Fic: Legend
Title: Legend
Author: Tardisblue
Beta: wildwinterwitch
Characters: Rose/Ten II
Genre: General, Angst
Rating: G
Summary: Every year, the children speak of a legend, a legend that has been passed down through generations surrounding an elderly couple and their annual visit to Dålig Ulv Stranden. A legend that the children see with their very own eyes every year.
Disclaimer: The BBC owns everything Doctor Who.
Author’s Notes: A big, huge, gargantuan, grateful thank you goes out to wildwinterwitch for volunteering to be my beta. I’ve never had one before, and now I know exactly what I was missing out on. A thank you also goes out to sinecure for allowing me to play with the idea of “legends” as she did in her story “Roe Styla”.
The children gather at the chilly, rain-spattered window with much jostling, reprimands and loud whispers. The older ones are solemn as they gaze out the window into the rolling fog, for they remember the anticipated event occurring year after year; they remember the story and the grave, far-away looks in the eyes of their parents and elders who ingrained the story within their minds. They will once again retell the story to the younger ones, who remember the story very well, word by word. Despite this, they are wide eyed and enthralled to hear the magical, familiar tale being told with such reverence.
The story begins the same as it does every year, with the oldest narrating in a hushed, low voice.
“They came a very, very long time ago. They came before you or I, before Mamma and Pappa, before Bestemor and Bestefar, before Oldemor and Oldefar. A man and a woman, walking slowly together, hand in hand, walking across the shore. No one knows who they are, no one knows where they’ve come from, and no one knows why they come. But every year, for as long as anyone can remember, they come.”
The narrator will pause, as is the way of the ritual.
“Why do they come?” the younger ones will ask with wide eyes.
“Perhaps they fought a brave battle here,” one will suggest.
“And slayed a monster, like the Jörmungandr,” another will add.
“Or the Kraken,” another will pipe up.
“Perhaps there was a great war on the water with many great ships and loud cannons.”
“Perhaps they are the only two to have survived.”
“But who are they?”
“Perhaps they are a mother and father who lost a child at sea.”
“Perhaps they are the surviving great warriors from many days ago.”
“But how are they still - ”
“Or perhaps,” one of the older ones say in a low voice, “Perhaps they are the ancient ghosts of the wars.”
The younger ones will shiver deliciously at the thought, edging closer to each other.
“Look,” the oldest will whisper, pointing.
The children grow silent as they solemnly look outside the window.
An elderly man and woman slowly appear through the fog. The woman is very old; her steps are slow, shaky and unsure, yet determined. Her thin, gnarled hand grips the arm of her companion for support, aiding her in her journey. A veil covers her bowed head and the cloud of white, wispy hair that begins to free itself from its confines in the strong wind. Her skin is worn and papery, deep wrinkles covering the entire expanse of her face. Yet, despite the ancient face, the eyes behind the spectacles are bright and strangely beautiful, betraying the youth that she once lived. The man beside her wears a dark cap, thin errant strands of white hair peeping out from under its edge. He is tall, with long spindly arms and legs, his back stooped. Yet, despite this, one could tell the man was once a strong, great man for the confidence of his steps. His face is weatherworn, a sea of creases, much like a leaf of paper that has been crumpled and forgotten. The man’s eyes, like the woman’s, are also bright, with a sparkle surprising in one so aged.
“Where are they going?” the youngest asks in a loud whisper. She is instantly hushed and once again silent.
The elderly man and woman come to a stop. Lifting their faces, they look upwards into the sky, ignoring the great torrent of gusting wind that rushes past them.
The woman reaches into the pocket of her long coat and pulls out a length of deep blue ribbon that catches and ripples in the wind, struggling to free itself from her grasp. She slowly turns her head and looks into the man’s eyes. He meets her gaze and gives a slight nod, resting his hand upon her thin shoulder. Raising her arm, the woman suddenly opens her palm, releasing the ribbon into the violent winds. Twisting, rippling, dancing, the ribbon is borne into the air, higher and higher, flying skywards, flying across the sea of rolling waves, flying, flying, flying until they can see no more.
The man slides his hand back into the woman’s and leans down, whispering words that only she can hear. A smile spreads across her features, lighting up her entire face, and she too whispers words meant only for him. At this moment, as pure, radiant joy emanates between the two, it seems as if all the aches and pains of age that once rested heavily upon them melt away.
Turning, the two begin their long, trudging journey back across the vast shore, back to wherever it was they had come.
The children watch silently until the elderly couple fade, disappearing into the rolling mist.
“Will they come again?” one asks in sorrowful whisper.
“Every year. Every year since before Mamma and Pappa, before Bestemor and Bestefar, before Oldemor and Oldefar …”
Every year, they come.
-:-
Many, many long years later, when the little house that stands near the shore is decrepit, boarded up and empty, overrun by wild tangles of overgrown bush, when its children and children’s children are long grown and long passed on, a strange blue box materializes upon the shore. The door opens hesitantly, and a man steps out. He stands for some time, staring out at the sea, into the horizon, unmoving. Suddenly, something catches his eye in the rhythmic ebb and flow of the water. The man walks closer to the edge of the surf and pauses. Stooping down, he carefully brushes away layers of wet sand, pulling free a faded, tattered length of pale ribbon, stained and weathered with age. He stares at the ribbon for a moment, a pained realization then crossing his features. Wrapping his fist tightly around it, the man bows his head and does not move for a long time.
Notes:
Bestemor: Grandmother
Bestefar: Grandfather
Oldemor: Great-Grandmother
Oldefar: Great-Grandfather
Jörmungandr: Sea serpent of Norse mythology