locker_monster (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
locker_monster) wrote2013-08-17 10:46 am
locker_monster) wrote2013-08-17 10:46 am
Entry tags:
Doctor Who fic: The Boy Who Waited (36/49)
Title: The Boy Who Waited (36/49)
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.
St. Lawrence River, Quebec, 1764 A.D.
It was like a thunderclap.
The ice on the river’s surface cracked and sheets of it the size of Mini Coopers were swept away by the current. In the middle of it all, a lone figure struggled to cling to what remained of the ice, but the small boy’s strength was quickly failing him. Snow melt had added to the volume of the St. Lawrence and the boy’s sodden clothes threatened to drag him under. He cried for help.
The moment he saw Joweese fall into the water, Rory had sprung into action. He stripped off his clothes, throwing aside his wolf fur lined cape, his tunic, and his boots. For decency’s sake, as a number of women from the tribe were with him, he left his trousers on. Without hesitation, he waded into the river, finding a spot where the water was exposed beneath the ice. The water was freezing, to say the least, but it didn’t matter to him. It mattered to Joweese, though, and Rory dove into the water. The current was strong, but he was stronger, and he had little trouble reaching the diminishing sheet of ice that was the boy’s last salvation.
His head broke the surface of the water just as Joweese lost his grip. He made a grab for the boy and managed to snag the back of his coat. With his focus on keeping Joweese’s head above the surface of the river, Rory had no time to tread water and the two of them were swept along in the current. It wouldn’t have been too bad if not for the chunks of ice that careened down the length of the St. Lawrence.
Rory couldn’t dodge the ice and swim and carry Joweese at the same time, but he quickly found a compromise. He manoeuvred the boy onto his back and told him to hang on as tightly as he could with his stiff little hands. With his arms now freed, he started the swim back to shore. Any ice sheets that got in his way were broken up with his fists. Superhuman strength came in handy every now and then.
Joweese was whimpering loudly by the time they made it back to the shoreline. His shivering was so bad that he couldn’t form words. Rory carefully lowered him to the ground and started to take off his wet clothes. The women from the tribe, having followed Rory’s progress down the river, now ran towards him, Joweese’s mother leading the way. Sixsipita shouted her son’s name; she could barely control the hysteria in her voice.
“I need a blanket,” Rory demanded in Abenaki. He had Joweese’s coat off and it was already growing stiff as the water began to freeze. The same thing was happening to Rory’s trousers, making it hard to move, but he ignored the discomfort.
“What are you doing?” asked Sixsipita. She tried to push Rory away. “He will freeze.”
He gently, but firmly, pushed her back. “No, we need to get him out of the wet clothes. Where is that blanket?!”
One was produced and Joweese was quickly stripped of his remaining clothes and wrapped up tight in the blanket. Sixsipita scooped up the boy and held him tight in her arms, muttering comforting words in his ear. The boy still shivered, but he appeared less distressed now that he was in his mother’s embrace.
“We need to get Joweese back to the village.” Rory addressed the other women. “A warm shelter and a hot drink should…” He trailed off as he realized that none of them were listening to him. Instead, they stared at something just over his shoulder.
He turned around, spotting the figure standing at the forest’s edge just a few steps away. It was a man, bundled up in furs to keep the cold weather at bay. He had a thick beard that obscured most of his face, but it couldn’t hide the fact that he was white. Rory could understand the women’s sudden apprehension. Since he had decided to stay with the Abenaki the tribe had encountered its fair share of Europeans but not every encounter had ended with a peaceful resolution.
Despite the overwhelming desire to find some dry clothes, Rory stood his ground, ready to attack the man if he suddenly became hostile.
“Blimey,” said the man. “That was brilliant.”
It took Rory a second to catch on that the man had spoken in English. Proper, understandable English. Over the thirteen years he had heard plenty of French and Abenaki, but not English. “You’re English?”
The man blinked a few times. It seemed like an odd question to him. “Of course I am. And you are, too. What are you doing out here with a bunch of savages?”
Rory was glad that the women couldn’t understand what the man was saying. He let the insult slide, but only because he had greater concerns. “What are you doing here? This is a French colony.”
The man laughed. “You’ve been living in a cave? We chased the French off three years ago. This is an official British colony now.”
It was Rory’s turn to blink with dumbfounded silence. He had heard from some French traders that France and Britain were at war, but that had been a few years back. It seemed that the war was over now.
British colony. The implication of the words finally sunk in.
“Do you have time to talk?” he asked the man.
“I suppose I do…”
“Good. You’re coming with us then. We need to get this boy back to the village before hypothermia sets in.” Rory turned to the women and urged them to head back. Sixsipita didn’t need any more encouragement. She set off at a quick clip, trudging through the ankle deep snow as though it wasn’t there.
“Come with you?” Before the man could argue further, Rory crossed the space between him and grabbed him by the arm. He dragged him along like a stubborn puppy on a lead. “Wait, you can’t do this.”
“You’re not being kidnapped.” One of the women had picked up Rory’s discarded clothes, but he couldn’t stop now to put them back on. It was a boon really. It made him seem tough. His bare feet were covered with snow and his wet trousers had frosted over in the cold air, but not a single shiver shook his body. Without a shirt, his numerous scars were visible and they seemed to intimidate the man.
“Who are you?” he asked, a slight quiver in his voice.
Rory hazarded that the man was new to the colony. He still hadn’t adapted to the harshness of the land. “Pleased, if you start talking.” No response came and Rory supposed his terse behaviour wasn’t helping. He eased his grip on the man’s arm and tried again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask your name.”
The man didn’t reply right away, as if he was trying to decide if this was a trick or not. He took a hard look at Rory and all he saw was an honest face. “Windsor.” He didn’t elaborate on whether this was a first or last name.
“Nice to meet you, Windsor. So, how is this a British colony now?”
Wakichonze’s tribe had changed a lot during Rory’s time. The tribe had moved locations several times to maximize the use of the land, its membership had diminished due to various diseases, and now it wasn’t even Wakichonze’s anymore. Sixsipita’s marriage had allowed the tribe to join with another, increasing the population and enabling them to build a small village, but as Abenaki lineage was traced through the father’s side of the family, Wakichonze had given the chiefdom to Sixsipita’s father-in-law.
In Rory’s mind, though, Wakichonze was still his chief and that worked out just fine as Sixsipita’s father-in-law didn’t know what to make of him. Father Augustin he could understand but not Iron Hide, who seemingly didn’t age or get injured.
There was a great flurry of activity when they reached the village. Sixsipita rushed into her wigwam, calling for her mother’s help. Chanteyukan caught a glimpse of her grandson, whose lips had turned slightly blue, and she shot Rory an accusing look. He had taken some of the women out to show them how to fish. Everyone in the party had been his responsibility.
He must have looked sufficiently guilty, or pathetic as he was still half naked and his hair was an icy mess, for the look quickly dissolved into one of sympathy. He still anticipated a stern talking to once things quieted down. In the meantime, he needed to find Augustin and Wakichonze and he indicated to Windsor that the man should follow him. Windsor mutely obliged as he was caught up in the sights and sounds of the village. It was probable that he had never seen so many Natives in one place before.
Rory found Augustin standing in front of the modest wooden cross the tribe had erected for him and the few who had willingly converted to Christianity. He delivered this particular sermon in French, though he had manage to translate a few into the Abenaki language over the years. His glasses were perched on the end of his nose, as usual. The cracked right lens, which had broken two years ago, showed no signs of hampering his reading skills.
He waited until the priest finishing speaking before waving to catch his attention. Augustin looked at Rory, noting his state of dress, and one of his eyebrows arched up. He dismissed his small congregation and tucked the small bible away in his coat pocket as he walked over. “Did you meet a particularly vicious fish?” the priest joked in French.
Windsor finally seemed to notice what language Augustin spoke. “Who are you people? Are these savages holding you for ransom?”
Augustin frowned, looking to Rory for an answer and a translation.
“Where is Wakichonze?” Rory asked instead.
“In the lodge, with the other elders.”
“Fetch him. We need to talk.” Augustin rushed off to carry out Rory’s request while Rory turned to Windsor. “You’re a guest here, as am I and the priest. You will treat the Abenaki with respect. If you don’t…” He purposely trailed off, letting the man’s imagination finish the sentence for him.
In the time it took Augustin to find Wakichonze, Rory had retired to his own wigwam and changed his clothes. Windsor sat around the small fire, staring blankly at the flames, and he only looked up when the pair entered. Wakichonze held Rory’s wolf fur cape, the gift the former chief had bestowed to him over a decade ago. He handed it back to Rory with an amused but also grateful smile. The story of his feat was likely making the rounds amongst the tribe.
“You needed to speak with me?” asked Wakichonze.
“Yes.” Rory hung the cape over his shoulders, giving himself a moment to think. He looked between Wakichonze and Augustin. “This is no longer a French colony. The British have taken over.”
Wakichonze appeared indifferent to the information, but Augustin’s mouth formed a small “o”. He blinked several times, reflecting the Abenaki name the children had given him: Father Owl. “What does this mean?”
Rory glanced back at Windsor. The man stared at them in bewilderment, clearly not expecting Rory and Augustin to speak the Natives’ language. “According to our friend here, the British are allowing the French settlers to remain. A formal treaty is still being written up, but the governor has assured the French that they will not be persecuted.”
“And what of our peoples?” asked Wakichonze.
“I do not know.” Rory wished that he didn’t have to lie, but the truth wasn’t any better. The land that rightful belonged to the Native Americans would be taken away to make more room for the new colonists.
The former chief nodded his head. “I have my family and the spirits will protect us. We will endure whatever comes next.”
Augustin pushed up his glasses but they immediately slipped down his nose again. “Has the time come then, Centurion?”
Rory let out a sigh and nodded his head. “It is time for me to leave.”
Amy had told him to wait and he had waited. Thirteen years. After year three or so, Rory stopped wondering why, stopped looking for signs. The “right time” would find him, he supposed, and now it was true, in the form of Windsor the fur trader of all things.
But, of course, now that the time to leave had come, he really didn’t want to. He had seen this tribe grow and suffer, helped them through their births, illnesses, and deaths, and he had come to respect their simple way of life. And it went without saying that he cared for Wakichonze and his family. They had invited him into their home without asking for anything in return and accepted his strangeness without batting an eye.
Maybe this was why Amy had insisted that he stay. He had isolated himself for over four hundred years while trying to get the Pandorica through South America. Staying with the Abenaki had allowed him to feel connected to the world again. He had felt like a normal human being around them.
When Rory stepped out of his wigwam, he found the entire tribe waiting for him. And it was the entire tribe, not just the original Abenaki he had met thirteen years ago. Wakichonze and his family stood at the front of the group with bittersweet smiles, but everyone seemed a little sad to see him go. Rory felt a lump form in his throat. It was psychological, but it proved that at least his mind was still human.
Sixsipita approached him first, five year old Joweese held in her arms. The boy was still pale, but he squirmed with his usual restless energy and Sixsipita had to relent and lower him to the ground. Joweese immediately wrapped his arms around Rory’s right leg. Rory ruffled the boy’s hair and he couldn’t help but think back to the day that he had helped to deliver him. The newborn had refused to let go of his finger then.
Joweese clung to him for a few seconds longer before Sixsipita eventually managed to pry him off. She smiled at Rory and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Good-bye, Iron Hide.”
The gesture caught him off guard. The last time he had shown any affection towards Sixsipita, her husband had felled him with one punch. He was being given a reprieve it seemed. He pulled Sixsipita into a hug. “Good-bye, Little Eagle,” he said, using Wakichonze’s nickname for her.
Chanteyukan was next. She handed Rory a wrapped up bundle. “Stop jumping into icy rivers.” If this was the reprimand he had been expecting, it was far gentler than usual. He folded back a corner of the oiled hide and found European style clothes folded neatly within. “For when you get back home,” she clarified. “You should look nice.”
Clearly, even if you were over 1600 years old you could still need a mother. Rory hugged her, too. “Thank you.”
Wakichonze clamped a hand down on his shoulder as Rory came up to him. “I know you do not need much, but please accept this as a parting token.” He called out and six men responded by pushing the covered Pandorica into view. It slid effortlessly across the snow and Rory soon saw why. The box was now housed atop a low sled. He had to wonder when Wakichonze had time to make this.
“Thank you, for everything.” They didn’t hug, but Wakichonze gripped him by the forearm and Rory did the same. “I wish I could repay you.”
“You have, from the moment you arrived, Iron Hide.” Wakichonze intoned a blessing, one used for travellers, and the tribe echoed his sentiment.
Rory walked on to the Pandorica where he was joined by Augustin and Windsor. Tears were threatening to form in the priest’s eyes. “You can come back, can you not?” He had heard the tribe’s good-bye to the priest while he had changed. Augustin’s parishioners had been the most vocal about his decision to leave as well.
“I am not sure what the order will want to do with me. They might allow me to remain here or they might send me home to France.” Augustin tried to sound up-beat, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
Rory gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before he turned to Windsor. “Time to go.” He had switched between Abenaki, French, and English in under a minute. He was surprised his mouth could keep up.
“You don’t need me,” the man insisted. “You know the way to Quebec City.”
“I need you to vouch for me.”
“What? Why?”
Rory took up his helmet and put it on. For the first time, Windsor saw him in his full Roman armour and he just stopped and stared. “I want to speak with governor and you’ve just proved my point. Who’s going to listen to me if they can’t stop staring?”
Windsor’s mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words came out. Augustin took pity on the man and led him by the arm down the road that led out of the village. Before Rory took up the rope tied around the middle of the Pandorica, he looked back. The tribe still waited, wanting to watch him leave. He raised his arm and waved good-bye.
* * *
Quebec City, Quebec, 1764 A.D.
A mixture of French and English filled the streets of Quebec City. Rory might have paused to listen, but all of his concentration was on following Windsor down the narrow, twisty lanes. The confusing layout reminded him of the streets in France. The Williams had taken a family holiday to Paris once and though Rory had been a teenager and fully capable of looking after himself, he had broken into a panic after taking a wrong turn. No matter how carefully he doubled back, he had ended up utterly lost. He supposed the French settlers had brought their idea of a “logical” city layout with them when they crossed the Atlantic.
Augustin kept pace next to him, but his gaze drifted from time to time to take in some of the buildings as they passed them. Eventually, he caught Rory staring at him and the priest smiled. “The city has changed so much since I saw it last. I barely recognize it.”
Rory sensed a double meaning to his words. If a relatively new city like Quebec could change so much in thirteen years, then a place like Paris would be completely foreign. He also had the same dilemma, but in reverse. The London he would return to would look completely different, too, but he would have to wait for time to pass before it became at all familiar again. No wonder time was relative. Everyone experienced it in different ways.
“We have arrived, it seems.”
The path had begun to slope upwards and now they had reached the top of a large escarpment. From here, Rory could see the St. Lawrence and that was probably the point. Peaks like these were ideal for castles and fortresses. One could easily see who was approaching and rain down death on any attackers.
There were no castles or fortresses here, though. Instead, there was a large, three storey house with two smaller wings on either side. Smaller buildings dotted the grounds, but the house seemed to be the main residence. There was no drive leading up to the house or any metal gates to bar any unwanted visitors. The only show of force was two guards standing outside the front door of the main house.
“What is this place?” Rory asked Windsor. The two guards, having looked rather bored up until this point, began to eye the Pandorica.
“Chateau St. Louis,” replied Windsor, pronouncing the name as “Lewis”.
“Château Saint-Louis,” Augustin muttered under his breath, favouring the French pronunciation “Louie”.
“The governor lives here,” continued Windsor, unaware of Augustin’s comment. “Get talking so I can leave.”
During the short conversation, the two guards had made their way towards them. They kept their rifles slung over their shoulders, but there was a wariness to their body language that belayed their outward casualness. The pair of Red Coats took one glance at Augustin and Windsor before settling their gazes on Rory. With his armour, sword, dagger, and Kimura’s katana strapped over his back, he looked like a one man army.
“Can we help you, sir?” asked the guard to Rory’s right. He was the elder of the two, but they were both quite young; barely older than teenagers it seemed. The pleasantness in his voice sounded forced.
“I’d like to speak with-” Rory shot a glance at Windsor. The man had failed to mention the name of the current governor.
“James Murray,” supplied Windsor after a slight delay.
“James Murray, please.”
The two guards exchanged a glance. “On whose behalf? Julius Caesar?” The older guard laughed at his own joke.
Rory held back a lengthy sigh. He wasn’t discouraged, though. If the guard knew who Julius Caesar was, then it was possible that he was well educated. He grabbed a handful of the Pandorica’s covering and yanked it clear with a quick tug, revealing the stone box. The guard immediately stopped laughing.
“What is that?” asked the younger guard. He looked to his colleague, but the older guard was too busy gaping at the Pandorica to answer.
“Something worth the governor’s time,” said Rory.
The older guard shook his head, breaking his trance. “Go fetch the governor,” he said to his fellow guard. “Tell him it’s urgent.” They were likely the same rank, but the younger guard did as ordered and he ran off down the slope to the street below. “Are you with him?” The older guard addressed his question to Augustin and Windsor.
Windsor reluctantly nodded his head. Augustin began to answer, but Rory interrupted him. “The priest just showed us the way.” Augustin frowned, but Rory subtly shook his head. If he got in trouble because of this stunt, he didn’t want Augustin to face the consequences, too. Windsor, as a British citizen, was somewhat protected, so Rory didn’t feel as bad about dragging the fur trader into this.
“Run along, then,” demanded the guard. “The rest of you can follow me.”
Rory reached down to pick up the covering, giving himself a moment to speak with Augustin. “I am sorry, but I did not want you to get into trouble.”
The priest graced him with one of his benevolent smiles. “It is all right; I understand. I should be on my way regardless. I am not even certain that the order is in the city anymore.” Augustin reached out and grasped Rory’s hand with both of his. “Be well, my friend, and God bless you.”
Another good-bye. Rory didn’t know if he could take so many in one day. “Good-bye, Pierre. Look after yourself.” He watched from the corner of his eye as the priest walked off. As he threw the covering over the Pandorica, Rory did a rare thing; he muttered a prayer, wishing for Augustin’s safety.
Chateau St. Louis had seen better days. It looked marvellous from the front, but the rear of the house was another story. It seemed the high vantage point was both a boon and a curse. You could see your enemies, but your enemies also had a clear view to launch aerial attacks. Rory could see the St. Lawrence River from the room in which he stood, but only because half of the wall had been destroyed by cannon fire. There was even a cannon ball lodged in the wall behind him. The chateau may have been the official residence of the governor, but clearly, no one was actually living here.
It didn’t matter to Rory, as long as he got to talk to Murray. They could have met in a shed and all would have been well, though it was interesting to see the Pandorica in fancy drawing room. Even with all of the valuables and furniture removed, there was an elegance to the space. It was easy to imagine men of importance sitting in this room, drinking fine liquor and smoking while they discussed the politics of the colony. The Pandorica was elegant in its own way, but it didn’t suit the gilded accents on the walls and the curving light fixtures.
Windsor paced anxiously, his breath coming out in large, visible puffs of vapour. There was no point in heating the house if there were walls missing.
“Look at the bright side,” said Rory. “You get to meet the governor.” This seemed to agitate Windsor even more and his pace increased.
The waiting did seem slightly concerning. It was possible that Murray wasn’t coming at all and the guards were politely holding them in the house until more men arrived. Rory couldn’t see why, though. The Pandorica wasn’t a threat. If anything, Murray should have been honoured to have such a historic treasure in his colony.
Rory had taken to watching the ship traffic on the river when the doors to the room finally opened. He turned and saw a man enter the room, flanked by two guards. He was an older man, in his forties maybe but it was hard to tell since his hair was powdered white, and his heavy coat hid a slightly rotund belly. With a thin nose and round face, he seemed harmless, but there was a sharpness to his gaze that made Rory think otherwise.
Windsor stopped pacing and as an afterthought he took off his fur hat. As Rory crossed the room to greet Murray, he wondered how one treated a governor. He did run the colony on the King’s behalf, but did that warrant a bow?
Rory went with a curt bow of the head and he kept his hands behind his back. “Sir.”
The guards appeared more openly hostile than the pair that had greeted him outside. There would be no joke telling here. They kept close to Murray as he went over to examine the Pandorica.
“I thought the lad who came to fetch me was drunk. He told me a Roman soldier wanted to speak with me.” Murray reached out to touch the box, but his fingers lingered just a hair’s breadth from the stone surface. “Hoc est Pandorica. Pandorica est quadratum.”
It was a simple phrase, like something a child would say. Or something someone learning Latin would memorize. Rory had a sudden image of his battered Latin grammar book from school. Caecilius est pater…
“Astonishing. I never thought I would see it in person.” Murray let his hand fall away, like he couldn’t bring himself to touch the Pandorica. He finally turned to Rory and an air of authority replaced his amazement. “The Pandorica’s protector. A man, not a myth.”
“Thank you for meeting with me.”
“It is my pleasure.” Murray paused, finally noticing Windsor, who had twisted his hat into an unrecognizable shape. “Hello, my good man. Do we have you to thank for this remarkable discovery?”
Windsor perked up right. “Yes. He and the box were in the woods, with a tribe of sav-, uh, Indians, sir.”
Rory forced himself to remain silent. It wasn’t as if it had been Windsor’s idea to come to Quebec City, but he let the man have his moment.
“How unusual. You are a long way from Rome,” said Murray, looking to Rory. Windsor deflated as the governor’s attention went elsewhere.
“I never expected to come this far myself. I was hoping you could help me with that.”
Murray drifted over to the half destroyed wall, the two guards sticking to him like a shadow. “You wish to return to Rome?”
“England, sir.”
The governor paused and he pivoted on his heels to turn his attention back to Rory. The guards had to dance out of his way so they wouldn’t run into each other. “England?” His eyebrows arched up.
“It’s difficult to explain.” It was the basic truth and all that Rory was willing to divulge. “It is part of the reason why I wanted to talk to you. I need a ship to get back to Great Britain.”
It was a shame that Murray wasn’t a hysterical man. Rory had no idea what he was thinking. The governor made his way over to Windsor, who had been ignored up to this point. “How rude of me. I did not ask for your name.”
“Stanley Windsor, sir.”
“Mr. Windsor, would you mind waiting outside? I will speak with you shortly about this momentous find.” Murray expertly guided Windsor to the door without making it seem like he was trying to push the man out. Once Windsor was gone, one of the guards positioned himself in front of the closed doors while the other manoeuvred around to stand behind Rory. They did this without uttering a signal word; it was like they were psychic.
“Is there a problem?” Rory asked casually. He resisted the urge to make a grab for his sword. Murray had wanted some privacy, that’s all. It wasn’t at all ominous that the guards had blocked off the only two exits.
“The ships are not mine to control,” said Murray. He paced around Rory with his hands clasped behind his back. “You could try a privately owned ship, but I suspect you have already tried and failed or you would not be here.”
“So what are you saying?” Rory followed Murray with his eyes, but he didn’t turn around on the spot to keep him in view. It felt like the man was trying to get him off balance.
“I can write a letter, to request the use of one of the Crown’s ships. Once the King hears of the Pandorica I am sure he would be eager to commit some resources.”
“Great, a letter. Let’s do that.” It sounded promising, but something felt off. Something in Murray’s tone made Rory guard his optimism.
“I will draft one immediately.” Murray made a beeline for the doors. “We should hear a response in about a year.”
“Wait. A year?” And there was the catch, the other dropped shoe so to speak. The guard standing behind Rory silently moved forward until he was practically breathing down Rory’s neck. Did they honestly think he would try something foolish right then?
Murray paused in the doorway. There was no gleam to his gaze, nothing to support that he was plotting something, but it all felt so odd. To Rory, it seemed like the governor was trying to keep the Pandorica in the colonies. “It is a three month journey across the Atlantic and that is in good weather. The King then needs to debate the merits of transporting the Pandorica and funds are not as abundant as they were before the war. Another three months to send a reply and a year is the earliest we can expect a decision.
“I can assure you, Centurion, that we will take great care of the Pandorica. You yourself will be an honoured guest of this colony. The year will fly by, I have no doubt.”
Murray smiled at him and then he was gone. The remaining guard quickly exited the room to attend to his master.
Rory plopped down next to the Pandorica with a sigh. “I hope I don’t regret this,” he said to no one in particular.
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
St. Lawrence River, Quebec, 1764 A.D.
It was like a thunderclap.
The ice on the river’s surface cracked and sheets of it the size of Mini Coopers were swept away by the current. In the middle of it all, a lone figure struggled to cling to what remained of the ice, but the small boy’s strength was quickly failing him. Snow melt had added to the volume of the St. Lawrence and the boy’s sodden clothes threatened to drag him under. He cried for help.
The moment he saw Joweese fall into the water, Rory had sprung into action. He stripped off his clothes, throwing aside his wolf fur lined cape, his tunic, and his boots. For decency’s sake, as a number of women from the tribe were with him, he left his trousers on. Without hesitation, he waded into the river, finding a spot where the water was exposed beneath the ice. The water was freezing, to say the least, but it didn’t matter to him. It mattered to Joweese, though, and Rory dove into the water. The current was strong, but he was stronger, and he had little trouble reaching the diminishing sheet of ice that was the boy’s last salvation.
His head broke the surface of the water just as Joweese lost his grip. He made a grab for the boy and managed to snag the back of his coat. With his focus on keeping Joweese’s head above the surface of the river, Rory had no time to tread water and the two of them were swept along in the current. It wouldn’t have been too bad if not for the chunks of ice that careened down the length of the St. Lawrence.
Rory couldn’t dodge the ice and swim and carry Joweese at the same time, but he quickly found a compromise. He manoeuvred the boy onto his back and told him to hang on as tightly as he could with his stiff little hands. With his arms now freed, he started the swim back to shore. Any ice sheets that got in his way were broken up with his fists. Superhuman strength came in handy every now and then.
Joweese was whimpering loudly by the time they made it back to the shoreline. His shivering was so bad that he couldn’t form words. Rory carefully lowered him to the ground and started to take off his wet clothes. The women from the tribe, having followed Rory’s progress down the river, now ran towards him, Joweese’s mother leading the way. Sixsipita shouted her son’s name; she could barely control the hysteria in her voice.
“I need a blanket,” Rory demanded in Abenaki. He had Joweese’s coat off and it was already growing stiff as the water began to freeze. The same thing was happening to Rory’s trousers, making it hard to move, but he ignored the discomfort.
“What are you doing?” asked Sixsipita. She tried to push Rory away. “He will freeze.”
He gently, but firmly, pushed her back. “No, we need to get him out of the wet clothes. Where is that blanket?!”
One was produced and Joweese was quickly stripped of his remaining clothes and wrapped up tight in the blanket. Sixsipita scooped up the boy and held him tight in her arms, muttering comforting words in his ear. The boy still shivered, but he appeared less distressed now that he was in his mother’s embrace.
“We need to get Joweese back to the village.” Rory addressed the other women. “A warm shelter and a hot drink should…” He trailed off as he realized that none of them were listening to him. Instead, they stared at something just over his shoulder.
He turned around, spotting the figure standing at the forest’s edge just a few steps away. It was a man, bundled up in furs to keep the cold weather at bay. He had a thick beard that obscured most of his face, but it couldn’t hide the fact that he was white. Rory could understand the women’s sudden apprehension. Since he had decided to stay with the Abenaki the tribe had encountered its fair share of Europeans but not every encounter had ended with a peaceful resolution.
Despite the overwhelming desire to find some dry clothes, Rory stood his ground, ready to attack the man if he suddenly became hostile.
“Blimey,” said the man. “That was brilliant.”
It took Rory a second to catch on that the man had spoken in English. Proper, understandable English. Over the thirteen years he had heard plenty of French and Abenaki, but not English. “You’re English?”
The man blinked a few times. It seemed like an odd question to him. “Of course I am. And you are, too. What are you doing out here with a bunch of savages?”
Rory was glad that the women couldn’t understand what the man was saying. He let the insult slide, but only because he had greater concerns. “What are you doing here? This is a French colony.”
The man laughed. “You’ve been living in a cave? We chased the French off three years ago. This is an official British colony now.”
It was Rory’s turn to blink with dumbfounded silence. He had heard from some French traders that France and Britain were at war, but that had been a few years back. It seemed that the war was over now.
British colony. The implication of the words finally sunk in.
“Do you have time to talk?” he asked the man.
“I suppose I do…”
“Good. You’re coming with us then. We need to get this boy back to the village before hypothermia sets in.” Rory turned to the women and urged them to head back. Sixsipita didn’t need any more encouragement. She set off at a quick clip, trudging through the ankle deep snow as though it wasn’t there.
“Come with you?” Before the man could argue further, Rory crossed the space between him and grabbed him by the arm. He dragged him along like a stubborn puppy on a lead. “Wait, you can’t do this.”
“You’re not being kidnapped.” One of the women had picked up Rory’s discarded clothes, but he couldn’t stop now to put them back on. It was a boon really. It made him seem tough. His bare feet were covered with snow and his wet trousers had frosted over in the cold air, but not a single shiver shook his body. Without a shirt, his numerous scars were visible and they seemed to intimidate the man.
“Who are you?” he asked, a slight quiver in his voice.
Rory hazarded that the man was new to the colony. He still hadn’t adapted to the harshness of the land. “Pleased, if you start talking.” No response came and Rory supposed his terse behaviour wasn’t helping. He eased his grip on the man’s arm and tried again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask your name.”
The man didn’t reply right away, as if he was trying to decide if this was a trick or not. He took a hard look at Rory and all he saw was an honest face. “Windsor.” He didn’t elaborate on whether this was a first or last name.
“Nice to meet you, Windsor. So, how is this a British colony now?”
Wakichonze’s tribe had changed a lot during Rory’s time. The tribe had moved locations several times to maximize the use of the land, its membership had diminished due to various diseases, and now it wasn’t even Wakichonze’s anymore. Sixsipita’s marriage had allowed the tribe to join with another, increasing the population and enabling them to build a small village, but as Abenaki lineage was traced through the father’s side of the family, Wakichonze had given the chiefdom to Sixsipita’s father-in-law.
In Rory’s mind, though, Wakichonze was still his chief and that worked out just fine as Sixsipita’s father-in-law didn’t know what to make of him. Father Augustin he could understand but not Iron Hide, who seemingly didn’t age or get injured.
There was a great flurry of activity when they reached the village. Sixsipita rushed into her wigwam, calling for her mother’s help. Chanteyukan caught a glimpse of her grandson, whose lips had turned slightly blue, and she shot Rory an accusing look. He had taken some of the women out to show them how to fish. Everyone in the party had been his responsibility.
He must have looked sufficiently guilty, or pathetic as he was still half naked and his hair was an icy mess, for the look quickly dissolved into one of sympathy. He still anticipated a stern talking to once things quieted down. In the meantime, he needed to find Augustin and Wakichonze and he indicated to Windsor that the man should follow him. Windsor mutely obliged as he was caught up in the sights and sounds of the village. It was probable that he had never seen so many Natives in one place before.
Rory found Augustin standing in front of the modest wooden cross the tribe had erected for him and the few who had willingly converted to Christianity. He delivered this particular sermon in French, though he had manage to translate a few into the Abenaki language over the years. His glasses were perched on the end of his nose, as usual. The cracked right lens, which had broken two years ago, showed no signs of hampering his reading skills.
He waited until the priest finishing speaking before waving to catch his attention. Augustin looked at Rory, noting his state of dress, and one of his eyebrows arched up. He dismissed his small congregation and tucked the small bible away in his coat pocket as he walked over. “Did you meet a particularly vicious fish?” the priest joked in French.
Windsor finally seemed to notice what language Augustin spoke. “Who are you people? Are these savages holding you for ransom?”
Augustin frowned, looking to Rory for an answer and a translation.
“Where is Wakichonze?” Rory asked instead.
“In the lodge, with the other elders.”
“Fetch him. We need to talk.” Augustin rushed off to carry out Rory’s request while Rory turned to Windsor. “You’re a guest here, as am I and the priest. You will treat the Abenaki with respect. If you don’t…” He purposely trailed off, letting the man’s imagination finish the sentence for him.
In the time it took Augustin to find Wakichonze, Rory had retired to his own wigwam and changed his clothes. Windsor sat around the small fire, staring blankly at the flames, and he only looked up when the pair entered. Wakichonze held Rory’s wolf fur cape, the gift the former chief had bestowed to him over a decade ago. He handed it back to Rory with an amused but also grateful smile. The story of his feat was likely making the rounds amongst the tribe.
“You needed to speak with me?” asked Wakichonze.
“Yes.” Rory hung the cape over his shoulders, giving himself a moment to think. He looked between Wakichonze and Augustin. “This is no longer a French colony. The British have taken over.”
Wakichonze appeared indifferent to the information, but Augustin’s mouth formed a small “o”. He blinked several times, reflecting the Abenaki name the children had given him: Father Owl. “What does this mean?”
Rory glanced back at Windsor. The man stared at them in bewilderment, clearly not expecting Rory and Augustin to speak the Natives’ language. “According to our friend here, the British are allowing the French settlers to remain. A formal treaty is still being written up, but the governor has assured the French that they will not be persecuted.”
“And what of our peoples?” asked Wakichonze.
“I do not know.” Rory wished that he didn’t have to lie, but the truth wasn’t any better. The land that rightful belonged to the Native Americans would be taken away to make more room for the new colonists.
The former chief nodded his head. “I have my family and the spirits will protect us. We will endure whatever comes next.”
Augustin pushed up his glasses but they immediately slipped down his nose again. “Has the time come then, Centurion?”
Rory let out a sigh and nodded his head. “It is time for me to leave.”
Amy had told him to wait and he had waited. Thirteen years. After year three or so, Rory stopped wondering why, stopped looking for signs. The “right time” would find him, he supposed, and now it was true, in the form of Windsor the fur trader of all things.
But, of course, now that the time to leave had come, he really didn’t want to. He had seen this tribe grow and suffer, helped them through their births, illnesses, and deaths, and he had come to respect their simple way of life. And it went without saying that he cared for Wakichonze and his family. They had invited him into their home without asking for anything in return and accepted his strangeness without batting an eye.
Maybe this was why Amy had insisted that he stay. He had isolated himself for over four hundred years while trying to get the Pandorica through South America. Staying with the Abenaki had allowed him to feel connected to the world again. He had felt like a normal human being around them.
When Rory stepped out of his wigwam, he found the entire tribe waiting for him. And it was the entire tribe, not just the original Abenaki he had met thirteen years ago. Wakichonze and his family stood at the front of the group with bittersweet smiles, but everyone seemed a little sad to see him go. Rory felt a lump form in his throat. It was psychological, but it proved that at least his mind was still human.
Sixsipita approached him first, five year old Joweese held in her arms. The boy was still pale, but he squirmed with his usual restless energy and Sixsipita had to relent and lower him to the ground. Joweese immediately wrapped his arms around Rory’s right leg. Rory ruffled the boy’s hair and he couldn’t help but think back to the day that he had helped to deliver him. The newborn had refused to let go of his finger then.
Joweese clung to him for a few seconds longer before Sixsipita eventually managed to pry him off. She smiled at Rory and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Good-bye, Iron Hide.”
The gesture caught him off guard. The last time he had shown any affection towards Sixsipita, her husband had felled him with one punch. He was being given a reprieve it seemed. He pulled Sixsipita into a hug. “Good-bye, Little Eagle,” he said, using Wakichonze’s nickname for her.
Chanteyukan was next. She handed Rory a wrapped up bundle. “Stop jumping into icy rivers.” If this was the reprimand he had been expecting, it was far gentler than usual. He folded back a corner of the oiled hide and found European style clothes folded neatly within. “For when you get back home,” she clarified. “You should look nice.”
Clearly, even if you were over 1600 years old you could still need a mother. Rory hugged her, too. “Thank you.”
Wakichonze clamped a hand down on his shoulder as Rory came up to him. “I know you do not need much, but please accept this as a parting token.” He called out and six men responded by pushing the covered Pandorica into view. It slid effortlessly across the snow and Rory soon saw why. The box was now housed atop a low sled. He had to wonder when Wakichonze had time to make this.
“Thank you, for everything.” They didn’t hug, but Wakichonze gripped him by the forearm and Rory did the same. “I wish I could repay you.”
“You have, from the moment you arrived, Iron Hide.” Wakichonze intoned a blessing, one used for travellers, and the tribe echoed his sentiment.
Rory walked on to the Pandorica where he was joined by Augustin and Windsor. Tears were threatening to form in the priest’s eyes. “You can come back, can you not?” He had heard the tribe’s good-bye to the priest while he had changed. Augustin’s parishioners had been the most vocal about his decision to leave as well.
“I am not sure what the order will want to do with me. They might allow me to remain here or they might send me home to France.” Augustin tried to sound up-beat, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
Rory gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before he turned to Windsor. “Time to go.” He had switched between Abenaki, French, and English in under a minute. He was surprised his mouth could keep up.
“You don’t need me,” the man insisted. “You know the way to Quebec City.”
“I need you to vouch for me.”
“What? Why?”
Rory took up his helmet and put it on. For the first time, Windsor saw him in his full Roman armour and he just stopped and stared. “I want to speak with governor and you’ve just proved my point. Who’s going to listen to me if they can’t stop staring?”
Windsor’s mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words came out. Augustin took pity on the man and led him by the arm down the road that led out of the village. Before Rory took up the rope tied around the middle of the Pandorica, he looked back. The tribe still waited, wanting to watch him leave. He raised his arm and waved good-bye.
* * *
Quebec City, Quebec, 1764 A.D.
A mixture of French and English filled the streets of Quebec City. Rory might have paused to listen, but all of his concentration was on following Windsor down the narrow, twisty lanes. The confusing layout reminded him of the streets in France. The Williams had taken a family holiday to Paris once and though Rory had been a teenager and fully capable of looking after himself, he had broken into a panic after taking a wrong turn. No matter how carefully he doubled back, he had ended up utterly lost. He supposed the French settlers had brought their idea of a “logical” city layout with them when they crossed the Atlantic.
Augustin kept pace next to him, but his gaze drifted from time to time to take in some of the buildings as they passed them. Eventually, he caught Rory staring at him and the priest smiled. “The city has changed so much since I saw it last. I barely recognize it.”
Rory sensed a double meaning to his words. If a relatively new city like Quebec could change so much in thirteen years, then a place like Paris would be completely foreign. He also had the same dilemma, but in reverse. The London he would return to would look completely different, too, but he would have to wait for time to pass before it became at all familiar again. No wonder time was relative. Everyone experienced it in different ways.
“We have arrived, it seems.”
The path had begun to slope upwards and now they had reached the top of a large escarpment. From here, Rory could see the St. Lawrence and that was probably the point. Peaks like these were ideal for castles and fortresses. One could easily see who was approaching and rain down death on any attackers.
There were no castles or fortresses here, though. Instead, there was a large, three storey house with two smaller wings on either side. Smaller buildings dotted the grounds, but the house seemed to be the main residence. There was no drive leading up to the house or any metal gates to bar any unwanted visitors. The only show of force was two guards standing outside the front door of the main house.
“What is this place?” Rory asked Windsor. The two guards, having looked rather bored up until this point, began to eye the Pandorica.
“Chateau St. Louis,” replied Windsor, pronouncing the name as “Lewis”.
“Château Saint-Louis,” Augustin muttered under his breath, favouring the French pronunciation “Louie”.
“The governor lives here,” continued Windsor, unaware of Augustin’s comment. “Get talking so I can leave.”
During the short conversation, the two guards had made their way towards them. They kept their rifles slung over their shoulders, but there was a wariness to their body language that belayed their outward casualness. The pair of Red Coats took one glance at Augustin and Windsor before settling their gazes on Rory. With his armour, sword, dagger, and Kimura’s katana strapped over his back, he looked like a one man army.
“Can we help you, sir?” asked the guard to Rory’s right. He was the elder of the two, but they were both quite young; barely older than teenagers it seemed. The pleasantness in his voice sounded forced.
“I’d like to speak with-” Rory shot a glance at Windsor. The man had failed to mention the name of the current governor.
“James Murray,” supplied Windsor after a slight delay.
“James Murray, please.”
The two guards exchanged a glance. “On whose behalf? Julius Caesar?” The older guard laughed at his own joke.
Rory held back a lengthy sigh. He wasn’t discouraged, though. If the guard knew who Julius Caesar was, then it was possible that he was well educated. He grabbed a handful of the Pandorica’s covering and yanked it clear with a quick tug, revealing the stone box. The guard immediately stopped laughing.
“What is that?” asked the younger guard. He looked to his colleague, but the older guard was too busy gaping at the Pandorica to answer.
“Something worth the governor’s time,” said Rory.
The older guard shook his head, breaking his trance. “Go fetch the governor,” he said to his fellow guard. “Tell him it’s urgent.” They were likely the same rank, but the younger guard did as ordered and he ran off down the slope to the street below. “Are you with him?” The older guard addressed his question to Augustin and Windsor.
Windsor reluctantly nodded his head. Augustin began to answer, but Rory interrupted him. “The priest just showed us the way.” Augustin frowned, but Rory subtly shook his head. If he got in trouble because of this stunt, he didn’t want Augustin to face the consequences, too. Windsor, as a British citizen, was somewhat protected, so Rory didn’t feel as bad about dragging the fur trader into this.
“Run along, then,” demanded the guard. “The rest of you can follow me.”
Rory reached down to pick up the covering, giving himself a moment to speak with Augustin. “I am sorry, but I did not want you to get into trouble.”
The priest graced him with one of his benevolent smiles. “It is all right; I understand. I should be on my way regardless. I am not even certain that the order is in the city anymore.” Augustin reached out and grasped Rory’s hand with both of his. “Be well, my friend, and God bless you.”
Another good-bye. Rory didn’t know if he could take so many in one day. “Good-bye, Pierre. Look after yourself.” He watched from the corner of his eye as the priest walked off. As he threw the covering over the Pandorica, Rory did a rare thing; he muttered a prayer, wishing for Augustin’s safety.
Chateau St. Louis had seen better days. It looked marvellous from the front, but the rear of the house was another story. It seemed the high vantage point was both a boon and a curse. You could see your enemies, but your enemies also had a clear view to launch aerial attacks. Rory could see the St. Lawrence River from the room in which he stood, but only because half of the wall had been destroyed by cannon fire. There was even a cannon ball lodged in the wall behind him. The chateau may have been the official residence of the governor, but clearly, no one was actually living here.
It didn’t matter to Rory, as long as he got to talk to Murray. They could have met in a shed and all would have been well, though it was interesting to see the Pandorica in fancy drawing room. Even with all of the valuables and furniture removed, there was an elegance to the space. It was easy to imagine men of importance sitting in this room, drinking fine liquor and smoking while they discussed the politics of the colony. The Pandorica was elegant in its own way, but it didn’t suit the gilded accents on the walls and the curving light fixtures.
Windsor paced anxiously, his breath coming out in large, visible puffs of vapour. There was no point in heating the house if there were walls missing.
“Look at the bright side,” said Rory. “You get to meet the governor.” This seemed to agitate Windsor even more and his pace increased.
The waiting did seem slightly concerning. It was possible that Murray wasn’t coming at all and the guards were politely holding them in the house until more men arrived. Rory couldn’t see why, though. The Pandorica wasn’t a threat. If anything, Murray should have been honoured to have such a historic treasure in his colony.
Rory had taken to watching the ship traffic on the river when the doors to the room finally opened. He turned and saw a man enter the room, flanked by two guards. He was an older man, in his forties maybe but it was hard to tell since his hair was powdered white, and his heavy coat hid a slightly rotund belly. With a thin nose and round face, he seemed harmless, but there was a sharpness to his gaze that made Rory think otherwise.
Windsor stopped pacing and as an afterthought he took off his fur hat. As Rory crossed the room to greet Murray, he wondered how one treated a governor. He did run the colony on the King’s behalf, but did that warrant a bow?
Rory went with a curt bow of the head and he kept his hands behind his back. “Sir.”
The guards appeared more openly hostile than the pair that had greeted him outside. There would be no joke telling here. They kept close to Murray as he went over to examine the Pandorica.
“I thought the lad who came to fetch me was drunk. He told me a Roman soldier wanted to speak with me.” Murray reached out to touch the box, but his fingers lingered just a hair’s breadth from the stone surface. “Hoc est Pandorica. Pandorica est quadratum.”
It was a simple phrase, like something a child would say. Or something someone learning Latin would memorize. Rory had a sudden image of his battered Latin grammar book from school. Caecilius est pater…
“Astonishing. I never thought I would see it in person.” Murray let his hand fall away, like he couldn’t bring himself to touch the Pandorica. He finally turned to Rory and an air of authority replaced his amazement. “The Pandorica’s protector. A man, not a myth.”
“Thank you for meeting with me.”
“It is my pleasure.” Murray paused, finally noticing Windsor, who had twisted his hat into an unrecognizable shape. “Hello, my good man. Do we have you to thank for this remarkable discovery?”
Windsor perked up right. “Yes. He and the box were in the woods, with a tribe of sav-, uh, Indians, sir.”
Rory forced himself to remain silent. It wasn’t as if it had been Windsor’s idea to come to Quebec City, but he let the man have his moment.
“How unusual. You are a long way from Rome,” said Murray, looking to Rory. Windsor deflated as the governor’s attention went elsewhere.
“I never expected to come this far myself. I was hoping you could help me with that.”
Murray drifted over to the half destroyed wall, the two guards sticking to him like a shadow. “You wish to return to Rome?”
“England, sir.”
The governor paused and he pivoted on his heels to turn his attention back to Rory. The guards had to dance out of his way so they wouldn’t run into each other. “England?” His eyebrows arched up.
“It’s difficult to explain.” It was the basic truth and all that Rory was willing to divulge. “It is part of the reason why I wanted to talk to you. I need a ship to get back to Great Britain.”
It was a shame that Murray wasn’t a hysterical man. Rory had no idea what he was thinking. The governor made his way over to Windsor, who had been ignored up to this point. “How rude of me. I did not ask for your name.”
“Stanley Windsor, sir.”
“Mr. Windsor, would you mind waiting outside? I will speak with you shortly about this momentous find.” Murray expertly guided Windsor to the door without making it seem like he was trying to push the man out. Once Windsor was gone, one of the guards positioned himself in front of the closed doors while the other manoeuvred around to stand behind Rory. They did this without uttering a signal word; it was like they were psychic.
“Is there a problem?” Rory asked casually. He resisted the urge to make a grab for his sword. Murray had wanted some privacy, that’s all. It wasn’t at all ominous that the guards had blocked off the only two exits.
“The ships are not mine to control,” said Murray. He paced around Rory with his hands clasped behind his back. “You could try a privately owned ship, but I suspect you have already tried and failed or you would not be here.”
“So what are you saying?” Rory followed Murray with his eyes, but he didn’t turn around on the spot to keep him in view. It felt like the man was trying to get him off balance.
“I can write a letter, to request the use of one of the Crown’s ships. Once the King hears of the Pandorica I am sure he would be eager to commit some resources.”
“Great, a letter. Let’s do that.” It sounded promising, but something felt off. Something in Murray’s tone made Rory guard his optimism.
“I will draft one immediately.” Murray made a beeline for the doors. “We should hear a response in about a year.”
“Wait. A year?” And there was the catch, the other dropped shoe so to speak. The guard standing behind Rory silently moved forward until he was practically breathing down Rory’s neck. Did they honestly think he would try something foolish right then?
Murray paused in the doorway. There was no gleam to his gaze, nothing to support that he was plotting something, but it all felt so odd. To Rory, it seemed like the governor was trying to keep the Pandorica in the colonies. “It is a three month journey across the Atlantic and that is in good weather. The King then needs to debate the merits of transporting the Pandorica and funds are not as abundant as they were before the war. Another three months to send a reply and a year is the earliest we can expect a decision.
“I can assure you, Centurion, that we will take great care of the Pandorica. You yourself will be an honoured guest of this colony. The year will fly by, I have no doubt.”
Murray smiled at him and then he was gone. The remaining guard quickly exited the room to attend to his master.
Rory plopped down next to the Pandorica with a sigh. “I hope I don’t regret this,” he said to no one in particular.