Remembrance;
Word count: 280
Verse: Paradisa
Rating: G
There is a name he can’t remember.
He knows he should -- of course, of course he should, but by all rights, what he should be able to do doesn’t mean much of anything in this place. He should be able to leave. He should be able to remember.
But he doesn’t.
Sometimes, he is able to recall that name -- but it is only that. A name. One of countless billions, a name that should hold a world of meaning, but only falls flat. The edges of his memory blur too perfectly, here -- it is not the unsubtle excise that the High Council preformed so, so long ago, nonono, it is cool and blending and he would have never noticed if it had not been pointed out to him.
What he does remember is dying, Puccini’s Madama Butterfly, pulling wire out of his hearts and Gallifreyan meteor storms and absolutely perfect shoes. He remembers Chang Lee and the Master, the Eye of Harmony, and the almost-destruction of the planet for what must be the seventy-second time in two centuries -- such a danger prone planet, Earth, so noisy and curious and always getting itself into all sorts of trouble.
And then he left, and landed here and was promptly told by himself -- a future self, a self full of the same frenetic energy stuffed into an impossibly skinny frame and a pinstriped suit -- that no, he couldn’t leave, and that this demented, sentient world has stolen the memories of a person who’s name he can’t recall, and who’s face draws a blank in his mind. A person who both killed and saved him. A person called...
..called--
He can't remember.
Verse: Paradisa
Rating: G
There is a name he can’t remember.
He knows he should -- of course, of course he should, but by all rights, what he should be able to do doesn’t mean much of anything in this place. He should be able to leave. He should be able to remember.
But he doesn’t.
Sometimes, he is able to recall that name -- but it is only that. A name. One of countless billions, a name that should hold a world of meaning, but only falls flat. The edges of his memory blur too perfectly, here -- it is not the unsubtle excise that the High Council preformed so, so long ago, nonono, it is cool and blending and he would have never noticed if it had not been pointed out to him.
What he does remember is dying, Puccini’s Madama Butterfly, pulling wire out of his hearts and Gallifreyan meteor storms and absolutely perfect shoes. He remembers Chang Lee and the Master, the Eye of Harmony, and the almost-destruction of the planet for what must be the seventy-second time in two centuries -- such a danger prone planet, Earth, so noisy and curious and always getting itself into all sorts of trouble.
And then he left, and landed here and was promptly told by himself -- a future self, a self full of the same frenetic energy stuffed into an impossibly skinny frame and a pinstriped suit -- that no, he couldn’t leave, and that this demented, sentient world has stolen the memories of a person who’s name he can’t recall, and who’s face draws a blank in his mind. A person who both killed and saved him. A person called...
..called--
He can't remember.