![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
locker_monsterTitle: The Boy Who Waited (14/49)
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.
Faizabad, 1273 A.D.
“How are we doing today, Marco?”
Rory didn’t receive a reply, but he was used to that. Back at Leadworth Hospital, he could have entire conversations with the coma patients. Some of his co-workers used to frown at him, but he always believed that hearing a familiar voice could help someone through an illness. It was a sort of reassurance that they weren’t alone.
He pulled up a stool next to Marco’s bed and sat down. The young man was drenched with sweat but he shivered, too. He was wrapped up so tightly in thick blankets that he could scarcely move. When Rory put his hand to Marco’s forehead, the young man’s skin blazed with heat. It was the same as yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that.
Frankly, Rory had lost count of the days. It felt like Marco had been sick forever.
He got up from his stool and went to the window. It wouldn’t do much good for Marco, not that he would notice, but some fresh air in the small room would help to make it less stuffy. He inched the shutters open just a crack to let a cool breeze in. Cool was a relative term around here. For the locals, 20 degrees Celsius was cool, especially for early spring. Even after a year in this province, it was still warm to Rory.
He gazed out at the yellow plains just visible through the various buildings. When he had last been out there, to search for a doctor somewhere in this region, the grass had been dry and prickly. Now new growth was beginning. There were slight touches of green just here and there.
The landscape had been just like this when they arrived in Badashan province a year ago. At the time, they had been making excellent progress from Hormos. Under two months, crossing several patches of lifeless desert no less. Rory had to wonder if that was where it all began, Marco’s sickness. They had run out of water at one point despite meticulous rationing. To avoid dying of dehydration the Polos had been forced to drink a green, brackish water, the only liquid for miles. The three men became violently ill for days, to the point that Rory feared none of them would make it. By some miracle they all recovered, enough to make it out of the desert, but maybe it had only been an illusion. Marco fell sick again not long after they reached Badashan.
Even with all of Rory’s nursing skills, he didn’t know what to do. He had no medicines on hand and his knowledge of medicinal cures was hardly extensive. They had pushed on despite Marco’s deteriorating health, in hopes of finding a local healer. They came across several and most prescribed simple things like teas and salves while others went with more primitive suggestions like bloodletting. Anything Rory deemed as promising they tried, but nothing seemed to improve Marco’s condition. He ate less and less and now he was incredibly underweight, his skin loose on his bones.
They had stopped their travelling plans altogether to save what health Marco had left. Niccolò and Maffeo rode out daily, hoping to find someone, anyone, who could help the youngest Polo. These days, they were both gone for days, sometimes even weeks at a time. They probably could have ridden to China on their own with all the miles they had accumulated.
Faizabad was just the latest stop in a long line of lengthy stopovers. The Pandorica made it difficult for them to stay in one settlement for long periods of time. The box seemed to bring out the primal superstitions in even the most rational person. Once the Polo brothers returned, they would probably move again.
Rory turned away from the window. He couldn’t linger. Being the only able-bodied person left in the party who wasn’t travelling across the country, it was up to him to make some money so they could afford housing for Marco. The owners of the inn, a husband and wife team, were kind enough to look after Marco while Rory was out, but they would swiftly kick them out if he missed a payment.
Before he left, Rory gave Marco a proper examination. The young man’s breathing was still laboured and his chest seemed to rattle with each rise and fall. Rory had ruled out the altitude as being the cause of the illness. If it had just been a matter of acclimatizing, then Marco would have been fine after a few weeks. He still worried it was a virus or an infection, something within that Marco’s body just couldn’t handle on its own. Not for the first time, he wished for a modern hospital and all the conveniences it could provide.
“I will be back after sunset,” Rory told Marco before he left the room. On the way down to the courtyard to check on the Pandorica, he passed one of the innkeepers, the husband. The man gave him a toothless smile and a nod of the head, acknowledging that he or his wife would be up shortly to try to feed Marco a breakfast of weak broth.
Out behind the inn, and away from the animals as per the innkeepers’ request, Rory checked on his other charge. The sun had leeched away the colour of the silk cloth covering the Pandorica and it was more the colour of parchment than daisies. Blowing sand had battered the silk and it was tattered on the edges. Rory had repaired any tears, stitching together the rips like he was stitching together a cut. The general state of disrepair made the Pandorica seem even less mysterious.
“Still no change,” he said in English. Only Amy and the Pandorica heard his confessionals. He couldn’t talk to anyone else. “I say that every time I come out here, don’t I?”
In nursing school he had been taught that not every patient could be saved, but he didn’t want to lose Marco. He considered the young man his friend. He was straightforward, but it didn’t stop him from spinning engaging tales about knights and maidens and thieves and demons. He kept the locals on their toes with his incessant questions about the lands they passed through. Marco Polo was an explorer, thorough and thorough. It couldn’t just end here, in some nowhere city in the Middle East.
Rory could have spent the rest of the day talking to the Pandorica, but he had work to do. He said his good-byes to the Pandorica and then headed out. He didn’t have any marketable skills, at least, marketable skills that were of any use in this region, but he could lift and pull and dig and carry and that was good enough for working in the mines. His ability to do hard labour with what looked like considerable ease had caught the eye of the mine’s foreman.
Rory met the other miners outside of the city. They were a rag-tag group of men. Some were locals, others came from nearby provinces, and some, like Rory, were foreigners. They were all here for the money. Mining was a lucrative business in Badashan. There was more product than workers, so there had to be incentives to keep the men. In the end, Rory didn’t really care how much he was making as long as he got his fair share of the wages at the end of the day.
They headed south, along the river, and towards the nearby mountain range. The temperature dropped the closer and higher they went and soon the men were bundled tight against the cold. Rory had stopped wearing his armour when he started working in the mines and he was clothed simply in his woollen trousers and tunic. A pair of reinforced boots protected his toes, but that was the only article of clothing that wasn’t his. He already stood out with his lighter skin tone, but it was his resistance to the cold that made him an oddity. It was probably why no one bothered to talk to him. This might have been an issue, but Rory didn’t really know the local language, so he was fine with this.
Frozen to the bone, the men were eager to begin work, if only to warm themselves up. Deep in the mine shafts, they hacked away at the rock, exposing the precious veins of lapis lazuli. The blue stone shimmered in the wavering candlelight.
He was probably alone in this, but Rory constantly thought about cave-ins. How could he not when there was miles of rock above his head, carved out and trussed up with the most basic of materials. He always paused when he heard one of the beams overhead groan or shift. The dark, cramped space reminded him of his makeshift grave dug by the Franks. On his first day in the mine, it had taken all of his self-control not to run back outside. Being buried alive was not an experience he wanted to go through again, but he stayed because he had to.
Bringing the lapis lazuli out of the mine was always the best part of the day. Rory didn’t sweat, so he didn’t need to cool off, but he appreciated the fresh air and the sight of the blue sky. At the midday meal, he always sat off by himself, finding a patch of sunshine if it wasn’t cloudy.
He was admiring the view of the valley when he sensed someone trying to approach him from behind. Rory turned his head to look over his shoulder, but it didn’t matter. Someone dashed forward, quick as lightning, and then he felt a quick prick on the back of his head. Frowning, he turned and watched one of the younger miners ran back to his group of friends, waving around something unseen in his right hand. Rory’s hand flew up to his hair.
That kid had just plucked one of his hairs off his head!
He was used to stares and whispers, but this was completely new. The invasion of his personal space, to grab some of his hair no less, was not justifiable. Rory took a step forward, to confront the young miner, when he felt a gentle hand on his arm.
Looking back, he found one of the older miners restraining him. The man had grizzled features and a long, wispy grey beard. He had joined the miners a few weeks ago and he easily kept pace with the men half his age. Rory had caught him staring at him a few times, but the man always looked away.
“They are young,” the man said in passable Arabic. “Ignore them.”
Rory hadn’t heard the language since they left Layas over a year and a half ago. Before the man could turn away, he grabbed him by the arm. “How did you know I would understand you?” he asked.
The man smiled and Rory saw that he was missing some of his teeth. “A fortunate guess. It is the only other language I speak.”
Rory was starting to accumulate quite a few languages himself. He had picked up Arabic while living in Jerusalem and Acre. It had been awhile since he had had a decent conversation with anyone besides himself and he found that he was drawn to the man simply because they had a common tongue. “Why did they want my hair?” he asked the man, not really expecting an informed answer. Rory had a sudden vision of a voodoo doll, but he was in the wrong part of the world for that.
The man went back to the rock he had been sitting on and his half-finished meal. “They think you are a demon.”
“Do I look like a demon?” Rory said the words half to himself.
“A demon can take many shapes,” said the man. He made the statement sound like truth. It wasn’t difficult to believe that he had been raised on stories about demons taking human form to trick mankind.
“Why would a demon be working in a mine?”
The man chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bread. “I heard them talking. They know about the boy in your care.”
Rory stiffened at the thought that the young miner and his friends might have been spying on him. “What of it?” Maybe he would have to move Marco sooner than he thought.
“The boy is sick. Has been for some time. You tend to him but he does not improve. It is easy to draw conclusions.”
Conclusion? The man was talking lunacy. Rory’s presence wasn’t keeping Marco ill. He glanced back at the group of young miners. They spoke avidly, likely praising their ringleader. He continued to watch them until the young man who had stolen his hair looked up. Rory purposely glared at the young miner, hoping to make it seem like he was thinking of using his demonic powers to do something unsightly. The young miner yelped and quickly looked away.
“It also seems strange that you are up here and not the boy.”
Rory looked back at the man. “What are you talking about? My friend is sick. How could he work in the mine?”
The man brushed the bread crumbs from his lap. “I am not talking about the mine.” Before he could elaborate, the foreman called out, letting everyone know that it was time to return to work. The men slowly shuffled back to the mine entrance.
“Then what are you talking about?” Rory grabbed the man by the arm, stopping him from walking off. He couldn’t quite explain his urgency. The man had something important to say that could help Marco; he just knew it.
The man glanced down at Rory’s hand, but he made no move to shake him off. “The mountains. Do you not know their worth?”
The foreman shouted at them, telling them to get moving. Rory didn’t budge. “Tell me.”
Pulling himself free from Rory’s grip, the man said hurriedly, “The air up here. It heals.”
Rory wasn’t really one for mystical cures. He needed hard evidence to back up a supposed claim. If Marco’s case had been one back in Leadworth, back when Rory was just starting out as a nurse, and he had heard the man say, for example, that the country air would make Marco better, he would have just dismissed the notion.
But Rory had seen a lot of strange things since he met the Doctor, things that defied belief or explanation. If a blue box could be bigger on the inside, and he could be reborn as a plastic Roman soldier, then maybe there was something in these mountains that could cure an ailing young man.
He mulled the thought over and over until finally it seemed like there was no other option. He would take Marco up into the mountains. What did he have to lose?
He drove his pick axe into a boulder and left it there. Money seemed insignificant now. Rory felt no regrets as he ran out of the mine. The other miners all looked up when he passed and murmurs of confusion ran down their ranks, but no one stopped him. The grizzled miner was amongst the last group that Rory saw and he merely nodded his head, as if tipping an imaginary hat. Whoever the man was, he might have just saved Marco’s life.
The foreman yelled at Rory, but he honestly did not know what was said. He just kept going and ran down the rocky mountain path. With no effort at all, he put miles between him and the mine in minutes. He spent so much time riding horses that he forgot he was faster than any four-legged animal on land.
When he reached the city, he didn’t slow down. Rory nimbly manoeuvred his way through the crowded streets until he was back at the inn. He tore through the common room and took the stairs two at a time up to Marco’s room. Inside, he found one of the innkeepers, the wife, tending to the young man. She looked up, expressing her surprise in a string of words that Rory only half understood.
“I need to leave,” he said, shouting over her to be heard. The woman stopped talking and gestured to the door, giving him a “Well, there it is” look. “We need to leave,” Rory tried again, indicating to himself and Marco just in case his point wasn’t clear.
The woman shook her head, but she moved out of Rory’s way. She knew full well that she wouldn’t be able to restrain him.
“Thank you.” Rory checked Marco’s temperature one more time, hoping he would find that it had broken while he was gone, but he felt the heat of the fever even before his hand touched Marco’s skin.
There was no alternative then. He loosened the blankets and chose the thickest one to wrap around Marco. The young man was incredibly light as Rory lifted him out of the bed. Marco moaned but it was his only form of protest. As they left the room, the woman gathered up the remaining blankets and trailed after Rory. She couldn’t stop him, but she was determined to help him.
Down in the common room, they encountered some of the other guests in the inn and the woman’s husband. Conversations came to an abrupt halt when everyone saw Rory carrying an immobile body in his arms. He ignored the stares and went straight to the innkeeper. “I might be gone for some time,” he said to the man. “I will pay you double if you ensure no one touches my wagon.”
The man looked to his wife. They had a quick exchange, seemingly debating the merits of helping a strange foreigner. Rory trusted them to look after Marco, but he wasn’t sure about the Pandorica. He didn’t want to return to find that it had been tossed down one of the disused mine shafts. Speed was of the essence here. Rory had planned to take just one of the horses, but if he couldn’t leave the Pandorica behind, he’d be forced to take the wagon into the mountains and that would most certainly slow them down.
The man sighed. “All right.” His wife smiled triumphantly. “I will watch your possessions.”
Rory paused only long enough to say thank you. He ran out the door, the woman quick on his heels. In the stables, she looked after Marco while he saddled one of the horses they used to pull the wagon. The saddlebags had some supplies and Rory hoped it would be enough to allow them to survive in the mountains for a few days. It hit him then that he had no idea how long it would take to cure Marco. Would a few breaths of the mountain air be enough? Or would Marco have to stay for weeks? Months?
He pushed the thoughts out of his head. He’d deal with those issues once he saw that Marco’s health was improving in even the slightest way.
With the horse ready, Rory turned back to Marco and the woman. She had taken one of the spare blankets and was making sure that Marco’s legs were covered as well. The care she showed Marco made it obvious that she had once been a mother. Rory’s own mother had offered the same devotion whenever he had been sick. He realized he knew nothing about the innkeepers or their lives. Maybe they didn’t help him just for the money.
Between the two of them they got Marco in the saddle and Rory settled in behind him. The young man felt so frail and small, like he might break at the slightest disturbance. Holding Marco tight to his chest with one hand, he gripped the reins in the other. He nodded his thanks to the woman before kicking the horse in the sides. It took off out of the stables and he directed it towards the mountains.
If Rory had been paying attention when he left the mine, he would have noticed that it was late afternoon. By the time they reached the mountains and began the ascent, the sun had set. Rory slowed his horse, not wanting it to break a leg. He’d have to find a place to camp before it was completely dark, somewhere off the path but protected against the cold mountain winds.
Within the time restraints, he found a small hollow nestled between some large rocks. He lay down Marco in the most protected spot and managed to start a small fire. A nearby stream, really more a trickle of water spilling from a crack in the mountainside, provided some water and Rory boiled it up, throwing some dried meat into the mix. The weak broth barely made it above lukewarm, but it was better than ice cold.
“Are you feeling better yet?” Rory half joked as he tried to feed Marco some of the broth. The young man managed a few sips, but he seemed to give up after that. Resigned, Rory wrapped the blankets tightly around him and let him rest.
He tossed the rest of the broth, but was left with the pieces of dried meat. He wasn’t sure what kind of animals lived in these mountains. Wolves? Bears? Cougars? Dried meat wasn’t that tasty, but it was more the smell that he worried about. Rory wondered if the horse would eat the meat, but then he remembered what kind of meat it was. Maffeo had picked up some horse meat for cheap in one of the villages.
“That’d be like cannibalism, wouldn’t it?” he said to the horse. The animal snorted.
So. He was camping in unfamiliar mountains with no sword and with potentially dangerous and hungry predators lurking about. Who said you gained wisdom with age?
Rory poked around the camp until he found a sharp looking rock. He would go cave man on anything if it decided it wanted a midnight snack of plastic Roman with a side of Polo and horse. A part of him was aware that he had a perfectly good weapon in his hand, but he never ever wanted to use the Auton gun.
He sat down next to Marco and waited for dawn to arrive. The young man still struggled to breathe and his raspy breaths were disconcerting to listen to. In the weak light, he looked younger than… Rory’s thoughts drifted off. How old was Marco now? Eighteen? Nineteen? It was easy to lose track of the days; they must have passed Marco’s birthday by now, twice over.
Thoughts of age and birthdays brought Rory back to an earlier notion that had flitted through his head. Age and wisdom. He was old. Older than the Doctor, now that he thought about it. The Time Lord was only nine hundred and something. Older, yes, but wiser? He never thought he would be in a position where he would be older than the time travelling, last of his kind, crazy, impossible alien. He was, dare he think it, like the Doctor now?
Rory glanced over at Marco. Marco Polo. Famous explorer. Had the Doctor met him? Probably. Met him and outlived him. That was what Rory did now, too. He outlived people. He passed through their lives and had their stories living in his head. Everyone he encountered was just a blip in history. There one second and then gone the next. He would be living and, well, not breathing, but existing long after their bodies turned to dust.
Rory used to think that the Doctor never settled because he couldn’t stand to watch people age and die. Maybe that was part of the reason why, but there was something else, too, something he understood now. If life was so fleeting, you would want to keep on the move to enjoy every second of it; to meet new people and to see new worlds so that some part of that person or that planet still lived on somewhere.
So, older, yes, but wiser, too. Wiser for being a part of history and having met all these people that history would overlook.
Rory wasn’t a Time Lord, but he would be a damned good historian after this was over.
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
Faizabad, 1273 A.D.
“How are we doing today, Marco?”
Rory didn’t receive a reply, but he was used to that. Back at Leadworth Hospital, he could have entire conversations with the coma patients. Some of his co-workers used to frown at him, but he always believed that hearing a familiar voice could help someone through an illness. It was a sort of reassurance that they weren’t alone.
He pulled up a stool next to Marco’s bed and sat down. The young man was drenched with sweat but he shivered, too. He was wrapped up so tightly in thick blankets that he could scarcely move. When Rory put his hand to Marco’s forehead, the young man’s skin blazed with heat. It was the same as yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that.
Frankly, Rory had lost count of the days. It felt like Marco had been sick forever.
He got up from his stool and went to the window. It wouldn’t do much good for Marco, not that he would notice, but some fresh air in the small room would help to make it less stuffy. He inched the shutters open just a crack to let a cool breeze in. Cool was a relative term around here. For the locals, 20 degrees Celsius was cool, especially for early spring. Even after a year in this province, it was still warm to Rory.
He gazed out at the yellow plains just visible through the various buildings. When he had last been out there, to search for a doctor somewhere in this region, the grass had been dry and prickly. Now new growth was beginning. There were slight touches of green just here and there.
The landscape had been just like this when they arrived in Badashan province a year ago. At the time, they had been making excellent progress from Hormos. Under two months, crossing several patches of lifeless desert no less. Rory had to wonder if that was where it all began, Marco’s sickness. They had run out of water at one point despite meticulous rationing. To avoid dying of dehydration the Polos had been forced to drink a green, brackish water, the only liquid for miles. The three men became violently ill for days, to the point that Rory feared none of them would make it. By some miracle they all recovered, enough to make it out of the desert, but maybe it had only been an illusion. Marco fell sick again not long after they reached Badashan.
Even with all of Rory’s nursing skills, he didn’t know what to do. He had no medicines on hand and his knowledge of medicinal cures was hardly extensive. They had pushed on despite Marco’s deteriorating health, in hopes of finding a local healer. They came across several and most prescribed simple things like teas and salves while others went with more primitive suggestions like bloodletting. Anything Rory deemed as promising they tried, but nothing seemed to improve Marco’s condition. He ate less and less and now he was incredibly underweight, his skin loose on his bones.
They had stopped their travelling plans altogether to save what health Marco had left. Niccolò and Maffeo rode out daily, hoping to find someone, anyone, who could help the youngest Polo. These days, they were both gone for days, sometimes even weeks at a time. They probably could have ridden to China on their own with all the miles they had accumulated.
Faizabad was just the latest stop in a long line of lengthy stopovers. The Pandorica made it difficult for them to stay in one settlement for long periods of time. The box seemed to bring out the primal superstitions in even the most rational person. Once the Polo brothers returned, they would probably move again.
Rory turned away from the window. He couldn’t linger. Being the only able-bodied person left in the party who wasn’t travelling across the country, it was up to him to make some money so they could afford housing for Marco. The owners of the inn, a husband and wife team, were kind enough to look after Marco while Rory was out, but they would swiftly kick them out if he missed a payment.
Before he left, Rory gave Marco a proper examination. The young man’s breathing was still laboured and his chest seemed to rattle with each rise and fall. Rory had ruled out the altitude as being the cause of the illness. If it had just been a matter of acclimatizing, then Marco would have been fine after a few weeks. He still worried it was a virus or an infection, something within that Marco’s body just couldn’t handle on its own. Not for the first time, he wished for a modern hospital and all the conveniences it could provide.
“I will be back after sunset,” Rory told Marco before he left the room. On the way down to the courtyard to check on the Pandorica, he passed one of the innkeepers, the husband. The man gave him a toothless smile and a nod of the head, acknowledging that he or his wife would be up shortly to try to feed Marco a breakfast of weak broth.
Out behind the inn, and away from the animals as per the innkeepers’ request, Rory checked on his other charge. The sun had leeched away the colour of the silk cloth covering the Pandorica and it was more the colour of parchment than daisies. Blowing sand had battered the silk and it was tattered on the edges. Rory had repaired any tears, stitching together the rips like he was stitching together a cut. The general state of disrepair made the Pandorica seem even less mysterious.
“Still no change,” he said in English. Only Amy and the Pandorica heard his confessionals. He couldn’t talk to anyone else. “I say that every time I come out here, don’t I?”
In nursing school he had been taught that not every patient could be saved, but he didn’t want to lose Marco. He considered the young man his friend. He was straightforward, but it didn’t stop him from spinning engaging tales about knights and maidens and thieves and demons. He kept the locals on their toes with his incessant questions about the lands they passed through. Marco Polo was an explorer, thorough and thorough. It couldn’t just end here, in some nowhere city in the Middle East.
Rory could have spent the rest of the day talking to the Pandorica, but he had work to do. He said his good-byes to the Pandorica and then headed out. He didn’t have any marketable skills, at least, marketable skills that were of any use in this region, but he could lift and pull and dig and carry and that was good enough for working in the mines. His ability to do hard labour with what looked like considerable ease had caught the eye of the mine’s foreman.
Rory met the other miners outside of the city. They were a rag-tag group of men. Some were locals, others came from nearby provinces, and some, like Rory, were foreigners. They were all here for the money. Mining was a lucrative business in Badashan. There was more product than workers, so there had to be incentives to keep the men. In the end, Rory didn’t really care how much he was making as long as he got his fair share of the wages at the end of the day.
They headed south, along the river, and towards the nearby mountain range. The temperature dropped the closer and higher they went and soon the men were bundled tight against the cold. Rory had stopped wearing his armour when he started working in the mines and he was clothed simply in his woollen trousers and tunic. A pair of reinforced boots protected his toes, but that was the only article of clothing that wasn’t his. He already stood out with his lighter skin tone, but it was his resistance to the cold that made him an oddity. It was probably why no one bothered to talk to him. This might have been an issue, but Rory didn’t really know the local language, so he was fine with this.
Frozen to the bone, the men were eager to begin work, if only to warm themselves up. Deep in the mine shafts, they hacked away at the rock, exposing the precious veins of lapis lazuli. The blue stone shimmered in the wavering candlelight.
He was probably alone in this, but Rory constantly thought about cave-ins. How could he not when there was miles of rock above his head, carved out and trussed up with the most basic of materials. He always paused when he heard one of the beams overhead groan or shift. The dark, cramped space reminded him of his makeshift grave dug by the Franks. On his first day in the mine, it had taken all of his self-control not to run back outside. Being buried alive was not an experience he wanted to go through again, but he stayed because he had to.
Bringing the lapis lazuli out of the mine was always the best part of the day. Rory didn’t sweat, so he didn’t need to cool off, but he appreciated the fresh air and the sight of the blue sky. At the midday meal, he always sat off by himself, finding a patch of sunshine if it wasn’t cloudy.
He was admiring the view of the valley when he sensed someone trying to approach him from behind. Rory turned his head to look over his shoulder, but it didn’t matter. Someone dashed forward, quick as lightning, and then he felt a quick prick on the back of his head. Frowning, he turned and watched one of the younger miners ran back to his group of friends, waving around something unseen in his right hand. Rory’s hand flew up to his hair.
That kid had just plucked one of his hairs off his head!
He was used to stares and whispers, but this was completely new. The invasion of his personal space, to grab some of his hair no less, was not justifiable. Rory took a step forward, to confront the young miner, when he felt a gentle hand on his arm.
Looking back, he found one of the older miners restraining him. The man had grizzled features and a long, wispy grey beard. He had joined the miners a few weeks ago and he easily kept pace with the men half his age. Rory had caught him staring at him a few times, but the man always looked away.
“They are young,” the man said in passable Arabic. “Ignore them.”
Rory hadn’t heard the language since they left Layas over a year and a half ago. Before the man could turn away, he grabbed him by the arm. “How did you know I would understand you?” he asked.
The man smiled and Rory saw that he was missing some of his teeth. “A fortunate guess. It is the only other language I speak.”
Rory was starting to accumulate quite a few languages himself. He had picked up Arabic while living in Jerusalem and Acre. It had been awhile since he had had a decent conversation with anyone besides himself and he found that he was drawn to the man simply because they had a common tongue. “Why did they want my hair?” he asked the man, not really expecting an informed answer. Rory had a sudden vision of a voodoo doll, but he was in the wrong part of the world for that.
The man went back to the rock he had been sitting on and his half-finished meal. “They think you are a demon.”
“Do I look like a demon?” Rory said the words half to himself.
“A demon can take many shapes,” said the man. He made the statement sound like truth. It wasn’t difficult to believe that he had been raised on stories about demons taking human form to trick mankind.
“Why would a demon be working in a mine?”
The man chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bread. “I heard them talking. They know about the boy in your care.”
Rory stiffened at the thought that the young miner and his friends might have been spying on him. “What of it?” Maybe he would have to move Marco sooner than he thought.
“The boy is sick. Has been for some time. You tend to him but he does not improve. It is easy to draw conclusions.”
Conclusion? The man was talking lunacy. Rory’s presence wasn’t keeping Marco ill. He glanced back at the group of young miners. They spoke avidly, likely praising their ringleader. He continued to watch them until the young man who had stolen his hair looked up. Rory purposely glared at the young miner, hoping to make it seem like he was thinking of using his demonic powers to do something unsightly. The young miner yelped and quickly looked away.
“It also seems strange that you are up here and not the boy.”
Rory looked back at the man. “What are you talking about? My friend is sick. How could he work in the mine?”
The man brushed the bread crumbs from his lap. “I am not talking about the mine.” Before he could elaborate, the foreman called out, letting everyone know that it was time to return to work. The men slowly shuffled back to the mine entrance.
“Then what are you talking about?” Rory grabbed the man by the arm, stopping him from walking off. He couldn’t quite explain his urgency. The man had something important to say that could help Marco; he just knew it.
The man glanced down at Rory’s hand, but he made no move to shake him off. “The mountains. Do you not know their worth?”
The foreman shouted at them, telling them to get moving. Rory didn’t budge. “Tell me.”
Pulling himself free from Rory’s grip, the man said hurriedly, “The air up here. It heals.”
Rory wasn’t really one for mystical cures. He needed hard evidence to back up a supposed claim. If Marco’s case had been one back in Leadworth, back when Rory was just starting out as a nurse, and he had heard the man say, for example, that the country air would make Marco better, he would have just dismissed the notion.
But Rory had seen a lot of strange things since he met the Doctor, things that defied belief or explanation. If a blue box could be bigger on the inside, and he could be reborn as a plastic Roman soldier, then maybe there was something in these mountains that could cure an ailing young man.
He mulled the thought over and over until finally it seemed like there was no other option. He would take Marco up into the mountains. What did he have to lose?
He drove his pick axe into a boulder and left it there. Money seemed insignificant now. Rory felt no regrets as he ran out of the mine. The other miners all looked up when he passed and murmurs of confusion ran down their ranks, but no one stopped him. The grizzled miner was amongst the last group that Rory saw and he merely nodded his head, as if tipping an imaginary hat. Whoever the man was, he might have just saved Marco’s life.
The foreman yelled at Rory, but he honestly did not know what was said. He just kept going and ran down the rocky mountain path. With no effort at all, he put miles between him and the mine in minutes. He spent so much time riding horses that he forgot he was faster than any four-legged animal on land.
When he reached the city, he didn’t slow down. Rory nimbly manoeuvred his way through the crowded streets until he was back at the inn. He tore through the common room and took the stairs two at a time up to Marco’s room. Inside, he found one of the innkeepers, the wife, tending to the young man. She looked up, expressing her surprise in a string of words that Rory only half understood.
“I need to leave,” he said, shouting over her to be heard. The woman stopped talking and gestured to the door, giving him a “Well, there it is” look. “We need to leave,” Rory tried again, indicating to himself and Marco just in case his point wasn’t clear.
The woman shook her head, but she moved out of Rory’s way. She knew full well that she wouldn’t be able to restrain him.
“Thank you.” Rory checked Marco’s temperature one more time, hoping he would find that it had broken while he was gone, but he felt the heat of the fever even before his hand touched Marco’s skin.
There was no alternative then. He loosened the blankets and chose the thickest one to wrap around Marco. The young man was incredibly light as Rory lifted him out of the bed. Marco moaned but it was his only form of protest. As they left the room, the woman gathered up the remaining blankets and trailed after Rory. She couldn’t stop him, but she was determined to help him.
Down in the common room, they encountered some of the other guests in the inn and the woman’s husband. Conversations came to an abrupt halt when everyone saw Rory carrying an immobile body in his arms. He ignored the stares and went straight to the innkeeper. “I might be gone for some time,” he said to the man. “I will pay you double if you ensure no one touches my wagon.”
The man looked to his wife. They had a quick exchange, seemingly debating the merits of helping a strange foreigner. Rory trusted them to look after Marco, but he wasn’t sure about the Pandorica. He didn’t want to return to find that it had been tossed down one of the disused mine shafts. Speed was of the essence here. Rory had planned to take just one of the horses, but if he couldn’t leave the Pandorica behind, he’d be forced to take the wagon into the mountains and that would most certainly slow them down.
The man sighed. “All right.” His wife smiled triumphantly. “I will watch your possessions.”
Rory paused only long enough to say thank you. He ran out the door, the woman quick on his heels. In the stables, she looked after Marco while he saddled one of the horses they used to pull the wagon. The saddlebags had some supplies and Rory hoped it would be enough to allow them to survive in the mountains for a few days. It hit him then that he had no idea how long it would take to cure Marco. Would a few breaths of the mountain air be enough? Or would Marco have to stay for weeks? Months?
He pushed the thoughts out of his head. He’d deal with those issues once he saw that Marco’s health was improving in even the slightest way.
With the horse ready, Rory turned back to Marco and the woman. She had taken one of the spare blankets and was making sure that Marco’s legs were covered as well. The care she showed Marco made it obvious that she had once been a mother. Rory’s own mother had offered the same devotion whenever he had been sick. He realized he knew nothing about the innkeepers or their lives. Maybe they didn’t help him just for the money.
Between the two of them they got Marco in the saddle and Rory settled in behind him. The young man felt so frail and small, like he might break at the slightest disturbance. Holding Marco tight to his chest with one hand, he gripped the reins in the other. He nodded his thanks to the woman before kicking the horse in the sides. It took off out of the stables and he directed it towards the mountains.
If Rory had been paying attention when he left the mine, he would have noticed that it was late afternoon. By the time they reached the mountains and began the ascent, the sun had set. Rory slowed his horse, not wanting it to break a leg. He’d have to find a place to camp before it was completely dark, somewhere off the path but protected against the cold mountain winds.
Within the time restraints, he found a small hollow nestled between some large rocks. He lay down Marco in the most protected spot and managed to start a small fire. A nearby stream, really more a trickle of water spilling from a crack in the mountainside, provided some water and Rory boiled it up, throwing some dried meat into the mix. The weak broth barely made it above lukewarm, but it was better than ice cold.
“Are you feeling better yet?” Rory half joked as he tried to feed Marco some of the broth. The young man managed a few sips, but he seemed to give up after that. Resigned, Rory wrapped the blankets tightly around him and let him rest.
He tossed the rest of the broth, but was left with the pieces of dried meat. He wasn’t sure what kind of animals lived in these mountains. Wolves? Bears? Cougars? Dried meat wasn’t that tasty, but it was more the smell that he worried about. Rory wondered if the horse would eat the meat, but then he remembered what kind of meat it was. Maffeo had picked up some horse meat for cheap in one of the villages.
“That’d be like cannibalism, wouldn’t it?” he said to the horse. The animal snorted.
So. He was camping in unfamiliar mountains with no sword and with potentially dangerous and hungry predators lurking about. Who said you gained wisdom with age?
Rory poked around the camp until he found a sharp looking rock. He would go cave man on anything if it decided it wanted a midnight snack of plastic Roman with a side of Polo and horse. A part of him was aware that he had a perfectly good weapon in his hand, but he never ever wanted to use the Auton gun.
He sat down next to Marco and waited for dawn to arrive. The young man still struggled to breathe and his raspy breaths were disconcerting to listen to. In the weak light, he looked younger than… Rory’s thoughts drifted off. How old was Marco now? Eighteen? Nineteen? It was easy to lose track of the days; they must have passed Marco’s birthday by now, twice over.
Thoughts of age and birthdays brought Rory back to an earlier notion that had flitted through his head. Age and wisdom. He was old. Older than the Doctor, now that he thought about it. The Time Lord was only nine hundred and something. Older, yes, but wiser? He never thought he would be in a position where he would be older than the time travelling, last of his kind, crazy, impossible alien. He was, dare he think it, like the Doctor now?
Rory glanced over at Marco. Marco Polo. Famous explorer. Had the Doctor met him? Probably. Met him and outlived him. That was what Rory did now, too. He outlived people. He passed through their lives and had their stories living in his head. Everyone he encountered was just a blip in history. There one second and then gone the next. He would be living and, well, not breathing, but existing long after their bodies turned to dust.
Rory used to think that the Doctor never settled because he couldn’t stand to watch people age and die. Maybe that was part of the reason why, but there was something else, too, something he understood now. If life was so fleeting, you would want to keep on the move to enjoy every second of it; to meet new people and to see new worlds so that some part of that person or that planet still lived on somewhere.
So, older, yes, but wiser, too. Wiser for being a part of history and having met all these people that history would overlook.
Rory wasn’t a Time Lord, but he would be a damned good historian after this was over.
Tags:
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-06-01 09:11 pm (UTC)*HUGS*
no subject
Date: 2013-06-02 12:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-04 01:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-06 12:01 am (UTC)