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bobdylanrevisited · 3 years

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Highway 61 Revisited

Released: 30 August 1965

Rating: 10/10

My favourite album of all time. Released just five months after BIABH, this is another unforgettable record which defines the 1960s. Unlike the previous album, this one is almost entirely electric, minus the closing song, and it was clear that Bob couldn’t be further from his folk roots. This is, for me, the pinnacle of music and song writing, and whilst I consider many of his albums to be masterpieces, this is the one that truly makes him a god in my eyes. He would tour following this release, with so-called fans hatefully booing at the sight of a drum kit or an amplifier. This only confirmed to Dylan that he had to continue revolutionising his sound, and if these people didn’t like it then he must be doing something right.

1) Like A Rolling Stone - Judas! How dare he open with one of the greatest songs ever recorded. A needling, accusatory, schadenfreude attack of ‘Miss Lonely’, which relishes in a fall from grace. There’s been much speculation as to her identity, but it’s the refrain of ‘How does it feel?’ that will get under your skin and stay with you. The angry snarling of Dylan is both exhilarating and intense and it never gets old, the song sounds fresh every single time you hear it. Alongside the perfect lyrics, the crashing guitars and Al Kooper’s irregular organ chords give the track a uniquely jarring sound, and it’s breathtaking. It’s no wonder it’s often voted the greatest song ever made, and Dylan has enjoyed playing it live ever since, in many different styles. But nothing will ever top the Free Trade Hall 1966 performance, which is the greatest moment in musical history. If you haven’t heard it, go and listen to it immediately and prepare for your jaw to hit the floor. Oh, and don’t forget, play it fucking loud.

2) Tombstone Blues - Dylan parades historical and pop culture figures in this fast paced song, which has been analysed as being about the Vietnam War or the absurdity of the zeitgeist. Another track that has remained popular in live sets for decades, it’s a brilliantly worded piece that is both amusing and confusing. The screeching guitar solos from Mike Bloomfield are pure rock ‘n’ roll and elevate the song to another level, although the whole band are phenomenal throughout the album. It’s just another brilliant track that couldn’t be further from his earlier work, but cements Dylan as a rock star.

3) It Takes A Lot To Laugh, It Takes A Train To Cry - Although many quick tempo versions were rehearsed, this final recording was reworked by Dylan over a lunch break, because he’s a fucking genius. To create this beautiful song in under an hour is ridiculous, and it’s a lovely, bluesy tune which is less angry and cynical than many other songs on the album. The Newport Folk Festival 1965 version, which is hard to hear over the screams of those feeling betrayed, is great, but the Rolling Thunder Revue 1975 version is truly magnificent

4) From A Buick 6 - Whilst this is the weakest song on the album, it’s still an incredible blues track with some brilliant singing from Bob. The lyrics aren’t as deep as the other songs, it’s basically about a woman who gives Bob life and potentially will cause his death, but the instrumentation is fun and it sounds like everyone is having a blast playing it. It’s a great tune that is a fun couple of minutes and there’s nothing wrong with that.

5) Ballad Of A Thin Man - Poor Mr. Jones, probably Dylan’s most fully formed and completely repugnant character. This is my favourite track on the album and probably my favourite Dylan song (I know I say that about a lot of songs). It’s a brutal, depressing, bleak assassination of someone who has wronged Bob, with haunting piano that echos around the menacing words that send shivers down your spine. It’s most likely aimed at the reporters and the media who misunderstood Bob, or pretend to be cool and up to date with the culture, and here Bob unmasks them and publicly annihilates their fraudulent disguises. As with much of this album, it has remained in his live sets since release, but again no performance ever topped the Free Trade Hall 1966 one, the booing made Dylan’s words and delivery even more sinister and shocking.

6) Queen Jane Approximately - Another needling song in the same vein as ‘Like A Rolling Stone’, though this one is more sympathetic to the subject. However, it is once again a classic track which sounds absolutely beautiful. Potentially about Joan Baez, though Dylan claims it actually about a man, it’s a fantastic piece that is both mellow and devastating at the same time.

7) Highway 61 Revisited - The whistle on this song is iconic, as is the screamed refrain which is basically impossible to not shout at the top of your lungs with each listen. Biblical lyrics and dark imagery are contrasted by the upbeat tune, and it’s interesting that in reality, Highway 61 leads back to Dylan’s birth place, potentially making himself the true subject of the song. Another example of his advances in storytelling through references and metaphor, this is a deep and vivid song that Dylan still belts out on tour to this day.

8) Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues - Despite being a brilliant song, which creates an atmosphere of tiredness and surrender, the story Dylan tells here is both fascinating and, not surprisingly, fantastically written. Starting in Juarez and returning to New York City, the protagonist must fight off women, booze, drugs, and the police on his journey, and it’s a riveting tale. As there is no chorus or refrain, this could easily be a Kerouac short story, but it really works as a track you can lose yourself to. You’ll be wrapped up in your own imagination of the events, described in an incredibly personal way by Bob, as if he’s telling you this story directly. I know I’ve mentioned this a lot, but the Free Trade Hall 1966 version sounds like it’s not of this world and should be mandatory listening.

9) Desolation Row - This is the true showcase of Bob’s skill with the english language, an 11 minute acoustic song, which is more like an epic poem of old. Again peppered with pop culture references, it was released during a period where 3 minute love songs were topping the charts, and shows how much Bob was challenging the notion of what music could be about, and really mastering it as a literary art form. It begins with infamous lynchings from Bob’s birthplace, before moving on to fairy tale characters, biblical figures, authors, poets, scientist, and the victims of the Titanic, to name but a few. The lyrics are so engrossing, and the delivery is almost hypnotic, that the 11 minutes feel like mere seconds, as he paints a tapestry in your mind that is exciting, vivid, and yet tinged with a bleakness as no one is happy in the song. It’s an incredible way to end the album, though you’d wish it went on forever.

Verdict: Obviously, I consider this the definition of perfection. For an album that largely focuses on sadness, feeling lost, anger, and cynicism, no other record makes me feel as joyous as this one. It’s the culmination of everything that came before it, from the dense verses of ‘A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall’, to the audience rejection of ‘My Back Pages’, to the new sound on ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’, and it comes together to create this perfect album. It’s unfathomable that a human created this, it seems more like a gift from the universe made especially for me, and I implore you to listen to it on repeat. Each time you’ll discover something new and your favourite song will change numerous times. Bob’s next outing would be of a similarly astonishing quality, and whilst he was touring the world to a chorus of jeers, he was about to record another album that would continue to push the boundaries of popular music.

#bob dylan #highway 61 revisited

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zarinthelwrites · 7 years

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Blooming from the Mud Pt. 4 (DGM/Bleach)

“Unsheathe, Mugen,” Kanda growls, and the words aren’t right but they're close enough. His sword ignites with blue flame and he slashes again at the shinigami, sending a wave of indigo to burn the same spot where he had gutted him.

The Shinigami gives a short scream in surprise and pain, and then licks his lips, grinning.

“Do you know what an even more beautiful number than 51 is?” He asks.

Kanda thrusts forward with his sheathe, now also enveloped in flames.

“Second Illusion,” he states, this time feeling the right amount of give as he manages to pierce a lung.

“It’s three,” says the Shinigami smugly, ignoring the blood pouring from his mouth.

“Quit playing around, Yumichika,” A voice growls from behind him. “We weren’t meant to come this far in.”

“Ikkaku!” Yumichika stares directly down into Kanda’s eyes.

Kanda scowls at him. He’s going to cut this guy’s knees off. He ignores the fact that this would likely still leave Yumichika taller than he is.

“Look what I found!” He points his finger at Kanda close enough that Kanda wants to bite it.

“A child, Yumichika?” Ikkaku has a bald head and red marks around his eyes. He looks irritating.

“No, you ungraceful clod. Our new fourth!” Yumichika sounds way too gleeful for someone with only one working lung.

“I’m going to kill you,” says Kanda.

“That’s perfect, just say that to anyone that asks you any questions.” Yumichika says, carefully checking over his orange scarf thing for blood stains.

“He’s good enough?” Ikkaku asks. His head is so bald and shiny that Kanda suspects wax.

“He’s even got a fake shikai,” says Yumichika.

Kanda bristles, offended.

“What the fuck is a shikai?”

“It’s the manifestation of your soul through your fighting spirit,” answers Ikkaku, fingers lingering around his own blade. “Yachiru’s been looking for a new playmate,” he adds, and now his grin is all at Kanda’s expense.

Kanda can’t take them both on in his current state and they seem to be recruiting him into the Seiteirei, so he only has one main issue with their recruitment strategy.

“The dogs are coming with me,” he says.

Ikkaku looks at them.

“Cute,” he says. It’s so flat that it sounds like an insult. “What’re their names?”

“That’s Lizard,” says Kanda, pointing at the dog with a giant white patch on his face. “The other one’s Fishbone.”

Fishbone picks that moment to yawn, showing of his gross, stained teeth.

“They’ll fit right in,” says Ikkaku. Kanda still can’t tell if he’s joking.

His stomach picks that moment to growl.

“You gonna drop dead if we don’t feed ya?” Ikkaku asks, tucking his hands behind his head.

Kanda considers. He’s still bleeding from long rakes down his back and his arm, along with a deep claw mark over his chest that’s not really visible because it's covered with a sticky white burning acid. He last stopped in town three days ago. He looks down and watches the lotus flowers bloom from the drops of his blood cooling on the ground.

“The dogs haven’t eaten since yesterday,” he says.

“I’ved never shunpoed while holding two giant ass butt ugly dogs before,” says Ikkaku, cheerfully. “Sounds like a challenge!”

Yumichika picks up Kanda with one hand by the back of his collar, holding him so that none of the dirt or blood on him can come into contact with his uniform.

“Blood is only beautiful when you decorate yourself with your enemies blood upon the field of battle, or when you suffer for the sake of art!” Yumichika informs him. “But the number four is truly the most ugly number there is, so I will sacrifice the pure white of my hands for this.”

“Put me down,” snarls Kanda.

“To be held in my grasp is truly an envious position,” Yumichika continues as the scenery starts to blur around him. “An offer so stunning in its magnanimity that none who I ever previously gave this honor to managed to survive the rapture they felt.”

“I hope you get a bald spot on the top of your head,” says Kanda. “And everyone will mistake you for an uglier Ikkaku.”

“I will gut you and use your entrails as a necklace,” says Yumichika. He smiles sweetly. “Then I’ll carve your finger bones into beads and wear them in my hair.”

“You’d choke on them,” says Kanda.

“You’d be amazed what I can swallow, kid,” says Yumichika.

“My name is Kanda.”

“Picked that out yourself, did you?” Yumichika snorts. “You miss rice that badly?”

“I didn’t pick it,” says Kanda, sourly. “But it’s mine now.”

“That’s how it goes,” says Yumichika, eyes losing focus for a second. “Okay, Kanda. You want to be a Shinigami, right?”

Kanda does his best to shrug at while being dragged along at the speed of sound.

“Whatever. So, typically, to become a Shinigami, you have to take this stupid... aptitude test, or whatnot and then kill time at Shin-o Academy until you either receive an invite from one of the Divisions or are able to fulfill whatever requirements the Divisions have. Basically, it's to teach losers from the first twenty districts how to fight and to let captains scout out the good people for their division. With you, we’re just going to skip that step entirely and make you fight everyone in the entire 11th Division, and you’re good enough to beat everyone but me, Ikkaku, or our glorious captain and lieutenant.”

“I’m good enough to beat you,” says Kanda.

“I’ll make lipstick out of your heart’s blood, kid.” Yumichika grins, baring his shiny teeth. “Maybe if you could do more that use that fake shikai of yours, you might stand a chance.”

“It’s not fake,” Kanda says, mutinously. He still doesn’t really know what a shikai is.

“But it’s not real either,” says Yumichika. “Your zanpakuto appears to like you enough that it’s willing to work even without you using it’s proper name, but it can never display its true power that way. When was the last time you slept? If your zanpakuto is this active, it should be at least whispering in your dreams.”

Kanda stares at him in disbelief. Lots of things fucking whisper in his dreams. Most of them are a hell of a lot louder than whispers.

“Maybe if it shouts I’ll hear it,” he says, dubiously.

“I’m going to drop you now, kid,” Yumichika says suddenly. Then he lets go.

They aren’t that far up, really. That fast step-skip that Yumichika was using just let him speed up, not actually fly. He’s fallen from worse. Lenalee has drop kicked him from worse.

Kanda hits the ground hard, and feels one of the bones in his ankle snap. Weird. Walking on that until it heals is going to hurt.

He looks up, then has to crane his neck in order to look up even further. They’ve stopped in front of a curved white wall with its endless stone seamlessly forged together to present a barrier against the outside world. Or a demarcation between the worthy and unworthy, the clean and unclean, the lucky and the cursed. Directly in front of them is a gate, marked with red to show its separate existence.

“It looks ugly,” says Kanda.

“Yes, I’ve always thought so,” says Yumichika. He kicks at the gate, causing a loud bang.

“Higonyuudo!” He screams. “Let me in!”

“I just lifted the gate for the honored 3rd Seat and his dogs tried to eat my blessed hat!” Comes the second scream from above. A heavy weight man with strong eyebrows and a fat chin leaps down from the top of the wall, his white banded cloth hat supporting a distinctive bite mark and a bit of drool. His feet make a crater in the ground when he lands.

“A newcomer, honored 5th Seat?,” Higonyuudo asks. “As the Gatekeeper of the South and Guardian of the Red Hollow Gate, I’m not allowed to let anyone not a noble or shinigami in, you know that.”

“This is our 4th Seat,” says Yumichika. He picks Kanda up by the back of his shirt again and waves him back and forth. “See? Only Shinigami can own zanpakuto.” He sets Kanda back down.

Higonyuudo stares at Yumichika.

“I’ve always wanted to fight a gate guard,” says Yumichika. “Did you know, Ikkaku called dibs on the Gatekeeper before Danzomaru of the North. I never got my chance to... share my appreciation for--” He flicked his hair. “The man’s compliments.”

Higonyuudo blanches paler than the wall. He hurries over to the bottom of the gate, hat flapping as he goes. He digs his fingers into the soil underneath the gates then heaves, lifting the stone up inch by inch until he is standing with the gate resting on his shoulders. “Welcome back to the Seireitei,” he says, breathing at a slow, controlled pace.

So this is like the Order’s former entrance. Impressively hard to enter, but the people in charge have likely already made an easy access back door for themselves.

Kanda steps through the gate and immediately has to pause, as images overlay themselves over what actually exists in front of him. His only memories of Japan are fighting Akuma through blood soaked streets and old, decrepit homes. It jars him, seeing a place so clean.

“To nice for someone from the 51st Rukongai?” Yumichika asks. “Don’t worry, Kanda. You’ll get used to it.”

“78th Rukongai,” says Kanda. He doesn’t know why he’s telling Yumichika this. “I was already heading north.”

Yumichika looks at him, and for a second his eyes change from bloodthirsty brightness to something vague and cold.

“The food’s all rotten, that far out,” he says. “All the farms are in the first 20 Districts.”

“I know,” says Kanda. He tilts his head. “Does the food still taste like dust, here?”

“No,” says Yumichika. His lips crook up. “Even the worst academy student eats rice freshly picked from the fields.”

Kanda nods. Of course.

“So, where is the 11th Division?” He asks. He’s still hungry, has been for every single week that blurred together as he paced through those forests.

“We’re right next to the 8th Division,” says Yumichika, which does the double duty of not answering his question and not making any sense.

“What,” says Kanda.

Yumichika shrugged. “Eight’s an okay number,” he says.

Whatever.

“Let’s just go,” says Kanda impatiently.

There are swarms of shinigami in the streets that they pass through, but most don’t even glance at Kanda, with the few that do so then taking one look at Yumichika and actually crossing the street to get away from him.

“Most of the other divisions consist of cowards and weaklings,” says Yumichika. He snorts in disdain. “Many of them are so weak that they considered our former 4th seat of being lieutenant class when he could barely even hear his shikai. Though from his transfer, it seems he could see his unsuitability for the 11th as clearly as I could.”

“He wanted to be promoted?”

“There is no higher honor than to serve and fight under Captain Kenpachi Zaraki!” Yumichika’s voice switches to how Komui sounds when he proclaims his love for his sister.

Kanda doesn’t want to touch this topic with a thirty foot pole.

Also, his decision to accept being promoted to general was possibly the worst decision he ever made in his shittily prolonged life.

“I’ll burn any promotion offers,” he swears.

“Yachiru is going to love you,” says Yumichika.

Kanda looks at him. That is....definitely a threat.

“Here we are!” Says Yumichika, cheerfully moving on to point at a writhing mass of people in black shinigami uniforms and red and blue uniforms waiting outside of a wooden gate. “Our monthly ranking competition is open for anyone in the Seireitei to join in, with the winner getting the privilege of fighting with our captain and lieutenant!”

Kanda blinks.

“It’s also our only form of recruitment and dismissal,” Yumichika adds. “If you don’t make the cut, we boot you.”

Kanda nods.

“So I just need to fight them all?”

“Sure, why not,” says Yumichika. “We’ve been collecting too much dead weight in the division recently. Anyone that gives up when they’re taken down by a Rukongai brat doesn’t deserve to fight alongside me.” He bares his teeth in a snarl.

#bleach #dgm #please give me feedback guys #come on

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abutterflyobsession · 7 years

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Doctor Who AU: Part 26

prelude/one/two/three/four/five/six/seven/eight/nine/ten/eleven/twelve/thirteen/fourteen/fifteen/sixteen/seventeen/eighteen/nineteen/twenty/twenty-one/twenty-two/twenty-three/24/25/ao3

“You promised—you swore I'd walk out of here!”

Anger was clouding Bog's vision and he knew that in usual circumstances the room would be trashed before he could see straight again. But these weren't usual circumstances. He was tethered by the cables. They trailed from him, into the console, into the walls, reducing his world to a few square feet of floor.

A few square feet of floor that would be his entire world for the rest of his life.

The thought slammed into him so hard that the room tilted sharply.

Literally.

The floor rippled, changing from a flat surface to a steep incline. The Doctor, Sunny, and Dawn, grabbed the console to keep from being thrown across the room and into the wall. The floor did not remain in an incline for long, its white surface churned, a choppy white ocean ripping up the delicate blanket of plants that had laid on top of it.

“You promised me!”

Bog was on his feet, the wall obligingly providing him with ledges to grab onto and hold himself up. He wanted to lunge at the Doctor, grab her, shake her until a solution was knocked loose. One of her insane, tricky answers that no one else would have have come up with. His inability to even walk over to her was fuel to his burning rage and the room writhed.

“Yes, well,” the Doctor was trying to ride the rise and fall of the floor, hanging onto the console, hair flopped over her face, “Not exactly. That was before Roland plugged you into the computer! I never promised I could get you unplugged! I’m sorry!”

“You made me think you had!”

“Fine. I lied. I'm sorry! I'm sorry--!”

“I don't want your apologies! I want you to unplug me!”

“It's impossible! Unplug you, you die. End of story!”

“End of story?” Bog placed a hand over his chest, wrapping his fingers around the cable plugged in over his heart, “Is everything just a story to you? Happy endings, sad endings, it doesn't make any difference because to you we're not real?”

Beneath his fist he could feel his own heart pounding. His chest was tight with panic, he shook with it. It numbed his hands so that they tingled and he had to grip the cable tighter to make sure he was actually holding it. The tingling fingertips of his other hand clawed at the leaves and flowers on his head, ripping off the invasive growth as if this process could somehow restore his humanity and freedom.

The Doctor was talking. Dawn and Sunny were talking too, but Bog could only hear the Doctor. Her words, her empty apologies, allowed through to keep his anger fresh, like salt on wound. Sticky shreds of plant stuck to Bog's shaking hand as he lowered it and grasped the cable over his heart with both hands.

The Doctor seemed to realize what he was going to do even before he did.

“Bog, don't!” she pitched forward, away from the console and onto the shifting floor.

“I write what happens next, right? Well, I'm going to walk out of here.”

That, or put an end to the whole miserable thing.

He yanked on the cable and it pulled on the hard edges of his skin. Whatever connected it to him twisted under his skin, dragging at muscles and bone. With a sharp twist he pulled the cable free, a scream of pain catching in his throat and coming out strangled from behind his clenched teeth.

For a moment he wondered if he had pulled his heart out, before his eyes fell on the bloody end of the cable. Electronic roots sprouted from the end of it, dripping with thick, dark amber blood and the cavities they had left behind were filled with burning pain.

The room flickered, the floor dropping flat and the walls returning to their proper places, more or less. Everything was white, a horrible shimmering white. The Doctor's face was there in the middle of it, deathly pale to match her surroundings. Aside from the flickering the room was still, everyone frozen in place, no one speaking a word.

A heavy drop of yellow blood hit the floor like a thunderclap, breaking the silence, three voices erupting in a roar of unintelligible noise.

Bog felt himself falling.

He didn't remember landing.

He just kept falling, pain wrapped around his chest in white-hot bands. The further he fell from the twitching, shivering white walls of the art gallery the more the pain eased, cooling in the empty dark.

“Boggy? Boggy? Come on, you gorgeous tree, open your eyes!”

The bands around his chest squeezed tight and the pain doubled. He gasped in air, only just then realizing he had not been breathing. He wished he hadn't started again, because apparently he was laying on the floor with someone's truck parked on his chest, the vehicle pressing down harder when he tried to fill his lungs. Bog peeled his heavy eyelids open to see if he could catch a glimpse of the license plate so he knew whose tires to slash later on.

“You're awake! He's awake!” a hazy yellow ball bobbed up and down with excitement, “Now I'm going to kill him for doing that! Do you hear me, Bog? I'm dropping you into the nearest black hole as soon as you can stand!”

Bog was distracted by how it felt like his chest had been cracked open. He lifted a hand, which was heavy and uncooperative, and carefully explored his chest for cracks and illegally parked trucks. He found neither.

Just the cable over his heart.

“We got it back in, just in time,” Dawn was doing something with bandages, “You went into cardiac arrest, you idiotic stump!”

Bog had almost died and the cable was still there.

The tears leaking out of his eyes were from the pain, that was all.

“Get out.”

“No permanent damage. In fact, you should be feeling better in a few minutes. I think the primrose is stabilizing you--”

“Get out.”

The floor moved in a feeble rise and fall of tiles. It was barely enough to move Dawn back a few inches. With her golden head out of the way Bog could see that the gallery had gone dark, the floor frozen in hills and valleys.

“Not a chance, Boggy--”

“My name is Bog!”

The floor pushed Dawn away completely.

There was a period of brief chaos and Bog could hear the three of them stumbling around the room.

“Get out!”

The door slammed open, a shaft of afternoon light cutting through the dim room. Protesting shadows flickered as they were shoved through the door, then fell silent, the door slamming closed again, the gallery turning dark.

Bog was alone.

Bog rolled onto his side, shaking with the effort of moving. Curling himself around the restored plug in his chest he tried to swallow the sob that rose in his throat, because crying hurt, the sharp intake of breath jarring his body so badly he felt like he was going to fall to pieces. So he tried not to cry.

He tried.

He failed.

“Is he gonna be okay by himself?” Sunny asked, trying the art gallery's door. It was locked. The sisters were lugging Roland out into the sunlight.

“He wants to be alone,” the Doctor said, “I think that's what he needs right now.

“I don't think he's going to try to unplug himself again, so he should be okay. He shouldn't be alone,” Dawn added, shooting her sister a pointed look, “but there's nothing we can do until he decides to open the door. The doors locked and the shields are up, no way we're getting in there without his permission. Oof, what should we do with this?”

“Regard it with disdain,” the Doctor muttered.

Dawn and her sister pulled the battered and still sleeping Roland away from the door and propped him up against the wall. Dawn dusted off her hands and squinted in the sunlight, taking stock of their surroundings, “We're still in the same day, but as for where we are . . .”

“Paris,” the Doctor said flatly, leaning against the side of the gallery, arms crossed and head bent, looking displeased at all the sunlight.

“France?” Sunny squeaked.

Dawn turned around, shading her eyes, “Oh, the Eiffel Tower!”

“Oh, yeah,” Sunny turned around to look too, “because of course it's in sight. Otherwise how would you know it's Paris.”

“Well, it's also sort of built over a rift in time so things tend to migrate toward it. Also there’s a distortion so sometimes you can see it in different places in spite of the distances or buildings that should be in the way.”

“Are you serious?”

“Never. But it's true.”

“You realize that we're going to have to take a selfie in front of it?”

“I thought that went without saying. But first . . .” Dawn looked back at her sister's dark form slumped against the shining white walls and glass windows of the gallery, “My sister and I need to talk.”

The Doctor was suddenly very interested in the pattern of the pavement.

“Sure,” Sunny nodded, “I'll just go see if there's a souvenir shop or something.”

“You still got that credit card?”

“I'm all good. I mean, telepathic translator—I can speak French! Text me when you're done,” he hugged Dawn tight, “Then we can talk?”

“Yes, please,” Dawn kissed his cheek, “And buy me a tiny tower. I've always meant to buy a tiny tower but I never have.”

The Doctor watched Sunny walk off, “What credit card?”

“Nope,” Dawn shook her head, “You're not allowed to act like the protective big sister right now.”

The Doctor refolded her arms uncomfortably.

Dawn considered the area, noting that it was a fairly empty park. The art gallery sitting in the middle of the stretch of green grass and brick pathways looked odd, but the few people walking by took no notice of it.

There were several chess tables nearby and Dawn gave a nod at the sight of them, “That'll do. Come along.”

Grabbing her sister by the jacket collar, Dawn pulled her along over to the chess table and sat her down in one of the chairs. Dawn took the other and began digging in her pockets, pulling out an assortment of items, wrapped candies, several vials of colored glitters, and a handful of chess pieces.

“I'm--” the Doctor began, venturing to look up.

“Shut up, I'm mad at you,” Dawn arranged red and white pieces on the board, “Mad isn't a good enough word. Furious is better, but still not enough. Boiling with rage. That about hits the mark.”

“I--”

“Also devastated,” Dawn tapped down the red king piece on its square, “I've been spinning about thinking that the war was over and we were on a grand holiday to celebrate. I'm having cocktails on the moon in the fifty-third century while my entire planet is dead and my people are fading away into legend.”

“I was going to tell you.”

“Oh? When? When you couldn't hide it anymore? That's not telling me. That's just not being able to lie to me anymore. You've only told me anything about what's happened because you were forced to. You didn't even tell me our parents were gone until I pushed the issue. Did you just want me to forget them? Is that what you were hoping? I'd be distracted by bright shiny new planets and interesting bits of history so much that I'd just forget about everything that's important?”

The Doctor laced her fingers together and stared down at the chessboard.

“That wasn't rhetorical,” Dawn said, “Did you think I was shallow enough to forget everything?”

“Of course not.”

“Really,” Dawn wasn't sure if the tears in her eyes were from anger or sadness. Most likely both. Several drops rolled down her cheeks while she continued to arrange the pieces, “Because maybe you've forgotten after eight regenerations, but you and I used to be so much alike.”

“I remember,” the Doctor said, her voice almost too low to be heard.

“You should know,” Dawn sniffed and ran the cuff of her jacket across her eyes, “You should know that I'm cheerful and love to have fun, but that it doesn't mean I'm some empty-headed little girl without two serious thoughts to rub together. That's what everyone used to think about us. The silly, giggling little girls. Then we nearly destroyed the academy by ripping open a hole in time for extra credit. Then we closed it again. That was the impressive part. And everyone was so surprised that those two fluffy headed girls were actual capable of any sort of critical thinking.”

“I remember that.”

“I doubt you do, that you really do,” Dawn finished arranging the rows of pieces, viciously tapping the pieces onto the board, “Or you would never have treated me like those people treated us. Now, if you can manage to overlook my sweet little face and acknowledge I possess a brain every bit as good as yours, you will please tell me what exactly happened to Gallifrey.”

Dawn moved a white pawn forward on the board.

The Doctor automatically pushed forward a red pawn.

Conversation lapsed as pieces moved rapidly across the board until after two minutes Dawn's knight checked the Doctor's king.

The Doctor tipped her king over.

“I was going to tell you.”

Dawn snorted and blinked harder, bending herself to the task of rearranging the pieces.

“I swear I was. I just wanted . . . a little time. A little time spent with you, like we used to, just us two getting into trouble. A little time before I told you because once you knew . . . everything would change.”

“You showed up with a new face and a stolen TARDIS. Nothing has been the same.”

“Yes, but . . . there was something left of what we had. Some piece of me that was still . . . good.”

“Well,” Dawn wiped away the tears that persisted in dripping down her face, “Sorry I ruined your game of pretend.”

The pieces marched across the board as they talked. If the sisters' hands were shaking neither of them commented on it. Three more games were played—two ending Dawn's favor, two in the Doctor's—before the Doctor spoke again.

“It wasn't going to end,” the Doctor's hands hovered over the board, trying to decide on which piece to move, “The war was ripping apart so many planets, so much of history. We had lost sight of any honorable goal we had begun with. It was only victory left. Victory at any cost. The universe saw us as monsters, as horrible and cruel as the daleks. And we were.”

“You decided to do something about it.”

“I stole The Moment.”

Dawn dropped the knight she had just captured.

It had been a story. Just a scary story that children whispered to each other in the dark. The only weapon in the Omega Arsenal of Gallifrey that would never be used, even in the most desperate times. A weapon powerful enough to destroy whole star systems in a single moment. So powerful, so dangerous, that the weapon developed a conscience so it could judge anyone who tried to use it. Trying to use The Moment could destroy you, make you face everything dark inside your heart. It let you make the choice, but first it made sure you knew the consequences.

“It—it let you use it?”

“Yes,” the Doctor picked up the fallen knight and put it on the side of the board.

“Why?”

The Doctor closed her eyes, summoning up the scraps of memory she still had of that time. The golden light seething under her skin, her hand on the beautiful red gem, the dying echoes of a voice she did not know yet.

She opened her eyes and the images faded away like dreams upon waking, “I don't know. I can't remember. All I remember is that it warned me I would pay a high price for using The Moment. I told it that I had no intention of living past the end of the war.”

Dawn's hand trembled as she pushed her queen forward, tears pouring down her face.

The Doctor wiped away a drop of moisture trying to escape her own eye, trying to pretend it was just dust that made her eyes prickle, “It told me that I would pay a worse price than that.”

Dawn checked the Doctor's queen and whispered, “What was it?”

“It told me I would live.”

Dawn couldn't stop the sob that escaped her, even though she pressed her hand to her mouth in a futile effort to hold back the sadness that was overwhelming her. Her sister had killed Gallifrey and regretted that the act had not killed her too.

The Doctor moved a piece, freeing her king from check.

Dawn shoved a piece forward, though she knew that the game would be a stalemate, “A tie. That hasn't changed. We always used to end these sort of games at a draw.”

A red pawn slipped forward.

“Checkmate,” the Doctor said, her voice holding no triumph over her victory.

Hiccuping a little, Dawn scanned the board with watery eyes, “Oh, I see. That was clever. I suppose you've picked up a few tricks through the centuries.”

“A few,” the Doctor shrugged, wondering if she should have left it at a draw. Or maybe that would have been another lie, another game of pretend, trying to make it seem like she was still the sister Dawn had loved.

Instead of resetting the pieces, Dawn picked up a bishop and turned it around in her hands, feeling the cool marble. The pieces were old and chipped, an antique when she and her sister had been small. Dawn had found them in a box in her room on the TARDIS along with most of her old things. Most of the rooms she had explored with filled with things from their life on Gallifrey. It felt odd, all those familiar things jumbled together in an unfamiliar place. Now it seemed like some sort of morbid museum.

“Has it been so bad? Living?” Dawn asked.

The Doctor looked away, “That's complicated.”

“And I'm too straightforward to handle complicated,” Dawn returned the bishop to the ranks.

“That's not what I meant.”

“But it's how you've acted.”

Unable to sit still any longer the Doctor shot to her feet and walked the length of the chess tables, then back again, grabbing the back of her chair like it would anchor her in place.

“Maybe it is. I just wanted to protect you. Yes, from complicated things. From horrible, muddy things and hard choices that tear out little pieces of your soul. I just wanted . . . I just wanted to pretend that I was the old me for a little while. Someone good, decent, kind, with a home and family to go back to someday. You're all I have left of that. Gallifrey, our family. Me. Me when I was like you. As long as I lied to you that me still existed.”

“I'm not you,” Dawn stood up too, “And you're not me. And I don't exist to be your—your symbol of innocence! You can't preserve me in amber and keep me stuck. Stuck in one single moment. You can't stop me from getting hurt, dirty, even a little broken!”

“But I could stop it for a little while!” The words ripped out of the Doctor on the edge of a sob, “Just for a little while.”

“I didn't ask you to do that! I just—I just--” Dawn ran her fingers through her hair, trying to find the words, “I just want to know: why didn't you take me with you?”

“What?”

“When you broke out of your time loop to go be a hero and get yourself killed—why didn't you take me with you? If I had been there I could have helped you. I could have saved you! Why did you leave me behind and go do all those difficult, horrible things all by yourself? Why didn't you—we were always together. You and me, always and forever.”

“It was a suicide mission. You would have ended up like me.”

“You should have given me the choice.”

The Doctor sank back into her chair, feeling every year of her nine hundred and thirty-three weighing down on her. She had been running from that moment, that choice to leave her sister behind, since the day she made it. But the truth was she had never escaped it. She was stuck in it, desperately clinging to the dead past.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry I didn't give you that choice. I understand if you hate me. I've done so many unforgivable things and I understand if you want to leave and never see me again. I'm sorry I'm not your sister anymore.”

Anger turned Dawn's tears hot and she swept her arm across the chessboard to scatter the pieces, “Stand up.”

The Doctor looked up, puzzled, tears shining on her face, “What?”

“You heard me! Stand up!”

The Doctor did.

Dawn smacked her sister across the side of the head. It wasn't hard enough to be painful but the Doctor put a hand to her head and looked at Dawn in astonishment.

Dawn grabbed her in a hug.

“You idiot. You stupid, stupid idiot! You'll always be my sister, always. Even if you aren't who you used to be.”

The Doctor stood frozen, trying to process the situation, her brain glitching at this unexpected turn of events. In the thousands of time she'd imagined this conversation she'd never imagined this.

“I'm . . . I'm not a hugger.”

“But I am.”

“You're not leaving?”

Nose pressed into her sister's shoulder, Dawn shook her head, “How will I ever get to know who you are now if I left now?”

The Doctor wrapped her arms around her sister and squeezed hard, “Oh. Oh, good. Thank you. Thank you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm really, really sorry--”

Her babbling was drowned in a sob that shook her body and all she could do was hold onto her sister and cry.

She wasn't going to be alone.

#strange magic #spread the lofe #butterfly bog #potionless #sir roland the scumbag #doctor who au #strange magic doctor who au #my writing #fanfic

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