Author's Note: I'd just like to give credit to fatbasset (Alan Smith) on Teaspoon for the inspiration for this story. His story, Worlds Apart, pointed out to me the similarity between the White Witch and the Doctor, which I thought was really interesting. I tried to explore that in this work.
It is a crossover, primarily, with C.S. Lewis' The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe (and yes, I dug back out the book again to make sure that I got everything correct), but I have added in a few things I liked from the movie. There are a few details that match neither the movie, nor the book. Those are the details that I mis-remembered from the first time I read the book, when I was a little kid. The thing is, I really like those details, so I just shoved them in anyways.
Sorry, I don't usually like to do author's notes. I usually feel the story should speak for itself. But I wanted to give fatbasset credit for the inspiration. Enjoy!
The Doctor didn't really understand how he'd gotten there. One moment, he had been on 20th century Earth—in the English countryside, actually, on a lovely summer morning—and then suddenly, without any rhyme or reason, he had wound up here.
He didn't know where "here" was, either. It certainly wasn't Earth—the rotation of the planet felt off. Almost two dimensional, he thought. But it was rather beautiful. The landscape was white, as if someone had wrapped up the entire planet in a fluffy white duvet, and it had snuggled in for a long slumber. Slender icicles dripped down from tree branches overhead, their crystalline molecular structure glimmering like jewels. The sun, itself, seemed to be similar to Sol, although slightly redder in color. Its light trailed through the air with a languid sort of ease, making the snow twinkle like the night sky.
The Doctor paused, and looked about. The fauna certainly looked Earth-based—he could see pine trees, oak trees, and some maple trees, along with a variety of Earth bushes and weeds that he remembered Perry lecturing him about several lifetimes ago. Perhaps he should have been paying better attention. Still, there was nothing that could explain how he got there. He frowned in confusion, and got out his sonic screwdriver. He scanned the landscape around him. Certainly not Earth, as he'd suspected. No signs of a transmat or teleport. No signs of anything that could have taken him there, really. Which made him wonder…
"What are you doing, mucking about?" came a high pitched voice from down by the Doctor's feet. "It's not safe to be out in the open, not looking like that."
The Doctor looked down, and found a rather well dressed little Cat snapping at him. The Cat wore a very nicely tailored dress and apron, with a little straw hat perched on her head. The Doctor scratched the back of his neck. He knew that cats eventually evolved into sentient creatures, but not for centuries yet, and that would mean that he'd somehow been transported through both space and time, and he was certain he would have been able to tell something like that. At the very least, it should have made him unbearably nauseous. "I'm terribly sorry. Would you mind telling me the date?"
"It is the year 1000 in the Age of Winter," said the Cat. "How could you not know something like that?" The Cat eyed him suspiciously, then her eyes widened. She stepped back. "You're a Son of Adam!"
"I'm the son of whom?" the Doctor asked. He scrunched up his face in thought. "Adam. Adam. Adam. Wouldn't happen to be a rather dumpy looking kid from around the year 2012, thin face, dour expression, with a…" He pointed to his forehead. "…snappy personality?"
"Son of Adam, you aren't safe here," said the Cat. "You have to leave. If the White Witch finds you, she will kill you along with the others."
"Ah, others, you say," said the Doctor. "Definitely not me, then." He tapped the sonic screwdriver against his lips, putting it all together in his mind. "Earth based vegetation, along with Earth based animals—who speak English, apparently, and with a rather good London accent—but not Earth. Which means that either someone has taken a real shine to Earth, or there have been humans here before." He gave the Cat his most charming smile. "Am I right?"
"The White Witch knows that you are coming," said the Cat. "She seeks to prevent the prophecy. For your own safety and protection, you must hide."
The Doctor felt the wind pick up, and for the first time since he got here, he felt a large energy source in the air, tickling the hair on the back of his hands. But this was not the kind of energy that would power a teleport. It was some sort of powerful psionic presence, approaching him from a distance. He put the sonic screwdriver back in his pocket, and peered through the trees. He could see a speck of something moving across the snow—just the faintest hint that something was approaching them. The Doctor knew enough to trust his instincts, and every instinct was telling him to run for it.
"Well, then, Cat-in-the-hat," said the Doctor. "Allons-y!"
As he began to run, the Doctor noticed the Cat's reaction to the French phrase—a look of confusion and bewilderment. That was bad. That meant that the Tardis was not near-at-hand to translate for him. Whoever wanted him here, they didn't want his ship. That certainly narrowed down the possibilities about who had brought him and why.
Not that he'd actually worked out where he was, or how he'd gotten there.
"So, the White Witch and the Age of Winter?" asked the Doctor, as he was running. "That sounds like a tale and a half. Love to hear it, of course, but, well, this is going to sound a bit odd, but you wouldn't happen to know where we are?"
"You are in the land of Narnia," said the Cat, now running alongside the Doctor. "It stretches from Cair Paravel on the eastern sea to the lamppost."
"Lamppost?" asked the Doctor, but the Cat didn't hear him.
"It is fortunate for you that I was the first to find you, Son of Adam," said the Cat. "The White Witch has her kidnappers out and about, searching everywhere for any Sons of Adam or Daughters of Eve who might appear in these woods."
"I told you before, I'm not… oh, never mind," said the Doctor. He could definitely feel a strong telepathic presence in the air, and the smell of the psionics around him was making his nose itch. "So, Narnia is some sort of trap for humans. Your White Witch lures them here, and then hunts them down for sport."
"No," said the Cat. She sounded a little exasperated now. "I told you before. She knows the prophecy. The four thrones of Cair Paravel will be filled once more by the Sons and Daughters of Adam, and then the Evil Time will be over. Winter will end, and Spring will come. The White Witch seeks to prevent the prophecy from occurring. It is she who has reduced our beautiful realm to this—always winter, but never Christmas."
The Doctor couldn't help but think that, with his track record, it might be just as well that there wasn't any Christmas here in Narnia. He didn't think that the native Narnians would be very happy about killer robots or bomb-spewing Christmas trees.
"I suppose the lack of Christmas probably doesn't do your economy any wonders," said the Doctor. "But, well, more to the point, if it's always winter, how do you manage to find any food?"
"We don't," said the Cat.
"Ah," said the Doctor. "That might be a bit of a problem if this seasonal change becomes permanent."
"It has been winter for a hundred years," said the Cat. "We should have starved long ago, but the White Witch conjures food for those in her employ."
"Yes, I've seen this before," said the Doctor. It was a common Dalek tactic, and one that he knew well—to remove all sources of food and shelter, and make the population completely dependent on the monsters that were destroying it. He could still remember one planet during the war, where the Daleks had poisoned the air so that the inhabitants could only survive deep in the mines. His jaw clenched involuntarily. "One hundred years," he muttered under his breath.
He could smell the psionics growing stronger and stronger in the air and by now, he could clearly hear what was pursuing them. It was a jangling sort of sound, like bells, and the clomp of hoofs against packed snow. The telepathic presence had zeroed in on his mind, and he could feel it pressing against his mental defenses with a tremendous force. The Doctor looked down at the Cat.
"You keep going," said the Doctor. "I can't hide from her, now. She's found my mind."
"No," the Cat insisted. "You hide, and wait for the others. I'll make sure she doesn't find you."
"There are no others!" hissed the Doctor. "Listen, whoever it is you're waiting for, it's not me. They're still coming, but it's not me. I'll try to help as best I can, but you have to go!"
The Cat studied him for a moment, then gave him a sad look. "May the Lion protect you," she said, and then darted back into the trees.
The Doctor scratched the back of his head. "Lion?" he wondered. But he supposed that in a world of talking cats, there could well be talking lions. He really hoped this wasn't some human fantasy-planet in the far-future that was set up to recreate the Lion King. He didn't think he could stand that much singing.
Wolves poured out of the forest, their yellow eyes all fixed on the Doctor. They circled him, snapping their jaws and growling menacingly. The Doctor raised up his hands, and tried to act harmless. "Good kitty; good kitty," he said to them.
"Silence," snapped one of the wolves. English accent—Oxfordshire this time.
The Doctor raised an eyebrow. "Talking wolves," he said. "Now there's a marvel. Don't suppose that jingle jangle is Little Red Riding Hood, then?"
The jingling sound of bells stopped as the sleigh approached. It was rather a large sleigh, made completely of ice, and the Doctor wondered how it managed not to melt as the friction between the sleigh and the snow increased. It was being towed by several large reindeer, and driven by a short, stumpy humanoid creature. Inside the sleigh was a woman wrapped in very elegant white firs, along with the kind of long, sloping ball gown that was popular on Earth at the end of the 29th century. Her face was so pale as to be nearly white, and her eyes were cold and unyielding, as she studied the Doctor. She wore a golden crown on her head, and in her hand was a large golden staff, which the Doctor guessed worked as a sort of psionic amplifier. The sleigh pulled up and stopped just in front of the Doctor.
The Doctor applauded. "Oh, very, very nice," he said. "The White Witch herself. How do I address you, exactly? 'Your All-Powerful Witchiness?' Or do you insist on something long, boring and pretentious, like, 'the Lady White Witch of the Great Lands of Narnia, Blessings and Good Cheer Be Upon Her Name?'"
The White Witch stepped out of the carriage, and the Doctor noticed that she was tall by human standards (the same height as him, in fact) so that their eyes naturally bore into one another as she approached. There was a physical coldness—almost a mist—that radiated from her body, making the air freeze as it touched her skin.
"You dare to insult the Queen of Narnia?" she demanded. It was a quiet, calm demand, the sort of demand that one makes when she knows that others have no choice but to obey her. The Doctor took in a sharp breath. It was exactly the same tone of voice that the Time Lords of Gallifrey had used on him when he was a child, and it instinctively made him want to do the opposite of whatever had been demanded of him.
The Doctor bit his tongue. He'd survived 900 years by outsmarting his enemies. He wasn't going to let this remnant of his childhood make him do something stupid. It'd done that enough when he was young.
The White Witch advanced towards him, coming closer and closer until the cold air she emitted nipped the Doctor's fingers, and his arms prickled with goose bumps. "You are not afraid of me, Son of Adam," she said. "Are you really so arrogant, or are you merely a fool?"
"Been said before," said the Doctor.
The Doctor shrugged. "Both, actually. And I'm not a Son of Adam. I wish people would quit saying that." He gave her his largest, friendliest smile, and offered her his hand. "I'm the Doctor."
The White Witch regarded the hand as if unsure how to react to it. Interesting. According to the Cat, the White Witch was obsessed with hunting down any human that might appear in her realm. Yet she seemed unfamiliar with such a basic Earth custom as shaking hands. And something else—she thought he was human. That was odd. After all, she had already zeroed in on his mind. She knew he was a telepath, and she had tested his defenses. Surely, if she knew the first thing about humans in this time period, that would have been a dead giveaway. He wondered how much the White Witch really knew about the species that was destined to supplant her. He tucked these and other queries away for later analysis.
The White Witch looked him over, suspiciously. "If you are not human, then what are you?"
The Doctor blew a breath out of his cheeks. "Um, lost?" he said. "Think I took a bit of a wrong turn. You see, I was supposed to be in the English Countryside on Earth, round about the early 1940's, and the next thing I knew, I was in the middle of… well, all this." He gestured around him. "Still, I suppose I can talk. Three days ago, it was Christmas in London, and I was chasing around a woman in a wedding dress, trying to save her from being eaten by giant spiders. So, well, showing up randomly on another planet with talking creatures isn't really that far out of my normal daily operations."
The Doctor was watching the White Witch as he spoke, noticing the way she reacted to every word. In a world with so many Earth customs, where cats wore hats and aprons and spoke with London accents, he was surprised at the lack of comprehension in the White Witch's face when he mentioned wedding dresses and spiders.
"You're not from this world," she said.
He raised an eyebrow at her. "Neither are you," he replied.
The White Witch gave him a hard stare. "You speak too freely, human," she said.
The Doctor ran a hand through his hair. "How many times do I have to say it? Not human. First Donna runs around calling me a Martian, and now you lot keep calling me a 'Son of Adam'. So, little clarification, right off the bat." He pointed at himself. "Not from Earth. Not from Mars. Not from—well, obviously not from here. And not the son of anyone named 'Adam.' In fact, you could say I have rather a thing against Adam. I think he wouldn't be very much pleased to see me again. And…"
"Silence," demanded the White Witch, in that same quiet voice that really got on the Doctor's nerves. This time, his irritation got the better of him, and before he could stop himself, he was talking.
"Oh, silence yourself," he snapped. "I know your type far too well. Always wanting to be in control of everything, because you know that really, you control nothing. Using fear and oppression to ensure loyalty because that's the only way you'll ever receive it. Well, let me make one thing perfectly clear, your witchiness. I do not follow or…"
The White Witch's eyes flared at him, and she raised her staff. The icy blast hit the Doctor full force, spreading across his hands, his legs, his fingers, boring into his eyes and nose, sealing his mouth shut, and then… blackness.