Katharos (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
katharos-8.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
31_days2006-02-18 11:47 pm
katharos-8.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2006-02-18 11:47 pm
Feb 18 | Doctor Who | Reliquary
Title: Reliquary
Author: Katharos
Fandom: Doctor Who
Theme: Bone Flute
Notes: The Second Doctor's recorder
Somewhere Ben's voice is raised loud in complaint against all things that make noise, Polly's following after in placating disagreement.
The Doctor closes his eyes and continues playing, accidentally running up a particularly shrill riff. The recorder is cold after all, of course. The wood is chill under his fingers but his breath is gradually warming it and the notes are smoothing out into melody. Somewhere in the Tardis, Ben flings his voice up in theatrical, exasperated surrender and a door slams.
The Doctor smiles around the mouthpiece and plays a brief jig.
He remembers a race who watches Earth's sun burn, whose ancestors slumber in primordial sleep in his Companion's Earth. He remembers an academy holiday and a trip, and a bazaar he had stumbled across when he had wandered off approved paths, and the disreputable merchant he had met, selling curiosities out of the back of his ship.
He remembers the recorder he bought and the adventure it led to, and the photograph the grieving family had let him see when he brought them the news and the small comfort of revenge.
Horror had knotted his hearts together and he had put it away carefully, let it lay undisturbed, a reverent relic.
Satisfied with the recorder's tone, the Doctor launches into a piping, triumphantal air that will surely reach Ben's ears wherever he's chosen to bury himself.
Even her bones hold the most beautiful song, and it is his pleasure to let it out again.
Author: Katharos
Fandom: Doctor Who
Theme: Bone Flute
Notes: The Second Doctor's recorder
Somewhere Ben's voice is raised loud in complaint against all things that make noise, Polly's following after in placating disagreement.
The Doctor closes his eyes and continues playing, accidentally running up a particularly shrill riff. The recorder is cold after all, of course. The wood is chill under his fingers but his breath is gradually warming it and the notes are smoothing out into melody. Somewhere in the Tardis, Ben flings his voice up in theatrical, exasperated surrender and a door slams.
The Doctor smiles around the mouthpiece and plays a brief jig.
He remembers a race who watches Earth's sun burn, whose ancestors slumber in primordial sleep in his Companion's Earth. He remembers an academy holiday and a trip, and a bazaar he had stumbled across when he had wandered off approved paths, and the disreputable merchant he had met, selling curiosities out of the back of his ship.
He remembers the recorder he bought and the adventure it led to, and the photograph the grieving family had let him see when he brought them the news and the small comfort of revenge.
Horror had knotted his hearts together and he had put it away carefully, let it lay undisturbed, a reverent relic.
Satisfied with the recorder's tone, the Doctor launches into a piping, triumphantal air that will surely reach Ben's ears wherever he's chosen to bury himself.
Even her bones hold the most beautiful song, and it is his pleasure to let it out again.