Prince Styxx of Didymos (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
despisesthegods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
genessia2018-11-20 10:40 pm
despisesthegods) wrote in genessia2018-11-20 10:40 pm
[Anon Text]
A question to pose to all of you. Have you ever lost someone so dear that you lost a part of yourself with them? And if you have, have you ever met another that's become dear to you in that way again? Nobody can ever replace those you've lost and I know that well, just as the hole can never been filled, but can there be room again. Is it possible to find that one rare person or is it little more then an illusion? Would you lose your loyalty to the person you lost by being with this new person?
Please, let me know your opinions on the matter.
Please, let me know your opinions on the matter.
Hey, anything that influences ALL THE WRITING is a good influence, in my book! >8V
And if she let herself think about it for too long, in this place, under these circumstances, it would make her own paranoia about Genessia's motivations even worse.When he finally took the chance to speak, to give that small bit of humor to try and break some of the tension, she can't help but give a soft but somewhat hysterical little laugh as the incongruity of his statements hits her, hiding her face in her hand. It didn't last long, and she shook her head to deny it even as it faded, but it was there, and it helped. She reached out to press against his chest in reply, just firm enough to be a half-hearted swat, but not even firm enough to even throw him off balance, simply acknowledging the attempt at lightening the mood.]
S'pose. Certainly didn' feel like it, at the time.
[When he moved to catch her gaze, it was easier to meet his eyes as she listened, as she considered what he was saying, what he meant. She could see how he was debating with himself, with wanting to know what that black mark had been in her younger self's mind but struggling to find the right words. He needn't worry, though. She may have been two regenerations detached from him, three from Mars, but that day was still just as fresh in her mind as it had been in his, and she understood.
She gave him a small, watery smile, reaching up and holding one of the hands that was on her shoulder, patting it reassuringly. She didn't respond quickly, taking her own time to decide on the proper words herself, before she shook her head.]
Nothing we did then, in the dial, could've hurt anyone but ourselves. [Her smile faded, but the memory of that place was less painful then the memory of what came after, as hard as it might have been to believe. It was still traumatic, horrifying even, and she looked more haunted now then distraught. She had wanted to avoid the details on the dial, wanted to spare him the full extent of what they'd done when his worries had been so focused on Clara. But she knew how his mind worked, knew how he would dread it, fussing and stressing and worrying at his own nerves over it it he didn't know. The not knowing was the worst, sometimes. She didn't want to leave him like that. She let out a long, shuddering breath, steeling her own nerves as she determined to explain.]
It wasn't like Mars. It was...we were alone. Our own custom-made prison, designed to play on our worst fears. Rotting corpses in shrouds, surrounded by flies, stalkin' the halls an' wantin' to strangle the life out of us. Playin' on somethin' a little boy saw before he was old enough to handle it properly. [Even now, it made her skin crawl something fierce, and she shuddered violently, her face scrunching in on itself for a moment as she shook the fear out of her head, unconsciously squeezing his hand gently tighter.] We died there. I only lived a little over a day of it, but...I saw the remains. I held the skull of the man before me. Didn't even realize what it meant until right at the end.
[The memory of those skulls filled her vision, all identical, piles and piles of them, staring back at him from under the surface of that sea, and she shut her eyes against it for a moment, fighting down the horror of it before she could continue. Oh, how she hated to tell him how much she had seen. She hated to put that on his mind, whether he would remember it once they were home or not. But that one thing, those stars and those skulls, were maybe the only way he would ever be able to know just why that black mark in his mind had been so wrong.]
Every time I died, the system reset. A new Doctor took his place. I don't remember them, I'm not them. But...but...how many lives do you think were spent? How many...bodies do you think there were? Livin' in a prison custom made to drive us to our wits end from our worst fears, dyin' from them every other day, f-...for...[Face scrunching again, trying to regain control of her tongue after her brain tried to force her to stop, her fingers trembling ever so gently against his hand.] F-for...over four an' a half billion years.
[There. It was out. Her face still stayed screwed closed, though, for a long breath afterward, hating herself just a little for having been so weak that she hadn't just kept it all buried inside like they always did. But this was obviously something that had been causing them all pain, here, since long before she'd arrived, and if the face that had endured it couldn't or wouldn't explain, and she could? It would just make things worse not to.]
Coulda left at any time. All it would've taken was for us to confess. But we didn't. We decided it'd be better t'punch through a diamond mountain then to give 'em what they wanted.
[The look she gave him when she finally managed to straighten her face out was just...defeated. Resigned. No, what they'd done had not been as brutal as what they'd tried to do after Mars, not in the grand scheme of things. But the damage was just as severe, in it's own stubborn, idiotic way. At least this time, the damage had only been done to themself, and to Clara.
She gave a ghost of a laugh, though, pulling her other hand out of her pocket to scratch the side of her nose as she glanced away sheepishly.]
Literally punched, by the way. Musta broken every knuckle in my hand. Let it never be said that we won't drive ourselves t'stupidity when we set our minds t'somethin'.
no subject
But, whether it's a different in lived experience, or how their brains had rewired themselves across regenerations, or a bit of both, while he feels the chill of that childhood terror the same as she does, it's overwhelmed by an acute anger burning cold and hard in his eyes. Gentle as he likes to be, he's still one of her faces who'd earned well his title as The Oncoming Storm, and as he follows her thought process to the notion of someone deliberately going for those childhood traumas...
It takes him a second to shake off that fury, but what she says after certainly helps. He didn't see it, himself, but he certainly has a vibrant enough imagination to fill in the gaps, and he knows that where you have time loops and matter locks, you can have temporal backwaters; the stage may be reset each time, but detritus and stray hairs and loose threads pile up in the corners, and four and a half billion years was a hell of a long time for leftover bits to accumulate. He's visibly a bit pale, himself, as she describes it, although he straightens a little with surprise at the diamond mountain bit, and goes right back to a grossed-out face for a moment.]
Whot? Like the Brothers Grimm? Blimey, it really is like a Time Lord ghost story, right down to stealing bits off someone else.
[He eyerolls at that--as much to convince himself that he's taking the story in stride, seeing as he features in it as the ghost--and rolls his shoulders a bit, half to demonstrate defiance and half to get out the tension he only just realized had crept into them. He can't help smirking a little, though; as much as his stubbornness can taken him to awful places and drag his friends through hell sometimes, he has to take some amount of pride in the thought of throwing such a grotesque means of interrogation back in the Time Lords' faces.
At least, until something she'd said echoes back to him, and he pales all over again, his voice hushed.]
......Clara knew?
[Dying over and over again, more than a trillion times, was a chilling enough thought, but if there was something possibly worse, it was someone he cared about and who cared for him knowing just how bad it had been.
The though revives the other topic he'd been trying to avoid, in a way he can't quite shutter out. Not at that moment, not as off-balance as he is with learning he'll have had a starring role in his very own grotesque Gallifreyan fairy tale. He shakes his head, just forlorn for a second as he does his best to compose himself.]
There's... ...there's something else. Again, probably shouldn't ask, but...
[But he's pretty sure he already knows, and it's been gnawing at him, and poisoning his relationship with his future self, especially once he learned (or at least half-learned) about Clara's fate.]