Author's note: A) I don't own Doctor Who and I don't make any money off it; I just like playing with Moffat's toys. B) I'm American so forgive any British faux-pas.

You Write My Biography With Every Passing Breath

Chapter 1: Old Familiar Strangers

She is an enigma. The girl named after herself and by herself; though the latter she won't realise 'til the very end. And in the end she will die so that one day she might be born. Some day.

But not today.

Today she is in London. The upper echelons of Victorian England have always fascinated her and thanks to a filched Vortex manipulator plus a few items she's borrowed from the Tardis' wardrobe she's soaking in the rich atmosphere of Christmas Eve at Windsor Castle. The sharp scent of evergreen wafts in from the next room, where a large Christmas tree stands at the centre of attention. Bedecked with ribbons and candles, it also sports strings of cranberries and popcorn rumoured to have been strung with the aid of the littlest members of the royal family. Small gifts adorn the branches, while their larger counterparts are piled beneath. Only a few years have passed since Prince Albert introduced the tradition and another will slip by until a picture of the royal tree inspires a nation, so the world knows nothing of the garish commercialism it will do; which is probably why she prefers the era.

Inside the dance hall, elaborate garlands of evergreen woven with ivy and littered with holly berries are decoratively draped from one end to the next, encircling the guests dressed in their holiday finery. Sated by the feast and the free-flowing wine, the jovial atmosphere is palpable and the elaborate dances are akin to beholding a living piece of art. Her eyes skim the crowded dance floor, mind analysing and translating the data it's receiving at a rate that would disturb any normal person. But she is far from normal.

She's known that since her mother's whispered words at Demon's Run. Since she lived out her first childhood in a hellish orphanage where the ghost stories were far more real than this era's most popular Christmas tale. Since she lived her second alongside her pre-pubescent parents. Since she ripped the fabric of time asunder, married the best man she's ever known, only to kill him at his urgent request.

A smile flits across her face remembering the first night he'd come to call. By her reckoning it's been three months since they danced to the rhythm of their four hearts under the light of a million, million stars. For as long as it had taken her that night to pick an outfit that proved she was moving away from Mels Zucker and growing into the River Song whose name had been on his dying lips, it had been more than worth the effort. Her smile widens because that was the night she ceased recording facts about the Doctor within her blue book in favor of recounting the stories of their nights spent in his blue box.

Her Doctor and his Tardis: Next stop, everywhere.

The days, on the other hand, are hers and while some days she will choose to pass the time in her cell, more often than not she experiments with new methods of traipsing in and out of Stormcage at her leisure to author her own adventures. Her future reputation is on the line, after all, not to mention flummoxing the guards amuses her to no small end. While it is night in this time period, for her this is one of those day trips; though she thinks perhaps she'll suggest a similar outing for the both of them soon as he's mentioned more than a few times how fond he is of the holiday.

The soft clearing of a throat infringes upon her reverie and the gentleman to whom she was introduced shortly after her arrival steps forward to claim his spot on her dance card. A piece she knows by heart is just stirring and to refuse the gentleman proffering his hand would court a bit too much scandal for her taste, so with a gracious nod she accepts and allows herself to be swept into the dance.

Her partner's steps are sure and he leads with a confidence some of the younger men she's danced with earlier in the night lacked. While certainly not elderly, his hair is a salt-and-pepper mix that ends in a soft widow's peak at the top of his forehead. She adds an extra, more complex, step and to her delight he follows suit with one of his own. His coattails flap and her skirts twirl as they weave in and out amongst the other couples. Soon they are caught up in a fierce match, each vying to outdo the other and she can't think of a time when she's had more fun.

"Is this next waltz claimed?" he asks cordially when the song ends and leads into the new, slower dance.

She shakes her head and with a small bow he steps in closer.

"...River?"

The word catches her off-guard and her head snaps up, only to realise she's missed his question entirely and is confused because she always travels under a pseudonym and cannot imagine how he knows her true name.

"I'm sorry?" is all she can think to reply, still perplexed but thankful her feet haven't faltered in the meanwhile.

"The Thames," he clarifies, smiling down at her. "I find it lovely this time of year, don't you?"

"Oh yes," her answer is breathless with what might be construed as wonder, but is actually relief. Her identity remains hidden, where she prefers it, and the dance goes on.

He chuckles as if she's missed a joke.

For the first time her eyes meet his straight on, trying to catch the measure of him. Blue, flecked with green swirls around black irises and she is entranced though she could not say why. There is an encouraging nod and a small smile on his lips as though she's on the cusp of some new discovery and he is urging her forward.

"Who are you?" she whispers, because she is sure she knows him though she cannot recall the face.

"Haven't you worked it out yet?" he teases, and in a severe breach of decorum, sets her palm flat on his chest, still continuing the dance as if he's done nothing out of the ordinary.

She has a mind to slap him for being so bold, but in that moment her mind registers the message her palm is relating. The rhythm of four that is as dear to her as any music ever composed.

"Hello, Sweetie," the familiar words pass her lips in what she hopes is a coy manner despite her shock.

His wide grin is her reward and he catches up her hand away from his hearts before they draw any unnecessary attention, "Hello, Dear."

"Oooh, is that a Scottish brogue you've got now?" she's intrigued, mind racing to tabulate all of the changes.

He shrugs, "Not sure yet."

"Early days, then?"

The playful smile returns and she can see the word "Spoilers" coming before he speaks it.

"Hmph," she pouts, thinking it not fair he's so far ahead of her, then retorts, "Mother would love the nose. Very Roman."

"Invasion of the hot Italians," he mutters and when she looks for clarification he shakes his head. "Nothing, nothing. Just something she told me once."

"I can only imagine," she grins. "She once boasted to Mels about trying to seduce you, you know?"

"Lovely," his nose wrinkles at the thought and she laughs because her twisted family history is something she cherishes no matter how backwards it might seem to anyone else. This time he lets out an audible groan before complaining, "Why do the mothers always hit on me?"

"Oooh," she's intrigued by this salacious tidbit, "you mean mine's not the first?"

"Perhaps we should go back to discussing the Thames?" he suggests, though she thinks not enough to suggest he's truly uncomfortable.

Deciding to push him a wee bit further she releases a light shrug and gives him another once-over with her eyes, "Well I'd definitely watch out for the mothers now. And the grandmothers."

Words form on his lips but the music comes to an end and he appears to change his mind, instead offering his elbow and issuing an invitation, "Shall we go for a walk?"

It's so simple a request but it warms her heart and she replies quite eagerly, "I'd love to."