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crack_van2010-10-05 04:34 pm
sandystarr88.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2010-10-05 04:34 pm
Entry tags:
Measure of a Time Lord by Gillian Taylor (Adult)
Fandom: DOCTOR WHO
Pairing: Doctor/Rose
Length: ~42,500
Author on LJ: [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]
Author Website: My Completed Fan Fics
Why this must be read:
Because this author does an excellent job creating this alien world and the circumstances that would have the Doctor entrusting his memories to Rose. I loved how strong Rose was portrayed in this piece, you could really tell that she's someone that refuses to just lie down. This story is amnesia!fic at its best and one that everyone should read.
His life, his entire existence was defined by fragments.
Fragments of memories scattered to the winds and his fragmented existence on a pastoral world. In the first few days, he'd tried to leave the small farming community, convinced that something important lay just beyond the hills. However, each time, he was forced back by the others who shared his particular fate. After the days faded into weeks, his escape attempts grew fewer but he hadn't stopped planning.
He knew that there was more to life than this. More to life than farming. More to life than repairing the various implements that the others used in the fields. He wanted to explore, to see what there was to see, to climb the first hill, then the next, and then the next until the farming community was nothing more than a not-so-fond memory.
There was something missing in this life. He knew that he wasn't meant for this meagre existence of working from sunup to sundown in the smithy. In moments of rest, he found himself carving strangely familiar shapes in fragments of wood. A strangely shaped dog, a box, a symbol that looked like a stylized number '8'. These creative efforts were scattered about the smithy, hidden in corners where they would not be disturbed by the others.
If they knew he still dreamed of escape, of another life, he'd be punished. He'd seen it happen before with Tomas, with Renan, with Wieler. But it didn't matter. He couldn't stop thinking about it. There was more to existence than this...farce. But the memories weren't there. All he had was a name to go by. A single name.
Doctor.
Yet it was nothing more than a word wrapped in an enigma. Was that his name? A title? A meaningless word? Why did he feel two hearts beating beneath his chest when he knew that the others only had one? Why was he different? What was it that made him unique? Physiology alone, or was there more to it than that?
It was only at night that he could truly find a means of escape. It was only by watching the slow spiral of the stars in the sky that he felt free. Somehow, they were all familiar to him. He knew them, almost as if he'd been there. The others accused him of being far too fanciful - the only existence they had on Yervanos was here. They'd always been here, would always be here. This was their fate. Their lot in life.
Yet he wasn't as convinced. It was the small things, the small recollections, the carvings, and his refusal to accept what his senses told him.
Reality lies.
But how could he know that?
This reality was all he could remember beyond the fragments of memories that came to him at odd moments or within his dreams. And, if those truly were his memories, did he want to know that there was more to his existence than this smithy, this village, this world?
Fire blazed in his mind, roaring through his synapses…
He shook his head, braced himself against the wooden bench, and sighed as he fought against the onslaught of the indistinct recollection. Why could he only remember pain and death? Surely there was something more worthwhile in his former life than that. He was convinced that there had to be.
Enough. Wool-gathering didn't become him. He was a... whatever he was. And he was certain that this wasn't him. "Who am I?" he asked the silent smithy, staring blankly at the tools of his trade.
As if in answer, one of the double doors creaked open and Firin shuffled through the gap in the odd half-shuffle, half-step that he'd adopted since his accident. A backhoe had caught his leg a few months earlier and had damaged it enough that he now had a pronounced limp. It was only through the use of crutches - crutches that he'd fashioned the first night after he'd arrived (or was that the first night his memories started?) - that the man could move about the village.
"Thought I'd find you here, Doctor," Firin said.
This, he knew, couldn't be good. "It's late, Firin. What's wrong?" he asked.
"Wrong? Why do you always assume that something's wrong? Can't I just visit my friend without…" Firin's voice trailed off as he seemed to catch his sceptical expression. "Oh, all right. You caught me, man. Can't get anything past you, now can I? Doctor, Reane found one of your carvings."
"If he'd wanted a toy, I could've come up with something appropriate. Think he'd fancy a miniature wheelbarrow?" he asked, folding his arms as he leaned against a bench.
"This is serious. He brought it before the village council. They'll be sending someone around tomorrow morning to inspect the smithy. If they find another carving, you know what'll happen," Firin warned, his expression sympathetic.
It didn't bother him, not really. They'd find what they wanted to find. And, if they found one of his carvings, so be it. He wasn't about to run away from anything, which included the council.
Council? Something about colourful robes and strange headdresses came to mind when he thought of the word. And sadness? "Nothing like the threat of a beating to get one's hearts pounding, you know."
Firin shook his head. "Doctor, I've done all I can. Please, get rid of the carvings. Before it's too late."
He shrugged. "If they want to oust me, Firin, they will. With or without those carvings. There's nothing you, nor I, can do about it. And that's okay. That happens. Admittedly, I'd prefer not to find myself locked up or in the stockade anytime soon, but that's just a little quirk of mine." At least, he assumed it was a quirk. That was the problem with not knowing. Not knowing who he was, really, beyond a blacksmith. That was just an occupation. A task. A duty. A job. It wasn't him.
Who am I?
He shook off the thought and smiled maniacally at Firin. "'Sides, it's been a while since I've really been challenged around here. A legal fight, or whatever Reane wants, would be a nice diversion."
Firin folded his arms and sighed. "You know as well as I do that it doesn't work that way. The councillors-"
"Are full of themselves," he interrupted, completing the sentence. He felt almost as if he were referring to something other than the village council. "It isn't enough for them to manage this little village of ours, they 'ave to micromanage us as well. 'S not right an' that's not how this is supposed to be." He wasn't certain who he was referring to. Himself and his lack of self-identity or the petty bureaucrats that ran the village.
"That's the way it's always been. You can't change it. They are as set in their ways as you are. No, don't look at me like that. You are. You strive to fight against what you see as injustice because that's the way you are. That's what makes you you. And that's why I am honoured to consider you my friend. There are far too few like you." Firin smiled and reached out to touch his shoulder. "But heed my warning, my friend. Please."
He sighed and nodded, though it was a reluctant gesture. He'd heed Firin's warning. Of course he would. And then he'd dismiss it off-hand. It was hard to muster enough concern to even manage to twist his expression into something vaguely approaching worry over the inevitable fight between him and the council. There were far more important things to attract his attention.
Figuring out what had happened to his memories would do for a start.
Firin smiled, but he suspected that the other man knew he had no intention of following his request. "I'll leave you for the evening."
"'Night, Firin," he said, smiling faintly.
"Oh, and, Doctor?" Firin asked, his hand resting on the door handle. "Take care." His friend's eyes were intense as he looked at him, almost as if he were easily read. That thought bothered him, but sometimes he had to admit that he was rather predictable. In some things. Well, most things.
"I will," he replied as he watched the other man leave the smithy.
Alone once more, he gave a passing thought to gathering his carvings and secreting them away somewhere. Perhaps under the loose board by the stoker or under a pile of straw. Almost as soon as the thought occurred, he dismissed it. As he'd told Firin, they'd find a way to condemn him with or without evidence. If they wanted it badly enough, it'd happen.
That was what happened when one was a bit of a rebel.
Rebel…
The word resonated strangely within him and he shook his head. Yet another mystery. Words that struck a chord within him, vague recollections of words or thoughts or deeds but nothing solid. A flash of blonde hair that he thought was familiar. An ache that settled beneath his hearts at the thought of the word 'home'. A flash of silver that made him reach for a poker and realise that it wasn't right. It should've been smaller, with a blue light at the end. But he couldn't remember why.
He suspected that he knew now why people went mad. With nothing to measure or weight himself against, with no memories to judge who he was, what did that make him? What was he? Different, yes. An alien, most likely. But what else? What else was there?
His hands curled into fists and he braced himself against one of the workbenches. He knew that he had a tendency to brood. An inclination to analyse a situation and come up with a solution that tended to work. And a need to move, to explore, to see what there was to see.
He knew that there had to be more to life than this.
It hadn't taken him long to discover that he wasn't the only one with gaps in his memory. There were others who'd suffered that same fate, which meant - at least in his eyes - that something was terribly wrong with the village. Memories didn't just up and disappear. They didn't just vanish. Sure, a blow to the head could cause amnesia, but a plague of amnesia?
It wasn't a communicable disease.
But, when it came to this particular life, it seemed that it was.
With a sigh, he dismissed his thoughts. He could brood about it later. First, he had to dampen the fire for the night and move anything flammable away from the flames. He knew...
Flames. Burning higher and higher, swallowing thousands of souls, millions. And they all screamed.
...that it only took a spark to burn down the village. He might be many things, but an arsonist wasn't one of them.
Then, perhaps, he could try to sleep. He felt tired enough for that. It had been several days since he'd allowed himself rest. And, judging by Firin's comments, it wasn't likely that he'd be able to sleep for some time to come.
He'd try. He'd curl himself into the tiny mattress that he'd claimed as a bed - when he dared to sleep - and let the dreams take him. Maybe tonight he wouldn't dream. Wouldn't have any nightmares. Somehow, he doubted it.
Measure of a Time Lord
Pairing: Doctor/Rose
Length: ~42,500
Author on LJ: [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]
Author Website: My Completed Fan Fics
Why this must be read:
Because this author does an excellent job creating this alien world and the circumstances that would have the Doctor entrusting his memories to Rose. I loved how strong Rose was portrayed in this piece, you could really tell that she's someone that refuses to just lie down. This story is amnesia!fic at its best and one that everyone should read.
His life, his entire existence was defined by fragments.
Fragments of memories scattered to the winds and his fragmented existence on a pastoral world. In the first few days, he'd tried to leave the small farming community, convinced that something important lay just beyond the hills. However, each time, he was forced back by the others who shared his particular fate. After the days faded into weeks, his escape attempts grew fewer but he hadn't stopped planning.
He knew that there was more to life than this. More to life than farming. More to life than repairing the various implements that the others used in the fields. He wanted to explore, to see what there was to see, to climb the first hill, then the next, and then the next until the farming community was nothing more than a not-so-fond memory.
There was something missing in this life. He knew that he wasn't meant for this meagre existence of working from sunup to sundown in the smithy. In moments of rest, he found himself carving strangely familiar shapes in fragments of wood. A strangely shaped dog, a box, a symbol that looked like a stylized number '8'. These creative efforts were scattered about the smithy, hidden in corners where they would not be disturbed by the others.
If they knew he still dreamed of escape, of another life, he'd be punished. He'd seen it happen before with Tomas, with Renan, with Wieler. But it didn't matter. He couldn't stop thinking about it. There was more to existence than this...farce. But the memories weren't there. All he had was a name to go by. A single name.
Doctor.
Yet it was nothing more than a word wrapped in an enigma. Was that his name? A title? A meaningless word? Why did he feel two hearts beating beneath his chest when he knew that the others only had one? Why was he different? What was it that made him unique? Physiology alone, or was there more to it than that?
It was only at night that he could truly find a means of escape. It was only by watching the slow spiral of the stars in the sky that he felt free. Somehow, they were all familiar to him. He knew them, almost as if he'd been there. The others accused him of being far too fanciful - the only existence they had on Yervanos was here. They'd always been here, would always be here. This was their fate. Their lot in life.
Yet he wasn't as convinced. It was the small things, the small recollections, the carvings, and his refusal to accept what his senses told him.
Reality lies.
But how could he know that?
This reality was all he could remember beyond the fragments of memories that came to him at odd moments or within his dreams. And, if those truly were his memories, did he want to know that there was more to his existence than this smithy, this village, this world?
Fire blazed in his mind, roaring through his synapses…
He shook his head, braced himself against the wooden bench, and sighed as he fought against the onslaught of the indistinct recollection. Why could he only remember pain and death? Surely there was something more worthwhile in his former life than that. He was convinced that there had to be.
Enough. Wool-gathering didn't become him. He was a... whatever he was. And he was certain that this wasn't him. "Who am I?" he asked the silent smithy, staring blankly at the tools of his trade.
As if in answer, one of the double doors creaked open and Firin shuffled through the gap in the odd half-shuffle, half-step that he'd adopted since his accident. A backhoe had caught his leg a few months earlier and had damaged it enough that he now had a pronounced limp. It was only through the use of crutches - crutches that he'd fashioned the first night after he'd arrived (or was that the first night his memories started?) - that the man could move about the village.
"Thought I'd find you here, Doctor," Firin said.
This, he knew, couldn't be good. "It's late, Firin. What's wrong?" he asked.
"Wrong? Why do you always assume that something's wrong? Can't I just visit my friend without…" Firin's voice trailed off as he seemed to catch his sceptical expression. "Oh, all right. You caught me, man. Can't get anything past you, now can I? Doctor, Reane found one of your carvings."
"If he'd wanted a toy, I could've come up with something appropriate. Think he'd fancy a miniature wheelbarrow?" he asked, folding his arms as he leaned against a bench.
"This is serious. He brought it before the village council. They'll be sending someone around tomorrow morning to inspect the smithy. If they find another carving, you know what'll happen," Firin warned, his expression sympathetic.
It didn't bother him, not really. They'd find what they wanted to find. And, if they found one of his carvings, so be it. He wasn't about to run away from anything, which included the council.
Council? Something about colourful robes and strange headdresses came to mind when he thought of the word. And sadness? "Nothing like the threat of a beating to get one's hearts pounding, you know."
Firin shook his head. "Doctor, I've done all I can. Please, get rid of the carvings. Before it's too late."
He shrugged. "If they want to oust me, Firin, they will. With or without those carvings. There's nothing you, nor I, can do about it. And that's okay. That happens. Admittedly, I'd prefer not to find myself locked up or in the stockade anytime soon, but that's just a little quirk of mine." At least, he assumed it was a quirk. That was the problem with not knowing. Not knowing who he was, really, beyond a blacksmith. That was just an occupation. A task. A duty. A job. It wasn't him.
Who am I?
He shook off the thought and smiled maniacally at Firin. "'Sides, it's been a while since I've really been challenged around here. A legal fight, or whatever Reane wants, would be a nice diversion."
Firin folded his arms and sighed. "You know as well as I do that it doesn't work that way. The councillors-"
"Are full of themselves," he interrupted, completing the sentence. He felt almost as if he were referring to something other than the village council. "It isn't enough for them to manage this little village of ours, they 'ave to micromanage us as well. 'S not right an' that's not how this is supposed to be." He wasn't certain who he was referring to. Himself and his lack of self-identity or the petty bureaucrats that ran the village.
"That's the way it's always been. You can't change it. They are as set in their ways as you are. No, don't look at me like that. You are. You strive to fight against what you see as injustice because that's the way you are. That's what makes you you. And that's why I am honoured to consider you my friend. There are far too few like you." Firin smiled and reached out to touch his shoulder. "But heed my warning, my friend. Please."
He sighed and nodded, though it was a reluctant gesture. He'd heed Firin's warning. Of course he would. And then he'd dismiss it off-hand. It was hard to muster enough concern to even manage to twist his expression into something vaguely approaching worry over the inevitable fight between him and the council. There were far more important things to attract his attention.
Figuring out what had happened to his memories would do for a start.
Firin smiled, but he suspected that the other man knew he had no intention of following his request. "I'll leave you for the evening."
"'Night, Firin," he said, smiling faintly.
"Oh, and, Doctor?" Firin asked, his hand resting on the door handle. "Take care." His friend's eyes were intense as he looked at him, almost as if he were easily read. That thought bothered him, but sometimes he had to admit that he was rather predictable. In some things. Well, most things.
"I will," he replied as he watched the other man leave the smithy.
Alone once more, he gave a passing thought to gathering his carvings and secreting them away somewhere. Perhaps under the loose board by the stoker or under a pile of straw. Almost as soon as the thought occurred, he dismissed it. As he'd told Firin, they'd find a way to condemn him with or without evidence. If they wanted it badly enough, it'd happen.
That was what happened when one was a bit of a rebel.
Rebel…
The word resonated strangely within him and he shook his head. Yet another mystery. Words that struck a chord within him, vague recollections of words or thoughts or deeds but nothing solid. A flash of blonde hair that he thought was familiar. An ache that settled beneath his hearts at the thought of the word 'home'. A flash of silver that made him reach for a poker and realise that it wasn't right. It should've been smaller, with a blue light at the end. But he couldn't remember why.
He suspected that he knew now why people went mad. With nothing to measure or weight himself against, with no memories to judge who he was, what did that make him? What was he? Different, yes. An alien, most likely. But what else? What else was there?
His hands curled into fists and he braced himself against one of the workbenches. He knew that he had a tendency to brood. An inclination to analyse a situation and come up with a solution that tended to work. And a need to move, to explore, to see what there was to see.
He knew that there had to be more to life than this.
It hadn't taken him long to discover that he wasn't the only one with gaps in his memory. There were others who'd suffered that same fate, which meant - at least in his eyes - that something was terribly wrong with the village. Memories didn't just up and disappear. They didn't just vanish. Sure, a blow to the head could cause amnesia, but a plague of amnesia?
It wasn't a communicable disease.
But, when it came to this particular life, it seemed that it was.
With a sigh, he dismissed his thoughts. He could brood about it later. First, he had to dampen the fire for the night and move anything flammable away from the flames. He knew...
Flames. Burning higher and higher, swallowing thousands of souls, millions. And they all screamed.
...that it only took a spark to burn down the village. He might be many things, but an arsonist wasn't one of them.
Then, perhaps, he could try to sleep. He felt tired enough for that. It had been several days since he'd allowed himself rest. And, judging by Firin's comments, it wasn't likely that he'd be able to sleep for some time to come.
He'd try. He'd curl himself into the tiny mattress that he'd claimed as a bed - when he dared to sleep - and let the dreams take him. Maybe tonight he wouldn't dream. Wouldn't have any nightmares. Somehow, he doubted it.
Measure of a Time Lord