehead with a trembling hand. The Master leans back in his chair, looking satisfied.
"Yes, three thousand, five hundred and seventy six. Want to try again? Only another twenty three to go, and then I'll have a nice round number."
"I don't want to," the Doctor pouts, cranky and tired. He's childishly angry at the Master for winning, but he's aware of it enough not to end up in an outright tantrum. No matter how much this body aches for a good kick and scream.
"All right," the Master says, tolerantly. "Since you've made Harmony impossible, and you don't want to play War, how about Arcana? Don't you want to know your future?"
"It's not written yet," the Doctor says, disinterested.
"Not anymore," the Master says. "Gallifrey's gone."
The Doctor looks at him, curiosity winning out over crankiness. "No more restrictions on our own futures."
"Exactly," the Master says. He breaks the pattern again and gathers up the sticks. "Besides, it worked for us before."
"I suppose," the Doctor says.
"We both ended on the Flower of Remembrance," the Master points out. "And on the wane."
"The omen of disaster," the Doctor says. "I know. I never liked predictions. They have a tendency to self-fulfil."
"Excuses, excuses," the Master chides. "I'll go first."
Instead of the two standard sets, the Master holds all of the sticks together. The Doctor watches as he holds them silently for a minute, and then lets them fall. They seem to be in disarray but it's not for him to see the path. The Master takes up the sovereign stick and moves it slowly over the sticks, back and forth, searching.
"The mirror in front of me," he says, as the sovereign stick dips down. "The horizon before me. The stars above."
"What did you get?" the Doctor asks, leaning over the table.
"Hmm." The Master slowly smiles. "Mount Cadon, snowless. Victory is a lovely starting point, don't you agree? And undeniable evidence that the restrictions are gone."
The Doctor relents. "All right. What's the horizon?"
"A Venal snake, striking."
"Anger," the Doctor translates. "Not very promising."
"Only from your perspective," the Master says, unconcerned. "And the stars... a Kadenwood tree, in full leaf."
"Hmm. Transcendence? That's unexpected."
"Show me yours," the Master says.
The Doctor gathers up the sticks into a neat pile, then holds the bundle with both hands. Show me my future, he thinks, willing the sticks to obey, drawing on time to guide them. When he feels a sympathetic resonance, he lets them fall.
He takes the sovereign stick and waves it over the sticks, feeling for that same resonance. Only three sticks will still have it, his future condensed into them, waiting to be found.
"The mirror in front of me," he says. He feels a tug and the sovereign stick dips over the tide, pulled from the sea. He frowns, moves on. "The horizon before me," he says, and this time is pulled towards the Second Sun, burning bright. With relief he searches for the last. "The stars above," he says.
They both stare at the final stick.
"Well, well," the Master says. "Struggle and then empowerment. It sounds like you're going to be making me very angry, Doctor."
"The Kadenwood tree," the Doctor says, not caring about the rest when he sees that. "We have a final match. Again." He looks up at the Master in amazement. "Transcendence."
"You do remember what happened the last time we matched?" the Master says, pointedly.
"That was different," the Doctor insists. "That was disaster. This is... this is..." He searches for the right words.
"Confirmation," the Master says, smoothly. "I'm hardly going to be transcendent unless I win."
"It doesn't have to mean that," the Doctor says. "Transcendence could mean all sorts of things. It's interpretive. It just means a new state of being. Transformation." It means I save you, he thinks, and feels far more relieved about that than the power on his horizon. He doesn't care about winning, not in the traditional sense. He only wants them to be together. Now he knows they will, and his hearts swell with hope, with gladness.
The Master tilts his head. "But it makes you happy."
"Yes," the Doctor admits.
The Master gives a thoughtful nod, then gathers up the sticks. "I think we've had enough of this for today."
"Please let me keep them," the Doctor says, not wanting them taken away.
"You're not allowed to use them without me, is that understood?"
"I won't. Please. I just want to hold them." He looks at the Master pleadingly.
"Very well." The Master gives him the sticks.
The Doctor lovingly sorts them back into their slots in the box. They're his, truly his, and now they've given him back what they took from him, all those years ago. They've given him back the Master.
He closes the box and holds it against his chest.