locker_monster (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
locker_monster) wrote2013-08-24 08:55 am
locker_monster) wrote2013-08-24 08:55 am
Entry tags:
Doctor Who fic: The Boy Who Waited (38/49)
Title: The Boy Who Waited (38/49)
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.
Quebec City, the Province of Canada, 1864 A.D.
The small diamond in the ring sparkled in the sunlight.
“Why, I’m flattered Lucien.” Rory handed the ring box back to his handler. “It’s so sudden,” he continued jokingly.
The man’s cheeks flushed. “Is it… adequate?” He eyed the ring critically, as if looking for any flaws not visible to the naked eye.
“It’s fine. I’m sure she’ll love it.” Rory had the utmost sympathy for Lucien. His own marriage proposal to Amy had been fraught with unspeakable amounts of anxiety. He thought he might pass out before he got the chance to present the ring to her.
“What do I say to her?” Lucien closed the lid of the box and tightly gripped it in his hand. “Marie is so well read. I feel that anything I say to her will not compare to her favourite poets.” He began to pace the length of his study. “Oh, I am a fool to think that she will marry me.” It was startlingly to see him with such negative thoughts.
Rory allowed Lucien to cross back and forth a few times before stepping into his path. The man collided into him, bumping up against Rory’s bronze breastplate with a grunt. “If she loves you, it doesn’t matter what you say. She’ll say yes even if you make an utter fool of yourself.” He chose not to add, “And I know personally.” He never actually got to say, “Will you marry me?” to Amy. He had buggered up his speech so badly that Amy had ended up asking to see the ring. Despite the lack of romance, she had smiled the biggest smile he had ever seen from her and laid a passionate kiss on him.
“Do you think so?” Lucien stared into Rory’s eyes, seeing the certainty within. “Yes, you are right. I love Marie. In my heart, I know she does, too.” His face lit up as his confidence returned. “I shall call upon her tonight.”
Rory patted him encouragingly on the shoulder. “A bit of advice. Don’t eat anything heavy before going over.”
Lucien cocked an eyebrow, but a knock at the door prevented him from speaking the question on his mind. “Enter.” He slipped the ring box into the inner pocket of his coat and patted the spot to ensure that it would not fall out when he wasn’t looking.
Lucien’s maid entered the study. She adverted her gaze, never looking directly at Rory. “Mr. Urbain, sir, there is a carriage downstairs and the driver is asking for the Centurion.”
Rory exchanged a glance with Lucien. Nothing was scheduled for today. He was only visiting because his handler had seemed so anxious. He peeked out the window, but he couldn’t see the street from this vantage point.
“Thank you. I will look into the matter.” The maid hurried out of the study. “Shall we?” Lucien asked Rory. They started down the stairs to the foyer.
“If you’re thinking about marriage,” began Rory, “have you given any thought about your future? You can’t spend the rest of your life bossing me around.” It was a jest, of course, but Lucien could do so much more than organize his rather boring existence.
“I will be happy anywhere as long as Marie is with me,” said Lucien with a big, dopey grin. “Though, I have thought about running in the next election…”
Down in the foyer, the carriage driver waited. He didn’t greet them and simply exited the house to return to his spot perched atop the cab. Rory and Lucien had no choice but to follow him. When they stepped outside, a face appeared in the window of the carriage. The smiling countenance of John A. Macdonald beckoned them to join him. He was dressed formally and held his hat in his hand.
“I am on my way to Charlottetown. I was hoping you would join me, Centurion.”
“What? Now?”
The smile grew wider. “Yes, now. It is a last minute conference and I would appreciate your presence and insights.”
“Are all Scots so impulsive?” muttered Rory. He looked to Lucien. “No one needs to see me, do they?”
“I will clear your schedule even if you do.”
“Excellent,” said Macdonald. He opened the door to the carriage. “Would you like to come as well, Lucien? Your organizational skills would be quite useful.”
“Uh…” Lucien’s hand, whether he was aware of it or not, went up to his coat pocket.
“Lucien has more important matters to attend to,” said Rory, jumping into the carriage to cover up the man’s hesitation. “Very busy. He can’t break off this engagement.”
His handler coughed politely into his hand, no doubt to mask a laugh.
“Very well, then. We shall be back in two weeks, assuming that the talks go well.” Rory closed the carriage door while Macdonald banged on the ceiling of the cab to let the driver know that it was time to leave. The clomp of horses’ hooves carried them down the street and towards the harbour.
“So what’s this all about?” asked Rory.
Macdonald flashed him an enigmatic smile. “Union.”
It wasn’t the most auspicious start.
“Why is the delegate from Prince Edward Island rowing out to meet us?” asked George-Étienne Cartier.
They stood on deck of the SS Queen Victoria, the steamship that had taken them from Quebec City to Charlottetown. Only, they weren’t in Charlottetown yet. In fact, they weren’t even docked. For ten minutes they had sat, twenty feet out, waiting to be guided into the wharf and into a proper berth, but no one had come. Now, they watched as well dressed man with a long, bushy beard in a rowboat made his way across the water towards them.
“First, someone should help poor William aboard,” said Macdonald. “He looks as if he barely has control of that boat.”
Ten minutes later, Rory found himself in said boat, helping to row it towards the wharf, with half of the delegation from the Province of Canada with him. None of the men looked at all too happy. “You have to admit,” said Rory, “that a circus is more fun than politics.”
“Some might argue that they are one and the same,” joked William Henry Pope. That got some laughter and tensions seemed to ease a bit.
You couldn’t help but laugh at their misfortune. A circus was in town, diverting the attention of the small population of Charlottetown. Everyone, including the workers at the wharf, were there. The steamship couldn’t be docked without them, hence the rowboat. Then there was the fact that all accommodations in town were taken by the other delegates. Thank goodness the captain of the Queen Victoria was willing to stick around or they would have been sleeping out in the streets.
“Something for the history books, I suppose,” said Macdonald.
Rory had to make another trip with Pope in the rowboat before all of the delegates were ashore. He offered to help moor the steamship, but Macdonald literally dragged him along to the government house where a banquet to start off the conference was being held. He still didn’t see why he was here. They were discussing a union of the Province of Canada with the other Maritime provinces and no amount of input from him was going to make a difference. This colony became the country of Canada and it had done it once before without his presence.
Fanningbank was a large, white house with a fine view of the coastline. A wide set of steps and four tall columns graced the front of the building. A handful of men loitered outside but the bulk of the action was inside. Rory could hear the multitude of conversations and it was like the buzz of a bee hive. Once they were inside, there were a lot of handshakes and introductions and too many names for him to follow. The second he had moment to himself, someone else inevitably came along.
Grin and bear it. It was all he could do. It was either that or run off and join the circus.
“Move together, gentlemen! You all need to be in the shot!”
The banquet had crawled by for Rory on the account that he hadn’t eaten any of the food and his conversation partner had refused to shut up. His head was still ringing with words like “tariffs”, “tax hikes”, and “electoral reforms”. He now stood in the shade of a nearby tree, grateful that no one was accosting him, and watched as a photographer tried to wrangle the delegates into a grouping on the steps of Fanningbank. It was like watching someone herd a group of cats. One always went off in a direction opposite of the others.
Macdonald had placed himself near the centre of the steps, alleviating the need to constantly shift positions. His hat was off and it rested on his right knee. With his left arm casually resting on his left knee, he looked like he was posing for a fashion shoot. Rory bit back a laugh. History was going to remember this photo.
“Is this everyone?” asked the photographer. It seemed that the delegates were in position.
A few murmurs passed through the group. The next thing Rory knew, Macdonald beckoned him to come over.
Rory did laugh this time. “No, I’m not even-” The photographer’s assistant ran over and grabbed him by the arm. Without even asking if he wanted to be in the photo, the assistant dragged him over to the steps.
“Put him in the front!” shouted the photographer. He sounded eager to get this photo over and done with.
The assistant shoved Rory towards the steps, crudely sticking him next to Macdonald and one of the Maritime delegates. The man to his left was his conversational partner from the banquet. “Hello again,” he said.
“Hello,” said Rory, his enthusiasm much more subdued. He looked to Macdonald and the man just smiled at him. With a sigh, he took off his helmet and turned towards the camera.
“I didn’t need to be in that photo.”
Off in the distance, the sounds of the circus could be heard. Prince Edward Island seemed so small. It felt like you could drive from one end of the island to the other in a day and that was with a period carriage and two pairs of horses.
“Perhaps not,” admitted Macdonald. The delegates from the Province of Canada had retired to the Queen Victoria for the night, eager to begin the conference in earnest tomorrow morning. Rory thought he would be alone up on deck, but he had found the Premier enjoying a night cap and the view of the wharf. “It is, however, proof that you were here, even if you do not contribute to the proceedings.”
“Something else for the history books?”
“Precisely.” Macdonald raised his glass to that and took a sip of the amber liquid. Scotch, if Rory had to guess.
“Do you think you can do this?” Rory stood in a place any historian would envy. How many had a chance to ask a historical figure what they were thinking before a monumental achievement?
Macdonald swirled around the dregs at the bottom of the glass as he thought over Rory’s question. “I think we will fail if we do not try. We are not cutting ties with Great Britain, but we need to stand on our own two feet. And war is certainly not the answer.”
The American Revolution had passed Rory by while he had been living in Quebec City, trying to get the Pandorica home. He hadn’t witnessed any of the fighting, but he still firmly believed that killing was never the answer. Macdonald and the other delegates had the right idea. A peaceful resolution.
“You should make that the cornerstone of your new country,” said Rory, unable to help himself.
Macdonald turned to head back inside. “It should be the cornerstone of every country.”
“The point of this conference was to discuss a Maritime union, but the delegation from Canada seems intent on monopolizing the time to discuss their needs.”
Angry murmurs of agreement passed through the members of the Maritime delegations. Any good will generated during the banquet was seemingly gone now.
Rory sat quietly in the corner of the room, more of an observer than a participant. It was true that Macdonald and Cartier had dominated the discussion since they were asked to speak a few days ago, but the two men were merely trying to sell the idea of a unified colony. They weren’t trying to overshadow the Maritime agenda. At least, Rory didn’t think so. He might have thought differently if he had been part of the Maritime delegation.
“Gentlemen, please.” Like back at the steps of Fanningbank, Macdonald sat casually in his chair, his legs crossed at his knees. His voice didn’t rise in anger but nor did it sound pleading. If anything, it seemed like he was scolding the other delegates. “This pointless squabbling will achieve nothing.”
The man berating Macdonald bristled at the word “squabbling”. “Mr. Macdonald-”
“We have a chance to become an independent nation. Petty grievances seem so insignificant in comparison, do you not agree?”
Silence settled over the room as Macdonald’s words sunk in. There was a ring of truth to them, in amongst the veiled insults. To Rory, it felt like the delegates were trying to decide if they should punch Macdonald or praise him.
“There is no guarantee that the Crown will agree with our proposal.” Rory couldn’t remember the name of the man talking, but he was part of the Prince Edward Island delegation.
“No, but the risks-”
“The risks?” The man scoffed loudly. “You are free to be brazen in your part of the colony, but do not mire us in your mistakes.”
The room erupted into a shouting match. A delegate from the Province of Canada hurled back an insult and soon all the delegates were arguing loudly. Rory was reminded of Parliament sessions back home.
Macdonald tried to be heard over the din, but no one was listening to him now. Maybe the pressure had finally gotten to everyone. The conference didn’t take breaks; everyone was stuck in this room for hours on end, listening to the same people talk and talk. Rory got up from his chair, intent on opening a window, when Macdonald caught his eye. It wasn’t often that the man sought advice from him, but he was clearly hoping for an intervention from Rory. He did have a sword after all.
It would have made more sense to fire off a gun in this room. No one was going to notice him drawing a blade. Rory was going to shrug, to convey his apologies to Macdonald, but then a thought dawned on him. Being subtle wasn’t going to solve anything.
“The Pandorica!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.
The delegates’ arguing came to a swift halt. Everyone in the room turned to look at him. He hadn’t said much since the banquet. If he had something to say, it was worth listening to.
It was slightly unnerving to have so many eyes staring at him, but Rory pushed on. “You want to guarantee that the Crown will agree to your union? Threaten to hold on to the Pandorica. If the Crown can’t be bothered to bring it to the mother country, then by all rights it should stay here. British funds don’t move it or pay the guards who look after it.”
For a moment, no one said anything. It was the best Rory could offer. Yes, it was a ploy to get home, but if the Crown wanted to prove what was important to them, then they would have to act. They couldn’t grant the colonies their independence and leave the Pandorica behind. The box they thought they had controlled for the past century would be lost to the former colony and that was not something that could be condoned.
“That is an… interesting proposal,” said the PEI delegate who had been arguing with Macdonald, “but what if we wish to keep the Pandorica for ourselves?”
Rory hadn’t thought of that. “Well…”
“It is a burden,” said Macdonald. “Ask anyone from our government. Before we settled on a permanent capital, the Pandorica was constantly moved between cities. We waste valuable manpower and money guarding it when those resources could be directed elsewhere. And let us not forgot the Americans’ interest in it. They did not hesitate to attack our cities to get to the box during the War of 1812.”
The mention of the war caused a whisper of agreement to pass through the delegates.
“Let the Crown take up this load. We have done our duty for long enough.”
“Here, here!” said Cartier and the sentiment was echoed by the other delegates with a hearty applause.
Rory shook his head in good humour. In less than five minutes these men had gone from insulting Macdonald to lauding him. Well timed words could turn even the most dire of situations on its head. Rory had seen that first hand at Stonehenge, with the Doctor.
He joined in with the applause. He could dream, just for that moment, that he was started on the path home.
The next few days seemed to fly by. Bolstered by Macdonald’s words, the delegates’ talks became much more productive. Everyone listened to each other and if there was an argument it never got out of hand. The assumption now was that the British government and the Crown couldn’t refuse the idea of a unified and independent colony. By the end of the week, even the original Maritime union agenda had been discussed and discarded.
Rory was just glad to be heading, well, it wasn’t home, but he was just eager to get back to Quebec City and away from the swarm of delegates. He was also curious to find out how Lucien’s marriage proposal went.
Back aboard his room on the Queen Victoria, he sank gratefully into an overstuffed chair. It was nice and quiet for once. The other night Macdonald had hosted a party and he invited all of the delegates aboard. Even when Rory had managed to escape the throng he could still hear the partygoers from his room.
Tonight there was a ball at Fanningbank to wrap up the conference and he anticipated that the delegates from Canada wouldn’t be back on the ship until the wee hours of the morning. There was no need to stay sober if there were no more talks to attend. As no formal invitation had been extended to him, Rory was looking forward to spending the night alone with a book. The captain of the Queen Victoria had a modest library, but it was stocked with the classics Rory had always meant to read but never found the time to. He even had a book already picked out. Little Dorrit.
A knock at the door interrupted Rory’s thoughts. With a sigh, he got to his feet and walked over to answer the summons. “I’m not here.”
“Am I speaking to an interloper then?” Macdonald’s voice came from the other side of the door, tinged with amusement.
Rory opened the door, but he remained firmly in the doorway so Macdonald couldn’t enter. The man was dressed in his best suit and he held a top hat in his hand. He flashed one of his most charming smiles. “I’m not coming,” said Rory, before Macdonald speak.
“No, of course not. I am merely here to bid you a good night.”
Rory didn’t budge. “John, you’re not going to sweet-talk me into going to the ball.”
“I am not going to insist, but you have done a great deal this week, Centurion. It would be shame if you did not put in an appearance.”
“I made a suggestion.”
“One that put us in the right direction.”
A tiny voice urged Rory to say good night and close the door. His hand tightened around the brass doorknob.
“The Lieutenant Governor has talked non-stop about you this week. I would imagine half of the island’s elite will be at the ball, just on the hope that they will meet the infamous protector of the Pandorica. It seems they will have to go home disappointed. Alas, nothing can be done.” Macdonald put on his top hat. “Good-”
“All right,” Rory said with a groan. His whole body sagged with defeat. He hated the idea of letting people down. “I’ll come. Let me get my helmet…”
“Excellent! It will be splendid affair, I am sure.” Rory donned his helmet and joined Macdonald out in the hallway. Just as he closed the door, the man added, “Tell me, Centurion, do you know how to dance?”
* * *
Ottawa, Ontario, 1867 A.D.
The heavy lock and chains fell away, allowing the metal gates to swing open just a fraction. Everything in the Central Block was new and the gates didn’t groan at all. The two guards who had escorted Rory respectfully took their leave and soon he was on his own.
For a second, all he could do was stare at the metal gates. They were Gothic in design, thick and elegant and incorporating a maple leaf motif into the metal to reflect the presence of numerous maple trees around the city. Carved into the marble arch above was a Latin phrase, one Rory had helped to think up. It was simple, but apt, and one way of showing what this former colony had protected for so long.
Here resides the Pandorica, the heart of a nation.
He swung the gates open and stepped into the large alcove where the Pandorica sat. When construction had begun on the new parliament buildings nearly ten years ago, one of the designers had the foresight to include a space for the stone box. It had been symbolic, to show that Ottawa was now the permanent capital. The Pandorica would not move, nor would the capital, ever again.
So much for symbolism.
Rory placed his hand on the surface of the Pandorica and an uneasiness he had been carrying for over a century finally faded away. He felt relaxed for the first time in a long time. It had been ages since he was able to see the Pandorica, let alone touch it. He allowed himself a moment, to let it all sink in. They were together again and for good reason.
“Guess what the date is, Amy.” Rory walked around the box, his hand never leaving its side. “July 1st, 1867. We’re standing in a brand new country.”
The Royal proclamation was official today. British North America was now the Dominion of Canada.
“And guess what else.” With his circuit complete, Rory took a step back. He regarded the Pandorica as though Amy were standing right in front of him. “There’s a ship coming. It’s here to take us home.”
He smiled, imagining a squeal of joy from Amy. He had a decree from Queen Victoria herself, dated from March, promising that a ship would be modified and dispatched to transport him and the Pandorica to London. It was set to arrive any day now. Rory had barely curbed the urge to wait at the docks, day and night, to watch for any signs of the Royal flag fluttering from the mast of a mighty ship.
“Only 122 more years until you’re born.” He tried to laugh at his own joke, but he didn’t feel the mirth. The span didn’t seem so long, not compared to a thousand years, but to him it felt like an eternity away. The home stretch. Like in any journey, it was always the hardest part. “Is this what you meant when you told me to wait? So I could help give birth to a new nation?” Rory frowned. “Okay, that came out wrong…”
He turned, catching the sound of footsteps headed towards him. It was only one set of footsteps, though, so it wasn’t the two guards. Everyone should have been outside celebrating Canada’s confederation. Who would be bothering him now?
The obvious answer came into view a few moments later. Macdonald’s usually coiffed hair was slightly mussed today, as though someone had affectionately ruffled his hair. Rory imagined there was a lot of back slapping and hand shaking going on today, with Macdonald at the centre of it. A quiet moment like this was probably a godsend.
“Congratulations.” Rory held out his hand to Macdonald, waiting to see what the man would do.
“Thank you.” Macdonald shook his hand, but his grip was weaker than usual. “I see you had no troubles getting access.”
“No, the guards didn’t say a word. Literally. Are they not paid to talk?”
Macdonald chuckled. “They were in awe of you, I am certain.” He paused, admiring the sight of the Pandorica. “I am sorry this took so long.” He didn’t glance at Rory as he spoke, making it seem like he was apologizing to the box.
“You were bound. You couldn’t go against the Crown’s wishes.”
“Aye,” Macdonald muttered softly. A lot of hard work had got them to this moment. He finally looked over at Rory. “Her Majesty expressed a great interest in meeting you. Did I tell you she even seemed a bit disappointed that you were not part of the delegation that met with her in London?”
To hear that he had disappointed a queen made Rory chuckle nervously. He had a sudden image of Queen Victoria looking displeased and muttering, “We are not amused.” He quickly dismissed the thought. “I couldn’t go to London, not without the Pandorica with me.” It was the unspoken pact. Rory had had plenty of opportunities to return to England throughout the centuries, but it never felt right to go back without the Pandorica being dragged behind him.
“You know, in all of the time I have known you, never once have you mentioned why you need to go to England.” It was the lawyer in Macdonald, sensing holes in a story. He could tell that Rory was holding back.
But as much as Rory respected Macdonald, he couldn’t bring himself to admit the truth. It was a secret that only a few would understand. “Let’s just say that’s where it all started.”
That inherent need to know more was apparent in Macdonald’s eyes, but the man surprisingly restrained himself. Charm would only get you so far, especially when the recipient wasn’t willing to talk. “I wish you well then, whatever your endeavours may be.”
“There’s something I want to give you,” said Rory, before Macdonald could leave. He slipped off Kimura’s katana from his back and handed the scabbard and sword to Macdonald. The man held it in both hands, regarding the weapon with some intrigue. “It belonged to a good friend of mine. I’ve carried it for a long time, but I think it’s time I gave it up.”
“I…” Macdonald chuckled. “I find I have no words to express my gratitude, beyond thank you.” He raised an eyebrow quizzically, as if asking, “Do we hug?”
Rory grasped his forearm, offering a warrior’s handshake. “From one protector of the Pandorica to another, believe me when I say that is enough.”
* * *
Now that Barbara thought about it, it was said that John A. Macdonald had owned a 14th century katana, gifted to him by the Lone Centurion. If the Lone Centurion had been travelling with a group of samurai, that certainly led credence to the theory. It even hinted that the sword held some significance. Why keep it when the other swords were buried? Assuming, of course, that the graves in South America were the graves of the Lone Centurion’s travelling companions.
“Barbara?”
She blinked a few times and reality came flooding back. They had reached the door to the car park and the security guard was waiting politely for her to head outside. He looked as though he had called her name a few times before she responded. A mix of concern and curiosity tugged at his youthful features.
“I’m sorry. I was lost in my own little world.” Barbara reached into her purse to search for her car keys, trying to defer some of her embarrassment. “I didn’t trail off mid-sentence, did I?”
The security guard just smiled. “Nothing wrong with that. I do it all the time.”
Such a simple gesture put her at ease. “Thank you again. I’ll let you get back to work.”
“Yes, wouldn’t want a would-be thief to steal the Pandorica before its big debut.”
“I’d applaud a thief if they managed to abscond with the Pandorica.” Barbara pushed open the door and the cool night air rushed in. “We barely managed to get it into the hall. Good night-” She stopped abruptly as a realization came crashing down on her.
After all this time, she didn’t know the security guard’s name.
“Good night, Ms. Wright.” He mistook her pause as a full stop and turned away to head back into the museum. His long, skinny legs soon took him into the shadows and out of sight.
Barbara shook her head hopelessly as she stepped out into the car park. She couldn’t wait until the exhibit was open. It was stealing all of her focus.
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
Quebec City, the Province of Canada, 1864 A.D.
The small diamond in the ring sparkled in the sunlight.
“Why, I’m flattered Lucien.” Rory handed the ring box back to his handler. “It’s so sudden,” he continued jokingly.
The man’s cheeks flushed. “Is it… adequate?” He eyed the ring critically, as if looking for any flaws not visible to the naked eye.
“It’s fine. I’m sure she’ll love it.” Rory had the utmost sympathy for Lucien. His own marriage proposal to Amy had been fraught with unspeakable amounts of anxiety. He thought he might pass out before he got the chance to present the ring to her.
“What do I say to her?” Lucien closed the lid of the box and tightly gripped it in his hand. “Marie is so well read. I feel that anything I say to her will not compare to her favourite poets.” He began to pace the length of his study. “Oh, I am a fool to think that she will marry me.” It was startlingly to see him with such negative thoughts.
Rory allowed Lucien to cross back and forth a few times before stepping into his path. The man collided into him, bumping up against Rory’s bronze breastplate with a grunt. “If she loves you, it doesn’t matter what you say. She’ll say yes even if you make an utter fool of yourself.” He chose not to add, “And I know personally.” He never actually got to say, “Will you marry me?” to Amy. He had buggered up his speech so badly that Amy had ended up asking to see the ring. Despite the lack of romance, she had smiled the biggest smile he had ever seen from her and laid a passionate kiss on him.
“Do you think so?” Lucien stared into Rory’s eyes, seeing the certainty within. “Yes, you are right. I love Marie. In my heart, I know she does, too.” His face lit up as his confidence returned. “I shall call upon her tonight.”
Rory patted him encouragingly on the shoulder. “A bit of advice. Don’t eat anything heavy before going over.”
Lucien cocked an eyebrow, but a knock at the door prevented him from speaking the question on his mind. “Enter.” He slipped the ring box into the inner pocket of his coat and patted the spot to ensure that it would not fall out when he wasn’t looking.
Lucien’s maid entered the study. She adverted her gaze, never looking directly at Rory. “Mr. Urbain, sir, there is a carriage downstairs and the driver is asking for the Centurion.”
Rory exchanged a glance with Lucien. Nothing was scheduled for today. He was only visiting because his handler had seemed so anxious. He peeked out the window, but he couldn’t see the street from this vantage point.
“Thank you. I will look into the matter.” The maid hurried out of the study. “Shall we?” Lucien asked Rory. They started down the stairs to the foyer.
“If you’re thinking about marriage,” began Rory, “have you given any thought about your future? You can’t spend the rest of your life bossing me around.” It was a jest, of course, but Lucien could do so much more than organize his rather boring existence.
“I will be happy anywhere as long as Marie is with me,” said Lucien with a big, dopey grin. “Though, I have thought about running in the next election…”
Down in the foyer, the carriage driver waited. He didn’t greet them and simply exited the house to return to his spot perched atop the cab. Rory and Lucien had no choice but to follow him. When they stepped outside, a face appeared in the window of the carriage. The smiling countenance of John A. Macdonald beckoned them to join him. He was dressed formally and held his hat in his hand.
“I am on my way to Charlottetown. I was hoping you would join me, Centurion.”
“What? Now?”
The smile grew wider. “Yes, now. It is a last minute conference and I would appreciate your presence and insights.”
“Are all Scots so impulsive?” muttered Rory. He looked to Lucien. “No one needs to see me, do they?”
“I will clear your schedule even if you do.”
“Excellent,” said Macdonald. He opened the door to the carriage. “Would you like to come as well, Lucien? Your organizational skills would be quite useful.”
“Uh…” Lucien’s hand, whether he was aware of it or not, went up to his coat pocket.
“Lucien has more important matters to attend to,” said Rory, jumping into the carriage to cover up the man’s hesitation. “Very busy. He can’t break off this engagement.”
His handler coughed politely into his hand, no doubt to mask a laugh.
“Very well, then. We shall be back in two weeks, assuming that the talks go well.” Rory closed the carriage door while Macdonald banged on the ceiling of the cab to let the driver know that it was time to leave. The clomp of horses’ hooves carried them down the street and towards the harbour.
“So what’s this all about?” asked Rory.
Macdonald flashed him an enigmatic smile. “Union.”
It wasn’t the most auspicious start.
“Why is the delegate from Prince Edward Island rowing out to meet us?” asked George-Étienne Cartier.
They stood on deck of the SS Queen Victoria, the steamship that had taken them from Quebec City to Charlottetown. Only, they weren’t in Charlottetown yet. In fact, they weren’t even docked. For ten minutes they had sat, twenty feet out, waiting to be guided into the wharf and into a proper berth, but no one had come. Now, they watched as well dressed man with a long, bushy beard in a rowboat made his way across the water towards them.
“First, someone should help poor William aboard,” said Macdonald. “He looks as if he barely has control of that boat.”
Ten minutes later, Rory found himself in said boat, helping to row it towards the wharf, with half of the delegation from the Province of Canada with him. None of the men looked at all too happy. “You have to admit,” said Rory, “that a circus is more fun than politics.”
“Some might argue that they are one and the same,” joked William Henry Pope. That got some laughter and tensions seemed to ease a bit.
You couldn’t help but laugh at their misfortune. A circus was in town, diverting the attention of the small population of Charlottetown. Everyone, including the workers at the wharf, were there. The steamship couldn’t be docked without them, hence the rowboat. Then there was the fact that all accommodations in town were taken by the other delegates. Thank goodness the captain of the Queen Victoria was willing to stick around or they would have been sleeping out in the streets.
“Something for the history books, I suppose,” said Macdonald.
Rory had to make another trip with Pope in the rowboat before all of the delegates were ashore. He offered to help moor the steamship, but Macdonald literally dragged him along to the government house where a banquet to start off the conference was being held. He still didn’t see why he was here. They were discussing a union of the Province of Canada with the other Maritime provinces and no amount of input from him was going to make a difference. This colony became the country of Canada and it had done it once before without his presence.
Fanningbank was a large, white house with a fine view of the coastline. A wide set of steps and four tall columns graced the front of the building. A handful of men loitered outside but the bulk of the action was inside. Rory could hear the multitude of conversations and it was like the buzz of a bee hive. Once they were inside, there were a lot of handshakes and introductions and too many names for him to follow. The second he had moment to himself, someone else inevitably came along.
Grin and bear it. It was all he could do. It was either that or run off and join the circus.
“Move together, gentlemen! You all need to be in the shot!”
The banquet had crawled by for Rory on the account that he hadn’t eaten any of the food and his conversation partner had refused to shut up. His head was still ringing with words like “tariffs”, “tax hikes”, and “electoral reforms”. He now stood in the shade of a nearby tree, grateful that no one was accosting him, and watched as a photographer tried to wrangle the delegates into a grouping on the steps of Fanningbank. It was like watching someone herd a group of cats. One always went off in a direction opposite of the others.
Macdonald had placed himself near the centre of the steps, alleviating the need to constantly shift positions. His hat was off and it rested on his right knee. With his left arm casually resting on his left knee, he looked like he was posing for a fashion shoot. Rory bit back a laugh. History was going to remember this photo.
“Is this everyone?” asked the photographer. It seemed that the delegates were in position.
A few murmurs passed through the group. The next thing Rory knew, Macdonald beckoned him to come over.
Rory did laugh this time. “No, I’m not even-” The photographer’s assistant ran over and grabbed him by the arm. Without even asking if he wanted to be in the photo, the assistant dragged him over to the steps.
“Put him in the front!” shouted the photographer. He sounded eager to get this photo over and done with.
The assistant shoved Rory towards the steps, crudely sticking him next to Macdonald and one of the Maritime delegates. The man to his left was his conversational partner from the banquet. “Hello again,” he said.
“Hello,” said Rory, his enthusiasm much more subdued. He looked to Macdonald and the man just smiled at him. With a sigh, he took off his helmet and turned towards the camera.
“I didn’t need to be in that photo.”
Off in the distance, the sounds of the circus could be heard. Prince Edward Island seemed so small. It felt like you could drive from one end of the island to the other in a day and that was with a period carriage and two pairs of horses.
“Perhaps not,” admitted Macdonald. The delegates from the Province of Canada had retired to the Queen Victoria for the night, eager to begin the conference in earnest tomorrow morning. Rory thought he would be alone up on deck, but he had found the Premier enjoying a night cap and the view of the wharf. “It is, however, proof that you were here, even if you do not contribute to the proceedings.”
“Something else for the history books?”
“Precisely.” Macdonald raised his glass to that and took a sip of the amber liquid. Scotch, if Rory had to guess.
“Do you think you can do this?” Rory stood in a place any historian would envy. How many had a chance to ask a historical figure what they were thinking before a monumental achievement?
Macdonald swirled around the dregs at the bottom of the glass as he thought over Rory’s question. “I think we will fail if we do not try. We are not cutting ties with Great Britain, but we need to stand on our own two feet. And war is certainly not the answer.”
The American Revolution had passed Rory by while he had been living in Quebec City, trying to get the Pandorica home. He hadn’t witnessed any of the fighting, but he still firmly believed that killing was never the answer. Macdonald and the other delegates had the right idea. A peaceful resolution.
“You should make that the cornerstone of your new country,” said Rory, unable to help himself.
Macdonald turned to head back inside. “It should be the cornerstone of every country.”
“The point of this conference was to discuss a Maritime union, but the delegation from Canada seems intent on monopolizing the time to discuss their needs.”
Angry murmurs of agreement passed through the members of the Maritime delegations. Any good will generated during the banquet was seemingly gone now.
Rory sat quietly in the corner of the room, more of an observer than a participant. It was true that Macdonald and Cartier had dominated the discussion since they were asked to speak a few days ago, but the two men were merely trying to sell the idea of a unified colony. They weren’t trying to overshadow the Maritime agenda. At least, Rory didn’t think so. He might have thought differently if he had been part of the Maritime delegation.
“Gentlemen, please.” Like back at the steps of Fanningbank, Macdonald sat casually in his chair, his legs crossed at his knees. His voice didn’t rise in anger but nor did it sound pleading. If anything, it seemed like he was scolding the other delegates. “This pointless squabbling will achieve nothing.”
The man berating Macdonald bristled at the word “squabbling”. “Mr. Macdonald-”
“We have a chance to become an independent nation. Petty grievances seem so insignificant in comparison, do you not agree?”
Silence settled over the room as Macdonald’s words sunk in. There was a ring of truth to them, in amongst the veiled insults. To Rory, it felt like the delegates were trying to decide if they should punch Macdonald or praise him.
“There is no guarantee that the Crown will agree with our proposal.” Rory couldn’t remember the name of the man talking, but he was part of the Prince Edward Island delegation.
“No, but the risks-”
“The risks?” The man scoffed loudly. “You are free to be brazen in your part of the colony, but do not mire us in your mistakes.”
The room erupted into a shouting match. A delegate from the Province of Canada hurled back an insult and soon all the delegates were arguing loudly. Rory was reminded of Parliament sessions back home.
Macdonald tried to be heard over the din, but no one was listening to him now. Maybe the pressure had finally gotten to everyone. The conference didn’t take breaks; everyone was stuck in this room for hours on end, listening to the same people talk and talk. Rory got up from his chair, intent on opening a window, when Macdonald caught his eye. It wasn’t often that the man sought advice from him, but he was clearly hoping for an intervention from Rory. He did have a sword after all.
It would have made more sense to fire off a gun in this room. No one was going to notice him drawing a blade. Rory was going to shrug, to convey his apologies to Macdonald, but then a thought dawned on him. Being subtle wasn’t going to solve anything.
“The Pandorica!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.
The delegates’ arguing came to a swift halt. Everyone in the room turned to look at him. He hadn’t said much since the banquet. If he had something to say, it was worth listening to.
It was slightly unnerving to have so many eyes staring at him, but Rory pushed on. “You want to guarantee that the Crown will agree to your union? Threaten to hold on to the Pandorica. If the Crown can’t be bothered to bring it to the mother country, then by all rights it should stay here. British funds don’t move it or pay the guards who look after it.”
For a moment, no one said anything. It was the best Rory could offer. Yes, it was a ploy to get home, but if the Crown wanted to prove what was important to them, then they would have to act. They couldn’t grant the colonies their independence and leave the Pandorica behind. The box they thought they had controlled for the past century would be lost to the former colony and that was not something that could be condoned.
“That is an… interesting proposal,” said the PEI delegate who had been arguing with Macdonald, “but what if we wish to keep the Pandorica for ourselves?”
Rory hadn’t thought of that. “Well…”
“It is a burden,” said Macdonald. “Ask anyone from our government. Before we settled on a permanent capital, the Pandorica was constantly moved between cities. We waste valuable manpower and money guarding it when those resources could be directed elsewhere. And let us not forgot the Americans’ interest in it. They did not hesitate to attack our cities to get to the box during the War of 1812.”
The mention of the war caused a whisper of agreement to pass through the delegates.
“Let the Crown take up this load. We have done our duty for long enough.”
“Here, here!” said Cartier and the sentiment was echoed by the other delegates with a hearty applause.
Rory shook his head in good humour. In less than five minutes these men had gone from insulting Macdonald to lauding him. Well timed words could turn even the most dire of situations on its head. Rory had seen that first hand at Stonehenge, with the Doctor.
He joined in with the applause. He could dream, just for that moment, that he was started on the path home.
The next few days seemed to fly by. Bolstered by Macdonald’s words, the delegates’ talks became much more productive. Everyone listened to each other and if there was an argument it never got out of hand. The assumption now was that the British government and the Crown couldn’t refuse the idea of a unified and independent colony. By the end of the week, even the original Maritime union agenda had been discussed and discarded.
Rory was just glad to be heading, well, it wasn’t home, but he was just eager to get back to Quebec City and away from the swarm of delegates. He was also curious to find out how Lucien’s marriage proposal went.
Back aboard his room on the Queen Victoria, he sank gratefully into an overstuffed chair. It was nice and quiet for once. The other night Macdonald had hosted a party and he invited all of the delegates aboard. Even when Rory had managed to escape the throng he could still hear the partygoers from his room.
Tonight there was a ball at Fanningbank to wrap up the conference and he anticipated that the delegates from Canada wouldn’t be back on the ship until the wee hours of the morning. There was no need to stay sober if there were no more talks to attend. As no formal invitation had been extended to him, Rory was looking forward to spending the night alone with a book. The captain of the Queen Victoria had a modest library, but it was stocked with the classics Rory had always meant to read but never found the time to. He even had a book already picked out. Little Dorrit.
A knock at the door interrupted Rory’s thoughts. With a sigh, he got to his feet and walked over to answer the summons. “I’m not here.”
“Am I speaking to an interloper then?” Macdonald’s voice came from the other side of the door, tinged with amusement.
Rory opened the door, but he remained firmly in the doorway so Macdonald couldn’t enter. The man was dressed in his best suit and he held a top hat in his hand. He flashed one of his most charming smiles. “I’m not coming,” said Rory, before Macdonald speak.
“No, of course not. I am merely here to bid you a good night.”
Rory didn’t budge. “John, you’re not going to sweet-talk me into going to the ball.”
“I am not going to insist, but you have done a great deal this week, Centurion. It would be shame if you did not put in an appearance.”
“I made a suggestion.”
“One that put us in the right direction.”
A tiny voice urged Rory to say good night and close the door. His hand tightened around the brass doorknob.
“The Lieutenant Governor has talked non-stop about you this week. I would imagine half of the island’s elite will be at the ball, just on the hope that they will meet the infamous protector of the Pandorica. It seems they will have to go home disappointed. Alas, nothing can be done.” Macdonald put on his top hat. “Good-”
“All right,” Rory said with a groan. His whole body sagged with defeat. He hated the idea of letting people down. “I’ll come. Let me get my helmet…”
“Excellent! It will be splendid affair, I am sure.” Rory donned his helmet and joined Macdonald out in the hallway. Just as he closed the door, the man added, “Tell me, Centurion, do you know how to dance?”
* * *
Ottawa, Ontario, 1867 A.D.
The heavy lock and chains fell away, allowing the metal gates to swing open just a fraction. Everything in the Central Block was new and the gates didn’t groan at all. The two guards who had escorted Rory respectfully took their leave and soon he was on his own.
For a second, all he could do was stare at the metal gates. They were Gothic in design, thick and elegant and incorporating a maple leaf motif into the metal to reflect the presence of numerous maple trees around the city. Carved into the marble arch above was a Latin phrase, one Rory had helped to think up. It was simple, but apt, and one way of showing what this former colony had protected for so long.
Here resides the Pandorica, the heart of a nation.
He swung the gates open and stepped into the large alcove where the Pandorica sat. When construction had begun on the new parliament buildings nearly ten years ago, one of the designers had the foresight to include a space for the stone box. It had been symbolic, to show that Ottawa was now the permanent capital. The Pandorica would not move, nor would the capital, ever again.
So much for symbolism.
Rory placed his hand on the surface of the Pandorica and an uneasiness he had been carrying for over a century finally faded away. He felt relaxed for the first time in a long time. It had been ages since he was able to see the Pandorica, let alone touch it. He allowed himself a moment, to let it all sink in. They were together again and for good reason.
“Guess what the date is, Amy.” Rory walked around the box, his hand never leaving its side. “July 1st, 1867. We’re standing in a brand new country.”
The Royal proclamation was official today. British North America was now the Dominion of Canada.
“And guess what else.” With his circuit complete, Rory took a step back. He regarded the Pandorica as though Amy were standing right in front of him. “There’s a ship coming. It’s here to take us home.”
He smiled, imagining a squeal of joy from Amy. He had a decree from Queen Victoria herself, dated from March, promising that a ship would be modified and dispatched to transport him and the Pandorica to London. It was set to arrive any day now. Rory had barely curbed the urge to wait at the docks, day and night, to watch for any signs of the Royal flag fluttering from the mast of a mighty ship.
“Only 122 more years until you’re born.” He tried to laugh at his own joke, but he didn’t feel the mirth. The span didn’t seem so long, not compared to a thousand years, but to him it felt like an eternity away. The home stretch. Like in any journey, it was always the hardest part. “Is this what you meant when you told me to wait? So I could help give birth to a new nation?” Rory frowned. “Okay, that came out wrong…”
He turned, catching the sound of footsteps headed towards him. It was only one set of footsteps, though, so it wasn’t the two guards. Everyone should have been outside celebrating Canada’s confederation. Who would be bothering him now?
The obvious answer came into view a few moments later. Macdonald’s usually coiffed hair was slightly mussed today, as though someone had affectionately ruffled his hair. Rory imagined there was a lot of back slapping and hand shaking going on today, with Macdonald at the centre of it. A quiet moment like this was probably a godsend.
“Congratulations.” Rory held out his hand to Macdonald, waiting to see what the man would do.
“Thank you.” Macdonald shook his hand, but his grip was weaker than usual. “I see you had no troubles getting access.”
“No, the guards didn’t say a word. Literally. Are they not paid to talk?”
Macdonald chuckled. “They were in awe of you, I am certain.” He paused, admiring the sight of the Pandorica. “I am sorry this took so long.” He didn’t glance at Rory as he spoke, making it seem like he was apologizing to the box.
“You were bound. You couldn’t go against the Crown’s wishes.”
“Aye,” Macdonald muttered softly. A lot of hard work had got them to this moment. He finally looked over at Rory. “Her Majesty expressed a great interest in meeting you. Did I tell you she even seemed a bit disappointed that you were not part of the delegation that met with her in London?”
To hear that he had disappointed a queen made Rory chuckle nervously. He had a sudden image of Queen Victoria looking displeased and muttering, “We are not amused.” He quickly dismissed the thought. “I couldn’t go to London, not without the Pandorica with me.” It was the unspoken pact. Rory had had plenty of opportunities to return to England throughout the centuries, but it never felt right to go back without the Pandorica being dragged behind him.
“You know, in all of the time I have known you, never once have you mentioned why you need to go to England.” It was the lawyer in Macdonald, sensing holes in a story. He could tell that Rory was holding back.
But as much as Rory respected Macdonald, he couldn’t bring himself to admit the truth. It was a secret that only a few would understand. “Let’s just say that’s where it all started.”
That inherent need to know more was apparent in Macdonald’s eyes, but the man surprisingly restrained himself. Charm would only get you so far, especially when the recipient wasn’t willing to talk. “I wish you well then, whatever your endeavours may be.”
“There’s something I want to give you,” said Rory, before Macdonald could leave. He slipped off Kimura’s katana from his back and handed the scabbard and sword to Macdonald. The man held it in both hands, regarding the weapon with some intrigue. “It belonged to a good friend of mine. I’ve carried it for a long time, but I think it’s time I gave it up.”
“I…” Macdonald chuckled. “I find I have no words to express my gratitude, beyond thank you.” He raised an eyebrow quizzically, as if asking, “Do we hug?”
Rory grasped his forearm, offering a warrior’s handshake. “From one protector of the Pandorica to another, believe me when I say that is enough.”
* * *
Now that Barbara thought about it, it was said that John A. Macdonald had owned a 14th century katana, gifted to him by the Lone Centurion. If the Lone Centurion had been travelling with a group of samurai, that certainly led credence to the theory. It even hinted that the sword held some significance. Why keep it when the other swords were buried? Assuming, of course, that the graves in South America were the graves of the Lone Centurion’s travelling companions.
“Barbara?”
She blinked a few times and reality came flooding back. They had reached the door to the car park and the security guard was waiting politely for her to head outside. He looked as though he had called her name a few times before she responded. A mix of concern and curiosity tugged at his youthful features.
“I’m sorry. I was lost in my own little world.” Barbara reached into her purse to search for her car keys, trying to defer some of her embarrassment. “I didn’t trail off mid-sentence, did I?”
The security guard just smiled. “Nothing wrong with that. I do it all the time.”
Such a simple gesture put her at ease. “Thank you again. I’ll let you get back to work.”
“Yes, wouldn’t want a would-be thief to steal the Pandorica before its big debut.”
“I’d applaud a thief if they managed to abscond with the Pandorica.” Barbara pushed open the door and the cool night air rushed in. “We barely managed to get it into the hall. Good night-” She stopped abruptly as a realization came crashing down on her.
After all this time, she didn’t know the security guard’s name.
“Good night, Ms. Wright.” He mistook her pause as a full stop and turned away to head back into the museum. His long, skinny legs soon took him into the shadows and out of sight.
Barbara shook her head hopelessly as she stepped out into the car park. She couldn’t wait until the exhibit was open. It was stealing all of her focus.
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*HUGS*
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