Author's Note: This was written in response to the Travellers' Tales Prompt "Ritual" at doctor_donna at LJ. Not sure where all the angst came from. Ten does that to me sometimes.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Doctor (except in my dreams). He is gracious enough to let me push him around the page a bit.
Standing on Ceremony
The Oxford English Dictionary of 21st Century Earth defines it like this:
RITUAL
noun
1) A religious or solemn ceremony consisting of a series of actions performed according to a prescribed order
2) a series of actions or type of behaviour regularly and invariably followed by someone
adjective
1) relating to or done as a religious or solemn rite
2) (of an action) arising from convention or habit
Many species on many planets have rituals. There are mating rituals, family rituals, rituals to ensure a good harvest. Some rituals have their basis in generations of tradition and cultural influences. Some have arisen because of war and oppression. They develop because of a deep-seated need for comfort, familiarity, and a sense of normalcy. Rituals bind a people together in a common bond. They can often define a group and highlight differences between groups, sometimes for the good, sometimes to the detriment of all.
So it is not surprising that a species as ancient and sophisticated as the Time Lords had their fair share of rituals. One of the most basic and essential of these was the initiation ceremony where young Time Lords were forced to look into the Untempered Schism, the gap in the fabric of reality. It was also one of the most controversial. Subjecting young Gallifreyans to the raw power of time and space had wildly unpredictable results, the least of which was madness.
One might assume, then that someone like the Doctor, having survived (if that is the right word) the Untempered Schism, and rejected the rigidity and constrictive structure of traditional Time Lord existence, would avoid ritual at all costs.
One would be sadly mistaken.
In the case of the Tenth Doctor, there was one ritual that was vitally important to him, and one which he performed with an obsession bordering on self-destruction and madness.
It was a ritual born of pain and sorrow, of regret and recrimination.
It was a ritual of memory and deep, deep affection.
It was a ritual that tore his hearts apart and, yet, comforted his soul.
Every day, since the return of Earth, stolen by the Daleks, since the Meta-Crisis, the Doctor has stood at the console of the TARDIS, the ship's scanners focused on the insignificant city of Chiswick. Sometimes he saw her; other times, he just watched the quiet house. But each time, every time, he would close his eyes and say, out loud,
"Hello, Donna. I miss you, my love."
And then, with tears in his eyes for their mutual loss, he would turn away, his final words to his best mate, his companion and his hearts' love, echoing through the control room, "I'm so sorry."