OS Prompt 1.15 - Certainty is Absurd
"Doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is absurd." -Voltaire
He's sitting in his bed, leaning wearily against the headboard. It is one of those few times he truly needs sleep, but it won't come to him. Old images bite at closed eyes, leaving the darkness too raw to soothe; old words sting his mind and chase dreams away.
The Doctor knows that his life is never certain.
It has been proven, again and again, that everything changes; his appearance, his mind, his hopes, his beliefs, his friends. A constant state of flux - and he wouldn't know how else to live. A wry, hidden smile curves his lips.
He knows how to say goodbye. He's done it so many times over the centuries, and sometimes it was perfectly all right, if wistful. Sometimes it was time, and they were both content with fond memories. They would miss each other, on occasion, but they would go on.
Then there were times when it was dreadfully painful, because his friends were torn from him, mercilessly, utterly.
"I'll never forget you, you know."
Times when it was bittersweet, because he waited too long to do, to say something that would have made all the difference.
"In a funny way, he reminds me of a sort of... younger you."
Times when it stung horribly because he couldn't shield them from the horrors of the universe; couldn't stop them overshadowing the wonders.
"It's just I don't think I can go on."
Times when he couldn't…
He tenses, because he doesn't want to think about that, not now. He doesn't want to think about Katarina or Sara or Adric, of sacrifices he never wanted to make. It is always a possibility, even now…
A deep breath, and he pulls himself back to his train of thought, such as it is.
The point of it all is that anything could happen, at any time at all, and in a blink he would lose his best friend.
A shudder, then, just slight, hardly perceptible even to him.
Promising eternity isn't fair. Certainty of anything is absurd.
He swallows, eyes opening for the first time since he whispered good night. He isn't alone in his bed; this distant place, with walls the colour of morning and shelves cluttered with his past, is shared with two, both pressed close to his side.
The problem is that he has promised. He has, despite everything, vowed never to let them go.
His gaze is tender as he reaches out, caressing a warm cheek, brushing the curls from his eyes; then it turns, and he's stroking auburn hair, the touch gentle, almost reverent.
The problem is that he can't bear the thought of losing them to anything, and if he does he fears he would fall apart at the seams.
So many centuries of not allowing himself this intimacy, and now that he has, for that to be taken from him as well…
There is, quite suddenly, a change in his demeanour. His eyes are harder, back straighter, lips a thin, determined line. He looks, in the darkness, like the ancient renegade he is.
No.
No, he won't allow it, no matter what came to pass. Time, Death or Pain, none will separate them, not this time. He is the Doctor, and he does not give up, he does not yield.
Not this time.
Slowly, he relaxes, content in that silent vow, in a resolute confidence that's saved hundreds of lives.
Careful not to disturb them, he lowered, slid himself beneath the covers, rests his head. His hands slide down and find theirs, and he clutches them loosely.
Certainty is absurd. He'll hold on to it anyway.
He's sitting in his bed, leaning wearily against the headboard. It is one of those few times he truly needs sleep, but it won't come to him. Old images bite at closed eyes, leaving the darkness too raw to soothe; old words sting his mind and chase dreams away.
The Doctor knows that his life is never certain.
It has been proven, again and again, that everything changes; his appearance, his mind, his hopes, his beliefs, his friends. A constant state of flux - and he wouldn't know how else to live. A wry, hidden smile curves his lips.
He knows how to say goodbye. He's done it so many times over the centuries, and sometimes it was perfectly all right, if wistful. Sometimes it was time, and they were both content with fond memories. They would miss each other, on occasion, but they would go on.
Then there were times when it was dreadfully painful, because his friends were torn from him, mercilessly, utterly.
"I'll never forget you, you know."
Times when it was bittersweet, because he waited too long to do, to say something that would have made all the difference.
"In a funny way, he reminds me of a sort of... younger you."
Times when it stung horribly because he couldn't shield them from the horrors of the universe; couldn't stop them overshadowing the wonders.
"It's just I don't think I can go on."
Times when he couldn't…
He tenses, because he doesn't want to think about that, not now. He doesn't want to think about Katarina or Sara or Adric, of sacrifices he never wanted to make. It is always a possibility, even now…
A deep breath, and he pulls himself back to his train of thought, such as it is.
The point of it all is that anything could happen, at any time at all, and in a blink he would lose his best friend.
A shudder, then, just slight, hardly perceptible even to him.
Promising eternity isn't fair. Certainty of anything is absurd.
He swallows, eyes opening for the first time since he whispered good night. He isn't alone in his bed; this distant place, with walls the colour of morning and shelves cluttered with his past, is shared with two, both pressed close to his side.
The problem is that he has promised. He has, despite everything, vowed never to let them go.
His gaze is tender as he reaches out, caressing a warm cheek, brushing the curls from his eyes; then it turns, and he's stroking auburn hair, the touch gentle, almost reverent.
The problem is that he can't bear the thought of losing them to anything, and if he does he fears he would fall apart at the seams.
So many centuries of not allowing himself this intimacy, and now that he has, for that to be taken from him as well…
There is, quite suddenly, a change in his demeanour. His eyes are harder, back straighter, lips a thin, determined line. He looks, in the darkness, like the ancient renegade he is.
No.
No, he won't allow it, no matter what came to pass. Time, Death or Pain, none will separate them, not this time. He is the Doctor, and he does not give up, he does not yield.
Not this time.
Slowly, he relaxes, content in that silent vow, in a resolute confidence that's saved hundreds of lives.
Careful not to disturb them, he lowered, slid himself beneath the covers, rests his head. His hands slide down and find theirs, and he clutches them loosely.
Certainty is absurd. He'll hold on to it anyway.