Doctor Who Drabble

This is the first true 100 word drabble I've ever written. So proud of myself :')
I wrote this as a random writing warm-up but I actually quite like it.

The Doctor has never liked endings, because those in his life are never happy. Too much pain, too much loss, too much regret.

No matter how much he tried, he lost them all, one by one; forever ageless and full of life, while his friends aged and died around him.

He is always running, staying ahead of it all, trying to keep the sorrow at bay, to begin afresh.

But every story must end sometime, somehow, and one day, his ending will catch up with him.

After all, one cannot run forever.

Everything has its time, even for the Doctor.

Another Merlin drabble of fangirlism :p

For those of you who actually know what I'm talking about, I'm sorry, I am so, so sorry...*virtual hug*

Thank you to Maya for editing this and making it loads better :D

 

 

The moisture seeped through his battered armour, chilling him to the bone. Not long now, he thought, and for a breathless moment the panic made itself known, coursing through his body like a cold wave of desperation to do something, anything, to halt his bitterly inevitable destiny. He couldn’t die now, not when so many depended on him, on his leadership. His people needed a king to guide them, and his knights needed a commander, a friend, to mourn their fallen comrades alongside them, and Guinevere, his poor, sweet Guinevere, who would be worried sick… he needed to hold her in his arms and never let go.

But as his gasping breaths counted down the last few moments he had left, he realized that he would never again see those he cared about, that he would die on the edge of this lake, the healing powers of the Sidhe so close, yet so unreachable… with Merlin by his side.

Merlin, whose tear-filled blue eyes burned into him with such helplessness and pain. Merlin, who possessed such incredible powers; who was so much more than a simple clumsy manservant, yet was still so utterly Merlin… Merlin, his truest friend.

And in that moment he knew, that although he would never be able to free magic, never be able to recognize Merlin for all the things he had done, there was one thing he could do.

And he would do it gladly.
Just before his vision succumbed to darkness, he willed his failing body to choke out two words; two tiny, unimaginably powerful words, that would carry the weight of all the things he would never get the chance to say：

“Thank you.”

 

--

the feels ;-;

Oh don't mind me...I'll just go off to read some AU fanfiction...

;)

Letter to a loved one

Pen hovering,
The page blank;
I can't think,
have to be frank.

No way to describe,
with words just right,
the way your smile
shines so bright.

The way you are
the Sun to my Earth,
my steadfast anchor,
centre of my universe.

Your carefree laughter,
brings warmth to my heart,
a warmth with which
I hope to never part.

The things I feel,
only you can understand;
my dearest love,
and my bestest friend.

And I suppose all this
is just me trying to say:
godspeed, my angel,
for me, be safe.

the Tale of Mordred

I suppose I am writing this because I feel almost obligated to tell the other side of the story-- my side, my perspective. In a hundred, a thousand years, High King Arthur Pendragon's name will live on, as a wise and strong ruler, a peace bringer, who united all of Albion in its glorious Golden Age; and I, forever remembered as the cold-blooded villain. It pains me to think that the good peoples of this kingdom would be so easily fooled by the lies the king had spun with the aid of his treacherous sorcerer, Merlin. But as long as these short pages endure, my story will be told. I only hope that some trader in a far off country would be able to see beyond the glamour of the king, so that the truth will live on.

I realize that I had strayed somewhat, had become lost in the sea of bitterness that predominates my life. Read on, whoever it be that sets eyes upon this, and you shall learn of all the woes that shaped who I am, and who I must become, at dawn tomorrow, on the fields of Camlann, under the blood red sky.

Every woeful tale has its beginning, and mine began the moment I opened my eyes to the world. My mother was Morgause, esteemed priestess of the Old Religion and half-sister to Arthur Pendragon himself, though neither my mother nor the king knew it at the time. When he finally learned of the truth, my mother was already with child...his child. And how cruel is fate that I must call him father, when in truth I hate him more than any other man I've known. For it was not enough that he turned my pregnant mother away in her time of need, no, he drove her out of the great city of Camelot and hunted her across the kingdom to protect his precious throne from an illegitimate heir. Well, how ironic that by doing so, he himself planted the seed of hate that would bring the very thing he feared above all-- his usurpation, his death. He hunted my mother like a criminal, forcing her to flee in the dead of the night, to one sleepy village after another, never stopping, in fear of her life. And it was in one such village that I was born, screaming, into the world, destined to deal King Arthur the fate he deserves.

I was a queer child, they say, aloof. I never quite fit in with the other boys, but I envied their lightheartedness and their camaraderie, and I knew that they would never betray my mother and me. But alas, King Arthur just could not let us be.

I was merely 6 when they came, those knights of King Arthur's court, looming over us children on their high horses, brandishing their sharpened swords. I recall it so vividly even after all these years: their reddened faces (whether from liquor or exertion I could not tell), the predatory manner in which their gazes sought out the children. Then they just murdered them all-- every young child, every companion I ever had-- just smote them all down in broad daylight, while the villagers stood by in stupefied horror. Being a little apart from the other children, I was spared their fate, but not those terrible memories. I ran home to my mother, and we fled, never looking back; but I knew that I would never forget what the king and his knights did.

From then on, my mother and I lived in seclusion, deep in the mountains, far away, where we hoped that the king's forces would never reach us. I later learned that it was not just the village we stayed in, but every single one in the whole kingdom, where the knights rounded up and killed all the younger children. It was said to be "for the good of the kingdom", for Merlin had foreseen that it a child of the age of 6 who would grow up to be the killer of King Arthur. (Ha! And he was right.) But of course, the knights could not even be bothered to spare the others.

Some children aspire to be great physicians when they are older, others knights in shining armor, rescuing damsels left and right. I've always wanted to become a knight, though for vastly different reasons-- I wanted to kill the king. So I trained hard, every day, in hopes that I would master the art of weaponry and one day, end the life of the deceiving ruler, the cruel murderer, the cold-hearted father.

I joined the court of King Arthur when I became of age, to get to know my mortal enemy. I stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the older knights, yet the king, in his arrogance, never doubted me as I pretended to be a half dozen years older than I am. And so I watched, for his weaknesses, and waited, for that fateful day.

My tale reaches its end. Dawn has come at last, casting crimson rays onto allies and foes alike. I know not whether I will live to see another, but now is not the time for regrets. I must do this. Today, at Camlann, I shall fulfill my destiny to avenge all those that King Arthur Pendragon has wronged. To the death, it shall be, father and son, sword to sword.

These are to be my last words. Before I march to battle, I ask of you, reader, one last thing: no, neither pity nor forgiveness, but remembrance. Remember my story; remember me, the lonely, fatherless little boy named Mordred.

--
My attempt at writing a story from the villain's perspective. Hope it was believable :)

Spring

A blade of grass quivering in the breeze,
The buds just beginning to sprout on trees,
The furry forms darting across the lawn,
The birdsong welcoming every new dawn.

There's something different that I cannot place,
A buzzing vibrancy that's full of grace;
It's in the fragrance of cherry blossoms,
A sweet elegance, simple yet awesome.

Gone are the days of endless bitter cold,
The rain, the gloom, the fireside stories told.
The hard and frozen earth has thawed and greened,
The cool stream water runs glistening clean.

For oh the winter months have come and passed,
And fair springtime has awakened at last.

Yay :D Yet another product of my fangirlism. Doctor Who this time =P not that satisfied with this but mehh... (If anyone's interested, this is about the Last Time War between the Time Lords and the Daleks. Both Gallifrey -the Time Lords' home planet- and the Daleks' planet were destroyed and both races wiped out except for a few survivors.) XD

There once was a planet,
Gallifrey it was known;
where under a burnt orange sky,
the flaming grasses shone.

The silver leaves glittered,
the mountains stretched ever on;
and the light of the twin suns,
kindled joy every dawn.

Home of the Time Lords,
most ancient race in the universe;
able to travel across time itself,
but sworn to only observe.

A people of knowledge, they were,
powerful and wise.
Builders of libraries and cathedrals,
all of magnificent size.

But time would take its toll,
as they knew best of all;
for even the mighty Time Lords,
one day must fall.

And soon that day came,
one of war and destruction.
Ruthless and unstoppable,
the Daleks were triumphant.

Even the Time Lords' regenerations
in the end could not save them.
One by one they fell,
amidst the chaos and mayhem.

Only one possessed the power,
only one understood the signs;
he must save the whole universe
from the very collapse of time.

But a heavy heart he bore,
for he knew and dreaded the cost.
Time would be saved,
but all his kin would be lost.

And so the sky rained flames,
and great buildings crumbled to dust.
Downed were Daleks and Time Lords alike,
as he knew they must.

He alone escaped,
while all the rest perished.
He watched as the world burned-
the ruin of all he cherished.

And then he ran, away
from his painful past.
So very alone,
for he knew he was the last.

Deep he buried his grief,
with a new life, a new name.
"The Doctor", he called himself,
only Time Lord there remained.

The healer, the wise one,
travelling through time and space.
The unsung hero,
always to defend, to save.

And even after all this time,
his true name remains a mystery.
For it is more than just a secret,
an unspeakable truth shrouded in history.

"On the Fields of Trenzalore,
at the fall of the Eleventh,
the question will be asked,
and silence will fall.

The First Question,
one he has been running from all his life,
the question that must NEVER be answered.
Silence MUST fall.

Doctor who? Doctor who? DOCTOR WHO?!"

The Last March of the Elves

*This is set in Lord of the Rings universe, from the point of view of an elf marching to Helm's Deep. (The Two Towers movie? Anyone? XD)

On we march, forward,
Across glittering streams,
Over snow-peaked mountains,
Through sunlit meadows,
Our horns of war sounding.

On we march, away,
From all that is familiar and safe,
Leaving behind our beloved Rivendell;
Echoes of children's laughter fading,
Bidding us one final farewell.

On we march, towards
Chaos, terror, and bloodshed,
Our doom, our irrevocable fate;
On into the realms of men,
Knowing that only death awaits.

Yet on we march, still,
To the aid of besieged Rohan,
Where together elves and men shall stand,
To battle the vile creatures of darkness
And defend the people of this land.

For too long have our races been divided,
Too long have we watched and waited;
Now, the hour has come,
To reforge the kinship that with time had faded.

We march on, soundless
Save for the horn's mournful notes;
Passing over the land as fleeting shadows,
Our journey's end approaching, so close.

And though the tingling fire in our veins,
Calls us home to timeless white shores,
We will remain, and die as mortals,
Each to fall to arrow or sword.

We march on, to our doom,
While what remains of our kin sails into the West.
Alas, that our age of wisdom should fade,
Yet may the coming Age of Men be blest.

The last march of the elder race,
To war, to save Middle Earth.
One last blessing,
For the glory of a new age to come forth.

On we march, the last of the elves,
Forward, soundless, to our doom.