[He can feel the other Doctor's fingertips on his temples, hot where they make contact with the telepathic connection points, and then all sensation ceases when the sound of drums fills his head.]
[They're loud, and they're insistent, and they send him reeling for a moment until he can see past them at the man behind the drums. He's open, inviting him into his mind as he himself is inviting the other man. And he doesn't waste any time.
The Time War, and the choice that ended it. It's there suddenly, all the horror and the hate and the guilt of that moment, and it takes the Doctor's breath away. But the other is moving on, almost brushing it off like it's nothing, like it's only the first horror of many. He is going down a different path than the one the Doctor took himself, and for a short moment, the Doctor wonders if following him isn't madness. He's here, though, and there's no going back, so follow him he does.
Down that path lies loneliness. The Doctor has known loneliness, but never this strong, never this insistent. It's a chosen loneliness becoming a forced one, getting more necessary and irreversible with every hour that passes. Oh, he remembers this, he remembers being here, but he also remembers that it stopped when an average human girl had, maybe out of understanding or maybe out of ignorance, broken down the walls and made him feel again.
Not so for this Doctor. There's hate, there's loneliness, and there's the War, the War that never ends, the War that goes on and on in his head and his heart, poisoning him from the inside. When he kills the Dalek, the Doctor is not at all surprised; he himself nearly would have, if not for the innocence of a young, human mind to stop him. Instead of the warmth of a connection to another, this Doctor finds the drums.
Earth. The hurt of the loss is physical, it tears his hearts out. The other's ability to feel had been dulled at that point; it had hurt him, but the strong, solid walls that hadn't been chipped away at and eventually broken down protect the innermost part of himself. At what price, though. He's reborn, and there's a moment of ignorance, a moment of clarity and newness, before the past weighs down and drags him back to his old self. It makes the Doctor want to scream; this is wrong, so wrong, this is not how it's supposed to be. But he's an observer of things long past, and there is nothing he can do.
Hunting, always killing, because this is what they are now. The drums beating a steady beat in their head as they roam the universe, seeking, destroying, moving on. Every death they bring feels like another piece of his soul taken away, and when the Family of Blood picks up their scent, it's almost a relief. Running, running is better that killing, less deadening. But no matter how fast and how far they run, war still finds them, finds their human half, overshadows his life, claims its tribute.
They're hidden now, though. Hidden away in the watch, in the TARDIS, in a cave deep under the earth, and it's a relief at first. No more killing, no more death, just silence.
Silence, but not complete. The drums are there, beating away, and with nothing to drown them out, nothing to satisfy them, they grow stronger. Harder. More demanding. They want, they need, they must have. But they are imprisoned, they can't give. All they can do is listen, and feel.
Until there's freedom. The most loyal of companions, the one that had been at their side all that time, taken too much for granted to even be recognized for what she was, the TARDIS gives them life. They don't know if they want it; there's safety in captivity. But it's not a choice. Nothing ever is, not really.
War again. Their old mistress, their old master. Death and violence, and still they are trying to find that connection, the one they know must be there, the one that restored them. It's still about love, it must be, it's what gave them life. It's there, it just needs to be found.
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[They're loud, and they're insistent, and they send him reeling for a moment until he can see past them at the man behind the drums. He's open, inviting him into his mind as he himself is inviting the other man. And he doesn't waste any time.
The Time War, and the choice that ended it. It's there suddenly, all the horror and the hate and the guilt of that moment, and it takes the Doctor's breath away. But the other is moving on, almost brushing it off like it's nothing, like it's only the first horror of many. He is going down a different path than the one the Doctor took himself, and for a short moment, the Doctor wonders if following him isn't madness. He's here, though, and there's no going back, so follow him he does.
Down that path lies loneliness. The Doctor has known loneliness, but never this strong, never this insistent. It's a chosen loneliness becoming a forced one, getting more necessary and irreversible with every hour that passes. Oh, he remembers this, he remembers being here, but he also remembers that it stopped when an average human girl had, maybe out of understanding or maybe out of ignorance, broken down the walls and made him feel again.
Not so for this Doctor. There's hate, there's loneliness, and there's the War, the War that never ends, the War that goes on and on in his head and his heart, poisoning him from the inside. When he kills the Dalek, the Doctor is not at all surprised; he himself nearly would have, if not for the innocence of a young, human mind to stop him. Instead of the warmth of a connection to another, this Doctor finds the drums.
Earth. The hurt of the loss is physical, it tears his hearts out. The other's ability to feel had been dulled at that point; it had hurt him, but the strong, solid walls that hadn't been chipped away at and eventually broken down protect the innermost part of himself. At what price, though. He's reborn, and there's a moment of ignorance, a moment of clarity and newness, before the past weighs down and drags him back to his old self. It makes the Doctor want to scream; this is wrong, so wrong, this is not how it's supposed to be. But he's an observer of things long past, and there is nothing he can do.
Hunting, always killing, because this is what they are now. The drums beating a steady beat in their head as they roam the universe, seeking, destroying, moving on. Every death they bring feels like another piece of his soul taken away, and when the Family of Blood picks up their scent, it's almost a relief. Running, running is better that killing, less deadening. But no matter how fast and how far they run, war still finds them, finds their human half, overshadows his life, claims its tribute.
They're hidden now, though. Hidden away in the watch, in the TARDIS, in a cave deep under the earth, and it's a relief at first. No more killing, no more death, just silence.
Silence, but not complete. The drums are there, beating away, and with nothing to drown them out, nothing to satisfy them, they grow stronger. Harder. More demanding. They want, they need, they must have. But they are imprisoned, they can't give. All they can do is listen, and feel.
Until there's freedom. The most loyal of companions, the one that had been at their side all that time, taken too much for granted to even be recognized for what she was, the TARDIS gives them life. They don't know if they want it; there's safety in captivity. But it's not a choice. Nothing ever is, not really.
War again. Their old mistress, their old master. Death and violence, and still they are trying to find that connection, the one they know must be there, the one that restored them. It's still about love, it must be, it's what gave them life. It's there, it just needs to be found.