I love you
I love you anyhow
And I don't care
If you don't want me
I'm yours right now

You hear me
I put a spell on you
Because you're mine

"I Put a Spell on You" ~ Nina Simone

I.

Amy wakes up with a start. Her eyes dart around the small room but take in very little of its sparse furnishings. For a moment, she simply lies on the bed staring at the white wall, heart racing as she tries to get her bearings.

I know this place…don't I? I've been here before. This is…

From some unspecified place outside this chamber, the noise of a hammer against stone can be heard. It isn't the tiny tap of a chisel sculpting; someone somewhere is slamming a heavy tool against uncooperative rock with furious intensity. She knows somehow that this sound is wrong, but she does not know why she knows this. She puts her hands over her face and is perfectly still. Then she forces herself up and to the window to see what there might be to see.

She has no idea how long she's been shut up in this tower or even any idea of how she got inside it in the first place. There is no logic to this space. It has no door, the round walls of the tower broken only by the window that overlooks the great courtyard of the castle. There are no bars on the windows; none are necessary. Even if she strung together all the bedding, she'd still be ridiculously high off the ground.

For just one moment, memory flickers and it seems that the tower wasn't always so high, that she'd actually done just that…remembers the terror of the ground spinning below as she moved hand-over-hand downward….

Then it's gone.

She sees a pile of odd little wooden men. They slump lifelessly in a haphazard pile in a corner of the courtyard like game pieces swept carelessly from the board by a child's angry hand. They look so familiar to her, and it makes her sad to see them like this. Something about their stillness and brokenness strikes her as wrong.

They should be…they're supposed to be doing *something*….

Also wrong are the shadows that coalesce where there is no possibility of shade, take a humanoid form, grapple with the huge stone blocks of the external walls, and then slip away again. In those moments when they cling to the walls, the sounds of hammers on stones ring through the air.

Then there's the castle itself. There's a memory that almost comes through, a certainty that at some point in the past, she knew this place when that horrible light-eating black was not slowly staining the white walls. She's almost certain that at some point she had freedom here, freedom everywhere inside, not just within the still white stones of this tower.

She should remember. She has to remember….

With a sigh, she turns away from the disconcerting sight and crosses the room to sit down at the vanity table there. She takes up the hairbrush, mostly just to give her hands something to do, and as she looks in the mirror while pulling the brush through her long red hair, she notices that things are not quite what they should be here, either. It takes her a moment to catch it. The walls in the reflected room are black, not white. Outside the window, the sky is not a cloudy grey but rather blue-black starlit night.

That's not the worst part.

The Amy who stares back at her is also different in subtle but important ways. The neckline of the gown is lower, deeper. The deep forest green she wears looks much more like black in the reflection. Is that a trace of white through her hair or just reflected glare?

Amy reaches out hesitantly toward the silver surface.

This is…wrong. There is something wrong here….

Obediently, the hand of the reflection rises, pauses, starts again in time with Amy's own movements. The fingertips of the reflection press against the glass, stroke lightly across its surface. The face on the other side of the glass turns slightly as Amy's own does revealing the streak of white running through the hair there from temple to tip. As Amy's mouth falls open on a soft cry, as she begins to push away from the lie in the glass instinctively, the expression of the other changes, lips stretching into a smirk, eyes suddenly night-black, and the fingers that had been pressed against the glass are somehow suddenly reaching right through to wrap with cruel strength around Amy's wrist. Short nails bite and draw blood.

No…NO….

"NO!" screams Amy, wrenching free and hurling herself backwards off the low stool.

She scrambles inelegantly across the room to huddle in the furthest corner away before she will even look back at the mirror. Panting, she fearfully raises her head in time to see the Other's hand withdrawing gracefully, lazily even, back through the confines of the mirror. Just before the fingertips are encased by the rippling silver again, they give a tiny wave.

Amy buries her head in her lap, eyes tightly closed, struggling for some form of control.

The only sounds are a distant and inexplicable laughter and Amy's harsh breathing.

II.

The Dragon King placed a restraining hand on the Doctor's shoulder.

"Don't you remember my telling you that there would be a price paid to reopen this Way?"

The Doctor scoffed impatiently and gestured toward the pile of sand at the door. "That wasn't the entry fee? Wasn't that enough?"

The Dragon King shook his head, but he seemed to hesitate.

Irial's voice came from across the room where he stood staring into one of the other paintings.

"No. Of course it isn't."

The Doctor's entire posture grew rigid. "Explain. Somebody explain right now."

Irial had not turned. The Dragon King remained silent.

"You're supposed to be so awfully clever. Don't tell me you haven't figured this out yet?" There was both pain and gloating in Irial's voice.

The Doctor crossed the space to grab him by the shoulder, turn him forcefully to face him.

"Tell me what we do next, Irial, or I swear you will come to understand why they call me the Oncoming Storm…."

Irial shook off the Doctor's hands with an expression of distaste.

"I'll tell you since you seem to need the instruction. And I'll happily tell you why your scaly friend there has suddenly run out of magic and answers both when he's been just brimming with them up til now."

Irial glared at the still figure of the Dragon King.

"As you so recently reminded me, dear Time Lord, all great power comes at a great price. Sealing one of the first portals took great power indeed."

He looked away from the Dragon King and walked to the frame that opened onto the garden and its innocuous table. His hand hovered above the frame as the Dragon King's had done.

"Keeping her in, keeping it sealed is a continual cost. Therefore, this cannot be opened unless someone is willing to pay that price."

The Doctor looked at the Dragon King, and his voice was almost a whisper. "What is the price?"

Irial laughed bitterly, spread his hands wide. "The first part is blood, of course. How do you think the High Lords came to use that power to open other Waygates? We learned it from their creators…"

"No! Lies!" hissed the Dragon King, lunging toward Irial.

"We never used bloodkeys to open the Ways. We had no need of it. We made the Ways and the Gates, and we never stooped to such savagery. That filthy device, that abomination, is solely of your creation…"

Behind him, his shadow flickered and became something much larger on the uneven stone of the wall. Irial smirked, but his hand fell toward the blade he wore at his hip as the Dragon King put his hands over his face, colors streaming from his fingertips. With obvious effort, he composed himself, his eyes sliding closed as he breathed deeply, and the shadow seemed to melt back to its proper size.

"Remember that we were trying to seal in a goddess. Remember that she was laying waste to worlds, and no cost seemed too high to stop her…"

The Doctor shuddered, a memory of what desperation like that could create flashing across his mind, the feeling of his entire people being ripped away from him….

"…and so we set the portal so that the blood of one who passes through it can open it…"

That isn't so bad. I can heal from that….

"…but that is not all…."

It never is, is it?

"… If he be brave enough to pay the blood price, he must face a test of the mind and the soul."

The Dragon King waved his hands to forestall the question forming in the Doctor's mind. "No. I cannot tell you what form the test takes. The portal was designed to be adaptive, to be something different from each person. I only know that the only being who ever attempted it failed and had his mind destroyed. He raved and screamed until the day he died. There was nothing any of us, any of the magicks we could find could do for him. Whatever you face will be terrible and made just for you..."

The Doctor cleared his throat in the silence that followed. "So to go through the gate, I have to serve myself up as a sacrifice, eh?"

Irial at last turned and looked him straight in the eye. "Exactly," he murmured, and an unpleasant grin slipped slowly across his lips. "The lizards do love their little ironies. The working is only too happy to help you achieve your goal….and give you just enough rope to hang yourself with in the process."

The Doctor turned to the Dragon King. "And there's no way around it?"

The Dragon King shook his head. "None that I know of. And it was not only my kind who wove the working. The consensus was that it should be unbreakable, so all the peoples who fought her contributed something others could not undo."

The Doctor paced and muttered, making vague sketches in the air with the tip of his finger. He ran his hands through his hair several times, and it stood up in every direction. Irial and the Dragon King simply watched.

"Go through the phrasing of the working again for me. Be precise."

"Any who seeks the goddess will pay the two-fold price. Blood of his body shall be his key. The strength of his mind shall turn the lock and allow entrance to She Who Waits."

The Doctor laughed bitterly at that name.

She Who Waits, eh? Oh, Amy, are we back to this again?

He suddenly turned back to face them, a grim smile on his face.

"Well, let's get cracking. Apparently, I've got a date with a goddess, and it doesn't do to be late for that sort of thing, generally speaking."

The expressions on his companions' faces could only be described as skeptical. Something of an expectancy hovered on Irial's. The Dragon King's eyes looked terribly sad.

"Oh come on," cried the Doctor, slapping him on his shoulder, "ancient powerful beings, curses and magic paintings that are doors through time and space, blood sacrifices…what could possibly go wrong?"

III.

Every time Amy looks out her window, more of the palace is that flat midnight black. The shadow things outside are more and more solid. In one completely obsidian wall, a single bright blue door shines like a slice of sapphire. She has seen the shadow things mass and surge against that blue, but it never seems to be stained by them in the way that the white walls around it have surrendered.

She knows there is something special about that blue door, something she's supposed to remember about it, but all she can do is stare at it and wonder.

Vaguest memory of running across the flagstones of the courtyard, hair streaming behind her like a battle flag, feet cut and bleeding, fingertips inches away from touching the blue surface before there was the rushing of wings, before something dark felled her, before something seized her hair and dragged her away screaming…..

Anyway, it's entirely too far away, isn't it? There's no way down from here.

She walks back over to the bed, very conscious not to get too close to the mirrored vanity, and tucks her feet up beneath her. She's so tired. So very, very tired….

IV.

When she wakes up again, her head is lying in someone's lap. Patient hands are sliding a comb through her hair, the feeling soothing. It's like something her mother used to do when Amy was little and felt ill.

Amy keeps her eyes closed and prays for this actually to be home, actually to be her mother's calming hand untangling the knots in her hair and the knots of fear in her heart. Her hand slowly fists into the coverlet, and her heartbeat picks up. She realizes she can hear the sounds of hammers on stone, and they're so very, very close….

"You might as well open your eyes, dearest. I know full well you are awake."

The voice is beautiful, melodious, accented slightly. Amy is seized with a desire to hear it singing….

"Come now, Amelia. Open your eyes. I have something which you need to drink. It will make you feel better….."

There is profound love in that voice, and without thinking about it, Amy opens her eyes obediently. She studies the woman that goes with the voice. Her hair is black, dark as the stones of the walls outside, dark as the shadows that slip and slide through the courtyard. Her profile is sharp but lovely with it. Those eyes are striking, too, once one realizes that they are not hazel at all, but rather so dark as to look black. The confusion on their color comes from the fact that they are shot through somehow with flecks of silver. Amy finds herself disturbed by these sharp eyes. They are somehow hard and hungry. No, this woman would not be considered a classic beauty. It could never be denied, though, that there is something sensual, something compelling about her that takes her beyond a concept as trite as simple "beauty."

The woman has released her hair and is now holding out a cup to her. Amy takes it, looks inside. There is a liquid in it, and suddenly Amy is so thirsty….

There's a reason I shouldn't drink this. There was some reason why. I know there was….

With a little sound of distress, Amy pushes the cup back into the woman's hands.

"Why are you fighting me so hard, Amelia?"

The beautiful voice is full of sorrow and disappointment. Suddenly, Amy's eyes fill with tears. She doesn't want this woman to be sad because of her, but… That reason she was supposed to resist is just so far away. She shakes her head but says nothing. The soft texture of the woman's black gown brushes her cheek as she moves.

"Think of what I am offering you. I know part of you wants it. It was made for you, will only fit you, child. You thirst for it."

When Amy continues to be silent, the comb slides through her hair again and again, then one elegant white hand slowly wraps the length around and around itself until it is like a great coiled red rope but does not pull. While the gesture could be construed as idle, Amy's heart flutters in her chest.

"I do not want to force you to take it, Amy. It is so much better if you choose it yourself, if you don't fight against that which is and must be."

Amy realizes that she's begun to shake, but she still refuses to speak. Hot tears run down her cheeks, and she feels a vague regret that they will damage the rich fabric of the woman's gown. She wants to do what the woman desires, but she knows that she cannot….

The woman sighs deeply and untwists the coil of Amy's hair again, combs it out loose, and lays the comb aside. Amy feels a last gentle stroke through its length, and then the woman murmurs something. That thirst inside Amy sharpens, howls. She licks her lips, feels parched.

The cup is in her hands again, and all she can think of is that what is inside it will make this feeling stop. She raises it to her lips and take a deep swallow. The contents of the cup slide down her throat like honeyed wine. She drinks again. Again. And the liquid inside is gone. Amy feels her eyelids growing heavy. The woman takes the cup from her hands just before Amy would have dropped it.

"Sleep, child. We have yet a little time. Tomorrow, perhaps, you will choose this of your own free will. Sleep…"

And Amy does. Since she is dreaming, she cannot see the change as one by one, several of the snow-white stone blocks composing the walls begin to flicker and darken until they are the same inky black as the woman's dress.

V.

The Doctor stood before the frame studying it one last time. He raised his hand, and then looked back over his shoulder for a moment at the still figures of the Dragon King and Irial. The Dragon King raised his hand solemnly. Irial stood watching impassively.

A smile flickered across the Doctor's face.

"Don't look so sad, friend," he said to the Dragon King. "I'll be back before you can say Jack Robinson, and you can make me more of that tea of yours."

The dragon nodded and tried to smile in return. Perhaps it was just the mask of his features, but it wasn't very convincing….

The Doctor turned back to the framed portal and pressed his hand against the large sigil on its side. He felt the carving bite hungrily into his palm, and everything spun as the world fell out from under his feet.

VI.

Amy wakes up with a start. Her eyes refuse to focus for a moment, and she has to stare at the wall for a moment until they comply.

I'm supposed to be somewhere…. There's something I am supposed to be doing right now…. Something…

This has been happening every time she's slept now for…well…she doesn't really know how long. She just knows she can remember waking up with this sense of urgency again and again.

There's something about the wall itself that bothers her, too. One of those strange wrong memories plagues here momentarily, telling her that not so long ago that wall was not all black but was all white instead, that the whole room was the color of those few odd blocks scattered here and there like bleached bones amongst the more comforting darkness of the others.

She drags her legs over the side of the bed and sits with her head in her hands. She feels so ill, nauseous as if she has the flu or a stomach virus. Her mouth is dry, and she thinks about getting up and finding something to relieve her thirst. Every time she tries to leave the bed, though, the world spins nastily. She decides discretion is the better part of valour, and she lies back down.

She closes her eyes for a moment, and an unmeasurable amount of time later, she opens them again as a cool hand slides over her forehead. The woman in black kneels beside her bed, and there is concern in those black-silver eyes.

"You're fighting it too hard, little one. It's going to tear you apart. That time is done. Now, what is must be. Only one thing yet remains."

Amy doesn't really understand. She feels gentle arms lifting her, and she realizes that she and the woman are no longer alone.

Something like panic blossoms in her chest.

No! They shouldn't be here… They can't… This is supposed to be the safe place…

Two women in long white gowns stand beside the bed. It is they who have lifted her so carefully, and she struggles to bring their faces into focus. Even though one had strawberry blond curls and the other black, there is a similarity to their features. It might have to do with their eyes….

"Black and silver," Amy murmurs, and she knows there is something important about this, but right now, all she can think about is the fact that she feels so bad and is so suddenly….thirsty….

The two women in white smile at her. One of them pats Amy's arm gently and the other pushes Amy's long hair back. Amy can't express how she knows it, but she feels a tremendous sympathy coming from the two, a bond with them somehow.

"Amelia Pond," murmurs the woman in black, and Amy's attention snaps back to her. Once again, the woman holds out a cup to her, but this time, the vessel looks different. Last night, it was simply a large cup. Now, though, she is offering a pottery chalice, something very old and fragile looking. Amy stares at it without comprehension.

"This is the third time the Cup has come to you, Amelia. This time, you must take it yourself. The laws which bind us say that the third time must be of your own will."

The woman holds the chalice out and waits. Amy makes no move. Inside her, the voices war….

I shouldn't take it. I can't remember why, but I shouldn't drink that. Something will happen, something…

But I'm so thirsty, and I feel better when I drink. And these women are so kind. They wouldn't hurt me. They're like me. And I'm so tired of fighting, so tired of being alone…

The woman with the red-gold hair gently hugs Amy and whispers, "Drink, little sister. It's time now."

The woman with the black hair smiles, dimples appearing. "Come on, slowpoke! You're keeping everyone waiting." She gestures toward the Cup with her free hand.

And Amy feels a tremendous rush of love for these new sisters. Why *does* she keep putting this off? She feels a little silly and a little embarrassed that she's made such a terrible fuss about….about…well, about something…. She reaches out for the Cup, and all three women murmur encouragement to her. Once the liquid inside touches her lips, the thirst inside her takes over, and she turns up the chalice, quaffing it in three long swallows heedless of the drops of thick red liquid that spill out and streak down her face.

When the chalice is empty, Amy's thirst disappears as if it has never been. Her hands spasm around the Cup before becoming suddenly nerveless and Amy drops it. It disappears before it can hit the floor, simply winking into nothingness. Her mouth works as though she is trying to say something, but no words come out. A cold so intense it burns is filling her body, racing through her veins as though she is being frozen from the inside out. She cannot move, cannot scream, cannot do anything shake as this gale rips through her.

The women in white each take one of her hands, and she convulsively grips them as an anchor. She begins to shake, and it feels like she is coming apart, as if she is going to explode into a million fragments. The woman in black moves forward to wrap her in a strong embrace, and Amy feels like it is the only thing that keeps her from disappearing. Amy's head falls back as the feeling grows, and she's astonished that the others can continue to bear touching her flesh. It feels as though the agony she's in should destroy anyone who comes in contact with it.

Suddenly it ends, and her body goes completely limp. The other three prevent her from falling, supporting her weight for long moments. Suddenly, she sits up and gently pushes away from the others. They release her, watching her expectantly. She raises her head, and when at last she opens her eyes, they are black shot through with silver. As her sisters embrace her, she notices over their shoulders that the last white stone of the chamber walls has faded to black.

Just as it should be….

Lookit! You didn't even have to wait a whole year for it. Hope you're still with it.