Final Part of the “Time Triliogy” as promised! Being me though I couldn’t avoid a healthy dollop of angst! After “Everything has its Time” and “There”s a Time to Live’ the Doctor makes a startling realisation but can he handle it and what does it mean for Rose.
Phew! I have so enjoyed writing this series and I really hope you are happy with the final instalment. It will be in five chapters, the first three dealing with the aftermath of ‘Everything has its Time’ and ‘There’s a Time to Live’, so if you don’t want to read those, just skip to chapter 4!
Fear not – the title is metaphorical! A death of self perhaps and of the natural state of things but this invokes a new rebirth.
Unfortunately due to explicit adult content in later chapters, they will not be posted here. If you wish to read on, you can at:
http://skyeblux.livejournal.com
http://www.whofic.com pename Skyeblux
http://www.fanfiction.net/u/1811742/ which should take you to my profile and stories
http://doctorwho-fanfiction.webs.com and FINALLY
http://tangentaltypingsofatimetraveller.blogspot.com
If he was willing to die for her, why wasn’t he willing to live for her? Death seems easier, surrendering his tired, weary body to peaceful, freeing oblivion. How many times in his long, arduous lives had he wished for death? The howling, pitiful screams, scared, scarred and animalian, echoing in the deafening silence of his mind when the cacophony of millions of muddled voices and expression ceased, the blood on his hands that the blessed flowing rivers of Jordan would never wash clean, the soul patched up with duct tape and band aids until it was mostly obliterated and barely recognisable, oh the pain, the emptiness the eternity of cursed longevity.
How many innocent, vibrant hearts had untimely stopped their staccato beat so that his, worn, wounded double percussion, would linger and harmonise with the bleeding carcass of the universe? He’d let this rut of unending existence solidify and metastasize into a labyrinthine root system of what habitually became normality. He insulted their brave sacrifices in the convoluted perception of reality that he himself had nurtured with martyred hands.
Why should his life matter more and yet the universe seemed to deem it so? Was his punishment to die to life and join the reams of the fallen, grateful dead until that last breath, that slowing pulse and cradled head in his lap, was more understood and even envied by him than life itself?
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