(c) Centuries and Seconds [PG-13]

by tea-boy. Sun 23 May 2010, 12:29 am

Title: Centuries and Seconds
Rating: PG-13
Author: Me.
Fandom: Torchwood/Doctor Who
Pairing: None, friendshipy sort of thing.
Status: one-shot, drabbl-y thing.
Summary/Exerpt: Time is inexorable, death is inescapable, for all but two.
A/N: It's bad, I'm aware, but I needed to get it out.
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The wine-colored liquid stained the cracked grey tiles of a 16th century church. The years had been scarcely kind to the sacred grounds; vines grew up from the floor, winding around golden columns and arches. The stain-glass windows let little light in, the thick layers of dust kept the vast cathedral dim.

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A pair of brown eyes stared intently at the mangled soul in front of the alter. They were filled with emotion, but none could tell one from the hundreds that swam in the water accumulating in the fixed stare. He watched from the shadows, staring past the broken body, into the core of the man. He took in everything about the picture; the pool of physical sorrow, the twisted limbs so scarily resembling the vines that hung from everything, the little light that came through shining on the cold face. He saw everything, but looked past all but the eyes. The deep blue eyes that once held vibrant laughter and an unquenchable spark of curiosity, the ones that held nothing now, nothing but the occasional flash of sorrow so deep that it could cut straight through the hardened heart of Time. His gaze never moved from the doors, far too old for the young body and far too used for a singular lifetime. There were so many things he shouldn’t have seen, so many things those doors should have never been opened to. He waited for the inexorable gasp, the unwanted renewal. And he saw it come a few minutes later, the heave off the chest, and the sobs that broke out almost immediately after. He watched the man drown in blood and tears, the sorrow near driving the brown-eyed man mad. Yet he still could not tear his gaze from the brutal scene. He thought about all the tragedies he’d seen, how he’d always fixed what he could and never stayed for the epilogue, the aftermath. But he had to see this one, he owed the man in front of him that much. He needed to see because he needed to remember this for the rest of eternity, though he couldn’t wrestle a definitive reason into his mind. He just needed to remember.

He never let his figure cross into the light, but merely stayed leaning against a column in the darkest corner of the church. He watched as the man in his vision curled into himself, as he had before. He had been watching for a while, he stored every scream for the lover in the dead of night in his memory banks, he’d observed countless hysterical episodes, but this was not like anything he’d done before. He simply lay in the middle of everything, knees tucked into his chest, the brightest rays of light shining down in front of the alter. He could see the eyes of his old friend staring into oblivion. There was nothing, not a trace of humanity or emotion left, and this was the final straw. The river building in his eyes was released wildly onto his pale cheeks, drop quickly running down to the floor. He hadn’t the strength to remove his hands from his pockets to wipe away the guiltangerfearsorrowhorror and everything else that the thin veil of liquid on his face contained. He simply closed his eyes, finally breaking his stare, the last image burned into his sight, and turned on his heel. The heavy steps were inaudible on the tiles as he walked back to his blue beauty and left the other behind. In 907 years, this was the most painful goodbye.