New fic: Consume the Heart 1/1
This is for 
cryptile, who wanted a Yeats-fic based on Sailing to Byzantium. Sorry I couldn't do One, but there's a tiny bit of Five.
Story: Consume the Heart
Author: WMR
Rated: PG
Characters: Ten, Rose
Spoilers: All up to The Christmas Invasion
Summary: Renewed, purged, consumed inside and out, replaced by this latest model, a phoenix risen from the ashes.
With many thanks and huge appreciation to my wonderful BR,
dark_aegis, and her friend George. ;)
Consume the Heart
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
William Butler Yeats: Sailing to Byzantium
You would think that, after nine times, it would get easier. You would think. But, no, Time herself and Time Lord physiology had to make it difficult - each occasion, too, seeming harder than the last.
This time, he was younger, too. And definitely bouncier. It was as if, having been consumed by the fires of Gallifrey’s burning and come out whole in body but reduced to smouldering ashes in spirit from the conflagration, whatever gods might exist in the universe had decided to be kinder this time.
The last time he’d been this young... oh, it seemed so long ago now, before the dark days, before he became Time’s Champion, before Gallifrey, before the burning... but that had been a good life. His fifth. Cricket. The celery. Tegan. Oh, and Nyssa and Peri and Adric, and even Turlough. Good companions, good friends. All long gone, of course.
That regeneration had been a difficult one. Not his worst, though he had to admit that dying of spectrox poisoning hadn’t been pleasant. Rather an ignominious start to that life, too, falling off that radio tower. Though whether spectrox was preferable or not to being shot in one of his hearts and dying on an operating table...
Still not his worst death... but he wouldn’t dwell on that. On the other hand, this death... if there was ever a cause worth dying for, Rose Tyler was it.
Living, on the other hand, wasn’t so easy.
Regeneration sickness; check. Humans blundering about not understanding that he needed time to get over it; check. Aliens choosing just the wrong time to invade; check. Waking just in time to save the day; check.
Companion losing faith in him; check.
An old man in a young man’s body. He’d begun as a young man in an old, frail body; now he was old yet barely out of his youth.
The universe was no place for the old and frail; what he would have done had Fate returned him to the state he’d been in when he’d first arrived on Earth was a question he was rather glad he didn’t have to answer. No, he had youth and vitality, a renewed love of life and the universe, and his TARDIS.
The question remained: what else did he have?
Rose Tyler. Rose, who loved his previous self, that broken, bitter man whose attitude to life and living was summed up by the battered jacket he’d worn and the don’t touch attitude he’d exuded. She’d taken his dark, seared soul and, bit by bit, begun to make him whole again.
Then she’d finished the job when the fire had nearly consumed her.
He’d taken the flames instead, let them consume him instead of her, and given his life for hers.
Renewed, purged, consumed inside and out, replaced by this latest model, a phoenix risen from the ashes, he was ready to embark on his new life. Ready to offer her his hand, his company, for a new voyage. Still him, still the same Doctor inside, but different.
And she was hesitating.
She’d said yes. Had taken his hand. Had smiled at him. Had even nestled against him a little as they’d chased the stars with their pointing fingers. New eyes gazing out at the universe. New hand holding hers.
But still she was unsure. Still looked for his previous self and was startled to see untidy brown hair instead of short dark hair. Still looked taken aback at the brown suit, the lack of battered leather.
Nothing new, this reaction. He’d experienced it before. Yet it was always a shock, always hurtful. He was himself. Still him, inside. Why couldn’t these humans see that? Why was the external, the visible, so important to them?
It did hurt more this time. Perhaps because he’d died for her - had made that deliberate decision, in the same minute he’d known that the fires of the Vortex would consume and destroy her, that he would not, could not, let that happen. Ironic that fire should end his ninth life, just as it had his eighth.
So, she was only alive because he’d died. And he knew, just by looking at her, that some part of her hated him for having died.
Of course, he’d died for a companion before. Peri hadn’t been all that grateful, either - but she’d had some excuse. His sixth self hadn’t been all that nice to her.
Rose, now... Oh, here she was again, studying him out of the corner of her eye, sneaking glances at him when she thought he couldn’t see. Searching for differences? Looking for similarities? Looking for him?
It was the fire, Rose. He burned. I burned. So that you wouldn’t.
Which would have been easier? To live, knowing she was dead and that she loved him; or to die, knowing that she was alive and that she didn’t love him now? That she would leave him?
No question about it. Die, every time. In the great equation between Doctor and companion, companion would always win. That was just the kind of man he was. Always had been. Some things remained constant, regardless of the body.
Always restless. Always searching. Always discovering. Dreaming, too, sometimes, until dreaming had ceased with Gallifrey. Regretting. Always regretting, wishing he’d made different decisions, wishing he could undo mistakes he’d made.
Nine lives, nine times a lifetime’s worth of regrets. Life number ten, now. Could he hope that by now he would have learned to do better? That he could avoid repeating the endless pattern, making the same mistakes over and over again?
Fanciful. If there was one thing nine lives had taught him, it was that he was doomed to repeat mistakes, to get things wrong, to disappoint others around him. Nine lives down and he was still unable to resist meddling. Sword-fights. Pressing great big red buttons. Destroying a prime minister’s career.
No; this life would be no different. He would still get things wrong at least as often as he’d get them right.
Though perhaps this time it might occur to him to warn his companions about regeneration before it happened. Perhaps then he wouldn’t have this awkwardness, this need to persuade her - or whoever - that he was still himself. Perhaps she wouldn’t resent him for changing. Or for not telling her that he would.
She was watching him again. Coming closer, this time, her gaze darting all over him. Face, hands, body, hair, legs; all received her scrutiny. All different, no outward sign left of the man he had been.
Not too many inward signs, either. She’d notice that soon enough, too.
The fire had done that, as it had previously. Burning and remaking, all in one surge of the inferno.
He’d burned on what should have been her funeral pyre. But this time the flames hadn’t seared, hadn’t scarred. Instead, they’d cleansed, revived, renewed. Left him whole and fresh and young.
He even felt young, this time.
“Doctor?”
Ah, she was talking at last. Now, the questions. The reproaches, perhaps? The need to understand, or the need to make him understand?
“Yes?” The new voice, with its new accent. Same title, different man - yet, unlike emperors of old passing the title and honours from father to son, the same man.
“It is still you inside, right? Same as before? Just a different body?”
He’d been frivolous before. Now, he would be serious. “Yes and no.”
“Now I definitely know it’s still you.” She shook her head, sending ripples through the blonde curtain. “Never could give a straight answer to a simple question.”
“Ah, but is it a simple question?” He folded his arms - hmm, longer than before or not? Thinner fingers, definitely. “The essential elements are the same. What makes the Doctor the Doctor?” He met her gaze, held it. “I’m still me in that respect. Personality, now... That always changes. One me might have a terrible temper, and another me might never get angry.”
“But you still want to do good an’ save the universe an’ help, right?”
“Well, wanting is one thing. Whether I actually succeed or not is another matter.”
“You did succeed, though. Didn’t you? The Daleks are gone. The Earth is safe.”
Ah, but it was her success, not his. Not content with saving her Doctor, she’d saved the universe.
One day, he would tell her. But not yet.
For now, there remained a different question. What she would do. Whether the flames that took the old him from her would end up driving her from him.
“The universe is safe, yes. Until the next megalomaniac tries to destroy everything within sight.”
“An’ when that happens, we’ll be there, right? To stop ‘im?” She was still coming closer.
We.
“We probably will. On past history, more than likely will.”
He extended his hand to her. She came over and took it, folding her fingers around hers.
He had burned. He had shed his old skin, and his old damaged psyche along with it. A new him had been forged in the flames of the conflagration she had caused. A new, younger, happier, whole him.
The cycle of death and regeneration continued, and in between the flames... life. Youth and vitality and energy and excitement - and love.
For better or worse, this was him. Still the Doctor. Still bumbling around trying to make time and the universe a better place. Still here.
And, he knew as her gaze met his again, still loved.
The universe was out there still, waiting to be explored. All its majesty and wonders and beauty and mysteries, there to be discovered. Waiting for them.
She lived. He lived.
The flames burned, but they also forged. His body was consumed; his body was renewed. His soul was healed.
She had led him into the fire; now she was leading him out of it. Stronger than before. The fire had tested their bond, and it was stronger too. Forged through life and death and flames and sacrifice, and leading them to here and now, on a new voyage of discovery.
Perhaps it was going to be easier this time. But then, since this was his tenth life, it was about time he started getting it right.
END
cryptile, who wanted a Yeats-fic based on Sailing to Byzantium. Sorry I couldn't do One, but there's a tiny bit of Five.
Story: Consume the Heart
Author: WMR
Rated: PG
Characters: Ten, Rose
Spoilers: All up to The Christmas Invasion
Summary: Renewed, purged, consumed inside and out, replaced by this latest model, a phoenix risen from the ashes.
With many thanks and huge appreciation to my wonderful BR,
dark_aegis, and her friend George. ;)
Consume the Heart
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
William Butler Yeats: Sailing to Byzantium
You would think that, after nine times, it would get easier. You would think. But, no, Time herself and Time Lord physiology had to make it difficult - each occasion, too, seeming harder than the last.
This time, he was younger, too. And definitely bouncier. It was as if, having been consumed by the fires of Gallifrey’s burning and come out whole in body but reduced to smouldering ashes in spirit from the conflagration, whatever gods might exist in the universe had decided to be kinder this time.
The last time he’d been this young... oh, it seemed so long ago now, before the dark days, before he became Time’s Champion, before Gallifrey, before the burning... but that had been a good life. His fifth. Cricket. The celery. Tegan. Oh, and Nyssa and Peri and Adric, and even Turlough. Good companions, good friends. All long gone, of course.
That regeneration had been a difficult one. Not his worst, though he had to admit that dying of spectrox poisoning hadn’t been pleasant. Rather an ignominious start to that life, too, falling off that radio tower. Though whether spectrox was preferable or not to being shot in one of his hearts and dying on an operating table...
Still not his worst death... but he wouldn’t dwell on that. On the other hand, this death... if there was ever a cause worth dying for, Rose Tyler was it.
Living, on the other hand, wasn’t so easy.
Regeneration sickness; check. Humans blundering about not understanding that he needed time to get over it; check. Aliens choosing just the wrong time to invade; check. Waking just in time to save the day; check.
Companion losing faith in him; check.
An old man in a young man’s body. He’d begun as a young man in an old, frail body; now he was old yet barely out of his youth.
The universe was no place for the old and frail; what he would have done had Fate returned him to the state he’d been in when he’d first arrived on Earth was a question he was rather glad he didn’t have to answer. No, he had youth and vitality, a renewed love of life and the universe, and his TARDIS.
The question remained: what else did he have?
Rose Tyler. Rose, who loved his previous self, that broken, bitter man whose attitude to life and living was summed up by the battered jacket he’d worn and the don’t touch attitude he’d exuded. She’d taken his dark, seared soul and, bit by bit, begun to make him whole again.
Then she’d finished the job when the fire had nearly consumed her.
He’d taken the flames instead, let them consume him instead of her, and given his life for hers.
Renewed, purged, consumed inside and out, replaced by this latest model, a phoenix risen from the ashes, he was ready to embark on his new life. Ready to offer her his hand, his company, for a new voyage. Still him, still the same Doctor inside, but different.
And she was hesitating.
She’d said yes. Had taken his hand. Had smiled at him. Had even nestled against him a little as they’d chased the stars with their pointing fingers. New eyes gazing out at the universe. New hand holding hers.
But still she was unsure. Still looked for his previous self and was startled to see untidy brown hair instead of short dark hair. Still looked taken aback at the brown suit, the lack of battered leather.
Nothing new, this reaction. He’d experienced it before. Yet it was always a shock, always hurtful. He was himself. Still him, inside. Why couldn’t these humans see that? Why was the external, the visible, so important to them?
It did hurt more this time. Perhaps because he’d died for her - had made that deliberate decision, in the same minute he’d known that the fires of the Vortex would consume and destroy her, that he would not, could not, let that happen. Ironic that fire should end his ninth life, just as it had his eighth.
So, she was only alive because he’d died. And he knew, just by looking at her, that some part of her hated him for having died.
Of course, he’d died for a companion before. Peri hadn’t been all that grateful, either - but she’d had some excuse. His sixth self hadn’t been all that nice to her.
Rose, now... Oh, here she was again, studying him out of the corner of her eye, sneaking glances at him when she thought he couldn’t see. Searching for differences? Looking for similarities? Looking for him?
It was the fire, Rose. He burned. I burned. So that you wouldn’t.
Which would have been easier? To live, knowing she was dead and that she loved him; or to die, knowing that she was alive and that she didn’t love him now? That she would leave him?
No question about it. Die, every time. In the great equation between Doctor and companion, companion would always win. That was just the kind of man he was. Always had been. Some things remained constant, regardless of the body.
Always restless. Always searching. Always discovering. Dreaming, too, sometimes, until dreaming had ceased with Gallifrey. Regretting. Always regretting, wishing he’d made different decisions, wishing he could undo mistakes he’d made.
Nine lives, nine times a lifetime’s worth of regrets. Life number ten, now. Could he hope that by now he would have learned to do better? That he could avoid repeating the endless pattern, making the same mistakes over and over again?
Fanciful. If there was one thing nine lives had taught him, it was that he was doomed to repeat mistakes, to get things wrong, to disappoint others around him. Nine lives down and he was still unable to resist meddling. Sword-fights. Pressing great big red buttons. Destroying a prime minister’s career.
No; this life would be no different. He would still get things wrong at least as often as he’d get them right.
Though perhaps this time it might occur to him to warn his companions about regeneration before it happened. Perhaps then he wouldn’t have this awkwardness, this need to persuade her - or whoever - that he was still himself. Perhaps she wouldn’t resent him for changing. Or for not telling her that he would.
She was watching him again. Coming closer, this time, her gaze darting all over him. Face, hands, body, hair, legs; all received her scrutiny. All different, no outward sign left of the man he had been.
Not too many inward signs, either. She’d notice that soon enough, too.
The fire had done that, as it had previously. Burning and remaking, all in one surge of the inferno.
He’d burned on what should have been her funeral pyre. But this time the flames hadn’t seared, hadn’t scarred. Instead, they’d cleansed, revived, renewed. Left him whole and fresh and young.
He even felt young, this time.
“Doctor?”
Ah, she was talking at last. Now, the questions. The reproaches, perhaps? The need to understand, or the need to make him understand?
“Yes?” The new voice, with its new accent. Same title, different man - yet, unlike emperors of old passing the title and honours from father to son, the same man.
“It is still you inside, right? Same as before? Just a different body?”
He’d been frivolous before. Now, he would be serious. “Yes and no.”
“Now I definitely know it’s still you.” She shook her head, sending ripples through the blonde curtain. “Never could give a straight answer to a simple question.”
“Ah, but is it a simple question?” He folded his arms - hmm, longer than before or not? Thinner fingers, definitely. “The essential elements are the same. What makes the Doctor the Doctor?” He met her gaze, held it. “I’m still me in that respect. Personality, now... That always changes. One me might have a terrible temper, and another me might never get angry.”
“But you still want to do good an’ save the universe an’ help, right?”
“Well, wanting is one thing. Whether I actually succeed or not is another matter.”
“You did succeed, though. Didn’t you? The Daleks are gone. The Earth is safe.”
Ah, but it was her success, not his. Not content with saving her Doctor, she’d saved the universe.
One day, he would tell her. But not yet.
For now, there remained a different question. What she would do. Whether the flames that took the old him from her would end up driving her from him.
“The universe is safe, yes. Until the next megalomaniac tries to destroy everything within sight.”
“An’ when that happens, we’ll be there, right? To stop ‘im?” She was still coming closer.
We.
“We probably will. On past history, more than likely will.”
He extended his hand to her. She came over and took it, folding her fingers around hers.
He had burned. He had shed his old skin, and his old damaged psyche along with it. A new him had been forged in the flames of the conflagration she had caused. A new, younger, happier, whole him.
The cycle of death and regeneration continued, and in between the flames... life. Youth and vitality and energy and excitement - and love.
For better or worse, this was him. Still the Doctor. Still bumbling around trying to make time and the universe a better place. Still here.
And, he knew as her gaze met his again, still loved.
The universe was out there still, waiting to be explored. All its majesty and wonders and beauty and mysteries, there to be discovered. Waiting for them.
She lived. He lived.
The flames burned, but they also forged. His body was consumed; his body was renewed. His soul was healed.
She had led him into the fire; now she was leading him out of it. Stronger than before. The fire had tested their bond, and it was stronger too. Forged through life and death and flames and sacrifice, and leading them to here and now, on a new voyage of discovery.
Perhaps it was going to be easier this time. But then, since this was his tenth life, it was about time he started getting it right.
END