fic: a cross of paper swords
Title: A Cross of Paper Swords
Character/Pairing: Eight/Rose, Eleven/Rose.
Rating: G.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who is not my playground, but it is a wonderful sandbox to play in.
Summary: She is a witch, but he, he is a liar.
Author's Notes: Written for the lovely the_idiotgirl over at the brilliant ficathon at then_theres_us. This is the first time I have written Eight, so please forgive me for butchering him. ; A ;
This is the first time they meet.
His footsteps reek of guilt so strong it bleeds in cloudy gold and burning leaves, but the silence of his stolen home carries an echo of a war he cannot bear; he could swear the screams of his people hid in every corner and beneath each coral panel. Somewhere far from his crime, sometime before and after and untouched by A Moment that had tasted so bitter all else had lost its sweetness.
Beneath the matted curls, his eyes are deep and tired, so very tired they ache in the bones of his face as if they were carved there by darkness itself. The air is as ice that he would bathe in, that he would stitch to the contraction of his lungs and the throb of his hearts. Sounds rise almost hysterical to his throat, but they pretend a betrayal he cannot afford to purchase with blood and horror.
Trailing smoke and dead dreams, he finds her waiting (as she has always waited; as she would always wait) and unknown. He has always loved the unknown and so she fills him with a grand sense of rightness to walk in mystery even now.
Through the lip of her scarlet cloak, he grasps the glimpse of something soft and glittering, but she has laid down her last card in wait for him.
"My lady," he greets with a small sweep of his hand and the bend of his waist. Charred and nerves buzzing at their ends, he knows this is ridiculous. And mad.
"My Fool," she returns, the quirk of a grin turning his ear. "A madman."
( Yes, that sounds about right. A madman; he likes the ring of that. A madman and his box. )
Her hands are small and white, shining in the darkness and reaching from the shadows of her sleeves so red they fall as a wash of fire.
To ask of what she is or who she knows and what times she has danced in is too rude for words, but the impulse leaps to his tongue and he smoothes it away as his hands pass over the shambles of his cravat.
"The Two of Swords and Death in one hand."
"Does it amuse you, lady?"
"More like a witch than a proper lady, don't you think?"
The sound of her laughter is a shock; out of place and bright in the shadows both within and with out. She sounds... young and husky - like she has missed something, the way the moon yearns for the sun. He towers above her and does not take a seat in the crunch of crumbling debris for she has not offered and he fears closing the distance between them.
And just as suddenly did it start, it stopped. It stopped and he recalled the sparkle of new things unsolved wearing strangeness as she does her anonymity.
"You'll be okay, Doctor. In fact, you are going to have a great year."
He dies alone, her voice ringing in his head.
*
"You're back."
It is not that he ever goes looking for her, not that his gaze snags on every vermillion snatch. Too many things to do and people to meet and little gingers waiting for him in their front yard. Besides, if he were to go looking for her, it would not be in libraries or moons or the untold sunken cities of worlds long gone.
He's went centuries without once turning the memories over in his head, the sharp twang of blood sour, the toxic whisper of death in his veins a promise of penance. The witch is one of many things he keeps buried somewhere far below and walled behind countless distractions. She is one he does not wish to touch, does not wish to unravel. He has the curious and maddening way of wearing the shine off of any novelty he manages to pick up along his way. They begin to bear his mark in colors too close to true memento mori, the beloved families he struggles to build to keep himself sane.
"Didn't expect to find you here," he says merrily. Not as rude as he once was, this one, but close enough. "Enjoying the view?"
"You would pick bleeding Utah, of all the places in the universe."
"For what? A picnic? I guess it's not too shabby, what with this neat diner and all."
This time there is more than a flash of fine morning amber tumbling from the veiled spaces of her hood. There is the curve of her smile and the give of lush, pink lips curling into a shape too hypnotic and familiar for words.
"The Hanged Man this time, Doctor. Why do you always get into such trouble?"
"What's life without a bit of trouble? There's no fun in that. Everything is better with some trouble and Jammie Dodgers."
"Your eyes are older now," she whispers to his card, to the man that walks to his end, as near and far as it is, poised on a precipice of needle's eye. For a time he thinks she will cast aside the flame of twisted threads of her ever shifting tapestry. For a time, his breath catches on the hook of hope.
"They always are."
"Yeah."
The tips of her fingers trace the image of a man tethered to life by the barest and most ancient of a lover's kiss.
"They are."
Not again, she wants to beg, not again, no, never again. Her mortal heart though timeless and finite grows ever softer and quicker as a great epic might, and yet she watches his ashes collapse around him as a blue dwarf collapses in upon itself in mimicry.
Rose wonders if he is how the stars learned to die.
*
"Hello again."
"Looking for someone, Doctor?"
"When am I not?"
They are always meeting again.
Character/Pairing: Eight/Rose, Eleven/Rose.
Rating: G.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who is not my playground, but it is a wonderful sandbox to play in.
Summary: She is a witch, but he, he is a liar.
Author's Notes: Written for the lovely the_idiotgirl over at the brilliant ficathon at then_theres_us. This is the first time I have written Eight, so please forgive me for butchering him. ; A ;
This is the first time they meet.
His footsteps reek of guilt so strong it bleeds in cloudy gold and burning leaves, but the silence of his stolen home carries an echo of a war he cannot bear; he could swear the screams of his people hid in every corner and beneath each coral panel. Somewhere far from his crime, sometime before and after and untouched by A Moment that had tasted so bitter all else had lost its sweetness.
Beneath the matted curls, his eyes are deep and tired, so very tired they ache in the bones of his face as if they were carved there by darkness itself. The air is as ice that he would bathe in, that he would stitch to the contraction of his lungs and the throb of his hearts. Sounds rise almost hysterical to his throat, but they pretend a betrayal he cannot afford to purchase with blood and horror.
Trailing smoke and dead dreams, he finds her waiting (as she has always waited; as she would always wait) and unknown. He has always loved the unknown and so she fills him with a grand sense of rightness to walk in mystery even now.
Through the lip of her scarlet cloak, he grasps the glimpse of something soft and glittering, but she has laid down her last card in wait for him.
"My lady," he greets with a small sweep of his hand and the bend of his waist. Charred and nerves buzzing at their ends, he knows this is ridiculous. And mad.
"My Fool," she returns, the quirk of a grin turning his ear. "A madman."
( Yes, that sounds about right. A madman; he likes the ring of that. A madman and his box. )
Her hands are small and white, shining in the darkness and reaching from the shadows of her sleeves so red they fall as a wash of fire.
To ask of what she is or who she knows and what times she has danced in is too rude for words, but the impulse leaps to his tongue and he smoothes it away as his hands pass over the shambles of his cravat.
"The Two of Swords and Death in one hand."
"Does it amuse you, lady?"
"More like a witch than a proper lady, don't you think?"
The sound of her laughter is a shock; out of place and bright in the shadows both within and with out. She sounds... young and husky - like she has missed something, the way the moon yearns for the sun. He towers above her and does not take a seat in the crunch of crumbling debris for she has not offered and he fears closing the distance between them.
And just as suddenly did it start, it stopped. It stopped and he recalled the sparkle of new things unsolved wearing strangeness as she does her anonymity.
"You'll be okay, Doctor. In fact, you are going to have a great year."
He dies alone, her voice ringing in his head.
*
"You're back."
It is not that he ever goes looking for her, not that his gaze snags on every vermillion snatch. Too many things to do and people to meet and little gingers waiting for him in their front yard. Besides, if he were to go looking for her, it would not be in libraries or moons or the untold sunken cities of worlds long gone.
He's went centuries without once turning the memories over in his head, the sharp twang of blood sour, the toxic whisper of death in his veins a promise of penance. The witch is one of many things he keeps buried somewhere far below and walled behind countless distractions. She is one he does not wish to touch, does not wish to unravel. He has the curious and maddening way of wearing the shine off of any novelty he manages to pick up along his way. They begin to bear his mark in colors too close to true memento mori, the beloved families he struggles to build to keep himself sane.
"Didn't expect to find you here," he says merrily. Not as rude as he once was, this one, but close enough. "Enjoying the view?"
"You would pick bleeding Utah, of all the places in the universe."
"For what? A picnic? I guess it's not too shabby, what with this neat diner and all."
This time there is more than a flash of fine morning amber tumbling from the veiled spaces of her hood. There is the curve of her smile and the give of lush, pink lips curling into a shape too hypnotic and familiar for words.
"The Hanged Man this time, Doctor. Why do you always get into such trouble?"
"What's life without a bit of trouble? There's no fun in that. Everything is better with some trouble and Jammie Dodgers."
"Your eyes are older now," she whispers to his card, to the man that walks to his end, as near and far as it is, poised on a precipice of needle's eye. For a time he thinks she will cast aside the flame of twisted threads of her ever shifting tapestry. For a time, his breath catches on the hook of hope.
"They always are."
"Yeah."
The tips of her fingers trace the image of a man tethered to life by the barest and most ancient of a lover's kiss.
"They are."
Not again, she wants to beg, not again, no, never again. Her mortal heart though timeless and finite grows ever softer and quicker as a great epic might, and yet she watches his ashes collapse around him as a blue dwarf collapses in upon itself in mimicry.
Rose wonders if he is how the stars learned to die.
*
"Hello again."
"Looking for someone, Doctor?"
"When am I not?"
They are always meeting again.