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Fire of War (Prelude)
Sep. 6th, 2024 11:48 pmExcerpt from A Short Introduction to Real Time (written by an unknown author early in the Rassilon Era), Chapter 2:
Handwritten notes in the copy of A Short Introduction to Real Time that was given to student ‘Ace’ when she entered the Academy (rewritten in a legible hand): what a toad, it’s amazing he could write anything with his head that far up Rassilon’s bum. I guess thats what telepathy was for, hey! And wasn’t that Omega bloke involved a bit more in the whole ‘inventing time travel’ lark?
(Any similarities between this and commentary on the same passage by her sponsor during his time in the Academy remain unconfirmed.)
The Doctor was dying. This was the seventh time he’d died, so he’d thought that death had long run out of ways to surprise him. He was wrong. It wasn’t the first time he’d been wrong that day. In each of his six preceding deaths, he had found himself more afraid in the moment than he had been the time before. If he said it outloud (something he preferred to avoid) it might strike someone as strange, but there are certain fears that are made worse with experience. Each time, he was afraid of who he would become - something the new Doctor always looked back on quizzically.
The Doctor’s seventh death was different. He wasn’t afraid. Perhaps it was because this was his last death. It wasn’t the end of his regeneration cycle. He hadn’t used up all his lives. In fact, another man would emerge from the flames as he had seven times before. But this was when the Doctor would die: here on Karn, under the eyes of the Sisterhood of Karn. There were worse places to meet your final end.
Not that he’d thought about it before. It was something he could only learn now, in the moment. Perhaps this calm was what other species felt before they faced a final death. The Doctor had never been known to accept anything calmly, but this was his last chance.
There was no one there on Karn to ask the Doctor why. He almost wished there was. He liked an audience. A therapist had once asked whether he’d say he has a need for external validation, which was both unprofessional and a very leading question. There were people who had come up with even less flattering ‘explanations’ to the straightforward fact that he liked to travel the universe with his friends. This was because most Time Lords didn’t have any friends, and so couldn’t really be expected to understand the concept.
The Doctor couldn’t truly wish that he had a friend with him, because if he had he wouldn’t be able to die.
(If he had had a friend with him, perhaps Cass wouldn’t have died. A traveling companion might have been able to convince her that he was different. He wouldn’t have been able to leave a friend to burn, even if Cass had still said no. The Doctor could’ve lived, and a part of him still wanted to live.)
His friends kept him safe. His friends kept him the Doctor. Charley. C’rizz, Lucie, Tamsin, Molly. Fitz. Friends and companions he’d known, and who had known him. If the man he would become opened his eyes to see any of those faces, he would find the Doctor reflected back on him. Perhaps he should’ve known his end was coming when time continued to spool out long and longer, without anyone joining him on his travels. People who would known the true him. People who made him try to be who the Doctor should be.
The Doctor couldn’t fight this war. He knew his hands aren’t clean, now. He knew just how much of a part he’s already played. But he had never meant to. He knew what he could do, and he’d always run from that. He’d kept the universe safe. But nowhere was safe, not during the Time War.
The Doctor had known from the first days of the war (he had known in the moment when the war had suddenly always existed) how it would end. The Daleks would win, in the end. The terrified and terrifying creatures in their little tin shells might not rule the galaxy, but if the Time Lords beat them… the universe would suffer under the hands of the victors. There would always be war. The Time War couldn’t be won by defeating the Daleks or the Time Lords. Neither could win, and the Doctor had run from that. He couldn’t run anymore.
The Doctor was dead.
The man who had once been the Doctor looked into the mirror. For a moment, he saw the last flicker of the Doctor in his new eyes. The new man saw a face that reflected the truth of what he’d seen, and of what he’d become. He was a warrior, now, and all his tricks and traps would be saved for the Daleks. He would fight them with everything he had, because perhaps that would be enough to end the war. He let himself believe, for a moment, that it didn’t have to end with the destruction that the last Doctor had fled rather than confront. He’d died because he was afraid otherwise he’d be destroyed.
For a moment, he saw the Doctor, and he knew the Doctor always wanted to live. He had given up his name, in the hope that one day he’d be able to pick it up again. In the hope that he could banish this monstrous, nameless warrior to the back of his mind and live as if it had never been him.
The Doctor would live again, in the fire of his death. The Doctor would despise him for the crimes he had been created to commit. The man found it easy to despise the Doctor in turn. He knew that he wouldn’t fight to wipe out the Daleks because he truly has hope that will be enough. It wasn’t from any affection for his people or the last dregs of the good man the Doctor had been… It was for himself.
Then the last trace of the Doctor was gone from his eyes. The man turned away from the mirror. He had none of the last Doctor’s visions of what would be. There was only what was.
In the Dark Days, before Lord Rassilon finished weaving the Web of Time and brought structure to the universe many creatures ran rampant across the universe bringing chaos and destruction in their wake. It can be difficult to discern which of these were myth and which fact. The so-called ‘Phoenix Force’ is the subject of many legends. They say that it was a manifestation of some universal force of life and passion. It was also a nexus that connected all realities of the multiverse and made them equal. The primitive societies that spoke of it called it the Guardian of Creation and lived in appropriate fear of it’s ability to reshape the universe at a whim. If even a fraction of these stories speak of something that once existed, the universe owes yet another great debt to Lord Rassilon for banishing such monsters from Real Time, leaving behind only a trace memory that can be spotted by the existence of the ‘phoenix myth’ across different times and planets.
Handwritten notes in the copy of A Short Introduction to Real Time that was given to student ‘Ace’ when she entered the Academy (rewritten in a legible hand): what a toad, it’s amazing he could write anything with his head that far up Rassilon’s bum. I guess thats what telepathy was for, hey! And wasn’t that Omega bloke involved a bit more in the whole ‘inventing time travel’ lark?
(Any similarities between this and commentary on the same passage by her sponsor during his time in the Academy remain unconfirmed.)
Prelude
The Doctor was dying. This was the seventh time he’d died, so he’d thought that death had long run out of ways to surprise him. He was wrong. It wasn’t the first time he’d been wrong that day. In each of his six preceding deaths, he had found himself more afraid in the moment than he had been the time before. If he said it outloud (something he preferred to avoid) it might strike someone as strange, but there are certain fears that are made worse with experience. Each time, he was afraid of who he would become - something the new Doctor always looked back on quizzically.
The Doctor’s seventh death was different. He wasn’t afraid. Perhaps it was because this was his last death. It wasn’t the end of his regeneration cycle. He hadn’t used up all his lives. In fact, another man would emerge from the flames as he had seven times before. But this was when the Doctor would die: here on Karn, under the eyes of the Sisterhood of Karn. There were worse places to meet your final end.
Not that he’d thought about it before. It was something he could only learn now, in the moment. Perhaps this calm was what other species felt before they faced a final death. The Doctor had never been known to accept anything calmly, but this was his last chance.
There was no one there on Karn to ask the Doctor why. He almost wished there was. He liked an audience. A therapist had once asked whether he’d say he has a need for external validation, which was both unprofessional and a very leading question. There were people who had come up with even less flattering ‘explanations’ to the straightforward fact that he liked to travel the universe with his friends. This was because most Time Lords didn’t have any friends, and so couldn’t really be expected to understand the concept.
The Doctor couldn’t truly wish that he had a friend with him, because if he had he wouldn’t be able to die.
(If he had had a friend with him, perhaps Cass wouldn’t have died. A traveling companion might have been able to convince her that he was different. He wouldn’t have been able to leave a friend to burn, even if Cass had still said no. The Doctor could’ve lived, and a part of him still wanted to live.)
His friends kept him safe. His friends kept him the Doctor. Charley. C’rizz, Lucie, Tamsin, Molly. Fitz. Friends and companions he’d known, and who had known him. If the man he would become opened his eyes to see any of those faces, he would find the Doctor reflected back on him. Perhaps he should’ve known his end was coming when time continued to spool out long and longer, without anyone joining him on his travels. People who would known the true him. People who made him try to be who the Doctor should be.
The Doctor couldn’t fight this war. He knew his hands aren’t clean, now. He knew just how much of a part he’s already played. But he had never meant to. He knew what he could do, and he’d always run from that. He’d kept the universe safe. But nowhere was safe, not during the Time War.
The Doctor had known from the first days of the war (he had known in the moment when the war had suddenly always existed) how it would end. The Daleks would win, in the end. The terrified and terrifying creatures in their little tin shells might not rule the galaxy, but if the Time Lords beat them… the universe would suffer under the hands of the victors. There would always be war. The Time War couldn’t be won by defeating the Daleks or the Time Lords. Neither could win, and the Doctor had run from that. He couldn’t run anymore.
The Doctor was dead.
The man who had once been the Doctor looked into the mirror. For a moment, he saw the last flicker of the Doctor in his new eyes. The new man saw a face that reflected the truth of what he’d seen, and of what he’d become. He was a warrior, now, and all his tricks and traps would be saved for the Daleks. He would fight them with everything he had, because perhaps that would be enough to end the war. He let himself believe, for a moment, that it didn’t have to end with the destruction that the last Doctor had fled rather than confront. He’d died because he was afraid otherwise he’d be destroyed.
For a moment, he saw the Doctor, and he knew the Doctor always wanted to live. He had given up his name, in the hope that one day he’d be able to pick it up again. In the hope that he could banish this monstrous, nameless warrior to the back of his mind and live as if it had never been him.
The Doctor would live again, in the fire of his death. The Doctor would despise him for the crimes he had been created to commit. The man found it easy to despise the Doctor in turn. He knew that he wouldn’t fight to wipe out the Daleks because he truly has hope that will be enough. It wasn’t from any affection for his people or the last dregs of the good man the Doctor had been… It was for himself.
Then the last trace of the Doctor was gone from his eyes. The man turned away from the mirror. He had none of the last Doctor’s visions of what would be. There was only what was.
