It’s true there is a space outside of space. A place beyond dimension, its time not time. Somewhere whose sky is water and water sky, a sea religion knows; logic denies. It has gone by a trillion names on a billion worlds. It is Tehom, Abyssa, Nightwater.
It is the Godsea.
And in this sea are the things that might almost be gods. There are forces that people will always need to have faces, and this is the place where all of those faces are. Perhaps you are someone who has no need of gods. No matter– if you have ever told yourself a story, then it can be found swimming here.
Some stories are strong, and believed throughout all space and time. Some stories are weak, and will never be told, not at all. That doesn’t matter either: the gods do not need our belief. Regardless, they flourish and drift here, their bodies like fish scaled with stories. They know they do not need us, though we need them.
And one of those gods is the story of a fallen woman. A woman who saved whole worlds, who walked through time. Her story is told in a whisper, and that’s how it moves through the sea; softly and curving; in ripples. A question mark inked on the waves.
Once, that story was said to be immortal. It could be anywhen in time and space, and there it would be told: someone or something would be talking about the Doctor. And on the surface of her story the scales are still gleaming and bright: their sheen reflecting rainbows, refracting mystery.
But there are other stories swimming round it now, and they are bleaker ones. Fear and death; the sense of something ending. This part of the Sea is ours, the part for the Earth of the present. It writhes with the stories we cannot mention, the ones that we will not see. Like us, the Doctor’s story ignores them– it knows it must always have hope. Because somewhere that hope is here, too, still struggling under the dark.
And there’s something more than a story in this Sea. Someone that was once almost a man, and who might now be beyond a god. His name is in these stories and between them; it seeps through the waters of dreams like oil. Still, of course, we hope, and still we pray.
But something’s breaking in this part of the Godsea.
There is darkness upon the surface of the deep.