There, and Back Again - Chapter 9

[schrodingers_time_lady]

Title: There, and Back Again - Chapter 9
Fandom: Doctor Who
Character(s): Rodageitmososa (OC), Rassilon (Pre-Canon)
Ships(s): Rodageitmososa/Perigraphaltas
Previous Chapter: Chapter 8
Next Chapter: Chapter 10
Synopsis: Growing into a Time Lady is hard enough, but growing up as the Lord President's ward is even harder. Especially when it seems as though all of Gallifrey and strangers alike want to tell you how to live your life and who you're going to become.
Cross-posts: AO3

“But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.”
- “This Be the Verse”, Philip Larkin

--- 

“Rodageitmososa, of all the stupid, reckless things that you have done this was perhaps the most irresponsible!”

Roda pressed the balls of her hands to her eye sockets, and wished very much that the ground would just swallow her up and be done with it. Her head was pounding, her whole mind felt like it had been torn apart and put back together by three different people, and her mental defences felt absolutely shattered to pieces. She really wasn’t in the mood to add the headache of a fight to the end of the miserable list.

The room that she had awoken in wasn’t one that she had visited before, but it was unmistakably a Zero Room. There was nothing quite as white and clinical and empty. Machinery should have beeped and whirred, but she couldn’t hear them. On one side of the room was a wheeled cart with a tray full of medical equipment, but it practically blended into the endless nothing of the well-lit walls. She awoke curled up in a ball in the centre of a gurney, clutching her head - it felt like if she let it go, her brain would fall out - and Rassilon hadn’t even given her the courtesy of letting her waking up properly before beginning to berate her.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, feeling as though they were made of some sort of jelly. As her heels hit one of the gurney legs, the sudden thought that her own legs were too long almost sent her skittering back under the covers before she got control of herself. The cloth slipped to the floor as she let it go, and Roda pushed through the confusion. She forced herself to stretch for the ground, wanting to stand up to meet Rassilon’s anger on her feet, but he firmly pushed her back into a sitting position in a way that brooked no argument. Pressing the forefinger and thumb of his bare hand to her temple he pushed once more into her unshielded mind, and Roda found that she had no energy to even bother trying to stop him.

And anyway, she was supposed to trust him… wasn’t she? After all, he had just saved her from herself.

Without pausing to think them through, the words “I had it under control” slipped between her teeth, earning her a frustrated snarl in response.

“You are lucky,” said Rassilon carefully, that anger somehow held below the surface for the time being, “that Perigraphaltas sought me out before you lost yourself forever.”

The Lord President pinched the bridge of his nose, scrunching his eyes shut as he regained his composure. He drew his other hand away, apparently satisfied with whatever he had read from her thoughts. Roda rested her head in her hands and her elbows on her thighs, not willing to admit out loud how nauseous she still felt. Omega’s sake, but she was never doing anything that stupid ever again. In fact, at that exact moment all she wanted to do was stay in bed for the rest of time and never have to face Rassilon or Peri or even Selesion again, let alone the faces she had seen in her future. Faces that were already blurry and inconsistent; the ordeal a complete waste of her time.

Roda sighed. What had she proven, exactly? That she was quick to anger? That she didn’t die before regenerating? That she would at least make it as far as graduation? All she had really proven was that for all of her claims that she wouldn’t let what people had to say about her hurt her, Selesion had gotten under her skin and twisted the knife. She had nearly killed herself, angered the man whose roof she had lived under since she had become an orphan and worst of all, upset Peri so much that he had left her alone to go and fetch her guardian in case it all went wrong.

And thank Rassilon he had.

Her voice was quiet and small and she spoke through her fingers, eyes wet with frustration and anxiety alike.

“Where’s Peri?”

Rassilon pursed his lips. “Perigraphaltas is in my drawing room,” he said, calmly. “He… insisted upon waiting for you to awake.”

“Is he okay?”

“He is unharmed,” Rassilon snapped, eyes darkening. “For unlike my ward, he did not see fit to engage in a ‘game’ which has killed more Time Lords than I believe you can comprehend.”

“I didn’t plan to-”

“Precisely!” Rassilon slammed his fist down on the bed beside her, and Roda couldn’t help but jump and flinch away. “You do not plananything, Rodageitmososa, and if you do not begin you will amount to nothing.”

Roda’s eyes flashed with anger and, ignoring her alarm and her exhaustion, she threw her hands in the air and glared at Rassilon. “That’s what he said! I wouldn’t have had anything to prove if anyone at all would just trust that I’m not going to fuck everything up!”

“Language, Roda-”

“I don’t care what language I use,” she continued, running a hand through her hair so quickly a few strands came away in her fingers, “nobody listens anyway. I could write a Triple Alpha essay in first generation circular High Gallifreyan and read it aloud to the entire Council while standing on my head, and you would still tell me that I am not good enough.”

“You are my ward,” Rassilon narrowed his eyes. A hundred years ago Roda would have flinched from that gaze but today she met it, daringhim to continue. An act which only made him angrier, and cooler. “As I have told you before, it is not simply enough for you to succeed, you must excel.”

“I’m just one Time Lady!”

“There is no such thing as just a Time Lord.”

The two glared at each other for an age, Rassilon’s hand flat on the gurney as he loomed over her and Roda resisting with difficulty the urge to tear away and storm out of the room. They had come, yet again, to a stalemate; it was an argument that had been coming for some time, now. Roda knew that if she tried to talk about it calmly, it would only spiral into an even greater argument, because Rassilon simply did not listen. She had tried to take in his advice over the years - watching him tinker, give speeches, run a society - and for most of her childhood she had looked at him in awe. Even living with him had not diminished her respect for a living hero and a man who had revolutionised the society she lived in and benefited from. Even her attempts to discuss what she didn’t agree with him about (calmly) had historically led to dismissal. Empty statements like ‘you are young’ or ‘you will understand later’ or ‘it is my will and that is final’. And now, she was beginning to see that her guardian was exactly the sort of person that Robin Hood would laugh in the face of.

So she had shut her mouth, letting bitterness fester as she tried to remind herself that she had plenty to be grateful for, and that without Rassilon she would likely have not been where she was today. Yes, he had annoyed her by harping on about her grades, but his pushing had kept her from dropping out of the Academy. As he was so keen to remind her, he put not only a roof over her head but a comfortable and secure one that came with more autonomy than her fellows living in the Academy dormitories. She knew she had a privilege of position that few of her peers had, and she knew that at times she didn’t necessarily show that she was grateful for it, but it still hurt that Rassilon seemed to look at her, sometimes, and see an opportunity and not a person. The further apart they had drifted the more she had begun to question why - having not taken her in immediately after her father had died but when someone had finally deigned to mention her to him - he even wanted her about at all. What were his so-called lofty plans? And how was she supposed to reach those heights if he didn’t tell her the ceiling?

As tiredness from the game of Eighth Man Bound hit her once again Roda slumped into the bed, breaking eye contact first and feeling as though she was always the one giving ground in these ‘talks’. Instead, she tried to remind herself that she wouldn’t be on Gallifrey forever. Little flashes of memory flitted about her brain, fading with each passing second. Two faces, and hints at a fourth. First a blond, then a redhead. And the diamond of steel that had come towards her face…. she recognized it, now, as the head of an arrow. A very rudimentary one, but the idea that archery was in her future gave her the courage to keep going. 

Nevertheless, she would prevail.

“You’re not my father,” she said, finally. Resignedly. There was still a bite to her words, but she was so tired. “What I do with my life should be my decision.”

“When what you choose to do endangers your life,” argued Rassilon, also quiet, “then it becomes the responsibility of the head of your House.” The words ‘or your Chapter’ went unspoken; it was a discussion they’d had many a time before, too. “While you live under my roof, you will abide by my law.”

The words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them, muttered under her breath as she glared at her knees.

“The whole planet is under your roof…”

“Then you will abide by my law on all of Gallifrey,” replied Rassilon sternly, taking her chin in one hand and turning her to look at him again. His grip was so tight it almost bruised. Roda raised both eyebrows, and even that felt like too much effort. “Just as every other Time Lord before you has been content to do.”

“And what if I don’t want to anymore?”

Once spoken, the words could not be taken back. Something flashed behind Rassilon’s eyes that she had never seen before. Frustration, but also… pain? Sadness? He was impossible to read. Her expression softened as she tried to understand, to know why those exact words had elicited such a response, but with a snort of disdain he let go of her face and straightened up, making a show of busying himself rearranging his robes.

As he did, Roda noticed that he looked almost as rough as she felt. His gauntlet was sitting on a shelf behind him, and his staff was propped up against a trolley, both of them haphazardly abandoned. His robes were in disarray, and his hair - usually so well-tamed - was coming undone from the ponytail that he wore it in. With his back to her, he stroked one hand over his face with a sigh, and Roda realised with a start that he was nervous. Or had been. Had he truly been worried for her?

“You are many things, Rodageitmososa,” he said, still looking away. “But I did not think you were ungrateful.”

For the first time, Roda hesitated before responding, choosing her words carefully.

“Is that what you think this is?” She gripped the edge of the gurney, casting her eyes away. “That - that I’m not grateful enough for everything you’ve done?”

Rassilon shrugged, and that in itself was a strange enough gesture. “What would you have me think? That you are simply willful, disobedient and an endangerment to yourself because you do not care?”

“You have no idea how much I care.”

“I do.” Rassilon snorted. “I understand more than you think. But to let your anger and your impulses control you is the road to ruin.” He made a fist softly and then uncurled it, starting at his bare hand. “I have tried to drill into you for centuries now that you cannot afford to make mistakes.”

“It was just one mistake!” protested Roda. It was, again, the wrong thing to say.

“One mistake upon a tower of foolishness,” he retaliated, turning on his heel to face her. Any vulnerability he might briefly have shown was gone, replaced by the face of the President. Roda felt herself slump, steeling for more bickering. “You are not stupid-”

“That’s not what you said ten minutes ago.”

“But,” he stressed - warning her not to interrupt again, “you repay my generosity with rebellion. Is it so ineffable to believe that my plans for you might have your best interests at mind?”

Roda chewed her lip. “I didn’t do it for myself.” The slight change in subject piqued Rassilon’s attention and he paused, beckoning with one hand for her to continue. “The game. Or, well…” she pulled a face. “Maybe I did, but I would have walked away if Selesion had not insulted Peri just because.”

Rassilon blinked, momentarily dumbfounded. “You did it to prove a point?”

Unsure what the ‘right’ answer was, Roda settled on nodding.

“He’s the one that blacked my eye, forever ago.” Rassilon’s mouth tightened. “He always starts fights - not just with me, with everyone - because his father is in the Council and he thinks that he can get away with it. And he does.” Her hands balled into fists, the game forgotten. “How is that fair? How is that just? How can I play the good little ward and let you - you - you elevate me above my station just because I got lucky if that means walking into corruption with my eyes closed? I had to show him I was better than that. Than him.”

“The Scendeleseon?” Rassilon asked. Roda nodded. “Their influence in the Council is weak. I know whose child he is, and I will speak with him on the matter.” For a moment, Roda’s hearts soared. Was he actually going to do something about the bully? “But in this case,” ah, there it is again, “his behaviour is simply your excuse.”

“What the Skaro is that supposed to mean?” asked Roda, snidely.

It crossed her mind, belatedly, that Rassilon had once again changed the subject. Deferred the inevitable and steered them away from criticism of the Council. It seemed to her as though ‘influence’ and ‘strength’ shouldn’t have been a part of politics within a planet; and and - the thought began to take form - perhaps it shouldn't have meant anything in the universe at large, either. Were Time Lords really meant to guide? To monitor time and space like some sort of stellar royalty? Or was teaching Time Tots how important they were just the beginning of turning them into bullies like Selesion?

Something began to stir in the back of her mind, drowning out the rat-ta-ta-tat of her heartbeats. Is that what the Schism had been trying to tell her? What the game had taught her? Were Time Lords the heroes, or the villains?

“It means,” continued Rassilon; his connection to her mind severed enough that he couldn’t possibly know her internal crisis, “that you cannot rise to his taunts and expect me to bail you out.”

“I don’t expect anything,” Roda snapped, “because you don’t tell me anything.” Her thoughts were a vortex of problems and anxiety and confusion, and she just wanted to either be left alone or be handed the answers. “I didn’t ask for your help, but I don’t know what you want of me.”

“Evolution does not happen overnight. Gallifrey was not built in a day, but a reputation can be formed in an instance and you do not yet understand that. Until you do, there is no sense in sharing my goals with somebody who might not reach the position to be a part of them.” Roda felt as though she had been slapped across the face. Not good enough… “If you can control your temper, Rodageitmososa,” Rassilon said warningly, “then you will show me that you can be trusted with the responsibilities of maintaining a civilization. Your father understood his role.”

“He died.”

“An untenable loss of life, but neither here nor there. Your mother, too, understood her responsibilities as a member of the Council. I believed you would inherit your father’s pragmatism and your mother’s passion, but you seem determined instead to make the worst of both gifts.”

“How can I possibly be like two people who didn’t get to raise me?”

Roda felt like tearing her hair out. Future this, mistakes that, potential, potential, potential…! If Time Lords were so high and mighty and had it all together, then why did adults always speak in code and cipher and political potentials instead of just giving the next generation a map? Rassilon was using a lot of words but they all felt like meaningless filler. Nothing felt important, or like an answer to a single one of her questions. Was that what he wanted her to become? Another empty shell of a Time Lord, intelligent beyond reason but able to be led down any path he wished? No way.

“I have given you ample opportunity to hone yourself and-”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“I do not have to explain myself to you, child.”

“Sure. Because I made myself,” she argued. “Not you, not my Professors, and not my parents.”

“And yet you let the words of a bully control your actions today.”

“I-” Roda opened her mouth and shut it again, too furious that he was right to form a proper response.

“And were it not for my reach, those actions would have gotten you expelled from the Academy.” Her gut knotted, as the bitterness of the truth settled in her stomach. Here she was again in the debt of the Lord President; a hole it seemed like she would never dig her way out of. “You can't live in the past and the future at the same time.”

“That’s what you want me to do, though! Can’t you just tell me what you mean!” Roda begged furiously. With a firm shake of his head, Rassilon stepped away from her, and Roda was left grasping air.

Perhaps she didn’t want to follow a road that was laid out for her. Perhaps Peri felt the same way, and maybe even Selesion lashed out because of pressure. But if no one would mark it out then how was she supposed to deviate from it? Instead students and citizens and Skaro, even Shobogans were punished for putting one foot out of a line that no one had warned them about. It was no wonder so many people played Eighth Man Bound; nobody else was going to tell them that things would be alright when they were older. Her upbringing had left her no more enlightened by anyone else on Gallifrey, no matter what Rassilon thought.

“Tell me what you want me to do,” she continued, “Or - or what your plan is. Then maybe I’d-”

“Prove to me that my expectations are not misplaced,” responded Rassilon, coldly. “Prove that you can rise above your station without resorting to using your fists, and that you can focus your attention on only what is important to the future of Gallifrey. Do that,” he declared, tidying his hair smartly, “and I can promise you that you will not feel the need to prove yourself to anyone ever again.”

“How?”

But he had nothing more to say. As Rassilon pulled away and smoothed down his robes, collecting his staff from where it was resting, Roda ignored his earlier command and pushed herself off the edge of the bed. Bare heels hit marble with a slap and she almost lost her balance before grabbing hold of the gurney behind her with both hands. Rassilon paused mid-step - as if, for a second, he was considering saying something more to her - before shaking his head and crossing the Zero Room in brisk, no-nonsense strides. Feeling thoroughly lost for words and somehow, feeling as though some childhood comfort had been ripped from her hearts the second she saw her future, Roda moved as if to follow him. Her face grew damp with frustrated tears as Raz - Rassilon - the Lord President placed his palm flat against a panel on the wall and left the room without a backwards glance.

Ready to shout and scream and rage, Roda instead felt her knees give out beneath her, and barely managed to fall backwards instead. She landed on her backside, grimacing with pain and let her head rest on her knees, all her energy expended.

She was never going to figure it out. What he wanted, how she was supposed to make him proud, how she was supposed to do it. Was thatwhy she had seen Sol-3 in the visions and the Untempered Schism alike? Was she simply doomed to never live up to anybody’s expectations; should she just run away, and disappear for good? Not a hero, but simply a phantom in the forest? But if that was the case… had her whole life been just a waste? All these years spent trying to please the only father figure she had suddenly felt hollow and dry in her mouth, as if she was trying to swallow sand. Maybe his faith in her was misplaced. Maybe she should have faded into obscurity the day her father died, another orphan Time Lord to fill up the ranks of responsibility and patriotism. A nobody. A let-down.

If that was the case, though… why did everything feel wrong?