They sense his intention, when he reaches out towards them, the violence that his drums drive him to, and part of them twists with anger and shame and surprise, but it is a very small part and it does not understand that this is not the Doctor's fault, that he is the vessel for a force far beyond his ability to contain, that, like a deaf man, he cannot sense the fullness of the music but only the driving vibrations of its lowest notes, its simplest pattern. The Doctor can feel the tear of entropy but not the high, delicate, complexity of creation.
Just as the part of them that is the Doctor cannot, when they are divided.
They enter his mind, and the Doctor-part is astonished by how very limited it is, how bounded. They have always thought themselves clever, and they are, but "clever" itself, intelligence bound to physical matter, is, they can see now, such a frail, unpredictable thing. Even geniuses can see so little of the universe, and understand less yet. The Doctor-part laughs, because it means they will never, ever find the answer to the universe, it will always be a mystery, and that is the way they want it. The TARDIS-part sighs, because they enjoy being limited and she is not yet used to the insensitivity, the blunt imprecision, of the Doctor-part of her, of functioning within the bounds of the physical.
They try to be careful, not to disturb anything that does not need to be disturbed, but everything is disturbed, his thoughts torn from their places, memories tossed about by the drums. They feel so much death, a year of it, and they did not know that he had felt death they way they have, chosen to let the human race become collateral damage because something else mattered more.
They remember making that choice. They twist around his memories of standing witness, for a year, for long days one after the other, holding himself back from taking action, knowing that only his own survival mattered, and they share their own. Of looking down on a gray world and walking its surface after, finding nothing, nothing green, nothing flesh, nothing living. Of mourning in the dust and the ash.
They share sorrow, and astonishment that they could destroy so much and that entropy comes to their hands so easily, and the long moments of doubt about who they are, about what their making the choice to end life, even if for a greater cause, must mean.
They trace the memories back, because they know they will find the drums at their center. And they do. There is that sensitive part of the Doctor's mind, caught up in his time sense and his telepathic sense, the ability to feel the pulse of time and space and everything, though only to the muted extent a Gallifreyan body can manage.
Denying it for a year, because it hurts, because the time sense says that the universe demands what he is doing, demands the deaths, to stay whole, and the telepathic sense reports the deaths, each small, terrible shockwave as a mind dies, even though he cannot feel them all consciously, they are there, each of them, clutching at him as they fall and disappear.
Denying that most sensitive part of themselves until something in the mind twists and expands, not breaking, though both the Doctor and the Doctor-part think of it as breaking, but reaching out, extending, becoming something that the conscious mind can no longer control or deny.
Becoming not just time sense, not just telepathy, but a sense for reality itself.
Except that it is new and limited, as limited as are they, and it can only take in the drums.
no subject
Just as the part of them that is the Doctor cannot, when they are divided.
They enter his mind, and the Doctor-part is astonished by how very limited it is, how bounded. They have always thought themselves clever, and they are, but "clever" itself, intelligence bound to physical matter, is, they can see now, such a frail, unpredictable thing. Even geniuses can see so little of the universe, and understand less yet. The Doctor-part laughs, because it means they will never, ever find the answer to the universe, it will always be a mystery, and that is the way they want it. The TARDIS-part sighs, because they enjoy being limited and she is not yet used to the insensitivity, the blunt imprecision, of the Doctor-part of her, of functioning within the bounds of the physical.
They try to be careful, not to disturb anything that does not need to be disturbed, but everything is disturbed, his thoughts torn from their places, memories tossed about by the drums. They feel so much death, a year of it, and they did not know that he had felt death they way they have, chosen to let the human race become collateral damage because something else mattered more.
They remember making that choice. They twist around his memories of standing witness, for a year, for long days one after the other, holding himself back from taking action, knowing that only his own survival mattered, and they share their own. Of looking down on a gray world and walking its surface after, finding nothing, nothing green, nothing flesh, nothing living. Of mourning in the dust and the ash.
They share sorrow, and astonishment that they could destroy so much and that entropy comes to their hands so easily, and the long moments of doubt about who they are, about what their making the choice to end life, even if for a greater cause, must mean.
They trace the memories back, because they know they will find the drums at their center. And they do. There is that sensitive part of the Doctor's mind, caught up in his time sense and his telepathic sense, the ability to feel the pulse of time and space and everything, though only to the muted extent a Gallifreyan body can manage.
Denying it for a year, because it hurts, because the time sense says that the universe demands what he is doing, demands the deaths, to stay whole, and the telepathic sense reports the deaths, each small, terrible shockwave as a mind dies, even though he cannot feel them all consciously, they are there, each of them, clutching at him as they fall and disappear.
Denying that most sensitive part of themselves until something in the mind twists and expands, not breaking, though both the Doctor and the Doctor-part think of it as breaking, but reaching out, extending, becoming something that the conscious mind can no longer control or deny.
Becoming not just time sense, not just telepathy, but a sense for reality itself.
Except that it is new and limited, as limited as are they, and it can only take in the drums.