(no subject)
the song ends but the story goes on, Eleven, PG
She’s wracked her brain, searching fantastical childhood stories for a fable where they were said but has always come up blank. She’s searched the internet, read books and diaries and hunted through the endless papers left behind by her kin. But she still doesn’t know what the cryptic eulogy means and it bothers her immensely though she couldn’t tell you why. 1, 138 words
A/N: Oh my god. I don’t even.
~*~She makes a pilgrimage every year to Norway. Sometimes she’s joined by others, mostly she goes alone.
There’s not really anyone left to make the journey with her anymore.
The beach is much the same as the last time, and the time before that - the scream of gulls and the endless grey slate of water and sand.
Back a ways from the water is a field stricken with early spring blossoms that clamber over each other in their search for the sunlight. In the middle sits an innocuous stone pedestal, the top set with a large red button that, when depressed, projects the fleeting image of words into the air.
She remembers her grandfather with perfect clarity - the absurd nickname he insisted on being called only one more eccentricity on a man far too skinny to carry them all gracefully. But she still doesn’t understand her grandmother’s final message for him. She was there when she programmed them in, here when the pedestal was installed and the ashes interred beneath. She came back not long ago, barely a year now since she buried her grandmother’s ashes here too.
She’s wracked her brain, searching fantastical childhood stories for a fable where they were said but has always come up blank. She’s searched the internet, read books and diaries and hunted through the endless papers left behind by her kin. But she still doesn’t know what the cryptic eulogy means and it bothers her immensely though she couldn’t tell you why.
A part of you I keep - safe forever.
My Doctor.
This time though, for the first time, she is surprised to find an unknown stranger at the grave, a hand braced on the pedestal and his eyes firmly focused on the wavering hologram containing her grandmother’s final words to her beloved husband.
As the image flickers and dies out, she steps forward cautiously. She’s never seen anyone else at the grave that didn’t arrive with her. Certainly nobody outside of the circle of her family and their closest friends.
“’scuse me?” she calls out and the man whirls around in a blur of tweed, his face blanching when he sees her. Like he’s just seen a ghost.
Luckily she’s used to this. She offers him a smile.
“You knew my Nanna Rose then?” she guesses.
“Your...Nanna?” he swivels back towards the pedestal, mouths the engraving in the stone that bears their names and then turns back again. “Goodness,” he notes softly, taking her in all over again. “You really are a Tyler aren’t you? Same nose, same chin...”
He’s moved towards her to observe her better, not touching but putting his face right into her personal space as he does so, almost reaching out to trace her jaw line but not quite connecting. It’s enough to make her uncomfortable, even after years of her family crowding in on her in that suffocating, loving way that families do. Her grandfather in particular had little semblance of personal space.
And then he’s stepping back, a pleased little smile on his face.
“They lived a long life then.” He guesses. “Long and full.”
She stares, utterly bewildered, and demands of him, “Who are you?”
His smile only grows.
“I’m the one your grandmother wanted to keep safe. And she did didn’t she?” he laughs suddenly, delighted. “Or some small part of me in any case.”
His voice is soft but the tone is precise, clipped. She’s not really sure what to say. She doesn’t dare deny him but the message was for her grandfather.
Wasn’t it?
“Oh come on now Tyler, keep up!” he says, disbelieving, scoffing a little. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? They must have told you stories didn’t they? About the little blue box that was bigger on the inside? The thought must have crossed your mind by now, surely. You must know who I am.”
It takes a moment to form and then an even longer moment to process but when the idea clicks she is instantly disbelieving.
“But that’s just a story,” she protests. “They made it up. Just kids stories. They weren’t really...real.”
“Weren’t they?” he says, eyes sparkling. “Not the time travelling alien in his blue box? Hmmn? Not the cat-nuns or the Daleks or the Cybermen...or what about the Nestene Consciousness? All that living plastic come to life and ready to take over the whole world.” She finds she’s not breathing as he treads closer - his nose almost touching hers though she can’t remember when he drew so near - and then he smiles down warmly at her.
“Or,” he says, even softer still. So soft she has to strain to hear him. “What about the girl who looked into time itself to save the life of someone she loved - oh, very much. A girl who promised to take care of a small part of him - for as long as she was able and beyond.”
And she doesn’t want to believe, doesn’t want to have faith in the ridiculous stories she loved so as a child.
This is the real world. There are no such things as parallel worlds. Love does not transcend all barriers. If it did then her family would still be here with her. She looks towards the pedestal and his gaze follows.
“You miss them?” he guesses, gently.
Irrationally, she feels tears spring up. She rarely cries. Certainly not in front of strangers.
“Always.” She admits.
“Ah, not to worry.” He claps her on the shoulder, the gesture so abrupt that she startles. “The song ends,” he tells her sagely. “But the story goes on.”
And before she can say anything further there’s a sound like a dying violin and he’s darted away through the flowers with little more than a, “Whoops - bye then Tyler! Got to run...”
He’s quick, much quicker than she is, and just when she thinks she’s caught him up she’s nearly bowled over by an icy wind and something so impossible - a sound (if you can even call it that) - which reverberates in her bones as the wooden box from her childhood stories fades incrementally away.
Behind the scrape and wheeze plays a song on such a delicately tuned frequency that few alive would be able to hear it, let alone understand the words. But the power of the creator runs through her blood, makes it boil with excitement and a powerful yearning for home...
And then the box disappears entirely, like a magic trick. Like every fairytale she’s ever been told brought to life.
She looks down at the square shaped depression in the grass for a moment before dropping to her knees and pressing an amazed palm into it, her fingernails painted with gold lacquer and her heart in her throat.
And she laughs, the universe opening up before her like a flower.
She’s wracked her brain, searching fantastical childhood stories for a fable where they were said but has always come up blank. She’s searched the internet, read books and diaries and hunted through the endless papers left behind by her kin. But she still doesn’t know what the cryptic eulogy means and it bothers her immensely though she couldn’t tell you why. 1, 138 words
A/N: Oh my god. I don’t even.
~*~She makes a pilgrimage every year to Norway. Sometimes she’s joined by others, mostly she goes alone.
There’s not really anyone left to make the journey with her anymore.
The beach is much the same as the last time, and the time before that - the scream of gulls and the endless grey slate of water and sand.
Back a ways from the water is a field stricken with early spring blossoms that clamber over each other in their search for the sunlight. In the middle sits an innocuous stone pedestal, the top set with a large red button that, when depressed, projects the fleeting image of words into the air.
She remembers her grandfather with perfect clarity - the absurd nickname he insisted on being called only one more eccentricity on a man far too skinny to carry them all gracefully. But she still doesn’t understand her grandmother’s final message for him. She was there when she programmed them in, here when the pedestal was installed and the ashes interred beneath. She came back not long ago, barely a year now since she buried her grandmother’s ashes here too.
She’s wracked her brain, searching fantastical childhood stories for a fable where they were said but has always come up blank. She’s searched the internet, read books and diaries and hunted through the endless papers left behind by her kin. But she still doesn’t know what the cryptic eulogy means and it bothers her immensely though she couldn’t tell you why.
A part of you I keep - safe forever.
My Doctor.
This time though, for the first time, she is surprised to find an unknown stranger at the grave, a hand braced on the pedestal and his eyes firmly focused on the wavering hologram containing her grandmother’s final words to her beloved husband.
As the image flickers and dies out, she steps forward cautiously. She’s never seen anyone else at the grave that didn’t arrive with her. Certainly nobody outside of the circle of her family and their closest friends.
“’scuse me?” she calls out and the man whirls around in a blur of tweed, his face blanching when he sees her. Like he’s just seen a ghost.
Luckily she’s used to this. She offers him a smile.
“You knew my Nanna Rose then?” she guesses.
“Your...Nanna?” he swivels back towards the pedestal, mouths the engraving in the stone that bears their names and then turns back again. “Goodness,” he notes softly, taking her in all over again. “You really are a Tyler aren’t you? Same nose, same chin...”
He’s moved towards her to observe her better, not touching but putting his face right into her personal space as he does so, almost reaching out to trace her jaw line but not quite connecting. It’s enough to make her uncomfortable, even after years of her family crowding in on her in that suffocating, loving way that families do. Her grandfather in particular had little semblance of personal space.
And then he’s stepping back, a pleased little smile on his face.
“They lived a long life then.” He guesses. “Long and full.”
She stares, utterly bewildered, and demands of him, “Who are you?”
His smile only grows.
“I’m the one your grandmother wanted to keep safe. And she did didn’t she?” he laughs suddenly, delighted. “Or some small part of me in any case.”
His voice is soft but the tone is precise, clipped. She’s not really sure what to say. She doesn’t dare deny him but the message was for her grandfather.
Wasn’t it?
“Oh come on now Tyler, keep up!” he says, disbelieving, scoffing a little. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? They must have told you stories didn’t they? About the little blue box that was bigger on the inside? The thought must have crossed your mind by now, surely. You must know who I am.”
It takes a moment to form and then an even longer moment to process but when the idea clicks she is instantly disbelieving.
“But that’s just a story,” she protests. “They made it up. Just kids stories. They weren’t really...real.”
“Weren’t they?” he says, eyes sparkling. “Not the time travelling alien in his blue box? Hmmn? Not the cat-nuns or the Daleks or the Cybermen...or what about the Nestene Consciousness? All that living plastic come to life and ready to take over the whole world.” She finds she’s not breathing as he treads closer - his nose almost touching hers though she can’t remember when he drew so near - and then he smiles down warmly at her.
“Or,” he says, even softer still. So soft she has to strain to hear him. “What about the girl who looked into time itself to save the life of someone she loved - oh, very much. A girl who promised to take care of a small part of him - for as long as she was able and beyond.”
And she doesn’t want to believe, doesn’t want to have faith in the ridiculous stories she loved so as a child.
This is the real world. There are no such things as parallel worlds. Love does not transcend all barriers. If it did then her family would still be here with her. She looks towards the pedestal and his gaze follows.
“You miss them?” he guesses, gently.
Irrationally, she feels tears spring up. She rarely cries. Certainly not in front of strangers.
“Always.” She admits.
“Ah, not to worry.” He claps her on the shoulder, the gesture so abrupt that she startles. “The song ends,” he tells her sagely. “But the story goes on.”
And before she can say anything further there’s a sound like a dying violin and he’s darted away through the flowers with little more than a, “Whoops - bye then Tyler! Got to run...”
He’s quick, much quicker than she is, and just when she thinks she’s caught him up she’s nearly bowled over by an icy wind and something so impossible - a sound (if you can even call it that) - which reverberates in her bones as the wooden box from her childhood stories fades incrementally away.
Behind the scrape and wheeze plays a song on such a delicately tuned frequency that few alive would be able to hear it, let alone understand the words. But the power of the creator runs through her blood, makes it boil with excitement and a powerful yearning for home...
And then the box disappears entirely, like a magic trick. Like every fairytale she’s ever been told brought to life.
She looks down at the square shaped depression in the grass for a moment before dropping to her knees and pressing an amazed palm into it, her fingernails painted with gold lacquer and her heart in her throat.
And she laughs, the universe opening up before her like a flower.
