They hadn’t seen Turlough all day, at least, what passed for days in the TARDIS, and the Doctor was worried that the young man hadn’t eaten anything. He was already thin enough, the Doctor had said, without him skipping meals.

So here she was, searching.

Finally she reached the cloisters, near the heart of the TARDIS, a place she had not been since she had arrived here over two years ago. The stone colonnade was just as vine covered as she remembered, looking like some ruin in an overgrown forest. She rubbed her arms reflexively, feeling a ghostly chill in the air as memories returned to haunt her. Turlough wouldn’t be here.

She was about to turn and leave when a small noise attracted her attention, a tiny sound barely loud enough to be heard. Tegan frowned and rounded a corner. A tiny nook was cut into the wall of the cloister; just big enough for someone to fit into. It had once contained a statue that had been broken centuries ago and now lay in pieces scattered around the chamber.

Now it contained another figure, curled into a tight, protective ball. Tegan frowned at him, typical that he had found the most difficult place for anyone to find or reach. She watched him for a moment, her irritation ebbing away. He didn’t move and his posture was defensive and unhappy, something was wrong with the boy. Her frown slowly softened. “Turlough, dinner’s ready,” she said. “Are you coming?”

Turlough didn’t move. Tegan leaned froward to get a better view of him; he was asleep.

“Turlough?” Tegan asked, and put out her hand to tap the young man on the shoulder, a little unnerved by his stillness. “It’s dinner time.”

Turlough flinched at the light contact, his arm slid away to fully reveal his face. His eyes were tight closed; he was asleep, but not resting. His face was tense and tight with pain and tears shed during his dreams had dried on his face, leaving lines through the light coating of dust. He sobbed again, a quiet, almost inaudible sound, but so filled with despair and loneliness that it wrenched at Tegan’s heart.

What dreams, she wondered, were so bad that they caused him this much pain? Without thinking, she managed to squeeze herself into the little remaining room in the nook and put her arms around him, drawing him gently into her embrace. He turned willingly to the comfort she offered him, resting his head on her shoulder, not waking from his restless sleep. As he unwound his sketchbook fell off his lap.

Tegan slowly and carefully freed an arm and picked it up. Turlough was a talented artist: she had seen many of his sketches and several of the finished and unfinished canvases in his room and admired his skill. She had also marvelled at the care and attention he gave to his equipment, so unlike the disdain he often showed for anyone or anything else. This book, however, was different to anything she had seen before. The pictures in it were not of landscapes, buildings, still life studies or the portraits he did of friends and companions, the pictures that he let people see. Those pictures, though brilliant in their execution, were somehow distant, technically brilliant but lacking in soul. These pictures, in contrast, screamed of every emotion he never let the world see.

Tegan lay the book on her knee and flicked through it with one hand while the other still held the boy, feeling slightly guilty at intruding on such personal images. A few pages in she fervently hoped that he wouldn’t wake up while she was examining it, as the images were disturbing, full of power and pain. There were two landscapes, one of wild mountains filled with untamed power and beauty, the other of a burned and ruined city. There was a mansion, drawn twice: once stately and majestic, a proud and noble mansion, while in the next it burned. There were portraits of people she had never seen before. One was a man in a military uniform with an austere, stern face but gentle eyes. Another of woman with a proud and noble posture bordering on arrogant cradled a baby gently in her arms. A third of a young woman with a thin face and flying hair ran with gay abandon through long grass, laughing as she raced the wind. All three bore the same features, the same face structure and although the pictures were in pencil, she was sure they would all have ginger hair.

The same young woman lay, dead or dying, in the next drawing, cradled in a boy’s arms. Although the picture was drawn in pencil that had become smudged in places, the level of detail was high showing the woman’s hideous injuries. Tegan’s active imagination gave it colour, sound and odour, she could see, in her minds eyes, the deep burns and blood on the woman’s uniform, smell the charred cloth and flesh and hear the moans and cries of the boy who held her so tenderly. Although the form of the boy was indistinct and his face hidden, Tegan knew that it was Turlough.

The final pictures in the book disturbed Tegan the most. Both of them featured the indistinct self portrait. The first was a scene of violence, a faceless Turlough being held roughly between two soldiers, reaching out in vain, while the man, woman and child from the earlier pictures were herded away. The soldiers and the family were drawn with such close attention to detail that Tegan could almost hear the soldiers shouting, the woman crying and the baby screaming in fear.

The second drawing was in a stark stone cell, Turlough sitting in a corner, his knees drawn up and his head in his hands. Despondency and despair emanated from the drawing.

Hopelessness, pain and loneliness reached out to touch Tegan’s heart as she realized what Turlough had been through. How old is he? she wondered. 17, maybe 18, years old? He had a family once, loving parents who had been torn away from him, a sister who had died in his arms.

She closed the sketch book and laid it on the floor then looked down at Turlough’s still slumbering face. How would she cope with such things happening to her at such a young age? Would she build a wall around herself to protect her from the anguish of her past? Would she give up on trying to see any true good in the universe when all she had known and loved was violently destroyed? Would she develop a cynical and somewhat callous view of life to stop herself from feeling that overwhelming pain? Would she think only of herself? They were questions she could not answer as she had never suffered so much, not even when her Aunt had been killed, not even when her friend, Adric, had died. In those times, she had had friends to help her through, she hadn’t been abandoned to fend for herself.

She felt something warm and wet splash onto her hand and realised she was crying. She didn’t try to stop the tears but let them flow silently as she grew to understand the young man who had frustrated and irritated her for so long. As far as she had travelled, as often as she had been in mortal danger, she had never faced it alone; there had always been someone there to help her through: the Doctor, Nyssa, any number of friends who loved and supported her. Turlough had had to face all that she had been through and more on his own. Cast out by his own people, all his family gone, perhaps even dead, it was no wonder he had turned hard.

Tegan looked down at the sleeping boy. The pictures that he displayed publicly all showed places of peace and serenity, of happiness and security, so different from the turmoil these drawings showed. Was that what he was seeking? A home? An end to his broken-hearted wandering? Tegan wondered if he would ever find such a place and an end to his pain. Maybe then, if and when he found his peace, his portrait would no longer be indistinct, but whole and maybe even smiling.