Work Text:
Two men were sitting at a table, playing chess. I would tell you where they were, but the truth is that the very word 'where' had lost its meaning to them both some time ago.
I could likewise tell you what had brought them to that unspecified place, but ask yourselves - what value has causality in a universe where every moment has been rewritten so many times that Time itself has become an air- humidifier, rather than a river?
However, for what it may be worth, the place the two were occupying currently, in the stagnant and yet ever changing water vapour of time, resembled most closely an austere and empty mess hall. Both players looked tired and worn out beyond measure, their clothes clean, but old, as though they never expected to live long enough to have need of new ones.
The white player scratched his stubbled chin and moved his knight. The movement of his hand was stiff, as though he was taking care not to cause himself pain with it. The way he sat and moved belied his still somewhat youthful looks. The curls on his head were still brown, and the way his clothes hugged his form suggested he was in a very good shape physically. But his eyes had seen too much. Those eyes reflected an amount of pain impossible to witness and experience in a single lifetime, even as they now stared straight through the chessboard.
The black player looked older, if such description still held meaning. Both his hair and short beard had but little black left in them, and the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth stood out as a memory of happier times. He lifted up his queen, caressing her gently with his thumb, and gave a sad smile.
"How is she doing?" his companion asked without looking up. His voice was soothing and velvety, even through the exhaustion. The smile disappeared with a sigh, and the figure was returned to its previous place with a soft click.
"Her best," said the black, "as do we all."
The Doctor tore his gaze away from the board to look into the grey eyes opposite him, so much like his own.
"How did this happen, Brax? How did we stoop so low?" he all but whispered.
"We have always been this way. You were simply not around to see it."
"You don't believe that."
"I do now."
Braxiatel leaned back and crossed his arms.
"I tried to fix this, you know?" he continued, gesturing slightly, "All of it. I had found a way to wipe this whole war out of history."
"I suppose the enemy foiled it?" the Doctor said.
"No. I did. My own self. He -" he grimaced, " - I - baited me with rumours of a device that could accomplish such a thing. It turned out it was simply a door, a gateway, into a universe where the war never happened. Not a solution. An escape. Like a rat, fleeing a sinking ship..."
"Why didn't you go?" the Doctor asked after a while.
The sad smile returned briefly:
"I have lied and deceived my way through all my lives. All in the name of doing what was necessary, no matter how cruel. And now, I would commit to the ultimate lie, by fleeing and convincing myself that it was my universe, that somewhere out there, my world wasn't burning and my people weren't dying. It is the one lie I could never say. That everything is fine."
There was a dead silence. Then:
"Then you are a better man than me," the Doctor murmured.
"That is not true, and we both know that, Theta. Do not mistake me for a good person simply because I chose to do the right thing for once."
The Doctor ran his hand over his face.
"Perhaps that is where we are now," he mused, "At the end of right and wrong. You lied, and I ran, and now, neither of us can continue because there is simply no point. I am selfless now, because there is nothing left for me to be selfish about."
Suddenly, Braxiatel jumped to his feet so fast his chair fell over, and swept the chessboard off the table with the back of his hand. He leaned forward, and ground through gritted teeth:
"Don't. Give me that. Don't you dare. You can regret, you can mourn, you can hurt all you like, but don't you ever doubt that you are a good man. Don't you dare give up now."
For just a second, the younger man looked like he was about to argue, but then averted his gaze. Braxiatel turned to leave.
"Where do you think you're going?" the Doctor asked, confused. His brother looked back over his shoulder. The smile returned once more, but this time, there was no trace of sadness behind it:
"Come on. We have a war to win."
THE END