Doctor Who / H2G2: Rassilon's Dream
Title: Rassilon's Dream
Author's Name: fly_to_dawn
Recipient's Name: my_llama_girl
Fandom: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
Rating: PG
Character(s): The Doctor, Slartibartfast
Tidiness was not something he was used to, especially with a life like his - where everything was mixed and jumbled together, making a colourful brightness he loved, sometimes so bright he could not make out where he was heading, or where he had come from. Timelines entwined and ran backwards and forwards and back again, sometimes of different worlds, just like clockwork, running and running and -
The Doctor had a collection of clocks in his TARDIS somewhere. Near the swimming pool that he never swam in, just next to the art gallery that he wasn’t sure existed anymore. He walked around his time capsule, not really wanting to find the room at all. And when he did, he didn’t marvel at anything - everything, apart from the numbers the hands pointed at sharply, was the same. They all sat, ticking away in the dark like before, reminding him to go on endlessly like their shiny mechanical selves, shouting at him to try and keep time. And of course, there, amongst the brown of the grandfather clocks and the white of the small little Monan clock (The reason why it was there in the first place was just a colourless memory; something to do with a young woman with blonde - or was it brunette? - hair.) was a silver fob watch. It was smooth and shiny, with the slightest tint of green and pure coldness, lying there covered with symbols from another world, waiting to be used…the Doctor was sure he had used it before, somewhere - in a timeline that never was, never will be, that was re-written in the future, or perhaps the past.
He had always been searching for something during his long, long life - the correct space-time co-ordinates, a place to thrust sadness into, doughnuts that weren’t made by a machine, or the simplicity of freedom. The Time War was over, and the space where Gallifrey used to be was now a darkness of infinitum. What I am looking for right now, he thought, besides a good cup of tea, is some - He had never been good at goodbyes, but he had a feeling that he would be breaking this habit for the first, and probably last time in the whole of his existence. - comfort.
There were many myths and folktales, old lullabies and rhythms in his world. He tried to sing one, but the notes came out crumpled and dry, and he couldn’t remember the words. Zagreus, tati-ba-dum, Omega, tati-ba-dum. The Doctor slowly repeated his childhood memories one by one, the name followed by a rhythm, another name followed by the same old tapping. Great Vampires, tati-ba-dum, Halls of Asgard, tati-ba-dum. (Many of these were childhood heroes and evils; later he realised they were nothing of the sort - just pieces and fractures of adventures, for what he remembered about his travels most were his friends.) The list came to an abrupt stop, however, when he couldn’t remember the name of a planet that he was told of many, many years ago, a legendary planet that crafted planets. By a hermit whom he used to talk to when he was a child…and yes, a few regenerations ago he had unexpectedly traveled with someone who also knew the place - but this time, not as a legend but a planet with economical offence capabilities. The name was just there, waiting for him to remember.
Magretheo…Magrethea…Magrathea!
It’s slightly like destiny, he thought. He walked around the TARDIS a few times more, piecing together his memory until he remembered. Among a jumble of recorders, (all German style, not baroque, he could never play the F on the latter) jelly babies that were centuries old and a cricket ball coming apart at the seams, there his favourite encyclopedia lay - The Hitchhiker’s Guide to Galaxy, Megadodo Publications. A tired old spark lit up in his eye as he found what he was looking for: Page 634784, section 5a. Entry: Magrathea. It would be a good idea, he told himself. Yes, Doctor.
The inside of his TARDIS glowed - a rich, golden green colour. The shapes were much like coral, entwining and supporting the ‘inside’. (Which was bigger than the ‘outside’, as countless humans had remarked.) Once the controls were tidy and intact, with buttons and switches and ‘knobs’, as someone once said; now it was a mixture of fractured bits and pieces of many levers and machinery, all struggling to keep it’s place in the overflowing space - the scars of warfare. The old girl, as the Doctor called it, was very much alive, though tired and battered, and it gave a reassuring sort of whirr, much like a purr of a cat (although the Doctor did not care much for pussies) as he flicked bits of metal and wood to deliver him to his destination. After a few seconds of whizzing through the vortex, he materialized on the planet. He reached for his hat, then remembering he didn’t have one anymore, he just gave his TARDIS a gentle pat and stepped outside.
Magrathea was ancient, red, beautiful, and reminded him of Gallifrey. The two twin suns of Soulianis and Rahn were close to sinking; the planet dark, quiet and waiting for something to happen. The Doctor breathed and noted that the atmosphere was thin. His heartbeats echoed in his mind, pounding. (Magrathea, tati-ba-dum, Magrathea, tati-ba-dum, they seemed to say)
Complete darkness occupied Magrathea - the Doctor stood there with no plan in particular. He was good at interfering and making things up as he went along; now it seemed his imagination was running out.
But that, of course, was a part of his imagination altogether. He took a few steps into the darkness and found himself face to face with an old, old man covered with white hair. There was a tired expression in his eyes, much like the Doctor’s, but the elderly man gazed at the Doctor with some interest.
‘History stopped before it repeated itself,’ he said solemnly, ‘I’m a fast learner.’
The Doctor remembered a conversation with Arthur - he had warned him that something of the sort might happen. There was a brief silence, which the Doctor used to observe this strange man. The Magrathean had something of a sadness surrounding him, and yet it seemed as if he hadn’t noticed this himself.
The man took out a piece of paper. ‘May or may not be wearing beige, lapels, an Edwardian outfit, a long multicoloured scarf, baggy trousers, velvet, or clothes with questions marks on them.’ he read out loud. He turned to the Doctor with a sympathetic look in his eye. ‘Personally I would go for black leather.’
The world was a strange place, the Doctor decided. Full of bouquet and love and shimmering insanity. He wasn’t in the mood to talk, and the old man didn’t expect him to; he beckoned him to get into his hovercraft, and they slowly rushed away into the darkness of the Magrathean night.
In the Hovercraft, the old man spoke. ‘Would you like to know my name?’
The Doctor lost his voice for a moment, before answering. ‘Why? Is it important?’ He had not spoken for many months, and his own voice seemed like an echo of the past.
‘No, although everyone says yes.’
‘What is your name, then?’
‘Slartibartfast.’
The Doctor stopped himself from apologizing and asking if there was anything he could do - instead he replied: ‘I’ve heard longer ones.’
‘Are you comfortable enough?’
‘Yes.’ It was his cue to stop talking, he observed.
The craft continued travelling, the blackness around them absolute, and the Doctor wondered many things. It was nice to have company; although Slartibartfast was indeed peculiar, his slow, quiet movements were something the Doctor was not used to but liked.
Silence occupied them as the Hovercraft moved steadily towards a dim glow in the distance. The Doctor hummed an old tune from his childhood - Slartibartfast looked at him sternly but nodded nevertheless, and the song continued. The Hovercraft entered a silver tunnel that seemed to be weaved out of more. They gradually came to a halt in a small space made of steel. It was, thought the Doctor, exactly as Arthur as described it. He gave a nod towards the circle of light in front of him, an area of hyperspace, telling Slartibartfast that it was alright, though it wasn’t really - there was a vast number of unanswered questions, and his previous encounter in hyperspace had not been a good one. This path he was taking seemed something planned out for him, perhaps by some ghost of Rassilon.
‘Time Lord,’ said Slartibartfast, ‘this is our factory floor.’
‘I was under the impression that Magrathea had only opened for the re-commission of Planet Earth Mark Two?’
The old man blinked, and the Doctor promptly remembered that the Celestial Intervention Agency, with the aid of a certain Mr. Dent, had re-written history.
‘We were not woken by the mice, if that is what you assume. Time Lord - ’
‘The Doctor,’ corrected the Time Lord.
‘- Doctor, it was Lord Rassilon.’ Watching the Doctor blink, he continued, ‘Lord Rassilon predicted, before the collapse of the economy, that you would come to re-commission -’ He checked his notes, ‘- the planet Gallifrey. He noted that if that prediction were to come true, I was to make the changes he had requested be made to the planet.’
The Doctor stayed silent, before asking, ‘What changes?’
‘Reforming the continent of Fierce Berkshire, adding more sand to the outlands - that sort of thing.’ He studied his notes again, ‘Lord Rassilon’s dream was to rebuild his home planet.’ But he added something in a whisper; ‘If I may add my opinions, Doctor, I believe that he did not actually wish to make any such changes at all. Just provide you with the money needed to rebuild Gallifrey.’
Slartibartfast sighed heavily. ‘Time Lord, you are tired.’
It was a conversation that may have turned into a silly one, and the Doctor was glad it hadn’t; Slartibartfast proceeded to give him a room to sleep that night, and he woke next morning feeling slightly less tired than the day before.
As he returned to the factory floor he found the elderly man observing something floating. He greeted the Doctor in his usual solemn way; the two exchanged a small conversation about how blowing up someone’s planet was the equivalent of declaring their love for that person, and the Doctor looked down on the floating darkness. There was a flash, followed by another, and he whispered the name of his home - ‘Gallifrey.’
Slartibartfast nodded. ‘It’s a beautiful thing, but it’s a pity there are no fjords.’
‘What happens now?’
‘The basic shape with the mountains and continents - Wild Endeavour, wasn’t it? - have been made using the original blueprints.’
‘I don’t suppose the planets come complete with their own races?’
‘Ah, good question - but I’m afraid the answer is no. You do have the option, however, of commissioning buildings. Our sister planet, Clanlaylia, specializes in that area.’ Slartibartfast looked at the Doctor gravely. ‘It’s not as good a business as making planets, I must admit - Clanlaylia is just another construction company out of the millions that exist in this Universe. Much more stable business than ours, though - the economic collapse didn’t affect them much.’
In a few minutes the basic structure of the planet was complete, and Slartibartfast took him to another room. There, he asked the Doctor a few questions about Gallifrey - the colour of the sky, the smell of the plants, the exact tint of the mountain caps of Solace and Solitude. It became more and more like a questionnaire, except with the same kind of questions repeated over and over again. Slartibartfast would sometimes rummage under his desk to pull out two coloured squares, both burnt oranges, one slightly lighter than the other. He would then ask the Doctor which was nearer to the colour of the sky, and this process went on for an hour or so.
When they had finished, the old man stood up, shook his client’s hand, and said; ‘we will see you again in three weeks.’
The two days were like pieces of a fairytale; they felt neither real nor plausible. He was sitting at the controls of the TARDIS, deep in thought, but not really thinking at all. His new Gallifrey appeared on the screen, burning in the middle of the black universe like a gem; shining, shimmering, looking down on the galaxies below - and then he remembered that there were no galaxies to look down upon. The Doctor gazed, at the cold, dead planet that was floating. It seemed wrong, wrong…
A day later, he was still sitting there. Gallifrey Mark Two was still on his screen. A clock ticked at the back of his head, a voice told him to -
A mad, hollow laugh came out of his mouth. It lasted long and deep, ringing throughout the TARDIS. It was an insane laugh - a laugh of despair, absurdity, pain.
Then it was silent; a few moments later the sound of a TARDIS taking off could be heard.
(And Gallifrey Mark Two glowed coldly.)
Author's Name: fly_to_dawn
Recipient's Name: my_llama_girl
Fandom: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
Rating: PG
Character(s): The Doctor, Slartibartfast
Tidiness was not something he was used to, especially with a life like his - where everything was mixed and jumbled together, making a colourful brightness he loved, sometimes so bright he could not make out where he was heading, or where he had come from. Timelines entwined and ran backwards and forwards and back again, sometimes of different worlds, just like clockwork, running and running and -
The Doctor had a collection of clocks in his TARDIS somewhere. Near the swimming pool that he never swam in, just next to the art gallery that he wasn’t sure existed anymore. He walked around his time capsule, not really wanting to find the room at all. And when he did, he didn’t marvel at anything - everything, apart from the numbers the hands pointed at sharply, was the same. They all sat, ticking away in the dark like before, reminding him to go on endlessly like their shiny mechanical selves, shouting at him to try and keep time. And of course, there, amongst the brown of the grandfather clocks and the white of the small little Monan clock (The reason why it was there in the first place was just a colourless memory; something to do with a young woman with blonde - or was it brunette? - hair.) was a silver fob watch. It was smooth and shiny, with the slightest tint of green and pure coldness, lying there covered with symbols from another world, waiting to be used…the Doctor was sure he had used it before, somewhere - in a timeline that never was, never will be, that was re-written in the future, or perhaps the past.
He had always been searching for something during his long, long life - the correct space-time co-ordinates, a place to thrust sadness into, doughnuts that weren’t made by a machine, or the simplicity of freedom. The Time War was over, and the space where Gallifrey used to be was now a darkness of infinitum. What I am looking for right now, he thought, besides a good cup of tea, is some - He had never been good at goodbyes, but he had a feeling that he would be breaking this habit for the first, and probably last time in the whole of his existence. - comfort.
There were many myths and folktales, old lullabies and rhythms in his world. He tried to sing one, but the notes came out crumpled and dry, and he couldn’t remember the words. Zagreus, tati-ba-dum, Omega, tati-ba-dum. The Doctor slowly repeated his childhood memories one by one, the name followed by a rhythm, another name followed by the same old tapping. Great Vampires, tati-ba-dum, Halls of Asgard, tati-ba-dum. (Many of these were childhood heroes and evils; later he realised they were nothing of the sort - just pieces and fractures of adventures, for what he remembered about his travels most were his friends.) The list came to an abrupt stop, however, when he couldn’t remember the name of a planet that he was told of many, many years ago, a legendary planet that crafted planets. By a hermit whom he used to talk to when he was a child…and yes, a few regenerations ago he had unexpectedly traveled with someone who also knew the place - but this time, not as a legend but a planet with economical offence capabilities. The name was just there, waiting for him to remember.
Magretheo…Magrethea…Magrathea!
It’s slightly like destiny, he thought. He walked around the TARDIS a few times more, piecing together his memory until he remembered. Among a jumble of recorders, (all German style, not baroque, he could never play the F on the latter) jelly babies that were centuries old and a cricket ball coming apart at the seams, there his favourite encyclopedia lay - The Hitchhiker’s Guide to Galaxy, Megadodo Publications. A tired old spark lit up in his eye as he found what he was looking for: Page 634784, section 5a. Entry: Magrathea. It would be a good idea, he told himself. Yes, Doctor.
The inside of his TARDIS glowed - a rich, golden green colour. The shapes were much like coral, entwining and supporting the ‘inside’. (Which was bigger than the ‘outside’, as countless humans had remarked.) Once the controls were tidy and intact, with buttons and switches and ‘knobs’, as someone once said; now it was a mixture of fractured bits and pieces of many levers and machinery, all struggling to keep it’s place in the overflowing space - the scars of warfare. The old girl, as the Doctor called it, was very much alive, though tired and battered, and it gave a reassuring sort of whirr, much like a purr of a cat (although the Doctor did not care much for pussies) as he flicked bits of metal and wood to deliver him to his destination. After a few seconds of whizzing through the vortex, he materialized on the planet. He reached for his hat, then remembering he didn’t have one anymore, he just gave his TARDIS a gentle pat and stepped outside.
Magrathea was ancient, red, beautiful, and reminded him of Gallifrey. The two twin suns of Soulianis and Rahn were close to sinking; the planet dark, quiet and waiting for something to happen. The Doctor breathed and noted that the atmosphere was thin. His heartbeats echoed in his mind, pounding. (Magrathea, tati-ba-dum, Magrathea, tati-ba-dum, they seemed to say)
Complete darkness occupied Magrathea - the Doctor stood there with no plan in particular. He was good at interfering and making things up as he went along; now it seemed his imagination was running out.
But that, of course, was a part of his imagination altogether. He took a few steps into the darkness and found himself face to face with an old, old man covered with white hair. There was a tired expression in his eyes, much like the Doctor’s, but the elderly man gazed at the Doctor with some interest.
‘History stopped before it repeated itself,’ he said solemnly, ‘I’m a fast learner.’
The Doctor remembered a conversation with Arthur - he had warned him that something of the sort might happen. There was a brief silence, which the Doctor used to observe this strange man. The Magrathean had something of a sadness surrounding him, and yet it seemed as if he hadn’t noticed this himself.
The man took out a piece of paper. ‘May or may not be wearing beige, lapels, an Edwardian outfit, a long multicoloured scarf, baggy trousers, velvet, or clothes with questions marks on them.’ he read out loud. He turned to the Doctor with a sympathetic look in his eye. ‘Personally I would go for black leather.’
The world was a strange place, the Doctor decided. Full of bouquet and love and shimmering insanity. He wasn’t in the mood to talk, and the old man didn’t expect him to; he beckoned him to get into his hovercraft, and they slowly rushed away into the darkness of the Magrathean night.
In the Hovercraft, the old man spoke. ‘Would you like to know my name?’
The Doctor lost his voice for a moment, before answering. ‘Why? Is it important?’ He had not spoken for many months, and his own voice seemed like an echo of the past.
‘No, although everyone says yes.’
‘What is your name, then?’
‘Slartibartfast.’
The Doctor stopped himself from apologizing and asking if there was anything he could do - instead he replied: ‘I’ve heard longer ones.’
‘Are you comfortable enough?’
‘Yes.’ It was his cue to stop talking, he observed.
The craft continued travelling, the blackness around them absolute, and the Doctor wondered many things. It was nice to have company; although Slartibartfast was indeed peculiar, his slow, quiet movements were something the Doctor was not used to but liked.
Silence occupied them as the Hovercraft moved steadily towards a dim glow in the distance. The Doctor hummed an old tune from his childhood - Slartibartfast looked at him sternly but nodded nevertheless, and the song continued. The Hovercraft entered a silver tunnel that seemed to be weaved out of more. They gradually came to a halt in a small space made of steel. It was, thought the Doctor, exactly as Arthur as described it. He gave a nod towards the circle of light in front of him, an area of hyperspace, telling Slartibartfast that it was alright, though it wasn’t really - there was a vast number of unanswered questions, and his previous encounter in hyperspace had not been a good one. This path he was taking seemed something planned out for him, perhaps by some ghost of Rassilon.
‘Time Lord,’ said Slartibartfast, ‘this is our factory floor.’
‘I was under the impression that Magrathea had only opened for the re-commission of Planet Earth Mark Two?’
The old man blinked, and the Doctor promptly remembered that the Celestial Intervention Agency, with the aid of a certain Mr. Dent, had re-written history.
‘We were not woken by the mice, if that is what you assume. Time Lord - ’
‘The Doctor,’ corrected the Time Lord.
‘- Doctor, it was Lord Rassilon.’ Watching the Doctor blink, he continued, ‘Lord Rassilon predicted, before the collapse of the economy, that you would come to re-commission -’ He checked his notes, ‘- the planet Gallifrey. He noted that if that prediction were to come true, I was to make the changes he had requested be made to the planet.’
The Doctor stayed silent, before asking, ‘What changes?’
‘Reforming the continent of Fierce Berkshire, adding more sand to the outlands - that sort of thing.’ He studied his notes again, ‘Lord Rassilon’s dream was to rebuild his home planet.’ But he added something in a whisper; ‘If I may add my opinions, Doctor, I believe that he did not actually wish to make any such changes at all. Just provide you with the money needed to rebuild Gallifrey.’
Slartibartfast sighed heavily. ‘Time Lord, you are tired.’
It was a conversation that may have turned into a silly one, and the Doctor was glad it hadn’t; Slartibartfast proceeded to give him a room to sleep that night, and he woke next morning feeling slightly less tired than the day before.
As he returned to the factory floor he found the elderly man observing something floating. He greeted the Doctor in his usual solemn way; the two exchanged a small conversation about how blowing up someone’s planet was the equivalent of declaring their love for that person, and the Doctor looked down on the floating darkness. There was a flash, followed by another, and he whispered the name of his home - ‘Gallifrey.’
Slartibartfast nodded. ‘It’s a beautiful thing, but it’s a pity there are no fjords.’
‘What happens now?’
‘The basic shape with the mountains and continents - Wild Endeavour, wasn’t it? - have been made using the original blueprints.’
‘I don’t suppose the planets come complete with their own races?’
‘Ah, good question - but I’m afraid the answer is no. You do have the option, however, of commissioning buildings. Our sister planet, Clanlaylia, specializes in that area.’ Slartibartfast looked at the Doctor gravely. ‘It’s not as good a business as making planets, I must admit - Clanlaylia is just another construction company out of the millions that exist in this Universe. Much more stable business than ours, though - the economic collapse didn’t affect them much.’
In a few minutes the basic structure of the planet was complete, and Slartibartfast took him to another room. There, he asked the Doctor a few questions about Gallifrey - the colour of the sky, the smell of the plants, the exact tint of the mountain caps of Solace and Solitude. It became more and more like a questionnaire, except with the same kind of questions repeated over and over again. Slartibartfast would sometimes rummage under his desk to pull out two coloured squares, both burnt oranges, one slightly lighter than the other. He would then ask the Doctor which was nearer to the colour of the sky, and this process went on for an hour or so.
When they had finished, the old man stood up, shook his client’s hand, and said; ‘we will see you again in three weeks.’
The two days were like pieces of a fairytale; they felt neither real nor plausible. He was sitting at the controls of the TARDIS, deep in thought, but not really thinking at all. His new Gallifrey appeared on the screen, burning in the middle of the black universe like a gem; shining, shimmering, looking down on the galaxies below - and then he remembered that there were no galaxies to look down upon. The Doctor gazed, at the cold, dead planet that was floating. It seemed wrong, wrong…
A day later, he was still sitting there. Gallifrey Mark Two was still on his screen. A clock ticked at the back of his head, a voice told him to -
A mad, hollow laugh came out of his mouth. It lasted long and deep, ringing throughout the TARDIS. It was an insane laugh - a laugh of despair, absurdity, pain.
Then it was silent; a few moments later the sound of a TARDIS taking off could be heard.
(And Gallifrey Mark Two glowed coldly.)