locker_monster (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
locker_monster) wrote2013-08-03 01:43 pm
locker_monster) wrote2013-08-03 01:43 pm
Entry tags:
Doctor Who fic: The Boy Who Waited (32/49)
Title: The Boy Who Waited (32/49)
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
punch_kicker15. This story would still be sitting on my hard drive if it weren't for you.
“Barbara?”
She took in a deep breath, reluctant to leave the feeling of calm that had settled over her. In that moment, no one was hounding her for a signature or asking for her opinion on the placement of a title card or berating her because the construction of a lighting rigging was too noisy. It was just her and a pleasant dream.
A hand gently jostled her shoulder and her name was called again. Her oasis of peace was shattered and Barbara opened her eyes. Her head rested on her arms, which she had laid out crosswise on her desk. She looked up, feeling a slight crick in her neck, and she cringed. It used to be that she could take a nap at her desk and wake feeling rejuvenated, not sore. It was just one of the joys of getting older.
It took her a moment to realize that she was gazing into a pair of blue-green eyes. For just that second, she saw an old soul, far older than she could comprehend. Then Barbara blinked and she saw her security guard standing over her with a kind smile.
She immediately sat up and immediately cringed as a muscle in her lower back cried out in pain. “Are you all right?” asked the security guard.
“I’m fine,” she assured him. Barbara leaned back, stretching out the stiff muscles, and she heard a satisfying crack as her bones shifted into a more comfortable position. “I must have fallen asleep.” It wasn’t the first time she had dozed off at the end of a late night, but she usually didn’t wake to find the security staff in her office.
“I saw the light on in your office. A bed’s more comfortable, you know.” He was still smiling at her, but concern for her well-being lurked beneath the smile.
“I should put one in here, then. It would cut down on my morning commute.” Barbara snuck a glance at her watch and if she wasn’t awake before, she was now. It was past two o’clock in the morning. She hadn’t been serious about sleeping here, but was what the point of going home when she would have to come back to the museum in a few hours?
“You need a proper bed,” insisted the security guard, like he could read her mind. He walked over and picked up Barbara’s coat from the hook on the back of the door. “I’ll even escort you to your car.”
He was right. She had to admit that. This wasn’t university where she could get by on an hour of sleep and a pot of coffee. Barbara looked around at her desk, which was strewn with paper. She desperately wanted to clean it up so she could see the surface of her desk again, but she was too tired for that now. Leaving everything where it was, she opened the bottom drawer and pulled out her purse.
Like a gentleman, the security guard helped her into her coat. She would have expected the gesture from an older man, but not from someone in their twenties. Barbara couldn’t help but smile. She turned off the lights in her office before they stepped out into the darkened hallway.
“Putting some last minute touches to the exhibit?” asked the security guard as they walked off to the car park.
“You could say that. Actually, I was on the phone with some colleagues in the United States and Canada. With the time difference I had to stay late to catch them at a good time.”
“Why phone all the way to North America?”
“A journalist was here the other day. She raised some good points about the Pandorica.”
“And it left you with some thoughts.”
“Yes. You’ve seen the timeline. Did you notice the gap?”
“14th century China. 18th century Canada. Bit more than a gap. I’d call it a leap.”
They shared a quick smile. “There’s little conclusive evidence on how the Pandorica made it from Beijing to Quebec City. There are some stories, but rumours mostly. A sea merchant heard it from a trader who heard it from another merchant who heard it from a native.”
They reached the main hall of the museum where a new banner hung from the ceiling proclaimed that “The Anomalies” would be opening in one week. Barbara purposely ignored the date at the bottom.
“Why go across the Pacific?” The security guard seemed to mutter the question to himself, but then he looked to Barbara.
“Actually, the theory is that the Pandorica travelled to North America across the Atlantic.” She thought of Sarah Jane’s comments, about how the Pandorica had travelled from China to Japan and then on to Australia. The trail seemingly ended there, but then Barbara had recalled an obscure article about a didgeridoo found in India carbon dated to the 14th century. That had led her to other digs and articles, all dismissed because they sounded too preposterous. A boomerang, also from the 14th century, discovered in South Africa. The remains of a Japanese merchant ship on Brazil’s eastern coast. Human remains unearthed with katanas in the interior of the Amazon rainforest. All unexplainable things supposedly unrelated.
But what if they were related? That it wasn’t just the story of the Pandorica that travelled the world. Perhaps the Pandorica itself had moved from continent to continent. Barbara had called all the historians she knew in North America after that conclusion. The Pandorica’s time in Canada was one of the few instances where people had actual recorded dealings with the Lone Centurion. Buried in an old letter somewhere might have been a hint of an answer.
“The long way home.” The security guard marvelled at the thought.
“I suppose you could look at it that way. The Pandorica did return to England in the end, albeit with some delays.”
* * *
Rural Massachusetts, 1750 A.D.
“Who’s out there? Dinnae think ye can hide from me, ye wee scoundrel.”
Scottish. Another one in two days. Rory had gone centuries and centuries without hearing a Scottish accent and now suddenly the Scots were all over the place. There must have been a settlement of them out in the woods, recent immigrants from the UK searching for a better life out in the colonies.
He stayed as still as possible and hugged to the shadows. The barn was dark and the Scottish man had only a dim lantern to light his way. It was remarkable that he had spotted Rory at all. Rory had moved quickly, sneaking into the barn to take some rope to replace the frayed one he was using to pull the Pandorica. As it was the middle of the night, he had figured that no one would be awake to cause a fuss.
He was starting to get the distinct feeling that this man slept in the barn.
“I’m armed.” The man’s footsteps were muffled by the hay on the floor, but Rory could still hear him getting closer. The fact that he was armed didn’t worry Rory. He was more concerned about the lantern and the amount of dry hay in the barn.
Coming to the conclusion that it was better to be stabbed or shot than set on fire, Rory carefully stepped forward, into the light given off by the lantern. He held his hands out to his sides to show that he wasn’t there to start a fight. “Hello. Just borrowing some rope.” He tried to put on a Scottish accent, but it was ruined by the fact that he was decked out in his full armour. There was no way the man could mistake him for one of the neighbours.
The man stopped short, his eyes widening at the sight of Rory. He was a young man, maybe in his late twenties, with black hair and watchful eyes. His gaze then ticked down to the sword at Rory’s hip. The man held no weapon despite his claim.
“Wait.” Rory took a step forward but he instantly took a step back when the man swung the lantern at him. “I’m not here to hurt you. I really do need some rope, but that’s all. Let me walk out of here and there won’t be any trouble.”
It felt strange to speak English again, proper English with other people with English accents. When Rory had realized he had made to the British colonies in what would be the United States of America, he had nearly burst out laughing. British people sailing to this country on British ships. It was the best scenario he could have hoped for. His ride back to England was somewhere out there, sitting in some Boston harbour.
“Yer dressed strangely for a thief.”
“I’m not a thief.” Rory paused. “Well, I guess I am a thief since I’m stealing this rope, but it’s not a full time hobby or anything.”
“Are you a soldier then?” At this line of questioning, the man regarded Rory with an air of wariness.
Saying yes didn’t seem like a good idea. “I’m…” What was he exactly? He was dressed like a Roman, stealing rope from a barn. That didn’t correspond to any profession he knew. “I’m not a soldier,” he finished lamely.
The answer seemed truthful enough for the man. He relaxed slightly. “Take the rope, then. I have plenty more.”
“Thank you.” Rory lowered his hands, though he made sure to keep them away from his sword. Good thing the man couldn’t see his back. Kimura’s old katana was slung over his shoulder. “Am I far from Boston? I need a ship back to England.”
“Two days ride. The main road-”
“Actually, I want to avoid the main road. Is there another path, more… discreet?” The sudden population density, while great for conversation, didn’t do wonders for keeping a large stone box from prying eyes. Hauling the Pandorica through the wilderness had been a large part of Rory’s life for the past four hundred years. He wasn’t about to change that up now that he was back in civilization.
“Aye, but in that get-up ye bound to attract attention.”
The man had him there. If he truly wanted to avoid people, he would need to take the absolutely, least travelled path. “Do you know these woods well? I wouldn’t mind having a guide. I can’t pay you-”
“I cannae leave this farm.” The man’s tone made it clear that this was the end of the discussion. “Take the rope and go.”
“Okay.” Rory gestured to the barn doors. “I’ll just go then. Thanks for the rope…?” He trailed off, hoping to learn the man’s name.
The man just waved him off.
Rory never had to worry about being too cold, but he certainly hated being wet. When his clothes clung to his skin, he was reminded too much of his time trapped at the bottom of the well atop the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. So when the rain started to come down in sheets, he took refuge under a small overhang, his cape drawn around him to keep the water off of his armour.
There wasn’t much he could do for the Pandorica. He had lost the canvas covering ages ago and hadn’t found a suitable replacement. The rain wasn’t damaging to the stone, but the box looked miserable out in the rain, like a dog left outside during a storm.
He tore his gaze away from it and focused his attention on Kimura’s katana. The sword had held up remarkably well in the four hundred years it had been in his possession. The original scabbard had disintegrated completely and the hilt was at least the sixth one he had made, but the blade was still sharp, though its sheen was a bit dull. Rory kept it more as a memento rather than as a back-up weapon and that helped with the longevity, but whenever he got the chance he sharpened the blade. It was deserving of the attention and he planned to hold on to the katana for as long as possible. It was just another promise he meant to keep.
The rain had started to let up when he heard the voices. Three men from the sounds of it, complaining about the weather. The patter of the rain made it difficult to pin down the direction from which they came, forcing Rory to leave the sanctuary of the overhang to see if he could get a visual on them. If they were close, he would need to move the Pandorica.
The ground squelched beneath his boots and that wasn’t very promising. It was hard enough moving the Pandorica over dry ground. With the weight of the box to consider it was likely going to get itself stuck in the mud.
“Interesting cargo, my friend.”
Rory spun around, the katana held out in front of him. He looked along the length of the blade to the top of the overhang where a man in a long coat, soaked by the rain, stood waiting with a pistol. The gun was trained at Rory’s head.
“That pistol won’t work,” said Rory. “The powder’s wet by now.” He thought of lowering the sword, but he kept it up just in case.
The man considered the gun for a moment before tucking it back into his belt. He looked so pathetic with his brown hair plastered to his head, but he was a well-built man who probably knew how to handle himself in a fight. “You have a point. Fortunately, blades work just fine no matter the weather.”
From the corner of his eye, Rory saw a flash of metal and he soon felt the tip of a knife pressed to the curve of his jaw. He realized he couldn’t hear the three men anymore and it was likely because they were standing behind him now. The four men were in this together. Highwaymen, if Rory had to guess. Lucky him, but his luck hadn’t exactly been going his way for the better part of 1600 years.
The leader of the highwaymen made his way down from the rise while one of his men stripped Rory of his weapons. “Your manner of dress is strange, friend.” The man sounded too proper to be a thief. He should have been in a fancy drawing room, playing cards with other gentlemen and discussing politics. “Even if you have no valuables of worth, I will return to town with an entertaining story.”
“Like how you were beaten up by a Roman centurion?” The man had time to frown before Rory charged at him.
He knocked the man back into the wall of the overhang and kneed him hard in the gut. All the air in the man’s lungs rushed out in one expelled breath as he doubled up in pain. Rory turned to take on the next man, but he elbowed the leader in the face for good measure before moving on. The man who held the knife to Rory’s jaw came next and he sliced the blade through the air, trying to look intimidating. Rory blocked the next blow with his forearm, preventing the man from bringing the blade down again. He then punched the man in the nose, not hard enough to break it, but blood spurted from his nostrils. Attacking Rory was suddenly the last thing on the man’s mind as he slumped to his knees in misery.
The next man hesitated. He still held Rory’s swords but looked too scared to even consider using them. He slowly backed away, never breaking eye contact with Rory.
“Give me back my swords and you can run.”
The man didn’t argue. He threw down the swords and then ran off into the forest, kicking up mud as he fled. That left only one more.
There was a thud and then a groan of pain. Rory spun around, ready for another assault.
No attack came. Instead, he was met with the sight of the Scottish man from the barn, a sturdy tree branch held in his hand. Slumped in the mud at his feet was the last highwayman, a nasty welt already forming on his forehead.
For a second, all Rory could do was stare. This was the last person he expected to see. Well, that wasn’t true. There were plenty of people he never expected to see, but the Scot was just the latest on the list. “Hello again.”
The Scot threw the branch aside. “I thought ye could use some help. Good thing I came by when I did.”
Rory was sure he could have handled the last man, but he didn’t speak the sentiment out loud. Instead, he turned to retrieve his weapons. “Thank you again. Were you in the area? From last night I thought you would be tied up with your farm.”
“It’s not my farm,” replied the Scot with just a hint of resentment.
“Oh. So you’re a farm hand?”
“No.” The man looked Rory straight in the eye. “I’m a slave.”
They had moved on before Rory could ask any questions and he got the feeling that was the whole point. The Scot was here to help but it didn’t seem like he was going to elaborate on why any time soon. Rory knew better than anyone not to push a Scot, so he just picked up the rope around the Pandorica and started hauling it through the mud.
The soggy ground made the task more difficult than it already was so there hadn’t been much time for talking anyway. The two of them spent the rest of the day digging out the stone box when it became too entrenched in the mire. The fact that the Pandorica was a square didn’t help much. It didn’t roll so much as slide and that made the friction worse. Even when the rain stopped things didn’t improve that much. The sun shone through the bare treetops, drying the mud, but then that made it more like cement. By the time night fell they were both caked with mud and the Scot looked exhausted.
They sheltered in a small hollow and Rory let the Scot rest while he fetched some firewood. Performing the menial task gave him some time to collect his thoughts. A slave. He had the usual outrage at the notion, but he also recognized that he had a problem. The Scot would have - Rory shuddered at the thought - an owner and that owner had probably found out by now that the Scot was gone. For all intents and purposes, Rory was travelling with missing property.
He felt no obligation to return the Scot to his farm, but if someone recognized him and forced him to go back, the man would likely be punished for trying to escape, or worse. Rory was not going to lead someone to their death just because they had tried to help him.
Weighed down by more than just an armload of wood, he headed back to camp, determined to have a talk with the Scot. He found the man laying down branches cut from a pine tree, to give them something softer to rest on than hard, cold ground. The air smelled heavily of sap and that almost minty smell of pine. It was definitely better than mud and dead leaves.
As Rory didn’t usually need to light fires, he hadn’t any flint and tinder on him, but the Scot produced both from his muddy pack. It was practically a miracle that they were still dry. Soon they had a fire going and the warm light chased away the heavy shadows.
“So…” He glanced at the Scot, wondering how he was going to discuss the man’s position as a slave without offending him.
“Indentured servant,” said the Scot before biting into an apple he had retrieved from his pack.
“Sorry?”
“Ye didnae seem comfortable with ‘slave’. Indentured servant was what they used back at Tilbury before they shipped us off.”
Highland Scot. Indentured servant. British colonies. A forgotten history lesson was stirred up from the depths of Rory’s memory as he finally made the connections. The Jacobite Rising of 1745. The prisoners from the Battle of Culloden had been shipped to America, at least, the ones that weren’t executed immediately after the fighting ending.
“Your term was only for seven years.” It was 1750. The Scot had served just over half of his time by now. A few more years and he would have been free.
“Ye heard about that, did ye?” The Scot took another bite of his apple. He offered no follow-up comment.
Rory doubted he would have been as casual. He knew what it was like to be a slave, to be someone’s property. You weren’t even a person in the eyes of the world. It was a demeaning existence that only freedom could cure.
The Scot was risking his one chance for freedom but for what?
Rory went for the simplest question. “Why?”
The man munched thoughtfully on his apple. The sounds of the forest mixed with the crackle of the fire and they seemed incredibly loud in the absence of conversation. “I know who ye are,” he said finally, tossing his apple core into the fire.
“You do?”
“An Gaisgeach Ionraic.” Rory raised a confused eyebrow. It sounded like Scottish Gaelic but his exposure to the language had been through Amy and all she really knew were some random swear words she had taught herself for fun. “‘The Faithful Warrior,’” translated the Scot.
“So you…” Rory gestured to the Pandorica. “You know what that is?”
“Aye. It didnae come to me until after ye left, who ye were.”
“But that still doesn’t answer my question. You know who I am. So do a lot of people in the world. That doesn’t mean most of them would pack up their belongings and follow me.”
Rory thought he would be met with silence, but the Scot seemed a bit more talkative now that he wasn’t staving off hunger and exhaustion. “My da told me about ye, when I was a bairn. He knew all sorts of songs since we were the clan pipers.” For a moment, the Scot was elsewhere. He gazed off into the distance as if he could see into the past. Then he looked back at Rory and he was in the present once more. “Ye were his favourite. A man who never gave up. He respected that. As I see it, ye’re a man worth helping, consequences be damned. And ye need someone to watch yer back.”
The man had fought for what he thought was right during the Rising. Rory supposed that he wouldn’t be able to stop him from doing the same now. “Are you sure? You can’t go back.”
The Scot smiled at him. “Then we’ll go forward.”
He had to admit that he wouldn’t mind the company. The journey had been a bit lonely as of late. “Just one thing.”
“Aye?” The Scot sounded slightly wary.
Rory held back a laugh. “Your name.”
The man relaxed. “Oh, that’s easy. McCrimmon. Jamie McCrimmon.”
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
Part Six: The Colonies
“Barbara?”
She took in a deep breath, reluctant to leave the feeling of calm that had settled over her. In that moment, no one was hounding her for a signature or asking for her opinion on the placement of a title card or berating her because the construction of a lighting rigging was too noisy. It was just her and a pleasant dream.
A hand gently jostled her shoulder and her name was called again. Her oasis of peace was shattered and Barbara opened her eyes. Her head rested on her arms, which she had laid out crosswise on her desk. She looked up, feeling a slight crick in her neck, and she cringed. It used to be that she could take a nap at her desk and wake feeling rejuvenated, not sore. It was just one of the joys of getting older.
It took her a moment to realize that she was gazing into a pair of blue-green eyes. For just that second, she saw an old soul, far older than she could comprehend. Then Barbara blinked and she saw her security guard standing over her with a kind smile.
She immediately sat up and immediately cringed as a muscle in her lower back cried out in pain. “Are you all right?” asked the security guard.
“I’m fine,” she assured him. Barbara leaned back, stretching out the stiff muscles, and she heard a satisfying crack as her bones shifted into a more comfortable position. “I must have fallen asleep.” It wasn’t the first time she had dozed off at the end of a late night, but she usually didn’t wake to find the security staff in her office.
“I saw the light on in your office. A bed’s more comfortable, you know.” He was still smiling at her, but concern for her well-being lurked beneath the smile.
“I should put one in here, then. It would cut down on my morning commute.” Barbara snuck a glance at her watch and if she wasn’t awake before, she was now. It was past two o’clock in the morning. She hadn’t been serious about sleeping here, but was what the point of going home when she would have to come back to the museum in a few hours?
“You need a proper bed,” insisted the security guard, like he could read her mind. He walked over and picked up Barbara’s coat from the hook on the back of the door. “I’ll even escort you to your car.”
He was right. She had to admit that. This wasn’t university where she could get by on an hour of sleep and a pot of coffee. Barbara looked around at her desk, which was strewn with paper. She desperately wanted to clean it up so she could see the surface of her desk again, but she was too tired for that now. Leaving everything where it was, she opened the bottom drawer and pulled out her purse.
Like a gentleman, the security guard helped her into her coat. She would have expected the gesture from an older man, but not from someone in their twenties. Barbara couldn’t help but smile. She turned off the lights in her office before they stepped out into the darkened hallway.
“Putting some last minute touches to the exhibit?” asked the security guard as they walked off to the car park.
“You could say that. Actually, I was on the phone with some colleagues in the United States and Canada. With the time difference I had to stay late to catch them at a good time.”
“Why phone all the way to North America?”
“A journalist was here the other day. She raised some good points about the Pandorica.”
“And it left you with some thoughts.”
“Yes. You’ve seen the timeline. Did you notice the gap?”
“14th century China. 18th century Canada. Bit more than a gap. I’d call it a leap.”
They shared a quick smile. “There’s little conclusive evidence on how the Pandorica made it from Beijing to Quebec City. There are some stories, but rumours mostly. A sea merchant heard it from a trader who heard it from another merchant who heard it from a native.”
They reached the main hall of the museum where a new banner hung from the ceiling proclaimed that “The Anomalies” would be opening in one week. Barbara purposely ignored the date at the bottom.
“Why go across the Pacific?” The security guard seemed to mutter the question to himself, but then he looked to Barbara.
“Actually, the theory is that the Pandorica travelled to North America across the Atlantic.” She thought of Sarah Jane’s comments, about how the Pandorica had travelled from China to Japan and then on to Australia. The trail seemingly ended there, but then Barbara had recalled an obscure article about a didgeridoo found in India carbon dated to the 14th century. That had led her to other digs and articles, all dismissed because they sounded too preposterous. A boomerang, also from the 14th century, discovered in South Africa. The remains of a Japanese merchant ship on Brazil’s eastern coast. Human remains unearthed with katanas in the interior of the Amazon rainforest. All unexplainable things supposedly unrelated.
But what if they were related? That it wasn’t just the story of the Pandorica that travelled the world. Perhaps the Pandorica itself had moved from continent to continent. Barbara had called all the historians she knew in North America after that conclusion. The Pandorica’s time in Canada was one of the few instances where people had actual recorded dealings with the Lone Centurion. Buried in an old letter somewhere might have been a hint of an answer.
“The long way home.” The security guard marvelled at the thought.
“I suppose you could look at it that way. The Pandorica did return to England in the end, albeit with some delays.”
* * *
Rural Massachusetts, 1750 A.D.
“Who’s out there? Dinnae think ye can hide from me, ye wee scoundrel.”
Scottish. Another one in two days. Rory had gone centuries and centuries without hearing a Scottish accent and now suddenly the Scots were all over the place. There must have been a settlement of them out in the woods, recent immigrants from the UK searching for a better life out in the colonies.
He stayed as still as possible and hugged to the shadows. The barn was dark and the Scottish man had only a dim lantern to light his way. It was remarkable that he had spotted Rory at all. Rory had moved quickly, sneaking into the barn to take some rope to replace the frayed one he was using to pull the Pandorica. As it was the middle of the night, he had figured that no one would be awake to cause a fuss.
He was starting to get the distinct feeling that this man slept in the barn.
“I’m armed.” The man’s footsteps were muffled by the hay on the floor, but Rory could still hear him getting closer. The fact that he was armed didn’t worry Rory. He was more concerned about the lantern and the amount of dry hay in the barn.
Coming to the conclusion that it was better to be stabbed or shot than set on fire, Rory carefully stepped forward, into the light given off by the lantern. He held his hands out to his sides to show that he wasn’t there to start a fight. “Hello. Just borrowing some rope.” He tried to put on a Scottish accent, but it was ruined by the fact that he was decked out in his full armour. There was no way the man could mistake him for one of the neighbours.
The man stopped short, his eyes widening at the sight of Rory. He was a young man, maybe in his late twenties, with black hair and watchful eyes. His gaze then ticked down to the sword at Rory’s hip. The man held no weapon despite his claim.
“Wait.” Rory took a step forward but he instantly took a step back when the man swung the lantern at him. “I’m not here to hurt you. I really do need some rope, but that’s all. Let me walk out of here and there won’t be any trouble.”
It felt strange to speak English again, proper English with other people with English accents. When Rory had realized he had made to the British colonies in what would be the United States of America, he had nearly burst out laughing. British people sailing to this country on British ships. It was the best scenario he could have hoped for. His ride back to England was somewhere out there, sitting in some Boston harbour.
“Yer dressed strangely for a thief.”
“I’m not a thief.” Rory paused. “Well, I guess I am a thief since I’m stealing this rope, but it’s not a full time hobby or anything.”
“Are you a soldier then?” At this line of questioning, the man regarded Rory with an air of wariness.
Saying yes didn’t seem like a good idea. “I’m…” What was he exactly? He was dressed like a Roman, stealing rope from a barn. That didn’t correspond to any profession he knew. “I’m not a soldier,” he finished lamely.
The answer seemed truthful enough for the man. He relaxed slightly. “Take the rope, then. I have plenty more.”
“Thank you.” Rory lowered his hands, though he made sure to keep them away from his sword. Good thing the man couldn’t see his back. Kimura’s old katana was slung over his shoulder. “Am I far from Boston? I need a ship back to England.”
“Two days ride. The main road-”
“Actually, I want to avoid the main road. Is there another path, more… discreet?” The sudden population density, while great for conversation, didn’t do wonders for keeping a large stone box from prying eyes. Hauling the Pandorica through the wilderness had been a large part of Rory’s life for the past four hundred years. He wasn’t about to change that up now that he was back in civilization.
“Aye, but in that get-up ye bound to attract attention.”
The man had him there. If he truly wanted to avoid people, he would need to take the absolutely, least travelled path. “Do you know these woods well? I wouldn’t mind having a guide. I can’t pay you-”
“I cannae leave this farm.” The man’s tone made it clear that this was the end of the discussion. “Take the rope and go.”
“Okay.” Rory gestured to the barn doors. “I’ll just go then. Thanks for the rope…?” He trailed off, hoping to learn the man’s name.
The man just waved him off.
Rory never had to worry about being too cold, but he certainly hated being wet. When his clothes clung to his skin, he was reminded too much of his time trapped at the bottom of the well atop the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. So when the rain started to come down in sheets, he took refuge under a small overhang, his cape drawn around him to keep the water off of his armour.
There wasn’t much he could do for the Pandorica. He had lost the canvas covering ages ago and hadn’t found a suitable replacement. The rain wasn’t damaging to the stone, but the box looked miserable out in the rain, like a dog left outside during a storm.
He tore his gaze away from it and focused his attention on Kimura’s katana. The sword had held up remarkably well in the four hundred years it had been in his possession. The original scabbard had disintegrated completely and the hilt was at least the sixth one he had made, but the blade was still sharp, though its sheen was a bit dull. Rory kept it more as a memento rather than as a back-up weapon and that helped with the longevity, but whenever he got the chance he sharpened the blade. It was deserving of the attention and he planned to hold on to the katana for as long as possible. It was just another promise he meant to keep.
The rain had started to let up when he heard the voices. Three men from the sounds of it, complaining about the weather. The patter of the rain made it difficult to pin down the direction from which they came, forcing Rory to leave the sanctuary of the overhang to see if he could get a visual on them. If they were close, he would need to move the Pandorica.
The ground squelched beneath his boots and that wasn’t very promising. It was hard enough moving the Pandorica over dry ground. With the weight of the box to consider it was likely going to get itself stuck in the mud.
“Interesting cargo, my friend.”
Rory spun around, the katana held out in front of him. He looked along the length of the blade to the top of the overhang where a man in a long coat, soaked by the rain, stood waiting with a pistol. The gun was trained at Rory’s head.
“That pistol won’t work,” said Rory. “The powder’s wet by now.” He thought of lowering the sword, but he kept it up just in case.
The man considered the gun for a moment before tucking it back into his belt. He looked so pathetic with his brown hair plastered to his head, but he was a well-built man who probably knew how to handle himself in a fight. “You have a point. Fortunately, blades work just fine no matter the weather.”
From the corner of his eye, Rory saw a flash of metal and he soon felt the tip of a knife pressed to the curve of his jaw. He realized he couldn’t hear the three men anymore and it was likely because they were standing behind him now. The four men were in this together. Highwaymen, if Rory had to guess. Lucky him, but his luck hadn’t exactly been going his way for the better part of 1600 years.
The leader of the highwaymen made his way down from the rise while one of his men stripped Rory of his weapons. “Your manner of dress is strange, friend.” The man sounded too proper to be a thief. He should have been in a fancy drawing room, playing cards with other gentlemen and discussing politics. “Even if you have no valuables of worth, I will return to town with an entertaining story.”
“Like how you were beaten up by a Roman centurion?” The man had time to frown before Rory charged at him.
He knocked the man back into the wall of the overhang and kneed him hard in the gut. All the air in the man’s lungs rushed out in one expelled breath as he doubled up in pain. Rory turned to take on the next man, but he elbowed the leader in the face for good measure before moving on. The man who held the knife to Rory’s jaw came next and he sliced the blade through the air, trying to look intimidating. Rory blocked the next blow with his forearm, preventing the man from bringing the blade down again. He then punched the man in the nose, not hard enough to break it, but blood spurted from his nostrils. Attacking Rory was suddenly the last thing on the man’s mind as he slumped to his knees in misery.
The next man hesitated. He still held Rory’s swords but looked too scared to even consider using them. He slowly backed away, never breaking eye contact with Rory.
“Give me back my swords and you can run.”
The man didn’t argue. He threw down the swords and then ran off into the forest, kicking up mud as he fled. That left only one more.
There was a thud and then a groan of pain. Rory spun around, ready for another assault.
No attack came. Instead, he was met with the sight of the Scottish man from the barn, a sturdy tree branch held in his hand. Slumped in the mud at his feet was the last highwayman, a nasty welt already forming on his forehead.
For a second, all Rory could do was stare. This was the last person he expected to see. Well, that wasn’t true. There were plenty of people he never expected to see, but the Scot was just the latest on the list. “Hello again.”
The Scot threw the branch aside. “I thought ye could use some help. Good thing I came by when I did.”
Rory was sure he could have handled the last man, but he didn’t speak the sentiment out loud. Instead, he turned to retrieve his weapons. “Thank you again. Were you in the area? From last night I thought you would be tied up with your farm.”
“It’s not my farm,” replied the Scot with just a hint of resentment.
“Oh. So you’re a farm hand?”
“No.” The man looked Rory straight in the eye. “I’m a slave.”
They had moved on before Rory could ask any questions and he got the feeling that was the whole point. The Scot was here to help but it didn’t seem like he was going to elaborate on why any time soon. Rory knew better than anyone not to push a Scot, so he just picked up the rope around the Pandorica and started hauling it through the mud.
The soggy ground made the task more difficult than it already was so there hadn’t been much time for talking anyway. The two of them spent the rest of the day digging out the stone box when it became too entrenched in the mire. The fact that the Pandorica was a square didn’t help much. It didn’t roll so much as slide and that made the friction worse. Even when the rain stopped things didn’t improve that much. The sun shone through the bare treetops, drying the mud, but then that made it more like cement. By the time night fell they were both caked with mud and the Scot looked exhausted.
They sheltered in a small hollow and Rory let the Scot rest while he fetched some firewood. Performing the menial task gave him some time to collect his thoughts. A slave. He had the usual outrage at the notion, but he also recognized that he had a problem. The Scot would have - Rory shuddered at the thought - an owner and that owner had probably found out by now that the Scot was gone. For all intents and purposes, Rory was travelling with missing property.
He felt no obligation to return the Scot to his farm, but if someone recognized him and forced him to go back, the man would likely be punished for trying to escape, or worse. Rory was not going to lead someone to their death just because they had tried to help him.
Weighed down by more than just an armload of wood, he headed back to camp, determined to have a talk with the Scot. He found the man laying down branches cut from a pine tree, to give them something softer to rest on than hard, cold ground. The air smelled heavily of sap and that almost minty smell of pine. It was definitely better than mud and dead leaves.
As Rory didn’t usually need to light fires, he hadn’t any flint and tinder on him, but the Scot produced both from his muddy pack. It was practically a miracle that they were still dry. Soon they had a fire going and the warm light chased away the heavy shadows.
“So…” He glanced at the Scot, wondering how he was going to discuss the man’s position as a slave without offending him.
“Indentured servant,” said the Scot before biting into an apple he had retrieved from his pack.
“Sorry?”
“Ye didnae seem comfortable with ‘slave’. Indentured servant was what they used back at Tilbury before they shipped us off.”
Highland Scot. Indentured servant. British colonies. A forgotten history lesson was stirred up from the depths of Rory’s memory as he finally made the connections. The Jacobite Rising of 1745. The prisoners from the Battle of Culloden had been shipped to America, at least, the ones that weren’t executed immediately after the fighting ending.
“Your term was only for seven years.” It was 1750. The Scot had served just over half of his time by now. A few more years and he would have been free.
“Ye heard about that, did ye?” The Scot took another bite of his apple. He offered no follow-up comment.
Rory doubted he would have been as casual. He knew what it was like to be a slave, to be someone’s property. You weren’t even a person in the eyes of the world. It was a demeaning existence that only freedom could cure.
The Scot was risking his one chance for freedom but for what?
Rory went for the simplest question. “Why?”
The man munched thoughtfully on his apple. The sounds of the forest mixed with the crackle of the fire and they seemed incredibly loud in the absence of conversation. “I know who ye are,” he said finally, tossing his apple core into the fire.
“You do?”
“An Gaisgeach Ionraic.” Rory raised a confused eyebrow. It sounded like Scottish Gaelic but his exposure to the language had been through Amy and all she really knew were some random swear words she had taught herself for fun. “‘The Faithful Warrior,’” translated the Scot.
“So you…” Rory gestured to the Pandorica. “You know what that is?”
“Aye. It didnae come to me until after ye left, who ye were.”
“But that still doesn’t answer my question. You know who I am. So do a lot of people in the world. That doesn’t mean most of them would pack up their belongings and follow me.”
Rory thought he would be met with silence, but the Scot seemed a bit more talkative now that he wasn’t staving off hunger and exhaustion. “My da told me about ye, when I was a bairn. He knew all sorts of songs since we were the clan pipers.” For a moment, the Scot was elsewhere. He gazed off into the distance as if he could see into the past. Then he looked back at Rory and he was in the present once more. “Ye were his favourite. A man who never gave up. He respected that. As I see it, ye’re a man worth helping, consequences be damned. And ye need someone to watch yer back.”
The man had fought for what he thought was right during the Rising. Rory supposed that he wouldn’t be able to stop him from doing the same now. “Are you sure? You can’t go back.”
The Scot smiled at him. “Then we’ll go forward.”
He had to admit that he wouldn’t mind the company. The journey had been a bit lonely as of late. “Just one thing.”
“Aye?” The Scot sounded slightly wary.
Rory held back a laugh. “Your name.”
The man relaxed. “Oh, that’s easy. McCrimmon. Jamie McCrimmon.”
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I love whenever I see you've posted. I won't know what to do when you're done.
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This part of Rory's life is fertile ground for storytelling. It'd be fun to re-visit parts of it...
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*DANCES MADLY*
This whole thing just...there are no coincidences, are there? I am just beside myself with joy!!
*HUGS YOU*
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