Warnings: Character Study, Introspection
A/N: Written for Who Contest's Prompt:Child. This fiction has been a full-fledged idea (as in, I knew kinda how it went), for over a week. I just had to find the words. It still didn't turn out fully as I had planned it (never does), but that just might be for the best. Hopefully, it is better than what I had planned on. Nonetheless, as always, this fic is mostly unbeta'd and written in one go, so please forgive any mistakes and/or blatant vagueness. And (as per usual), I apologize for any repetition, misspellings, sentence fails, grammatical oh-noes and general horridness. Unbeta'd fic is overly-thinky/blithery and unbeta'd.
Disclaimer(s): I do not own the scrumptious Doctor or his lovely companions. That honor goes to the BBC and (for now) the fantastic S. Moffat. The only thing that belongs to me is this fiction - and I am making no profit. Only playing about!
His first memory (well, the first really important one in his world), was of being perched on his Papa's knee, the stars he loved so much clutched in his tiny fingers, heavy and warm and comprehensible – if only in the fact they were attainable in this simple form. The painted gold figures were idealized versions of the ones above their world, but they were just as fascinating and beautiful as the ones he dreamed of, the ones he could peer at through the curtains of his nursery, tucked safe within his bed.
His Papa was an Important Man. He was tall and broad and warm – his voice majestic and mysterious like the mountains beyond Lungbarrow Estate. But he seemed to enjoy spending time with him, holding carved, painted stars and telling him tales of the same beyond their world. This Important Time Lord who could command whole stars as easily as he held 'his little Thee' – and the love he held for his Papa was as deep and unfathomable as the stars above. But as simple and good as the stars they played with from his old crib's mobile.
"I want to see the stars," he declared one day – sure in his conviction that he would do so, even as he sought approval for his desire. "I want to bring you a star of your own."
"Ahhh, my Thee," his Papa had said, somber and wistful, his smile hiding something sad that ran deeper than his own voice (and just as powerful). "One day my son, you just might. But even if not, do know your dreams are just as important as your duties. Never lose sight of that. Dreams hold their own truth."
He didn't know what that meant. He only knew that it was slightly frightening to see Papa so sad, even as he seemed happy. He put away the mobile that night and put the stars out of his mind for a long, long time.
He never saw the sad smile fade to just sadness as his Papa reflected on his Thee's action. And he never thought once about the mobile (or the star he wanted to attain for his Papa, once upon a time that millennia ago as a small child); until his favorite grand-daughter was born. His wee darling that he loved so much, he longed to pluck the stars from the night-sky to give to her, to have her call them her own.
He pulled that mobile from its dusty, sleepy spot within the nursery and hung it above her crib, never realizing that ancient toy (older than even his indomitable Papa), would give her dreams far beyond her little world. They would play with the carved, painted pieces – the little stars less heavy than he remembered – and she would listen to the tales he would spin from memory, tales his Papa had once told him. As he imparted the wisdom from so long ago.
"Dreams hold their own truth."
(Never let them go.)