Doctor Who - Telos - 10 by Fallen Gods

Author:Fallen Gods [Gods, Fallen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

swimming.

She slides her hand beneath his hair at the base of his neck and

scratches, as though he’s one of the half-wild cats that inhabit the town.

His shoulders relax, just a little.

—There are only a handful of them left. The others have all sailed out

into the vortex. These few have stayed ... because of the humans.

Because you amused them. And then one of your people, or one of

theirs, found a way to bind them. They’re tied down to the volcano, as

trapped as any fish living in the hot, dark waters.

Alcestis stands, up, and offers him her hand. —Come inside, she says.

The gems shine like stars in the red blackness of the shrine. The Doctor

stands, near the altar, near the edge, looking down into the magma where

the crystals sparkle like moonlight on water.

With a feeling like a great sigh, the Fallen are, there, all around them.

Their bodies, trapped deep in Tartarus, are nowhere to be seen. But

Alcestis feels the pressure of their eyes from the crystals all around.

They have arrived unsummoned, curious, tasting the air.

—Wings, says the Doctor. —Scorching.

Alcestis touches his arm. —Don’t be afraid.

—There are, so many of them. An entire species in thrall. All looking

at me. All looking to me.

—Pray to them, she murmurs. They’ll hear you.

The Doctor straightens, and his brow smoothes. She can hear the gods

listening, waiting.

—Hello, he says aloud. —I’m the Doctor. And I want you to stop.

There’s a rustling in the glowing darkness, as though thousands of

moths are flapping through the shrine, in love with the glistening

crystals. The Doctor turns, and turns again, as though trying to pinpoint

the source of the sound. But the whispering she feels is just a feather’s

touch inside her head.

Stop what?

The rustling turns to laughter for a moment, then dies away again, into

listening.

—I want you to stop co-operating with Rhadamanthys. I want you to

stop devouring the Minoans’ children and grafting that stolen time onto

the ones the King tells you to.

Crackling laughter works through her, like claws over her flesh.

Alcestis is struck dumb with terror. This is not how you speak to the

gods. You don’t treat them as equals.

And yet, the Doctor is still standing, still breathing.

What is he?

Another wash of sensation: sudden sharp awareness of the wall of bone

around her mind. Constraint, power bound, grounded. No choice. No

food. No freedom.

—I’ll find a way to free you, offers the Doctor.

A mix of laughter, of curious murmurs, an angry buzzing undertone

through her teeth. Alcestis starts praying, silently, worshipping, praising,

pleading. But they’re not listening to her.

—Stop obeying Rhadamanthys. Go on strike! Refuse to do his bidding.

You’re gods – why let yourselves be pushed around by some mortal,

even if he is a King,?

Her bones are, laughing again, buzzing in their sockets, grinding faintly

against one another. Tiny lightning-shocks of disdain through her heart:

the King, not commanding, no control. He doesn’t have the wisdom. He

doesn’t have the knowledge. He’s not the one.

—Britomartis, says the Doctor.

—Britomartis, says Alcestis.

A shiver of certainty.

Alcestis sinks her fingers into the Doctor’s shoulder, suddenly urgent,

unmindful of her gods. —I’ll make her tell us.

The Doctor looks into her face.

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