Title: Isle of the Dead
By: lilithangel
Pairings: Jack/Doctor (undisclosed)
Rating: PG
A/N: title taken from the Rachmaninoff symphonic (tone) poem which was inspired by Arnold Böcklin's painting of the same name, created a holistic reflection on how life and death are intertwined through the sounds of the ferryman’s oars dipping into the river Styx. Written for wintercompanion
My prompts were: tone poem, entomology (that which is cut into pieces), Twenty Eighty-four, Xxxx'indish
Summary: The Doctor’s song was an offbeat four pulse of time and two hearts and he relied on his companions to provide the melody that defined him. Without a companion he would often seek out other songs and try to fix things without the melody to bring him home. Jack’s melody was so strong he often felt overwhelmed but sometimes that was just what he needed. The TARDIS always brought him home unless he was a complete idiot and sent her away.

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“Take my hand.”
“If the Doctor is still the Doctor, he will have my back.”
They trusted him believed he would be there, believed if they reached out he would take their hand. Even as he betrayed them, abandoned them they believed in those hands. Segmented bone pieces held together by skin and sinew, they seemed like such fragile things to trust.
The rhythm of the oars was a disturbing single heartbeat, tattoo of worry and blame. Dipping into the water and bringing him closer to the island. The darkness at its center seemed to grow taller as they approached the golden glow around the edge of the island pulsing in counterpoint to the oars.

The plan hadn’t been to get involved, it never was if he was honest but he was curious about the darkness in the center of the water. The TARDIS had heard a heartbeat and sent him searching to keep him away from the grief. The darkness had heard his grief and asked him for a song. It had been taking their song so he felt it only right that he give them a chance. So he reached out his hand and the darkness reached back.

It was a graveyard, a temple, a place of song that the Xxxx’in did not speak about with outsiders. Fortunately a generous payment in Galactic Standard to substitute for the few words of Xxxx'indish he remembered got him a meeting with and elder who looked at him, listened to his song and welcomed his darkness.

He remembered, would remember, had forgotten Twenty Eighty-four and the time schism that would put the whole Time Agency on major alert. It had ended as quickly as it had happened but the Agency had kept the file open while they tried to clean up the tears in the time stream and figure out just what had happened. The Xxxx’in had only spoken of darkness and the song which hadn’t made any sense to anyone. He’d been young and cocky and they’d all sworn they’d have got more out of the Xxxx’in than their superiors and then they’d all lost interest but he hadn’t really forgotten.

“Doctor, my Doctor.”

“I stole you.”

“Doctor.”

“Doctor.”

He missed them all but the loss of her voice was a physical ache even without a true body it ached. Her song, their song was the four-beat time that reminded him to breathe.

He staggered as he stepped off the boat, the sheer force of the song more than he’d expected. It wasn’t sad the song, it was joyful and wild, challenging pain and death even as the double heartbeat rhythm slowed. The Doctor was dying and seemed to be embracing his demise even as he still fought its grasp.

The visceral envy that coursed through him caused him to stumble again. How often these last decades had he wished for a song of death and the Doctor who fought for life against all else was embracing a fate that couldn’t be his. But there was another song under the Doctor’s, the song of the lost. Inside the darkness he could hear the song of the Xxxx’in dead, lost and angry until they joined with the Doctor.

The TARDIS had found him, brought him to the planet but refused to come any further. The Doctor had refused to listen to her song and had broken her heart so she had come to one whose heart had been broken by the Doctor but who hadn’t forgotten and still loved as much as she did.

Jack sang.

The others that sang with him left him and he wanted to follow but there was always another voice, another scared and lost, so he sang them on knowing the Xxxx’in were crumbling under the weight of their death song and the planet was dying along with them.

A new voice joined, so alive it burned. It countered his song, sang of love and life and took the Xxxx’in higher than his song alone. He knew the voice, knew the song and for the first time it didn’t scratch at the back of his time sense. Instead it was like coming home. It was love, it was life, it was a four beat rhythm but oh so human and he knew it could only be one person. Inside the song was a melody of grief, the real reason it hurt to look. Of all his companions, of all the terrible fates he’d been responsible for this eternal life was the one he couldn’t forgive himself for.

But the song didn’t want his forgiveness didn’t even want his love really. The song wanted him to live, the singer wanted his happiness, wanted to share in the joy of the long life they’d both been cursed/gifted with. He had so few constants in his existence but this was one his selfish hearts wanted so badly he couldn’t run from it any longer.

He felt the song change, felt the Doctor shift the melody to join his, felt the dead maelstrom around them and then they were gone.

Jack reached out his hand.

The Doctor reached out.

“New look,” Jack said as he steadied the Doctor.

“This old thing?” the Doctor said shakily trying to stand. “Is she mad at me?” he added.

“Furious,” Jack said, “you might not be able to find things for a while.”

The Doctor grimaced. “Might be an idea to bring along a mediator then,” he said casually.

“You asking?”

“You accepting?”

“We’ve got a bit of a trip back for you to convince me,” Jack said leading the way down to the ferry, “and for you to tell me what the hell you were thinking.”

The Doctor sighed; Jack was such a mother hen (it was kind of nice really).

END

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