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locker_monsterTitle: The Boy Who Waited (5/49)
Rating: PG
Characters: Rory, with appearances from Barbara
Timeline: set between "The Pandorica Opens" and "The Big Bang"
Summary: London, 1996. Barbara Wright prepares the Pandorica for exhibit at the National Museum. As the work unfolds, she recounts the lengthy history of the stone box and its loyal protector, the Lone Centurion.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC. Everything else is me taking liberties with history.
A/N: A huge thank you to my beta![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
punch_kicker15. This story would still be sitting on my hard drive if it weren't for you.
For the rest of the trip Rory remained tied up in the cart with the Pandorica, which was fine with him. It was luxury compared to be thrown over a horse’s rump. He lay on his back and stared up at the sky while he formulated a plan.
He learned a little more about his captors as well. He didn’t know what their language was, but it had quite a few Latin loan words. To him, it sounded like a strange mix of French and Latin with a little German thrown in, too. If he tried really hard, he could get the gist of what they were talking about. From what he had gleaned, he figured his group was a scouting party sent to stop anyone who was following the Pandorica. It also seemed like he and the Pandorica were being brought to some barbarian leader.
A few more weeks passed before they finally arrived at their destination. An opportunity to jump his captors and take the cart had never presented itself to Rory and now it was too late to do anything but go along with things.
He rocked himself back and forth until he had enough momentum to lurch up into a sitting position. The cart trundled along through a small town, the four members of the scouting party riding behind him like an honour guard. Those from the raiding party rode up ahead with one from their group driving the cart. They moved slowly on purpose. Townsfolk emerged from their homes to catch a glimpse of the Pandorica as it moved past. Low whispers travelled through the crowd.
For some reason, Rory expected to arrive at a fort or somewhere more protected. It would have made him feel better about being jumped and tied up, twice, if his attackers had been soldiers but it seemed like they were mere farmers or tradesmen. Though, he did know a thing or two about being plucked from a casual existence and being thrust into a role more outgoing. His entourage had probably chosen this quest because they thought it was the right thing to do. He might not agree with their tactics, but he could understand where they were coming from.
They finally stopped in front of one house, noticeably bigger and nicer than the rest. One of the men dismounted his horse and knocked on the door. A woman admitted him and he went inside. It was obvious this house belonged to the leader of this town. Rory wondered if he and the Pandorica were a gift. Or, he shuddered to think, a sacrifice.
He wasn’t sure how long they waited. People continued to gawk at the Pandorica but none of them brave enough to venture close to the cart. One of the men from the scouting party, young and well built, spoke animatedly to a pair of woman. He reached into his saddle bag and pulled out Rory’s helmet. The two woman gasped with surprise. Playing to his audience, the man put on the helmet and he gestured to Rory, who was watching the conversation. He didn’t catch what the man said, but the woman laughed at the comment. It was amazing how little things changed. Guys bigger and stronger than him were still making fun of him to impress some girls.
With a groan, Rory flopped back down. “I’m 341 years old,” he muttered to the Pandorica in English. “People should respect their elders.”
Perhaps an hour passed before the man from the raiding party exited the house. Rory heard the door open and he struggled into a sitting position again. The man’s expression didn’t betray what he was thinking. He spoke to the group and everyone remounted their horses. The horses pulling the cart were urged on and they all left the town, headed towards the woods nearby. They didn’t enter the woods, stopping short of where the trees started. A small shrine with a carved stone altar was the only thing remarkable about the spot.
Rory was trying to figure out what all of this was for when one of the men grabbed him by the feet and dragged him out of cart. He smacked the back of his head against the edge of the cart as he was pulled over it and then he had a nice crash landing as he dropped down from the cart to the ground. All of the air was knocked out of his lungs and a small cloud of dust was raised from his landing. Now he knew what a sack of potatoes felt like.
The man dragged him through the grass to the altar and Rory bumped over unseen pebbles and twigs. This was his last chance to escape before whatever they had planned for him and the Pandorica happened. The ropes that bound him hadn’t slackened at all during the journey so he still couldn’t move. The best he could hope for was getting to his feet and hopping away like a kangaroo. Though, that strictly wasn’t true. Rory had one more option open to him, but it was something he had vowed never to use ever again.
He hadn’t used the Auton gun in his hand since (god, he didn’t like thinking about this), he shot Amy and he had hoped never to use it again, but he had no other weapons on him. It was worth a shot. Either one blast from the gun tore through the ropes and loosened them or nothing happened. It would be stupid of him not to try.
Rory closed his eyes. He had no idea what the command was to get his hand to snap open; Go Go Gadget Alien Hand Gun didn’t sound right. He soon realized the flaw in his plan anyway. The ropes were too tight. Even if he wanted his hand to break in half, there wasn’t room for it to snap open. He was so going to be a sacrifice on that altar.
The barbarian let go of his feet, flopping them down in the grass. Rory felt like a mummy getting ready to go into its sarcophagus. In vain, he began to squirm, in hopes the ropes would magically fall apart.
Various sets of hands were suddenly all over him, manhandling him into a kneeling position. He soon found himself on his knees facing the altar. His balance was precarious and a good wind probably would have knocked him over onto his side. The only solution was to remain still as possible. He could glance left and right though without falling over and he saw that the ten men had spread out, forming a semi-circle around him and the altar. He could only assume that the Pandorica was behind them.
Okay, they were set up. Now what?
Rory didn’t have to wait long for an answer. With his keen hearing he picked up the sound of approaching footsteps on the worn path. It sounded like one man. Perhaps the leader of the town? A minute more brought the man to the altar in front of him. He was a big man, tall and beefy, but it was likely that it was muscle, not fat. His ginger hair was worn long, down near his shoulders; it was a strange contrast to the short haircuts sported by the other men. He had a thin moustache like many of the others and, like most redheads, freckles spotted his skin.
The man regarded Rory and then his gaze shifted past him, probably to the Pandorica. He said something to the men and it sounded like he was thanking them. So this was their leader.
The foreign words stirred Rory’s temper. These men did not deserve a thank you. They had stolen something that wasn’t theirs and they had kidnapped him, too. “Release me!” he snarled in Latin.
The leader just glared at him. When he spoke, it was in his language but one of his men translated for him.
“I am Ludovic, a true descendant of Wuotan. I do not take orders from Roman filth. These are our lands, ours to rule.”
“Then stay in your lands. The Emperor has no quarrel with you.” Rory’s words were translated back into the leader’s language.
“Your Emperor is too busy cowering in a swamp. He neglects Rome. Why should the Frankish people not take what he has abandoned?”
Finally, Rory knew the identity of his captors. The Franks weren’t a large group like the Visigoths but nor were they as violent. This didn’t make sense. “Numerous Franks serve in the Roman army,” said Rory, expressing his confusion. “Your people are our allies. You do not need to resort to violence to make your demands.”
“Those Franks are from the traitorous tribes too weak to make a stand. My people are strong! We entered Rome and stole the symbol of the Emperor.”
“The Pandorica isn’t the Emperor’s!” Rory spoke in English before he caught himself. Ludovic stared at him with a frown. “The Pandorica is not a symbol,” he said, continuing in Latin. “It does not hold any power.”
Ludovic snorted. “It is a symbol. A symbol for the Franks. It is proof that Rome is not impenetrable. The empire will fall.”
That was one piece of history that Rory did remember from school, but he was sure the Franks hadn’t played a major role in the Roman Empire’s decline. Of course, this was a completely different universe now. History wasn’t set in stone. It was constantly changing around him in ways he couldn’t even predict. Maybe these Franks would bring down Rome. It really didn’t matter to Rory in the end. Keeping the Pandorica safe was his priority. Where it was kept safe wasn’t that important.
“I cannot deny that my lord is wise.” Rory tried not to cringe at how ridiculous he sounded. “I have no allegiance with the Emperor. Allow me to pledge my services to you and the Pandorica can remain in your care without harm.”
Ludovic didn’t reply right away. Had his words been mistranslated? He couldn’t trust that Ludovic’s man was translating him word for word. He cringed to think that he had just threatened the leader.
“I have heard the stories, Centurion.” Ludovic knelt down so that he was eye to eye with Rory. His irises were the clearest blue he had ever seen. “You will not allow the Pandorica to be opened until the appointed time. You claim it has no power, but I think you lie. All Father demands that I open the Pandorica. He has shown me in my dreams that its power will lead me to greatness. I do not need your pledge.”
Ludovic rose to his feet and nodded to his men. Rory looked over his shoulder. Two of them carried chains while others had produced shovels. This was not good.
He tried to get to his feet, but one of the Franks with a shovel was quicker. He swung the shovel and it hit Rory right in the temple. He went down like a felled tree as a stab of pain shot through his head. He landed face first in the grass and ended up with a mouth full of it. He spat out the blades, tasting dirt on his tongue.
The chains clanked together as they were wrapped around Rory. He was already tied up; he couldn’t see why he needed ropes and chains. It seemed like overkill to him. He was too dazed to voice these thoughts, though, and everything blurred together. He barely made out Ludovic standing off to the side, a satisfied grin on his face.
Weighed down with chains, he was picked up off the ground. They carried him past the altar and headed towards the woods. So they weren’t going to cut him up. That was a small consolation. But what were the shovels for? Were they going to bury him up to his neck and then let the wolves eat him? Would wolves even go for plastic flesh? He didn’t want to sport bite marks for the rest of his life.
Just within the forest the men came to a stop. Rory couldn’t see anything beyond the leaves of the trees above him. He struggled to crane his neck to see below him. The hands holding him up fell away and he dropped like a stone. He expected to land amongst the dead leaves, but he kept falling, past the men’s feet.
He fell into a grave.
Ludovic stepped up to the edge of the grave and looked down at him. There must have been at least six feet between them. In his hands, he held Rory’s helmet.
“You cannot open the Pandorica!” shouted Rory, trying a last ditch effort. There was no way to open the box, not without a sonic screwdriver. He didn’t need Ludovic damaging it. “Open the Pandorica and a great curse will befall your people!”
But the man didn’t look convinced. He threw the helmet into the grave and it landed on Rory’s stomach. Ludovic spoke to his men and then walked away.
Now Rory knew what the shovels were for. The first shovel full of dirt hit him square in the face, blinding him. He shook his head vigourously, clearing the clumps of soil out of his eyes, but it was a losing battle. More and more dirt was thrown into the grave, piling up around him and quickly covering him with a blanket of earth. It slithered down his throat and clogged his nose. Pretty soon he was unable to draw a breath, but it didn’t matter. He was plastic. He didn’t need to breathe. He felt the crushing weight of the dirt as it continued to pile on top of him with no promise of death or even unconsciousness to end his misery.
Soon Rory’s world was reduced to nothing but an airless darkness.
“There isn’t much literature documenting the Pandorica’s theft by the Franks beyond some brief accounts from Roman soldiers passing on rumours from their Frankish colleagues. Even the year it was stolen is up for debate.”
Sometimes in situations like these, Barbara foolishly wished that time travel was real. There were so many gaps sometimes and historians were often forced to speculate. To have hard, concrete facts would have been a joy.
“What happened to the Pandorica after that?” asked the security guard.
“Truth be told, the Pandorica disappears from history for a bit. There isn’t much in the way of Frankish writings. My personal theory on the matter is that the Pandorica passed from one Frankish tribe to another through infighting, eventually coming into the possession of Byzantine Empire. Even then, there isn’t much evidence.”
The security guard turned to look her. “And what about the Lone Centurion?” He sounded rather inquisitive about this.
The topic of the Lone Centurion was a difficult one for Barbara. There was numerous accounts about him, stretching back all the way to the Pandorica’s discovery. He existed, that was for certain, but it was hard for her to believe that he was the same soldier, constantly at the Pandorica’s side. That was impossible; no one was immortal. But impossible or not he was part of the Pandorica’s history and there was a certain amount of romanticism about him.
“Oh, he disappeared as well, that we do know for sure. Roman poets wrote laments about him. One can only assume that he left Rome to pursue the Pandorica. Some historians claim they have evidence that he was in Rome when the empire fell, but it’s vague at best.”
The security guard nodded thoughtfully. Barbara supposed the young man had grown up reading the myths about the Lone Centurion.
He glanced back at the doors to the hall. “I should go. I’ll let you get back to work.” He offered a polite good-bye and headed off to patrol the rest of the museum.
Finding herself alone, Barbara couldn’t help herself. She stepped up to the Pandorica and reached under the plastic barrier to gently place her hand on the stone surface of the box. The weathered stone was rough beneath her fingers, but the edges of the carvings were still sharp even after two thousand years.
“What are you?” she muttered to herself, and not for the first time.
Rating: PG
Characters: Rory, with appearances from Barbara
Timeline: set between "The Pandorica Opens" and "The Big Bang"
Summary: London, 1996. Barbara Wright prepares the Pandorica for exhibit at the National Museum. As the work unfolds, she recounts the lengthy history of the stone box and its loyal protector, the Lone Centurion.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC. Everything else is me taking liberties with history.
A/N: A huge thank you to my beta
punch_kicker15. This story would still be sitting on my hard drive if it weren't for you.1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49
For the rest of the trip Rory remained tied up in the cart with the Pandorica, which was fine with him. It was luxury compared to be thrown over a horse’s rump. He lay on his back and stared up at the sky while he formulated a plan.
He learned a little more about his captors as well. He didn’t know what their language was, but it had quite a few Latin loan words. To him, it sounded like a strange mix of French and Latin with a little German thrown in, too. If he tried really hard, he could get the gist of what they were talking about. From what he had gleaned, he figured his group was a scouting party sent to stop anyone who was following the Pandorica. It also seemed like he and the Pandorica were being brought to some barbarian leader.
A few more weeks passed before they finally arrived at their destination. An opportunity to jump his captors and take the cart had never presented itself to Rory and now it was too late to do anything but go along with things.
He rocked himself back and forth until he had enough momentum to lurch up into a sitting position. The cart trundled along through a small town, the four members of the scouting party riding behind him like an honour guard. Those from the raiding party rode up ahead with one from their group driving the cart. They moved slowly on purpose. Townsfolk emerged from their homes to catch a glimpse of the Pandorica as it moved past. Low whispers travelled through the crowd.
For some reason, Rory expected to arrive at a fort or somewhere more protected. It would have made him feel better about being jumped and tied up, twice, if his attackers had been soldiers but it seemed like they were mere farmers or tradesmen. Though, he did know a thing or two about being plucked from a casual existence and being thrust into a role more outgoing. His entourage had probably chosen this quest because they thought it was the right thing to do. He might not agree with their tactics, but he could understand where they were coming from.
They finally stopped in front of one house, noticeably bigger and nicer than the rest. One of the men dismounted his horse and knocked on the door. A woman admitted him and he went inside. It was obvious this house belonged to the leader of this town. Rory wondered if he and the Pandorica were a gift. Or, he shuddered to think, a sacrifice.
He wasn’t sure how long they waited. People continued to gawk at the Pandorica but none of them brave enough to venture close to the cart. One of the men from the scouting party, young and well built, spoke animatedly to a pair of woman. He reached into his saddle bag and pulled out Rory’s helmet. The two woman gasped with surprise. Playing to his audience, the man put on the helmet and he gestured to Rory, who was watching the conversation. He didn’t catch what the man said, but the woman laughed at the comment. It was amazing how little things changed. Guys bigger and stronger than him were still making fun of him to impress some girls.
With a groan, Rory flopped back down. “I’m 341 years old,” he muttered to the Pandorica in English. “People should respect their elders.”
Perhaps an hour passed before the man from the raiding party exited the house. Rory heard the door open and he struggled into a sitting position again. The man’s expression didn’t betray what he was thinking. He spoke to the group and everyone remounted their horses. The horses pulling the cart were urged on and they all left the town, headed towards the woods nearby. They didn’t enter the woods, stopping short of where the trees started. A small shrine with a carved stone altar was the only thing remarkable about the spot.
Rory was trying to figure out what all of this was for when one of the men grabbed him by the feet and dragged him out of cart. He smacked the back of his head against the edge of the cart as he was pulled over it and then he had a nice crash landing as he dropped down from the cart to the ground. All of the air was knocked out of his lungs and a small cloud of dust was raised from his landing. Now he knew what a sack of potatoes felt like.
The man dragged him through the grass to the altar and Rory bumped over unseen pebbles and twigs. This was his last chance to escape before whatever they had planned for him and the Pandorica happened. The ropes that bound him hadn’t slackened at all during the journey so he still couldn’t move. The best he could hope for was getting to his feet and hopping away like a kangaroo. Though, that strictly wasn’t true. Rory had one more option open to him, but it was something he had vowed never to use ever again.
He hadn’t used the Auton gun in his hand since (god, he didn’t like thinking about this), he shot Amy and he had hoped never to use it again, but he had no other weapons on him. It was worth a shot. Either one blast from the gun tore through the ropes and loosened them or nothing happened. It would be stupid of him not to try.
Rory closed his eyes. He had no idea what the command was to get his hand to snap open; Go Go Gadget Alien Hand Gun didn’t sound right. He soon realized the flaw in his plan anyway. The ropes were too tight. Even if he wanted his hand to break in half, there wasn’t room for it to snap open. He was so going to be a sacrifice on that altar.
The barbarian let go of his feet, flopping them down in the grass. Rory felt like a mummy getting ready to go into its sarcophagus. In vain, he began to squirm, in hopes the ropes would magically fall apart.
Various sets of hands were suddenly all over him, manhandling him into a kneeling position. He soon found himself on his knees facing the altar. His balance was precarious and a good wind probably would have knocked him over onto his side. The only solution was to remain still as possible. He could glance left and right though without falling over and he saw that the ten men had spread out, forming a semi-circle around him and the altar. He could only assume that the Pandorica was behind them.
Okay, they were set up. Now what?
Rory didn’t have to wait long for an answer. With his keen hearing he picked up the sound of approaching footsteps on the worn path. It sounded like one man. Perhaps the leader of the town? A minute more brought the man to the altar in front of him. He was a big man, tall and beefy, but it was likely that it was muscle, not fat. His ginger hair was worn long, down near his shoulders; it was a strange contrast to the short haircuts sported by the other men. He had a thin moustache like many of the others and, like most redheads, freckles spotted his skin.
The man regarded Rory and then his gaze shifted past him, probably to the Pandorica. He said something to the men and it sounded like he was thanking them. So this was their leader.
The foreign words stirred Rory’s temper. These men did not deserve a thank you. They had stolen something that wasn’t theirs and they had kidnapped him, too. “Release me!” he snarled in Latin.
The leader just glared at him. When he spoke, it was in his language but one of his men translated for him.
“I am Ludovic, a true descendant of Wuotan. I do not take orders from Roman filth. These are our lands, ours to rule.”
“Then stay in your lands. The Emperor has no quarrel with you.” Rory’s words were translated back into the leader’s language.
“Your Emperor is too busy cowering in a swamp. He neglects Rome. Why should the Frankish people not take what he has abandoned?”
Finally, Rory knew the identity of his captors. The Franks weren’t a large group like the Visigoths but nor were they as violent. This didn’t make sense. “Numerous Franks serve in the Roman army,” said Rory, expressing his confusion. “Your people are our allies. You do not need to resort to violence to make your demands.”
“Those Franks are from the traitorous tribes too weak to make a stand. My people are strong! We entered Rome and stole the symbol of the Emperor.”
“The Pandorica isn’t the Emperor’s!” Rory spoke in English before he caught himself. Ludovic stared at him with a frown. “The Pandorica is not a symbol,” he said, continuing in Latin. “It does not hold any power.”
Ludovic snorted. “It is a symbol. A symbol for the Franks. It is proof that Rome is not impenetrable. The empire will fall.”
That was one piece of history that Rory did remember from school, but he was sure the Franks hadn’t played a major role in the Roman Empire’s decline. Of course, this was a completely different universe now. History wasn’t set in stone. It was constantly changing around him in ways he couldn’t even predict. Maybe these Franks would bring down Rome. It really didn’t matter to Rory in the end. Keeping the Pandorica safe was his priority. Where it was kept safe wasn’t that important.
“I cannot deny that my lord is wise.” Rory tried not to cringe at how ridiculous he sounded. “I have no allegiance with the Emperor. Allow me to pledge my services to you and the Pandorica can remain in your care without harm.”
Ludovic didn’t reply right away. Had his words been mistranslated? He couldn’t trust that Ludovic’s man was translating him word for word. He cringed to think that he had just threatened the leader.
“I have heard the stories, Centurion.” Ludovic knelt down so that he was eye to eye with Rory. His irises were the clearest blue he had ever seen. “You will not allow the Pandorica to be opened until the appointed time. You claim it has no power, but I think you lie. All Father demands that I open the Pandorica. He has shown me in my dreams that its power will lead me to greatness. I do not need your pledge.”
Ludovic rose to his feet and nodded to his men. Rory looked over his shoulder. Two of them carried chains while others had produced shovels. This was not good.
He tried to get to his feet, but one of the Franks with a shovel was quicker. He swung the shovel and it hit Rory right in the temple. He went down like a felled tree as a stab of pain shot through his head. He landed face first in the grass and ended up with a mouth full of it. He spat out the blades, tasting dirt on his tongue.
The chains clanked together as they were wrapped around Rory. He was already tied up; he couldn’t see why he needed ropes and chains. It seemed like overkill to him. He was too dazed to voice these thoughts, though, and everything blurred together. He barely made out Ludovic standing off to the side, a satisfied grin on his face.
Weighed down with chains, he was picked up off the ground. They carried him past the altar and headed towards the woods. So they weren’t going to cut him up. That was a small consolation. But what were the shovels for? Were they going to bury him up to his neck and then let the wolves eat him? Would wolves even go for plastic flesh? He didn’t want to sport bite marks for the rest of his life.
Just within the forest the men came to a stop. Rory couldn’t see anything beyond the leaves of the trees above him. He struggled to crane his neck to see below him. The hands holding him up fell away and he dropped like a stone. He expected to land amongst the dead leaves, but he kept falling, past the men’s feet.
He fell into a grave.
Ludovic stepped up to the edge of the grave and looked down at him. There must have been at least six feet between them. In his hands, he held Rory’s helmet.
“You cannot open the Pandorica!” shouted Rory, trying a last ditch effort. There was no way to open the box, not without a sonic screwdriver. He didn’t need Ludovic damaging it. “Open the Pandorica and a great curse will befall your people!”
But the man didn’t look convinced. He threw the helmet into the grave and it landed on Rory’s stomach. Ludovic spoke to his men and then walked away.
Now Rory knew what the shovels were for. The first shovel full of dirt hit him square in the face, blinding him. He shook his head vigourously, clearing the clumps of soil out of his eyes, but it was a losing battle. More and more dirt was thrown into the grave, piling up around him and quickly covering him with a blanket of earth. It slithered down his throat and clogged his nose. Pretty soon he was unable to draw a breath, but it didn’t matter. He was plastic. He didn’t need to breathe. He felt the crushing weight of the dirt as it continued to pile on top of him with no promise of death or even unconsciousness to end his misery.
Soon Rory’s world was reduced to nothing but an airless darkness.
* * *
“There isn’t much literature documenting the Pandorica’s theft by the Franks beyond some brief accounts from Roman soldiers passing on rumours from their Frankish colleagues. Even the year it was stolen is up for debate.”
Sometimes in situations like these, Barbara foolishly wished that time travel was real. There were so many gaps sometimes and historians were often forced to speculate. To have hard, concrete facts would have been a joy.
“What happened to the Pandorica after that?” asked the security guard.
“Truth be told, the Pandorica disappears from history for a bit. There isn’t much in the way of Frankish writings. My personal theory on the matter is that the Pandorica passed from one Frankish tribe to another through infighting, eventually coming into the possession of Byzantine Empire. Even then, there isn’t much evidence.”
The security guard turned to look her. “And what about the Lone Centurion?” He sounded rather inquisitive about this.
The topic of the Lone Centurion was a difficult one for Barbara. There was numerous accounts about him, stretching back all the way to the Pandorica’s discovery. He existed, that was for certain, but it was hard for her to believe that he was the same soldier, constantly at the Pandorica’s side. That was impossible; no one was immortal. But impossible or not he was part of the Pandorica’s history and there was a certain amount of romanticism about him.
“Oh, he disappeared as well, that we do know for sure. Roman poets wrote laments about him. One can only assume that he left Rome to pursue the Pandorica. Some historians claim they have evidence that he was in Rome when the empire fell, but it’s vague at best.”
The security guard nodded thoughtfully. Barbara supposed the young man had grown up reading the myths about the Lone Centurion.
He glanced back at the doors to the hall. “I should go. I’ll let you get back to work.” He offered a polite good-bye and headed off to patrol the rest of the museum.
Finding herself alone, Barbara couldn’t help herself. She stepped up to the Pandorica and reached under the plastic barrier to gently place her hand on the stone surface of the box. The weathered stone was rough beneath her fingers, but the edges of the carvings were still sharp even after two thousand years.
“What are you?” she muttered to herself, and not for the first time.
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Date: 2013-05-04 06:49 pm (UTC)