hanging by a fairytale
hanging by a fairytale, doctor/rose, g.
sometimes, the weight of his lineage hungers too much and if it promises blood and stars, he dreams of running away
His kind has always aged oddly, but he counts his years as a fisherman counts his daily catch, as finely attuned to each grain of sand as the weathered eye watches at the sea. Sometimes he thinks that the inconstant skies and novel skins are not worth the old secrets and creaking skeletons. Sometimes, the weight of his lineage hungers too much and if it promises blood and stars, he dreams of running away.
He always knows precisely how old he is. How many years, how many days - down to the second slipping behind his heel, he knows, always knows, precisely how many breaths he has stolen.
The stories grow old and words are misplaced; midnight gives birth to legend. The moon above him changes colors twice and kisses its lost twin thrice more before legend ascends to myth. By then he has forgotten his name.
The first traveler who walked where roads were paved by children’s prayers, he walks with weariness in the pockets of his trousers, the dearest of trinkets he never found the courage to leave behind. This earth has sung lullabies and arias to him and now he hears them with a fond ear, but the world is tired and the stories, are pale shades of their once-colors. It sits upon his bones and haunts him from the battleground where the ripple of raised metal had ripped hope from his chest and left it on the killing field. He bores of life and its faded glories.
He always knows precisely how old he is. How many years, how many days - his hearts count out the hours he has left and he looks toward death as a waiting dawn looks to the sun.
He walks no more.
It’s a coincidence. His legend stops right when hers begins.
Happens.
She just is one day. From nowhere, with nothing, she just happens to him and he is sure this is what the world does for fun. They whisper of her; the uncharitable see no beauty in her wild hair and wide mouth or the rough edges of her common voice. He is adamant that it must be her and thus it must be so, for he is the Lord and the Lord speaks of giant looms and the flickering shuttle that weaves destiny.
She spins on bare feet and the glow of her smile is warmer than any fur. Gold catches fire in the light, blazing from the gauze breeze at the hem of her skirt, tinkling as she moves, slapping gently at her ankle. But he sees the pink of her cheeks and the cornsilk of her hair - the rawness of her potential hisses rough against his skin. His time is racing and he wonders at how her tiny hands can beat out such a pattern of thumpthumpthumpthump on the inside of his ribcage. What should he call her, he asks, wistfully, curious. Her grin curves mysteriously on the corners of her mouth and he can’t help the bizarre impulse to answer it with one of his own. His nose twitches and he swears there is something riding the air, swelling, looming - he sneezes and she sputters, laughing.
"You first."
He has no answer for her and she dances on, leaving the silence bitter and thrilling on his tongue.
Frantically, he feels as if he has caught a star in the palms of his hands and how, how can he keep her. His hearts are ticking out his last days.
Rose, he decides, one night after he has asked again and she is perched delicately on the toes of her feet. Rose, for the thorns of her beauty dig deeper than he knows. She doesn’t discourage him. And who are you, says the quirk of her expressive eyebrows and the exasperated tilt of her hips.
He tells her stories instead, stories that she has always known to be fairytales, little more than the dust of dead titans, but he tells them with the fervor of true witness. He tells her of floating gardens that hang in the sky and the dry, faintly spiced wind of duplicitous deserts festivals. Rose, he urges, Rose, they are the most beautiful creations of your people.
"They were miracles that even the gods never thought possible of you - no, don’t. I mean it."
He is so earnest, she almost believes him. He tells her things so ancient every night that she hears them as new and he rediscovers delight in her eyes.
A thousand and one nights. This is all he has left and he devotes every last moment of it to his best miracle. He spills the history of the universe into her ear until his throat throbs. She curls up beside him and lays her head upon his breast, falling asleep to the rhythm of two drums. At the end, he places the quiet sounds of his most impossible confession at her feet and this time she does believe.
Her dark lashes glitter (he aches for her) and she brushes his hair tenderly to the side. It defies her in errant, whimsical strands.
“Can’t you even die decently, Time Lord?”
The words stick thickly to the low curls of her voice.
She gives him back his name and he takes her hand for the first time. There is no need to run from it now.
“No, ‘fraid not.”
Small fingers clench tightly and her eyes are wild, burning. His Rose is desperate and grasping and what he would do to keep her unbroken. She’d give too much in this moment to save him when she already has, but she won’t understand that either. He feels his hearts shudder and he knows.
He always knows.
Sobbing softly, she asks in halting syllables if he’s scared.
“Not anymore.”
He’s out of time, but he is fiercely glad that there had been time, at least, for her.
sometimes, the weight of his lineage hungers too much and if it promises blood and stars, he dreams of running away
His kind has always aged oddly, but he counts his years as a fisherman counts his daily catch, as finely attuned to each grain of sand as the weathered eye watches at the sea. Sometimes he thinks that the inconstant skies and novel skins are not worth the old secrets and creaking skeletons. Sometimes, the weight of his lineage hungers too much and if it promises blood and stars, he dreams of running away.
He always knows precisely how old he is. How many years, how many days - down to the second slipping behind his heel, he knows, always knows, precisely how many breaths he has stolen.
The stories grow old and words are misplaced; midnight gives birth to legend. The moon above him changes colors twice and kisses its lost twin thrice more before legend ascends to myth. By then he has forgotten his name.
The first traveler who walked where roads were paved by children’s prayers, he walks with weariness in the pockets of his trousers, the dearest of trinkets he never found the courage to leave behind. This earth has sung lullabies and arias to him and now he hears them with a fond ear, but the world is tired and the stories, are pale shades of their once-colors. It sits upon his bones and haunts him from the battleground where the ripple of raised metal had ripped hope from his chest and left it on the killing field. He bores of life and its faded glories.
He always knows precisely how old he is. How many years, how many days - his hearts count out the hours he has left and he looks toward death as a waiting dawn looks to the sun.
He walks no more.
It’s a coincidence. His legend stops right when hers begins.
Happens.
She just is one day. From nowhere, with nothing, she just happens to him and he is sure this is what the world does for fun. They whisper of her; the uncharitable see no beauty in her wild hair and wide mouth or the rough edges of her common voice. He is adamant that it must be her and thus it must be so, for he is the Lord and the Lord speaks of giant looms and the flickering shuttle that weaves destiny.
She spins on bare feet and the glow of her smile is warmer than any fur. Gold catches fire in the light, blazing from the gauze breeze at the hem of her skirt, tinkling as she moves, slapping gently at her ankle. But he sees the pink of her cheeks and the cornsilk of her hair - the rawness of her potential hisses rough against his skin. His time is racing and he wonders at how her tiny hands can beat out such a pattern of thumpthumpthumpthump on the inside of his ribcage. What should he call her, he asks, wistfully, curious. Her grin curves mysteriously on the corners of her mouth and he can’t help the bizarre impulse to answer it with one of his own. His nose twitches and he swears there is something riding the air, swelling, looming - he sneezes and she sputters, laughing.
"You first."
He has no answer for her and she dances on, leaving the silence bitter and thrilling on his tongue.
Frantically, he feels as if he has caught a star in the palms of his hands and how, how can he keep her. His hearts are ticking out his last days.
Rose, he decides, one night after he has asked again and she is perched delicately on the toes of her feet. Rose, for the thorns of her beauty dig deeper than he knows. She doesn’t discourage him. And who are you, says the quirk of her expressive eyebrows and the exasperated tilt of her hips.
He tells her stories instead, stories that she has always known to be fairytales, little more than the dust of dead titans, but he tells them with the fervor of true witness. He tells her of floating gardens that hang in the sky and the dry, faintly spiced wind of duplicitous deserts festivals. Rose, he urges, Rose, they are the most beautiful creations of your people.
"They were miracles that even the gods never thought possible of you - no, don’t. I mean it."
He is so earnest, she almost believes him. He tells her things so ancient every night that she hears them as new and he rediscovers delight in her eyes.
A thousand and one nights. This is all he has left and he devotes every last moment of it to his best miracle. He spills the history of the universe into her ear until his throat throbs. She curls up beside him and lays her head upon his breast, falling asleep to the rhythm of two drums. At the end, he places the quiet sounds of his most impossible confession at her feet and this time she does believe.
Her dark lashes glitter (he aches for her) and she brushes his hair tenderly to the side. It defies her in errant, whimsical strands.
“Can’t you even die decently, Time Lord?”
The words stick thickly to the low curls of her voice.
She gives him back his name and he takes her hand for the first time. There is no need to run from it now.
“No, ‘fraid not.”
Small fingers clench tightly and her eyes are wild, burning. His Rose is desperate and grasping and what he would do to keep her unbroken. She’d give too much in this moment to save him when she already has, but she won’t understand that either. He feels his hearts shudder and he knows.
He always knows.
Sobbing softly, she asks in halting syllables if he’s scared.
“Not anymore.”
He’s out of time, but he is fiercely glad that there had been time, at least, for her.