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tardis_stowawayETA: The Illyria series, which begins here, was runner up in the AU category in the Children of Time awards! Check out my pretty banner:
Here begins the first story in Ilyria, my series following Rose and the parallel universe's Ninth Doctor. It arose because of my emotional need to fix the end of Doomsday having a fight with my recognition of the storytelling importance of avoiding magic fixes. This universe is the compromise they worked out. This was originally posted on Teaspoon and is reposted here for those who prefer to read in LJ.
Title: What country, friends, is this?
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tardis_stowaway
Rating: PG for a bit of language
Spoilers: Through Doomsday
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and all its characters belong to the BBC, not me. Alas!
Story Summary: Post-Doomsday, Rose still runs for her life. One night she runs into someone she never expected to see again. Problem #1: It's hard to have a blissful reunion with someone who has never met you. Problem #2: A Nine from the universe where Rose Tyler was never born is bound to have some unresolved issues.
Chapter Notes: In which Rose is introspective. Titles are taken from William Shakespeare's Twelfth Night, which you should all read or watch.
What country, friends, is this?
by TARDIS_stowaway
Chapter 1: Patience on a Monument
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? -Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, II.iv
Certain things remind me of him, sometimes almost more than I can stand. It’s not the big, obvious things: the aliens and whiz-bang technology I encounter at Torchwood, the zeppelins (zeppelins!) in the sky that tell me this is not my Earth, even the fact that my father is alive. These things are part of my everyday life now. If I thought of him every time I wouldn’t be able to function. Instead, I have stretched the cold white wall at Torchwood into my mind, keeping the Then out of the Now, making him only another memory of the universe I left behind. The stars are more troublesome. Everyone who looks at the glittering night sky tends to think about infinity, emptiness, the possibility of distant life, etc., etc., and I’m hardly immune to that. Worse, I look up and remember which ones I’ve visited with him. Except that was a parallel universe, and if I went to the other planets I might find them as changed as Earth. Anyway, I tend not to stare up at night unless I have the time for a potential cry, and I don’t indulge in that often. I make myself strong; it’s what he would have wanted.
The reminders that cause trouble are the little things that sneak up on me. Hand-holding, for starters. Mickey and I tried to make a relationship work for a while. We kissed, we hugged, we shoved each other playfully, sometimes (in the short period after I had managed to convince myself this wasn’t betraying the Doctor and before the relationship went sour) we made love, and it was all nice enough. But every time he tried to take my hand I was back in the basement, surrounded by murderous shop dummies, feeling the Doctor’s hand close around mine. My mind darted in sequence through every time the Doctor and I grasped hands in the midst of danger or wonder or simple pleasure in each other’s company. Mickey saw. We only lasted six months together, although he’s still my best mate and coworker at Torchwood. After all, he and my mother are the only people I can talk to about things like zeppelins and the other strange differences between this universe and home. (I read in the newspaper that Britney Spears is the leading operatic soprano in the world. She recently made the news for doing Salome's Dance of the Seven Veils with an enormous snake on her shoulders. Also, thylacines, the weird carnivorous marsupials also called Tasmanian tigers or Tasmanian wolves, did not go extinct in the early 20th century as they did in my universe. They survive not only in their native Tasmania but in Britain, where a few captive animals got loose and started breeding. They make a major nuisance of themselves eating native wildlife and the occasional housecat.)
Other things that give me painful nostalgia: the word “fantastic.” Suits worn with trainers. Certain leather jackets. Christmas. “The Three Little Pigs” (a big Bad Wolf, you know). Bananas (I either cry or crack up, sometimes both). The name Cassandra (that time that Cassandra possessed my body and used it to kiss him…I wasn’t in control of my lips, but I remember what they felt. Hell yeah, I remember). 1940’s dancing music. 3D glasses. These or a thousand other cues can come at me out of the blue, and if I’m unlucky then the rest of the world grows insubstantial around me as I get lost in the past, no TARDIS to carry me home. No TARDIS to be my home.
Walls are worst. Most of the time they’re just ordinary structures that partition a building. Sometimes, however, I’ll lean on one in the wrong way, or see one with the light at a certain angle, and an ordinary wall becomes the barrier between worlds. I feel certain that on the other side of the wall are people going about their business, just like here but without zeppelins in the sky, cleaning up the damage the Cybermen did when they suddenly appeared just as we clean up the damage from Cybermen factories. I can almost see the slippery membrane of the dimensional boundary woven into the wood or stone or brick of the wall; just on the other side is the world where I was born. I press my ear against the wall, and it seems I almost hear a sound, like two hearts’ muffled beating on the other side. My Doctor. I have small scars on my hand from the first time I succeeded in punching through a wall in a panicked, pathetic attempt to cross over, but of course I only busted drywall, not the boundaries of the universe. That terrible wall is everywhere– every structure, mountain, tree, blade of grass, molecule of air, lover’s skin–and there it stays. I push and push, smash and slash, scream, cry, pray, wish and hope, meditate, sneak, cajole, and threaten, but the walls hold. Probably just as well, since an opening might well destroy both worlds. I should be glad I can’t see him, because he’s probably found another traveling partner, someone else to share the peril and thrill. She might wonder quietly who came before her, and he could tell her calmly. Surely he’s moved on with his life, just as you would think I have moved on with mine if you could not see through the white skull wall that separates my consciousness from this world.
All this sounds like a mopey wreck. I’m not. It’s not in my nature to be gloomy for long. For two days after the beach in Norway I wouldn’t get out of bed, but since then I’ve been getting on with life. I spend more time laughing than crying or even staring moodily into the distance. Having a real family complete with Dad and baby brother makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside in a domestic sort of way. My work at Torchwood is more fulfilling than I’d dreamed work could be back when I was at the shop. In three years here I’ve gotten good at it too. Well, the technical stuff is still just so much babble to me, although I have pretty good instincts for making alien tech work without understanding it in the slightest. I’ve only caused one major accidental explosion! I’m great at anything involving people: interviewing civilians who’ve seen something paranormal, peaceful contact with friendly aliens and fearless (well, less fearful than most humans) action when confronted with the bad sort. It keeps me busy. I can go days at a time without thinking of the Doctor at all, weeks without a painful episode. Sometimes I pretend that I’m a normal enough 24 year-old to try dating, even if none of those relationships seem to last very long. It’s just…everybody wonders sometimes if the best days of his or her life are already in the past. I more or less know they are. How do you top being young, beautiful, time-traveling, world-saving, and giddily (if silently) in love with the most wonderful man who ever lived? I could go mad with the regret of all I left unsaid until too late, but I choose sanity. God, I miss him.
The only unlikely memory cue that rarely hurts is running. My first story with the Doctor began with running. When I run, he could be right behind me or just out of sight in front. He could be watching from a distance, rooting me on. As long as I run, I can entertain the fantasies without giving them a chance to take me over, because most of me is focused on keeping my legs moving and lungs pumping while I evade whatever threat is behind me. Adrenaline and angst don’t coexist well. Sometimes I run just to stay fit and feel free from the walls, but thanks to the Torchwood work mostly I still run for my life. That much didn’t change when I began my solitary life. It certainly didn’t change the night that life ended.
Click here for Chapter 2
Here begins the first story in Ilyria, my series following Rose and the parallel universe's Ninth Doctor. It arose because of my emotional need to fix the end of Doomsday having a fight with my recognition of the storytelling importance of avoiding magic fixes. This universe is the compromise they worked out. This was originally posted on Teaspoon and is reposted here for those who prefer to read in LJ.
Title: What country, friends, is this?
Author:
tardis_stowawayRating: PG for a bit of language
Spoilers: Through Doomsday
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and all its characters belong to the BBC, not me. Alas!
Story Summary: Post-Doomsday, Rose still runs for her life. One night she runs into someone she never expected to see again. Problem #1: It's hard to have a blissful reunion with someone who has never met you. Problem #2: A Nine from the universe where Rose Tyler was never born is bound to have some unresolved issues.
Chapter Notes: In which Rose is introspective. Titles are taken from William Shakespeare's Twelfth Night, which you should all read or watch.
What country, friends, is this?
by TARDIS_stowaway
Chapter 1: Patience on a Monument
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? -Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, II.iv
Certain things remind me of him, sometimes almost more than I can stand. It’s not the big, obvious things: the aliens and whiz-bang technology I encounter at Torchwood, the zeppelins (zeppelins!) in the sky that tell me this is not my Earth, even the fact that my father is alive. These things are part of my everyday life now. If I thought of him every time I wouldn’t be able to function. Instead, I have stretched the cold white wall at Torchwood into my mind, keeping the Then out of the Now, making him only another memory of the universe I left behind. The stars are more troublesome. Everyone who looks at the glittering night sky tends to think about infinity, emptiness, the possibility of distant life, etc., etc., and I’m hardly immune to that. Worse, I look up and remember which ones I’ve visited with him. Except that was a parallel universe, and if I went to the other planets I might find them as changed as Earth. Anyway, I tend not to stare up at night unless I have the time for a potential cry, and I don’t indulge in that often. I make myself strong; it’s what he would have wanted.
The reminders that cause trouble are the little things that sneak up on me. Hand-holding, for starters. Mickey and I tried to make a relationship work for a while. We kissed, we hugged, we shoved each other playfully, sometimes (in the short period after I had managed to convince myself this wasn’t betraying the Doctor and before the relationship went sour) we made love, and it was all nice enough. But every time he tried to take my hand I was back in the basement, surrounded by murderous shop dummies, feeling the Doctor’s hand close around mine. My mind darted in sequence through every time the Doctor and I grasped hands in the midst of danger or wonder or simple pleasure in each other’s company. Mickey saw. We only lasted six months together, although he’s still my best mate and coworker at Torchwood. After all, he and my mother are the only people I can talk to about things like zeppelins and the other strange differences between this universe and home. (I read in the newspaper that Britney Spears is the leading operatic soprano in the world. She recently made the news for doing Salome's Dance of the Seven Veils with an enormous snake on her shoulders. Also, thylacines, the weird carnivorous marsupials also called Tasmanian tigers or Tasmanian wolves, did not go extinct in the early 20th century as they did in my universe. They survive not only in their native Tasmania but in Britain, where a few captive animals got loose and started breeding. They make a major nuisance of themselves eating native wildlife and the occasional housecat.)
Other things that give me painful nostalgia: the word “fantastic.” Suits worn with trainers. Certain leather jackets. Christmas. “The Three Little Pigs” (a big Bad Wolf, you know). Bananas (I either cry or crack up, sometimes both). The name Cassandra (that time that Cassandra possessed my body and used it to kiss him…I wasn’t in control of my lips, but I remember what they felt. Hell yeah, I remember). 1940’s dancing music. 3D glasses. These or a thousand other cues can come at me out of the blue, and if I’m unlucky then the rest of the world grows insubstantial around me as I get lost in the past, no TARDIS to carry me home. No TARDIS to be my home.
Walls are worst. Most of the time they’re just ordinary structures that partition a building. Sometimes, however, I’ll lean on one in the wrong way, or see one with the light at a certain angle, and an ordinary wall becomes the barrier between worlds. I feel certain that on the other side of the wall are people going about their business, just like here but without zeppelins in the sky, cleaning up the damage the Cybermen did when they suddenly appeared just as we clean up the damage from Cybermen factories. I can almost see the slippery membrane of the dimensional boundary woven into the wood or stone or brick of the wall; just on the other side is the world where I was born. I press my ear against the wall, and it seems I almost hear a sound, like two hearts’ muffled beating on the other side. My Doctor. I have small scars on my hand from the first time I succeeded in punching through a wall in a panicked, pathetic attempt to cross over, but of course I only busted drywall, not the boundaries of the universe. That terrible wall is everywhere– every structure, mountain, tree, blade of grass, molecule of air, lover’s skin–and there it stays. I push and push, smash and slash, scream, cry, pray, wish and hope, meditate, sneak, cajole, and threaten, but the walls hold. Probably just as well, since an opening might well destroy both worlds. I should be glad I can’t see him, because he’s probably found another traveling partner, someone else to share the peril and thrill. She might wonder quietly who came before her, and he could tell her calmly. Surely he’s moved on with his life, just as you would think I have moved on with mine if you could not see through the white skull wall that separates my consciousness from this world.
All this sounds like a mopey wreck. I’m not. It’s not in my nature to be gloomy for long. For two days after the beach in Norway I wouldn’t get out of bed, but since then I’ve been getting on with life. I spend more time laughing than crying or even staring moodily into the distance. Having a real family complete with Dad and baby brother makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside in a domestic sort of way. My work at Torchwood is more fulfilling than I’d dreamed work could be back when I was at the shop. In three years here I’ve gotten good at it too. Well, the technical stuff is still just so much babble to me, although I have pretty good instincts for making alien tech work without understanding it in the slightest. I’ve only caused one major accidental explosion! I’m great at anything involving people: interviewing civilians who’ve seen something paranormal, peaceful contact with friendly aliens and fearless (well, less fearful than most humans) action when confronted with the bad sort. It keeps me busy. I can go days at a time without thinking of the Doctor at all, weeks without a painful episode. Sometimes I pretend that I’m a normal enough 24 year-old to try dating, even if none of those relationships seem to last very long. It’s just…everybody wonders sometimes if the best days of his or her life are already in the past. I more or less know they are. How do you top being young, beautiful, time-traveling, world-saving, and giddily (if silently) in love with the most wonderful man who ever lived? I could go mad with the regret of all I left unsaid until too late, but I choose sanity. God, I miss him.
The only unlikely memory cue that rarely hurts is running. My first story with the Doctor began with running. When I run, he could be right behind me or just out of sight in front. He could be watching from a distance, rooting me on. As long as I run, I can entertain the fantasies without giving them a chance to take me over, because most of me is focused on keeping my legs moving and lungs pumping while I evade whatever threat is behind me. Adrenaline and angst don’t coexist well. Sometimes I run just to stay fit and feel free from the walls, but thanks to the Torchwood work mostly I still run for my life. That much didn’t change when I began my solitary life. It certainly didn’t change the night that life ended.
Click here for Chapter 2
