FANFIC FRIDAY: Son Of Mine

Today, I’m sharing a sketch I wrote a while back.  At the end of the two-part episode “Human Nature”, back in season 3, the Family of Blood was trapped as punishment for what they did when they pursued the Doctor.  Decades later, how might Son of Mine be feeling about it?  Did he ever come to understand the horrible mistakes they made?


I am alone.
It’s such a strange sensation.
I have been alone ever so long, and yet I am still not used to it.  I miss my family.  All of mine.  I’ve been trapped here for nearly a hundred years — the mere beginnings of the long lives we yearned for — yet I still do not grow used to it.
I became a schoolboy once, ever so long ago, when I was young, when my family was searching for immortality.  Our lives are short, so we must steal the lives of others.  And it doesn’t last.  We scented a Time Lord, though all of them were meant to be dead, and we hunted him.  We wanted his power, his lives, his age.
He hid in the form of a human being, and we were deceived.  We took human lives as well, the better to hunt him, but we were out of our depth.  He was being kind by hiding, and we didn’t realize that.  We tried to force him out, and so he was forced to end us.  Yet instead of allowing us to live out our natural lifespans and die, he trapped us all.
Father of Mine.
Mother of Mine.
Sister of Mine.
And I.
We’re all trapped in different places, for this is the Time Lord’s punishment.  My prison is one of my molecular fringe scarecrows.  They’re ever so clever, but I find they are not fulfilling to inhabit, even if it does make me immortal.
I don’t think I like this immortality that the Time Lord gave us.
I wish I could move.  Sister of Mine is trapped in mirrors.  All mirrors.  If I could just find a mirror, I could see her again.  Maybe help her feel less alone.
Father of Mine, Mother of Mine, I think there is nothing I can do for you, not where you’ve gone.
I watch over Britain, and I wonder how long this field will remain.  No one ever comes to change the scarecrow out, and they plow around me every spring, but surely that cannot last.  I cannot leave my post, yet I hear and I *smell*, for I am one of the Family of Blood.  I am trapped, but I can sense things that others cannot.
Humans have been busy in the past century.  The Great war came and went, as we knew it would, and the boys who were sent to fight us as we marched on their wretched school went off to war and mostly died as well, cursing the old men who had told them it was glorious, just as we had said they would.
That boy, that small boy.  The one the other boys taunted and made to do their schoolwork.  Latimer.  He came and visited after the war.  He looked me right in the eye, and he knew I wasn’t a scarecrow.  I could still smell a little of the Time Lord on him, even after all these years.
Yes.  A little schoolboy with no idea what he was doing found the Doctor while we hunted him across time and space.  I suppose it’s what they call poetry.
Then there was war again.  I heard the airplanes and the buzz bombs and the humans’ first primitive rockets, and in my weakness, hoped one might hit me, but I was not so lucky.  And the British drove the Germans away, and they rebuilt, and kept plowing and planting around me every year as if I wasn’t even here.
I think that was when I realized the Doctor had put a perception filter on me.  Latimer could see through it, but most of them cannot, though subconciously they know enough to go around me.
Ever so lonely….
It was Cold War next, a very human concept where you pretend you are not at war even though you are very much at war and different little wars pop up here and there and other people fight and die for a cause that isn’t theirs.  And the rockets became slightly less primitive, they launched satellites, they launched nuclear weapons, they prepared to annhiliate one another.
I rather regret they did not.  The conflagration would surely have finished me.
Across the Continent, the Soviets launched men into space.  Across the Ocean, the Americans did the same.  Cold War; they said it was exploration but of course it was not.  It was the continuation of war by other means.  For once they had their little pride by planting flags on Earth’s ridiculous Moon, they stopped.
More proxy wars, more dying for the pride of others, violence exploding again and again on the other island, humans killing now not for pride but for fear.  Ah, they do begin to understand, don’t they?  They are such a violent race.
And the Soviets fell and everybody said the Cold War was over, but of course it wasn’t and now the humans fought other people for other reasons except really those reasons were the same.  The century turned, new enemies were conjured to replace the old, and the killing went on, the old story with new faces, even as they pretended they’d gotten better.
There have been alien invasions too, and I’ve scented the Time Lord again and again, as he saves this planet over and over.  He sometimes stops by, makes sure I’m still frozen, makes sure I still suffer.  I no longer wish for his death, though.  I am no longer angry.
I’m just tired.
Ever so tired.
I want to sleep.

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