I haven’t been on this Tumblr in a long time, and I guess that’s fair enough. Tumblr is my home for RP, so it’s rare that I come and just geek out. Tonight, though, I’ve come to speak my mind, so indulge me a little rambling.
I didn’t really get into Doctor Who when it restarted in 2005. I was 12, too busy with video games and crushing on my own impossible girls to notice that beautiful world behind the screen. I’d also just jumped into anime, so my inclinations were a bit to focussed on the East to pick it up. I only really got into Doctor Who last year, thanks to my dear friend Laura, who introduced me to season five with Eleven, the man who will forever hold the much coveted title in the Whoniverse as ‘my Doctor’. I always hear that phrase. Ten is a lot of people’s Doctor, and I know that my mother was particularly fond of Four. I’ve seen a little bit of all of them - Laura insisted I get into Classic Who after watching Nine through to what was then the very recent end of season six, our time on the cusp of season seven.
Always, however, I’ve found myself drawn back to Eleven. Back to his TARDIS crashing into a young Amelia Pond’s back garden, to the crash of the Byzantium, to the Pandorica, to Madame Kovarian, to Trenzalore. For me, Eleven is the old soul in a young body. Nine was the man running scared from his terrible memories of the Time War, and Ten was the warrior trying desperately to redeem himself, searching for his humanity at every corner, with every companion.
Eleven was the old soul. He’d seen all of that - he even remembered some of it. Just as he’d left the horror of condemning Gallifrey back to the hell of the Time War, as he began to settle into a young new body, along came Pond. The child who, in those first few moments, rekindled the Doctor’s own childlike wonder, so lost in conflict and horror and heartbreak, and through it all his attempts to reconcile the reality of his actions, of all his adventures in time and space, with both his human companion’s own world-views and his own drive for exploration and life gave him a cynicism that never wanted to be there. The old man glaring at the blood on his hands, the old soul showing through the cracks of his mask that only his companions could mend.
Eleven dominated my first experiences with Doctor Who. Like Amelia to him, his face was the first face I saw as a Whovian, and it is a face I will never forget.
So good night, Raggedy Man. Sweet dreams.