DREAMING OF ENGLAND

by Kitty Fisher

PART TWO

High above the city, the Master sipped from a glass of wine and watched as the sun began to set, spectacular in the pollution thick skies. Behind him in the next room he could hear the hushed movements as the wreck of his bedroom was cleared, the fouled sheets stripped from the bed, the room returned to its usual immaculate order.

He felt tired, as if he had battled long and hard. Which he had. Contentment made it all worthwhile. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed the sex act quite so indulgently. Yet, now that the drug had left his system and now all he really wanted to do was to shower, eat and then sleep, which was why slaves were at work now. He required fresh linen and smooth covers, not the filthy mess his bed had, through the long hours, been turned into.

"Sir?" The woman overseer was standing just inside the door.

"Yes?"

"We've finished, sir. Is there anything else you require?"

"No. Have supper brought in about an hour, then leave me alone for the night."

"Yes, sir." She made a deep obeisance, then scurried out of the room.

Alone at last, the Master walked through his rooms and into the shower. Tossing his robe onto the floor he chose, as the Doctor had before him, to bathe under water and, with a sigh of satisfaction, he stepped under the embracing warmth. Sometimes the oldest pleasures were the best.

Like having the Doctor in his bed.

He smiled under the running water and massaged his beard. It had been a fine vengeance, making that cool, aristocratic poise break again and again. True, all of it was due to the delicious effect of the drug. But all was fair in love and war, hadn't the Doctor himself said that many, many years ago? And the effect had been even more spectacular on the Time Lord physiology than he had been led to hope.

Humming gently to himself he wondered idly if the Doctor would see it all as a simple physical reaction. Or whether Vislor Turlough would, when he was shown the recording.

Of course, there really was no need to do that. It would be just as easy, and indeed more interesting, to make him watch the next time the Doctor was treated to the same medicine. Or perhaps to reverse the roles. Though the idea of the Trion in his bed did little, the thought of the Doctor's distress as he was forced to watch was quite diverting. So diverting that his flesh gave a little throb of arousal. Raising an eye–brow he smiled. The Doctor had been good for him; he felt young, vigorous, well nigh omnipotent.

With a click, the Master turned of the shower. There was no need to make any decisions. There was no time limit to this entertainment. For a moment he felt the absolute joy of having his oldest enemy in his absolute power. It was a headier delight than could be induced by any drug.

And this time there was no way for the Doctor to escape. None at all.

With that happy thought, the Master dried himself and went to find his supper. He was suddenly very hungry.

* * * * *

With more than one curse, Turlough finally managed to manoeuvre the Doctor onto the bunk. Every now and then the body shuddered violently in his arms. The filthy, slender frame was burning up with fever. Sweat had darkened the Doctor's hair and his pulse was fast and thready, his breathing shallow, seemingly painful. Fumbling with the blanket, Turlough carefully wrapped it around the nakedness, covering the bruises, the appalling marks of misuse. It was quite clear that the Doctor had been raped. Even the most naive person would take that conclusion from the marks that scarred the long body. And Turlough was far from naive. So much for what the Doctor had hoped, that the Master only wanted him when willing.

At least he had left him alive. That was as close Turlough could get to thanks. He would have wept, had tears not been a waste of precious energy. What he was going to do instead, he was pathetically unsure.

Briefly touching the familiar face, for no other reason than to be certain he wasn't dreaming, Turlough stood and went to the corner, where a single water–outlet rattled at his touch. After a moment, a begrudging flow of brackish water spattered into the open waste–outlet set into the floor. The ragged fabric torn from the Doctor's coverall was still there. Soaking it, Turlough turned back to the bunk and found a pair of blank eyes staring at him.

"Doctor!" Hurriedly kneeling at his side, Turlough gripped cold fingers. "Doctor, I'm so sorry."

"Hello, Turlough, still apologising?"

"Yes. I'm getting quite good at it."

"You shouldn't."

Turlough shook his head.

"Help me sit."

With an arm around the wide shoulders, Turlough levered the Doctor upright, trying to ignore the accompanying hiss of pain. "Are you all right?" The question was out of his mouth before he could stop it. "Sorry, stupid..." He stopped mid sentence and wondered if silence was better than making a complete hash of speech. Words of apology still danced on his tongue but he swallowed them and awkwardly knelt down. He stared into the white face, seeing fine lines of suffering the day and night had etched into the thin skin.

Turlough knew this was all his fault. Guilt made him nauseous. He would have given anything for this to be erased from time's history. Anything for it not to have happened.

Strung taut with misery and uselessness, Turlough bent his head. "I wish it had been me."

"I don't." The Doctor stretched out his hand and rested it on the ragged red hair. "I lived, you might have not."

Fierce blue eyes met his own. "I wouldn't care."

The Doctor, tired to the bone and beyond, smiled wearily but answered with the absolute truth. "I would."

For a long moment they held the simple contact of eye to eye. Then Turlough, suddenly all briskness, returned to the matter in hand. If he hid suddenly over–bright eyes, the Doctor was gracious enough to say nothing. "I'm afraid there's no hot water."

"I remember." Easing his legs off the bunk, the Doctor was about to stand, but it was too much and he fell back with a gasp.

"Doctor!" Turlough was holding him, feeling the terrible, bone racking shudders through his own body. The spasm seemed without end. He could hear the Doctor's teeth rattling in his skull, feel the sweat that sprang from every pore of his skin. It was beyond simple reaction and it was terrifying.

At that moment the guard returned.

Almost witless with fear for his friend's life, Turlough didn't realise they weren't alone until the Doctor mercifully lay still in his arms, and he finally looked up.

The guard looked uneasy, though he opened a section of the barrier. "I've brought you what you wanted."

Disentangling himself, carefully resting the Doctor's head on the bunk, Turlough straightened, wiping a hand roughly over his face, half prepared to be mocked, uncaring. "Thank you."

"Blankets, some food — not much but it was all I could get, some pain–killers. I put some antiseptic spray in as well." The bundle was held in outstretched arms.

"I... When.." Turlough swallowed bitterly, then found his pride. He lifted his chin. "I'll fulfil my part of the bargain later — when he's better." Imperious, Turlough took the bundle and privately wished the guard in oblivion.

His answer was, quite shockingly, a slight smile. "No need. I really just like women." The guard grinned, suddenly seeming both very young and abruptly accessible. "My name's Coll. If you need anything else — well, I can't promise, but I'll see what I can do." And with that he turned to go, leaving Turlough slack–jawed with amazement.

"I... Why?" The question was barely a croak. Turlough, had to swallow before he could find his voice. "Why?"

"Dunno." Turning back, Coll shrugged, and for a second looked as if he really didn't know. Then he sighed, his fingers resting gently against the baton that hung at his side. "Maybe I've just got sick of all that." He nodded at where the Doctor was struggling to regain his senses. "Hide the stuff when Raman does his inspection, if he bothers down here." He gave the decrepit surroundings a disgusted glance.

"I will! Thank you..." Turlough smiled, probably the first time he had honestly smiled at someone, other than the Doctor, since leaving the Tardis all those bitter months ago. After a second, Coll irresistibly smiled in return.

It faded fast, though. Coll nodded to the Doctor. "Is he all right?"

"I don't know. I don't know what happened to him."

"I overheard something about drugs — the rest you can see."

Turlough took a deep, shaky breath and nodded. "Yes. I'd better go to him. But, thanks — for everything."

"Yeah." And with a nod the cell was secured and the guard gone.

The Doctor was still unconscious. Turlough touched a hand to the sweating forehead and frowned at the unhealthy heat. Hurriedly, he reached for the blanket Coll had left. He found, with a sigh of relief, rolled up inside it both a small spray containing some sort of antiseptic and a phial of pain–killers. Turlough stared at them both, a sudden suspicion trickling like cold water into his blood. Rolling back his sleeve, he carefully sprayed a small amount of liquid from the bottle onto his own forearm. He waited, breathless. But nothing seemed to happen apart from the skin quickly and efficiently going numb. He sighed in relief and moved across to the Doctor.

It seemed to take forever, yet somehow using the primitive tools of a rag, cold water and the basic medications, Turlough tried to repair the Doctor's body. He cleaned away blood and worse, blanking out his thoughts as his hands obeyed his instructions, as in turn each piece of raw skin was cleaned and salved.

Anger was all that kept his hand steady. The abuse must have systematic, most of it seemed to have been sexual. The still body was bruised, marked by fingers, nails, teeth. Bite marks livid in soft tissue made his stomach turn, bile rising like acid in his throat. Icy cold, Turlough dealt with it all as best he could, and tried to believe that once the Doctor was awake he could heal himself. That he could do so, and would do so. If he came to at all...

Turlough shivered, and shied away from that possibilty.

He would have done anything, truly anything, to provide the Doctor with hot water and a soft bed. Maybe along with something to eat. Or the Tardis and her capabilities for healing. None were on offer though, not for any prize in the universe. So he continued, mind carefully shuttered, face wet with tears that somehow he had no control over, doing the best he could.

Some time later Turlough wrapped his charge in the blankets, and knew there was nothing else he could do. He was very tired, aching with tension and exhaustion. He stood by the tap and slowly washed the blood from his hands, dully scraping under his nails until the icy water made his skin raw and the joints in his fingers ache. He rubbed them hard against his coveralls until they were dry and some circulation had been restored, then sat down on the floor by the bed, one hand slipped under the covers to hold a bruised wrist, feeling the erratic, reassuring pulses beating beneath the skin.

At some point he must have dropped into a kind of sleep, for he came to with a start when the wrist was almost slid out of his grasp. He was ready to fight, "No!" Turlough came to his knees, battling with air, then he realised that the injured man was simply awake, and there were no guards here to take him away.

"Hello."

"Hello yourself." Turlough settled back, breathless. He stared at the Doctor and his expression softened.

The Doctor blinked, and peered sideways. "Why are you sitting on the floor, are you all right?"

The comment made Turlough tut under his breath. "Trust you to come to and ask about me! I'm fine." He was suddenly awkward, remembering; sure the Doctor was remembering far worse. The past hours slid between them. How did you sympathise with someone who had gone through...that. He shifted uncomfortably, and tried not to ask how the Doctor felt. Instead he took the hand back into his own and nodded at the water strewn floor. "I cleaned you up, caused rather a mess."

The Doctor seemed to conducting some sort of personal inventory. After a second or two he opened his eyes and his expression softened warmly. "Thank you, considering what a state I must have been in, you've done a remarkable job." He hesitated, shifting his shoulders against the mattress. "Who gave you the medications?"

"A guard. After they dumped you, one came back and let me have some stuff."

"What did you have to sell." Chilly fingers tightened on his own and there were shadows lingering behind the question.

"Nothing... Though I offered." Turlough studied the hand, seeing bruises, marks that could only have come from fingers holding him down. His voice was roughened. "Thankfully, he didn't want me."

"Yet he helped anyway?"

"Yes."

"A paragon, indeed." The Doctor shifted slightly, and with one finger lifted Turlough's chin until they were eye to eye. "Truth?"

Turlough nodded. "Truth."

"Good, I'm glad you were spared that." He lay back, half on his side.

"I'd rather have done it willingly, to save you, than be forced." Like you...the words, though unspoken lingered. He squarely met the Doctor's eyes and asked everything he could never say in words.

His answer was a flicker of the bruised eye–lids, then the Doctor replied, "It was...not the most pleasant time I have ever spent. But it was bearable. Was...until he used some drug; whatever it was, for a while it meant I didn't really care about anything he did to me. It was only my body, after all and he got what he wanted." He winced as Turlough's grip tightened. "Then he got bored, and... Well, let's just say that I really didn't like it very much."

"I hope I live long enough to see him dead."

The statement was so coolly uttered, that the Doctor gave a small smile. "So partisan!"

"And why not? What he did to you was unspeakable, unbearable..." Turlough broke off, for his voice, despite his best efforts had choked with emotion. He wiped a sleeve over his face, looking very dejected. "I'm sorry. You went through it..."

"Yes." The Doctor nodded. "And you had to sit here and imagine. Not an easy task."

"You were gone so long." Turlough had himself pulled together, but the appalling certainty that had grown in the hours he was alone needed to be spoken aloud. Then he could be sure it wasn't true. "I thought you must be dead."

"No. He won't kill me — however much he blusters. At least not until he has extracted every particle of his own pleasure from my capture." The Doctor gave a wry smile. "Knowing him, I'd say I have at least a few years yet!"

"Don't sound so cheerful about it!"

"Why not? The longer I am alive, the greater the chances of getting out of here. He gets bored very easily, so I'll just have to endeavour to be extremely and utterly uninteresting." The shrug brought with it a wince. "Damn it, he certainly has a way of making life less than boring for his prisoners."

Turlough moved to a crouch, worry furrowing his brow. "Can you mend the damage? What I did was only to patch you up a bit."

"Perhaps a little nap is in order." He lay back and sighed. "Come and lie next to me?"

"Don't you need, well, privacy?"

"Once upon a time... Now, first of all it isn't a possibility, and second, there won't really be anything to see. Come on..."

Turlough stood, and slid himself onto the bed, taking as little of it as he was able and the smallest corner of blanket.

"Not like that!" The Doctor shifted, rearranging things until they both had the same amount of the thin mattress and also a fair share of the blankets. He paused once with the moth–eaten fabric in his hands, looking puzzled. "I don't remember there being two blankets."

"Another present from the gift–horse. One I didn't look in the mouth."

"Quite right too!" Settled at last he stilled, one arm curled possessively around the narrow frame next to him. "What's the gift–horse's name?"

"Coll."

"We'd better do some cultivating there."

"That's what I thought."

"Mmm."

"I hope I don't have to ask for the same things again..."

"Take each day as it comes, brav..."

Turlough interrupted before the words could come out. "Don't say it!"

"No?"

"No."

"Oh."

"Sorry, but..."

"Shush, I understand."

Turlough almost twisted round to look in the Doctor's face, but knew he'd end up on the floor if he tried. "Really?"

"Of course."

"Bloody Time Lords! Do you always know everything?"

"Well, modesty forbids and all that..."

Turlough laughed softly. "Go to sleep! Get better."

"Yes, I'll try." The beautiful voice was slurring.

"I know, it'll be a struggle..." Turlough smiled, for already soft breath was beginning to float rhythmically past his ear. "Good night, Doctor," he whispered, and pulling a corner of the blanket over his eyes, fell dreamlessly asleep.

* * * * *

They slept through a whole cycle of night and into the brightness of the next day. He blinked blearily as he awoke, disorientated, stared at the cell and then remembered everything in a rush. "Doctor!"

"Hello."

Turlough sat up, swinging his legs off the bed and twisting round to stare. The Doctor was alive — it was a very pleasing sight. "You look remarkably brighter."

"Amazing what a good night's sleep will do."

Turlough examined his features, looking for the harrowed, wrecked man who had been thrown back into the cell. Instead he saw the Doctor; tired, scruffy, but still the Doctor, healed by his own will. The bruises seemed already to be fading, the rings under his eyes less dark. Most importantly, his eyes were clear. "It's almost like magic."

"I've been accused of that before now." Dry amusement laced the Doctor's voice.

"And worse, I expect. Especially on Earth."

"Oh, they had their doubts about me from time to time."

"I don't blame them." Turlough hesitantly smiled, looking through his lashes to be sure the teasing was understood. He grinned openly when the Doctor poked his with a hard finger.

"Come back here." The Doctor was grinning too.

Turlough stretched back on the bed, sighing as an arm went around him, and he was pulled close, blankets tucked around them both. He closed his eyes, sliding one hand around the naked back, holding on. The Doctor was warm again. The terrible cold had gone along with the pain. Turlough shivered, and knew how close it had been.

"What's the matter?"

"I was being thankful."

"I told you he wouldn't kill me."

"I know you think he won't deliberately. I'm worried about what he'll do by accident."

"Mmm." The thought had clearly occured to the Doctor, too. He gave a small shrug that was really only a ripple of bone, and pulled Turlough closer. He kissed the tip of his nose. "We can't worry about it."

"What!" Turlough pulled his head back, focusing on the calm, pale eyes. "How can..."

"We can't worry, its pointless."

"I know, but..."

"He wants us cowed, he loves to see his enemies quail before him." The Doctor laid deep sarcasm over the appalling truth. Then he smiled. "And so, we have to be strong. As you have been. Thank you."

"Don't thank me!"

"I can thank who I like." He pushed back against the wall, giving Turlough an inch more room, letting him wriggle into it. "Whether they like it or not. So, Vislor Turlough, just be gracious and humour me."

"Idiot."

"Ah, the compliments flow at last."

"I could be your courtier, heap flattery upon you."

"With flattery like that I doubt I'd ever get big–headed."

"So I'd be good for you!"

"You are good for me."

Silence. Silence so still it trembled. "Am I?"

"Now who's fishing..."

"Angling shamelessly!"

Like boys, they giggled, the sound so incongrous in their surroundings that they stopped almost immediately.

Wrapped together they relaxed. Everything important had been said. Turlough closed his eyes, and traced circles on the Doctor's smooth back. He was tired still — he had been tired for months — but he didn't want to sleep. He wanted this contact, this immediacy, to last forever.

He was given almost an hour. Finally about to drift off to sleep, Turlough stilled suddenly; a fox scenting the hounds. "They're coming." He slid away from the Doctor's arms and was on his feet, peering out of the cell.

The Doctor climbed with less haste off the bed, pulling the blankets around him in lieu of any garment. "Ought to have known they wouldn't leave us alone for long." He stretched, quite comfortably, and asked, "Who is it?"

"Raman."

"Oh, joy..."

"Indeed."

They exchanged a speaking look. Then the Doctor sat back down, managing to appear remarkably unconcerned.

The sound of more than one pair of boots marching down the long corridor came closer, then the faint shimmer of the door–shield was gone.

"Both of you, on your feet and ready." Raman filled the cell with his presence. He inspected the prisoners and curled his lip at the evidence of restored health in the Doctor. "He said you'd be well enough for another session and I didn't believe him. Trust him to be right — though after the tricks you used on the princess I should have known better." He came closer, looming over where the Doctor still sat unconcernedly. "You know, I've had a terrible case of the clap, Doctor, can you help!" He laughed out loud at his own humour, slapping his baton against his thigh, turning to the other Custodians.

"I'm sorry, I don't do house–calls."

"No, just for yourself and lord Trion here." The commander snorted in disgust. "Come on, get yourself moving!" He underlined the command by digging his baton into the Doctor's belly. It wasn't meant to hurt, merely to goad.

"Can't you leave him alone?" Turlough sprung to the Doctor's defence, trying to put himself between the two men.

"You... Don't worry sweetheart, I haven't forgotten you." Raman's large hand cruelly enfolded Turlough's face, pushing him backwards towards the wall of the cell.

The voice of reason was light and clear in the sudden tension. "Come along, we're ready now."

Turlough blinked to clear his watering eyes and saw the Doctor, on his feet.

"The Master doesn't usually like to be kept waiting..."

Raman stopped in his tracks.

"Does he."

With a growl, Raman led his hand fall, then brought it back in a vicious blow across his captive's cheek. Turlough fell hard to the ground, blood splashing from his lip to the damp and filthy floor. Raman stood over him, his eyes fixed firmly on the Doctor. "Yes, you're ready." He stood for a moment, the power and violence in him only just contained. Then he stepped away, walked out of the cell. "Haghan, Pedriss — bring them along."

There was scarcely time for the Doctor to help Turlough to his feet before they were ushered unceremoniously out into the corridor.

The Master was waiting for them in the same room as before.

"Ah, Doctor, Turlough. Good afternoon."

"Master." The Doctor gave a small nod, nothing showing on his face at all.

The Master just smiled. "I'm going on a trip for a few days, but I thought I'd give you both something to think about while I'm gone."

"I wouldn't worry about it, we won't let you slip from our minds."

The Master tutted. "As if you could." He inspected the Doctor, blanket and all. "How are you feeling?"

The reply was very bright. "Just fine, and how about you?"

"Never better!" Teeth flashed whitely within the neatly trimmed beard.

The Doctor blinked, but didn't look away. "I can imagine." His voice was dry as dust.

"Doctor!" The Master laughed. "Your sense of humour never ceases to surprise me.

"How nice for you." The Doctor shrugged and crossed his arms; it was amazing how much he missed having pockets. "As I've amused you so much, I don't suppose you'd let me have some clothing?"

"Why? I thought that outfit..." The Master waved eloquent fingers. "Was rather fetching." But despite the salaciousness of his smile, he nonetheless gestured to one of the guards. "A coverall."

It appeared, tossed onto the floor at the Doctor's feet.

The Master crossed his legs and raised an eyebrow. "Off you go — put it on."

There was provocation there, but the Doctor merely uncrossed his arms, let the blankets fall to the floor and began, seemingly unconcerned, to dress. The coverall the same sort as before; loose fitting, a drab shade of grey. It wasn't quite clean either, but he wore it as if it were imperial robes. Quite calm, he made sure the tab fastening was closed. There were no shoes, he looked down and wiggled his toes and gave a mental shrug. Then he folded the blankets, somehow neatly disguising the fact that they were more than one, folding them over his arm.

"You've healed well." The Master had been conducting an inspection. "I wondered if you would bother."

"I had nothing better to do." The Doctor wasn't going to admit his real reason for self–healing, that of needing to be as well as possible in case Turlough required his services.

"No, I suppose that cell has very little in the way of entertainment. You could have used the Trion in some way, but maybe you weren't feeling quite up to that."

"Master, unlike you, I do not use my companions as a means of preventing boredom."

"And after what you did to him, how can you expect him to think of anything like that at all!"

In a pool of silence, the two Time Lords turned to Turlough, who had the grace to flush.

"The red–head really is fiery tempered." The Master narrowed his eyes assessingly. "And quite unbowed by everything that has been done. Doctor, you really do chose your companions with exceptional skill."

"Thank you. Though actually, I find that they chose me." The Doctor smiled reassuringly at Turlough. "It always seems to work out for the best."

"Even when they try to kill you." A sly glance went towards Turlough.

"Well, everyone's entitled to make the odd mistake, that's what I say. There's no hard feelings between us now."

"How forgiving of you, Doctor. I would be less so myself."

"If I'd been trying to kill you instead of the Doctor, I'd have gone through with it!" Turlough took a furious pace forward, only to walk into the ungentle arms of two guards. "Leave me be..." He broke off the imperious command with a gasp as, with a simple twist of his arms, they brought him to his knees.

The Master was on his feet, walking past where the Doctor was held by Raman. He looked down and shook his head sorrowfully at Turlough's twisted face. "So impetuous." He watched for a while, until pain finally brought a sound keening past the tight–closed lips. Then he nodded in satisfaction. "Good. You can let him stand."

The Doctor watched as Turlough was brought to his feet before the Master. He spoke before he could think. "Don't hurt him any more." It was a command, not a request.

"I will do what I please with him." Indignant, the Master reached out a hand and stroked Turlough's cheek. "Or with you. Raman, hurt the Doctor just a little bit. One scream would be very pleasant."

"No!" Turlough struggled in the guards' grip, the hand stroking him now of less interest than a fly crawling across a wall.

"Pay attention to me, boy!" The Master slapped the thin face, just as a raw scream turned the pale blue eyes dark with horror. "Or I'll make it worse for him."

"You sadistic bastard." Turlough blinked and met the Master's gaze.

"I knew the Marquis de Sade." The Master went back to stroking Turlough's face, the revulsion he now saw there a titillating delight. "I encouraged him in his work; gave him a few hints here and there. An enduring legacy, I've always thought."

"An enduring obscenity!" Turlough tried to see the Doctor, but the Master's black shoulder was in the way. "What did he do to him?"

"Raman? Oh, used the pacifier, I expect — you should know its effect by now. It's such a simple device, just a neural stimulator really. And all my own work, I'm happy to say."

"Have you ever done anything for the good of anyone else?"

The Master considered. "No, not in a very long time. Betrayal can do that to you, take away your taste for good works."

"He never betrayed you!"

The fingers on Turlough's cheek became talons, digging in hard to the muscle and bone beneath the skin. "Don't ever presume to tell me that!" He was very close, almost face to face. The madness was uncannily clear. "You are nothing. Nobody. Understand?"

"You're...evil..." The Doctor's voice, uneven but carrying, stilled the tableau.

"Doctor, don't!" Turlough's words were twisted around the hand clawing at his face. "Keep quiet..."

"Yes, Doctor, be quiet." The Master smiled, and leaning forward a last few centimetres, kissed Turlough on the mouth.

"No..!"

The Doctor's appalled despair galvanised Turlough from the shock that held him still under the intimate onslaught. He bit down. Hard.

With a furious roar, the Master staggered back a step, blood spilling from his mouth.

"Turlough!" The Doctor had time only for the one cry before the guards had brought the Trion crashing to his knees.

Dabbing at his lip, the Master nodded. One of the guards held the small device against the bowed neck and Turlough spasmed in their grasp. "That wasn't very clever." The Master slurred slightly when he spoke, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. He gestured to the Custodians, "Again."

"No, please." The Doctor was fighting with Raman's grip, needing to stop what was happening. "He didn't mean it!"

"Of course he did, Doctor. He has spirit." The Master touched a finger to his tongue. "Though thankfully I am not badly damaged." He threw the bloodied handkerchief onto the floor, just as Turlough sagged almost senseless in the guards arms.

"Then stop them!"

"He won't be permanently damaged."

"That's not the point!"

"Isn't it? I could have killed him. In other places I have killed for less. So isn't my being so merciful exactly the point?"

"Merciful!"

"Yes. You should thank me."

"I will. If you let him go."

"No. But you can stop for now." The Master gestured to the guards.

Released from the pain and the supporting arms, Turlough fell forward with a sob, curling on his side, the echo of agony still running in uncontrollable tremors through his limbs. After an aeon, he managed to pull the weight of his head off the floor, his eyes searching for the Doctor.

"Raman," the Master called to his guard commander. "Let the Doctor go."

Almost immediately Turlough found himself cradled in strong arms, enveloped in concern. As soon as he was held the worst pain began to fade. He held the Doctor's hand briefly, taking strength and courage from the contact, then struggled to sit up.

Footsteps took both their attention. "You see? I am merciful." The Master gloated down at them. "He will be good as new in a while."

"I should have killed you on Priam Ceti." The Doctor spoke easily, as if he was commenting on the weather.

"But you didn't. I told you then you would live to regret your pathetic idea of forgiveness."

With Turlough leaning on him, still half dazed, the Doctor struggled to bring them both to their feet. Once more eye to eye with his Nemesis, he calmly looked it square on. "You were right."

"The Daleks, me, the Fire creatures of Absolom. How many other forces for what you call evil have you suffered to live, Doctor?"

"Too many..."

"Indeed. To make a difference in this universe you have to be ruthless. All your meddling has done is maybe improve a few individual lives, you've done nothing that will be written down and marvelled at in hundreds of millennia time."

"To have done some good is enough."

"Really? I thought you were higher minded than that."

"I can't just destroy things!"

"Not even me?" The Master smiled.

The Doctor held out his hand and smiled in return. "Give me a gun and I'll see."

Turlough, on his own two feet, hissed a denial, "No!"

"Don't worry, Trion. I wouldn't be so foolish as to try that experiment. Not now. The Doctor has come a long way this time. I wouldn't turn my back on him for a second."

Sickened by the realisation of how he was being manipulated, the Doctor turned his face away, pain darkening his features.

"Doctor!" Turlough was shaking his arm, whispering. "Don't let him do this!"

The Doctor studied his own hand in disgust. "I don't believe in killing. I don't." He looked up and stared in disbelief at the Master. "How did you do this to me?"

"With skill, Doctor; with infinite skill." The Master clicked his fingers and Raman pulled the Doctor away, while Haghan took hold of Turlough.

The Master studied both dejected prisoners in turn. He deliberated for a long moment, then gestured fulsomely into the air. "Take the Doctor back to his cell."

"No!"

"Be quiet, Doctor. You'll get your bed–boy back soon enough."

"No, Master, don't..."

"Shut him up!"

The guards did just that. Turlough's last sight of the Doctor was of his slumped body being dragged from the room.

It was very quiet when he was gone.

"So, once again it is you and me. What shall we discuss, the ten thousand ways to poison a humanoid? The ways of execution on Denebrea Three?"

"I don't want to discuss anything with you."

"So arrogant. I'm glad I didn't have you killed, I would have deprived myself of a great deal of amusement."

"Glad I can be of service!" Turlough hissed the words out petulantly.

"Oh, you can be. In many ways..." The Master took a step away, then came back, a question curious on his face. "Did you object to what I enjoyed with the Doctor?"

"You mean do I object to you raping him? Why do you even bother to ask." Each word was bitten off succinctly.

"Because I'm curious as to how true your blood–line runs. Do you enjoy pain?

"No!"

"I do mean when it is inflicted on others, of course." The Master sketched an ironic bow.

"Of course not!"

"Really." The Master stroked his beard and considered. "What would you do if I told you your friend actively enjoyed what I did to him? In fact, that he quite wore me out. He responds so well to the right stimulus, you know. He always did. Maybe it is something to do with being so compassionate, so pathetically empathic with the suffering of others."

"Don't try and lie about it, I know you drugged him!"

"So, he told you that. What if I told you that the drug was a simple placebo, merely something to make him relax into pleasure."

"I'd say you were a filthy slanderer." Turlough's lip curled in revulsion.

"Would you. I have something to show you; only edited highlights, true, but enough to give you a taste... Tell me afterwards if you think the responses are drug induced or real. And do watch it all. Close your eyes and I might be tempted to open them permanently." The Master's own, darkly hooded lids, closed in an almost sexual thrill. "Start the recording, Raman. And sit down, boy. I think you might need to."

* * * * *

It was far easier to care for the fate of a planet that to worry about the well–being of one individual. Strange, but true. The Doctor knew himself well enough to see that the unease intimate contact with his companions brought was one of the reasons he usually retreated to an avuncular manner when dealing with them. Quite how Turlough had slipped through the carefully laid plans for keeping his distance, was rather a mystery. But he had. And this was the consequence.

The Doctor sat cross–legged on the hard bed and tried to meditate. It didn't work very well. The fact that he sincerely wanted to kill the Master intruded appallingly into any attempt at serenity. Not just the fact that he wanted to, but that he knew he could.

He'd been tortured before, watched companions suffer the same before. Yet what he thought of as his humanity always prevented him from needing vengeance. No now. Not having seen what had been done to Turlough.

He stood and paced, yet all his thoughts did were twist and turn around the possibilities for the prolonged absence of his companion. In the end he just sat, and stared into the middle–distance. The one thing he didn't try was escaping into music; it would be a long time before he could hear anything from the Earth Classical repertoire again.

It had been too long. His own internal clock kept track of the hours that passed all too well. Sometimes it was very annoying, being quite so in tune with time.

Three hours and eleven minutes, forty–three seconds after he had been left behind in that room, Turlough was returned to the cell.

He was a mess. Dazed, holding himself as if to breathe itself was pain. Shoulders hunched miserably, he shuffled across the threshold and then stood, lost.

The only guard with him was the one called Haghan. He threw the folded blanket–roll into the cell. The Doctor looked at him, pleadingly. But the Custodian only swallowed as if nauseous and, quickly resetting the barrier, was gone. Without even looking once at the Doctor.

"Turlough?"

Cautious, the Doctor approached the still figure. He was clearly shocked, in some sort of pain. The Doctor reached out a hand and gently began to guide him to the bed. Only to be brushed away. "I'm all right."

"Come and sit down."

"I told you, I'm..." He broke off as his knees began to buckle.

"Look, just sit down so I can have a look at you."

Turlough was shaking his head, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. "I want to kill him."

It was a simple statement of intent, bitterly spoken.

"On no. What did he do?" The Doctor sat Turlough down and draped a blanket around his shoulders. Apart from a few bruises there appeared to be little more physical damage, though the Trion's skin was white as ashes, cold and clammy to the touch. The Doctor fetched a beaker of water and made the shocked figure drink. Sitting down at his side, he hesitated uncertainly, certain he wasn't going to like what he was about to hear. He spoke very softly, like someone expecting news of a death. "Are you all right?"

Turlough raised his head, and gave a ragged shudder. "He didn't rape me, if that's what you're thinking."

"No."

"He didn't touch me at all."

"Good." Though whatever it was, the Doctor knew it was worse. "Tell me."

Turlough was shaking, very gently, as if some electrical current was being passed through his body. "He showed me the recording of what he did to you..."

"Oh."

"Gods..."

"I'm so sorry! He's even more vicious than I remember." The Doctor hopelessly stared at the stark, horrified face. He blinked then tried a vigorous, no–nonsense approach. "Whatever you saw, it probably looked bad, but it wasn't as bad as it looked."

"Don't lie. It had to have been. I saw what he did..."

Into the silence the Doctor spoke softly, his eyes dark with sympathy, "I survived."

The soft words were almost too much. Turlough shook his head, violently. You don't understand! He tried to make me believe..." He couldn't say it.

"What? That I enjoyed it, that I was willing, if not avid?"

"Yes." The reply was a whisper.

"He would."

"I know. And I didn't believe him, yet I still had to watch, and try to defend you against his accusations. Gods, he made me watch so much..."

"Turlough," the name was no more than a compassionate breath.

"I begged him, long before it was over, to let me be. It made me sick, yet I still had to watch. He wouldn't let me, he made them hold me while I...saw..." Pain shivered across his face. When he finally met the concerned gaze, despair was there in the dilated darkness of his eyes. "How did you stay sane?"

"I played Rachmaninov to myself."

"What?"

"Mmm, it's an old trick. Works though."

"Really?" Turlough turned, looked disbelievingly at him. "You mean you sing in your head?"

"Not sing as such, more see all the orchestral parts and imagine playing them simultaneously. The more complicated the piece the better."

"It really and truly works?"

The Doctor nodded, then gave a wry smile. "Well, most of the time."

"I suppose that's better than nothing." Turlough made a face. "I hope I don't have to start relying on my memory of Beethoven."

The Doctor nodded gravely. "So do I."

There was a long silence. Then Turlough asked, "Could you go through it again? If you had to. Would you survive another night like that?"

The Doctor sat very still, and the doubt was there to be read on his face. He shrugged, and his eyes slid away. "Who knows."

"We'd better find some way out of here. The Master is out of the city for a day or so. He plans to entertain you again on his return."

"Wonderful!" The Doctor slipped his hand through Turlough's, linking them together. "Well, we'd better do something then, hadn't we."

"Yes."

Turlough nodded in complete agreement. What he neglected to tell, was that the next time the Master raped the Doctor, he intended to have Turlough there as witness. Or something even worse.

* * * * *

They were both too exhausted to do much else than lie, curled together on the bed. After a while, Turlough slipped into a sort of restless doze, but he kept waking with a start to check on the Doctor before settling again. While he slept, the Doctor eased what damage he found, both visible and hidden. He touched the dreams, and shied away from them; seeing the images Turlough had been forced to watch was too disturbing. It had been far easier to live through it. Far easier.

Closing his eyes, the Doctor let himself rest. His body felt heavy with exhaustion, but his mind was too busy to let him sleep deeply. He drifted, warmed by Turlough's body, by his trust. When the sleeper's dreams became too much, he simply whispered softly, easing them away.

He didn't sleep, but he fell into a sort of waking dream, one where he walked across a grassy hillside, the cool breeze ruffling his companion's short, red hair. The sky was bright, arcing above them in a huge sprawl that shimmered in the clear air, dipping down, dabbed with small white wisps of cloud to meet the far horizon that was the sea. He knew it was England. Either in the past or in the future, but a safe, comforting place. A small village lay in a hollow between the Downs, its feet touching the sea. A single church spire pricked the air. They were walking to work up an appetite for tea. Next to the church was a small tea–room, one with an open fire that crackled welcomingly, and comfy chairs next to a small round table set just for them. Even now, as they walked in the brisk Autumn afternoon, a tea–pot was warming, by its side sat a plate of scones, just baked, and a jar of strawberry jam so thick with fruit it had to be spooned rather than spread. They would argue agreeably as to whether clotted cream was better than plain, and Turlough would take his tea with sugar, smiling as he stirred. The Doctor was happy here, knew he would be happy here.

Though he opened his eyes to footsteps nearing their cell. The dream broke apart and he knew exactly where he was. Very gently he touched Turlough, warning him, waiting until he shifted, then woke, sitting up before uncurling. They were both standing when Coll, the Custodian who had helped them before, appeared outside the cell. With him was a slave carrying a tray. "Here. There's something to eat." He opened a section of the barrier, and stood back while two bowls were pushed through.

Unsure how much he could say in front of the slave, the Doctor hesitated on what to say, then settled on a simple, "Thank you."

Quite aware of what was really meant, Coll nodded. "It was the least I could do. And there's no problem talking in front of Alesus, he had his tongue ripped out long back. Not that he'd say anything even if he could."

"I'm sorry." The Doctor bowed slightly to the ragged slave, who nodded in return.

"Despite appearances, not everyone is happy with the state if things on Trion. Change'll come one day."

"One day might be too late." Turlough was standing next to the Doctor. "For us, anyway."

The Custodian shrugged. "It's the best I can offer. And to be honest you don't figure at all on their list of priorities."

"The resistance movement?"

"Maybe."

"One that you're part of."

"Shush!" Coll looked around as if certain he was being overheard. "I know that this part of the complex isn't supposed to be monitored, but..."

"You can never be too careful?"

"Yeah." He took a short breath and went on, speaking very softly. "Okay, you guessed right — I'm part of a resistance group. We've been planning for years, and I'm sorry, but we can't risk all our plans for you two."

"I understand." The Doctor nodded. "And at least someone is trying to fight what's going on here."

"We'll all be slaves otherwise. The President and his so called government are hated, but not everyone sees that we have to fight now, or else it'll be too late. You're a stranger, you can have no idea what has happened here since they took over — him and the Chancellor." He spat throatily.

"With the Master in charge, I think I can guess." The Doctor grimaced. "How long has the Chancellor been here?"

"Eight years, we think. Though he never appeared in person until a year or so ago. Of course, even before his influence, the revolution had been going sour for a long while." Coll shrugged despondently.

"Social change is never easy."

"So we found out. They," he nodded at Turlough, "were bad enough. But this lot? So many of us have died. The Trion Clan at least murdered mainly among the rich — they worked us hard, but the bastards never started selling us off. Now everything is financed by slaves, and slaves have to come from somewhere. Out there in the cities are millions of bodies, all worth their weight in credits, and they're a damn sight cheaper than getting slaves in from off–world. In the last four years it's all got worse, and now...it's impossible. We don't want our kids to think this is normal."

"I hope you succeed." Turlough shook his head, then asked of no one in particular. "How did the Master achieve such ruin so quickly?"

The Doctor sighed, his eyes on the floor at his feet. "He's done it all before. I should have stopped him long ago."

"Doctor, you can't blame yourself!"

"Who is to blame then?"

Turlough exchanged a long look with Coll and nodded. "My family. We were traditional custodians of this planet, and had been since it was founded two thousand years ago. It was our responsibility. If we hadn't made a mess of it, then the Master wouldn't have been able to get a look in."

"Maybe. But he's succeeded on more stable planets than this. He appeals to greed, which I'm sorry to say is universal. Once he has his own army — all of it given whatever it wants, allowed whatever savagery it wants — then he has control. Simple; planet ruination for beginners." The Time Lord looked up. "Where is he now?"

"Heading out of the city. A slave market is held at Delohr tomorrow, he must be going there."

"Looking for more entertainment." Turlough spoke in disgust.

"Yes. Being Chancellor he also collects all the taxes." Coll almost laughed. "Taxes!"

"Are they high?"

"Crippling." Coll nodded emphatically.

"Then maybe you'll have more supporters than you believe. If the Master is screwing every last penny from this planet, then he has no long–term plans." The Doctor glanced at Turlough apologetically. "It means he only came here because of us."

"Look, I've got to go. Remember, I'll see what I can do, but no promises." He paused, looking from one prisoner to the other. "A Trion prince and some kind of kin to the Chancellor — and I'm talking about helping you!" Then he grinned. "Though as neither of you are exactly what you seem, I'll make an exception to my usual rule of letting fuckers like you die."

"Thanks!"

The Doctor nodded. "You'd better take the evidence away."

"Yeah, it wouldn't do for the Commander to find it."

"Mmm, I don't think either Turlough or I would relish that." He picked up what was left of the medicines, including all the packaging and, lastly, the blanket. "You'd better take this as well."

"I suppose..."

"Yes." The Doctor gathered it all together and, crouching down, pushed the bundle through to the corridor. "And if, by accident, you found a way to break the power circuits down here..."

"I would. Though where would you go?"

"We have an idea."

"Well, don't go trying anything too stupid."

"Wouldn't dream of it!"

Coll picked up the bundle. "Good, now eat up, you'll need your strength whatever happens. Come on Alesus, lets go and see who else we can off this slop onto." And they were gone, footsteps — one shuffling, one slow, crisp and booted — disappearing slowly down the corridor.

Turlough looked at the Doctor. "Do you think we can trust them?"

"Yes." The Doctor picked up the two bowls and handed one to Turlough.

"You sound doubtful though."

"Not that they'll be willing to help, but whether they'll be able to do anything in time. Now eat, like the man said, we'll need whatever strength we can muster."

"If only it didn't taste so disgusting..." Turlough took his bowl back to the bed, where he sat, legs curled under his body. He ate quickly, trying not to taste the thin soup or the coarse, grey bread. "Why do you want the circuits to fail? We'll never find the Tardis."

"Maybe, maybe not — she's still here somewhere though." He took a breath and drank down his dinner, then he chewed thoughtfully at the soggy bread. "And if he has gone to that slave–market... Turlough?"

"Mmm?"

He swallowed, and taking both empty bowls placed them on the floor. "You remember Frontios."

"How could I forget." The Trion grimaced at the recollection of the grotesque Tractators and their plans for Galaxy–wide domination. Remembering his own terror was hardly designed to boost his self–confidence either...

"They were here, weren't they." The Doctor sat down, so close to his companion that they almost, but not quite, touched.

"You know that. Otherwise I could never have known what they were."

"Indeed — racial memory, no one really understands how it works, though Alfreen of Sparanis did some fascination research..." He stopped as Turlough cleared his throat. The Doctor shook himself, now really wasn't the time for a scientific digression. A rueful smile lightened his face, his shoulders moving in a slight shrug. He sighed softly, then found his train of thought, swallowing the last of his bread. "On Frontios, the Tractators built tunnels. Did they do the same here?"

"I suppose so — yes they must have. There have been places where building has been impossible because the land isn't strong enough, certainly."

"So there might be tunnels under here."

Turlough considered. "Yes. This palace is in one of the oldest parts of the city, the building dates back to even before the Trions so I don't suppose anyone knows what is under the foundations — if there are any foundations at all. It used to be said that the cells here led to the centre of the earth. When I was a child one of the threats used to keep me in line was that I'd be sent here if I disobeyed, and that prisoners were executed by being burned in the molten core of the planet." He took a breath compounded of faint hope and desperate need and looked at the Doctor. "There's a chance, isn't there?"

"Maybe..."

"We're so deep under the palace itself. When they took up to one of the ceremonial rooms, when I first met the Master, we travelled past floor after floor." Enthusiasm was infectious, he was almost breathless. "If we could get out of here, we could try and find the tunnels, get away..."

The Doctor hesitated. "Though the Tardis is here, and we can't leave without her."

"No..."

"And without some sort of guide we'd never know which of the tunnels, if any at all, led to the surface." He sat back against the wall, quite deflated.

Quite pale, all the energy seemingly leached from his body, Turlough leant back against the wall. "Do you know where the Tardis is?"

The Doctor sighed. "With the Master's, he'll still be trying to open her, I hope. Well," he was suddenly all bracing. "It was a nice idea." He looked at Turlough and smiled, seeing in the pale face far too much stress, far too little hope. "And you never know — it may work."

Turlough nodded hesitantly. "It's not as if we have any other ideas." He reached out and took the Doctor's hand into his own; the simple contact was reassuring beyond measure. He smiled. "We could always steal a couple of weapons and fight our way to the Tardis."

Turlough broke off and stared at the Doctor, alarm heightening his breathing. He could hear someone walking down the corridor. It couldn't be Coll again, the sound of the shoes on the concrete floor was different, heavier, and there were more than one set. He shook his head slightly as the Doctor closed his eyes in apparent resignation.

Raman and two other guards appeared at the cell. "Come on, on your feet!"

The Doctor slipped his hand free of Turlough's and stood, his face grave. "What now?"

"Who said you could ask any questions."

A raised eyebrow spoke eloquently of how the Doctor felt. "I merely..."

"Doctor!"

"Turlough?"

"Shut up."

The Doctor eyed the guards, then turned back to the fear in his companion's eyes. "Well, I'd quite like to stretch my legs."

"Just get a move on!"

The cell opened with a soft sound. The Doctor stepped out first, then Turlough, who dragged himself away from the bed with all the enthusiasm of a man heading for imminent execution. They stood in the corridor while a guard cuffed each of them in turn, then they were led away.

Without any of the usual cruel banter, in almost eerie silence, they were ushered through the building, out of the old, half–abandoned areas, away from the cells, up into the palace itself.

Turlough kept quiet, stayed obedient, though his mouth was dry with fear and every instinct told him to run. Not that there was anywhere to run to. Not that the guards didn't have them covered every step of the way.

The luxury of the upper floors was almost obscene. Walking on carpet felt wrong, seeing daylight seemed too artificial. Turlough walked on, and wondered if he was dreaming. The flexi–plas bindings on his wrists hurt, and he tugged at them, the pain enough to ground him in this reality. They crossed a vast hall, herded towards a pair of elaborately carved doors, which opened as they approached, pulled apart by half–naked slaves who knelt hurriedly as the soldiers passed by.

It was a place Turlough had been before. And once again the Master was waiting for him.

"My, what a delightful sight."

As they were marched across the vast expanse of marble floor, Turlough glanced sideways, uncertain. He saw the Doctor wince, watched a pulse beat fast at one temple.

A few yards away from where the Master sat waiting for them, they were halted and their wrists unbound. "What, no greeting?"

"Was one necessary?"

"No." The Master was in a darker mood, less levity, less amusement in his manner. "Not at all."

The Doctor sighed, and squaring his shoulders stared at the Master. "I thought you were off visiting somewhere."

"I was delayed here with official business, don't look like that, I take my Chancellorship very seriously. I had to stay and besides, the slave–market will wait for me. Everything has to wait for me." He was staring obsessively at the Doctor. "Tell me, will you miss me?"

Turlough almost laughed out loud, his mouth opening to make some bitter reply but the Doctor cut across him. "Not especially." A quick look quietened the Trion.

"I won't be gone long, maybe a few hours, maybe a few days. I was going to take you with me but then I decided against such intemperance — I really should savour the anticipation and not spoil everything by being greedy. And spoiling this would be a terrible shame." He smiled, eyes narrowing coldly as he held the mild blue gaze. "I'll be thinking of you, Doctor."

"Where as I will try not to think of you at all."

"Exactly, which is why you are here! Raman, bring over a chair."

"I don't need to sit down, thank you."

"Need? Maybe not, Doctor, but I think your young friend does."

"I'm fine." Turlough took a step forward, stopping when Raman gripped his shoulder, fingers digging into muscle and nerve. He bit down on an exclamation.

"Maybe, but sit down anyway." The Master nodded to the soldiers, watching as they forced Turlough into a gilt and satin upholstered chair, then bound his hands to the arm–rests. "Good. Now, Doctor, about you trying to forget me..." With a sweep of velvet he stood, untying his cloak and letting it fall back in the great throne he had been lounging in.

"He didn't mean it." Turlough was twisting at the bindings that kept him tethered. He was bitterly cold, though the room was stiflingly hot; hot and scented of something sweet, spicy as a clove–pricked orange.

"But he did."

"He..." A hand slapped almost negligently across his face, snapping him back into the chair. When Turlough looked up, Raman was grinning at him; licking his lips salaciously.

"It's all right, Turlough."

The Doctor's calm, even voice held him still. Turlough broke his gaze away from the guard, found the Doctor. He nodded, swallowed on the tightness in his throat, and nodded again. Then the Master was close, his dark, immaculate form in absolute contrast to the Doctor's pale dishevelment.

"Before I go, I thought I'd give you a little something to remember me by."

"Whatever I said, Master," the Doctor spoke earnestly. "I don't think there is any real fear that either Turlough or I could forget you. A least not while locked up in one of your cells."

"But you might try. And besides, there is nothing like a little indulgence to relax you before a journey, very de–stressing, don't you find?" He touched a finger to the Doctor's cheek, his mouth flexing in almost amusement. "No, I don't suppose you would." He tutted softly, almost indulgently. "Raman, stay by the boy, hurt him if the Doctor looks uncooperative."

"Yes, sir!"

"I suppose it would be a pleasure." He smiled at his lackey, teeth white against the darkness of his beard, his hooded eyes intense.

"I'd hurt him any way you wished — the slower the better."

"Such enthusiasm. You love your work, don't you, Raman?"

"Yes, sir."

"It is always a delight to see a workman at one with his trade." He smiled, quite entertained, less brooding now that he was enjoying himself. "Maybe I'll think of a reward for you, something fun to do with the Trion?"

"Thank you, sir!"

The Master was still absent–mindedly stroking the Doctor's face. He stilled the movement, then dipped his fingers under his collar to cup the strong, smooth neck. "See, Doctor? You have to do exactly what I want."

"Raman isn't the only one who loves his work, is he Master?"

"Don't be so petulant! This isn't work..." And he leant forward and kissed the Doctor, a hard, insistent kiss on the mouth. There was no response. His fingers were still hidden in the long, pale hair, and he seemed to twist them, whatever he had inflicted making the Doctor gasp aloud, his knees almost buckling. "Remember your young friend..." Held in the Master's arms, the Doctor shivered, and this time, when the Master's mouth bit at his lips he opened his mouth, kissing as earnestly as his captor could wish.

Like a tableau, the guards and Turlough watched, and Turlough felt the kiss as if the pain was his own. He shivered. What else would the Master inflict on his adversary, and what else would he be submitted to, all because of Turlough himself. He closed his eyes in misery, then opened them again as Raman stepped closer.

Finally the Master took a small step back. The same smug smile bright on his face. He pointed to the floor by his feet. "Let's see just how obedient you can be. Kneel."

The doctor sucked his bruised lip, and, as if the command meant nothing at all, sank gracefully to his knees.

"You know what to do." The Master narrowed his eyes as the Doctor hesitated, then he sighed as long, adept fingers began to slowly unfasten the lacing that held his robe closed. Under their dark folds, he was naked and aroused.

"Doctor..." Turlough's voice was almost not there, but Raman heard the soft protest, and winding one hand through the long, red hair, he held a pacifier to Turlough's neck.

"Be quiet boy, watch and learn, or I'll fry your nerve–endings with this!"

"Make sure he keeps his eyes open, Raman."

"Of course, sir."

Turlough sat quite still. He kept his eyes open, too. He would rather have been almost anywhere else in the universe, but needed to be here. He felt Raman's thick fingers in his hair, digging into his scalp, he knew the weight and press of his body in the preposterously elaborate chair. He felt every breath as a single statement of life, and watched as the Doctor's pale mouth opened, and he let himself be used.

There was a sigh of contentment from the Master. Turlough watched him, hated him, almost fought as the Doctor choked, his hands clutching at the Master's sides, as one be–ringed hand cupped the back of the Doctor's head, guiding with cruelty the submission before him.

Turlough swallowed on nausea, shivering as Raman shifted, his groin at eye–level, his arousal quite obvious even through the fabric of his uniform. He didn't dare close his eyes, not because of the pacifier at his neck, but because he was certain any disobedience on his part would mean more pain for the Doctor. Guilt burned like acid in his gut, guilt and fear, fear that this was all just the beginning of the end, that this place would be the last they ever saw. That the Doctor ever saw. He was trembling, trying not to think that things could be worse.

But he knew that worse was possible, had seen the evidence on the recording the Master had forced him to watch, but this was bad enough; seeing the Doctor's mouth stretched wide, the sweat glistening on his skin. Hearing the soft, ugly sounds, listening to the Master's voice; a sibilant whisper as he cursed and goaded, reviled the man bent to his will. The litany peaked as the Master seized the blond head, arching the slim body backwards, his hips pumping hard as he came, the orgasm taken in silence as he pushed home, grinding his body into the open face, taking and taking until the last ounce of pleasure had been seized. Only then did he step away, and Turlough saw the brief moment of absolute relief on the Doctor's face as he was released, before he fell forward, head dropping between his hands as he gasped hoarsely for breath.

"There!" The Master tucked himself away, folding his robes around his body, his hands steady, his eyes heavy–lidded, quite sated. "Very pleasant. Nothing better for stress, don't you think, Trion?"

The sudden question caught Turlough off balance. He was watching the Doctor, but he dragged his eyes away from where the lean figure was getting to it's feet and met the Master's eyes. He didn't reply. Couldn't.

The Master tutted. "Now, you should be more grateful, I'm going to allow you the same release. Go on, Doctor. You've proved you know what to do."

"No!" Turlough's voice was shockingly loud.

"Young man, you mean you don't want him to touch you?"

"Yes! You can't make him do this..." That the Doctor should be made to... And to be watched, by these people — Turlough was close to vomiting.

"I can do what I want. And I want to see this. Either that or I'll take your Time Lord and auction him to one of the military brothels. Or take you — after Raman has had his fun, though after that I doubt any brothel would have much use for you" He smiled and reaching across touched the Doctor's mouth, smiling as the Doctor flinched involuntarily away. "A brothel, I could quite enjoy that idea, your morals torn to shreds, your body too I shouldn't wonder. You'd get lots of practice there, don't you think?"

"Turlough, it's all right, he's only talking to make you react. He's too enjoying this to stop now." The Doctor stepped away from the Master's touch, moving to stand before his companion sat. He smiled reassuringly, then knelt.

There was too much compassion in his eyes, Turlough cursed and looked away. "I won't be able to." Misery bled into every word. "How can you think I'll..."

"The Doctor is very skilled, Trion. Trust me — he could raise the dead."

Shuddering at the image, Turlough forced himself to meet the wide, pleading blue gaze. He nodded. Then gasped as the Doctor pushed up and, smiling, kissed him, softly, a brush of lips against his cheek that somehow promised trust and innocence and a time beyond this evil. He moved back before Raman had a chance to react, and began to open Turlough's cover–all. He was humming. Something very quiet, just audible, Elgar; Gerontius dreaming. The appalling tension in Turlough's body relaxed and with a sob he watched the Doctor take his flaccid cock into his mouth.

"There, is that so bad?" The Master was very close, Raman at his side.

"Bastard..."

"Sticks and stones. Come on Doctor, put some effort into it!"

Turlough concentrated on the light weaving gold into the pale hair, tried to find a way to feel something other than humiliation and despair. The Doctor was skilled, and felt himself begin to harden, felt his flesh uncurl in the warmth of his lover's mouth. He could do this, could endure it. No one was watching, perhaps if he could believe that...though he didn't dare close his eyes. He tried focusing just on the slow dip and rise of the Doctor's head...maybe...

Then a hand touched his skin, unpeeled the rest of his coverall, baring his torso. He glanced up, saw the Master's smile, then cried out in pain as long nails dug hard into his nipples.

"A little spice, maybe, to encourage you."

He could hardly speak, hardly think, the pain streaked through him, utterly pervading, destroying the delicate arousal he had fought so hard to achieve.

"Come on, boy! Get on with it!" The Master moved until he was behind Turlough, he was smiling as his busy hands made the thin body arch in pain. He began to whisper something, something repetitive, soft. Again, repeating the same string of words with a dark sibilance that made the room spin around Turlough, lurching, until in a startling moment it all steadied, and this time, when the Master twisted Turlough's flesh, the pain sparked only unbelievable pleasure.

Turlough groaned, his arousal so sudden it was a pain all of its own, his cock so hard it was choking the man at his knees. More pain threaded like fire through him, so much that he almost came, his mind, his body one simply overwhelming need. So much so that he didn't even feel it when the mouth released him, only came back to himself as the Doctor's voice filled the room.

"Stop it! Now!"

The whisper in Turlough's ear ceased, and immediately sanity began to shudder back. The hands left his body, pain becoming simply pain. Blood was trickling down his chest, his mind utterly numb.

"What?" The Master looked down at the Doctor.

"Don't. Hurt him like that and I'll consider him better dead."

Shuddering breaths racked Turlough, though he stilled, the distress easing when the Doctor took hold of his arm, the touch simple, uncomplicated, comforting.

"Doctor, you mean that, don't you?"

"Yes."

"But he is so delightfully malleable..."

"No. You do that, then you can kill him and me afterwards. I won't care and I won't play any of your sick games."

Their eyes met over Turlough's half–naked body.

"You're so boring." The Master sighed, seemingly quite prepared for this to have been the Doctor's reaction. "Oh, well. Get on with it then."

The Doctor closed his eyes briefly, then smiled crookedly at Turlough. "We'd better get on with the entertainment."

A few more bars of Elgar; the angel lamenting.

Then Turlough moaned softly as the Doctor's warm mouth touched his nipples, each in turn, sucking the blood away, taking the pain as well. He cried out again as his cock was slipped delicately into the Doctor's mouth, tears bitter in the back of his throat as arousal came to him, soft and sure, the need touched with resonances of the Doctor.

He came quite quickly, almost taken by surprise by the sensation, his eyes blinking shut at the sweetness of the moment. He felt his clothing closed around him, then a kiss brought him back, and he shuddered on feeling the roughness of beard close to his face, the pleasure dissolving like mist in the Master's warm breath.

"Ah, well. That was less fun than I hoped, but not without it's moments." The Master straightened up, clicked his fingers peremptorily. "Stand up, Doctor."

As if the Trion did not exist, the Master stared straight at the Doctor, his eyes hot and intent, watching him stand, square his shoulders, meet his eyes. Apart from the two of them there may as well have been no one else in the universe. "I will break you, when I return."

The pale, blond–haired figure seemed to give a faint shiver, but it was so slight it may not have been there. He said nothing, merely shrugged in a strange sort of defiance.

"Farewell, then." The Master turned away, then paused, a finger tapping thoughtfully on his cheek. "By the way, I'm leaving Raman here to look after you, so don't try anything too rash. He knows how much he can hurt your boy without killing him. Remember that. That's all, you can take them away."

The guards came at a call. Dazed, Turlough let himself be released from the chair, then his hands re–bound for the journey back. He knew the Master was watching them silently, and his skin prickled until the great doors swung shut behind them.

The Journey seemed shorter this time, though his mind kept wandering, and once he nearly fell, earning a curse and bruises he could have lived without. He knew they were alone in their cell when the Doctor took him in his arms and simply held him, one hand stroking the back of his head, held him tight and said nothing, imparting comfort with each slow sweep of his palm.

After a long while the Doctor sighed and raised his head. "That's it, we find a way out. We have to." Weary to the bone, he would have paid a ransom in fire–rubies for a bath, a real bath, deep and wide, with steaming water just scented, maybe with jasmine, or lavender. Turlough could soak in it, they could keep each other awake until they were clean enough to sleep...

"Doctor!"

"Sorry..."

"What do we do?"

"At the moment?" He stood up and passed his fingers so close to the barrier that it coalesced, sparking bright energy around his skin. Then with a shrug he turned back, his expression resigned. "We wait. And hope"

* * * * *

Neither felt much like talking. While the Doctor paced, occasionally conducting a few strange isometrics of his own before going back to the same measured tread, Turlough either dozed or watched him sleepily. When they did speak it was only to worry at the knotty problem of escape, which seemed less and less likely. What had happened, they hardly mentioned at all.

The Doctor, in a spare few hours, went over every inch of the cell, walls, floor and ceiling. He investigated their drain, their water supply, the bed and the recessed light–fitting, all without any success. Most time however, he spent examining the barrier that kept them prisoner. Eventually, after failing to find any possible way of neutralising it, he sat back on the bed, slumped against the wall.

Curiously enough he relaxed into Turlough's embrace without demur, putting up no argument when he was manoeuvred onto his side. Held tight, he drifted off into a strange sleep, held fast, secured, half aware all the time of the body so close, of the cell, he dreamed hallucinations of freedom, of being far away, watching a distant night sky, holding his companion as a comet trailed brilliant light across the glittering darkness.

The walls seemed so much more stark, when he opened his eyes. Closing his eyes the Doctor concentrated on the arms that still held him, and after a moment he found a balance in himself.

Listening for a while he knew Turlough was awake. He licked his lips, voice dry. "Are you comfortable?"

"Me? I'm fine."

The Doctor sighed, opened his eyes and twisted on the hard bunk until he could see the Trion. "Really?"

A faint smile shadowed around Turlough's mouth. "Yes."

The Doctor was very surprised when he was kissed. Not that it lasted long, but it warmed him right to his toes. "That was nice. I Thought... I didn't think, you'd want..."

"Don't be an idiot."

"Mmm." The Doctor smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

How could I ever have wanted to kill him? thought Turlough. The Doctor had to live, he was too important to lose. Too important to the universe, too important to Turlough himself. How insufferable he must have been to think he could kill, anyone let alone this one. Insufferable, arrogant, blind. Weak. And he hadn't even known he was in love. All of that time... What a waste.

The world was different now. He was different. And the only constant in the whole universe seemed to be the man who held him so lightly, who treated every mockery that could be thrown at him with the same elegant ease, who walked through humiliation with his self intact, inviolate. The thought was too close to remembering, and rather than let himself cry, Turlough suddenly smiled, making the Doctor smile with him.

He tilted his face, mouth pressed very close to the Doctor's own. "More?"

"Greedy..."

This time it was long and languorous, their mouths opening to warmth and wonder, the kiss and simple and right as a burst of sunlight in a darkened room. Then the Doctor broke away, and all Turlough got was a peck on the cheek, then the Time Lord was up, stretching as he walked across to the barrier. "I hate waiting."

Turlough pushed himself up on one arm, legs folding under him. "And kissing me?"

The Doctor turned, amused astonishment on his face, and countered a question with a question. "Fishing for compliments?"

"Just wondering why you ran away."

"Did I?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"Oh indeed. Come back here."

The Doctor smiled, but obeyed, standing by the bunk as Turlough shifted to sit on its edge. The Trion looked up, seeing all the uncertainty masked under bland good–humour. "It won't remind me of him. And I won't cling — I'm not a woman you know. You can relax."

Reaching out with cool hands, the Doctor cupped the long, thin face. "I'm not worried about you clinging! What a strange thing to say! And you haven't met many women if you think they all cling."

"Mmm, stop avoiding the issue

"Which is?" The Doctor smiled innocently. Turlough was sorely tempted to hit him.

"Make love. Have sex — you do it the same way as other humanoids?"

The Doctor was almost amused. "Yes." Then he shook his head slowly, and gestured encompassingly with one hand. "But here?"

"Where we are doesn't matter, does it?"

"No..."

"Then come back here. You've told me of your scruples and believe me in an ideal world I'm all for scruples and a wide bed and all the rest of it." He took a deep breath. "But this time, now, I think you're lying, I think you're frightened."

"What!"

"Of dying here, of what the Master might do to me, or to you. But let me tell you, I cannot love you any more than I do now, whatever you do, I will never hate you. He can touch my body, or your body, but that will never mean anything. If they kill you today, and for some perverse reason let me live, I will mourn you till the day I die. Letting me touch you won't change that. If they rape you, or me, or force one of us to hurt the other, or worse..." He broke off in horror at the thought, then went on, pale, determined. "At least we will have known what it should have been. And it might make living easier. Maybe." Turlough shrugged, then waited. All that happened was that the hands that touched him seem to grow slightly unsteady. "Doctor, I want you..."

"Turlough..."

"Don't Turlough me!" He snatched the hands from his face and stood up, making the Doctor take a step back wards, following up hard and fast pressing the slim body against the cell wall. A moment of pain made him close his eyes, then he was staring into the Doctor's. "I want to know that what we have had something that is ours, for us alone. Please?"

"Don't beg!"

"Then don't make me!"

A quirk of amusement touched the Doctor's lips. "So stubborn."

"Yes..." Turlough broke off, his throat constricting as the Doctor gave in. He tried to back away but strong arms held him fast and he shivered in need, falling almost boneless into warmth and strength. Mouth muffled by rough fabric, he whispered, "I'm sorry."

"Shh. I'm the one who should be sorry."

A hand was stroking the back of Turlough's head, the Trion understood nothing else.

"I love you, Vislor Turlough, I want you, have wanted you, will want you. Believe me, that doesn't change." Somehow he guided them both over to the bunk, somehow got them both on it, lying on their sides, face to face. He stroked the long, straggling hair, the strands bright red as they fell through his fingers. "Will you kiss me again?"

The answer was balanced on a laugh, "Do you have to ask?"

"Yes."

"Then I have to answer. The answer is yes, kiss me again."

So the Doctor did. And it was utterly different. Arousal shooting through their blood, making them gasp around each other's open mouths. Turlough, slit–eyed with desire clawed together some reasoning and pulled back enough to ask, "Are you doing this?"

"No." The Doctor blinked owlishly. "I don't think so."

"Wow."

"Indeed..."

"It was you though, before, with the Master, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"But not now?"

"Scout's honour. This is just us."

"Bloody hell..." And Turlough closed the few inches, mouth eager, hands reaching down to pull them tightly heat to answering heat. He moaned softly into the Doctor's body, voracious, lost. When skilful fingers unfastened their clothing, and he could touch the desire that pulsed at his touch he shuddered, surrendering to the slow, easy flex of a strong, lithe body, his own responding to like with like until it seemed as of they were no longer two, but one. The kiss held them fast, an anchor in the maelstrom, until the need peaked and shuddering they both spilled their pleasure, the seed spreading warm and wet between their close–pressed bodies.

Breathless, nerveless, Turlough smiled with the last of his energy around the remains of the kiss. He wanted to say so much...but words seemed foreign to his mouth, shaped as it was now for such delightful endeavour. Instead he ran his thumb along one fine cheek–bone, trying to express everything in a single touch.

Fluent in a thousand languages, the Doctor smiled back, his eyes, warm, sated, loving. "Go to sleep."

Turlough gave half a nod. "But you didn't, we didn't..."

"Did we need to?"

"No." Turlough smiled. "But one day?"

"Oh, yes. One day."

"Good." Turlough sighed, his eyes closing as his breath evened.

The Doctor waited the space of a hundred heart–beats, then he moved carefully, to wipe them both clean and to straighten their clothing. He smiled at the sleeping man, lightly touched the Trion's hair, then settled down beside him, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * * * *

It felt like he had scarce settled when footsteps sounded soft and uneven in the corridor, though it had to have been hours. Turlough slept on as the Doctor lifted himself off the bunk and went to the barrier. When the owner of the footsteps finally appeared before him it was the tongueless slave, Alesus. Bent with age and infirmity, he hardly looked at the occupants of the cell, merely held a release pad to the control panel. With a faint static hiss, the cell was suddenly open.

The Doctor was so surprised that he was still standing, unmoved, when the old man turned and began to walk away. He blinked, almost convinced he was dreaming, then with a mental shake stepped across the cell's threshold. In a few paces he had caught up with the slave and touched him on the shoulder, trying to sign thank you, to get him to wait, to find out why. The bent figure didn't even pause, pushing past with surprising strength. The Doctor had to move in front of him, hold his shoulders, only then did he pause, rheumy eyes blinking up at the tall alien.

"Thank you."

A nod, then a move to get past. The Doctor held his ground.

"Do you know which way leads down?"

The old man looked at him strangely, then nodded, and turning slowly, pointed in the opposite direction.

"We should go that way?"

A nod."

"Thank you."

His touch was brushed away and the man shuffled hurriedly on.

Turning slowly on his heel, the Doctor went back to the cell, and almost collided with Turlough. "What's happened."

The Doctor tapped a finger to his chin. "Someone seems to be trying to help us escape."

"It's a trap." The words were utterly certain.

"Maybe."

Turlough gripped the Doctor's arm. "Was it Coll?"

"No, the old slave, Alesus, he just came and opened the door."

"What do we do?" Turlough hesitated, then rushed on, fear in his voice like a dark thread. "The Master did something like this to me before, gave me what I thought was a way out, then snapped the trap shut just when I thought I could really escape. Trapped you too. He's playing."

"Even if he is, would you rather stay here?"

"But..."

"We have no options here at all. And I for one do not think I can stay in this cell another moment when the door is open." His fingers curved over Turlough's hand, thumb stroking absently. "We stay and we're voluntary prisoners, we run and we may walk into a trap but at least we will have attempted something."

"So we try?"

"We try."

"What will he expect you to do?" Turlough eased his tight grip into a gentle touch. "Where will he expect you to head for?"

"If he is behind this, then the Tardis. Which is why we're heading down there."

Turlough's gaze followed the pointing finger. He frowned, narrow lines contracting the pale skin of his forehead. "You mean Tractator tunnels? What if we can't find them?"

"I'm sure we can manage! Come on." And without a glance back the Doctor was jogging down the corridor, as lightly as if there was scarcely a care in all the world to worry him.

Turlough sighed, quite convinced that disaster awaited them, but hoping he was wrong, hoping that somehow the Doctor would make everything all right. Trust was the only thing that made him follow. Trust, and a distinct disinterest in being left alone in the open cell.

"Doctor! Wait..." He loped down the corridor and rounded a corner and ran straight into his quarry. "Oof! Sorry..."

Setting him back on his feet the Doctor grinned. "I thought you'd changed your mind."

"No."

"Good."

They walked on together, past row upon row of old cells, nearly all filled with junk, abandoned. The corridor turned to the right and they followed, though here there were only empty rooms behind paint–peeled doors. It was very quiet, quite cold.

There was on old stairwell behind the last door they came to. Though unlocked it was jammed. Between them they forced it, using body weight to drag it open over the uneven floor, hinges protesting loudly. Bitterly cold, stale air washed into their faces; air than smelled of age and earth. The Doctor smiled, gave Turlough's shoulder a squeeze, and on they went, down through levels of unused floors, their bare feet padding softly in the dust. At each floor they found the exit door was barred; some sealed over, others just not there at all, the wall simply continuing right across where the access should be. The light faded after a while to a dim translucence, and they stumbled on until the stairs ran out and a corridor opened up before them.

Luckily, the lights were still operating, though in a desultory way and they walked carefully along, climbing awkwardly over piles of rubbish, much of it building waste seemingly from when the upper stories were added. There was much more water, dripping down the stained walls, spreading in great puddles across the floor. The water stank, of rot and decay, was cold to their skin.

Quite suddenly, after an age of clambering, they came to a point where corridor branched. Turlough turned to the Doctor, who was standing quite still, quite clearly thinking. "Which way?"

"Down."

"Which way's that?"

"If only I had a coin..."

"Say one or two — I'll number them."

"Very well." The Doctor considered, wiping grubby hands on an already filthy cover–all. "Two."

"Left."

"Off we go." He headed off, whistling a piece of jazz very softly.

"Do you make all your decisions like this?"

"Only when I haven't got a coin!"

"One with how many sides the same?" Turlough grinned slyly.

"How could you! I never cheat!"

"Of course not..."

"Impertinence!"

"Honesty." Turlough ran a couple of paces and caught up with his companion, hand on his arm until he stopped. "Doctor?"

"Mmm?"

"Whatever happens..." He gave a soft snort that sounded half–way to embarrassment. "I'm sorry I got you here but I'm not sorry you are here. If you see what I mean."

"Yes, I do see." The Doctor smiled, and almost reached out to touch Turlough's face, but he caught sight of the grime on his hand and changed his mind, grimacing. "And I'm not sorry at all. So come on. You never know, this might even work and we can get to take a bath somewhere warm."

Turlough groaned and they walked on. At the end of their branch of corridor there was nothing; it just petered out and ended in an earthen wall.

"Damn!" In frustration, Turlough kicked the impasse, then turned wretchedly and leant on it. He crossed his arms and looked back at the long stretch of corridor they had travelled so pointlessly along. They would have to go back, try the other way. "At least there is another possibility."

"Mmm." The Doctor was by his side, inspecting the wall behind him. He sniffed at the soil, brow furrowing. "I wonder..."

He poked with his fingers at the wall, then gave it a gentle shove. Suddenly, without warning, there was a rush of falling earth and the wall gave way, great lumps of earth thudding to the ground. Turlough, half off balance, began to fall but was pulled back, held by the Doctor's hands. He turned as earth eddied around them, some dry enough to cloud up as dust that made them cough as it settled slowly. As it cleared they saw what had been a wall was now an entrance, beyond which could be seen an earthen tunnel.

The Doctor was smiling. "I knew it! Come on."

Turlough hesitated as the Doctor, eager as ever, climbed through, his feet slipping slightly as the great mounds of soil shifted under his weight.

"Come on Turlough, this must lead somewhere!"

Turlough wasn't so sure. "What if it doesn't?"

"Then we come back. Hurry up, this might be our way up to the surface."

"And it might not. Besides, we haven't got any light."

"For goodness sake! We've got this far, at least let's try something." The Doctor turned, mildly exasperated with his companion's wariness. He stood with his hands on his hips. "It's this or go back to the cell."

Watching him, Turlough's lip curled in affectionate amusement. "Well, if you put it like that..."

"I do."

He smiled, and Turlough was lost. "Go on then."

"Hah!" He took hold of Turlough's hand and gripped it hard. "Come on, for better or worse..."

"I think those words are meant for slightly different circumstances..."

"Really?" The Doctor was grinning, the wild careless smile that made Turlough understand why he was alive. "Mmm, I think you might be right. But who cares!"

Turlough laughed out loud, the sound eaten up by the earth around them. "Yes, who cares."

"Come on. At least there's no Tractators now."

"No." Though there could be worse things. Turlough hesitated, then made himself give up on worrying, letting the Doctor pull him along. Like the Time Lord said — it might just work.

* * * * *

Of course, the Doctor could see as well as a cat, the darkness scarcely bothering him at all. He held his companion's hand and together they made their slow way through the old, crumbling tunnels. Just walking was hard work. The ground was uneven and Turlough, unable to see anything, fell often, bruising his knees and feet, stubbing his toes. The air was very stale, but held enough oxygen for them to be able to breath, even if that simple reflex became more and more difficult the further they explored. The Doctor tried to avoid paths that led down, and tried to find ones that might lead along, hopefully taking them away from the palace surroundings and into the city itself. Quite what they would do then, neither of them even speculated on, but anything was better than being back where they had come from.

After a while, Turlough was never certain how long, but his muscles were aching and a burning pain seemed to have made a home for itself deep in his chest, the Doctor called a halt. Turlough sat down on the cold earth with a sigh of absolute relief, happy when the Doctor came and sat next to him, an arm placed negligently around his shoulders.

"Are you all right?"

"Spiffing!"

"I liked the Twenties."

The Doctor was smiling, Turlough could hear it in his voice. "Your Twenties?"

"Goodness no! I mean the 1920's, on Earth!"

Turlough thought back to history lessons. "Flappers and stuff like that?"

"Mmm, and wonderful cricket. And it was between the wars — everyone was so happy."

"With your clothes, I suppose you fitted in without any problem."

"I usually manage that anyway. Natural camouflage."

"Natural savoir–faire — you just don't care what people think of you!"

"Oh, I do. Just not my what they think about my clothes."

"And at least you don't have to worry about your skirt length — not like some of your female companions. Do you ask them to wear short skirts on purpose, I never could understand Nyssa and Tegan."

"I let them wear what they wanted!" The Doctor sounded indignant. "Though they were very decorative..."

"You're teasing?"

"A little." He gave Turlough a gentle squeeze, rubbing his shoulder lightly.

Turlough didn't want to move, not yet. Though it was cold, he was sitting close to the Doctor, warmed by his heat. It was almost pleasant. He tried to prolong the conversation, take the Doctor's mind off moving. "What else did you like about the twenties? Silent movies?"

"Some of them. Gloria Swanson, she was amazing."

Turlough racked his brains and could only come up with one silent movie star. "What about Valentino? Wasn't he the most famous?"

"Mmm. I danced with him once, before he was famous."

"Danced with him?" Turlough was almost laughing, wishing earnestly that he could see the expression on the Doctor's face.

"Mmm. It was in a club, all gin in teacups and moody jazz. He was very beautiful you know."

"What did you dance?" The Doctor was so serious, so lost in the memory that Turlough was no longer amused, simply curious.

"A very slow Tango. Well, maybe more than one, he did dance like a dream."

"But..." Turlough cleared his throat. "He was a man, wasn't he?"

"Yes..."

"I thought that on Earth sort of thing was frowned on back then."

"It was. But there are always places if you know where to go. That time I wandered into one almost by mistake. It was a wonderful night."

Turlough was trying hard not to feel jealous, but the image of the Doctor dancing with the dark beauty he remembered as being Valentino was getting the better of him. The Doctor pale in his cream frock–coat, the Italian dark in tails. Another moment from the Doctor's past to fit into the jigsaw.

"Did you do anything else but dance?"

"No. It was enough. Much later I went to see one of his movies, just out of curiosity. It was great fun, but he looked far more spectacular in the flesh."

"Maybe that was the gin..."

"Not a drop of which passed my lips."

"Honest, your honour..."

They both laughed, then quite unexpectedly the Doctor bent forward and kissed Turlough on the lips, his skin warm, pliant. Laughter gone, Turlough slowly opened his mouth and they exchanged a tender, gentle kiss, that made them sigh softly.

It was the Doctor who broke away, slightly breathless. "What do you want, sleep for a bit, or go on?"

"How long have we been down here."

"Long enough for you to sleep if you'd like."

"Always there with a direct answer, that's one of your more endearing characteristics, did you know that?"

"Thank you! Well?"

"No, we'll go on." He hesitated. Despite the exhaustion that dragged at his muscles, Turlough wanted to be out of the tunnels. "What are we looking for, exactly?"

"Light."

"Ah. Well, we'll certainly notice some when we come across it."

"Exactly. Come on."

Turlough let himself be pulled to his feet; limbs protesting every inch of the way. Upright, he swayed for a moment, then was held. For a long moment he stood in the circle of the Doctor's arms, resting his head on the Doctor's shoulder. It was the most pleasant thing he'd done in hours. Maybe longer. When he spoke his voice was slightly muffled, so he raised his head. "Just saying, but if we needed to go back, you could find your way, couldn't you?"

"Of course."

"That's good."

"But we won't be..."

"Because we're going to find a way out."

"I knew you'd agree with me."

"As if I had any choice."

The Doctor kissed him, a brief taste of loam and spice, them he was moving, finger's threading through Turlough's to pull him onwards.

It was eerie, walking in absolute darkness, half–scared that every step would either trip him or fall away under the weight of his body. Turlough closed his eyes and stumbled along, the muted sounds of their footsteps syncopated with the unevenness of his breath. The Doctor hardly seemed to make any noise at all, though sometimes he hummed tunelessly, seemingly quite at ease. Content, almost. Turlough wished for his assurance.

After a while he stopped trying to understand the dark world around him and simply moved, letting the ground carry him along, ignoring everything but the need to walk, to travel forward. Distantly, the thought occurred to him that this might be the place where they both died, but that hardly bothered him at all. He was with the Doctor. There were worse places to be. Worse places to die.

It was just after he felt the ground begin to rise before them, that Turlough was stilled by the Doctor's hand gripping his arm.

"Another rest?" He wiped his free hand over his sweating face and tried not to think of water.

"No. Open your eyes."

Turlough obeyed. At first he could make out nothing but sparkling darkness. He blinked, unsure, then saw what the Doctor had seen, the faintest glimmer of dim light.

"Bloody hell!"

"I knew all that time on Earth was bad for you!"

"I picked up worse obscenities than that, Doctor."

"I'm sure." He was smiling again, Turlough was sure of it.

"Light. I knew we'd find it."

"It's probably something really useful, like the doorway we came out of."

"Oh ye of little faith. I, do not get lost."

"Pride comes before a fall. After you, Doctor, and watch your step."

"Are you laughing at me?"

"Only a bit." Turlough was smiling too, sudden excitement bubbling in his diaphragm.

"Good!" The Doctor took hold of Turlough's hand, waiting until the cool fingers gripped his, then walked towards the light.

Neither man spoke. Excitement and fear quickening their breath, making this last stretch of tunnel seem by far the longest. As they walked towards the dull glow, Turlough was slowly able to make out more and more; the claustrophobic arch of the tunnel's roof so close to their heads, the uneven, awkward ground on which they walked. He glanced sideways, seeing the sweat that glistened on the Doctor's face amidst the grime, the dirt that covered him. And if anything he was in a worse state himself. If there were any passers–by outside, they'd be half–frightened to death by the apparition of two troglodytes climbing out of the ground. If there were Custodians around they'd probably shoot on sight, ask questions afterwards. The thought made him hope they would emerge somewhere very, very quiet. Preferably at night.

But to think that this might be freedom! He squeezed the Doctor's hand and grinned, seeing an answering glimmer as his companion turned and laughed softly, the sound unworldly in the shadows.

The tunnel ended as the light brightened. They ducked into a low entrance and stepped from earth into an vaulted cave, a chamber of ore–veined stone that sparkled dully as they walked slowly across its uneven floor. Blinking, they looked around at the arcing beauty, seeking the source of the light. They found it where the cave narrowed, closing into another tunnel, the end of which glowed brightly. As the Doctor bent to crawl into the narrow passage he turned and winked, then was gone. Given no choice Turlough followed on his heels.

The brightness increased as they crawled along. Turlough had to peer myopically in order to see, his eyes watering after the long journey in pitch darkness. As the tunnel ended he staggered off his bruised knees, climbing to his feet to stand blinking like some underground creature dragged cruelly into the light. To see what awaited them.

The Doctor was the first to speak. "I'm sorry."

"It was a fair chance." Turlough kept his voice steady. He watched the Master gloat and despair clawed savagely at his mind. He considered running. Except there was nowhere to run to.

"If you don't take risks..."

"It was worth it."

"Every step." And it had been. Even if they were now worse off than before, the long hours of freedom still tasted sweeter than honey, the venture bolstering their spirits better than wine.

There were armed guards just where they had crawled through, one standing each side of the tunnel. More stood at attention by where the Master sat enthroned in a chair that had to have been brought to this shabby, abandoned store–room just for that purpose.

Turlough looked around, turning to the Doctor as one of the guards slammed a fist into his ribs, pushing him forward. The protest on Turlough's lips turned to a gasp as without warning a gun–butt urged him to do the same. Close to the Master they were halted, kicked until they understood obedience and knelt on the rough stone floor.

"Doctor." Satisfaction radiated from the Master. "You ought to have known you couldn't escape," he admonished.

"You ought to know me better than to think I wouldn't try."

"Oh, but I knew you would. That's why there is a tracer hidden in your clothing."

The Doctor closed his eyes for a brief second. He ought to have known. Dammit he had searched the cell from ceiling to floor and not once thought to examine what he was wearing. He tilted his head, failure a bitter taste in his mouth. He opened his eyes to face the Master. "Very clever."

"I don't know why you ever underestimate me."

The Doctor could only shake his head.

"I had a very pleasant time at the slave market, I spent a delightful night there — monitoring your progress when I could spare the time from my latest acquisitions. Then I came back. To greet you."

"What would you have done if we had found a way out?" Turlough had to clear his voice to speak.

"Sent guards to arrest you there. It would have mildly diverting to see what a crowd did with you, Trion, but I do need you alive, so nothing would have been permanent — we would have rescued you before they tore you completely to shreds."

"Master, why don't you just let him go — take him off planet."

"I'm not going anywhere without you!"

The Master watched them carefully, his eyes eager. He steepled his fingers together, tapping, his silver rings glinting as they moved. "Neither of you are going anywhere. There will be no more escape. No more leniency."

He pressed a button on the chair's arm, and the room filled with a raw noise that was all too familiar, then the shabby place dissolved around them and, with a faint sensation of movement, of subtle shift in time and place, they were back in the palace, kneeling on the cold marble floor of the audience chamber.

"See Doctor? At least the Chameleon circuit still works on my Tardis."

"Bully for you."

"Don't sound so bitter. I expect you want to know where I have stowed your outdated model."

"She may be outdated, but I doubt if you've managed to unlock her."

A look of irritation thinned the Master's lips. "There is nothing in your Tardis I might want, I haven't even tried to get into it."

"I think you're lying."

"Really, Doctor! Why should I do that?"

"I have no idea." The Doctor smiled irritatingly, then looked around. "So your Tardis is part of this room."

"Sometimes. And stop trying to distract me, it won't work. I've been planning your punishment since before you even began to escape."

The Doctor shivered slightly, glancing to where Turlough knelt so quietly, he swallowed the dryness in his throat. "Go on then, how have you decided to deal with me, treat me to another night in your chambers?"

"No." A hand stroked down a silky beard. "I'm going hurt you far more than that — I'm giving your Trion to Commander Raman."

"No! You can't do that. You promised." The Doctor was on his feet, the guards holding him back by force while another held his gun–muzzle to Turlough's head.

"You should have thought of that before you tried to escape." The Master tutted, standing up with a courtly sweep of black velvet. "Shouldn't you?"

Held by that unanswerable statement, the Doctor sagged in the guards arms. He shook his head. "Master, please, I'll do anything..."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Then kill the Trion boy."

Shocked into silence, the Doctor slowly shook his head. He was so pale that the dirt and dust from their journey stood out like stigmata on his skin. "No." His answer was barely a whisper. He glanced at Turlough who knelt still as a statue, seemingly struck mute.

"Did you say something, Doctor?" The Master was standing in front of him, examining the emotions that so visibly ravaged his soul.

"I can't..."

"Not even to spare him what will come?"

The Doctor was breathing hard, audibly, as if the pain was physical. When he spoke, each syllable seemed to be torn from his body. "I couldn't."

"Even though it would be a kindness?"

"Please..."

"No, of course not. You're so sentimental. How can you still believe there is hope? Fool, you are wrong."

"Nil desperandum."

The optimism was so hopelessly whispered that the Master smiled.

"A pathetic saying from a long dead empire. I said I will break you, and I will. Unlike some, I do keep my promises."

"There must be something. Other than killing him. Please?"

"Beg me."

"I'll beg. Anything."

"On your knees..."

The guards released their hold and The Doctor was on the floor, one hand touching the hem of the Master's robe. "Please, I implore you."

"For God's sake, stop it." Turlough was horrified — not at his own fate, but for the Doctor.

The Master turned dissmisively. "Raman, you can have the boy. Take your time, don't kill him. Oh, and use the chamber with the viewing area."

"You..."

"Get him out of here."

"But..."

The Master kicked at the supplicant at his feet. "Be quiet."

"No." The Doctor was getting to his feet, rage stark on his gaunt face. "You promised!" He reached out, fury twisting his features, fingers clawing for the Master's throat.

But the Master reached out a hand, a black device glinting in his palm, and the Doctor cried out sharply, stumbling in pain before falling dazed to the floor.

"Now, where were we." He tucked away the pacifier and nodded at Raman. "Commander, he's all yours — we'll be along soon."

Turlough slipped from the hands reaching for him and threw himself at the Doctor's side. With one shaky hand he smoothed sweat–dark strands of hair away from the Doctor's brow. "It'll be all right. Don't let him destroy you!"

"Turlough..."

"Like you said, he can only take my body..." He managed a lop–sided smile, then swore as the guards took him in an arm–lock.

Ashen, the Doctor levered himself up to watch as the Trion was hauled away. Despair was a pain that lanced through his body, through his mind. To not be able to do anything...

"Now, I think we'll give the Commander a little time to get going. Would you care for a drink, Doctor?"

He managed to climb up off the floor and stood, swaying slightly. "No. Let him go. Bring him back and let him go."

"Don't be so tedious, Doctor. Think of how much I'll enjoy you watching them."

"Did I really ever love you?"

"Yes. I expect it was my charm that won you over."

"You can't have been like this. Not this evil, this twisted..."

The Master titled his head to one side and considered. "No?"

"No."

"Oh well, I've had more practice since then."

The Doctor looked as if he was going to be sick. He lifted his hands to his face, wiping them over his skin, bowing his head, hiding his eyes. "Is there anything at all I can do to save him?"

"No."

"I'll give you my Tardis, make her yours..."

"No thank you."

"But..." The Doctor blinked, lifting his head from his hands, astounded at how unaffected the Master's was to the offer. Quite suddenly he was desperate, close to panic. "But my Tardis, you always..."

The Master ignored him, "Oh, be quiet Doctor, you grow quite boring. Let's go and enjoy the entertainment. I doubt very much if the first bout will last long — Raman has long been eager for your red–head."

So, offering the Tardis wasn't going to work. Shock was making him giddy, his skin slick with cold sweat as the guards reached for him, his skin crawling as they pulled him to the door.

It was going to happen, and there was not a single thing he could do. There was too much eagerness emanating from the Master. And the Doctor knew he would have to endure that perverse enjoyment as well. Not that he hadn't endured worse. Not that Turlough wasn't going to...

The horror of it leeched all the will from his limbs until he stumbled, would have fallen were it not for the guards. They dragged him upright, made him walk, forcing him along an endless ornate corridor, all muted light, fine carpeting and paintings that in other circumstances might have been beautiful. At it's end was a door. A single carved–wood door, painted gold. It opened at their approach.

Weak, limbs like water, the Doctor was pushed through, then into another door, one far less elaborate, just inside. He heard the lock click into place. His face stripped to the bone by grief, he went straight to the far wall of the small chamber. It was transparent, very cool against his fingers. He moaned under his breath. There was blood spattered on the glass. Blood. He hid his face in his hands.

"Don't do that, Doctor, you have to watch." The Master's voice admonished him.

"No..."

"You have to open your eyes..."

Pain suddenly reached up from the floor, clawed at him, almost forcing a scream past his lips. Hurriedly he opened his eyes, focusing. The blood was in delicate flecks on the glass, randomly patterned where it had spattered from the long strap Raman was using. A strap. He forced his gaze past the wall, past the patterns of red to the inside of the room. To where Turlough was hung, naked, his body striped, wealed from the ugly instrument that Raman used so skilfully.

Laughter made him flinch, turn slightly.

The Master was watching him through another wall. He was lounging on a cushioned bed, the opulence of his surroundings in stark contrast to the small viewing room that housed the Doctor, or the cell that imprisoned Turlough. "You have to pay attention, Doctor, or you will be made to. The technique used is positively Pavlovian, I promise you."

The pain meant nothing. The Doctor gazed into the torture chamber because he had to. Because anything else was betrayal, and he had betrayed Turlough enough already. Dry mouthed, his thoughts, his mind itself nothing but an open wound, he stared through the glass.

"You have to admire such skill, don't you. The commander can keep your boy alive for days, weeks. Marvellous, isn't he?"

The Doctor made no answer; ignored the laugh that mocked him.

Instead he watched. The guard commander had stripped off his own shirt, kicked off his boots. Naked to the waist he was sweating, the muscled weight of his body obscene against Turlough's attenuated length. It was all simply brutal, and the Doctor shivered at each unmerciful down–stroke that made the hanging man shudder. Involuntarily he closed his eyes. Opening them as livid pain ghosted through his bones and he fell hard to the floor.

To stand again was impossible. Kneeling unsteadily, face pressed against the glass, his sweat and tears smearing the cool surface, he kept his eyes open.

At first it was all played out in silence, then someone must have tipped a switch for suddenly the uneven harshness of Turlough's breathing lifted the hairs on his neck. With sound it was worse. He could hear the crack of the lash, the words Raman used to mock his prey and build his own lust. As if to drown it out the Doctor found he was talking, pleading, begging — all loudly enough for the Master to hear. As soon as he realised what he was doing, he swallowed the words. They wouldn't help.

Nothing would help.

Silent. He kept silent. Watching. Cursing Gods he knew were long dead.

Within the chamber, Raman finally tossed the whip away. Huge hands went to his waist, unfastened his trousers. He grunted as his sex sprung free, it's length hard, eager. Quite naked, his body layered with muscle, his skin matted with dark hair, he preened, lust coarsening his features, thickening his ugly, darkly–veined cock. He stroked the Trion's drawn, bleeding face and smiled. Then backhanded him hard, making the Doctor flinch, biting his lip until it bled.

The commander clearly loved stroking the thin body, his hands carefully hurting wherever they touched. Words poured out of his mouth, curses, promises, the gutter–yearnings of a brutal man. He called Turlough his imperial bastard, and shoved fingers deep into his body, grinning as the strangled scream convulsed every muscle, every nerve, the imperial mouth open in a wide, wordless plea.

Raman spat into it. And laughed, using the rippling muscles of his arm he seemed to push harder, stroking the Trion's face as he fucked him, his fingers punishing, rendering the young man to nothing but pain. Soon, he said, he would have him soon. The need was there, he was readying himself, fingers stroking delicately down the length of his hard–on, whispering foully of how good it would feel.

His muscles shifted again, and Turlough's scream broke the Doctor. He was screaming too. "Stop it!" Almost incoherent, fists pounding on the glass that enclosed him, words spilling through his numb lips, he pleaded. "I'll do it. Stop this. Please!"

He pushed away from one wall, half–crawling to the Master, unheeding of the pain that tried to shatter him. He would do anything to stop this; kill Turlough, kill himself.

"So you finally give in?"

"Please..." He was sobbing.

"You will even kill the boy?"

"Whatever you want." Realisation was ice around his hearts. Suddenly quit, sobered, his voice was hollow, as if he was already wed to despair.

"At last..." The Master sighed. "Raman! Leave the boy alone."

The guard turned and snarled, vicious as a wild animal.

"Raman!"

The commander spat on the floor, disobedience momentarily livid on his face. Then he met the Master's eyes. He gave a single nod. Suddenly he smiled savagely and then ripped his hand free. Turlough arched in agony, then slumped, quite still. Raman lifted his blood–stained hand and pinched one nipple, the new, sharp pain hardly made the hanging body stir at all. A grunt, then he spat, slicking himself and after a few hard strokes the muscles in his body bunched, and bracing his legs he came, thick come spattering Turlough's insensate body.

A look over his shoulder and he picked up his clothes. At the door, he stopped at the Master's command. "Raman!