Doctor Who fic: The Boy Who Waited (17/49)
Title: The Boy Who Waited (17/49)
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.
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
Lop, 1273 A.D.
Rory sank into the tub with a grateful sigh. He hadn’t felt this clean in ages.
The hot water felt nice. He had no sore muscles to soothe, but it reminded him of the long, hot showers he used to take after a taxing shift at the hospital and the memory of muscles slowly loosening helped him to relax. He might have slid right down to the bottom of the tub if not for his dislike of having his head underwater.
He stayed like that until the water cooled and even then he was reluctant to get up. Lop was the last stop before the dreaded desert crossing and only harsh conditions waited for them once they resumed their journey. If Rory could stretch out this moment of luxury for as long as possible, he would.
How bizarre it was, to go from one extreme to the other. Freezing cold mountains to a blazing hot desert. He wasn’t looking forward to the new climate. There was no risk of losing any body parts in the extreme heat, unlike in the wintry conditions of the mountains, but in the mountains you didn’t have to worry about running out of water. Melted snow worked in a pinch. Out in the desert though, if you ran out of water and there was no oasis nearby, your fate was pretty much sealed.
Niccolò had talked about stocking up on water and finding a decent map that laid out where the known oases were. Rory trusted the man to make the necessary preparations without any input from him. After all, the eldest Polo had been this way before. He knew what to expect.
A knock sounded on the door of the bathroom, forcing Rory to sit up. His time was up it seemed. The rest of the expedition needed to bathe, too. With a sigh, he climbed out of the tub and dried himself off with a towel. He pulled on the silk robe provided by the way station and cinched the belt around his waist. He was rubbing the towel over his hair when he pulled the door opened.
Instead of being greeted by one of the Polos, he found himself opposite one of the staff who were employed by the way station. The young Asian woman looked up at him briefly before averting her gaze down to the floor. With her long black hair, her face was partially hidden behind a curtain of raven locks.
“Hello,” he said, recalling the bits of Mongolian he had learned from Niccolò and Maffeo on the trek down from the Pamiers. She said nothing and Rory moved out of her way so she could tend to the bathroom for the next guest.
He took her timid behaviour in stride and continued on to his room. They were probably the first Europeans the young woman had ever seen. Naturally that would produce feelings of shock and awe. Back in his room, Rory found his clothes freshly laundered and his armour cleaned and polished until it looked brand new. He approved thoroughly and was quick to put on his uniform once more.
Properly clothed, he headed out of the way station to the courtyard in the middle of the property. Their battered wagon was parked in one corner, stripped bare of any equipment or supplies. Only the Pandorica remained and it too had been stripped of its silk covering. Rory absently patted the stone box as he passed. To be amply prepared for the next leg of their journey they were taking stock of what they had. What they didn’t need would be sold and everything else they required would be procured, free of charge, thanks to the golden emblem the Polo brothers carried. The Khan had gifted them with the VIP pass, as Rory had come to think of it, for their return journey to Venice and it was coming in handy once more now that they had reached the outer edge of the Khan’s kingdom.
Outside of the way station, heads turned wherever he went. It wasn’t just that his skin was so pale, plastic skin didn’t tan it seemed, but it was also his dress. No one in these parts had seen a Roman centurion before. Their first day in Lop he had a crowd of curious children trailing behind him, trying to grab a hold of his cape. There were no children following him today, but Rory still heard the whispers and the occasional giggle as he passed.
His ultimate destination was the marketplace. If the Polos weren’t back at the way station, then it was a good assumption that they were here, exercising their skills as merchants. Rory didn’t speak the language but that didn’t stop the shopkeepers from trying to sell their wares to him. They waved everything in front of his face from fine silks to cured meats to a bird of prey with a hood over its head. He dismissed them all with an apologetic smile.
The funny thing about Lop was that you had no choice but to buy your wares here. It was the last decent settlement before entering the desert and the merchants knew that. They could charge whatever they wanted for their merchandise and travellers couldn’t really complain. Rory had to wonder what some of them were thinking now that the Polos were flashing around the Khan’s VIP pass.
He found one of the Polos outside of the stables. Maffeo stood with a camel, affectionately petting its fur. The camel looked indifferent to the treatment and continued to chew its cud.
“Found a new friend?” Rory asked playfully. He held out his hand to the camel and it snorted and turned its head away from him.
“A new friend for me perhaps,” joked Maffeo, noticing the exchange. “Niccolò just purchased this fine creature for our crossing.”
It made sense. A camel could outlast a horse in a desert crossing. “What about our ox?”
“Sadly, our stubborn friend is still needed. No one here in Lop has an animal they can spare, at least not one that they are willing to part with free of charge.” Maffeo lowered his voice to a whisper. “Loyalty to the Khan only goes so far.”
Rory smiled briefly. “Where are Niccolò and Marco?”
“Securing more supplies at another stall. They are trying to determine how much water three men can consume in the span of a week while walking through the desert. I happily left them to their numbers. If you need me I will be back at the way station.” Maffeo grabbed the camel’s reins and led it through the streets back the way Rory had come.
Three men, not four. Maffeo had said it so casually Rory almost hadn’t noticed. His unique qualities had become common placed for the Polos it seemed. He knew the feeling well. You just had to accept how bizarre things were or go insane.
Sunglasses. Rory would have killed for a pair.
The endless sand reflected the intensity of the sun’s rays, making the landscape seem even brighter than it was. He could squint his eyes to reduce the glare, but it was tedious to have his eyes narrowed constantly. Maybe he shouldn’t have turned down the offer to purchase a hat before they left Lop.
Niccolò, Maffeo, and Marco all wore a coolie style straw hat and the wide brim kept the sun off their face. In reality, they needed the protection more than Rory. It prevented sunburn and helped to stave off heat stroke. He just liked to complain because there wasn’t much else to do. It was sand for as far as the eye could see and not a cloud in the sky. His entire world had been reduced to blue and light brown.
And it wasn’t just the landscape making him crabby. He was sure the extreme temperatures were getting to him somehow. This was, by far, the hottest place he had ever visited in his long life and the Doctor had warned him to stay away from heat and fire. He wasn’t caught in a blaze but it did feel like he was stuck inside an oven. The heat was oppressive, sucking the life from him with each step. If he stayed out here long enough, would he melt and become a puddle of plastic?
Rory shook his head at the thought. He was not melting. He was fine.
East was the general direction Niccolò had given. The old Silk Road that they followed skirted the northern section of the Gobi Desert. It was a bit out of the way, but it was safer than going straight across the desert. Beyond the direction of the sun, Rory couldn’t tell where they were headed. The hot winds wiped out their footsteps seconds after they were imprinted in the sand. They could get turned around and he probably wouldn’t notice.
He glanced back at the wagon, wishing to look at something besides shifting sand dunes. Another silk merchant had crafted a new covering for the Pandorica, this one solid white. It hurt Rory’s eyes to stare at it for too long, but he glanced back constantly anyway. Was Amy boiling to death inside the Pandorica? No, that didn’t make sense. Nothing could get into the prison. She was fine. Nice and cool. He was a bit jealous, actually.
The ground beneath Rory’s feet suddenly shifted, causing him to stumble and fall. He did a nice face plant into the sand and a cloud of grit flew up into his mouth and eyes. He coughed heartily as he tried to wipe the sand from his vision.
“Centurion!” Marco flew to his side and helped him to his feet. “Usually we are the ones stumbling.” The young man held out his water skin to Rory, but he shook his head, still coughing. He didn’t want to waste Marco’s water allotment for the day.
“Are you all right?” asked Niccolò. He pushed back his hat so he could look at Rory.
“I am fine.” He coughed a few more times. There was no more sand in his mouth but it felt like he had sand lodged in his lungs.
“Are you certain? For the first time, you seem…” Niccolò trailed off and looked to Marco, as if to corroborate his observation.
“Unsteady,” offered Marco, completing his father’s sentence.
“I lost my balance when the sand shifted. It was nothing,” insisted Rory. Niccolò looked convinced but his son didn’t seem as sure. The young man didn’t say anything though.
“Shall we keep moving?” asked Maffeo. He stood in the camel’s shadow, his face barely visible beneath his hat. “I heard stories from the locals about a giant worm nearly a meter long that lives in the desert. They say it can spit acid that can burn a man’s skin. I am not eager to discover if these stories are true.”
“Yes, let us keep going,” said Niccolò. “We still have more ground to cover before nightfall.” He urged the ox to get moving again.
Rory fell into step next to Maffeo. “A giant worm? Who have you been talking to?”
For the first time in over a thousand years, Rory felt tired. He didn’t need to take a kip or anything, but his limbs felt heavy and his thoughts were lethargic. It was like he had worked a double shift at the hospital.
It was the desert. It had to be. Being buried alive and drowning in a well had barely stunned him, but walking across a vast desert was doing him in. God, how useless was an Auton if it could be taken out by 40 degree plus weather? Foot soldiers were supposed to be tough.
He slapped himself across the face, trying to wake himself up a bit, but it seemed useless. His body didn’t produce endorphins so he had no adrenaline to keep him going. Sheer force of will was the only thing fuelling him right now. He fixed his gaze on the Pandorica, travelling on the wagon ahead of him, and he didn’t look away. He had to keep going, for Amy. Rory wasn’t going to fail her, not again.
The wind picked up, blowing sand across their path. They had yet to encounter a sandstorm and thank goodness. There was no place to take shelter out here. If a storm did blow through he could easily imagine the sand cutting them to ribbons like a thousand tiny knives.
The wagon lurched to a halt and Rory barely stopped in time to avoid running into the back end. He took advantage of the unplanned break and rested his weight against the wagon.
“Where is Maffeo?”
Rory looked up. Niccolò was staring past him, a deep frown upon his face. He followed the man’s line of sight and glanced back over his shoulder. He saw the camel, loaded down with some of their supplies, but there was no Maffeo. He had become quite taken with the animal since they left Lop and Rory had rarely seen him more than two steps away from the camel.
“Did you see anything, Centurion?” Niccolò asked him.
Rory shook his head as realization silenced anything he wanted to say. His attention had been on the Pandorica the entire time. If Maffeo had stumbled, he wouldn’t have seen it.
“We need to go back,” declared Niccolò. “Maffeo might have collapsed and he is not carrying a water skin.” Their barrels of water were stored on the wagon and the camel carried the water skins when the Polos weren’t drinking from them. In this heat, Maffeo wouldn’t last more than a few hours without re-hydrating.
“No.” Rory stood up and held out a hand to stop Niccolò. The man’s frown deepened further and he glared at Rory. “We cannot afford to turn around. You and Marco keep going. I will go back for Maffeo and meet you at the next oasis.”
“I mean no disrespect, Centurion, but Maffeo is my brother and I will search for him.” The elder Polo tried to dodge around him.
“Niccolò…” Rory grabbed him by the front of his shirt and held on tight. He had enough strength left to prevent the man from walking off. “Be reasonable. We are running low on water. You cannot waste what is left. You need to reach that oasis while you still can.”
The heat was making everyone irascible. Had they been in a more temperate region, Niccolò would have seen the validity of Rory’s argument. The man rubbed a hand over his face while Marco looked on, ready to step in at a moment’s notice to sway his father’s opinion. “All right,” said Niccolò after a moment. He spoke reluctantly. “The next oasis is southeast from here, some ten kilometres away. Marco and I will wait there for your return.”
“If I am not back in two days,” said Rory, hoping that would be enough time, “continue on without me.”
“If you are not back in two days,” countered Niccolò, “we are coming to look for you.” And he meant it. His expression was one of unwavering sincerity.
Rory chuckled weakly. He nodded his assent at the elder Polo before grabbing one of the water skins off the camel’s pack. Then he took off, trekking across the sandy landscape away from the caravan.
The wind had destroyed all evidence of their trail and there were no landmarks that he could use to gauge their position. Even the landscape was constantly shifting. Sand dunes could change shape completely given a powerful enough gust. Instead, he looked up at the sun and made a note of its position in the sky. It was past midday. Assuming it would take Niccolò and Marco a few hours to reach the oasis that meant they would reach it before sunset. That also meant he had the same amount of time to search for Maffeo before darkness fell and he lost all sense of direction.
He headed west, walking, what he hoped, was a straight line but there was no guarantee that their caravan had been walking a straight path before Maffeo disappeared. It was easy to deviate when you didn’t have any boundaries to keep you in line. Rory simply kept his eyes sharp and he constantly roved his gaze back and forth, looking for any evidence of Maffeo.
And so he walked, and walked, and walked until the sun started dipping into the western horizon.
Rory stopped where he stood. He felt like his head was stuffed with cotton; there was a terrible pressure inside his skull and everything was fuzzy to him. He had walked in silence the entire time with only the sound of flowing sand in his ears. The urge to sit down was strong, but he ignored it.
The figurative light bulb went off over his head. Maffeo wouldn’t have stayed in one spot. As an experienced traveller he would have kept moving, in hopes of running into the caravan again. He knew the location of their next oasis and its general direction. Rory should have been looking more south than west. Energized by the thought, he turned around and started back the way he came, adjusting his path so he started to head southerly. For all he knew, he had passed Maffeo or the younger Polo brother was already at the oasis and the Polos were cursing the stupidity of their Roman friend.
Running on the sand wasn’t easy and there were moments where Rory lost all traction and he nearly fell. Good thing he couldn’t twist an ankle.
“Rory…”
He skidded to a halt, a cold shiver running down his spine. The sun had set but there were still tinges of orange in the sky, still enough light to see by. He spun around madly, taking in every detail around him.
Someone had called his name. His real name.
He took a deep breath. No, it was impossible. No one, absolutely no one, knew who he was, who he truly was. He was imagining things. The sun and the heat were playing with his head. It was the only explanation. It was just the wind. A breeze playing across the top of a sand dune had made it sound like a voice had spoken his name.
“Get moving,” Rory muttered to himself. He could keep going for a bit more, right until it went completely dark. He had to. He needed something else to focus on.
When night came, he just collapsed onto the sand. The ground was still warm, having trapped the heat of the day, but it would soon grow cold. That was the paradox of the desert. It could be blistering hot during the day but at the night there was the distinct possibility that you could freeze to death if the temperature dropped too low. Maffeo wore only light silks and had no means to start a fire. Rory could only hope that he survived the night.
The same sentiment also applied to him. He wouldn’t freeze but there were wild animals out in the desert; he had heard them at night. He could end up with some animal gnawing on his arm if he wasn’t careful. That meant staying alert, but that was a bit of an issue at the moment. More than anything, Rory wanted to close his eyes and sleep. His human mind was begging for some rest and his plastic body offered no resistance. He wanted to curl up into a ball and slip off into a blissful slumber.
His eyelids drooped at the thought of sleep. He tried to force himself to keep his eyes open, but that made him feel even more tired. His head slowly sagged down, until his chin was nearly touching his chest. An hour’s rest. Where was the harm in that?
Maybe he would dream.
If he did dream, if he even fell asleep, Rory had no memory of it. One second he had his eyes closed and the next, a harsh wind was blowing sand into his face. His eyes flew open, which was a mistake. Grit immediately lodged itself in his eyeballs. He pulled his cape up around himself to block the wind while he blinked vigourously to clear his sight.
Great, a sandstorm. Nature had to decide to whip one up now of all times.
He couldn’t tell if this was the worst the storm had to offer or if things were going to pick up as the minutes ticked by. The only thing he was sure of was that he was exposed and likely to be buried under a mountain of sand. He shuddered at the thought.
The sandstorm had a strange luminescence to it. Rory couldn’t see much of anything but it wasn’t pitch black. It was more like early dusk. It wouldn’t help him much, but it was oddly comforting not needing to wander like he had his eyes closed. Not that he wanted to wander around during a sandstorm, but what choice did he have? Maybe he would get lucky and find something besides sand to use as shelter.
He got up and started walking; it didn’t matter which direction. With his hand shielded over his eyes, he could barely see where he was stepping anyway. The sand blasted at him from all directions, like he was stuck in the middle of a tornado, and the strength of the winds was staggering. With each step it felt like they grew stronger and Rory had to fight them like he was facing off against physical opponents.
His skin, tougher than a human’s, took the beating in stride. The sand stung, but that was it. Proper flesh probably would have been abraded by now, maybe even bleeding. A silly thought passed through his head, no doubt due to his disorientation from the heat. Sand blasting was usually used to smooth out a surface. Would the sandstorm smooth out his features? Would he be faceless by the time the storm died? An image of himself with no eyebrows engrained itself in his head. He must have been out of it because a laugh soon followed. Rory had had his bad share of haircuts, but no eyebrows would have been something new.
Said eyebrows furrowed as he frowned. Did something just move out in the storm?
He lowered his hand, squinting hard against the onslaught of sand. He thought he saw a shape, just briefly. Was it some poor confused animal?
Rory lurched forward, kicking his way through drifts of sand as high as his knees. It was like running through water, only the resistance was ten times worse. Maybe the experience was more like running through treacle, not that it was a substance that people often found themselves walking through.
He was thinking about rivers of treacle when he ran into something soft. The unexpected obstacle tripped him up, literally. He stumbled onto his knees, landing on top of whatever was lying on the ground. The whatever let out a feeble moan.
Pulling back, Rory dug away at the sand, frantically throwing aside handfuls of it. What were the odds?
His fingers abruptly brushed up against silk, the smooth fabric a stark contrast to the coarse sand. He grabbed a handful of the cloth and then pulled. The mountain of sand fell away, revealing the head and torso of Maffeo Polo. The man moaned again, assuring Rory that he was still alive, if slightly sluggish. He didn’t look injured, but it was hard to make an accurate assessment in the middle of a sandstorm.
Rory reached for the water skin that miraculous still hung over his shoulder. He hunched over Maffeo, so the man was shielded from the wind, and he pulled the stopper from the skin. Carefully, he dribbled some water into Maffeo’s mouth, just enough to wet his cracked lips and moisten his dry tongue. It seemed to revive the man just a little and he muttered something unintelligible in Italian.
It was the best Rory could do under the circumstances and he tried to take some comfort in that. Mostly he just wanted to get out of this damned sandstorm, but where could he and Maffeo go? Waiting it out seemed like their only option, but he had no clue how long the storm would last. They could be out here for days.
With a clenched jaw, he pulled Maffeo closer, settling him on his lap and huddling the man close to his chest. Then he wrapped his cape around the both of them. There was nothing else he could do. They would have to wait.
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
Lop, 1273 A.D.
Rory sank into the tub with a grateful sigh. He hadn’t felt this clean in ages.
The hot water felt nice. He had no sore muscles to soothe, but it reminded him of the long, hot showers he used to take after a taxing shift at the hospital and the memory of muscles slowly loosening helped him to relax. He might have slid right down to the bottom of the tub if not for his dislike of having his head underwater.
He stayed like that until the water cooled and even then he was reluctant to get up. Lop was the last stop before the dreaded desert crossing and only harsh conditions waited for them once they resumed their journey. If Rory could stretch out this moment of luxury for as long as possible, he would.
How bizarre it was, to go from one extreme to the other. Freezing cold mountains to a blazing hot desert. He wasn’t looking forward to the new climate. There was no risk of losing any body parts in the extreme heat, unlike in the wintry conditions of the mountains, but in the mountains you didn’t have to worry about running out of water. Melted snow worked in a pinch. Out in the desert though, if you ran out of water and there was no oasis nearby, your fate was pretty much sealed.
Niccolò had talked about stocking up on water and finding a decent map that laid out where the known oases were. Rory trusted the man to make the necessary preparations without any input from him. After all, the eldest Polo had been this way before. He knew what to expect.
A knock sounded on the door of the bathroom, forcing Rory to sit up. His time was up it seemed. The rest of the expedition needed to bathe, too. With a sigh, he climbed out of the tub and dried himself off with a towel. He pulled on the silk robe provided by the way station and cinched the belt around his waist. He was rubbing the towel over his hair when he pulled the door opened.
Instead of being greeted by one of the Polos, he found himself opposite one of the staff who were employed by the way station. The young Asian woman looked up at him briefly before averting her gaze down to the floor. With her long black hair, her face was partially hidden behind a curtain of raven locks.
“Hello,” he said, recalling the bits of Mongolian he had learned from Niccolò and Maffeo on the trek down from the Pamiers. She said nothing and Rory moved out of her way so she could tend to the bathroom for the next guest.
He took her timid behaviour in stride and continued on to his room. They were probably the first Europeans the young woman had ever seen. Naturally that would produce feelings of shock and awe. Back in his room, Rory found his clothes freshly laundered and his armour cleaned and polished until it looked brand new. He approved thoroughly and was quick to put on his uniform once more.
Properly clothed, he headed out of the way station to the courtyard in the middle of the property. Their battered wagon was parked in one corner, stripped bare of any equipment or supplies. Only the Pandorica remained and it too had been stripped of its silk covering. Rory absently patted the stone box as he passed. To be amply prepared for the next leg of their journey they were taking stock of what they had. What they didn’t need would be sold and everything else they required would be procured, free of charge, thanks to the golden emblem the Polo brothers carried. The Khan had gifted them with the VIP pass, as Rory had come to think of it, for their return journey to Venice and it was coming in handy once more now that they had reached the outer edge of the Khan’s kingdom.
Outside of the way station, heads turned wherever he went. It wasn’t just that his skin was so pale, plastic skin didn’t tan it seemed, but it was also his dress. No one in these parts had seen a Roman centurion before. Their first day in Lop he had a crowd of curious children trailing behind him, trying to grab a hold of his cape. There were no children following him today, but Rory still heard the whispers and the occasional giggle as he passed.
His ultimate destination was the marketplace. If the Polos weren’t back at the way station, then it was a good assumption that they were here, exercising their skills as merchants. Rory didn’t speak the language but that didn’t stop the shopkeepers from trying to sell their wares to him. They waved everything in front of his face from fine silks to cured meats to a bird of prey with a hood over its head. He dismissed them all with an apologetic smile.
The funny thing about Lop was that you had no choice but to buy your wares here. It was the last decent settlement before entering the desert and the merchants knew that. They could charge whatever they wanted for their merchandise and travellers couldn’t really complain. Rory had to wonder what some of them were thinking now that the Polos were flashing around the Khan’s VIP pass.
He found one of the Polos outside of the stables. Maffeo stood with a camel, affectionately petting its fur. The camel looked indifferent to the treatment and continued to chew its cud.
“Found a new friend?” Rory asked playfully. He held out his hand to the camel and it snorted and turned its head away from him.
“A new friend for me perhaps,” joked Maffeo, noticing the exchange. “Niccolò just purchased this fine creature for our crossing.”
It made sense. A camel could outlast a horse in a desert crossing. “What about our ox?”
“Sadly, our stubborn friend is still needed. No one here in Lop has an animal they can spare, at least not one that they are willing to part with free of charge.” Maffeo lowered his voice to a whisper. “Loyalty to the Khan only goes so far.”
Rory smiled briefly. “Where are Niccolò and Marco?”
“Securing more supplies at another stall. They are trying to determine how much water three men can consume in the span of a week while walking through the desert. I happily left them to their numbers. If you need me I will be back at the way station.” Maffeo grabbed the camel’s reins and led it through the streets back the way Rory had come.
Three men, not four. Maffeo had said it so casually Rory almost hadn’t noticed. His unique qualities had become common placed for the Polos it seemed. He knew the feeling well. You just had to accept how bizarre things were or go insane.
Sunglasses. Rory would have killed for a pair.
The endless sand reflected the intensity of the sun’s rays, making the landscape seem even brighter than it was. He could squint his eyes to reduce the glare, but it was tedious to have his eyes narrowed constantly. Maybe he shouldn’t have turned down the offer to purchase a hat before they left Lop.
Niccolò, Maffeo, and Marco all wore a coolie style straw hat and the wide brim kept the sun off their face. In reality, they needed the protection more than Rory. It prevented sunburn and helped to stave off heat stroke. He just liked to complain because there wasn’t much else to do. It was sand for as far as the eye could see and not a cloud in the sky. His entire world had been reduced to blue and light brown.
And it wasn’t just the landscape making him crabby. He was sure the extreme temperatures were getting to him somehow. This was, by far, the hottest place he had ever visited in his long life and the Doctor had warned him to stay away from heat and fire. He wasn’t caught in a blaze but it did feel like he was stuck inside an oven. The heat was oppressive, sucking the life from him with each step. If he stayed out here long enough, would he melt and become a puddle of plastic?
Rory shook his head at the thought. He was not melting. He was fine.
East was the general direction Niccolò had given. The old Silk Road that they followed skirted the northern section of the Gobi Desert. It was a bit out of the way, but it was safer than going straight across the desert. Beyond the direction of the sun, Rory couldn’t tell where they were headed. The hot winds wiped out their footsteps seconds after they were imprinted in the sand. They could get turned around and he probably wouldn’t notice.
He glanced back at the wagon, wishing to look at something besides shifting sand dunes. Another silk merchant had crafted a new covering for the Pandorica, this one solid white. It hurt Rory’s eyes to stare at it for too long, but he glanced back constantly anyway. Was Amy boiling to death inside the Pandorica? No, that didn’t make sense. Nothing could get into the prison. She was fine. Nice and cool. He was a bit jealous, actually.
The ground beneath Rory’s feet suddenly shifted, causing him to stumble and fall. He did a nice face plant into the sand and a cloud of grit flew up into his mouth and eyes. He coughed heartily as he tried to wipe the sand from his vision.
“Centurion!” Marco flew to his side and helped him to his feet. “Usually we are the ones stumbling.” The young man held out his water skin to Rory, but he shook his head, still coughing. He didn’t want to waste Marco’s water allotment for the day.
“Are you all right?” asked Niccolò. He pushed back his hat so he could look at Rory.
“I am fine.” He coughed a few more times. There was no more sand in his mouth but it felt like he had sand lodged in his lungs.
“Are you certain? For the first time, you seem…” Niccolò trailed off and looked to Marco, as if to corroborate his observation.
“Unsteady,” offered Marco, completing his father’s sentence.
“I lost my balance when the sand shifted. It was nothing,” insisted Rory. Niccolò looked convinced but his son didn’t seem as sure. The young man didn’t say anything though.
“Shall we keep moving?” asked Maffeo. He stood in the camel’s shadow, his face barely visible beneath his hat. “I heard stories from the locals about a giant worm nearly a meter long that lives in the desert. They say it can spit acid that can burn a man’s skin. I am not eager to discover if these stories are true.”
“Yes, let us keep going,” said Niccolò. “We still have more ground to cover before nightfall.” He urged the ox to get moving again.
Rory fell into step next to Maffeo. “A giant worm? Who have you been talking to?”
For the first time in over a thousand years, Rory felt tired. He didn’t need to take a kip or anything, but his limbs felt heavy and his thoughts were lethargic. It was like he had worked a double shift at the hospital.
It was the desert. It had to be. Being buried alive and drowning in a well had barely stunned him, but walking across a vast desert was doing him in. God, how useless was an Auton if it could be taken out by 40 degree plus weather? Foot soldiers were supposed to be tough.
He slapped himself across the face, trying to wake himself up a bit, but it seemed useless. His body didn’t produce endorphins so he had no adrenaline to keep him going. Sheer force of will was the only thing fuelling him right now. He fixed his gaze on the Pandorica, travelling on the wagon ahead of him, and he didn’t look away. He had to keep going, for Amy. Rory wasn’t going to fail her, not again.
The wind picked up, blowing sand across their path. They had yet to encounter a sandstorm and thank goodness. There was no place to take shelter out here. If a storm did blow through he could easily imagine the sand cutting them to ribbons like a thousand tiny knives.
The wagon lurched to a halt and Rory barely stopped in time to avoid running into the back end. He took advantage of the unplanned break and rested his weight against the wagon.
“Where is Maffeo?”
Rory looked up. Niccolò was staring past him, a deep frown upon his face. He followed the man’s line of sight and glanced back over his shoulder. He saw the camel, loaded down with some of their supplies, but there was no Maffeo. He had become quite taken with the animal since they left Lop and Rory had rarely seen him more than two steps away from the camel.
“Did you see anything, Centurion?” Niccolò asked him.
Rory shook his head as realization silenced anything he wanted to say. His attention had been on the Pandorica the entire time. If Maffeo had stumbled, he wouldn’t have seen it.
“We need to go back,” declared Niccolò. “Maffeo might have collapsed and he is not carrying a water skin.” Their barrels of water were stored on the wagon and the camel carried the water skins when the Polos weren’t drinking from them. In this heat, Maffeo wouldn’t last more than a few hours without re-hydrating.
“No.” Rory stood up and held out a hand to stop Niccolò. The man’s frown deepened further and he glared at Rory. “We cannot afford to turn around. You and Marco keep going. I will go back for Maffeo and meet you at the next oasis.”
“I mean no disrespect, Centurion, but Maffeo is my brother and I will search for him.” The elder Polo tried to dodge around him.
“Niccolò…” Rory grabbed him by the front of his shirt and held on tight. He had enough strength left to prevent the man from walking off. “Be reasonable. We are running low on water. You cannot waste what is left. You need to reach that oasis while you still can.”
The heat was making everyone irascible. Had they been in a more temperate region, Niccolò would have seen the validity of Rory’s argument. The man rubbed a hand over his face while Marco looked on, ready to step in at a moment’s notice to sway his father’s opinion. “All right,” said Niccolò after a moment. He spoke reluctantly. “The next oasis is southeast from here, some ten kilometres away. Marco and I will wait there for your return.”
“If I am not back in two days,” said Rory, hoping that would be enough time, “continue on without me.”
“If you are not back in two days,” countered Niccolò, “we are coming to look for you.” And he meant it. His expression was one of unwavering sincerity.
Rory chuckled weakly. He nodded his assent at the elder Polo before grabbing one of the water skins off the camel’s pack. Then he took off, trekking across the sandy landscape away from the caravan.
The wind had destroyed all evidence of their trail and there were no landmarks that he could use to gauge their position. Even the landscape was constantly shifting. Sand dunes could change shape completely given a powerful enough gust. Instead, he looked up at the sun and made a note of its position in the sky. It was past midday. Assuming it would take Niccolò and Marco a few hours to reach the oasis that meant they would reach it before sunset. That also meant he had the same amount of time to search for Maffeo before darkness fell and he lost all sense of direction.
He headed west, walking, what he hoped, was a straight line but there was no guarantee that their caravan had been walking a straight path before Maffeo disappeared. It was easy to deviate when you didn’t have any boundaries to keep you in line. Rory simply kept his eyes sharp and he constantly roved his gaze back and forth, looking for any evidence of Maffeo.
And so he walked, and walked, and walked until the sun started dipping into the western horizon.
Rory stopped where he stood. He felt like his head was stuffed with cotton; there was a terrible pressure inside his skull and everything was fuzzy to him. He had walked in silence the entire time with only the sound of flowing sand in his ears. The urge to sit down was strong, but he ignored it.
The figurative light bulb went off over his head. Maffeo wouldn’t have stayed in one spot. As an experienced traveller he would have kept moving, in hopes of running into the caravan again. He knew the location of their next oasis and its general direction. Rory should have been looking more south than west. Energized by the thought, he turned around and started back the way he came, adjusting his path so he started to head southerly. For all he knew, he had passed Maffeo or the younger Polo brother was already at the oasis and the Polos were cursing the stupidity of their Roman friend.
Running on the sand wasn’t easy and there were moments where Rory lost all traction and he nearly fell. Good thing he couldn’t twist an ankle.
“Rory…”
He skidded to a halt, a cold shiver running down his spine. The sun had set but there were still tinges of orange in the sky, still enough light to see by. He spun around madly, taking in every detail around him.
Someone had called his name. His real name.
He took a deep breath. No, it was impossible. No one, absolutely no one, knew who he was, who he truly was. He was imagining things. The sun and the heat were playing with his head. It was the only explanation. It was just the wind. A breeze playing across the top of a sand dune had made it sound like a voice had spoken his name.
“Get moving,” Rory muttered to himself. He could keep going for a bit more, right until it went completely dark. He had to. He needed something else to focus on.
When night came, he just collapsed onto the sand. The ground was still warm, having trapped the heat of the day, but it would soon grow cold. That was the paradox of the desert. It could be blistering hot during the day but at the night there was the distinct possibility that you could freeze to death if the temperature dropped too low. Maffeo wore only light silks and had no means to start a fire. Rory could only hope that he survived the night.
The same sentiment also applied to him. He wouldn’t freeze but there were wild animals out in the desert; he had heard them at night. He could end up with some animal gnawing on his arm if he wasn’t careful. That meant staying alert, but that was a bit of an issue at the moment. More than anything, Rory wanted to close his eyes and sleep. His human mind was begging for some rest and his plastic body offered no resistance. He wanted to curl up into a ball and slip off into a blissful slumber.
His eyelids drooped at the thought of sleep. He tried to force himself to keep his eyes open, but that made him feel even more tired. His head slowly sagged down, until his chin was nearly touching his chest. An hour’s rest. Where was the harm in that?
Maybe he would dream.
If he did dream, if he even fell asleep, Rory had no memory of it. One second he had his eyes closed and the next, a harsh wind was blowing sand into his face. His eyes flew open, which was a mistake. Grit immediately lodged itself in his eyeballs. He pulled his cape up around himself to block the wind while he blinked vigourously to clear his sight.
Great, a sandstorm. Nature had to decide to whip one up now of all times.
He couldn’t tell if this was the worst the storm had to offer or if things were going to pick up as the minutes ticked by. The only thing he was sure of was that he was exposed and likely to be buried under a mountain of sand. He shuddered at the thought.
The sandstorm had a strange luminescence to it. Rory couldn’t see much of anything but it wasn’t pitch black. It was more like early dusk. It wouldn’t help him much, but it was oddly comforting not needing to wander like he had his eyes closed. Not that he wanted to wander around during a sandstorm, but what choice did he have? Maybe he would get lucky and find something besides sand to use as shelter.
He got up and started walking; it didn’t matter which direction. With his hand shielded over his eyes, he could barely see where he was stepping anyway. The sand blasted at him from all directions, like he was stuck in the middle of a tornado, and the strength of the winds was staggering. With each step it felt like they grew stronger and Rory had to fight them like he was facing off against physical opponents.
His skin, tougher than a human’s, took the beating in stride. The sand stung, but that was it. Proper flesh probably would have been abraded by now, maybe even bleeding. A silly thought passed through his head, no doubt due to his disorientation from the heat. Sand blasting was usually used to smooth out a surface. Would the sandstorm smooth out his features? Would he be faceless by the time the storm died? An image of himself with no eyebrows engrained itself in his head. He must have been out of it because a laugh soon followed. Rory had had his bad share of haircuts, but no eyebrows would have been something new.
Said eyebrows furrowed as he frowned. Did something just move out in the storm?
He lowered his hand, squinting hard against the onslaught of sand. He thought he saw a shape, just briefly. Was it some poor confused animal?
Rory lurched forward, kicking his way through drifts of sand as high as his knees. It was like running through water, only the resistance was ten times worse. Maybe the experience was more like running through treacle, not that it was a substance that people often found themselves walking through.
He was thinking about rivers of treacle when he ran into something soft. The unexpected obstacle tripped him up, literally. He stumbled onto his knees, landing on top of whatever was lying on the ground. The whatever let out a feeble moan.
Pulling back, Rory dug away at the sand, frantically throwing aside handfuls of it. What were the odds?
His fingers abruptly brushed up against silk, the smooth fabric a stark contrast to the coarse sand. He grabbed a handful of the cloth and then pulled. The mountain of sand fell away, revealing the head and torso of Maffeo Polo. The man moaned again, assuring Rory that he was still alive, if slightly sluggish. He didn’t look injured, but it was hard to make an accurate assessment in the middle of a sandstorm.
Rory reached for the water skin that miraculous still hung over his shoulder. He hunched over Maffeo, so the man was shielded from the wind, and he pulled the stopper from the skin. Carefully, he dribbled some water into Maffeo’s mouth, just enough to wet his cracked lips and moisten his dry tongue. It seemed to revive the man just a little and he muttered something unintelligible in Italian.
It was the best Rory could do under the circumstances and he tried to take some comfort in that. Mostly he just wanted to get out of this damned sandstorm, but where could he and Maffeo go? Waiting it out seemed like their only option, but he had no clue how long the storm would last. They could be out here for days.
With a clenched jaw, he pulled Maffeo closer, settling him on his lap and huddling the man close to his chest. Then he wrapped his cape around the both of them. There was nothing else he could do. They would have to wait.