For angst_bingo.
Title: Victorious
Summary: The man once called the Doctor reflects on what he has become.
Prompt: broken promises
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Warnings: Semi-spoilers for "The Name of the Doctor". The rest is pure speculation. Also, rusty writing skills.
Author's Notes: Wrote this after seeing "The Name of the Doctor". Might turn this into a 'verse later.
The name you choose is like a promise you make.
If one was to ask my past self about, when I first left Gallifrey if only to see the stars, if only to see the universe, if I ever imagined becoming the man I am now. And I would have to tell them no. In all truth, I wanted no more than, if nothing else, to help people. To heal people. To explore also, but if I could heal, it would make all the difference.
And it's true even now. What I've done...I have never truly meant to cause any harm to these people. To anyone. In truth, I have never wanted to conquer or to rule anyone. Even back in those days, the worst of days (though they were not all terrible. After all, I did have Rose. And Martha. And Donna, to name a few), I never wanted to rule anyone. It was my job to do no no more than to help others, to explore different time periods, and even that feels far away at that moment.
I can't help but wonder if the Master, in that moment, is out there laughing. If nothing else, I wouldn't blame him if he was. The idea of the Doctor who had once fought against evil now becoming the very evil he sought to destroy. I teetered dangerously close to the edge that terrible mission to Mars. I had balanced on the thin line between good and evil, trying to keep from making the wrong step, from falling. I was usually quite good at this. This was not one of those cases.
It only makes sense, I guess, in a kind-of-funny-kind-of-sad way, that a desire to help other people would ultimately push me over the edge. I had done all that I could if only to avoid a crisis. After the actions of my predecessor, after the genocide of the Silence (and no matter how he would try and justify it, it was genocide. It should have been one of those over-my-dead-body things a long time ago), after so many other things, I tried, at least, to find another way.
I begged with my enemy. Rassilon knows that I tried. But if nothing else, he made the mistake of simply, honestly refusing.
I did what my incarnation two regenerations ago would have done. I destroyed him.
I couldn't say that I wanted to. But to save these people, I know full well that I would do anything. After the wonders and the horrors I have seen, if mostly horrors, I know I have to save whoever I can.
If one is asking why I write this down, it is for this purpose: to help others understand. I don't wish to be forgiven, and I have a feeling that perhaps I will never be. But at least, if they can understand, it will make all the difference.
The man who had been the Doctor put down his pen before sighing. Recounting all the horrors and all the wonders he had seen would hardly be able to sum up all that had happened. He had had a premonition of his own fall in that terrible, hateful tomb on Trenzilore. But it didn't make it any better. He had tried to at least do his best -- he had tried to stay with the ideals that he had all but sworn to uphold when he had first taken the name of "Doctor".
He had tried to save lives, for example. He could not say that he was always successful, but he had for the most part tried. He had tried to minimalise the casualties, to make things better for these creatures. The problem was, as always, there were those who rebelled.
And even the gentlest of reasoning, the gentlest of hands, could not stop the uprising.
And though there were others who liked to say that he had no heart (or hearts, rather), they were wrong. They seemed to think it was easier, some in the court, who seemed to believe that he cared nothing for those who had died.
They were wrong. More than wrong. Long after he attempted to sleep, he could still see them dying again and again, hear them dying. And he would wake, shaking, before asking himself what he had become.
***
There were times when he would pretend that this wasn't happening. That, if nothing else, he wasn't ruling the wreck that was Ygran. That he was back on Gallifrey, where it was restored to its full glory, and perhaps Rose was there, as his wife, and Martha, and Donna, her memories restored, perhaps being a full Time Lady, helping them rule wisely and well. Perhaps the Master would be there too, using his talents as they were meant to be used, and not as they had been.
And Amy and Rory would be there too, with River, raising their child as they were meant to. And Clara. And everything would be right as it should have been.
//Clara...//
Even thinking of Clara was enough to make his hearts all but ache. The moment he had killed the Ygran Emperor, she had run from him. Not out of fear -- she was never afraid. She ran out of duty instead. Just like Martha Jones before her. Leaving if only because she wished to do what was right.
And perhaps that was one of the worst parts -- the fact that he had actively driven her away.
***
Months passed before he found her again. She was thinner, he thought, and sadder. If nothing else, the vibrant, quick-witted, fast-talking young woman seemed to have faded away, leaving purely a soldier's mentality. She almost reminded him, he thought, of Rose when she had used the Dimension Cannon to cross back into his universe: the near-numbness, the newfound maturity. Clara had already matured considerably, but this...he could not say that he recognized her. Dressed almost all in soldiers' armor, with an army behind her.
She was far from the Clara he had first found. Well, if one ruled out the Victorian Clara or, for that matter, Oswin. She was stronger, and she was harder, and though small compared to him (she was always small compared to him), she was resolute. He could still remember, long ago, when he was leather and short hair and gruffness and grief, speaking with Nancy about the lion and the mouse. It was something that has never truly changed.
They were geniuses, the Resistance. Brave and smart and determined and generally good even while on the wrong side, but he could not help but wonder why they felt the need to be this way. Not when there were so many other ways. They could put down their weapons and help work towards a better tomorrow as every creature in the universe was meant to.
Some would say it was impossible, that it was a fool's hope, but in times like these, you needed something to believe in. Even if it was about as useless as attempting to fix a sinking ship with bandages. Even if some would call you foolish or deluded, which he had heard plenty of. Otherwise, he would have gone mad long ago.
//How do you know you've already gone mad,// a part of him that honestly sounded faintly like River said
it was one of those times that he wished she was here.
//and you just don't want to admit it?//
He didn't know. But facing Clara, the Impossible Girl who had saved him so many times and been there for him when he needed it, he was not afraid. Not for himself, at least.
If nothing else, he was afraid for her.
Summary: The man once called the Doctor reflects on what he has become.
Prompt: broken promises
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Warnings: Semi-spoilers for "The Name of the Doctor". The rest is pure speculation. Also, rusty writing skills.
Author's Notes: Wrote this after seeing "The Name of the Doctor". Might turn this into a 'verse later.
The name you choose is like a promise you make.
If one was to ask my past self about, when I first left Gallifrey if only to see the stars, if only to see the universe, if I ever imagined becoming the man I am now. And I would have to tell them no. In all truth, I wanted no more than, if nothing else, to help people. To heal people. To explore also, but if I could heal, it would make all the difference.
And it's true even now. What I've done...I have never truly meant to cause any harm to these people. To anyone. In truth, I have never wanted to conquer or to rule anyone. Even back in those days, the worst of days (though they were not all terrible. After all, I did have Rose. And Martha. And Donna, to name a few), I never wanted to rule anyone. It was my job to do no no more than to help others, to explore different time periods, and even that feels far away at that moment.
I can't help but wonder if the Master, in that moment, is out there laughing. If nothing else, I wouldn't blame him if he was. The idea of the Doctor who had once fought against evil now becoming the very evil he sought to destroy. I teetered dangerously close to the edge that terrible mission to Mars. I had balanced on the thin line between good and evil, trying to keep from making the wrong step, from falling. I was usually quite good at this. This was not one of those cases.
It only makes sense, I guess, in a kind-of-funny-kind-of-sad way, that a desire to help other people would ultimately push me over the edge. I had done all that I could if only to avoid a crisis. After the actions of my predecessor, after the genocide of the Silence (and no matter how he would try and justify it, it was genocide. It should have been one of those over-my-dead-body things a long time ago), after so many other things, I tried, at least, to find another way.
I begged with my enemy. Rassilon knows that I tried. But if nothing else, he made the mistake of simply, honestly refusing.
I did what my incarnation two regenerations ago would have done. I destroyed him.
I couldn't say that I wanted to. But to save these people, I know full well that I would do anything. After the wonders and the horrors I have seen, if mostly horrors, I know I have to save whoever I can.
If one is asking why I write this down, it is for this purpose: to help others understand. I don't wish to be forgiven, and I have a feeling that perhaps I will never be. But at least, if they can understand, it will make all the difference.
The man who had been the Doctor put down his pen before sighing. Recounting all the horrors and all the wonders he had seen would hardly be able to sum up all that had happened. He had had a premonition of his own fall in that terrible, hateful tomb on Trenzilore. But it didn't make it any better. He had tried to at least do his best -- he had tried to stay with the ideals that he had all but sworn to uphold when he had first taken the name of "Doctor".
He had tried to save lives, for example. He could not say that he was always successful, but he had for the most part tried. He had tried to minimalise the casualties, to make things better for these creatures. The problem was, as always, there were those who rebelled.
And even the gentlest of reasoning, the gentlest of hands, could not stop the uprising.
And though there were others who liked to say that he had no heart (or hearts, rather), they were wrong. They seemed to think it was easier, some in the court, who seemed to believe that he cared nothing for those who had died.
They were wrong. More than wrong. Long after he attempted to sleep, he could still see them dying again and again, hear them dying. And he would wake, shaking, before asking himself what he had become.
***
There were times when he would pretend that this wasn't happening. That, if nothing else, he wasn't ruling the wreck that was Ygran. That he was back on Gallifrey, where it was restored to its full glory, and perhaps Rose was there, as his wife, and Martha, and Donna, her memories restored, perhaps being a full Time Lady, helping them rule wisely and well. Perhaps the Master would be there too, using his talents as they were meant to be used, and not as they had been.
And Amy and Rory would be there too, with River, raising their child as they were meant to. And Clara. And everything would be right as it should have been.
//Clara...//
Even thinking of Clara was enough to make his hearts all but ache. The moment he had killed the Ygran Emperor, she had run from him. Not out of fear -- she was never afraid. She ran out of duty instead. Just like Martha Jones before her. Leaving if only because she wished to do what was right.
And perhaps that was one of the worst parts -- the fact that he had actively driven her away.
***
Months passed before he found her again. She was thinner, he thought, and sadder. If nothing else, the vibrant, quick-witted, fast-talking young woman seemed to have faded away, leaving purely a soldier's mentality. She almost reminded him, he thought, of Rose when she had used the Dimension Cannon to cross back into his universe: the near-numbness, the newfound maturity. Clara had already matured considerably, but this...he could not say that he recognized her. Dressed almost all in soldiers' armor, with an army behind her.
She was far from the Clara he had first found. Well, if one ruled out the Victorian Clara or, for that matter, Oswin. She was stronger, and she was harder, and though small compared to him (she was always small compared to him), she was resolute. He could still remember, long ago, when he was leather and short hair and gruffness and grief, speaking with Nancy about the lion and the mouse. It was something that has never truly changed.
They were geniuses, the Resistance. Brave and smart and determined and generally good even while on the wrong side, but he could not help but wonder why they felt the need to be this way. Not when there were so many other ways. They could put down their weapons and help work towards a better tomorrow as every creature in the universe was meant to.
Some would say it was impossible, that it was a fool's hope, but in times like these, you needed something to believe in. Even if it was about as useless as attempting to fix a sinking ship with bandages. Even if some would call you foolish or deluded, which he had heard plenty of. Otherwise, he would have gone mad long ago.
//How do you know you've already gone mad,// a part of him that honestly sounded faintly like River said
it was one of those times that he wished she was here.
//and you just don't want to admit it?//
He didn't know. But facing Clara, the Impossible Girl who had saved him so many times and been there for him when he needed it, he was not afraid. Not for himself, at least.
If nothing else, he was afraid for her.