(no subject)
Title: Remember
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating: G
Pairing: Jack/Ianto (marginally)
Warnings: None ... apart from references to Doctor Who 'Sound of Drums'/'Last of the Timelords'
Summary: Abstract drabble on Jack Harkness during The Year That Never Was
Apologies: This is unbetaed, and probably pretty terrible. I've never written fanfiction for Torchwood before, and this is pretty ad hoc.
In the darkness he remembers.
Between sinew and flesh, between light and dark, between hope and memory, he remembers.
In the darkness. In the terrible light.
He cannot see. He cannot hear. But he remembers. Beyond the reach of memory, he remembers.
He is torn, and he is broken, and he remembers.
As every star goes out, he remembers.
This weeping earth, this bleeding wound, this sorrow, this grief, this joy. He remembers.
He is torn. He is broken. He remembers.
Sometimes he would rather not remember. The darkness beckons, and memory seems a grief.
He dies a hundred times, a thousand: a bullet, a spear, a careless hand. He thinks of those he left behind, and he remembers. There is no greater death than memory.
He cannot remember. He cannot forget.
Once more he slides away into darkness.
A voice. Soft vowels. Blue eyes. And grief.
He remembers. Half a smile. A smile that cannot be a whole.
And grief.
He remembers.
Death crowds in, a beak sharp as midnight in his heart. He bleeds, he weeps, he remembers.
The world changes.
And still he remembers. Although he would rather forget. Although grief is a wound as deep as any knife. Although he cannot remember the face that bears those blue eyes.
He remembers.
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating: G
Pairing: Jack/Ianto (marginally)
Warnings: None ... apart from references to Doctor Who 'Sound of Drums'/'Last of the Timelords'
Summary: Abstract drabble on Jack Harkness during The Year That Never Was
Apologies: This is unbetaed, and probably pretty terrible. I've never written fanfiction for Torchwood before, and this is pretty ad hoc.
In the darkness he remembers.
Between sinew and flesh, between light and dark, between hope and memory, he remembers.
In the darkness. In the terrible light.
He cannot see. He cannot hear. But he remembers. Beyond the reach of memory, he remembers.
He is torn, and he is broken, and he remembers.
As every star goes out, he remembers.
This weeping earth, this bleeding wound, this sorrow, this grief, this joy. He remembers.
He is torn. He is broken. He remembers.
Sometimes he would rather not remember. The darkness beckons, and memory seems a grief.
He dies a hundred times, a thousand: a bullet, a spear, a careless hand. He thinks of those he left behind, and he remembers. There is no greater death than memory.
He cannot remember. He cannot forget.
Once more he slides away into darkness.
A voice. Soft vowels. Blue eyes. And grief.
He remembers. Half a smile. A smile that cannot be a whole.
And grief.
He remembers.
Death crowds in, a beak sharp as midnight in his heart. He bleeds, he weeps, he remembers.
The world changes.
And still he remembers. Although he would rather forget. Although grief is a wound as deep as any knife. Although he cannot remember the face that bears those blue eyes.
He remembers.