by pebble/scifipony
Fandom: Doctor Who (Fifth Doctor Era)
Characters: Vislor Turlough, Malkon Turlough
Words: 700
Tags: AU, Brothers, Heat Exhaustion, Hurt/Comfort
Warnings: None
Author's Notes:
~ Originally posted to AO3 on September 5th, 2021. Also posted to the SquidgeWorld and Teaspoon archives.
~ I have no idea what the age difference between Turlough and his brother is supposed to be. Like everything else in Doctor Who, their story's canon is messy and confusing. Turlough was apparently old enough at the time of the exile to still have vivid memories of Trion, serve in the military, and have a girlfriend. Malkon was also specifically stated to have been an infant when he arrived on Sarn. So that's what I was using as a reference point for this fic.
Walking over the crest of yet another dune, the boy shifted the tiny bundle in his arms and wiped sweat from his forehead. He shielded his hand against the glare as he stared out over the empty wasteland. Still no sign of other people.
A tired glance over his shoulder revealed that the hull of the ship was quickly disappearing from view. He'd walked so far from the craft, it was barely visible now on the horizon. Still, the glint of sun on metal showed him where it was located. Not that it was of any use now; the mangled remains of the ship would never fly again.
The bundle moved, a soft cry escaping. He shifted the precious cargo in an effort to get a better grip on it.
"Shh," he murmured to the infant, voice cracked and dry. "We'll be fine. We'll find help."
Squaring his shoulders, Junior Ensign Commander Vislor Turlough trudged onward, one foot dragging slowly in front of the other.
It wasn't as if the heat was foreign to him. Trion's twin suns kept it hot nearly year-round. But there was a difference between dealing with an arid climate from the comfort of one's home, and trekking endless kilometers through barren wastelands. Adding his dehydration, the weight he carried in his arms, and the injuries from the crash... well, Turlough was a pessimist at the best of times, and this was not the best of times.
"It's okay," he croaked to the child again. "We're okay. We'll be fine."
Maybe if he repeated the lies often enough, he might even start to believe them himself.
He reached back and pulled up the hood on his jacket to help shield his eyes from the sun. Unfortunately, it couldn't do much against the glare reflecting back off the sand.
Reaching the crest of another rise, Turlough stumbled to a halt. Tired eyes scanned the scenery for any sign of life. Once again, there was nothing to see — only the endless expanse of sand, rocks, and cliffs.
He eased himself down onto the rough ground at the edge of the trail. A rocky outcropping made a half-decent attempt at casting shade over the two war exiles.
Closing his eyes against the harsh glare, Turlough found his entire body sag with exhaustion. He had no idea how long he'd been walking, but it was certainly too long to be out in this heat with no water. It was so tempting to let himself fall asleep. Just calmly drift off into peaceful quiet, where there would be no heat or thirst or blindingly bright suns...
A soft whimper from Malkon stirred him awake again.
"Shh," Turlough hushed the baby, throat too dry to offer any more meaningless words of comfort. There wasn't much point now anyway.
The sun marched slowly and mercilessly across the sky until it finally approached the distant horizon. The entire landscape was bathed red, sunbeams reflecting off every cliff and rock. It might have been beautiful, if it wasn't still too bright and hot.
Turlough found his eyes sliding shut for the hundredth time since sitting down when the nearby crunch of gravel caught his attention. Either he was hallucinating things — which was a distinct possibility at this point — or those were footsteps approaching.
"Over here!" he tried to call out, but the words lodged painfully in his throat, breaking before they ever made it out.
Thankfully, the footsteps continued toward them without any need for prompting. The trail must lead right past their hiding spot, Turlough figured. That was good, because he wasn't sure he had the energy left to get up and try signaling for help.
"Timanov, look! Under the rocks up there!" a voice yelled out from not far below their position. Even half dazed, Turlough recognized the native language of his planet. Which meant they'd been successful in arriving on Sarn, at least.
With the promise of rescue at hand, Turlough finally let his eyes close against the glare. He could rest. Somehow, his promises to his little brother hadn't been false after all. They were going to be okay.
By the time their rescuers arrived, both Trion outcasts were sound asleep.
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