![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
Title: Eclipse
Rating: R
Pairing: Ten/Donna (Friendship)
Word Count: 1,428
Summary: The Doctor has to make a choice; one which will determine whether Donna lives or dies. Spoilers for Doctor Who 4.13 - Journey’s End.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Story title inspired by The Frames.
Author’s Notes: Is it weird that I kind of liked writing disembodied voices from the perspective of the TARDIS/time vortex/Bad Wolf? Is that very strange? Hmm... anyway, here goes the climax of this initial part of the tale. Hope you enjoy :) Feedback, as always, is love.
Part One: Eulalie
Part Two: Desperate Moments In Linear Time
Part Three: Ontological Subjectivity
The metal clamps, spiking out from all around the device, looked strangely menacing, more so than they ever had before. He remembered bits and pieces of his last, his only encounter with the Arch, and every single one of them involved nothing but real and all consuming pain. It twisted in his gut, speared honest and profound regret through his hearts to think that he was going to do this to her, his Donna; he was taking so much from her - stealing her humanity without her input, without even asking; without any indication that this was what she wanted. Of course, she hadn’t seemed very keen on the idea of losing her memories of her time in the TARDIS, but that certainly didn’t mean that she wanted to swap her biology by default.
He shook his head, careful not to touch her, scared of her suddenly - her fragility making him increasingly nervous as all of the dreadful possibilities began to flood him, the unpredictability of what they were doing, what he was doing - he could kill her, for all he knew, in a fit of pain and shifting organs and refusing bones and snapping muscles. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he approached her, slowly and carefully fitting the small metallic dome over her forehead and tightening the extensions, watching as it sensed the dimensions of her skull and automatically fixed itself to her head.
“I’m sorry, Donna,” he whispered, filled with remorse as he leaned close to her, fiddling with the settings once more to make certain that they were as they should be, to make sure everything was in place and properly configured. “I’m so sorry.”
Dipping his chin, he pressed pursed lips to her brow, stroking away her sweat-soaked hair as he whispered into her ear before activating the conversion sequence, “Forgive me.”
----------------------------------------
The conversation with the nothingness, with the everything, with the shapeless, formless blob - the splotch of light, like a floater in her vision; it was something she didn’t quite understand, and wasn’t entirely sure she was comfortable with.
She could ask it anything, it had told her. It sounded like a woman, mostly, but sometimes she could swear she caught the barest glimpse of its silhouette, and it looked almost... canine. Therefore, in her head, it was still definitively genderless; and of this genderless mass of whatever it was, who seemed to know just about everything, she couldn’t quite think of anything worthwhile to ask.
“I create myself,” it kept insisting in the space of her silence, its voice patient and warm, somehow. “I write my own destiny.”
“He is choosing for you.”
She turned her head, or at least, what would have been her head - she couldn’t see her body anymore, but given the location of her eye level, the comparative proximity of her point of vision, she could guess at most things.
It was a bit unsettling to think that she didn’t seem to have a corporeal form any longer, and she hadn’t even batted an eyelash at that fact.
“He? What’s he choosing?”
Her voice echoed, and it was cold, harsh; almost weak, fluttering around like a wisp before dissolving into nothing, a useless memory of something that hadn’t even mattered in the first place - so unlike the sound vibrating from the light.
“He is frightened,” the voice was positively thrumming now, pulsating - urgent, somehow, and sad, but still so calm. “Can you feel his fear?”
The note of mourning in the words penetrated her consciousness, and it sparked something deep in her soul - she could feel it, acutely; a terrible, all-consuming terror that made her heart jump and her head spin and everything in her nonexistent body tremble - made her blood run cold.
“The measure of a man can often be judged in the manner in which he suffers his losses,” the disembodied voice told her, seeming to read her reaction, or maybe even her thoughts - she wouldn’t have put that past it, really. “My Doctor is terrible with sacrifice.”
Donna couldn’t breathe for a moment, the possessive words so saturated in protection, in the desire to keep safe that it was almost shocking - it was beautiful and frightening and humbling all at once. It stole the air from her throat, choking her; and in that instant, her body surged, visible form limb to limb and beaded with sweat, flushed and clammy and shaking, pathetic; and it was burning, she was burning, with a pain beyond her imagination, beyond her comprehension. She buckled, her spine arching against the torment, and she fell, bodiless again; her vision taking its time in refocussing as she settled back into oblivion with her strange, yet comforting ball of intelligent light.
“He holds it,” the voice was closer now, inside of her mind, whispering into her psyche and morphing her, changing her - every syllable another beat of her pulse, every pause a gasp against her lungs. “The guilt; on his hearts, on his soul, like a mantle.” The voice, it seemed to sigh here, a certain air of concern permeating the ether. “His burden to bear, forevermore.”
She felt a pressure against her eyes, a push on her mind as images of people - some of whom she recognized, most of whom she didn’t - but all of whom she knew, in some sense, given the myriad of memories she now laid claim to as her own, and she felt something tug in her chest, where her chest should be (was, or would have been), as they each faded away in turn - her own face swam into view, and remained there, stronger than the rest, disappearing quickly and without waring as the shivering light spoke again. “He loves so hard.”
“He is going to try and save you,” it continued, trepidation bleeding into the cadence but the speech still endlessly infused with peace - so serene. “But at such a cost.”
“Do not fault him for wanting this, Donna Noble,” it spoke stronger now, almost hissing at her, but Donna didn’t feel threatened - if anything, she agreed; though to what, she wasn’t sure. “You were meant for more than the alternative, if not quite intended for this.”
There was a smile in the last words, a genuine affection that made her want to smile back in kind; that made her feel wanted and important - special, just like he’d told her; just like he’d finally made her believe.
“I’m sorry, Donna. I’m so sorry.” The voice was changing, almost an echo now as lips of white and golden beams, folding and refracting, sauntered into view, and it didn’t take her long to realize it what it was that she was hearing.
It was the Doctor. That was the Doctor’s voice, the Doctor’s words.
She felt suddenly heavy, like a great weight was settling, slow but steady upon her shoulders, and she shuddered against it, starting as the voice of the light, the warm and welcoming tone of it alone surged through her mind like a spear of fire, the burn almost pleasant before it began to gain greater force, spreading out from her mind and searing everywhere:
“Never forget; the universe has faith in you to endure.”
She clenched her teeth, trying to hold on to those words, feeling the grind of enamel against itself as the pain returned, as it all grew stronger, unbearable; as his voice came back - alone this time, and far away.
“Forgive me.”
She wanted to ask what for; wanted to, but couldn’t. It all hurt, and she knew that if she spoke at all, if she was capable of it still, it would only come out as a scream.
She wondered if there was anything she wouldn’t forgive him for.
“Brace yourself!” the gentle voice inside her head was now powerful - demanding. She felt it strong against her for an instant, a presence with weight and solid form, before it disappeared, slowly draining away as both voices echoed together once last time - the wolfish grin audible in the light’s tone, tempered by the same fear she’d felt before, so painfully clear in the Doctor’s deep, throaty whisper:
“Hold on.”
She tried to, but it was too late.
Part Four: Better Than One
Rating: R
Pairing: Ten/Donna (Friendship)
Word Count: 1,428
Summary: The Doctor has to make a choice; one which will determine whether Donna lives or dies. Spoilers for Doctor Who 4.13 - Journey’s End.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Story title inspired by The Frames.
Author’s Notes: Is it weird that I kind of liked writing disembodied voices from the perspective of the TARDIS/time vortex/Bad Wolf? Is that very strange? Hmm... anyway, here goes the climax of this initial part of the tale. Hope you enjoy :) Feedback, as always, is love.
Part One: Eulalie
Part Two: Desperate Moments In Linear Time
Part Three: Ontological Subjectivity
The metal clamps, spiking out from all around the device, looked strangely menacing, more so than they ever had before. He remembered bits and pieces of his last, his only encounter with the Arch, and every single one of them involved nothing but real and all consuming pain. It twisted in his gut, speared honest and profound regret through his hearts to think that he was going to do this to her, his Donna; he was taking so much from her - stealing her humanity without her input, without even asking; without any indication that this was what she wanted. Of course, she hadn’t seemed very keen on the idea of losing her memories of her time in the TARDIS, but that certainly didn’t mean that she wanted to swap her biology by default.
He shook his head, careful not to touch her, scared of her suddenly - her fragility making him increasingly nervous as all of the dreadful possibilities began to flood him, the unpredictability of what they were doing, what he was doing - he could kill her, for all he knew, in a fit of pain and shifting organs and refusing bones and snapping muscles. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he approached her, slowly and carefully fitting the small metallic dome over her forehead and tightening the extensions, watching as it sensed the dimensions of her skull and automatically fixed itself to her head.
“I’m sorry, Donna,” he whispered, filled with remorse as he leaned close to her, fiddling with the settings once more to make certain that they were as they should be, to make sure everything was in place and properly configured. “I’m so sorry.”
Dipping his chin, he pressed pursed lips to her brow, stroking away her sweat-soaked hair as he whispered into her ear before activating the conversion sequence, “Forgive me.”
----------------------------------------
The conversation with the nothingness, with the everything, with the shapeless, formless blob - the splotch of light, like a floater in her vision; it was something she didn’t quite understand, and wasn’t entirely sure she was comfortable with.
She could ask it anything, it had told her. It sounded like a woman, mostly, but sometimes she could swear she caught the barest glimpse of its silhouette, and it looked almost... canine. Therefore, in her head, it was still definitively genderless; and of this genderless mass of whatever it was, who seemed to know just about everything, she couldn’t quite think of anything worthwhile to ask.
“I create myself,” it kept insisting in the space of her silence, its voice patient and warm, somehow. “I write my own destiny.”
“He is choosing for you.”
She turned her head, or at least, what would have been her head - she couldn’t see her body anymore, but given the location of her eye level, the comparative proximity of her point of vision, she could guess at most things.
It was a bit unsettling to think that she didn’t seem to have a corporeal form any longer, and she hadn’t even batted an eyelash at that fact.
“He? What’s he choosing?”
Her voice echoed, and it was cold, harsh; almost weak, fluttering around like a wisp before dissolving into nothing, a useless memory of something that hadn’t even mattered in the first place - so unlike the sound vibrating from the light.
“He is frightened,” the voice was positively thrumming now, pulsating - urgent, somehow, and sad, but still so calm. “Can you feel his fear?”
The note of mourning in the words penetrated her consciousness, and it sparked something deep in her soul - she could feel it, acutely; a terrible, all-consuming terror that made her heart jump and her head spin and everything in her nonexistent body tremble - made her blood run cold.
“The measure of a man can often be judged in the manner in which he suffers his losses,” the disembodied voice told her, seeming to read her reaction, or maybe even her thoughts - she wouldn’t have put that past it, really. “My Doctor is terrible with sacrifice.”
Donna couldn’t breathe for a moment, the possessive words so saturated in protection, in the desire to keep safe that it was almost shocking - it was beautiful and frightening and humbling all at once. It stole the air from her throat, choking her; and in that instant, her body surged, visible form limb to limb and beaded with sweat, flushed and clammy and shaking, pathetic; and it was burning, she was burning, with a pain beyond her imagination, beyond her comprehension. She buckled, her spine arching against the torment, and she fell, bodiless again; her vision taking its time in refocussing as she settled back into oblivion with her strange, yet comforting ball of intelligent light.
“He holds it,” the voice was closer now, inside of her mind, whispering into her psyche and morphing her, changing her - every syllable another beat of her pulse, every pause a gasp against her lungs. “The guilt; on his hearts, on his soul, like a mantle.” The voice, it seemed to sigh here, a certain air of concern permeating the ether. “His burden to bear, forevermore.”
She felt a pressure against her eyes, a push on her mind as images of people - some of whom she recognized, most of whom she didn’t - but all of whom she knew, in some sense, given the myriad of memories she now laid claim to as her own, and she felt something tug in her chest, where her chest should be (was, or would have been), as they each faded away in turn - her own face swam into view, and remained there, stronger than the rest, disappearing quickly and without waring as the shivering light spoke again. “He loves so hard.”
“He is going to try and save you,” it continued, trepidation bleeding into the cadence but the speech still endlessly infused with peace - so serene. “But at such a cost.”
“Do not fault him for wanting this, Donna Noble,” it spoke stronger now, almost hissing at her, but Donna didn’t feel threatened - if anything, she agreed; though to what, she wasn’t sure. “You were meant for more than the alternative, if not quite intended for this.”
There was a smile in the last words, a genuine affection that made her want to smile back in kind; that made her feel wanted and important - special, just like he’d told her; just like he’d finally made her believe.
“I’m sorry, Donna. I’m so sorry.” The voice was changing, almost an echo now as lips of white and golden beams, folding and refracting, sauntered into view, and it didn’t take her long to realize it what it was that she was hearing.
It was the Doctor. That was the Doctor’s voice, the Doctor’s words.
She felt suddenly heavy, like a great weight was settling, slow but steady upon her shoulders, and she shuddered against it, starting as the voice of the light, the warm and welcoming tone of it alone surged through her mind like a spear of fire, the burn almost pleasant before it began to gain greater force, spreading out from her mind and searing everywhere:
“Never forget; the universe has faith in you to endure.”
She clenched her teeth, trying to hold on to those words, feeling the grind of enamel against itself as the pain returned, as it all grew stronger, unbearable; as his voice came back - alone this time, and far away.
“Forgive me.”
She wanted to ask what for; wanted to, but couldn’t. It all hurt, and she knew that if she spoke at all, if she was capable of it still, it would only come out as a scream.
She wondered if there was anything she wouldn’t forgive him for.
“Brace yourself!” the gentle voice inside her head was now powerful - demanding. She felt it strong against her for an instant, a presence with weight and solid form, before it disappeared, slowly draining away as both voices echoed together once last time - the wolfish grin audible in the light’s tone, tempered by the same fear she’d felt before, so painfully clear in the Doctor’s deep, throaty whisper:
“Hold on.”
She tried to, but it was too late.
Part Four: Better Than One
Current Music: Geraldine by Glasvegas
15 comments | Leave a comment