River arrived early one afternoon in the winter of 1934, the rain coming down in sheets behind her and the glitter of temporal flux dying down at her wrist.
"I got two tickets," she said, a little incoherently, and at once Amy realised she looked - younger. Not teenage and gawky, not quite, but with unformed spaces where delight and experience would one day live in her face.
"River," Amy said, "Melody..." - and because there was nothing and too much else to say, "two tickets to what?"
She held out a hand as she said it, reaching out to draw her daughter inside, out of the tumult of weather, out of the uncertainty outside, but River drew back. "Dad, you too."
Amy turned and saw, for a moment, the clear joy in Rory's face at the word Dad - and then he had hold of her hand and River had hold of her other hand and they were, after a boiling frightening indescribable few moments, somewhere else entirely.
"River, where..." Amy began, just as soon as she could speak, but River wasn't there. "River!"
"Shhhh," said the woman in the next box, and a person all in green, including their skin, scales and feathered tail, made a clicking sound that seemed to indicate severe disapprobation. Amy took a step back and looked up at the giant auditorium, open at two points of the sky so the light of two suns could permeate white and red into the space below. At the front, there was a stage, but no scenery and no altar. Nor - she squinted - an alien god demanding worship, nor a chorus line, nor anything but people, lined up in their best clothes.
"Rory," she whispered, "where..."
Rory said, "Shhhhh" - and handed her the programme. He started to cry not very long afterwards, quietly and heartbreakingly with a fist in his mouth, Amy squeezing his other hand in lieu of any other comfort to offer. River crossed the stage without looking back, or down, perfect on her heels. When they announced her admission to the degree of Doctor of Philosophy, she looked suddenly tiny under the weight of the robes, tiny and strong and more beautiful than anyone Amy had ever known.
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ninetydegrees
no subject
on 2013-06-16 09:30 pm (UTC)"I got two tickets," she said, a little incoherently, and at once Amy realised she looked - younger. Not teenage and gawky, not quite, but with unformed spaces where delight and experience would one day live in her face.
"River," Amy said, "Melody..." - and because there was nothing and too much else to say, "two tickets to what?"
She held out a hand as she said it, reaching out to draw her daughter inside, out of the tumult of weather, out of the uncertainty outside, but River drew back. "Dad, you too."
Amy turned and saw, for a moment, the clear joy in Rory's face at the word Dad - and then he had hold of her hand and River had hold of her other hand and they were, after a boiling frightening indescribable few moments, somewhere else entirely.
"River, where..." Amy began, just as soon as she could speak, but River wasn't there. "River!"
"Shhhh," said the woman in the next box, and a person all in green, including their skin, scales and feathered tail, made a clicking sound that seemed to indicate severe disapprobation. Amy took a step back and looked up at the giant auditorium, open at two points of the sky so the light of two suns could permeate white and red into the space below. At the front, there was a stage, but no scenery and no altar. Nor - she squinted - an alien god demanding worship, nor a chorus line, nor anything but people, lined up in their best clothes.
"Rory," she whispered, "where..."
Rory said, "Shhhhh" - and handed her the programme. He started to cry not very long afterwards, quietly and heartbreakingly with a fist in his mouth, Amy squeezing his other hand in lieu of any other comfort to offer. River crossed the stage without looking back, or down, perfect on her heels. When they announced her admission to the degree of Doctor of Philosophy, she looked suddenly tiny under the weight of the robes, tiny and strong and more beautiful than anyone Amy had ever known.