paixaorpg | An entirely expected visitation

Entry tags:

An entirely expected visitation

Characters: Duma, The Eleventh Doctor
Content: The Time Lord visits the Angel
Setting: St Destino Hospital Chapel
Time: Week 28
Warnings: None

Duma had worked hard to make the dusty, disused chapel feel like home. Or as close to home as he could. He had raided every cupboard for candles, the stubs of two dozen different ages lined the pews and altar. He had dusted well, shifting the grime of disuse until the air was no longer thick to breathe. He had pens and old paper, even a nest of sorts, from appropriated pillows in the far corner.

Under the skylights, in three rusted metal buckets, Duma's seeds were beginning to sprout. One group was a lush, light green, and seemed to flicker with the little noises that filtered in from other places. Another was dark and tangly, and grew faster in the moonlight. The last was straggly and dull, and it took all of Duma's patience to make it grow.

The Angel walked purposefully around with a piece of paper, lighting each candle in turn, then he sat down to listen and wait. Nothing in his demeanor betrayed that he was nervous.

Duma was expecting a guest.

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It had been awhile since the Doctor had been to this hospital - and really, who could have expected an angel to live here? The place was creepy, dank and dark and... had a chapel. Of course it did. Then again, he hadn't exactly had time to really wander about the last couple of times, having been preoccupied with Flonne's condition. The angel was quite the sight, too; it was exceedingly nice to see an angel and not having it be of the "weeping" variety.

The Time Lord stepped carefully so as not to disturb his host and gave a little wave when he was sure the other wasn't being distracted by candles. "Hello. Nice place."

Duma smiled as The Doctor entered, blowing out the piece of paper he had been using to light the candles. He hurried over to the Time Lord, offering to shake his hand rather than wave in greeting. He then gestured, offering a place to sit where the candles wouldn't get too close to anything flammable on his guest.

Sighing slightly, Duma picked up his pen and paper, and wrote the message It's not much of a place. It is very dark. But it's where I am, for now. Welcome, it is nice to physically meet you
He handed the piece of paper to The Doctor, looking slightly sheepish and hoping that he understood.

The Doctor gladly (and vigorously) shook the hand of his latest acquaintance as he grinned widely, and sat down easily, looking about himself with interest. Ah, creepy chapels. Sometimes, he thought the universe didn't have enough spooky places. He read the paper - hadn't Duma already introduced himself as the Guardian of Silence? - and nodded. "Good to meet you," he responded with a soft chuckle, understanding completely. Obviously, a Guardian of Silence wouldn't be well-suited to speech.

Duma didn't quite expect the vigour with which The Doctor would shake his hand, and he looked slightly concerned at first, before noting the ease at which The Doctor made himself at home. He certainly smiled a lot. Maybe he really did like the broken down old chapel.

Duma gently took the piece of paper back, positioning the pen under his last sentence. It was awkward. Writing didn't allow for conversation, and not allowing for conversation was the blanket he had wrapped himself in.

Duma didn't look at the Doctor, rather, he stared at the flickering candle flames as he telepathically sent out the silent message Can you hear me?

It must be known that the Doctor liked just about everything that wasn't trying to kill him (and even then, there were exceptions). He looked over in Duma's direction as the message hit his brain and nodded. "Hear you?" he replied. "Of course I can hear you. Even if I weren't psychic, I would have heard that." It definitely stood to reason that angels - proper angels, mind - would be psychic, given the mythos surrounding them.

Duma looked at The Doctor and nodded. He didn't like using telepathy, it felt like cheating, like betraying God. Still, like Remiel said, his post in the Silver City was long taken over.
Some things can't. Things which are not good, or who are too good. He smiled, just a little.
You have been many places. Are you a great scholar, or a great warrior? Duma had known both. Ibriel the dreamer, who had ventured to as many worlds as he could dream of, whose dreams shaped the Silver City. Amenadiel the warrior, who had stood in conquering over peoples, until he too had been conquered. Duma was neither, all he did was listen.

Too good, or not. Truth be told, the Doctor was neither. Holding back the flood of memories which had taught him those lessons, he smiled back and shook his head. "Neither. I prefer to be considered an experienced newbie. No, don't call me a newbie. That word's rubbish. But you get my point." He chuckled, never above laughing at himself (except sometimes he was, but now wasn't it). "I've been exploring the great unknown since I was... well, the First Doctor." Fond memories, those, even if they were bittersweet.

An experienced newbie? That made no sense, unless... Duma remembered the wake he had attended, the funeral for Dream that was Morpheus, while Dream that was Daniel waited.
The Doctor said he was a Time Lord. It was a curious way for souls to pass, but by no means the strangest he had ever heard of.
So you are old in your soul and memory, but young in your seeming? Yes, I understand. And you are an explorer. Are all your people like this? Duma leaned forward towards The Doctor. He was curious, and letting himself ask questions, rather than meditating on them and believing he would understand the answers in time, was strange and satisfying.

The Doctor nodded. "You've got it right," he replied. "And some of them were. Some... not quite." His smile turned rueful, though it definitely remained a smile. "They're gone, now." Normally, he'd mind a stranger ask him so many questions; he didn't even like people he knew asking questions like that. Now, however, was different; he doubted Duma would blabber on to anyone about him, especially if he was really who he said he was.

"Except for the Master," he continued after a moment as his expression grew serious. "He's another Time Lord, and he's not to be trusted. Oh, and the other me, the tenth me. But he is to be trusted."

So Duma had been right. The Doctor was alone, bar an enemy, and his own seeming. Duma felt actuely sad for him, loneliness was a terrible fate to suffer. He reached out to touch the back of The Doctor's hand, radiating good feeling as best he could. Peace. Kindness. Friendship. It was so much easier than struggling to form the words, to just send the feelings whole.

Duma sensed the need for less personal questions, and maybe The Doctor had some information about this world-bubble-castle-thing they were living in. Duma needed to figure out how to get back.
How long have you been in Paixao?

Well, that was... somewhat new (although Jabe came to mind). The Doctor smiled softly at Duma, giving him a slight nod. "Thank you." It seemed his new friend was empathic, as well. That wasn't surprising, but it was strange how many of the legends he'd heard and read over the years apparently turning out to be true. Even if this wasn't his universe, nor the other a member of it, it was still quite the discovery.

"Let's see," he replied, pushing the previous subject from his mind, "not long, really. Just a few weeks, almost a month. And you?"

Duma kept his fingers against the cool of The Doctor's hand, smiling a little and nodding as he was thanked. It was amazing what you could learn in a few billion years of shutting up and listening.

I've only been here a week or so. A girl named Yorda brought me here, but she and the person she calls her kidnapper have been absent since I took up residence here.

Duma missed Yorda, she had been sweet to him when he had arrived. But he didnt hear them pottering about the hospital at all.

It was nice to have someone who seemed to understand and didn't prod any further. But then, most of the Doctor's companions had known better than to pry. Most of the time. Some of the time... sometimes. But never mind that; something seemed to be wrong. "Kidnapped?" he repeated incredulously, a serious look coming over his face. "This girl was kidnapped? Who kidnapped her? Why? What happened?"

Well, so much for a nice, relaxing visit where absolutely nothing went wrong. Of course, if things went smoothly all the time, he wouldn't know to keep on his toes.

Ah yes, Duma should probably have explained it better, although the explanations he had overheard were less than satisfactory.
The boy's name is Mao. He is very strange. He insists he is Yorda's kidnapper, where he behaves much more like a concerned friend. Yorda is not in danger, and I doubt she ever was.
Duma was less than fond of Mao, who had occasionally attempted to shoo him into his "lab" and study him, which caused much rustling of feathers and angry looks.
Where I have been, Mao and Yorda would be lovers to secure some alliance. Here I don't know why she refers to him as her kidnapper.

Well, that was better, at least. It didn't sound like the girl was in any sort of danger at the moment, which meant the Doctor wouldn't have to go bursting in and saving her. "Well, then, that's not so bad. I do wonder why he's going to all the trouble to insist he's her kidnapper, though." Maybe he just had trouble spitting the truth out, or maybe he had something in mind. He looked back over at Duma when he spoke into his mind again, chuckling a bit. "Maybe, but maybe the rules are different here," he said softly. "Or maybe there are no rules."

The very idea that he could be living in a place that had no rules disturbed Duma greatly. There should always be rules. How was one to decide what was right and what was wrong? True, he occasionally had trouble keeping to the rules, (and here the image of Remiel becoming upset with him flashed into his head so fast he hoped he hadn't accidentally passed it along to The Doctor) but you still needed them so you knew when breaking them was probably better in the spirit of the rule, not the wording.
I'm sure there will be rules. The main difficulty will be finding out what they are

Clearly, Duma was bothered. The Doctor couldn't help but catch a flash of someone looking rather stern and disapproving, but brushed it off; that must have been an accident. "Maybe," he replied thoughtfully, "or maybe the point of the whole thing is 'no rules.' Look at it! It's pulling in people from places that don't even exist! Well, they obviously do, but most of it's, well, fairy tales." He chuckled to himself, remembering how he'd reacted when he'd discovered just who Lumiere was. "It's breaking the very rules of the universe, this place... or maybe they're following their own, like you said. I dunno, that's something to chew on, isn't it?"

Duma had been in the Dreaming, so he didn't think that pulling talking animals, goddesses and fairy tales was all that difficult. He had been told by someone that he himself wasn't real. Duma half wondered if this was the Dreaming, some part of it that had broken away from the rest. But the Dreaming had rules, Fairie had rules, even the new-minted creation of Lucifer had rules. But there was always someone, or someones, to impose those rules.
I think that finding the creator of this place would go a long way to understanding it's rules. After all, they will come from him or her.
And finding a creator would allow him to go home. Or at least, back to Hell.

Rules were meant to be broken. Or bent. Or followed, if they were reasonable. Sometimes. "I think you're right, Duma," came the response, the Doctor looking thoughtful again. "But where could I possibly find the creator?" It was doubtful that such a person would be so eager as to show themselves, much less admit what they were up to. Even so, it would be worth a try, wouldn't it? He'd just have to wait and see... and quite probably prod around a bit on the message boards. What the hell; they'd been useful before, and maybe drawing a bit of attention would yield the results he needed.

In Duma's world, rules were made to be followed, and the pennance for breaking them was meant to be long and painful.
Most creators are at the top, so I hope we are starting in the middle, and not at the bottom.
Duma wondered if there was an equivalent to the Ladder of Jacob in Paixao, a ladder that would take you straight to Heaven, to speak with God.
I will help you find him, should you like it. I'm not very good at asking around.

"I hope so, too," said the Doctor. "But really, I doubt we're anywhere near the bottom. Of the castle, maybe, but nowhere else." He absolutely loved the intricacies and twists of this place so far, even if some of it - okay, a lot of it was worrying, but that wasn't the point. He smiled at Duma. "I'd like that very much," he replied with a nod, "and I don't mind doing the asking." The Doctor loved asking around; it gave him the opportunity to get to know more people and sniff about, so to speak. It would do him good.

Duma really wished he could understand more of what made this castle/plane/creation tick. He needed the understanding, the structure. He needed, as much as he hated to admit it, to be told what to do. Lucifer was right, angels were defined by their obeying unquestionably.
I have been to the bottom of a creation, it does tend to be a lot more sulferous and muddy, a primordial soup of little animal gods and long-disbelieved afterlives. When you are krill, God is a shrimp.
Really Duma wasn't so sure what he could do to look for a Creator... Except maybe listen really hard, but the pale light-people never prayed, not that he could hear anyway.

He'd run into long-forgotten gods and the like before, but Duma's experiences, so far, didn't seem to match up with his. Definitely from an alternate, then. Or maybe the Doctor's world was the alternate here. Who knew? "Sounds interesting," replied the Doctor, disentangling himself from his thoughts. Maybe he could catch a glimpse, somehow - but then, alternates were never anything to mess or meddle with, not that it had stopped him before.

"Sounds interesting"... The note of intense curiousity was back, and Duma heard it as if The Doctor had said "I really really want to see this."
He was nothing if not an amenable host (if you'll perdon the pun) and his one and only journey into the basment of creation was one he remembered well.
Would you like to see it? I went there, a thousand years ago, to find an angel who had been tricked and escaped to there. I could take you to my memory, which is almost the place itself, for a place like that.
Here Duma stood up in front of The Doctor, gathering himself and stretchhing taller. He suddenly looked less human, more etherial. Less flesh, more spirit.
But you will have to hold very tightly to me.

Well, now, that was interesting. The Doctor stood up, stretching a bit, and grinned. "Are you kidding? Of course I would! It's be like Christmas all over again." Well, except for the fact that he usually ended up saving the world on Christmas. Maybe. He was sure it was an illusion, or perhaps a memory; there was no teleporting out of the castle (or else Duma surely would have gathered people up and gotten them out by now). "I'd love to see it." He took the angel's hand and held on tightly, as asked, still grinning. "Lead the way."

As The Doctor gripped his hand, Duma realised he hadn't quite gotten across what he meant, but never mind.

Close your eyes and think back. Not just to your earliest memory, but before. remember a time in your evolution when you were small and afraid in the darkness, when vicious preadators lurked, when they could only be repelled by prayers to beings far stronger than you. When you invented names for your gods, and for what came after your death

As The Doctor shut his eyes, Duma wrapped his arms tightly around The Doctor's waist.

Open your eyes.

The reason for Duma hugging the Doctor became clear, they were flying above a shifting, muddy soup, rippling with the appearance and dissapearance of small animal-gods, which were occasionally snapped up by long disbelieved eldrich creatures.
The bottom of creation. A hiding place for things which should have been long gone. A conglomeration of belief and memory.

Duma nodded his head to the left, flapping his wings hard to keep them both aloft. There were three angels - One was dirty and bleeding, covered in the soupy mud. Another was recognisable as Duma. The third was taller and stunningly beautiful, yet at the same time he was more terrifying with his beauty.

That is Raguel. He hid here, lonely and afraid. I heard him cry. You can see me. The other is the Archangel Raphael, angel of healing. After Lucifer fell, he is the most beautiful creature in the Silver City.

The three angels crouched in the shadow of a huge carved head, a relic from a lost religion, remembered only in shape by a few.
Duma began to sweat, and he faltered in his flight, causing the pair of them to drop a little way - The strain of maintaining the intensity of the memory was becoming apparent.

This was brilliant! He'd looked through other people's memories before, but that was nothing like this. This was so much more intense, as though it was unfolding before their eyes instead of already in the past. The Doctor looked up at Duma in amazement, about to exclaim at his abilities, when he noticed the difficulty the other was having. Maybe it was best to stay quiet, never mind that he was positively bursting with curiosity. He could always ask later, especially since he didn't know what would happen, should Duma lost his concentration. Most likely, they'd simply return to the chapel, but one never knew. Best not to take risks for now.

So he merely listened attentively, absorbing the information with ease. Once gain, he couldn't help but note how nice it was to run into angels when they were actually the proper sort, never mind the "kind assassins" he'd run into once before.

As the memory became harder to hold onto flashes of the flickering light from the candles from the chapel broke into Duma's peripheral vision. He concentrated, but the place wasn't willing to let two versions of himself exist side by side like this.

Eventually, despite a great deal of effort the chapel crowded itself back into view entirely, and Duma thumped into the floor hard, falling sideways and trying to keep himself from knocking over a lot of candles, or landing on The Doctor.

Exhausted, he slumped to his knees. That wasn't me. I couldn't take you anywhere else. It's the place. That memory's happening now, in that place the time is always now.

"Don't push yourself," said the Doctor. He'd seen enough to know what Duma was talking about. There was no question that it was a painful memory to the other, even with the explanation of it happing right then and there (and really, it wasn't too hard to grasp, especially considering that he was usually the one explaining just that to his companions); it must have been difficult for Duma to relive that time.

Putting a hand on the lonely angel's shoulder and giving a compassionate nod, he continued. "I understand. And really, thank you for trusting me with this." It hadn't been the only reason Duma had acted, obviously, but it seemed the most important. Duma clearly needed a friend, and the Doctor was more than willing to fulfill that role.

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An entirely expected visitation

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