Warnings: Angst, Character Study, Introspection
A/N: Written for who_contest's Prompt:Sun. I have absolutely no idea where this came from. Nor am I completely sure that this even works. But it was one of those things that my Musie told me (out of the blue no less), must be written. So here we are. As per usual, this fic is mostly unbeta'd and written in one go, so please forgive any mistakes and/or blatant vagueness. And (as always), I apologize for any repetition, misspellings, sentence fails, grammatical oh-noes and general horridness. Unbeta'd fic is overly-thinky/wandery/blithery and unbeta'd.
Disclaimer(s): I do not own the scrumptious Doctor or his lovely companions. That honor goes to the BBC and (for now) the fantastic S. Moffat. The only thing that belongs to me is this fiction - and I am making no profit. Only playing about!
The suns beat down through the fading shields –
The once strong and mighty shields that held the planet 'safe' from the universe at large.
The universe wasn't the problem, though. In the end, the universe was the victim. They were the problem: the Time Lords, the Daleks and their endless War over all of time and space.
But Time was broken and Space…well, that was getting smaller and smaller as the centuries wore on. Soon there would be nothing left. This pointless bloodshed would be beyond futility, beyond the tragedy it had already become. There were no words invented (in any language – he had checked), for the senselessness of it all. Whole worlds gone mad. Whole worlds lost. His own world was lost, even as it fought on; it just didn't have the good sense to just…stop.
The Time Lords had become synonymous with the word 'Dalek' and the Doctor…well…that word was lost even before the first battle was waged. He didn't know who to blame for that, if there was anyone to blame at all. He had always been a foolish old man. Still a renegade to his people – and a dire threat to the Daleks. Beyond them, there was no one. He had lost his name and forgotten his purpose.
But then, considering his new purpose, he supposed that was truly for the best.
He hefted the satchel a little higher on his shoulder, old hands aching with the tight grip he had on the material, his fingers clamped around the rough cloth – like it would leap away from him at any moment and run away. Then again, with what it contained (and how unknown the Device truly was), that was a distinct possibility.
It wasn't a heavy burden, though it should have been; the Machine far too light for something that could wreak such destruction. Yet he still staggered under the weight of it, his steps swaying, sinking into the sands that were once fields of red and gold timothy under kinder suns.
Or maybe that was just the faultiness of his memory.
He chose to remember gentler times, even as he grimly stalked past the rolling hills of white, the snapshots of What Was almost uglier than the dust that puffed up beneath his boots against the barren waste of his former (magnificent) estate. He didn't know if that stark truth that gleamed at him from the white hot sands was easier on his hearts; those hearts that so longed for the beauty that once made his stifling existence here that much more bearable.
But this was not the day for such fanciful daydreams. Any bitterness, any recrimination (any peace, any joy) would soon be wiped away – by his hand. Once more, there were no words for this bleak heaviness in his soul. No words for the preciousness of these terrible moments as they sped past –
He staggered on beneath the dying light of the suns, the wind mourning his passage.
Gallifrey would fall no more.