The Two Halves Of The Cosmos Are Tied By Golden Thread

[nothing_rhymes_with_ianto]

Title: The Two Halves of the Cosmos Are Tied By Golden Thread
Author: qafkinnetic
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: (Characters purposefully vague)
Spoilers/Warnings: General spoilers for all episodes of Torchwood, Jack's episodes of Doctor Who
Summary: The Tale is told before Judgement can be given.
Author's Note: I'm very sorry for this insanity. I wrote this just after I finished reading Neil Gaiman's American Gods and I think it scrambled my brain.
This was written for the 2012 torchwood_fest for the prompt “Ever notice when someone tells you that you’ve asked a very good question, you usually don’t get a very good answer?”
Thank you to snarkymuch, poisonedrainbows, ashleigh-k-spring, and remembering-budapest for being awesome betas and letting me know that my bizarre ramblings made a good story.






[Graphic is by myself.]




“He was born at the half of the light. He grew up with others, grew up alone, grew up asking questions and looking too far forward.”

The book is old and dark and never full. Fingers and tongue caress the written words and the unwritten pieces of lives.

“And what about his family? His actions?”

The Reader looks again. “His family became one from three. His home became that no longer. He ran.”

“And before?”

“Before, he was quiet. He was small. He stood when he was loved and hid when he was not. He watched the Sun far more than the Moon, then. He played with others but he was not like them. He could not think what they did; he could see what they could not. After, there was destruction of the Head and the Shoulder, and he was crooked and in pain.”

There are yellowed pages full of ink that is always wet, yet it never smears. Fingers run over and across them, reading and feeling and examining. They are never stained, never tainted. The words are what matters, not the ink.

“He left.”

And here there are distinctions. There are specifics, and the Reader reels them off like a grocery list. The page turns, and the untarnished fingers glide across.

“He wandered. He joined an organization too mysterious and immense for him to know their true motives or power until it was too late. He learned greed there, and malice, and deceit. He learned trust there, as well, and love. He learned distance. He already knew darkness, but he became acquainted with it further. It destroyed a part of him. He left again, then. But part of him held on.”

The Reader slides a finger between the page and its successor, frowning at the weight, at the strange dissonance of letters. The Companion is unsettled at the frown, but it is their duty to listen and to wait. The Companion leans over, but does not look at the tome, for that is the Reader’s territory, and the Reader’s alone.

The crease smoothes into the familiar expression of neutrality and detached judgement and three fingers slide under and push the page over. Words cross and loop back on each other and overlap and circle. The Reader is undaunted.

“He kept it too close and held it too tightly and the shadows nearly took him. He did the wrong thing at the wrong time for reasons that were both too right and too wrong to be judged. Another destroyed it for him and changed him and recreated him.”

“And what did he become?”

“That is a fair question.”

“Well?”

“He was recreated and he followed. He loved twice again after losing love—after losing everything. The first was stronger but more hurtful than the second.” The finger was steady on the page. “He had secrets and he had masks to hide within, but so did all the others. Their method of survival was to keep hidden most vulnerable skins and thoughts. He created and supported and destroyed for the intention of good. He wanted to know things he could not understand.”

The Companion wants an answer to the question, but knows the Reader will not answer. Bad answers will not be given, and if there is no good answer, then there is no answer at all.

“There is more to him?”

“Yes. He was a follower forced to lead. He was a lone creature forced into group life. He was a thing of strange gentleness forced into brutality. He was born in a time not suited to him, and stuck in a time not for his kind. The damage was quietly acknowledged and he learned the struggle. When he found another that was the same, yet opposing, who could hold him up, he accepted.”

“And what were they together?”

“Polarized.”

The page slides again. The ink is darker now, heavier with weight of deeds and Time. Words like love and hate and reason and need and disorder and end and begin jump from the page. There is no black and white and the Reader frowns.

“He was made to act upon deeds he did not want to do. He refrained from doing things he wished to do. He was rash, and he was careful. He chose neither one nor the other. He chose both.”

“How is this possible?”

The Reader looks to the Companion and there is laughing knowledge in the eyes that stare back. “He is unique. Certainty orbits around him. Uncertainty rotates the opposing direction. Things change and yet remain the same. The Vortex bends, and Time shifts and breaks and comes together.”

The gaze returns to the page. The fingers return to their dance. The rest of the story matters little, for the important parts have been passed over and examined, the Reader knows. But the chronicle must be told in its entirety. The Reader recites the rest in quiet tones and answers no more questions. There is no black and white, and the Reader would smile if lips were to be had. The grey hues are familiar, as are the swiftly changing lines of wet ink.

“He found a place of stability, despite all he did to keep from becoming bound. He left and returned thrice, but when he left once more, it was this time permanent.”

The book is closed, black and heavy and eternally unfinished.

“And now the Scales?”

“Now the Scales.”

The Companion stands and retrieves the golden Scales. A third pair of dark hands retrieve a jar from the shadows. Then another.

“He had two hearts?”

“No. That is another One. Two hearts will be judged as one this time.”

The standard judgement weight is placed. The Scales tip.

Teeth gleam in a corner of the darkness. Peaceful eyes watch calmly from the opposing direction.

The jars are placed by dark hands; one, then the other. The Scales rock, spin, equalize, slide. The jars touch and collide and sparks fly, the air buzzes with ozone and stars. They do not stop. They do not end. No judgement is made.

“What happens?” the Companion asks.

“They go back again.”

The hearts are taken from the jars. A small piece goes to the gleaming teeth in the corner, a little slice to the peaceful eyes opposite, and a minute portion to the dark hands that placed them.

The hearts’ halves are spread and pressed together and passed through many hands to the East, to Again. At every bearing touch, there is Order and Chaos in each eternal hand, though none would be able to tell you which was which.

Comments

[nancybrown.livejournal.com]

You're right, it's weird. :) I like the interesting parallels you drew here between the characters, and as a fan of the novel, I really enjoyed your use of the afterlife gods. I could hear Mr. Ibis being fussy. :D

[sammydragoncat]

Intersting and thoughtful fic

[lilferret]

I had no idea what was happening until the scales came out, but this was beautifully written.

[tardisjournal.livejournal.com]

Oh, wow, you used my prompt! I'm honored! :D

Funny thing, when I was posting that prompt, I realized that when you "don't get a very good answer", what you're often getting is an answer that you don't understand, or isn't as simple as you would have liked.

Appropriately enough, perhaps, that's what this fic was for me. Not being familiar with the book, I was left feeling like I'd read something meaningful and moving but that I wasn't quite getting. Which is oddly appropriate, because that's how I felt after the last Gaiman book that I DID read.

Even without knowing all that was going on, this sent shivers down my spine: “No. That is another One. Two hearts will be judged as one this time.”

As did this: “They go back again.”

[qafkinnetic.livejournal.com]

Thank you! I'm really glad you enjoyed my interpretation of your prompt. I would've done a simpler or at least easier to understand one but this plot had been niggling away at me so I had to write it.

(Also I totally recommend American Gods. It's an amazing book.)

[tardisjournal.livejournal.com]

I've been looking for some books to dive into when I go on vacation next week--I'll check it out!

[breannarose1.livejournal.com]

wow!

Unique view of Jack's life there. Immediately thought/felt that this took place in the farthest future, a long time after the death of the Face of Boe, and that there was a hint of a well-told tale, retold through millenia in its wording.

loved that "[t]hey go back again." :)

Not familiar with the book but if it's as interesting & unique as this, I'll read it.

[jsks.livejournal.com]

i now feel the need to read the book that started this thoughtful fic.