A/N: If you have arrived at this page, well... wow. I didn't expect it. For one thing, there's only one character being dealt with. For another, it's just a bunch of angst. For a third, this isn't even very well-written. But I guess you wouldn't know that without having read it first. But anywho.
This is the result of my having an absolutely horrible afternoon. I literally did nothing but sit in my chair and look at the ceiling. It was, as I said, horrible. (This is the 11th of February, for the record.) That is why I subjected the Doctor to this angsty, depressing mess.
Thank you for listening to my rant.
(Postscriptum - The Latin is translated at the bottom of the drabble. And, btw, the phrases "heavenly Queen" and "Heaven" are not in reference to the Judeo-Christian terms; they're in reference to ancient Roman religion. Well... obviously, because Virgil wrote it. But I just thought I'd mention it. Sometimes I have to remind myself of that fact. I think in the case of The Aeneid, it's referring to Juno, who is Jupiter's wife, seeing as she's the queen of the immortals.)
"Musa, mihi causas memora, quo numine laeso,
quidve dolens, regina deum tot volvere casus
insignem pietate virum, tot adire labores
impulerit. Tantaene animis caelestibus irae?"
- The Aeneid, Book I, Virgil.
Finally, on the day that proved so poignant, he broke.
It proved to be too much for him, too much for one person's shoulders – trying to save the universe day after day, and seeing so much death in the process. At times, death had to happen for planets to be saved, and for all his brilliance he couldn't help but wonder why – why there had to be the horrible, terrifying, grand paradox that ruled over all things living and all things dead.
Why there had to be suffering for there to be joy.
He had seen so much, more than he wanted to see.
He was very strong – able to put up a façade of apathy when, in reality, he was constantly on the edge of a cliff, threatening to fall off.
He never cried, and many races considered him strange. In reality, tears meant effort, and he was too tired to try – too tired of the wrenching pain. Or was he too used to it?
But one day, when he was alone, he broke.
He was tired – of the suffering, the depression.
Of putting on a façade all the time and not ever voicing his thoughts but letting them build up and build up and get worse and worse and...
He screamed.
He cried.
To whom?
The screams were piercing and heart-wrenching; they were screams of blistering pain. It was as though his insides were being seared. And hot, salty tears raged down his cheeks like angry rivers.
He fell to his knees, as though an invisible heavy burden were being pressed upon him and pushing him down.
His cries fell on deaf ears. Nobody was around for millions of miles to hear him. Or, perhaps, they just chose not to.
"O Muse! The causes tell! What sacrilege,
or vengeful sorrow, moved the heavenly Queen
to thrust dark dangers and endless toil on
a man whose largest honor, in men's eyes,
was serving Heaven? Can gods such anger feel?"
- The Aeneid, Book I, Virgil. (translated)