The Master (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
beholdthedrums) wrote2011-03-01 09:29 am
beholdthedrums) wrote2011-03-01 09:29 am
Entry tags:
Snip snip.
I got a cold from my mom :| But I'm finally back in Vermont. Alas, I have class in a few hours. Can't weasel out of that. I said I'd be back from hiatus, huh? February went by quick. I'm 24 now. Oi.
I haven't completed anything so I decided to just post pieces of things I have tried to poke at. Something to fill the space.
There’s the last link of his universe that he follows to whiteness and Time Lords and Gallifrey. His universe was the drumming – no, not the drumming, the signal - and as their home burns again, that universe finally collapses in on itself. The Master is allowed peace, and maybe he could just grip it all a little tighter. Maybe he can survive within the time-lock of the War and tear apart Rassilon until he can no longer regenerate.
Yeah.
That would be good, wouldn’t it, Doctor?
That is the present, although the future is so quick to follow on its heels. His life force is all but burnt out, after all. There will be a death without a regeneration. He’ll die with the rest of his people and the planet, like he was always supposed to. No more running from the war.
He wonders if the Doctor will one day face the same thing.
They were always running, weren’t they?
From each other, from Gallifrey, to each other. Running, running, running… that was how they upturned themselves, he thinks. It wasn’t bullies or Death or any other excuse they both use for the truth; no, they ran, and they were too wrong to cope with the results.
Gallifrey was a cold place. It still is, with the War. The Master tears through the council, and leaves the (weeping angel pair) behind out of a strange recognition and respect, then he goes to the remnants of his father’s estates. What was once red grass is now ash. He nudges a foot through the remains. Here the drums are gone; it really is almost like childhood all over again, if he just imagines. Uses his mind for something great. Thinks beyond the dying screams of the Gallifreyan race.
He crouches down and pushes a hand into the ash, clumping it together and running a thumb through the charcoal flakes. Oh, the mighty have fallen.
Look at us now.
He sits back, still hungering from his recent meal, but he supposes it’s alright to starve here. He thinks this is fitting, maybe a bit ironic, but fitting.
“It isn’t fair that things are like this, Kos.”
His mind wanders. Daydreams, hallucinates.
His lips quirk in a small smile. He doesn’t look to the small figment of the past, but he does find himself answering, “It never is.”
The young teen sits beside him, knocking up clouds of ash in the process. “I didn’t mean to,” he says.
“You never do.”
The teen looks affronted. “Knock it off, Kos. I’m trying to be serious here.”
The Master snaps his gaze to the side to look at him, but the teen his gone. He sighs, wipes off his hand, then runs it through his hair. He may be home, but the only version of the Doctor is somewhere out in the system about to end everything.
He lays back, folds his arms over his beating hearts, and lets his mind breathe for the first time since the schism.
“I’m fine already! Knock it off,” Koschei mutters, pulling away from his friend and marching through the grass. He smoothes out his robes and lets out a sigh.
“But I want to know!” Theta Sigma follows after him, coming up around his side. “You were talking about them again, Kos, I know you were!”
“Curiosity always comes back to bite you, Thete. So knock it off before you wind up hurting.”
“Was that supposed to be your strange way of trying to protect me?”
“I don’t know. I suppose.”
Standing not far from the young pair is the present-day Master and a slightly older looking Theta than the one they’re watching. Neither seem to think this should be awkward – it was far from normal, certainly, but if the Master was going to be wandering through memory lane, he might as well be accompanied by someone he once called Friend.
“Maybe we should have tried harder,” Theta murmurs, noticing how easily he just gives up.
“It wouldn’t have mattered.”
“I guess.”
I haven't completed anything so I decided to just post pieces of things I have tried to poke at. Something to fill the space.
There’s the last link of his universe that he follows to whiteness and Time Lords and Gallifrey. His universe was the drumming – no, not the drumming, the signal - and as their home burns again, that universe finally collapses in on itself. The Master is allowed peace, and maybe he could just grip it all a little tighter. Maybe he can survive within the time-lock of the War and tear apart Rassilon until he can no longer regenerate.
Yeah.
That would be good, wouldn’t it, Doctor?
That is the present, although the future is so quick to follow on its heels. His life force is all but burnt out, after all. There will be a death without a regeneration. He’ll die with the rest of his people and the planet, like he was always supposed to. No more running from the war.
He wonders if the Doctor will one day face the same thing.
They were always running, weren’t they?
From each other, from Gallifrey, to each other. Running, running, running… that was how they upturned themselves, he thinks. It wasn’t bullies or Death or any other excuse they both use for the truth; no, they ran, and they were too wrong to cope with the results.
Gallifrey was a cold place. It still is, with the War. The Master tears through the council, and leaves the (weeping angel pair) behind out of a strange recognition and respect, then he goes to the remnants of his father’s estates. What was once red grass is now ash. He nudges a foot through the remains. Here the drums are gone; it really is almost like childhood all over again, if he just imagines. Uses his mind for something great. Thinks beyond the dying screams of the Gallifreyan race.
He crouches down and pushes a hand into the ash, clumping it together and running a thumb through the charcoal flakes. Oh, the mighty have fallen.
Look at us now.
He sits back, still hungering from his recent meal, but he supposes it’s alright to starve here. He thinks this is fitting, maybe a bit ironic, but fitting.
“It isn’t fair that things are like this, Kos.”
His mind wanders. Daydreams, hallucinates.
His lips quirk in a small smile. He doesn’t look to the small figment of the past, but he does find himself answering, “It never is.”
The young teen sits beside him, knocking up clouds of ash in the process. “I didn’t mean to,” he says.
“You never do.”
The teen looks affronted. “Knock it off, Kos. I’m trying to be serious here.”
The Master snaps his gaze to the side to look at him, but the teen his gone. He sighs, wipes off his hand, then runs it through his hair. He may be home, but the only version of the Doctor is somewhere out in the system about to end everything.
He lays back, folds his arms over his beating hearts, and lets his mind breathe for the first time since the schism.
“I’m fine already! Knock it off,” Koschei mutters, pulling away from his friend and marching through the grass. He smoothes out his robes and lets out a sigh.
“But I want to know!” Theta Sigma follows after him, coming up around his side. “You were talking about them again, Kos, I know you were!”
“Curiosity always comes back to bite you, Thete. So knock it off before you wind up hurting.”
“Was that supposed to be your strange way of trying to protect me?”
“I don’t know. I suppose.”
Standing not far from the young pair is the present-day Master and a slightly older looking Theta than the one they’re watching. Neither seem to think this should be awkward – it was far from normal, certainly, but if the Master was going to be wandering through memory lane, he might as well be accompanied by someone he once called Friend.
“Maybe we should have tried harder,” Theta murmurs, noticing how easily he just gives up.
“It wouldn’t have mattered.”
“I guess.”