“I am going to tell you a story.”

“Tutor said that we shouldn’t listen to your stories, Leela. He said they were illogical.”

The speaker was small and fair-haired, his wide eyes blinking up at Leela as he clutched his Roentgen blocks to his chest with tiny hands. They were so old, these Time Lord children. Far older than they should be. Their tutors heaped too much on their young shoulders, and it was fortunate that they did not break before they were fully formed. Leela, who had learned about life around the fires of the Sevateem, couldn’t understand they way the people of Gallifrey tried to teach. That was what was truly illogical.

“Even when they are true?”

“Are your stories true, Leela?”

( “Why would I lie?” )

As Leela ran, she looked behind her and saw a darting shape, gathering speed and pulling closer. The branches would not hold him up for long. Soon, she would be caught.

The children of the Sevateem liked to play games. It was a way to pass the time before they became true warriors, as well as a chance to test their skills. Leela learned more on the battlefield of the playground than she ever did at her father’s knee. She learned how to take a punch without flinching (much). She learned how to kick and twist and read a person’s next move from the contours of their face.

She also learned that boys were truly exasperating.

She and Tomas had slipped away from the main throng, darting through the woods and trying not to tread on any sharp sticks as they chased each other between the trees. They did this often, these days. Leela was almost two summers younger than Tomas, and knew that he would be a man soon. She didn’t understand why he would want to play with a girl who was not yet thirteen. Perhaps it was because she was the best out of all the children with the knife, or perhaps it was because she was the only one he could still catch when they tried to sprint.

(She did not tell him that she let him catch her, sometimes. Her friend was foolishly proud at such a young age. He had not yet earned the honour he tried to hold on to.)

They stopped in a clearing a short distance from the village. Close enough for them to call for help if they needed it, but also suitably private. Leela was not a private person, but if he wished to be so, she would not complain.

“What shall we play, Tomas?”

“Do you want to spar? Or are you tired?”

“I am not tired!” Leela snapped, making her friend grin, “But I do not wish to fight today. Fighting is not a game.”

“We’re getting too old for games, Leela.”

“Father says that even a warrior must remember how to enjoy himself. You cannot fight if you grow cold.”

“I know how to enjoy myself,” he said, petulantly, and his face fell even further when Leela slapped his hand away.

“Not now, Tomas.”

“Fine. What shall we play?”

Leela pondered this for a moment. He liked to pretend he was too grown up for games – or, at least, for the games of children – but he would soften if she picked something that attracted his attention. Boys were easy to read.

“I shall be the Evil One,” she announced at length, “You can be one of his creatures.”

“That is blasphemy!”

“We are only playing, Tomas!” she exclaimed, slapping his arm. He caught her wrist before she could deliver the blow.

“You’re going to get yourself into trouble one of these days, Leela.”

She laughed, pulling free and taking off through the trees once more. After a moment, she heard a crackle of bracken as he followed.

“But not today, Tomas.”

Things You've Collected

Warriors do not collect objects. They collect memories.

Leela’s knife was just that. A knife. It had no special significance. It was not better or more beautiful than any other knife carved by the Sevateem in the years before her exile. It was metal and stone, torn from the earth of her own planet and fashioned in the forge by skilled fingers. It was cold to the touch, unless it was warmed with blood. If it broke, she would not miss it. She would not mourn it.

She would not think of her proud father, presenting it to her daughter on the day she came of age. She would think, instead, of his hand – warm, calloused from work and age and the life of a warrior – squeezing her own. Sharp, intelligent eyes smiled down at her, and his lips brushed her hair. She was tall for age, but she was still much smaller than he was.

”You will make a wonderful warrior, my daughter. My Leela.”

“I will make you proud, father.”

Because she did not favour trinkets, Andred had not given her a wedding ring. It was not the Sevateem way, or the way of the Gallifreyans. The sonorous ceremonies were remarkably similar, though, and Leela held them close to her heart as if they would break if she relaxed her grip. In a life filled with turmoil and bloodshed, it seemed impossible that there could be such a shining, perfect moment. A hand – not calloused, and certainly not warm – in hers, and another brushing a lock of hair out of her face.

“I love you, Leela.”

“Love? I did not know Time Lords could understand love.”

“Neither did I.”

It took Romana a while to understand Leela’s distain for material objects. It seemed to take her by surprise. She believed that a creature fuelled by sentimentality and emotion should cling to objects as if they were beings in their own right. Leela could not be logical, and treasure the memories instead of the things attached to them.

“You do not understand! Memories are the only things that truly last! Metal becomes rust and disappears back into the ground. Leaves wither and die.”

“Memories live?”

“Yes!”

“What memories do you have of me, then? I’d like to know how I’ll be presented to the ages.”

Her hand was cold, like Andred’s. It was smaller than his, though. The bones felt fragile beneath Leela’s fingertips, as if they could break like matchsticks with the flick of her wrist. She would not break them, though. She would give her blood and her heart to this woman, this strange Time Lord woman.

Politicians were nothing more than professional liars as far as Leela – who had no real concept of the term – was concerned, but Romana was different. Romana took her hand and guided her into a new life in the Capitol.

It would not be easy, but it would be enough.

“I do not know, yet. We are still making them.”

Love

The sky flamed orange. Not a bright shade, either, but a burnt orange that was so deep it was almost red. The twin suns of the planet Gallifrey were sinking slowing, inexorably, out of the sight, and the Citadel of the Time Lords struggled against the pull of the evening and the need to sleep.

Lady President Romana was not finding sleep difficult to resist.

Leela of the Sevateem was both her bodyguard and friend. Now the woman had become her lover as well.

It hadn’t happened on purpose. It had been an almost natural progression, the unexpected end result of the series of events they’d found themselves caught up in. Free Time and political struggles and intrigue on Gallifrey. Somehow it had all faded away in Leela’s arms.

Leela was a warrior, lithe and proud and beautiful. She burned with ferocity to rival the suns that blazed just above the horizon.

Romana was a politician, these days. She’d thought her time on the council had extinguished what little fire she did have, replacing it with sagacity and severity.

However, with Leela’s body, dabbled orange in the fading sunlight, pinning her to the bed, she didn’t just burn. She blazed.

Romance
(OOC: Because you can't go wrong with some fanfic cliche.)

The coordinator of the CIA was not having a very good day. He’d been impeached, arrested, released after some excellent political manoeuvring, reinstated, kidnapped, imprisoned and was now sitting in a dark cell with the Presidential bodyguard in his lap.

Wait, what?

( “Leela!” he exclaimed, “What on Gallifrey..? What are you doing?” )

Villain

“I don’t like being followed.”

At first, Leela didn’t realise the Master was actually talking to her. She was an expert tracker, and she wasn’t used to being caught. She contemplated pressing herself into the shadows and remaining silent, but the dark figure ahead was now watching her with his hands on his hips, so it was probably a little redundant.

( “Ah,” he said, when she stepped out into the light, “Romana’s little savage.” )

“The machine is working. What should I say, K-9?”

“Tell them that they have reached Leela, and that you are currently unavailable. If they wish to leave a message, you will return it as soon as possible.”

“Well, I don’t need to say it now, do I? You’ve said it for me!”

“On Earth, it is traditional for the owner of the machine to record their message themselves, Mistress. Or to use a reputedly humorous recording of a celebrity.”

“A celebrity? What is..? Oh, fine! You have reached…” [Pause.] “Why is that light flashing, K-9?”

“You are running out of room for your message, Mistress.”

“What do I press?”

“Press the…” [There is a whine of static, as Leela presses a button at random.] “…red button, Mistress.”

[Message ends.]

Pick an episode (or series) that your character wasn't in and imagine they are - either replacing one of the characters in it, or just add them. Then re-write the episode or pick an event from it to re-write.

“I still do not understand why you need an assistant.”

Leela was standing by the TARDIS console with her hands on her hips, and the Doctor’s valiant attempts to ignore her were falling short. His companion was annoyed and confused, and part of her still wished she’d chosen to stay on Gallifrey with Andred. It probably wasn’t the best time to aggravate her, but playing a half-hearted game of chess against K-9 was so much easier than arguing with Leela. He’d been walking on eggshells since leaving the Capitol, and the trip to Halergan 3 hadn’t been particularly relaxing.

They should have been able to spend a week or two sunning themselves and playing in the sea, but, instead, they were off on a quest, and the fate of the universe was at stake.

Or something like that, anyway. It was a wonder the universe survived at all, since it seemed to need saving every other day at the moment.

“I rather think the White Guardian wants me to take another Time Lord with me. To keep an eye on things.”

“To keep an eye on you, you mean,” she said, rather astutely, “They will not be able to protect you!”

“They aren’t supposed to protect me. They’re supposed to help me.”

“Protecting you does not help?”

“Well, yes, of course it does...” he began, and she interrupted sharply.

“Then why do you need an assistant?”

“Because, well, because it will be a difficult and dangerous quest, that’s why…”

“Am I going to have to protect her, too?”

“I expect so. They aren’t very practical, the Time Lords, are they?”

“I did not think I was practical,” she replied, glancing down to survey her ragged animal skins and bare legs. She certainly didn’t look practical, and was finally starting to understand why she attracted so many strange looks during their various excursions.

“But you can look after yourself,” said the Doctor, and Leela smiled.

“Perhaps one day you will be able to do the same?”

It was the Doctor’s turn to smile then, but, before he could respond, a familiar metallic voice cut across their conversation.

“Master, Mistress Leela…”

“What is it, K-9?” the Doctor asked, glancing sideways at his chess partner.

“The new assistant has arrived.”

Very slowly, they both looked up.

There was a woman standing in the doorway. She was tall and striking, dressed in a long (and beautifully impractical) white dress. The Doctor stared at her for a moment, thoroughly stunned, before glancing sideways at Leela. She looked as astounded as he felt, and the Doctor couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not.

“My name,” the woman announced, “Is Romanadvoratrelundar.”

“I’m so sorry about that,” said the Doctor, straightening up with as much dignity as he could muster, “Is there anything we can do?”

Leela, who had moved effortlessly to stand at the Doctor’s side, stifled a laugh, and Romanadvoratrelundar turned to face her.

“You must be the…err…savage,” she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste and ignoring the Doctor’s frantic headshaking.

“My name,” Leela growled, “Is Leela.”

“Well, ‘Leela’, I believe your presence is no longer required…”

“Why not?” Leela interrupted sharply, “I am going to have to protect you, too.”

“I hardly need protecting…”

“Fine!” Leela snapped, “Then I will leave you to die!”

Romana had the good grace to look flustered, if not exactly apologetic, but, unfortunately, it was far too late. The Doctor sighed, and Leela stomped angrily out of the console room.

It was going to be a long trip.

What's your 'Turn Left' moment?

Romana led the way, and Leela fell automatically into step behind her, as if that had always been her place. She wasn’t sure where they were going, only that it was somewhere deep within the Citadel.

( A place she had never been permitted to go before, in fact. )

The TARDIS was going to crash. There was a harsh chemical smell in the air, and the console was spitting sparks as they hurtled towards the ground. It had been designed for battle, yes, but so had the Daleks. They were experts at destroying the Time Lords and their ships. Although Leela was not privy to the secret discussions of the High Council, she knew that much. The war was not going well.

Leela did not need her eyesight to know that the pilots were dead. They were CIA agents, and they had been picking over the ruins of Arcadia under the watchful eye of Coordinator Narvin. They had not been expecting to die. No one expected to die, even in war. The only blessing was that the Coordinator himself had been aboard a different ship. If the Daleks were concentrating their fire on this TARDIS, he may be able to get back to Gallifrey with the information Romana needed.

She was thrown across the room when they landed, but picked herself up a moment later. She was not afraid of death, though she was disappointed that she would not be able to see out the rest of the war at Romana's side.

After finding her way awkwardly to the door, Leela drew her knife and stepped outside. Unfamiliar wind tugged at her clothes and hair, but the air was fresh and clear. There were birds, too, somewhere in the distance. Birdsong! Oh yes, her spirit could rest well here.

"Come and face me, metal monsters!" she called, knife in hand, "I do not fear you, or your cold voices!"

If she was going to die, then she would die on her feet. She would die as a warrior.

It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.

Leela sat on the floor of the console room with her legs crossed beneath her, observing the chessboard with a very serious expression on her face. The game in progress was distinctly one-sided, with a marked difference in the number of white and black pieces, and this was doing little to improve Leela’s mood.

She reached out to move her rook forward and aggressively attack her opponent’s knight, but, before she reached it, he caught her wrist and guided her hand away.

“No, no,” the Doctor said, his patience wearing thin but, for now, still holding, “If you do that, you’ll leave your king exposed to an attack from my other knight. You need to be less reckless, Leela. Pay attention to the rest of the board.”

“In a real battle,” Leela muttered mutinously, moving one of her few remaining pawns instead (in a half-hearted attempt to improve her defences), “This king would not be allowed to fight.”

“Chess is a real battle, Leela!” the Doctor exclaimed, “A battle of wits! You can set and achieve long term goals, carry out lightning manoeuvres, outsmart your opponent. It requires skill and, and…”

“Patience?”

“And, well, yes, patience. It requires strategy!”

She raised an eyebrow. “If that is what you want, why do you not play with K-9?”

“I thought you might like to learn…”

“You mean I will not beat you,” Leela amended, shaking her head, “It does not matter. That is not how you truly win a battle. A battle is won by the strength of a soldier’s sword, not the strategies of a general!”

“Nonsense!” said the Doctor emphatically, “The allies wouldn’t have defeated Napoleon at Waterloo without the Duke of Wellington, and the French Revolution would have been very different without Napoleon. Julius Caesar, Sun Tzu, George Patton, Alexander Haig. Their actions – their strategies – changed the course of history.”

"I would still choose to be a warrior," said Leela, stubbornly, and the Doctor laughed.

"That doesn't surprise me. You have a sharp mind, Leela, but you prefer a sharp knife."

“Oh,” he added, moving his queen through Leela’s sparse defences to intercept the king, “And I believe that is checkmate.”

“You would make a good General, Doctor,” said Leela admiringly, and the Doctor gave her a wry smile.

“Oh, I hope not, Leela. I hope not.”

Pride.

It was remarkable how much hate Leela of the Sevateem could convey with a single, sweeping movement. Her limbs, usually so loose and graceful, tensed with rage, and even Andred – who loved her more than he’d ever thought possible – wondered whether or not he should back away.

He had learned to read her moods over the years. In a manner of speaking. She was not the sort of person you could compare to any sort of book, let alone an open one, but he was able to recognise when she was angry with him, and – much more frequently – when she was angry with another Time Lord.

Life on Gallifrey didn’t suit Leela. She was often angry. The looks – the whispers! – she attracted within the Citadel constantly pushed her towards the edge, although the edge of what Andred didn’t know. He did know that she had only remained here because of him. He was constantly grateful for that. She loved him, and he loved her, and that amounted to happiness, of a sort. It was enough.

Borusa antagonised Leela more than most. Andred expected this was because, although the Doctor had left Gallifrey in the Chancellor’s hands (again) when he departed, Borusa couldn’t forget how close he’d come to losing everything. After all, his slights were directed at the Doctor, and even at Andred himself, just as often as they were directed at Leela.

His wife didn’t care about politics, or wounded Time Lord pride. She cared only about driving her knife into his ungrateful throat.

“That man,” she growled, slamming the chamber door behind her as she entered, “He does not wish me to wear my skins in the Citadel. He says it is inappropriate to show my legs.”

Leela sat heavily down on the bed beside Andred, her eyes shining with fury. Her temper was as wild as she was. It was, in his opinion, only when she was angry that she truly deserved the name ‘savage’. Not that it was a bad thing, of course. He didn’t consider himself her tamer (though he’d heard many people express those sorts of opinions in the cold chambers of the Capitol). She had been the one to change him. He’d never considered anything connected to Gallifrey to be ‘cold’ before meeting Leela. Leela, who burned like a flame, and had changed the universe when she’d arrived on his planet.

“Perhaps they have forgotten that such things exist underneath their heavy Time Lord robes?” she continued sharply, and Andred smiled despite himself.
“Perhaps they’re just frightened of you?” he suggested, “Because you’re different.”
“I am glad to be different! I would not wish to be like them!”

Her husband smiled softly, and reached over to entwine his fingers with hers. Them. Not him. He and Leela, they were of a sort. Separate. Together.

“I wouldn’t want that either.”

Romance.

There was a man. They said he was my tamer, but it was not like that.

Their eyes followed her whenever she made her way through the city. As if she was some sort of curio. An animal in a zoo, there to be analysed and perhaps even grudgingly admired, but certainly never respected.

They stared at her animal skins and her long, lean legs, shrinking back from her weapons before she’d even drawn them. Whispers, like the hissing of vile snakes, chased her down the corridors of the Capitol. They called her ‘Andred’s savage girl’ and ‘the primitive’, as if she did not – could not – understand their words.

Leela longed, on days when her patience had been worn particularly thin, to turn on them, to draw her knife and avenge the bitter words they spewed like bile when her husband’s back was turned. She didn’t care if they called her a savage; the Doctor had done the same, and, although the tone of voice had changed, the meaning of the word had not. But she would not allow them to consider her husband tainted by association. Her brave, beautiful husband. A true warrior, in this city of cowards and liars.

It was not her home, the Citadel of the Time Lords. It was cold and empty, like the people who inhabited it. The dispassionate observers, with their words and their trickery. They made Leela’s blood turn to ice!

Only Andred’s presence made her stay, and he was different from his kin. He was warm. He had a warm smile and warm eyes, once you peeled away his ceremonial costume and perfunctory Time Lord dignity. Warm arms, too. They held Leela close in the darkness of their room and the still of the Gallifreyan night. She was not savage away from prying eyes. The Time Lords thought her wild and uncontrollable, but really she was gentle, because love had made her gentle. Her heart fluttered like a wild bird inside her chest, but it was a different kind of flutter to the one she felt when she drew her knife or her thorns. Softer.

Andred did not mock her, and he not fear her, so Leela saw no reason not to be her true self with him. She left her knife and her janus thorns at their chamber door, and Andred left his official self beside them.

Although it was not a perfect relationship, it worked well for them. Leela thought often of her life among the Sevateem, and her travels with the Doctor, and knew that here and now was the closest she had ever come to happiness.