ii. ready for the big stuff. (drabble)

Muse: The Doctor. (Eleven)
Prompt: Turn Away.
Word Count: 521.
Notes: Collapse )

The Earth fully rotates on its axis once every twenty-four hours. Scattered across the universe lives stars that burn with the wisdom of millions of years. Hiding behind even the darkest edges of the universe, galaxy-dusted pockets hold the key to worlds both so old and so very new. The moon he watches this from slowly pulls itself around Earth's atmosphere nearly every -- what the little blue and green planet calls a -- month.

It is through all this: through every shooting star, through every rotation of a sun, through every expansion of a new planet, that he remains still.

New eyes watch the earth, youthful, alive, unafraid. Buried beneath these lenses of freshness and vigour seers the depth of a Lord of Time, ancient and forever; these are the same eyes that always keep watch of the earth.

With his elbow perched against the metallic banister, he stands at a new height, listening to the gentle hum of the universe illuminated by the console of his only remaining link to what was. Blue doors stand ajar, exposing this earth, this world where the buzz of electricity now overpowers even the greatest whisper. This world, corroded by time, dripping with mistakes, overcome by fear...

Perhaps, he thinks, they aren't so different.

He looks to the current colours above his head: a deep red dressed with an orange trim, the powdery trace of aquamarine from the heart of his own little blue planet. He then looks from here, to there, to everywhere. So many new corridors and ramps, so many untested buttons and bobs.

By the door hangs his past, hooked from one of the coat rack's arms; there hangs the cinnamon brown fabrics of what was.

When he takes it between his fingers, he places its back carefully over the crook of his arm. She only thought he might like it, just once more, for another adventure. She didn't know that like time, this piece of the past is fragile and worn.

It takes five tries for him to find the wardrobe -- he's getting better at this. He eyes the coat. Up, down, across the shoulders. He's shorter now. Soon, the curt wrinkle of his nose sinks into the flesh of his face and he remembers.

He remembers Donna Noble. He remembers Martha Jones. He remembers Rose Tyler. He remembers the heartache. He remembers the tears in their eyes.

He remembers that there is no time to dwell.

He fingers the sleeve of the coat, the intricate curve of the buttons. Every memory is stitched here, but that is all they are. Memories. Time and facts and fixed points in the past -- worlds of remembrance he could not, no, would not erase for anything. But it's time, he decides, to put these memories aside.

As he leaves the wardrobe in lieu of a new memory, his empty hands are in the pockets of his trousers. A trail of lights follow him from the fire-dipped ceiling elevated high above his head until only one light remains.

Within this light sits the memories sewn into every stitch of that very same cinnamon brown coat.