The Time of Change

The Time Before Her

A word flashes in dangerously red letters across the inside of my head.

Gallifrey.

I raise my head toward the sky to glare at the stars, which are visible and twinkling smugly. My shoulders rolling backward so I don't break my neck, I start calculating their positions in my brain. Stars move over time. Some die, some explode, some multiply, some expand. I can always tell exactly when and where I am by the position and number of the stars above my head. When you've been running as long as I have, you learn the importance of knowing when and where you're at.

I finish calculating, and now do it again. Double-checking. Always a good idea. It takes me less time to complete the second go around, but my conclusion leaves me no more at ease. I am on Gallifrey. That is of no question. I would know the smell of my planet, and the layout of its skyscrapers, from across a galaxy. But what doesn't make sense, what forces me to get up off my knees and brush the red dust from them as I continue to stare at the sky, is when I am.

This is Gallifrey from when I was a child. From far before the Time War. From far before the Doctor.

But that can't be, a voice inside my head says unexpectedly. I haven't heard voices since my last regeneration, I think. It sounds young, younger than this body I'm in now, and both afraid and curious. Sounds familiar. This part of history is time-locked. Nobody, not a single soul in all existence, can come back to this time period. The Timelords have it protected.

So I haven't traveled back in time. Easy enough to gather, given the circumstances and the information provided to me by one of my past selves. Probably one of the more recent ones. The Tenth or Eleventh. I can't tell my own voices apart but I'm sure it was one of them. Regardless. If I haven't physically gone back, then that means that the people who are casually strolling past, seeming to completely ignore my presence, really can't see me. That also means that I'm either witnessing a hologram simulated by the TARDIS, or I'm dreaming. I've never dreamt of my home before, but I assume it's possible. Probably.

"Come on! Why are you so slow?"

I look directly in front of me as two children come barreling down the middle of the street. One of them, brown-haired and a tad scrawny, is significantly farther ahead than the other, who seems to be struggling to catch up. The first skids to a halt less than a foot in front of me, panting slightly but otherwise elated. He waits for his companion to get a little closer before he shouts, "At your rate, we'll get there just in time to regenerate!"

"It's not my fault you're faster than me!"

"I'm just a little better, that's all. S'why they call me 'the Master!' I'm a master of everything."

"You're the only person who calls you that, you twit." The second boy jogs to the first's side and leans over with his hands on his hips. His breathing is deep and quick. The first boy shakes his head adamantly. "Not true," he contends. "Just you wait. After initiation tomorrow, everybody's gonna be calling me 'the Master.' Because I'll master the test. Get it?" He elbows the out-of-breath child in the ribs with a sideways grin, and the latter grunts irritably.

Together they start walking, passing right through me as if I am nothing but a ghost, a mist. I start to follow, but my legs don't listen to the command my brain gives them. I take a second to process. The child who was slower has golden brown hair, and it shines in the late afternoon sun. His skin is white but fairly tanned, dotted with freckles along the bridge of his nose and his chin. His face is rounded and young; when he opens his mouth, a row of somewhat crooked white teeth can be seen. Big, curious green eyes, the shape and color of emeralds, are visible as he bats his eyelashes to rid himself of the flying sand.