Rating: All Ages
Word Count: 3943
Author's Summary: There are no Time Ladies on Gallifrey any longer. The entire universe knows of the Weeping Angels. These two facts are connected.
Characters: Romana III, Susan Foreman, The Doctor (10th), The Doctor (8th), The Master (Simm), The Rani, Wilfred Mott
Recc'ed because: One of the lines in the End of Time mentioned Time Lord dissenters and Weeping Angels in the same breath, and I always wondered whether the connection was something the writers had explicitly thought about or just something RTD threw out there on a whim. Well, voodoochild takes that idea and spins it into a mythos that is fascinating and chilling, like the myth of the banshee or the Fates, but somewhat in reverse. The narrative voice weaves the events of the last days of the Time War through with mystical context and metaphor, like a legend passed down by storytellers for generations. The end is chilling and amazing and it works--oh, it works brilliantly.
She has aged in this body, only her second, and it takes her time to climb the stairs of the Tower. Hundreds of feet have marched the same path she is walking now, and she thinks she's been spending too much time with her grandfather, because she can hear them. Ushas's harsh appraisal ("madness runs in the family, it seems, though your research is sound"), Romana's quiet hope ("if the legends are true, anything is possible, for nothing can get worse"), Melanthe's honest support ("you always were a genius, my girl, if anyone can do this, it's you"). She can hear others, Leela and Ace and Flavia and Iris and Thalia and Darkel, women she's never met, never will meet.
And Susan can hear her mother. It has been three hundred years, and Susan can finally hear her again. Her mother speaks gently, encouragingly.
"There is no dishonor in weeping, my daughter. Tears are Pain's gift to us. Use them well."
Step by step, she climbs, tears running down her face. Each step is a prayer to the Sisters: take my voice, that it may strengthen others; take my name, that it may be unwritten from the cosmos; take my face, hide it in deepest shame. Thrice-sacrificed, thrice-cursed, I call to you to take what you will from me. Turn me to stone, that I may feel no pain. Hear my cry, as you have heard the cries of my sisters. Let us not simply fade away.