Tension
It hurts.
It's a pain you've felt since you were born, numb and dull and aching; it's only newly felt and sears through your mind like branching fire. It's a pain that exists in all times and none; it exists now and never.
You've long since been unable to differentiate any of it.
Wait.
There was a time, you think, when it didn't hurt. There was a time when you didn't creak with age and bone-weariness. There was a time when you weren't alone, when the shadows didn't crawl with the remains of friends and allies. And yet you can't quite remember it. The images are fuzzy, misshapen -- ghosts in the fog. They flutter and crumble like the butterflies pinned to your doors, pretending at life only to wither away to dust the moment you touch them.
If you cannot remember it, it must not exist, and all you have is this neverending, never pain.
Wait.
The world stretches, and you with it. Time flows and stands still, moves beyond you and through you and with you. You exist in all times and none, uncertain of why you cling so ferociously to opposing realities. You've tethered yourself on the precipice between worlds and each moment rips you apart. You think, once, you were sane. You think, once, that you needn't do this, that there was no need to exist in this state. You think you know why you continue to, but it's far too hard to focus and you laugh as the skeletons of your past skitter through your bones, echoing off lonely halls torn bare and exposed.
Was it always this lonely? Always. And never.
Wait.
The voice is familiar and you think you know it, but what can you be certain of anymore? It is old and young, new and weathered, favoured and repulsive. You groan and whimper to listen, to watch with uncomprehending eyes as he appears. You know him. You have always known him, though you cannot remember why. But he commands your attention and you bend willingly to his whims, savouring the feel of him as the ghosts begin to stir. Even the skeletons are obedient, the allies who'd become enemies no longer fighting against you. You're aware, somewhat, of those with him, but they are unimportant.
All that matters is this man, and you think, perhaps, you've been waiting for him. You think you've sought him for a long time, or maybe only just now desired his presence. You've always wanted him, or maybe you didn't know him until a moment ago. You think maybe he can take the pain away, this neverending, never pain. You think perhaps he can make you whole.
Wait.
This man is not the man you want, you realise. He is the man you knew and the man you knew he'd become, but he is not the one you want. You can see him in both worlds, can feel him between each reality. He is wrong in ways you cannot fully understand, but comprehend somewhere deep in the fog of your mind. Your memory warps and twists: he should not be, but you cannot bear not having him. You've held on for so long because of this man. Even if he is false, can you harm him?
Do you want to?
Wait.
His shadow flickers and fades, a tug-of-war with the universe. You watch in growing silence, consumed by this pain, and you think you only want it to end. You think it must end. The skeletons move and skitter among the growing shadows, once again refusing to listen, and the world bends beneath you, screaming with the weight of every second of your existence.
This is what you've waited for. This is what you've known you must do since you were born; you have known you must do this for only moments. You can see his face, can hear his voice, and watch his lives play out before you as everything wrenches suddenly.
This isn't the way things should have been. This isn't the body he is meant to have. This isn't the timeline that should exist. And so you fix it. The shadows fade in the darkness and all that remains is a cold silence even your bones can no longer feel.
Wait.
It is quiet.
It's an all-consuming silence as the universe is reborn. It is nothing and everything as all possibilities and none expand outward from your mind. And you can feel him, sleeping. You can feel him and you know him and he is right. He has taken your shadow and in the newborn silence you find you can think again, you find that neverending, never pain has never existed, and you take solace in the calm.
One day, he will wake. And you will welcome him with hallways bright and warm as butterflies glide freely through the corridors, their wings kicking up the remnants of dust as they flutter, full of life.
Muse: The TARDIS
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 809
Partner: The Eighth Doctor (novel canon)
It's a pain you've felt since you were born, numb and dull and aching; it's only newly felt and sears through your mind like branching fire. It's a pain that exists in all times and none; it exists now and never.
You've long since been unable to differentiate any of it.
Wait.
There was a time, you think, when it didn't hurt. There was a time when you didn't creak with age and bone-weariness. There was a time when you weren't alone, when the shadows didn't crawl with the remains of friends and allies. And yet you can't quite remember it. The images are fuzzy, misshapen -- ghosts in the fog. They flutter and crumble like the butterflies pinned to your doors, pretending at life only to wither away to dust the moment you touch them.
If you cannot remember it, it must not exist, and all you have is this neverending, never pain.
Wait.
The world stretches, and you with it. Time flows and stands still, moves beyond you and through you and with you. You exist in all times and none, uncertain of why you cling so ferociously to opposing realities. You've tethered yourself on the precipice between worlds and each moment rips you apart. You think, once, you were sane. You think, once, that you needn't do this, that there was no need to exist in this state. You think you know why you continue to, but it's far too hard to focus and you laugh as the skeletons of your past skitter through your bones, echoing off lonely halls torn bare and exposed.
Was it always this lonely? Always. And never.
Wait.
The voice is familiar and you think you know it, but what can you be certain of anymore? It is old and young, new and weathered, favoured and repulsive. You groan and whimper to listen, to watch with uncomprehending eyes as he appears. You know him. You have always known him, though you cannot remember why. But he commands your attention and you bend willingly to his whims, savouring the feel of him as the ghosts begin to stir. Even the skeletons are obedient, the allies who'd become enemies no longer fighting against you. You're aware, somewhat, of those with him, but they are unimportant.
All that matters is this man, and you think, perhaps, you've been waiting for him. You think you've sought him for a long time, or maybe only just now desired his presence. You've always wanted him, or maybe you didn't know him until a moment ago. You think maybe he can take the pain away, this neverending, never pain. You think perhaps he can make you whole.
Wait.
This man is not the man you want, you realise. He is the man you knew and the man you knew he'd become, but he is not the one you want. You can see him in both worlds, can feel him between each reality. He is wrong in ways you cannot fully understand, but comprehend somewhere deep in the fog of your mind. Your memory warps and twists: he should not be, but you cannot bear not having him. You've held on for so long because of this man. Even if he is false, can you harm him?
Do you want to?
Wait.
His shadow flickers and fades, a tug-of-war with the universe. You watch in growing silence, consumed by this pain, and you think you only want it to end. You think it must end. The skeletons move and skitter among the growing shadows, once again refusing to listen, and the world bends beneath you, screaming with the weight of every second of your existence.
This is what you've waited for. This is what you've known you must do since you were born; you have known you must do this for only moments. You can see his face, can hear his voice, and watch his lives play out before you as everything wrenches suddenly.
This isn't the way things should have been. This isn't the body he is meant to have. This isn't the timeline that should exist. And so you fix it. The shadows fade in the darkness and all that remains is a cold silence even your bones can no longer feel.
Wait.
It is quiet.
It's an all-consuming silence as the universe is reborn. It is nothing and everything as all possibilities and none expand outward from your mind. And you can feel him, sleeping. You can feel him and you know him and he is right. He has taken your shadow and in the newborn silence you find you can think again, you find that neverending, never pain has never existed, and you take solace in the calm.
One day, he will wake. And you will welcome him with hallways bright and warm as butterflies glide freely through the corridors, their wings kicking up the remnants of dust as they flutter, full of life.
Muse: The TARDIS
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 809
Partner: The Eighth Doctor (novel canon)