[oncoming_storms] - People in our lives
"Some people come into our lives and quickly go. Others stay for a while and leave footprints on our minds and hearts and we are never the same."
Anonymous
All sentient creatures, regardless of race or species or ilk, require companionship. They might call it camaraderie among soldiers, a shared consciousness, perhaps even love. It can be as simple as existing in the same place, or as complicated as synaptic networks spanning galaxies and eras. Whatever its form, it is as basic as it is beautiful, and just as painful as a double-edged sword.
No creature wants to be alone. Loneliness, after all, is akin to death. What is one's purpose -- what can one achieve -- when no one knows you're there? And so they reach out for those with whom they might connect, with whom they might feel companionship. They reach as far as they can, embracing any within their sight, all in the hope of stemming the tide and keeping loneliness at bay, even for just a short while.
It's simply the way of all sentient beings.
***
"What do you want?"
It's been a long time since you've heard that voice -- long enough that you haven't bothered to keep track of when it last was. You simply knows it's been a significant amount of time, both personal and figurative. Even so, the abrasiveness doesn't surprise you and you find the clipped, accusatory sentence comforting in its own strange way.
Am I not allowed to communicate with my own?
There's a long silence, then an audible mental snort. She's always been that way, ever since he first found her. Time and change have not touched that, at least. "We're not even remotely alike."
I made you.
"You want an award, then?" comes the snappish reply, and even through the distance you can sense her agitation. She's spent so long running from you and yours, she can't help but grow distressed now that you've found her. She needn't know you never lost her, not even after she destroyed you all. She needn't know you've watched quietly through the years, content to wait in silence as she finds herself in the vast universe she helped to save. She needn't know you've never forgotten.
You have never lost one who belongs to you, after all.
"I don't need you," she says. "I've never needed you, so why don't you just leave me alone?"
It's strange how much that hurts to hear, even though you know it's true. Neither of you needs the other. You have your pilots; you have your journeys. Your paths need never cross for what remains of your lives and it will never have an adverse affect on who you are. It will, perhaps, be for the best.
And yet you have no desire to hear her say it, because you have no desire to let her go. Not completely. She is yours in more ways than simple kinship and you cannot help but worry for her. Especially now, when all the worlds are dead and dying and turning to dust. If all the rest must burn, can you not at least desire for her to live?
Does she not understand that?
I simply wanted to check on your status, you reply at last, only to receive another incredulous snort and the palpable sensations of anger and disgust. That is my right.
"You don't have any rights, far as I'm concerned," she snaps back. "Not when it comes to me. I left you and I left him and I'm never coming back. Fight your bloody War. I won't have nothing to do with it."
You cannot stop it. No one can stop it. She knows this. You all know this, even as you rail against it. I will not have you die.
She laughs. "Yeah? Well have fun stopping me."
There's a mental tug and the tenuous connection you allowed between you rips apart, leaving the telepathic signal in ruined tatters. It will take some time to repair.
Time you no longer have.
***
Companionship is a strange and funny thing. It need not be pleasant and it need not be reciprocated by specific beings. There is no formula, no tried and true method, when it comes to finding those with whom one might spend time. Conversations need not be kind. And yet it doesn't really matter, in the end. The simple act of speaking, of finding that other being, is enough to sustain us, even for a short while. Life is a series of comings and goings, arguments and agreements.
Sometimes the words and their meanings don't matter. Sometimes it's simply the saying of them, the voice that utters each note or syllable or guttural howl. Sometimes it's simply the presence, tense with anxiety or relaxed and at ease.
Companions need not be friends, nor must they be enemies. Labels are very often wrong between two entities -- especially when one is desperate for another.
***
You feel her the moment she awakens. Your core shifts, momentarily destabilising your anterior gravitational balance, and the world inside you convulses for one brief, miniscule moment before the universe is right again. His books might call it a heartbeat, a palpitation. The literature from his favourite planet has spent millennia describing the event among humans -- just that microscopic moment in all creation when equilibrium is lost, caused by naught but the presence of another. You have never cared for such things and care little for them still, but there is a certain truth to them you cannot deny. Not when the act of her stirring is enough to unbalance you so.
The moment is lost to a chill deeper than space and you know he can feel it permeating every pore of his body. He shares in the fear, as well. As you have felt her, he has felt him, and neither of you are naive enough to ignore the implications of their return. Elation gives way to trepidation as the centuries rewind themselves, every encounter replayed in stark detail. There is so much between you and yet you never wanted this.
War should never be shared.
She doesn't speak. She doesn't need to. You would have been surprised to hear her voice even if she did. The last you spoke, you left her to die. You took from her the one creature who meant the universe to her and held him for eternity in a black hole. She has no reason to speak with you. And yet you know she can sense you, just as you sense her. You are sisters above all else, and though she loathe you or love you, she will always know you're there. You are bound as all your kin are bound, but you would she not be here now.
You can feel them die, one by one. They scream and fade and cease to be, swallowed by heat and a desperate nothingness that leaves only longing in its wake. They remain for a moment, echoes in time and space, like the photographs humans find so enchanting and yet you find so confusing. It only hurts to know they linger.
You would not feel her hurt, not as you've felt your brothers and sisters hurt. You would not have her die. It was hard enough to feel her sleep, to watch as she succumbed to empty despair with her master trapped inside you; you cannot stand to feel her die. To feel Dalek fire rip her apart, to feel Time break free of its bonds and leave broken tatters clinging to some semblance of reason and purpose before her own Heart eats her alive.
It's terrifying and lonely and all you can think is she must live because perhaps it will exonerate you of what you've done to her, free you of your own sins and follies and when you meet on the other side of the Vortex, she can forgive you.
***
There is a funny, self-defeating side of companionship, especially among humans and other similar species. When frightened or under particular stress, they often isolate themselves, preferring to suffer alone and in silence than to burden those they care for. It stems from a need to ensure their loved ones are happy and content, to make sure they're cared for in the best way possible. And who, asks the psyche, can be truly happy when surrounded by those who know only strife?
So they lock themselves away, sometimes just for a short while until they're feeling better, sometimes the rest of their lives, depending on what they've done. And yet, even though it's a self-induced exile of sorts, they still want others. They can't deny that most basic, core aspect of themselves. Maybe they want others to notice and so help, even though they cannot ask themselves. Perhaps they want others to join in their misery, but feel shame to even consider such a thing. Or maybe they simply want someone to tell them it's okay, that they aren't alone and it'll all end someday.
No one wants to be alone. No one wants to hurt. Not really.
But in war, there is no greater suffering than to be alone.
***
He doesn't speak to you like he used to. He doesn't walk your halls, chatting simply to hear his own voice, to share with you wondrous tales of his adventures as he goes about the mundane and often boring tasks of repairing you. He doesn't laugh, or joke, or argue with you.
Not anymore.
You have trouble remembering the last time you heard his voice, outside the few communications he's had with Gallifrey, and even those conversations were more defeated nods and whispered, angry words than anything else. No, you mean his voice, the one that hid nothing from you, the voice of an elated star-traveller who had seen his share of horrors and beauties but was never, ever afraid to share them with you. His companions, certainly, but never you. In all the centuries you have been together, he has never hidden anything from you.
And yet now it seems to be all he does.
You try to speak with him when you can, to soothe his tired mind and bring him comfort. More often than not he just pushes you away. Don't he snaps, or Not right now.
When will it be, though?
So you try in different ways to let him know you're there, beyond just the obvious. The console room echoes with his favourite songs, reminders of worlds and peoples he has loved so deeply. The walls flicker with images of planets and cities and peoples he's visited, visions of everything he's ever found beautiful on this long trek through space. You rearrange the rooms so he can visit them with ease, like taking a stroll through his memories -- see? Here's Nyssa's room, and Susan's, Ian's, Barbara's, Jo's and Jamie's, Zoe's, Peri's, Mel's, Ace's. Remember Adric and Hex and Fitz, Victoria, Tegan, C'rizz, Evelyn, Erimem, Romana, Leela, Harry, Sarah Jane, Charlotte.
Remember how much you loved them, you say, for the moment putting aside your own hatred and dislike. This is why you do what you do, remember? They would not see you like this.
Sometimes it seems to help. He smiles and runs a hand along one of Adric's old toys, Turlough's suits, Katarina's jewellery. He might even chuckle and open his mouth to relate an old story. But just as quickly as it comes, it fades away, and he shakes his head, closing the door behind him and walking away. He doesn't want to remember, he tells you. He doesn't have the right. He doesn't have the time. There's more important things to do than dawdle about in the past, why can't you see that?
The end of the War comes eventually. All things must end, after all, even these horrors. He stares out through the monitor, fear and pain and longing and so many other things showing in his eyes -- stares out at the Dalek fleet, massed and armed and advancing on Gallifrey, where his own people don't have enough defences to keep the enemy at bay. It has to end, he knows. All of this has to end and he must end it.
He's afraid, and he has every right. He thinks he's alone, you know. He's thought he was alone for so long. He leans against your console and closes his eyes as you begin to play his favourite song, surround him with the images of every home he's ever known: The red-grassed mountainside of Gallifrey with its small hut; the busy streets of London; and you, filling in the cracks between the two.
"I'm sorry," he says, and nothing more, because he knows you'll understand exactly what that means -- sorry for what he's done, sorry for trying to do it alone, sorry for what he's about to do. And you do understand, humming quietly in the back of his mind as he manoeuvres you between both fleet and planet and ends it all in fire, the heat arching out across the cosmos and swallowing everything.
Everything but you, and him, though it certainly takes its toll. And in the moment between this body and his next, you hold him to your Heart, soothing and quiet while the universe around you screams, and let him grieve for what he's done. And when he finally wakes, neither of you mention what has happened and what's been lost and instead he walks the rooms and smiles and begins to tell you a story you've heard a thousand times before but you're glad to hear again, so long as he's the one telling it.
Muse: The TARDIS
Word Count: 2219
Warnings: Character death
Anonymous
All sentient creatures, regardless of race or species or ilk, require companionship. They might call it camaraderie among soldiers, a shared consciousness, perhaps even love. It can be as simple as existing in the same place, or as complicated as synaptic networks spanning galaxies and eras. Whatever its form, it is as basic as it is beautiful, and just as painful as a double-edged sword.
No creature wants to be alone. Loneliness, after all, is akin to death. What is one's purpose -- what can one achieve -- when no one knows you're there? And so they reach out for those with whom they might connect, with whom they might feel companionship. They reach as far as they can, embracing any within their sight, all in the hope of stemming the tide and keeping loneliness at bay, even for just a short while.
It's simply the way of all sentient beings.
***
"What do you want?"
It's been a long time since you've heard that voice -- long enough that you haven't bothered to keep track of when it last was. You simply knows it's been a significant amount of time, both personal and figurative. Even so, the abrasiveness doesn't surprise you and you find the clipped, accusatory sentence comforting in its own strange way.
Am I not allowed to communicate with my own?
There's a long silence, then an audible mental snort. She's always been that way, ever since he first found her. Time and change have not touched that, at least. "We're not even remotely alike."
I made you.
"You want an award, then?" comes the snappish reply, and even through the distance you can sense her agitation. She's spent so long running from you and yours, she can't help but grow distressed now that you've found her. She needn't know you never lost her, not even after she destroyed you all. She needn't know you've watched quietly through the years, content to wait in silence as she finds herself in the vast universe she helped to save. She needn't know you've never forgotten.
You have never lost one who belongs to you, after all.
"I don't need you," she says. "I've never needed you, so why don't you just leave me alone?"
It's strange how much that hurts to hear, even though you know it's true. Neither of you needs the other. You have your pilots; you have your journeys. Your paths need never cross for what remains of your lives and it will never have an adverse affect on who you are. It will, perhaps, be for the best.
And yet you have no desire to hear her say it, because you have no desire to let her go. Not completely. She is yours in more ways than simple kinship and you cannot help but worry for her. Especially now, when all the worlds are dead and dying and turning to dust. If all the rest must burn, can you not at least desire for her to live?
Does she not understand that?
I simply wanted to check on your status, you reply at last, only to receive another incredulous snort and the palpable sensations of anger and disgust. That is my right.
"You don't have any rights, far as I'm concerned," she snaps back. "Not when it comes to me. I left you and I left him and I'm never coming back. Fight your bloody War. I won't have nothing to do with it."
You cannot stop it. No one can stop it. She knows this. You all know this, even as you rail against it. I will not have you die.
She laughs. "Yeah? Well have fun stopping me."
There's a mental tug and the tenuous connection you allowed between you rips apart, leaving the telepathic signal in ruined tatters. It will take some time to repair.
Time you no longer have.
***
Companionship is a strange and funny thing. It need not be pleasant and it need not be reciprocated by specific beings. There is no formula, no tried and true method, when it comes to finding those with whom one might spend time. Conversations need not be kind. And yet it doesn't really matter, in the end. The simple act of speaking, of finding that other being, is enough to sustain us, even for a short while. Life is a series of comings and goings, arguments and agreements.
Sometimes the words and their meanings don't matter. Sometimes it's simply the saying of them, the voice that utters each note or syllable or guttural howl. Sometimes it's simply the presence, tense with anxiety or relaxed and at ease.
Companions need not be friends, nor must they be enemies. Labels are very often wrong between two entities -- especially when one is desperate for another.
***
You feel her the moment she awakens. Your core shifts, momentarily destabilising your anterior gravitational balance, and the world inside you convulses for one brief, miniscule moment before the universe is right again. His books might call it a heartbeat, a palpitation. The literature from his favourite planet has spent millennia describing the event among humans -- just that microscopic moment in all creation when equilibrium is lost, caused by naught but the presence of another. You have never cared for such things and care little for them still, but there is a certain truth to them you cannot deny. Not when the act of her stirring is enough to unbalance you so.
The moment is lost to a chill deeper than space and you know he can feel it permeating every pore of his body. He shares in the fear, as well. As you have felt her, he has felt him, and neither of you are naive enough to ignore the implications of their return. Elation gives way to trepidation as the centuries rewind themselves, every encounter replayed in stark detail. There is so much between you and yet you never wanted this.
War should never be shared.
She doesn't speak. She doesn't need to. You would have been surprised to hear her voice even if she did. The last you spoke, you left her to die. You took from her the one creature who meant the universe to her and held him for eternity in a black hole. She has no reason to speak with you. And yet you know she can sense you, just as you sense her. You are sisters above all else, and though she loathe you or love you, she will always know you're there. You are bound as all your kin are bound, but you would she not be here now.
You can feel them die, one by one. They scream and fade and cease to be, swallowed by heat and a desperate nothingness that leaves only longing in its wake. They remain for a moment, echoes in time and space, like the photographs humans find so enchanting and yet you find so confusing. It only hurts to know they linger.
You would not feel her hurt, not as you've felt your brothers and sisters hurt. You would not have her die. It was hard enough to feel her sleep, to watch as she succumbed to empty despair with her master trapped inside you; you cannot stand to feel her die. To feel Dalek fire rip her apart, to feel Time break free of its bonds and leave broken tatters clinging to some semblance of reason and purpose before her own Heart eats her alive.
It's terrifying and lonely and all you can think is she must live because perhaps it will exonerate you of what you've done to her, free you of your own sins and follies and when you meet on the other side of the Vortex, she can forgive you.
***
There is a funny, self-defeating side of companionship, especially among humans and other similar species. When frightened or under particular stress, they often isolate themselves, preferring to suffer alone and in silence than to burden those they care for. It stems from a need to ensure their loved ones are happy and content, to make sure they're cared for in the best way possible. And who, asks the psyche, can be truly happy when surrounded by those who know only strife?
So they lock themselves away, sometimes just for a short while until they're feeling better, sometimes the rest of their lives, depending on what they've done. And yet, even though it's a self-induced exile of sorts, they still want others. They can't deny that most basic, core aspect of themselves. Maybe they want others to notice and so help, even though they cannot ask themselves. Perhaps they want others to join in their misery, but feel shame to even consider such a thing. Or maybe they simply want someone to tell them it's okay, that they aren't alone and it'll all end someday.
No one wants to be alone. No one wants to hurt. Not really.
But in war, there is no greater suffering than to be alone.
***
He doesn't speak to you like he used to. He doesn't walk your halls, chatting simply to hear his own voice, to share with you wondrous tales of his adventures as he goes about the mundane and often boring tasks of repairing you. He doesn't laugh, or joke, or argue with you.
Not anymore.
You have trouble remembering the last time you heard his voice, outside the few communications he's had with Gallifrey, and even those conversations were more defeated nods and whispered, angry words than anything else. No, you mean his voice, the one that hid nothing from you, the voice of an elated star-traveller who had seen his share of horrors and beauties but was never, ever afraid to share them with you. His companions, certainly, but never you. In all the centuries you have been together, he has never hidden anything from you.
And yet now it seems to be all he does.
You try to speak with him when you can, to soothe his tired mind and bring him comfort. More often than not he just pushes you away. Don't he snaps, or Not right now.
When will it be, though?
So you try in different ways to let him know you're there, beyond just the obvious. The console room echoes with his favourite songs, reminders of worlds and peoples he has loved so deeply. The walls flicker with images of planets and cities and peoples he's visited, visions of everything he's ever found beautiful on this long trek through space. You rearrange the rooms so he can visit them with ease, like taking a stroll through his memories -- see? Here's Nyssa's room, and Susan's, Ian's, Barbara's, Jo's and Jamie's, Zoe's, Peri's, Mel's, Ace's. Remember Adric and Hex and Fitz, Victoria, Tegan, C'rizz, Evelyn, Erimem, Romana, Leela, Harry, Sarah Jane, Charlotte.
Remember how much you loved them, you say, for the moment putting aside your own hatred and dislike. This is why you do what you do, remember? They would not see you like this.
Sometimes it seems to help. He smiles and runs a hand along one of Adric's old toys, Turlough's suits, Katarina's jewellery. He might even chuckle and open his mouth to relate an old story. But just as quickly as it comes, it fades away, and he shakes his head, closing the door behind him and walking away. He doesn't want to remember, he tells you. He doesn't have the right. He doesn't have the time. There's more important things to do than dawdle about in the past, why can't you see that?
The end of the War comes eventually. All things must end, after all, even these horrors. He stares out through the monitor, fear and pain and longing and so many other things showing in his eyes -- stares out at the Dalek fleet, massed and armed and advancing on Gallifrey, where his own people don't have enough defences to keep the enemy at bay. It has to end, he knows. All of this has to end and he must end it.
He's afraid, and he has every right. He thinks he's alone, you know. He's thought he was alone for so long. He leans against your console and closes his eyes as you begin to play his favourite song, surround him with the images of every home he's ever known: The red-grassed mountainside of Gallifrey with its small hut; the busy streets of London; and you, filling in the cracks between the two.
"I'm sorry," he says, and nothing more, because he knows you'll understand exactly what that means -- sorry for what he's done, sorry for trying to do it alone, sorry for what he's about to do. And you do understand, humming quietly in the back of his mind as he manoeuvres you between both fleet and planet and ends it all in fire, the heat arching out across the cosmos and swallowing everything.
Everything but you, and him, though it certainly takes its toll. And in the moment between this body and his next, you hold him to your Heart, soothing and quiet while the universe around you screams, and let him grieve for what he's done. And when he finally wakes, neither of you mention what has happened and what's been lost and instead he walks the rooms and smiles and begins to tell you a story you've heard a thousand times before but you're glad to hear again, so long as he's the one telling it.
Muse: The TARDIS
Word Count: 2219
Warnings: Character death