A/N: The following is going to be something I had begun back in September 2016, but was only able to get partway done. What is it, you ask? Well, sort of an AU of an arranged marriage AU; aka: In Want of An Heir, Young Twelve Edition. So as you read, keep in mind a roughly late 1980s/early 1990s Peter Capaldi (more around Lair of the White Worm or Soft Top, Hard Shoulder) instead of the mid 2010s version that Twelve actually is. There is absolutely nothing wrong with his age as Twelve, but we have the resources to do what-ifs, so why squander it?

A Crown of Camellias Red as Night, Red as Fire, Red as Blood

One

"Papa, why are you doing this?!" the young woman hissed. She was pacing her father's study, fuming over the news he had just broken to her, her skirts spinning wildly with every turn. "I am your only child—Blackpoole is mine to inherit! What else have I been doing otherwise?! Learning how to run the viscounty for fun?!"

"Clara, this upsets me as much as it does you," the Viscount sighed dejectedly. "We are going to the capitol tomorrow and when we get there, you will be married. If I could avoid it, I would, but…"

"…then avoid it," she demanded. "Papa, this is not the way we should discuss my wedding day. Is this another plot of your wife's?"

"No, but I wish it were; things would be easier to swallow that way," he frowned. "The serdars, lesser lords, and high-ranking businessmen have been pressing me to find a male heir or risk being tossed from the seat of our forefathers. I've been able to hold them off for this long, but after that dalliance with the soldier…"

"Daniel, Papa. His name is Daniel."

"I'm sorry, darling, truly." The Viscount stood and came out from behind his desk, coming face-to-face with his grown daughter. "I wouldn't have minded Daniel, I can assure you of that, but there are forces in play that have made the move for me that neither of us can control. Please come with me to the capitol and consent to the union, before you become a social pariah and none will even look at you, even for an opinion." He took a deep breath to steady himself before continuing. "I know the Marquis—his father was a good man—and the borderlands are a place where you can be free of this scandal, where they do not care for courtly gossip."

"…but how is it a scandal if you would have welcomed Daniel as your son? I'm as maiden as they come… don't you trust me?"

"I do, but I'm not the one you have to convince," he said. The Viscount took his daughter in his arms and hugged her, choking back tears as she began to shed some of her own. "You are such a brave, good girl, my Clara. Nothing will ever change that."

"Thanks, Papa," she sobbed. Her stomach lurched in nerves—neither of them had any choice, or her father would have found a way already.

A week later and Clara met her prospective groom on the wedding platform. The Marquis of Kasterborous and Gallifrey was very handsome; tall and lean, with curly brown hair and lidded grey-blue eyes that gazed upon her respectfully. He was quiet though—nearly morose—and those eyes, though pretty, did not shine like her paramour's had. When she slid the ring on his finger towards the end of the ceremony, it fit perfectly where one had sat before, where one had been placed over fifteen years prior. She had been barely a teen still, when she both heard the news of his first marriage and quick transition to widowhood, and it seemed a miracle that he come out of mourning blacks for the day's occasion.

The wedding feast was a grand one, and eventually the new couple was ushered towards a bedchamber. When they were finally alone, the Marquis looked his new bride in the eyes for the first time since the ceremony.

"I do not judge you," he said lowly, his far-northern accent burring smoothly. "Your father wrote to me about the situation you were in and offered this union as a solution for both our problems: yours a lack of a husband and mine the lack of an heir. The fact Viscount Blackpoole had you trained to succeed him makes this a better match than you realize—I must make sure you know your value is beyond anything that the Season has led you to believe."

"Thank you…?" the bride replied. She watched as he stripped back the bedding and held out his hand.

"Please," he insisted. She placed her hand in his and watched him unsheathe the ceremonial knife from his belt. Furrowing his brow in concentration, he punctured her skin within a fold, enough to draw a few drops of blood without slicing open her entire palm.

"Is this a Kasterborsian tradition?" she wondered cautiously. Her husband shook his head.

"The party in the hall is expecting me to take your maidenhood, which oftentimes means blood," he explained, beginning to undress. "Whether you're maiden or not is none of my concern; spread that where you will lie tonight. If asked, you can truthfully say I caused that blood and no one will be the wiser."

"…but there won't be a child," she mentioned. When the blood was completely soaked into the sheet, she turned back, seeing he was down to his trousers. "Won't people be suspicious?"

"Plenty of women take years to conceive and carry a child to birth—the people will simply say we need to keep trying." Once he was completely naked, he undressed her mechanically, not paying attention to her womanly features in the slightest. "Now I've disrobed you and made you bleed—get some rest, for the road to Gallifrey is a long one."

She watched as he went around to the other side of the bed and laid down, covering himself with the blankets. He went to sleep almost immediately, leaving her nothing to do but go to bed as well.

'Maybe a political marriage won't be that bad,' she thought, staring at the bed canopy. Her husband began snoring softly, reminding her that there really was someone else in the bed with her despite their bodies not touching. 'He didn't force himself upon me and he doesn't seem to care for it. This might be the worst it becomes.' She sucked at the puncture in her hand, making sure the bleeding had stopped, before fully settling down and allowing sleep to take her.

The following morning was a busy one for the Marquis of Kasterborous and Gallifrey and his new Marchioness. After the King saw the stained wedding bed and declared the marriage complete, there was a long line of well-wishers and a long road ahead of them as they made their way towards the northern borderlands, where the Marchioness was to now call home. It was difficult, yet the Marchioness did not cry when she hugged her father goodbye. They exchanged sorrowful looks, understanding that this was far from perfect in either of their worlds, and he helped her into the carriage that was to take her to Gallifrey. He shook his son-in-law's hand before the couple left, taking them off in the early afternoon to get a good start on their travels.

"Are you well?" the Marquis wondered, looking at his new wife. They were sitting across from one another, with her staring out the window.

"I shall be," she claimed. She withdrew inside herself, mentally preparing for what was likely to be a lengthy ride ahead towards a life away from everyone and everything she loved. What she didn't expect, however, was her husband sitting next to her, placing an arm around her waist. He leaned down and murmured in her ear.

"I have no plan on having you bear my heir, because you are my heir," he said. "With the way I am fighting potential invaders, it is likely I will die within the next few years, leaving you to inherit my lands, wed whatever paramour you've kept in that time, and found a new dynasty the moment I am laid in the earth."

She turned her head and stared at him. His eyes spoke the truth, meaning it was likely she would be an incredibly powerful woman in her own right sooner rather than later. She wedged her face between him and the back of the seat, hiding her words.

"Are you well?"

"Well enough to wed, but not enough to betray my hearts."

She leaned back and examined his face. Anyone who was to spy into the carriage would see a married couple, whispering sweet nothings at one another. This… this was nothing of the sort in reality, and was confusing more than anything.

"I think I understand, milord."

"Johan," he corrected. "My name is Johan, and I expect you use it. You are no longer a viscount's daughter, but a marchioness, second only to His Lord Highness the King. We are equals now; please treat me as such."

"Thank you, Johan." She settled her head against his shoulder, taking solace in the fact he was still there. He took hold of his cape and draped it across his body, enough so that he could wrap her up in it as well. The fabric was warm and comfortable, reassuring her that everything was going to be fine.

As the trip progressed, the Marchioness found her new husband seemed to grow increasingly quiet the closer they were to Gallifrey. He would share warmth with her at night and hold her during the day should she need it, yet he talked little and divulged even less about himself as they passed through the march's many hills and valleys and glens. By the time they had Gallifrey in their sights, he had returned to his blacks, she had finished two novels, and the newlyweds had barely spoken with one another.

"Why is the sky so red?" she wondered aloud, gazing out the carriage window at the violet sunset. "I thought it was simply the light from our camp against low clouds, but that's not the case, is it?"

"At night, the sky turns red due to an atmospheric condition that our scientists are still trying to make sense of," he explained. "Our winter festival is centered around the day dominated by the violet twilight, while the summer festival celebrates a violet night. They, as many things you shall find here, predate the march and earldom's association with the kingdom."

"That sounds lovely," she said. They entered the City of Gallifrey, an earldom in its own right and the capital of the March of Kasterborous. Castle Gallifrey towered over the other buildings, a blue stone monolith protectively watching over the smaller buildings of stone, wood, and plaster. When they rolled into the yard near the stables, the Marquis helped the Marchioness out of the carriage, but within the moment it took for her to glance up at the stars glistening in the reddening night sky, he vanished, leaving a middle-aged woman to approach her.

"Hello—you must be Clara," she said, smiling kindly. Her accent was nearly like the Marquis's, yet a touch different. "I'm Serdaressa Pond, but you can call me Amelia. I've been running the house here since Johan was a young lad. If he gives you any trouble, let me know and I'll set him straight."

"Thank you, but Johan has been a proper gentleman, and he gives the impression that's not going to change soon," the Marchioness replied. The Serdaressa offered her arm and she took it, allowing her to escort her through her new home.

After a bath and clothes not reeking of the road, the Marchioness joined the Serdaressa for dinner, the Marquis nowhere to be found. The Serdaressa shrugged it off, claiming it was him merely catching up on work, and quickly changed the subject. Dinner continued with the older woman dodging questions and giving half-answers. It made the Marchioness suspicious, though she didn't pry much further than a redirected topic. She'd learn everything eventually, so she merely sipped her wine and went along with the Serdaressa's conversation.

That night, however, when she was left alone in her chambers, the Marchioness became curious. She peeked through the door that led to the Marquis's room and quickly glanced around. Her husband was not there, which emboldened her, and she walked in, the only light being from the moon hanging in the red sky. It appeared to be an average enough space, with no sign of the regular occupant having been in there since his return. A small portrait sat on the nightstand, piquing her interest, as it appeared to be that of a young woman. She was about to pick it up when she heard steps in the corridor and she fled back to her room in a panic.

'Never again,' she thought, climbing into her bed. It was warm and soft, enveloping her in comfort that she had missed while on the road. She fell asleep nearly immediately, thoughts of her quiet husband and the mysterious serdaressa in control of her mind while she drifted off.

It wasn't until breakfast did the Marchioness have some answers, as well as some more questions to add to her list.

She was sitting in the dining room, eating with the Serdaressa, when the Marquis came in. He took his fill of food from the buffet along the wall and sat down at the small table, giving the Serdaressa a kiss to the cheek as he did so.

"Good morning, Mama," he said. "Did you sleep well?"

"Well enough," she replied.

"Then how about you, Clara?" he asked. The Marquis looked across the table to see that his wife's eyes were nearly as wide as the plates on the table. "What…?"

"I didn't know Amelia is your mother," she gaped.

"Mother-in-law," the Serdaressa corrected. "Our Johan had been betrothed to my daughter, Melody, from the time they were small. He has always been like a son to me and the marriage made it official. Her death changed nothing concerning that."

"Oh… I'm sorry," the Marchioness said.

"Don't be—it's in the past," the Serdaressa said. "Now you're here, and we can keep moving forward." She glanced over at the Marquis, who was quietly eating his breakfast. "Isn't that right, Johan? You remarried to put the past behind us."

He didn't answer, continuing to eat in silence. His mother-in-law fumed, though she did not press the matter. She left immediately after she was done and the newlyweds were alone, an expanse of table between them.

"You must forgive Mama," the Marquis said eventually as he finished off his tea. "She tries, but it's clear to me that she hasn't been the same since we became the only two left in the family."

"It doesn't help that you're rather brusque," she fired back. "Your wife died, but that was her daughter."

"Don't lecture me about whom and what we have lost," he growled, making her jump in surprise. "Now we have half an hour left before the work day begins; report to the public office by then." He stood and stormed from the room, his cape billowing out behind him.

The Marchioness slammed her hands on the table. "The nerve," she hissed. She too left the room in a huff, headed back towards the private wing she and her new family occupied. If the Marquis going to be that insensitive, he was going to have to drag her down to the offices by her hair. She nearly went into her chambers when she heard the noise of the Serdaressa crying a few doors down. Deciding to investigate, she gently knocked on the ajar door, poking her head in to see the older woman jump.

"Are you alright?" the Marchioness wondered. The Serdaressa glanced at her, face nearly red as her hair, and nodded. She patted the cushion on the settee next to her and her new daughter-in-law sat.

"I'm not usually this weepy," she claimed, dabbing at her eyes with a kerchief. "Putting the past aside and moving forward doesn't mean forgetting—that silly boy thinks I mean to forget everyone we lost. Rory would never forgive me…"

"Rory…?"

"My husband; he had been ill for most of Melody's life by the time she was married, and we knew he would likely have only a year as a grandfather at most," the Serdaressa explained. "Rory was a soldiers' nurse—it's how he gained a sedarship—and caught something while working that slowly ate away at him." She glanced over at her daughter-in-law, nearly baffled. "You mean that you don't know anything about our family other than that they're all gone?"

"Considering how long it took to come to terms with my own mother's death, I figured it would be brought up eventually," the Marchioness replied. She held the Serdaressa's hand in solidarity, letting her know she understood. "So his name was Rory…"

"Yes; a doting father and a loving husband, even if we did have ups and downs. No one ever thought we were going to last." She laughed weakly, recalling a memory from long ago, before turning her attention back on the Marchioness. "That was the past though—Rory and Melody, Johan's parents Troy and River, none of them would want us to dwell on them while there's still life to live, others to take care of… others to welcome."

"Thank you, truly."

"…though speaking of welcoming new members of the family, how hard are you and Johan working at having children?" the Serdaressa asked, attempting to contain herself. The Marchioness stared back at her with wide, confused eyes. "What…?"

"Amelia… Johan and I aren't having children," she said. "I'm maiden and am only here in case he dies on the front. My line will be my own, fathered by whatever paramour I take, and he asks is that I make sure to not hide things from him." A heavy silence fell between them, which made the Marchioness feel awkward. "You didn't know that, did you?"

"No, I did not," the Serdaressa replied quietly. She then forced herself to smile and accept the situation for the time being—her son-in-law would have to answer to his stupidity, but now was not the time. "Then do you have someone in mind? Johan's children would probably all be a bunch of arrogant, over-dramatic idiots anyhow."

The two women talked until the Marquis sent for his wife, after which she reported to the offices, yet refused to interact with him except on a need-to basis. It seemed to affect him, as by the end of the day both the Marchioness and the Serdaressa had arrangements of yellow rue in their chambers, with the former a single dahlia in a stem-vase next to her bed. It was a start, she supposed, as she laid down to go to sleep, though even in the morning there were no words exchanged on the matter.

Sitting in their private office, the Marchioness took in the two young people before the Marquis and her. One was a woman, with dark, heavy brows and a raven on her shoulder, and the other was man with brown skin and a slim build. They bowed deeply to her, pledging their allegiance.

"These are our main assistants," the Marquis explained. "Ashildr Valka is from the hinterlands and an excellent mind with law, while Kester Riggins is from the Bristol area. He came to Gallifrey as a child and never wanted to leave; his work is more specialized in being a surrogate for when our appearances outnumber us and to be an even-opinioned ear."

"We are here to serve you, milady," the man said assuringly. "Please, call me Rigsy."

"…and do not hesitate to call me Ashildr," the woman added. "I apologize for not introducing ourselves earlier, but there was in issue on the Cyberan front while his lordship was preparing for your marriage and we had to deal with it. We returned only just this morning."

"Thank you," the Marchioness said. She fidgeted slightly and stared at the raven. "Is your bird tame?"

"I have had him since I was a teen and he does my bidding," Ashildr claimed. "He is a bird of high intellect, even amongst his fellow ravens, and is an excellent courier."

"Will he deliver things to me?"

"Yes, milady," she nodded. She allowed the bird to hop to her hand and held him out towards the Marchioness. "Please pet him so that he may know you."

Reaching out, the Marchioness went and gently scratched the bird's beak. "He's a majestic creature."

"Thank you, milady."

"Now I need to sit in a meeting with a couple heads of guilds," the Marquis mentioned. He patted his wife's shoulder before adjusting his cape. "Ashildr, with me, please."

"Yes, milord," she replied. Ashildr took her bird and followed the Marquis, leaving the Marchioness and Rigsy alone.

"It's alright, milady—it's a creepy bird," Rigsy said. The Marchioness giggled at that, laughing behind her hand.

"Glad I'm not the only one," she agreed. "Sit, tell me about yourself; I'll get to Miss Valka later."

"Thank you, milady." He sat down on the other side of the table, folding his hands atop the papers spread across the wooden surface. "It's like his lordship said: I'm from Bristol, but I came here as a youngster and never left."

"Never felt like going home?" she wondered.

"On occasion, but I don't have any family now that my aunt has passed, so there's more for me here anyhow," he explained. "Besides, my wife's family is all here and I want our daughter to know her cousins."

"You have a little girl?"

"Six months next week." Rigsy beamed proudly, blushing slightly in the process. "I know all parents say it about their child, but she's a bright one… I can tell."

"I'm sure she is," the Marchioness chuckled. She glanced at the door and frowned. "My husband… how does he act around you? When it's just you?"

"The same as how he acts around anyone, I assume," he shrugged. "He's quiet, distant; you know why." Rigsy studied the Marchioness's face, curious as to why she would ask such a thing. "May I please ask a wildly impertinent and personal question, milady?"

"Go on."

"I didn't think His Lordship as this sort of man, but…" He paused, shifting uncomfortably. "He's not… cruel to you, is he? When it's just the two of you?"

"No; he is cruel the way he is towards everyone else, by being distant, as you said," she assured him. "I rather like the fact you asked that—shows you'd rather be a decent person than loyal to someone with ill intentions."

"A friend of mine while in the Gallifreyan College was in a relationship like that," he confessed. "Her girlfriend was an awful person, but only when they were alone. I'm just glad the cycle's not continuing elsewhere." Rigsy then cleared his throat, sitting up in his chair a bit straighter, before changing topics. "So, my Doctor, what do we have on the agenda for today?"

"Doctor…? I am not a medical physician…"

"Technically you are the Doctor's Companion, but I know His Lordship well enough to know you don't plan on having children together," Rigsy explained. He saw the confused expression had not left his liege lady's face, at which he knew there was more that needed clarification. "My father-in-law explained it like this: back when this was wilder land—before the castle and the idea of a march—the area was ruled by warring chieftains and their clans. Some were good, some were bad, as in any system of government, yet the main thing was that they were inconsistent. The only consistent ones were physicians, doctors, and their assistants who traveled with them. They tried to be helpful and wise and eventually held more respect than the chieftains. To be the Doctor is to be the highest authority in the land, King or no King, and that is why I refer to you as such."

"I'm glad you told me now, instead of me discovering in front of smallfolk and stammering through the realization," she replied grouchily.

"Didn't you and His Lordship discuss things on your way back from the capitol?"

"Barely—just that I am his heir and equal. I mostly read the entire ride here." She watched as Rigsy smacked his forehead in irritation. "It's that bad, isn't it?"

"You're already clever enough to be the Doctor," he replied, "and it's now our job to make certain nothing stops you from getting the rest of the way there."

The Marchioness was unsure which was more fun: planning a ball to make her new husband suffer or watching his reaction to her request for his list of preferred acquaintances.

"I do not host society balls," he nearly gasped. He turned his look of horror across the breakfast table and pleaded with the Serdaressa. "Mama—please tell Clara I don't host balls."

"You've never hosted a society function in your life, but that doesn't mean you can't start now that you have married again, and to a woman who is aware that others exist," the Serdaressa grinned. "There hasn't been a proper event here since your father was alive."

"…and I am not my father…"

"Clearly," the Marchioness cut in, "though that still doesn't change the fact that I am going to host a society ball, and you cannot stop me because I am your equal… you said so yourself."

"I can perfectly well stop you if it means saving not only the taxpayers' coin, but my sanity as well."

"…except, as droll as it may seem, a polite relationship with noble neighbors and key people within the kingdom's elite shall prove more beneficial to the march in the long-run," the Marchioness stated. "Despite your opinions on what high society is supposed to think, if you convince them that Kasterborous is a place where laughter and gaiety can happen, then they will be more generous in their future support with provisions and troops when our numbers need bolstering. The ball shall happen and I want to know if there's anyone specifically whom you want to be invited or uninvited before I send out the letters."

The Marquis sat silently for a moment, contemplating his tea, before muttering out, "Braxos."

"…pardon?"

"Psi, Earl Braxos; his wife used to act on the stage and being around her makes others cringe. Invite them," he replied, slightly clearer.

"Psimon and Johan would occasionally play as children," the Serdaressa added, mindful to leave out her daughter's name. "I think they would naturally be at the top of the list, whether Saibhra was an actress or a princess."

"If that's the case, then they can dine with us, maybe arrive early or stay late if they so wish," the Marchioness nodded. She paused as the door to the breakfast room opened and her assistants walked in. "Ashildr, Rigsy, you agree with me that a society ball after the Spring thaw is a good idea, yes?"

"Leave me out of it," Rigsy declared, holding his hands up in surrender despite the fact there were papers in both.

"I think it is an excellent idea, milady," Ashildr agreed almost cheerily. Her liege lord sank into his seat, utterly defeated.

If it were not for the old friend that was being invited, as well as the months he had to prepare, the Marquis simply knew that the oncoming ball would be the death of him. He took the papers from Rigsy and quickly followed him out of the room in order to avoid further planning for what was sure to be a useless event.

The soldiers were all standing at attention, silently allowing the Marquis and Marchioness's inspection. Unbeknownst to them, their new liege lady was woefully reminded of her former paramour by their presence—her former paramour and their decision to not find one another again for the foreseeable future.

"As you can see, the Kasterborsian Border Forces have some of the best men and women Gallifrey and the Northern Lands have to offer in terms of soldiering might," the Marquis stated. "Most of our troops are trained in the local military Academy—we boast an excellent Officer's Program and stellar Infantry training—and the remainder comes from either our College or the surrounding areas."

"We have a devoted people, that is for certain," the Marchioness agreed. She walked down the front line of her army, slightly in awe of the fact that, well, she commanded an army. It was well beyond what she thought she would have been doing a year prior; it was impressive, and something she could definitely use to her advantage when she next had the displeasure of talking with her father's wife.

Before the Marchioness could ask another question, a faint whistling noise wafted through the air, spooking the soldiers from their stance. She was protectively enveloped by her husband's cape as he brought her close to his chest, swearing in a tongue she did not know as something exploded nearby.

"You! Take the Marchioness and guard her with your lives!" he commanded. The Marquis pushed his wife towards some nearby soldiers and drew the sword at his belt, turning towards the nearby wood. Smoke and fire preceded their creators, creating an ominous, tense air about the encampment.

"Come, milady," one of the soldiers requested. He picked her up by the waist and legs, dutifully carrying her away from the wood and towards where her horse was whinnying in panic. The soldier then helped her mount the steed, while a second fetched more horses.

"I can't leave without His Lordship!" the Marchioness insisted.

"You wear a blade, but you cannot use it yet," a third soldier said bluntly as she mounted a horse. "I have no doubt you shall one day handle weapons with the best of them, yet our job now is to make sure you live long enough to practice. Let's ride!"

The woman soldier and the Marchioness both went ahead of the two men, riding hard until they were a safe distance from the camp. They were dismounting the horses when the men caught up, the one who had carried the Marchioness having slumped forward with an arrow in his back.

"Leela, why are you going on-foot?!" the other soldier scolded. "We should be making haste for Gallifrey—Paternoster at the very least!"

"You go if you wish; I'm going to hide Her Ladyship properly," the soldier now known as Leela said. "Take Tomas back to the medical tents. I've got things here."

"She's worth ten, milady," the mounted soldier stated sourly. He then took hold of the other horse's reins and ushered both him and his comrade away, while the Marchioness was whisked away into the wood.

"You have to excuse Calib, milady," Leela said as they navigated the underbrush. She took the lead, attempting to make as light a trail as possible. "He is a soldier, but he hasn't the heart for it."

"How so?"

"There is a weariness to him, milady; Officer's Heart, is what we call it," the soldier explained. "His Lordship has it and it wears away at them both, though Calib has only just contracted it. Soldiers both want to serve a man with Officer's Heart, but they don't, because they know what guilts weigh on their shoulders."

"Let me guess: His Lordship has been suffering from his since Her Previous Ladyship's death?" the Marchioness supposed. Leela glanced back at her, a knowing grin upon her face.

"Her Current Ladyship is clever," she replied. Movement caught her eye and she stepped behind the Marchioness, drawing her sword. Two Dalek soldiers had followed them into the wood on foot and were now staring at the noblewoman as they prepared for close combat.

Taking the opportunity, Leela charged while they were still plotting, taking both on at once. The one was near her match at the sword, meaning the other was able to slip by her and approach the Marchioness.

"YOU SHALL COME WITH US," the Dalek declared. "THE ALLFATHER DAVROS COULD USE A NEW HANDMAIDEN, AND HIS NEMISIS'S BRIDE WOULD BE AN EXCELLENT CHOICE."

"Not on my watch," the Marchioness growled. She struggled with the knife at her belt, almost panicking as the enemy soldier came closer. Just as he was about to pounce on her, she freed the knife from its sheath and stabbed him in the gut, right above his metal-studded leather kilt. He fell, face contorted in shock, and quickly died. Not even a moment later and his comrade was slain as well, with Leela flicking the blood off her blade with a deft twitch of her wrist.

"We need to leave, and quickly," she said. The soldier came up to her liege lady and admired her handiwork. "As much of a spitfire Her Previous Ladyship was, I doubt she could have done that. We'll make a soldier and commander out of you yet, milady." She pulled her along and they went deeper into the wood, determined to not be found again.

Violet twilight settled in and Leela and the Marchioness began the long trek back to the camp. Patches of tents were smoldering, burnt to the ground, while people still moved about quickly in a sense of urgency to clean up what the Daleks had made into a mess. Leela escorted her charge to the Marquis's tent, allowing the Marchioness to enter on her own.

While she had no inclination to believe that a tent by the Daleki border was going to be luxurious, the Marchioness was almost startled by the plainness of what she knew was going to be her lodgings for the night. The worn and muddy rugs carpeting the floor were the only decorative clue that it was not merely a meeting tent. In the corner, a fire crackled happily in a pit, tended to by the Marquis himself. Still carrying the day's battle on him, he turned to look and see who it was intruding, only for his eyes to bulge and his glare melt into confusion.

"Cla…?"

"Johan," she replied, approaching her husband with caution. He edged away as she knelt down next to him, examining the remnants of the battle he still wore. Dried blood and mud stained his clothes, with bruises welling up on his forearms, only visible from the fact his jacket was off and his shirtsleeves rolled up a little ways. His bent knees were shaky and his back was hunched in exhaustion. "Here, let me…"

"No," he insisted. "Don't bother yourself—I don't deserve your care."

"Don't deserve…?" she blinked at him in surprise. "How many others here would have their wives or husbands here besides them in a heartbeat?"

"The good ones; I am not a good man, Clara. I took lives today. Soldiers died under my command. I do not deserve—"

"Yes you do," she huffed, smacking him gently on the back of the head. "Despite the fact we have not properly bedded one another, you are my husband, and from what I can tell, you are a good man. Bad men don't contemplate the dead as you… besides, I'm not all that good either." She took the knife from her belt and presented the blade to him, still stained from action. "I had never seen a Dalek until today; it was rubbish, as far as first impressions go."

For that instant, the Marquis knew what had happened and brought his wife towards him in an embrace meant not only to comfort her, but him as well. They then helped one another undress and clean up, making sure that scratches and bruises gained from the day's events were not noteworthy enough to summon a physician. That night was the first of many they spent laying in one another's arms, sharing the bed not only out of pretense and appearances as they normally would, but to assure each other that things were going to be alright.

They were still good, no matter what came their way.

Both Marquis and Marchioness were met by the Serdaressa in the stableyard upon their return to Gallifrey. She wept openly as she hugged them both, having heard news of the attack before that of their safety. A fist to her son-in-law's shoulder and she was scolding him profusely over his recklessness and lack of consideration for his wife's well-being. The Serdaressa remained cross at him even through dinner, finally apologizing for her ire before retiring for the evening. She had already lost one daughter—losing another might have finally brought her to her husband's side once more in the earth.

That night, as the Marchioness was headed for her bed, she noticed the door between her room and her husband's was opened, with the Marquis standing sheepishly in it. He had tried laying in his own bed, yet could not find rest without her arms wrapped around him. She laughed at his blushing face and suggested that he join her.

Settling himself within his wife's grasp, the Marquis felt a sort of ease wash over him, comforted by the Marchioness's hands on his chest and her body snug against his. She was still there, she was safe, and she didn't hate him. It was one of the better feelings he had experienced in a while and it was something he did not want to end.

"Take it off."

The Marquis looked at his wife, his eyes widening slightly. All he had done was enter her chambers so they could go over their plans for the day ahead. "What…?"

"You heard what I said: take off those clothes and change into something more cheery," she requested. "I had been hoping that you had more normal clothes hiding somewhere, but you don't. Go back to your wardrobe and change into something less depressing."

"I am not depressing," he insisted.

"They call you 'the Black Spectre' because you look like a bloody ghost in mourning," she noted. "You are getting new clothes and the majority of your blacks mothballed."

"Says who?!"

"Says my dowry—now get back in there while I go and summon the seamstress."

"We have important things to do today, Clara," he stated.

"Paperwork and things we can send Rigsy to, nothing more. We can argue about this all day if need be."

"You cannot take that attitude if you are going to be a respected Doctor."

"Maybe the people shall respect me if they see that I am not allowing their liege lord to continue moping like a sullen teenager?" she posed. "I shall strip you myself if I have to."

At that, the Marquis retreated to his quarters, slamming the door behind him. He remained dressed, yet stared out the window as he waited for the seamstress's arrival. The woman arrived via the Marchioness's chambers, with the lady in question right behind her.

"Her Ladyship informs me you need new clothes, Your Lordship?" the seamstress asked, her voice filled with confusion. "I thought I just put together a couple new sets last…"

"You are correct; my wardrobe is fine," he replied.

"Johan, you are being childish," the Marchioness huffed. "What are you going to wear to the ball, for instance?"

"That is months away yet, after the thaw."

"It requires the host to not be dressed for his dead wife whilst his living one conducts business," she said. Her words settled uncomfortably over the room until he exhaled heavily and began to unbutton his collar.

"Fine," he muttered. He took off his jacket, shirt, and trousers, allowing the seamstress to measure him in his stocking and underthings. It was only a formality thanks to his recent sets of blacks, though it was one that allowed his wife to bask in her victory.

"Contour the leg a little more," the Marchioness requested. "It is a style in the capitol now—I want him to look good. Oh, and get him two more cloaks if you can manage. Black is acceptable, yet he wears them so often they should have variety as well."

"Yes, ma'am," the seamstress nodded, jotting down the notes on her writing pad. She finished with the measurements and gave a curtsey before leaving, promising to have the first set by the following morning.

"I hope you are happy," the Marquis scowled. He noticed that she was watching as he put his blacks back on, seeing the disapproval on her face. "What…?"

"How do you think it feels, to be married to someone who cannot even see what is in front of them?" she said. Her words cut him deeply, forcing him to realize another reason for her actions. "Look at me, Johan. See me. I'm not a ghost nor are you still married to one. At least try to act like it before you commit suicide out on the front—try to act as though it's not a constant dirge around here—it'll make things easier for the transition."

"…I never…"

"Just give me that dignity, alright?" she snapped. "If my father could come out of blacks for a marriage to a harpy, one he only went through to make sure Blackpoole didn't crumble beneath his feet, then you, at the very least, can give me the same amount of respect while you ease me into becoming your heir. You owe me that much."

Without giving him time to retort, the Marchioness left the room for her own quarters, with it being her turn to slam the door. After staring at his own reflection for a moment, the Marquis left his trousers and shirt on, leaving his jacket draped over the back of a chair. He brought the blue one he wore at their wedding out of the wardrobe and pulled it on. Buttoning it up slowly, he observed himself in the mirror, his heart sinking.

"She's correct: I owe her that much," he said aloud. He finished fastening his coat and went to his bedside table, picking up a small portrait. The woman in the frame was silent and supportive, staring back at him from what felt like so long ago. "Her spirit reminds me of you, in a way. That fire in your eyes—I see something similar in her. She shall serve the march and earldom well."

The portrait did not respond, nor did the Marquis expect as such. He replaced it and went for his cloak—black as soot until the seamstress delivered a new one—and made his way through the castle to breakfast. No one was there, though there was only one plate remaining. It was penance for being so difficult, he imagined, and went about his breakfast as per usual.

Morning came again and the Marquis remained in his quarters until the first of his new garments arrived, not emerging until after he had fit them. There was not a scrap of black on him save for his boots, instead donning deep blue and striking red. His cloak was made from crimson velvet, surrounding him in rich, plush fabric that ignited a fire deep in the Marchioness's gut as she watched him walk into the governance hall. She knew from the moment she saw her bride on the wedding platform that he was going to be a handsome husband, yet this pleasantly exceeded her expectations and the awed stares at them both fueled her. He sat in his chair atop the dais and opened court the same as ever, yet was all the more terrifying in his new clothes.

Even Lady Amelia approved, claiming later on she had not seen her son-in-law looking so stately and bright in over a decade. She congratulated her, then thanked her, for doing in one argument what she could not in several years. They both then went to the seamstress's and gave her compliments on her handiwork.

The Black Spectre was in mourning blacks no more.