At the writing table, Oscar looked down at the evidence of his life: the letters he had received, and those he had written but not yet posted. Such a small, small world, reduced to a handful of empty words.

He thought about the people he’d lost. His dear mother, who had doted on him as a child. His sister Isola, snatched away before her tenth birthday. He thought about dear faithful Constance, and how well her name suited her - she had put up with far more than any wife could ever be expected to - lying in a lonely grave for almost two years. He thought about his sons, Cyril and Vyvyan, being raised without his name by people who hated him. He thought about Robbie Ross, his dear friend and comfort in these years of exile, and of Bosie, the love and bitterness still intertwined like ivy.

And, after thinking of all those that he had loved, he made a decision.

He reached out and picked up something from the table.




Caught in mid-tirade, the Doctor fell into a stunned silence when Oscar Wilde’s hand fell on his shoulder and dragged him back from the picture.

Glancing down, the Doctor saw a silver blade glinting in Oscar’s hand - a letter opener. The writer lifted his hand up, and brought the blade down, bellowing wordlessly.

Oscar staggered back, tears streaming from his eyes. He was crying for many, many reasons - with the joy of decision, with hatred at the world that had made him an exile, with the memories of his friends and family, with frustration that his writing, his true self-expression, had been taken from him, with shame and with pride, and with a wild recklessness that he had thought dead these last few years.

He felt free!

The blade protruded from its target.

And around the blade, unreality began to fold in on itself as the gilded frame of the painting faded like a half-remembered dream.

Where the painting had stood was now a shadowy form - almost a shadow of Oscar Wilde - the letter opener protruding from its chest and its red eyes open wide in surprise. The shadowy hands reached up and plucked the blade from its breast, dropping it to the floor.

It turned towards the sobbing writer, and then collapsed to the floor.

It raised its head, and the red light of hatred shone out of its eyes at the Doctor. And then it dispersed, its outline expanding and losing coherence.

But, where it had been, two red glows persisted for a few seconds longer before they too faded away.




The Doctor took in the situation with his usual speed. Alf and Nick were still staring at the spot where the Eternal had faded away, so only he noticed when Oscar stopped sobbing and fell to the floor, unconscious. The Doctor suddenly had the worrying recollection of what the Eternal had almost looked like before it disappeared, the form it had seemed to be taking. He wondered just how much of Oscar Wilde that monster had taken from the writer. But now was not the time to ask.

‘Help me,’ he said to Nick, laying a hand on his companion’s shoulder. Nick stared up at him, then turned to where the Doctor was nodding, and yelled.

‘Oscar! What the hell -?’ He ran over to the Irishman and grabbed ineffectually at his shoulders. Alf and the Doctor quickly joined him; all three manoeuvred the writer onto the chaise longue, Alf tossing the book still there out of the way. After that, the two humans collapsed onto the floor by the chaise, while the Doctor seated himself in the easychair; they took the moment to catch their breath and allow what had just happened to sink in. The Doctor also reached out to take Wilde’s pulse. Weak and slow. Not a good sign.

‘Right then, Doctor,’ Nick said steadily. ‘Care to explain what exactly you think just happened?’

‘The creature behind the portrait was an Eternal, a kind of leftover from the very early years after the Big Bang. As a race, they have been worn very thin by the passage of time. They hardly exist at all in a way that we can understand - they can’t die but are no longer truly alive. But they remember life and all it entails, and know that it is more than they have. They are jealous of those who truly live and prey on them…’

‘What, like vampires?’ interrupted Nick, and then realised this was a touchy subject with Alf. He conveyed his apologies with a look.

‘Not like vampires,’ answered the Doctor. ‘Vampires are full of passion. Eternals are empty of everything but a hunger for emotions, for experience, for life. And they can satisfy that hunger through the living. While they are empty creatures, they have powers far beyond ours. With the spark of imagination they can create things from, well, nothing. It has many names - ectoplasm, glamour, mara… What it’s called doesn’t matter, but they create a false reality in which their victims can play out dramas that will evoke emotions strong enough for the Eternals to feel alive once more.’ He paused, and looked down at Wilde. ‘Oscar was a real prize, his imagination would have done most of the work for the Eternal. He would have been too strong for them earlier in his life, but his stint in prison left him a broken man and an easy target.’

‘And will he be all right now?’ Nick asked, looking down at Oscar. He looked sicker than ever.

‘The Eternal is gone, if that’s what you mean,’ said the Doctor. ‘Back to its own dimension, where it belongs.’

‘No, that’s not what I mean. When will Oscar recover?’

The Doctor and Alf exchanged a look.

‘Doctor?’ Nick’s voice took on a pleading tone.