To wrap up my weekend, I'm going to rec at least two pieces that explore to very different, yet similar aspects of EoT. This one involves the way the Time War and what happened to the Time Lords and their fate that was explored in that episode.
Story: Only a Northern Song
Author: Roach Patrol
Word Count: 4381/one-shot
Author's Summary: A dark and nasty little story from the beginning of the Time War. The Lord President Rassilon seeks to educate his Council on the ill-advised nature of disobedience, and demonstrate the consequences of recklessly, deliberately, and repeatedly engaging in said ill-advised action. The Doctor is just the right men for the job. After all, if you can't beat them, change them.
Characters/Pairings: Rassilon, 8th Doctor, 9th Doctor, various other Time Lords
Warnings: graphic rape and torture, character death
Recced because: I know there are a lot of people who weren't happy with how RTD presented the Time Lords and the effect the Time War had on them in EoT. I however thought it was quite believeable that war could have driven most of the Time Lords insane. It also gave me a new theory on how the regeneration from the Eighth Doctor to the Ninth Doctor could have come about. Thus far this is the only fic that deals with both the Time Lords as we saw them in EoT, in particular Rassilon, and the regeneration we can only speculate about, which runs similar to some of my own theories. It's a very dark and and chilling story, not for the easily squicked or triggered, but a very vivid and good story nonetheless.
He doesn’t like all the guns everyone’s taken to wearing, the ugly, practical saffron-leather armor on the chancellery guards (didn’t they used to wear red and white silk?) and especially he doesn’t like the heavy iron gauntlets that the Lord President wears–that the Lord President has always worn. Rassilon’s Gauntlets, they’re called, and they smell like ashes and spent time.
He doesn't like how he hasn't been able to contact Romana. Or how no one will tell him where she went.
Perhaps he's been away for too long.
"Walk with me, my Doctor," Rassilon murmurs. His gauntlets click as he beckons.
"Certainly, my Lord President. Where are we headed?"
"To my council room. I summoned you here, as you recall, to help me illustrate a point of order I felt wise to impress upon our...compatriots."
"Ah, yes?" The Doctor searches his memory. "I... suppose you did."
"We are at war, Doctor! We need to make certain things clear. No use all working at cross-purposes, you understand. And your very...unique presence will be invaluable for my little demonstration."
The Doctor smiles. "I do enjoy being of use," he offers.
"Good man!" Rassilon smiles, and claps him on the back.
Nervous guards wrench open the doors to the Council Room, well before the Doctor and his President approach. The Doctor fights down a twinge of misgiving. Rassilon's gauntleted hand is still firmly against his back, guiding him forward.
The Council is assembled at a table the Doctor hasn't seen before, a long bronze affair inscribed with-- he can't quite make out what it says. Poetry, perhaps, or prophecy. The assembled Lords have spread their paperwork across all the distal clauses. The room is dark and vast around the single table, and the air is much too heavy.
Rassilon seats himself at the head chair, and the Councilors go instantly silent and still.
"I have called the Doctor here, esteemed Councilors, to help illuminate my stance on disobedience." Rassilon looks around the table. No one meets his gaze.
"In short," he says, "I will not have it."