![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
wojelah.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
wintercompanion2013-07-17 02:19 pm
lindenharp: Crown of Thorns, Part 2 (Tenth Doctor/Jack) [All Ages] (SUMMER HOLIDAYS PROMPT 9)
Author: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
lindenharp
Title: Crown of Thorns
Pairing: Tenth Doctor/Jack
Rating: all ages
Words: 5557
Spoilers/warnings: none
Prompt 9: 40, Ruby, The Mender of Ways, The War of the Roses
Summary: The Rose Crown of Drelga is a beautiful and valuable artefact--but why does the Doctor want to steal it?
Author’s note: This story is part of my Two Travellers series, in which Jack joined the Tenth Doctor on the TARDIS after Children of Earth.
Crown of Thorns, Part 1
He doesn’t lose consciousness. There’s a moment of wooziness as the TARDIS in his mind dissolves and gives way to the reality of the hard tile floor of Lab 3.
“Jack? How are you doing?” The Doctor is crouching beside him, looking very unhappy.
I failed him. “Doctor, I’m sorry...”
“What? Whatever do you have to be sorry for?”
“You told me to fight it, and I couldn’t. I wasn’t strong enough. I’m sor—”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one who should apologize. I pushed you too hard.” He studies Jack carefully. “Do you think you can stand up? I’d like to take you back to the medbay, make sure there weren’t any physical consequences to that tussle.”
Perhaps he’ll be given a chance to make up for his failure. The Doctor is kind. “Of course I can.” Jack leaps to his feet. Once in the medbay, he lies down on the exam bed. He remains quiet and still while the Doctor repeats all the earlier tests and a few more.
“No change,” the Doctor says to himself. “No worse, but no better than before.” He opens the medicine cabinet and slips something into the pocket of his suit jacket. “What do you say we sit in the library for a while, eh?”
There’s only one possible answer. “Yes, Doctor.”
After the pyrotechnic glare of the psychic battle, the muted atmosphere of the library is soothing. They sit down on a large sofa covered in dark green velvet. The lamps on the end tables have amber glass shades that fill the room with light as thick and sweet as golden syrup. Without a word, the Doctor pulls Jack towards him to lean against his shoulder. Jack nuzzles against the Time Lord’s neck, breathing in his familiar scent.
The Doctor brushes Jack’s hair back and gently kisses his forehead. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’m so very sorry.” There’s a buzz and a tingle on the left side of his neck, and then darkness swallows him.
---
When he revives with a convulsive gasp, he’s lying on his back on the green velvet sofa. As usual, he doesn’t know if it’s been seconds or hours, but this time he suspects it was on the shorter end of the scale. He’s not surprised to see the Doctor standing over him, gazing down at him with a look he can’t quite identify.
“How do you feel?”
He takes a moment to evaluate himself. Other than the inevitable post-revival headache... “I’m fine.”
The Doctor studies him for a long, silent moment. “Jack, go to the kitchen and make me a ham baguette with Camembert and olive paste.”
Jack sits up and turns sideways, leaning against the thick, padded arm of the couch. “Since when do you like olive paste? I thought you hated that stuff.”
“I ate some the week before last, when we were at that banquet in Greece.”
“Only because you didn’t want to offend Alexander,” Jack retorts. “Anyway, if you’re so hungry, lazybones, make your own damn sandwich.”
The Doctor grins. “Jack! Jack, Jack, Jack! Never thought I’d be so happy to hear you being rude to me.” He approaches, arms held wide, and Jack throws himself into the hug.
As they’re disentangling themselves, Jack murmurs, “Thank you.”
“What?” The Doctor stiffens. “What are you thanking me for?”
Oh. He’s going to be like that. “Thank you for saving me.”
“I didn’t save you. I killed you,” the Doctor snaps.
“Thank you for killing me,” Jack says calmly. “I know that was hard for you, but it cut me free from the crown. That rose has some nasty thorns.” He’s watching carefully, so he sees the faint shudder that the Doctor doesn’t completely suppress.
Jack leads the Doctor out of the library. “C’mon.”
“Where are we going?” the Time Lord asks, though he doesn’t pull away from Jack’s hand on his shoulder.
“Kitchen. I’m hungry, and a ham baguette sounds like a fabulous idea. With mustard and onion, I think.” And then we’re going to talk.
Jack prepares two sandwiches: one for himself and another (cheddar and pickle) for the Doctor. He doesn’t consult the Time Lord, just sets the plate in front of him, and switches the kettle on. He wasn’t born on Earth and the Doctor isn’t human, but both of them have spent enough time in the UK to appreciate the soothing properties of a hot cuppa.
He takes a large bite from the sandwich and washes it down with a swig of tea. “Well, that was something different,” he comments. “I once spent three days wearing a Sycorax slave bracelet—a Time Agency mission that went wrong. No fun, but at least it was just compulsion, you know? Obeying orders. My mind wasn’t affected. But this...” He struggles to find the words. “I’m not sure how much of what I experienced was the crown and how much was me. Because I do have feelings for you, and I usually follow your orders, but not...” Not like a fawning puppy.
“I am so sorry, Jack.”
He holds up one hand, palm outward. “Hush. It wasn’t your fault. Unless... did you know that it could entice someone without touching?” The Doctor shakes his head vigorously. “Then I don’t see that you have any reason to blame yourself. Eat your sandwich,” Jack commands, and takes another large bite of his own. “I’m glad it was you.”
“What?” the Doctor sputters.
“I’m glad it was you,” he repeats. “If it had to happen, I’m glad it was with someone I trust, someone who wouldn’t take advantage.”
“I made you fight a psychic battle! I pushed you to expend so much energy that you collapsed!” The Doctor throws up his hands.
“Something else I should thank you for. If it was holding me in some other way, if I’d had free will, don’t you think I would have pushed myself that hard or harder?” He locks eyes with the Doctor. “And if that didn’t work, and I had a choice, I would have killed myself or begged you to do it. So I owe you a ton of thanks—and I think you owe me an explanation. Tell me about the connection between the Rose Crown of Drelga and your old friend Tregantell.”
The Doctor flinches, as if he’d been struck. “He was never a friend of mine. Never!”
“All right. Tell me about it.”
The Doctor’s head droops, and he stares into his mug of tea. “A few centuries after the Starstone fell, Tregantell arrived on Drelga. He told the Drelgans that he was a god, and he had come to relieve them of the never-ending battles for the crown, the terrible Wars of the Rose.”
“How did they react to that?” Jack asks.
“With great skepticism. Tregantell announced that he would take the crown and give it to a more worthy candidate. The king protested, of course, so the god struck him down with heavenly fire.” The last two words are heavy with irony. Jack nods. Probably a blaster of some sort. It isn’t hard to impersonate a god on a Level 3 planet. More than one rogue Time Agent has been locked up for trying that trick.
“Then Tregantell produced the ruby rose and set it into the silver crown. He said it would select a more worthy ruler, one who could hear the wisdom of the god and use it to guide his people. According to Drelgan lore, that’s what happened.”
“And Tregantell?”
The Doctor shrugs. “The royal chronicles say he journeyed to ‘Heaven’ on a regular basis, sometimes for years at a time. The last time he was seen on Drelga was at the coronation of Jasthur the Twelfth—the king who just died.”
Jack has pieced together some of the puzzle. “The rose is a psionic device that can detect and attract humanoids of a certain telepathic level,” he says slowly. “It binds the wearer to a stronger telepath, and later gives the king some kind of telepathic influence over his subjects. How am I doing so far?”
The Doctor glances up from his untouched mug of tea. “Well enough. You missed some details, but...” He shrugs again.
“There’s just one thing I want to know. Who was Tregantell?” And why are you acting like this is your fault?
“One of the details that you missed is a necessary condition for the bond. It’s not enough for the bond-holder to be a stronger telepath,” the Doctor says stiffly. “He has to be a Time Lord. Like Tregantell.”
Jack feels like the meteoric Starstone has just landed on his head. A Time Lord. A renegade, of course. From the little that Jack knows about the High Council of Time Lords, they only interfered with other worlds that posed a major threat to the timelines. “Did you know him?”
“Heard of him. Saw him once or twice at public gatherings when I was young. He left Gallifrey after I did, but I heard rumours that he was playing god on a primitive world. For the natives’ own good, of course.” In a quieter but no less acidic voice the Doctor adds, “Just like me.”
“Bollocks. You’re nothing like him..”
“I could be. I’m a Time Lord, Jack. Arrogance, deviousness, and a taste for power are woven into all three strands of my DNA. I could be exactly like him.”
Jack remembers all too well what a Time Lord unrestrained by any kind of morality is capable of. “I know.” He represses a laugh at the Doctor’s gobsmacked expression. “And I love that about you. You could do those things... but you won’t. There’s no virtue in refraining from things that don’t tempt you.”
“You can forgive me that easily?”
“There’s nothing to forgive. This is not your fault.” He rises and circles the table, bending down to cover the Doctor’s face with soft kisses. “It’s not your fault,” he repeats.
The Doctor sighs. “I suppose not, but it is my problem. I’ve got to do something about the crown.”
“It’s our problem,” Jack corrects him.
“You can’t be anywhere near it.”
“I know that. Doesn’t mean you can’t benefit from my brilliant ideas.”
“Have much experience with advanced telepathic technology, do you?”
Jack shrugs modestly. “Can you nullify the telepathic circuits? Turn it into a harmless ornament?”
“Of course I can,” the Doctor says indignantly. “Easy peasy, only that’s not much better than keeping it locked up. The new king expects the crown to help him hear the ‘wisdom of the god’, and to impose his royal will on the people around him. If the crown is just a pretty hat, it won’t take long for the government to collapse.”
“Slow decay, then. Turn it down to half power and let it gradually fade away over the years.”
“But that’s... erm... quite brilliant, actually.”
Jack grins. “I’ve got a few more ideas...”
---
Maro Thulie stands, straight and unmoving, beside the other eight candidates. They might almost be statues of past kings in the Hall of Glory, he thinks, then brushes the impious notion aside. He and his cousins are waiting in the Hall of Presentation for Tregantell to appear in his divine chariot and choose the next king.
Who will it be? The question has been haunting his mind since the candidates were named by the priests on the ninth day of mourning. In theory, they all have an equal chance, being the nine eldest royal cousins of their generation. Could it be him? His cousins don’t think so. Oh, he’s a good warrior, skilled with blade and bow, or he wouldn’t be one of the Nine. He’s not the youngest, nor the slowest, though some of the others think him weak. They call him ‘schoolmaster’ and ‘grandmother’ because he likes to read books other than manuals of swordmanship and military strategy. He’d argued that a king needed knowledge as well as strength, and his eldest cousin had laughed. “The king has councillors and the voice of the god in the crown. Why should he trouble himself with the scribblings of old men?”
Maro’s speculations are interrupted by a grinding noise that seems to come from everywhere at once. The god’s chariot! It takes all of his discipline to remain in place, not to look in all directions like a child at his first festival. Just as in the tales, the chariot appears first as a shadow, turning solid within a few heartbeats. The door opens and the god strides out, followed by his servant. Tregantell looks like a chieftain in his prime: tall, straight-backed, and sure-footed, with dark hair as shaggy as a skarrun pelt. His face is different to the various likenesses of him in his temple, but such is the way of the god, the priests say. If the miraculous chariot was not proof enough of his divinity, the Rose Crown sits atop his head. Only the god and his chosen can wear the crown unscathed.
The Mender of Ways hurries forth, bowing low. “Holy Tregantell, you honour us with your presence. The candidates await your judgement.”
Tregantell waves him off with a careless gesture. He walks along the line of young men, examining them with the same dispassionate air that Maro's uncle Ruche gives to new horses for his stable. Tregantell approaches the first candidate. Maro can't see his cousin's face, but he can see the god studying him with keen brown eyes.
Tregantell moves along the line, and his servant follows two paces behind. He is a tall man, as tall as the god, but the eyes in his solemn face are blue. When the god moves in front of the fifth candidate, the servant touches him on the arm and whispers in his ear. The god does not strike him down for his presumption, but nods thoughtfully. Surely he must be a cup-companion or shield-mate to behave so familiarly.
And then Tregantell is before him, and his silent voice fills Maro’s mind. Why should you be king?
He hesitates—but there is no concealing his thoughts from the god. I do not know if I should be king, Holy One.
Do you think so little of yourself?
I know my skills and my strengths, Holy One, but you alone know who will best serve Drelga’s needs.
Indeed, I do. The god cries aloud, “Behold my chosen, O people of Drelga. He raises the crown from his own head and places it firmly on Maro’s brow.
Much of the rest of the evening is a blur. Maro watches, as if from a distance, as the rituals and ceremonies are performed: the anointing, the benedictions and chastisements, the robing, and the oaths. He understands now that those things are for the observers. Nothing matters to him except the crown and the god. The voice in his mind is patient and calm. It teaches him how to use the crown to guide the thoughts of others. When you can, use words of reason rather than force, the god advises him. Better to have willing allies than slaves and enemies.
Other thoughts flow in, not as words but as images and... understandings. Visions dart by, swift as greywings: tree branches heavy with fruit, green fields criss-crossed by strangely narrow streams as straight as spears, a huge chariot wheel immersed in a river, affixed to a hut on the bank, a group of children—peasant children!—sitting in a half-circle around a scribe. These are my gifts to you, Tregantell tells him. They will sleep in your mind until their time is come.
The god withdraws from his mind just as the feast is announced. Maro leads the god to the seat of honour in the Great Hall. Tregantell gestures for Maro to sit at his right hand and his companion Jack at his left.
The servers bring an endless stream of dishes: roasts and stews, fish and cheese tarts, groats with herbs and berries, and roasted Scarlet Skimmers re-dressed in their feathers. The wine flows like a golden river, and song fills the hall. There is a bell dance and a spear dance, and a chorus of novices from Tregantell's temple.
The god proclaims himself well-pleased with the entertainment. "You lot know how to throw a party," he declares, "but now we've got to be off. You know how it is. People to see, planets to save."
There are murmurs of astonishment throughout the hall. Maro is not surprised. Tregantell is mighty and wise and kind—no wonder if he guides other peoples in places beyond the heavens. The festers rise and bow as their new king escorts the god from the hall.
They stand in front of the great blue chariot. Maro bows low and stammers words of thanks and farewell, then steps aside.
Tregantell's companion opens the door of the chariot. He grins impudently at the god. “So... tonight is a time for celebration. Can you tell what I’m thinking?”
Tregantell snorts. “I don’t need the Rose Crown to figure that out.”
As the door closes behind them, the chariot begins to flicker like a candle flame. In the brief moment before it vanishes, Maro swears that he can hear, beneath the chariot’s loud groaning, the merry echo of men’s laughter.
--- THE END ---
no subject
no subject
no subject
I liked the look inside Jack's head. It was interesting how his submission to the Doctor felt so natural to him. The Doctor is so principled and it was sad that he had to kill Jack to save him... but I was still curious to see what it would be like inside Jack's head without the compulsion.
Great story!
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
My first draft of the death scene was much shorter and not nearly as emotional, and I'm glad that my betas talked me into extending it.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject