Doctor Who fic: The Boy Who Waited (31/49)
Title: The Boy Who Waited (31/49)
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.
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“Are you all right?”
Rory looked up from his intense study of the dirt road leading to the village. The sun had started to set but even in the low light Kasumi had noticed his pensive mood. “Do I look unwell?” he joked, trying to divert her attention.
“You have been very quiet since we arrived here.” The others were ahead of them on the path, chatting about various things including the approaching feast. For the moment, the two of them wouldn’t be overheard.
“I did not notice,” admitted Rory, though, how often did someone notice their own behaviour when they were lost in thought.
While the samurai might have been worried about his personal safety, it was always Kasumi who looked out for his emotional well-being, even more so now after Cannanore. “I thought you would be eager to speak with Owain again.”
Rory thought he would be, but he wasn’t. He had dreamed a lot about reaching home again and discussing typically English things like football and tea, but now that he had finally encountered someone from home, he really didn’t care. He had gotten so used to using other languages and immersing himself in different cultures. For the first time, he was starting to realize that he actually might miss travelling the globe.
Plus, Owain Williams was… an anomaly.
“Do you not like Owain?” asked Kasumi, sensing his hesitancy.
“He should not be here.” Rory knew he was dodging the question, but this was a valid point, too. “Europeans will start exploring Africa in a few centuries, but not now.” He had read all about the colonies Britain would claim for itself in history class.
“You seem very certain about this.” Kasumi paused, frowning slightly. “In fact, you always seem certain. These are not fanciful stories to pass the time, are they?”
“You thought I was pulling your leg?” Rory felt the tug of a smile. No wonder no one had called him on the veracity of his predictions. They all thought he was making it up.
Kasumi’s frown deepened. “What does my leg have to do with you telling stories?”
He allowed himself that smile. “It is a figure of speech. If someone is telling an unbelievable tale, they are pulling your leg.”
“Oh. That still does not answer my question. Can you…” Kasumi paused, as if she couldn’t believe what she was about to say. “Can you see into the future?”
Excited shouts pulled them out of the conversation. They were near the gates of the village and the sentries had spotted their approach. No one in the village would know what they were saying, but Rory wanted to keep this between themselves. “I will explain, but tomorrow, after we leave.”
Kasumi regarded the gates with a spiteful look, as though they had done her a great harm. “Do you promise?” She looked back at Rory and such determination filled her gaze that it was almost frightening. She would have her answers, one way or another.
The gates opened, inviting them into the village.
“I promise.” He spoke earnestly, without a hint of a joking smile. After coming all this way and enduring all she had, it was the least Rory could do for Kasumi.
Rory could say this about the Xhosa. They knew how to throw a party.
The entire village had greeted them, with everyone dressed up in their best finery. They stood lining the streets, each with a smile on their face. Towards the centre of the village the crowd thinned out a bit, indicating that only those with the right status had the honour of sitting with the special guests.
Rory and the others were given woven mats to sit on and they sat in a large circle with the tribal leader, his family, and some of the other elder members of the village. Dinner came first and it was more food than any of them had seen in a long time. Rationing was a serious business aboard a ship; run out of food in the middle of the ocean and you were good as dead. Rory could only watch as the others dug into their meals with gusto. No one seemed to question that he ate nothing, but when the drinks were brought out, a glass was forced upon him.
He sniffed the contents of the cup. It smelled vaguely sweet, making him think it was more of a wine than a beer. When he glanced around the circle, the villagers were drinking it freely and even the samurai were draining their cups. Rory looked to Kasumi, who had hesitated over her own drink. She caught his eye, shrugged - a habit she had picked up from him - and then she took a sip. Despite a slight cringe as the liquid settled on her tongue, she didn’t choke or pass out.
“Bottom’s up,” muttered Rory and he took a cautious sip.
The sweet smell was a ruse. The wine tasted more like vinegar than anything else. He nearly spat the wine back into his cup, but he forced himself to swallow so he wouldn’t offend anyone. He felt the liquid settle in his stomach, or whatever passed as a stomach in his plastic body. A part of him really hoped that tiny bit of wine wouldn’t stay in him for all of eternity.
The wine was still flowing freely when dinner ended and the entertainment began. Owain had been translating the entire time and a flurry of Japanese, Latin, and Xhosa had filled the night. Now, conversations died down as dancers and musicians stepped into the centre of the circle.
As far as Rory could tell, it was a story about the Xhosa and how they came to be in the world. Owain translated, but like subtitles on a foreign movie it all went by too fast and Rory only picked up half of the plot. Not that it mattered. He still enjoyed watching the dancers and the audience was encouraged to clap along with the music. With the addition of alcohol, things became a little more boisterous, but it only fuelled the energy of the dancers.
As the tale neared the end, Rory seemed to be the only one who could sit up straight. Most people in the circle were slumped over and ready to pass out. A few already had. To his great amusement, Yamada looked a little bleary-eyed. Ichiro, a good sailor who could hold his liquor, helped himself to another cup of wine. Rory had to wonder if Ichiro would be sober enough to sail the ship tomorrow morning. He suddenly regretted not learning more about the workings of the Hikaru Maru.
The dance ended but the music continued. With the main entertainment for the night over, a good majority of the village wobbled off back to their homes to fall into a deep sleep. Rory stretched his back. He wasn’t sore, but he wanted to get up and walk around a bit.
He got to his feet and looked around at his companions. The wine had seemingly lowered everyone’s inhibitions. Yamada chatted casually to one of the off-duty sentries; Kimura’s sword hung forgotten at his side. Katō swayed along with the music, as though he were a snake being charmed. Chiaki joked with some of the dancers, one of their masks worn over his face. Inaba played with some of the village dogs, throwing the boomerang Kimura had received as a gift from the Aboriginals. And Ichiro was engaged in what could only be described as a drinking contest with the tribal leader. Several empty gourds of wine littered the ground in front of them but neither looked ready to back down.
Rory shook his head in amusement, but he didn’t try to drag any of them away. He had always been the designated driver back in university. Watching others have more fun than him was nothing new.
He looked around for Kasumi, but her spot was empty. Owain was absent as well. If the man was trying to charm her then he wasn’t going to have much luck, not knowing any Japanese, but a language barrier had never stopped some of his friends back in uni.
Weaving his way around a pair of passed out villagers, Rory made his way to Owain’s house. The animal skin that hung over the doorway wasn’t much of a barrier, but it clearly showed that no one was inside. The house was dark; none of the lanterns were lit. Rory didn’t hear any movement inside, either.
He might have been inclined to move on, but the desire to sate his curiosity was too strong. It hadn’t escaped Rory’s notice that Owain hadn’t really talked about the reason he was in Africa. The man had mentioned research but he hadn’t elaborated, much in the same manner that Rory hadn’t elaborated about the Pandorica. He normally didn’t associate research with secrecy, unless Owain thought that Rory was a rival of sorts and he couldn’t be trusted with the truth.
But a gut feeling told him that wasn’t the case. Owain was hiding something.
No one saw Rory enter the house, but if anyone had it wasn’t as if they were coherent enough to make sense of what they saw. He tacked the door flap to one side to allow some of the torchlight to filter in, but his night vision was good enough that he could see without tripping over anything. Not that there was much to trip over. He ignored the maps and books laid out on the table; they were in plain sight, so they wouldn’t contain anything surreptitious unless Owain was a criminal mastermind and he did things like hiding in plain sight. Instead, Rory headed to the corner to root through Owain’s sack.
The cloth bag was full of clothes in desperate need of a wash, but nothing else. Either Owain was a light traveller or anything of value he might have taken with him had been stolen. He certainly would have been an easy target for thieves and pickpockets. Rory started to feel a little bad about going through Owain’s things when he felt something heavy at the bottom of the bag. He turned it upside down, dumping everything onto the woven mat that Owain used as a mattress.
The heavy something turned out to be a book, or rather a journal when Rory opened it up and saw the pages upon pages of notes. Most of it was hasty scrawl that covered the paper from corner to corner; in the weak light Rory couldn’t make out much. Sometimes the notes were accompanied by drawings, quick representations of statues or engravings that seemed important. He thought he saw a Roman frieze or two as he flipped through the journal.
From what he could gather, Owain was searching for something. He had travelled around England before leaving London for Rome and then from there he went to Egypt. Now he wandered the plains of Africa. Nothing in the notes hinted that the scholar had found what he was looking for.
Rory flipped through to the very last entry. He wondered how many journals Owain had filled while looking for his mystery object. The constant searching would be draining. Maybe Owain was starting to crack a bit under the…
He reached the last entry. This time there wasn’t a page of cramped handwriting. Instead, there was one sketch, rendered with more detail than any of the others. A sketch of a large stone box with circular designs carved into the sides. One sentence, translated into several different languages including Latin, was written beneath it, underlined several times.
I have found it.
Rory stared blankly at the drawing of the Pandorica, unable to form any coherent thoughts. He even stopped breathing.
This wasn’t possible. Owain had barely caught a glimpse of the Pandorica back at the Hikaru Maru and yet, here was a perfect representation, right down to the complicated lines of the designs. Only someone who had spent an inordinate amount of time studying the stone box could have drawn it so flawlessly.
England. The Roman friezes. Rory took in a deep breath, freeing him from his shock. Of course. He slammed the journal shut and rose to his feet. He needed to have a talk with Owain.
By the time he heard the footsteps behind him, it was too late. The blade entered cleanly through his back, puncturing the place where his heart would have been. He stared down at the tip of the knife protruding from his chest, not quite believing what he was seeing, as though he were looking at someone else’s chest. For just a split second, he was completely detached from every sensation.
The knife was pulled free and with that act came the absolutely crippling pain. Even he, with his hearty plastic constitution, wasn’t immune to the feeling. He stumbled and fell to his knees, but didn’t go down. Then something crashed into the back of his skull with what felt like the force of a wrecking ball. Rory was out before he hit the ground.
Darkness greeted Rory when he opened his eyes. It wasn’t just an absence of light. Something covered his head; he could feel the scratchy material against his skin. He inhaled and the stink of unwashed clothes hit him full on. Owain’s bag.
Slowly, the rest of his senses returned to him. The music was gone. That meant he was no longer in the village. The night air was cool on his skin. He had been stripped of his tunic for whatever reason. The sharp, vinegar taste of the wine was on his tongue. Had he thrown up the little he had tasted? No, the wine was all over his mouth and chin, too; the liquid had dried into a sticky residue. Someone had tried to drown him?
It then hit Rory that his arms were above his head and his feet barely touched the ground. He tried to lower his arms and found that he couldn’t. The twisted fibres of a rough rope dug into his wrists. He was bound then, and maybe suspended in the air. He was just glad that the rope wasn’t around his neck. He really didn’t want to find out if he could survive having his neck broken.
Rory bucked his head, trying to throw off the bag. He needed to see where he was. Voices reached him through the thick cloth, speaking words he didn’t recognize. The villagers. He didn’t see who stabbed him. Had a group of them attacked him?
“Please,” he begged in Latin, in the desperate hope that one of them had picked up a few words from Owain. “I am not here-”
The blow hit Rory hard in the stomach. He could have shrugged it off, but what he was hit with made all the difference. A torch. The flames seared his skin and a red hot pain raced through his belly.
He moaned loudly and if it wasn’t for the ropes holding him up, he would have slumped over onto the ground. Some shouting followed, but Rory barely noticed. If they wanted to hit him again, there was nothing he could about it. He’d just have to ride it out and hope one of the others noticed he was missing before the villagers got tired of beating him with flaming sticks and went for the big finish.
He waited for more blows to come and the anticipation alone made him tense. He heard shuffled steps and more voices, but no one came close with a fire of any sort. Had they grown bored of him already? As subtly as he could, he pulled on the ropes, testing their strength. Whatever he was tied to was strong but it wasn’t indestructible. Had he been feeling one hundred percent, a few good yanks probably would have snapped the rope.
There was one other option. There was always one other option, but Rory didn’t like it. The Auton gun in his hand. One shot and the rope would break. He was essentially blind though. He wouldn’t know which way to aim and as annoyed as he was, he was not going to shoot one of the villagers.
He wasn’t sure how long he hung there, thinking over possible escape plans. When the bag was finally ripped off of his head, the burn on his stomach had settled down to a dull throb. Rory blinked a few times, bringing his vision into focus.
Five of the villagers stood before him and the one directly in front of him held a torch. Their faces looked vaguely familiar and it took him a moment to place them. They had helped carry supplies back to the Hikaru Maru. The man holding the torch was the one Rory had shouted at for getting too close to the Pandorica. Was this some bizarre revenge scheme?
“It didn’t mean anything,” said Rory, making his tone sound as sincere as possible.
The man said nothing. His face was an unreadable mask, as empty as a stone wall. He brought down the torch and for a moment, Rory feared the man would set him on fire. Instead, the man touched the flames to the ground. There was a loud whoosh as the ground caught fire and soon Rory was closed in by a ring of fire. Whatever accelerant the villagers had used it caused the flames to jump as high as Rory’s waist. Though there were several inches between Rory and the edge of the circle, he was acutely aware of the intensity of the heat. To him, it seemed like the circle was closing in…
He took a steadying breath. It was just the heat. If they had wanted to kill him, they would have set him ablaze, not the ground. This was just a prison, a way to keep him contained.
He looked back up at the men. They didn’t leer at him nor did they look smug. They seemed… indifferent, like the outcome didn’t matter to them. Rory glared back at them, trying to look as threatening as he could under the circumstances, but all he could really think about was his legs and how they might turn into puddles of plastic under these temperatures.
“Ngokwaneleyo.” The voice came from behind the men, beyond the halo of light given off by the flames. Rory squinted through the waves of heat, trying to make out what was there. A camp or maybe some rocks? There was one big rock, taller than a man.
“No.” He wanted to blame the extreme temperature for what he saw, but there was no mistaking it. The Pandorica. They had moved it off the ship.
The voice spoke again and the men scattered, clearing a path. Rory wasn’t surprised when Owain entered into view. He strode up to the ring of fire, his hands clasped behind his back. The light from the flames accented the hollowness of his cheekbones, making him seem emaciated.
Owain stopped a handful of steps from the edge of the fire. If his proximity to the intense heat bothered him, it didn’t show. “I regret to say that I did not recognize you right away. There is a fresco of you at La Sapienza. It does not do you justice.”
Rory felt no gratification that his initial dislike of Owain was justified. He just wanted to break free and throttle the man. Instead, he bit his tongue, seeing no need to dignify Owain with a response.
“I should thank you. I was prepared to spend the rest of my life looking for the Pandorica. Imagine my surprise when I find it sitting with the cargo on a rickety little ship.” Owain paused as his voice filled with emotion. He smiled at Rory. “You thought you could hide it from me.”
It wasn’t a teasing smile or even a mocking one. It was a smile that said, “You lose.”
Rory couldn’t stay silent any longer. “The Pandorica is meaningless. It will not grant you power or make you immortal.”
“Then why have you held on to it for so long?” The accusation wasn’t hurled at Rory; Owain sounded like he was addressing a student of his. The calm authority was slightly eerie.
“I vowed to protect it until-”
“Until the time was right to open it. Yes, I have heard the stories. It is just that, though. A story, one you invented so that no one else would touch the Pandorica.”
“What have you been reading?!” Rory shouted at Owain in frustration. “It is just a box!” The man was insane. He was creating scenarios to fit his view of the world.
“It is a container, yes, but we both know it is more than that.” Owain’s eyes shined with barely contained excitement. “The contents are what make it so special.”
Rory yanked on the ropes again, but his strength was failing him. The tree branch he was suspended from was too strong. Unless the tree caught fire, the branch wasn’t breaking. “There is nothing inside,” he insisted. He leaned forward as close as he dared, hoping to inspire Owain to see some reason. “Nothing of importance to you.”
Owain chuckled. “Nothing of importance? I have been thorough in my research; you cannot hide its secrets from me. I know what you did.”
He knew about Amy? No, Rory didn’t believe it. The only other person who knew about Amy was Kasumi and her knowledge was abstract at best. Owain was playing at something else. Whatever he thought, though, it was endangering over a thousand years of toil. Rory didn’t come all this way only to have the Pandorica snatched out from under him by a rogue scholar.
“What did I do, Owain?” It wasn’t much of a plan, keeping Owain talking, but the longer that Rory was missing, the greater the chance that Yamada or the others would notice. Unless the samurai were too drunk to notice.
The banquet. Of course. Rory should have seen it sooner. It was all a massive distraction. The wine had ensured that they wouldn’t leave the village while Owain was pillaging the Pandorica from the Hikaru Maru. Rory was only stabbed after it became obvious that the alcohol had no effect on him. But that had been before Owain knew that Rory was the Pandorica’s fabled protector. He had instructed the villagers to commit murder.
Rory was disgraced to share a name with this man.
“Are you acknowledging your wrongdoings, Centurion?” There was no malice in Owain’s voice. It was like a priest asking a parishioner to confess their sins.
“Yes.”
If a wall of flame hadn’t separated them, Rory was sure Owain would have rushed forward, brimming with delight. Years of research had finally paid off. “Why did you do it? Why did you steal the stars?”
Rory opened his mouth, but words refused to come. This was becoming too absurd. He had stolen the stars?
His silence was seemingly mistaken for stubbornness. “Did you think them forgotten? Accounts still exist, describing the points of light in the night sky. The ancient civilizations kept very good records. Even the Xhosa remember, passing stories down through the generations. They all say the same thing. The stars existed before the Pandorica was found.”
Under different circumstances, Owain’s persistence might have been commendable. As far as Rory knew, no one else had established a connection between the missing stars and the Pandorica. “What would I gain from stealing the stars?”
“What indeed. You were stabbed through the heart and yet you live. You have survived over a thousand years without aging a day. You save the power of the Pandorica for yourself. That is why you guard it so fiercely.”
“The stars hold no power,” argued Rory. “They were distant suns, signs of other planets and galaxies in the universe. You cannot hold them in your hand, let alone inside a stone box.”
“Then there is no harm in opening the Pandorica. Do so and I will let you go.”
If Rory could sweat, he’d be sweating buckets by now. Not just from the heat but from the pressure as well. It had taken the sonic screwdriver to open the Pandorica last time and Rory was all out of handy Time Lord gizmos. He could lie to Owain, to get cut down, but then what? He wasn’t going to leave unless the Pandorica was back in his hands.
“It cannot be opened, not by me.” It was the truth. The Doctor had said the box needed a DNA sample to restore Amy’s life. The key was Amy herself.
The light of the flames danced across Owain’s face as he thought this over, sharpening the angles of his features. It gave him a malevolent air, chasing away his genial scholar appearance. The men from the village, wholly forgotten, subtly shifted positions, ready to carry out any commands.
“Masihambe.”
The villagers turned and walked off towards the Pandorica. Owain lingered a moment longer, staring at Rory square in the eye. It was as if he thought he could divine the secrets of the Pandorica from Rory’s mind. Rory glared back, willing the fire to leap forward so it would enclose Owain instead.
Owain blinked and he stepped back, not in alarm but with the satisfaction that he was doing the right thing. With his hands still clasped behind his back, he turned on his heel and moved off to join the villagers.
Rory pulled on the ropes again, mustering what was left of his strength. The ropes creaked under the strain, but they held fast. He tried one more time, but it was useless. He couldn’t plant his feet on the ground, so he had zero leverage. The only way he was getting down was if someone cut the end of the rope wrapped around the trunk of the tree.
“I’m sorry, Amy,” whispered Rory. The force of his exertion left him swaying slightly from the tree branch and he felt like a useless puppet.
A hand touched him on the back, stilling the sway of the ropes.
He threw a glance over his shoulder. And there, standing right behind him, was Kasumi. The flames at the rear of the circle had died down, mostly likely from Kasumi kicking dirt over the fire to smother it. She smiled encouragingly at him, brandishing a small knife. With the blade, she motioned to the rope around the tree and mimed a cutting action. He nodded his understanding and silently urged her to work quickly.
He couldn’t believe that she was here. He thought for sure she would be back at the village with the others. Did that mean the samurai were nearby, lying in wait to attack the villagers and take back the Pandorica?
Rory looked back to the stone box. Owain watched as the villagers tied ropes around it. Everyone’s attention was on the task. All Kasumi needed was a few seconds more. They could make it out of here without anyone noticing.
But luck just wasn’t on Rory’s side today. One of the villagers looked up and immediately shouted in alarm when he saw Kasumi trying to cut through the rope. Owain spun around, his brow furrowed in disapproval. He broke into a run, intent on stopping Kasumi before she could sever the rope completely.
Kasumi hesitated. The knife was no match for the thick and sturdy rope; she was only halfway through. She looked up at Rory with a frown. She wasn’t leaving without him, just as he wasn’t willing to leave without the Pandorica. He appreciated her stubbornness, but now wasn’t really the time.
“Run!” Rory shouted in Japanese.
Stubbornness gave way to common sense. Kasumi couldn’t save Rory if she was captured herself. She made a break for it, heading back into the darkness away from the tree. She was fast, but Owain was faster. Fuelled by adrenaline or rampart fervour, he was able to put on a burst of speed and took a flying tackle at her. Owain caught Kasumi around the mid-section, knocking them both to the ground. Dust was kicked into the air as the young woman struggled to free herself from beneath Owain. She slashed with the knife, aiming for the man’s face. Owain brought up his hand to protect himself and the blade sliced into his palm.
He cried out in pain, but it didn’t dissuade him. Rory watched helplessly as Owain brought down his fist and smashed Kasumi’s forehead into the ground. Her struggles waned and she swiped sluggishly with the knife.
“Kasumi!” Rory wrenched on the ropes, straining every muscle in his body.
Owain stumbled to his feet, breathing heavily. He cradled his injured hand and blood dripped from the wound. Showing just how spiteful he could be, he kicked Kasumi in the ribs, hard enough that she rolled over onto her back. Leaning down, he grabbed the knife with his cut hand, encountering no resistance from Kasumi. With his free hand, he pulled her to her feet and half marched, half dragged her back over to Rory.
Kasumi was still conscious but she had that dazed, far off look of someone just on the brink of blacking out. Her head lolled forward and her long black hair hid her face from view.
“I understand now.” Owain lifted the knife. The hilt was already slick with his blood. “I know what the Pandorica needs.” He shouted at the villagers. They picked up the ropes now tied around the box and together they hauled it over.
“Owain, stop this. I know what happened to the stars. I will tell you everything. Just let my friend go.”
But the scholar wasn’t listening anymore. He had been unstable when this whole thing started and now he was over the edge. He bounced on the balls of his feet as he waited for the villagers to bring the Pandorica to him. “Why did I not see this before?” The villagers stopped a few paces from Owain and then they dropped the ropes to slink back off into the shadows. He approached the Pandorica, his arm still wrapped around Kasumi. “You need a sacrifice to bring back the stars.”
“No!”
The blade flashed. Blood spurted through the air. Kasumi dropped to the ground.
Lifeless.
Rory went absolutely still. The knife might as well have slit his own throat. He hung from that tree, just as lifeless, his mind unable to comprehend what he just saw.
Owain dropped the knife, treating it with the same casual disregard as he had with Kasumi’s body, and he reached out with his bloody hand to place it against the surface of the Pandorica. The drops of blood splattered across the stone were dark, barely distinguishable in the low light. Owain threw back his head, his eyes closed, ready to greet the miracle he had brought about.
The rope around the tree snapped. Rory fell to the ground and it was so sudden that he just collapsed into a heap. He lay there, ignorant of the dancing flames and the silent shadows.
The Pandorica didn’t react.
Owain opened his eyes and he stared dumbfounded at the inert box. “I gave you blood. Is that not enough?” He cocked his head to one side, as if listening to another voice. “Yes, I know what you need.” He turned, shifting his gaze to Rory.
The boomerang whistled through the air, striking Owain square in the temple. The force of the blow knocked him off balance and he reeled drunkenly until he crashed back into the Pandorica.
Rory blinked a few times. A boomerang.
“Kimura taught me that.” Yamada was suddenly at Rory’s side, cutting through the ropes around his wrists.
The other samurai emerged just as soundlessly from the darkness, wielding katanas and bo staves. The villagers reached for their own weapons and stood their ground.
Yamada rose to his full height and drew his own sword, making his movements deliberately slow to cause the blade to ring as it cleared the scabbard. One of the villagers shifted nervously. Shouting a battle cry, Yamada burst forward through the ring of fire, acting as if the flames weren’t even there. His cry rallied the other samurai and they charged into the fray.
The shouts of the warriors rallied Rory, too. He still felt numb, but he couldn’t stand the thought of just lying there anymore. He had to do something. His world spun a little when he got to his feet and he had to steady himself against the tree. The clash of swords rang out, but it sounded so far away to Rory.
With lurching steps, he made his way over to the Pandorica. The thought of copying Yamada’s feat entered his mind, but he quickly dismissed it. He felt drained enough as it was; he didn’t need to add melted legs to his troubles. As it was, he was ending up with a new scar, one more for his collection, and a burn on his stomach. The melted skin made the burn look like an old wound. It wasn’t a livid red but a stark white, like all scar tissue.
Owain lay slumped at the base of the Pandorica, blood running down his left temple from where the boomerang had hit him. The innocuous curved stick sat in the dirt next to him. His chest still rose and fell, proving that he wasn’t dead. The scholar blinked blearily at Rory; the pupil of his left eye was completely blown out making it look like a black orb. “I gave it what it wanted,” he said feebly.
Rory had nothing left to say. He pooled his strength and punched Owain right in the jaw. Bloody spittle sprayed from Owain’s mouth and he was out cold by the time he hit the ground.
The momentum of the punch nearly spun Rory all the way around and he ended up falling onto his knees. He landed next to Kasumi and for the first time he saw how bad her injuries were. There was a nasty bruise on her forehead, but it was inconsequential to the gash across her throat. Owain had cut the carotid artery, causing the blood splatter. It had happened so quickly, Kasumi’s eyes were still open.
Rory had seen his fair share of death, but it was never easy losing someone close to you. Kasumi should have been full of life, teasing him about his strange sayings or working hard to learn a new word in English. He wanted tears to pool, but his plastic body wasn’t capable of crying. All he could do was reach out and close Kasumi’s eyes.
“My name is Rory Williams. I am from the future. The woman I love is Amy Pond.”
It was all the things he meant to say to her, all the things he wanted to say to her once they were gone from here. Now he would never get the chance.
He sat there, holding vigil over Kasumi’s body, until Yamada came back and touched him on the shoulder. Rory looked up. The fight was over. The villagers were nowhere to be seen. The others were testing the strength of the ropes tied around the Pandorica.
“Centurion.” It was the first time Rory had heard him use his title. The pronunciation wasn’t flawless, but it was clear that he had been practicing. “We must leave,” insisted Yamada. He handed Rory his discarded tunic. In the other, he held a torch.
Rory slipped on the garment, barely noticing the holes on the front and back. Shrugging off any help, he lifted Kasumi’s body from the ground. The movement clearly strained him, but the samurai said nothing. Yamada took the lead back to the ship and Rory followed while the other samurai brought up the rear with the Pandorica.
He paid no attention to their journey. All he focused on was putting each foot forward and not dropping Kasumi. Her head rested on his shoulder and he could smell the salt of the ocean in her hair. She had become deeply tanned from the sun. You couldn’t even tell that she had grown pale from the massive blood loss. He could almost pretend that he was simply carrying her back to the Hikaru Maru after having too much wine.
It was still dark when they reached the harbour where they had left the ship. A large square path in the dirt marked where the Pandorica had been dragged off by the villagers. Rory didn’t even pause to see if the samurai needed help loading the box. He walked up the ramp to the deck of the ship and headed straight to Ichiro’s cabin.
The lanterns inside were lit, indicating that the captain was inside. Rory called Ichiro’s name. Was the sorrow in his voice obvious? He wasn’t even sure what he would say to Kasumi’s father. All he knew was that he didn’t want to put this off.
The door swung open, revealing a cranky looking Ichiro. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin was pale. It seemed to take him a moment to focus on Rory’s face and another moment after that to notice Kasumi. He frowned, shooting Rory his usual look of disapproval.
He didn’t know. He had no idea where his daughter had been.
“I am sorry, Ichiro,” said Rory. He tried to look the man in the eye, but when he did, his courage failed him and he settled his gaze on Ichiro’s chest. “They came to save me. Kasumi…”
Ichiro pushed pass the lingering haze of the alcohol and reached out with a shaky had to brush away Kasumi’s hair. The blood had dried on her throat, staining the fine silk of her kimono. Ichiro suddenly looked like he was going to be sick and he stumbled back away from Rory. He eventually crashed into his bed and collapsed onto the mattress. His chest heaved as he took deep breaths. It seemed like he couldn’t look away from the dead body of his only child.
Even if he had no heart, it still felt like the knife was in his chest and someone was twisting the blade. Knowing anything he said would be meaningless, Rory quietly took his leave from Ichiro’s cabin. He travelled the few short steps to Kasumi’s berth and carefully laid her down on her bed. He knelt down on the floor next to her and took up one of her hands. She was already cold to the touch.
He knew what she would say to him. This wasn’t his fault. She had wanted to come along. It was the right thing to do. That seemed to be Kasumi’s mantra. Everyone in the world deserved to be helped. There were no such things as useless or unworthy causes.
“Thank you.” He wasn’t sure which language he used, but it was the sentiment that counted.
The floorboards creaked and Rory looked back over his shoulder. Yamada filled the doorway to the room. His gaze briefly strayed to Kasumi’s body and in that moment he even couldn’t hide his emotions. Then he blinked and the mask settled over his face once more. “The Pandorica is loaded.” The word didn’t roll effortlessly off of Yamada’s tongue, but most of the sounds were there.
Rory was about to give his thanks when he noticed the fabric of Yamada’s kimono shined slightly in the light. He reached out before the samurai could step away and his fingers came back covered in blood. “You are injured.” He could see it now. A cut along Yamada’s side. It was partially hidden amongst the folds of the fabric.
“It is nothing.”
“It is not ‘nothing’.” Rory got to his feet. He still had medical supplies stored in his chest in the hold. “I am stitching you up right now.” He pushed Yamada out into the hallway. He only managed a step forward when he saw Ichiro exit his cabin. The captain immediately noticed him, too. They held each other’s gazes for the span of several awkward seconds.
For a man who had been drinking heavily, he was certainly light on his feet. Rory barely saw him move and the next thing he knew, Ichiro had landed a punch to his jaw. It hurt, but Rory didn’t even bother with defending himself. He let the blows come.
Ichiro punched and punched until his arms grew tired and he could barely draw a breath. Tears were streaming down his face as he feebly slammed his fists down onto Rory’s chest. Rory caught him before he could collapse onto the floor.
They stood there in the hall with Yamada as their silent sentry. Ichiro shed enough tears for all three of them.
* * *
“The Star Cults insist that the stars used to be other planets in the sky. If the Celts didn’t make the Pandorica, are you saying that it came from another planet?” Even though Sarah Jane was the one asking the question, it seemed like she couldn’t believe that she was actually asking it. “Richard Dawkins would have a field day with that one.”
Barbara smiled, curbing the urge to shake her head, as she always did whenever someone mentioned the infamous creator of the Star Cults. Dawkins was an intelligent man; it was a shame that he wasted that intelligence on something as ridiculous as a cult.
She was prepared to add her own thoughts when her phone rang. Instinct told her that it was Dorothy, checking up on her. Ten minutes had barely passed since she walked off with Sarah Jane. Barbara was surprised the young woman had managed to wait that long. She smiled apologetically at Sarah Jane and picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“The security guards want to talk to you about surveillance in the exhibit. Can you spare a minute?” It sounded like a legitimate reason to get her out of her office. No one was about to steal the Pandorica, but the museum wouldn’t want anyone defacing it either.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can”
“Ace.” Dorothy sounded from far relieved, despite the use of her favourite expression.
Barbara hung up. “I’m afraid duty calls,” she said to Sarah Jane.
“No, it’s perfectly all right.” Sarah Jane closed her notebook and shoved it back into her purse. “When I get back to the office I’ll phone you to set up a time for a formal interview.”
Barbara had no idea when that would be, but she could figure out that one later. “While you’re here, you could talk with the museum’s director. I’m sure he would be delighted to speak with you about your programme.”
“I’ll do that.” Sarah Jane stood up and held out her hand. Barbara rose from her chair and they exchanged an eager handshake. “Thank you. This has been enlightening.”
“The feeling is mutual. I hope the British public will express the same amount of enthusiasm when the exhibit opens.”
Sarah Jane smiled knowingly. “Oh, I’m sure they will. Everyone loves a good mystery.”
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.
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“Are you all right?”
Rory looked up from his intense study of the dirt road leading to the village. The sun had started to set but even in the low light Kasumi had noticed his pensive mood. “Do I look unwell?” he joked, trying to divert her attention.
“You have been very quiet since we arrived here.” The others were ahead of them on the path, chatting about various things including the approaching feast. For the moment, the two of them wouldn’t be overheard.
“I did not notice,” admitted Rory, though, how often did someone notice their own behaviour when they were lost in thought.
While the samurai might have been worried about his personal safety, it was always Kasumi who looked out for his emotional well-being, even more so now after Cannanore. “I thought you would be eager to speak with Owain again.”
Rory thought he would be, but he wasn’t. He had dreamed a lot about reaching home again and discussing typically English things like football and tea, but now that he had finally encountered someone from home, he really didn’t care. He had gotten so used to using other languages and immersing himself in different cultures. For the first time, he was starting to realize that he actually might miss travelling the globe.
Plus, Owain Williams was… an anomaly.
“Do you not like Owain?” asked Kasumi, sensing his hesitancy.
“He should not be here.” Rory knew he was dodging the question, but this was a valid point, too. “Europeans will start exploring Africa in a few centuries, but not now.” He had read all about the colonies Britain would claim for itself in history class.
“You seem very certain about this.” Kasumi paused, frowning slightly. “In fact, you always seem certain. These are not fanciful stories to pass the time, are they?”
“You thought I was pulling your leg?” Rory felt the tug of a smile. No wonder no one had called him on the veracity of his predictions. They all thought he was making it up.
Kasumi’s frown deepened. “What does my leg have to do with you telling stories?”
He allowed himself that smile. “It is a figure of speech. If someone is telling an unbelievable tale, they are pulling your leg.”
“Oh. That still does not answer my question. Can you…” Kasumi paused, as if she couldn’t believe what she was about to say. “Can you see into the future?”
Excited shouts pulled them out of the conversation. They were near the gates of the village and the sentries had spotted their approach. No one in the village would know what they were saying, but Rory wanted to keep this between themselves. “I will explain, but tomorrow, after we leave.”
Kasumi regarded the gates with a spiteful look, as though they had done her a great harm. “Do you promise?” She looked back at Rory and such determination filled her gaze that it was almost frightening. She would have her answers, one way or another.
The gates opened, inviting them into the village.
“I promise.” He spoke earnestly, without a hint of a joking smile. After coming all this way and enduring all she had, it was the least Rory could do for Kasumi.
Rory could say this about the Xhosa. They knew how to throw a party.
The entire village had greeted them, with everyone dressed up in their best finery. They stood lining the streets, each with a smile on their face. Towards the centre of the village the crowd thinned out a bit, indicating that only those with the right status had the honour of sitting with the special guests.
Rory and the others were given woven mats to sit on and they sat in a large circle with the tribal leader, his family, and some of the other elder members of the village. Dinner came first and it was more food than any of them had seen in a long time. Rationing was a serious business aboard a ship; run out of food in the middle of the ocean and you were good as dead. Rory could only watch as the others dug into their meals with gusto. No one seemed to question that he ate nothing, but when the drinks were brought out, a glass was forced upon him.
He sniffed the contents of the cup. It smelled vaguely sweet, making him think it was more of a wine than a beer. When he glanced around the circle, the villagers were drinking it freely and even the samurai were draining their cups. Rory looked to Kasumi, who had hesitated over her own drink. She caught his eye, shrugged - a habit she had picked up from him - and then she took a sip. Despite a slight cringe as the liquid settled on her tongue, she didn’t choke or pass out.
“Bottom’s up,” muttered Rory and he took a cautious sip.
The sweet smell was a ruse. The wine tasted more like vinegar than anything else. He nearly spat the wine back into his cup, but he forced himself to swallow so he wouldn’t offend anyone. He felt the liquid settle in his stomach, or whatever passed as a stomach in his plastic body. A part of him really hoped that tiny bit of wine wouldn’t stay in him for all of eternity.
The wine was still flowing freely when dinner ended and the entertainment began. Owain had been translating the entire time and a flurry of Japanese, Latin, and Xhosa had filled the night. Now, conversations died down as dancers and musicians stepped into the centre of the circle.
As far as Rory could tell, it was a story about the Xhosa and how they came to be in the world. Owain translated, but like subtitles on a foreign movie it all went by too fast and Rory only picked up half of the plot. Not that it mattered. He still enjoyed watching the dancers and the audience was encouraged to clap along with the music. With the addition of alcohol, things became a little more boisterous, but it only fuelled the energy of the dancers.
As the tale neared the end, Rory seemed to be the only one who could sit up straight. Most people in the circle were slumped over and ready to pass out. A few already had. To his great amusement, Yamada looked a little bleary-eyed. Ichiro, a good sailor who could hold his liquor, helped himself to another cup of wine. Rory had to wonder if Ichiro would be sober enough to sail the ship tomorrow morning. He suddenly regretted not learning more about the workings of the Hikaru Maru.
The dance ended but the music continued. With the main entertainment for the night over, a good majority of the village wobbled off back to their homes to fall into a deep sleep. Rory stretched his back. He wasn’t sore, but he wanted to get up and walk around a bit.
He got to his feet and looked around at his companions. The wine had seemingly lowered everyone’s inhibitions. Yamada chatted casually to one of the off-duty sentries; Kimura’s sword hung forgotten at his side. Katō swayed along with the music, as though he were a snake being charmed. Chiaki joked with some of the dancers, one of their masks worn over his face. Inaba played with some of the village dogs, throwing the boomerang Kimura had received as a gift from the Aboriginals. And Ichiro was engaged in what could only be described as a drinking contest with the tribal leader. Several empty gourds of wine littered the ground in front of them but neither looked ready to back down.
Rory shook his head in amusement, but he didn’t try to drag any of them away. He had always been the designated driver back in university. Watching others have more fun than him was nothing new.
He looked around for Kasumi, but her spot was empty. Owain was absent as well. If the man was trying to charm her then he wasn’t going to have much luck, not knowing any Japanese, but a language barrier had never stopped some of his friends back in uni.
Weaving his way around a pair of passed out villagers, Rory made his way to Owain’s house. The animal skin that hung over the doorway wasn’t much of a barrier, but it clearly showed that no one was inside. The house was dark; none of the lanterns were lit. Rory didn’t hear any movement inside, either.
He might have been inclined to move on, but the desire to sate his curiosity was too strong. It hadn’t escaped Rory’s notice that Owain hadn’t really talked about the reason he was in Africa. The man had mentioned research but he hadn’t elaborated, much in the same manner that Rory hadn’t elaborated about the Pandorica. He normally didn’t associate research with secrecy, unless Owain thought that Rory was a rival of sorts and he couldn’t be trusted with the truth.
But a gut feeling told him that wasn’t the case. Owain was hiding something.
No one saw Rory enter the house, but if anyone had it wasn’t as if they were coherent enough to make sense of what they saw. He tacked the door flap to one side to allow some of the torchlight to filter in, but his night vision was good enough that he could see without tripping over anything. Not that there was much to trip over. He ignored the maps and books laid out on the table; they were in plain sight, so they wouldn’t contain anything surreptitious unless Owain was a criminal mastermind and he did things like hiding in plain sight. Instead, Rory headed to the corner to root through Owain’s sack.
The cloth bag was full of clothes in desperate need of a wash, but nothing else. Either Owain was a light traveller or anything of value he might have taken with him had been stolen. He certainly would have been an easy target for thieves and pickpockets. Rory started to feel a little bad about going through Owain’s things when he felt something heavy at the bottom of the bag. He turned it upside down, dumping everything onto the woven mat that Owain used as a mattress.
The heavy something turned out to be a book, or rather a journal when Rory opened it up and saw the pages upon pages of notes. Most of it was hasty scrawl that covered the paper from corner to corner; in the weak light Rory couldn’t make out much. Sometimes the notes were accompanied by drawings, quick representations of statues or engravings that seemed important. He thought he saw a Roman frieze or two as he flipped through the journal.
From what he could gather, Owain was searching for something. He had travelled around England before leaving London for Rome and then from there he went to Egypt. Now he wandered the plains of Africa. Nothing in the notes hinted that the scholar had found what he was looking for.
Rory flipped through to the very last entry. He wondered how many journals Owain had filled while looking for his mystery object. The constant searching would be draining. Maybe Owain was starting to crack a bit under the…
He reached the last entry. This time there wasn’t a page of cramped handwriting. Instead, there was one sketch, rendered with more detail than any of the others. A sketch of a large stone box with circular designs carved into the sides. One sentence, translated into several different languages including Latin, was written beneath it, underlined several times.
I have found it.
Rory stared blankly at the drawing of the Pandorica, unable to form any coherent thoughts. He even stopped breathing.
This wasn’t possible. Owain had barely caught a glimpse of the Pandorica back at the Hikaru Maru and yet, here was a perfect representation, right down to the complicated lines of the designs. Only someone who had spent an inordinate amount of time studying the stone box could have drawn it so flawlessly.
England. The Roman friezes. Rory took in a deep breath, freeing him from his shock. Of course. He slammed the journal shut and rose to his feet. He needed to have a talk with Owain.
By the time he heard the footsteps behind him, it was too late. The blade entered cleanly through his back, puncturing the place where his heart would have been. He stared down at the tip of the knife protruding from his chest, not quite believing what he was seeing, as though he were looking at someone else’s chest. For just a split second, he was completely detached from every sensation.
The knife was pulled free and with that act came the absolutely crippling pain. Even he, with his hearty plastic constitution, wasn’t immune to the feeling. He stumbled and fell to his knees, but didn’t go down. Then something crashed into the back of his skull with what felt like the force of a wrecking ball. Rory was out before he hit the ground.
Darkness greeted Rory when he opened his eyes. It wasn’t just an absence of light. Something covered his head; he could feel the scratchy material against his skin. He inhaled and the stink of unwashed clothes hit him full on. Owain’s bag.
Slowly, the rest of his senses returned to him. The music was gone. That meant he was no longer in the village. The night air was cool on his skin. He had been stripped of his tunic for whatever reason. The sharp, vinegar taste of the wine was on his tongue. Had he thrown up the little he had tasted? No, the wine was all over his mouth and chin, too; the liquid had dried into a sticky residue. Someone had tried to drown him?
It then hit Rory that his arms were above his head and his feet barely touched the ground. He tried to lower his arms and found that he couldn’t. The twisted fibres of a rough rope dug into his wrists. He was bound then, and maybe suspended in the air. He was just glad that the rope wasn’t around his neck. He really didn’t want to find out if he could survive having his neck broken.
Rory bucked his head, trying to throw off the bag. He needed to see where he was. Voices reached him through the thick cloth, speaking words he didn’t recognize. The villagers. He didn’t see who stabbed him. Had a group of them attacked him?
“Please,” he begged in Latin, in the desperate hope that one of them had picked up a few words from Owain. “I am not here-”
The blow hit Rory hard in the stomach. He could have shrugged it off, but what he was hit with made all the difference. A torch. The flames seared his skin and a red hot pain raced through his belly.
He moaned loudly and if it wasn’t for the ropes holding him up, he would have slumped over onto the ground. Some shouting followed, but Rory barely noticed. If they wanted to hit him again, there was nothing he could about it. He’d just have to ride it out and hope one of the others noticed he was missing before the villagers got tired of beating him with flaming sticks and went for the big finish.
He waited for more blows to come and the anticipation alone made him tense. He heard shuffled steps and more voices, but no one came close with a fire of any sort. Had they grown bored of him already? As subtly as he could, he pulled on the ropes, testing their strength. Whatever he was tied to was strong but it wasn’t indestructible. Had he been feeling one hundred percent, a few good yanks probably would have snapped the rope.
There was one other option. There was always one other option, but Rory didn’t like it. The Auton gun in his hand. One shot and the rope would break. He was essentially blind though. He wouldn’t know which way to aim and as annoyed as he was, he was not going to shoot one of the villagers.
He wasn’t sure how long he hung there, thinking over possible escape plans. When the bag was finally ripped off of his head, the burn on his stomach had settled down to a dull throb. Rory blinked a few times, bringing his vision into focus.
Five of the villagers stood before him and the one directly in front of him held a torch. Their faces looked vaguely familiar and it took him a moment to place them. They had helped carry supplies back to the Hikaru Maru. The man holding the torch was the one Rory had shouted at for getting too close to the Pandorica. Was this some bizarre revenge scheme?
“It didn’t mean anything,” said Rory, making his tone sound as sincere as possible.
The man said nothing. His face was an unreadable mask, as empty as a stone wall. He brought down the torch and for a moment, Rory feared the man would set him on fire. Instead, the man touched the flames to the ground. There was a loud whoosh as the ground caught fire and soon Rory was closed in by a ring of fire. Whatever accelerant the villagers had used it caused the flames to jump as high as Rory’s waist. Though there were several inches between Rory and the edge of the circle, he was acutely aware of the intensity of the heat. To him, it seemed like the circle was closing in…
He took a steadying breath. It was just the heat. If they had wanted to kill him, they would have set him ablaze, not the ground. This was just a prison, a way to keep him contained.
He looked back up at the men. They didn’t leer at him nor did they look smug. They seemed… indifferent, like the outcome didn’t matter to them. Rory glared back at them, trying to look as threatening as he could under the circumstances, but all he could really think about was his legs and how they might turn into puddles of plastic under these temperatures.
“Ngokwaneleyo.” The voice came from behind the men, beyond the halo of light given off by the flames. Rory squinted through the waves of heat, trying to make out what was there. A camp or maybe some rocks? There was one big rock, taller than a man.
“No.” He wanted to blame the extreme temperature for what he saw, but there was no mistaking it. The Pandorica. They had moved it off the ship.
The voice spoke again and the men scattered, clearing a path. Rory wasn’t surprised when Owain entered into view. He strode up to the ring of fire, his hands clasped behind his back. The light from the flames accented the hollowness of his cheekbones, making him seem emaciated.
Owain stopped a handful of steps from the edge of the fire. If his proximity to the intense heat bothered him, it didn’t show. “I regret to say that I did not recognize you right away. There is a fresco of you at La Sapienza. It does not do you justice.”
Rory felt no gratification that his initial dislike of Owain was justified. He just wanted to break free and throttle the man. Instead, he bit his tongue, seeing no need to dignify Owain with a response.
“I should thank you. I was prepared to spend the rest of my life looking for the Pandorica. Imagine my surprise when I find it sitting with the cargo on a rickety little ship.” Owain paused as his voice filled with emotion. He smiled at Rory. “You thought you could hide it from me.”
It wasn’t a teasing smile or even a mocking one. It was a smile that said, “You lose.”
Rory couldn’t stay silent any longer. “The Pandorica is meaningless. It will not grant you power or make you immortal.”
“Then why have you held on to it for so long?” The accusation wasn’t hurled at Rory; Owain sounded like he was addressing a student of his. The calm authority was slightly eerie.
“I vowed to protect it until-”
“Until the time was right to open it. Yes, I have heard the stories. It is just that, though. A story, one you invented so that no one else would touch the Pandorica.”
“What have you been reading?!” Rory shouted at Owain in frustration. “It is just a box!” The man was insane. He was creating scenarios to fit his view of the world.
“It is a container, yes, but we both know it is more than that.” Owain’s eyes shined with barely contained excitement. “The contents are what make it so special.”
Rory yanked on the ropes again, but his strength was failing him. The tree branch he was suspended from was too strong. Unless the tree caught fire, the branch wasn’t breaking. “There is nothing inside,” he insisted. He leaned forward as close as he dared, hoping to inspire Owain to see some reason. “Nothing of importance to you.”
Owain chuckled. “Nothing of importance? I have been thorough in my research; you cannot hide its secrets from me. I know what you did.”
He knew about Amy? No, Rory didn’t believe it. The only other person who knew about Amy was Kasumi and her knowledge was abstract at best. Owain was playing at something else. Whatever he thought, though, it was endangering over a thousand years of toil. Rory didn’t come all this way only to have the Pandorica snatched out from under him by a rogue scholar.
“What did I do, Owain?” It wasn’t much of a plan, keeping Owain talking, but the longer that Rory was missing, the greater the chance that Yamada or the others would notice. Unless the samurai were too drunk to notice.
The banquet. Of course. Rory should have seen it sooner. It was all a massive distraction. The wine had ensured that they wouldn’t leave the village while Owain was pillaging the Pandorica from the Hikaru Maru. Rory was only stabbed after it became obvious that the alcohol had no effect on him. But that had been before Owain knew that Rory was the Pandorica’s fabled protector. He had instructed the villagers to commit murder.
Rory was disgraced to share a name with this man.
“Are you acknowledging your wrongdoings, Centurion?” There was no malice in Owain’s voice. It was like a priest asking a parishioner to confess their sins.
“Yes.”
If a wall of flame hadn’t separated them, Rory was sure Owain would have rushed forward, brimming with delight. Years of research had finally paid off. “Why did you do it? Why did you steal the stars?”
Rory opened his mouth, but words refused to come. This was becoming too absurd. He had stolen the stars?
His silence was seemingly mistaken for stubbornness. “Did you think them forgotten? Accounts still exist, describing the points of light in the night sky. The ancient civilizations kept very good records. Even the Xhosa remember, passing stories down through the generations. They all say the same thing. The stars existed before the Pandorica was found.”
Under different circumstances, Owain’s persistence might have been commendable. As far as Rory knew, no one else had established a connection between the missing stars and the Pandorica. “What would I gain from stealing the stars?”
“What indeed. You were stabbed through the heart and yet you live. You have survived over a thousand years without aging a day. You save the power of the Pandorica for yourself. That is why you guard it so fiercely.”
“The stars hold no power,” argued Rory. “They were distant suns, signs of other planets and galaxies in the universe. You cannot hold them in your hand, let alone inside a stone box.”
“Then there is no harm in opening the Pandorica. Do so and I will let you go.”
If Rory could sweat, he’d be sweating buckets by now. Not just from the heat but from the pressure as well. It had taken the sonic screwdriver to open the Pandorica last time and Rory was all out of handy Time Lord gizmos. He could lie to Owain, to get cut down, but then what? He wasn’t going to leave unless the Pandorica was back in his hands.
“It cannot be opened, not by me.” It was the truth. The Doctor had said the box needed a DNA sample to restore Amy’s life. The key was Amy herself.
The light of the flames danced across Owain’s face as he thought this over, sharpening the angles of his features. It gave him a malevolent air, chasing away his genial scholar appearance. The men from the village, wholly forgotten, subtly shifted positions, ready to carry out any commands.
“Masihambe.”
The villagers turned and walked off towards the Pandorica. Owain lingered a moment longer, staring at Rory square in the eye. It was as if he thought he could divine the secrets of the Pandorica from Rory’s mind. Rory glared back, willing the fire to leap forward so it would enclose Owain instead.
Owain blinked and he stepped back, not in alarm but with the satisfaction that he was doing the right thing. With his hands still clasped behind his back, he turned on his heel and moved off to join the villagers.
Rory pulled on the ropes again, mustering what was left of his strength. The ropes creaked under the strain, but they held fast. He tried one more time, but it was useless. He couldn’t plant his feet on the ground, so he had zero leverage. The only way he was getting down was if someone cut the end of the rope wrapped around the trunk of the tree.
“I’m sorry, Amy,” whispered Rory. The force of his exertion left him swaying slightly from the tree branch and he felt like a useless puppet.
A hand touched him on the back, stilling the sway of the ropes.
He threw a glance over his shoulder. And there, standing right behind him, was Kasumi. The flames at the rear of the circle had died down, mostly likely from Kasumi kicking dirt over the fire to smother it. She smiled encouragingly at him, brandishing a small knife. With the blade, she motioned to the rope around the tree and mimed a cutting action. He nodded his understanding and silently urged her to work quickly.
He couldn’t believe that she was here. He thought for sure she would be back at the village with the others. Did that mean the samurai were nearby, lying in wait to attack the villagers and take back the Pandorica?
Rory looked back to the stone box. Owain watched as the villagers tied ropes around it. Everyone’s attention was on the task. All Kasumi needed was a few seconds more. They could make it out of here without anyone noticing.
But luck just wasn’t on Rory’s side today. One of the villagers looked up and immediately shouted in alarm when he saw Kasumi trying to cut through the rope. Owain spun around, his brow furrowed in disapproval. He broke into a run, intent on stopping Kasumi before she could sever the rope completely.
Kasumi hesitated. The knife was no match for the thick and sturdy rope; she was only halfway through. She looked up at Rory with a frown. She wasn’t leaving without him, just as he wasn’t willing to leave without the Pandorica. He appreciated her stubbornness, but now wasn’t really the time.
“Run!” Rory shouted in Japanese.
Stubbornness gave way to common sense. Kasumi couldn’t save Rory if she was captured herself. She made a break for it, heading back into the darkness away from the tree. She was fast, but Owain was faster. Fuelled by adrenaline or rampart fervour, he was able to put on a burst of speed and took a flying tackle at her. Owain caught Kasumi around the mid-section, knocking them both to the ground. Dust was kicked into the air as the young woman struggled to free herself from beneath Owain. She slashed with the knife, aiming for the man’s face. Owain brought up his hand to protect himself and the blade sliced into his palm.
He cried out in pain, but it didn’t dissuade him. Rory watched helplessly as Owain brought down his fist and smashed Kasumi’s forehead into the ground. Her struggles waned and she swiped sluggishly with the knife.
“Kasumi!” Rory wrenched on the ropes, straining every muscle in his body.
Owain stumbled to his feet, breathing heavily. He cradled his injured hand and blood dripped from the wound. Showing just how spiteful he could be, he kicked Kasumi in the ribs, hard enough that she rolled over onto her back. Leaning down, he grabbed the knife with his cut hand, encountering no resistance from Kasumi. With his free hand, he pulled her to her feet and half marched, half dragged her back over to Rory.
Kasumi was still conscious but she had that dazed, far off look of someone just on the brink of blacking out. Her head lolled forward and her long black hair hid her face from view.
“I understand now.” Owain lifted the knife. The hilt was already slick with his blood. “I know what the Pandorica needs.” He shouted at the villagers. They picked up the ropes now tied around the box and together they hauled it over.
“Owain, stop this. I know what happened to the stars. I will tell you everything. Just let my friend go.”
But the scholar wasn’t listening anymore. He had been unstable when this whole thing started and now he was over the edge. He bounced on the balls of his feet as he waited for the villagers to bring the Pandorica to him. “Why did I not see this before?” The villagers stopped a few paces from Owain and then they dropped the ropes to slink back off into the shadows. He approached the Pandorica, his arm still wrapped around Kasumi. “You need a sacrifice to bring back the stars.”
“No!”
The blade flashed. Blood spurted through the air. Kasumi dropped to the ground.
Lifeless.
Rory went absolutely still. The knife might as well have slit his own throat. He hung from that tree, just as lifeless, his mind unable to comprehend what he just saw.
Owain dropped the knife, treating it with the same casual disregard as he had with Kasumi’s body, and he reached out with his bloody hand to place it against the surface of the Pandorica. The drops of blood splattered across the stone were dark, barely distinguishable in the low light. Owain threw back his head, his eyes closed, ready to greet the miracle he had brought about.
The rope around the tree snapped. Rory fell to the ground and it was so sudden that he just collapsed into a heap. He lay there, ignorant of the dancing flames and the silent shadows.
The Pandorica didn’t react.
Owain opened his eyes and he stared dumbfounded at the inert box. “I gave you blood. Is that not enough?” He cocked his head to one side, as if listening to another voice. “Yes, I know what you need.” He turned, shifting his gaze to Rory.
The boomerang whistled through the air, striking Owain square in the temple. The force of the blow knocked him off balance and he reeled drunkenly until he crashed back into the Pandorica.
Rory blinked a few times. A boomerang.
“Kimura taught me that.” Yamada was suddenly at Rory’s side, cutting through the ropes around his wrists.
The other samurai emerged just as soundlessly from the darkness, wielding katanas and bo staves. The villagers reached for their own weapons and stood their ground.
Yamada rose to his full height and drew his own sword, making his movements deliberately slow to cause the blade to ring as it cleared the scabbard. One of the villagers shifted nervously. Shouting a battle cry, Yamada burst forward through the ring of fire, acting as if the flames weren’t even there. His cry rallied the other samurai and they charged into the fray.
The shouts of the warriors rallied Rory, too. He still felt numb, but he couldn’t stand the thought of just lying there anymore. He had to do something. His world spun a little when he got to his feet and he had to steady himself against the tree. The clash of swords rang out, but it sounded so far away to Rory.
With lurching steps, he made his way over to the Pandorica. The thought of copying Yamada’s feat entered his mind, but he quickly dismissed it. He felt drained enough as it was; he didn’t need to add melted legs to his troubles. As it was, he was ending up with a new scar, one more for his collection, and a burn on his stomach. The melted skin made the burn look like an old wound. It wasn’t a livid red but a stark white, like all scar tissue.
Owain lay slumped at the base of the Pandorica, blood running down his left temple from where the boomerang had hit him. The innocuous curved stick sat in the dirt next to him. His chest still rose and fell, proving that he wasn’t dead. The scholar blinked blearily at Rory; the pupil of his left eye was completely blown out making it look like a black orb. “I gave it what it wanted,” he said feebly.
Rory had nothing left to say. He pooled his strength and punched Owain right in the jaw. Bloody spittle sprayed from Owain’s mouth and he was out cold by the time he hit the ground.
The momentum of the punch nearly spun Rory all the way around and he ended up falling onto his knees. He landed next to Kasumi and for the first time he saw how bad her injuries were. There was a nasty bruise on her forehead, but it was inconsequential to the gash across her throat. Owain had cut the carotid artery, causing the blood splatter. It had happened so quickly, Kasumi’s eyes were still open.
Rory had seen his fair share of death, but it was never easy losing someone close to you. Kasumi should have been full of life, teasing him about his strange sayings or working hard to learn a new word in English. He wanted tears to pool, but his plastic body wasn’t capable of crying. All he could do was reach out and close Kasumi’s eyes.
“My name is Rory Williams. I am from the future. The woman I love is Amy Pond.”
It was all the things he meant to say to her, all the things he wanted to say to her once they were gone from here. Now he would never get the chance.
He sat there, holding vigil over Kasumi’s body, until Yamada came back and touched him on the shoulder. Rory looked up. The fight was over. The villagers were nowhere to be seen. The others were testing the strength of the ropes tied around the Pandorica.
“Centurion.” It was the first time Rory had heard him use his title. The pronunciation wasn’t flawless, but it was clear that he had been practicing. “We must leave,” insisted Yamada. He handed Rory his discarded tunic. In the other, he held a torch.
Rory slipped on the garment, barely noticing the holes on the front and back. Shrugging off any help, he lifted Kasumi’s body from the ground. The movement clearly strained him, but the samurai said nothing. Yamada took the lead back to the ship and Rory followed while the other samurai brought up the rear with the Pandorica.
He paid no attention to their journey. All he focused on was putting each foot forward and not dropping Kasumi. Her head rested on his shoulder and he could smell the salt of the ocean in her hair. She had become deeply tanned from the sun. You couldn’t even tell that she had grown pale from the massive blood loss. He could almost pretend that he was simply carrying her back to the Hikaru Maru after having too much wine.
It was still dark when they reached the harbour where they had left the ship. A large square path in the dirt marked where the Pandorica had been dragged off by the villagers. Rory didn’t even pause to see if the samurai needed help loading the box. He walked up the ramp to the deck of the ship and headed straight to Ichiro’s cabin.
The lanterns inside were lit, indicating that the captain was inside. Rory called Ichiro’s name. Was the sorrow in his voice obvious? He wasn’t even sure what he would say to Kasumi’s father. All he knew was that he didn’t want to put this off.
The door swung open, revealing a cranky looking Ichiro. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin was pale. It seemed to take him a moment to focus on Rory’s face and another moment after that to notice Kasumi. He frowned, shooting Rory his usual look of disapproval.
He didn’t know. He had no idea where his daughter had been.
“I am sorry, Ichiro,” said Rory. He tried to look the man in the eye, but when he did, his courage failed him and he settled his gaze on Ichiro’s chest. “They came to save me. Kasumi…”
Ichiro pushed pass the lingering haze of the alcohol and reached out with a shaky had to brush away Kasumi’s hair. The blood had dried on her throat, staining the fine silk of her kimono. Ichiro suddenly looked like he was going to be sick and he stumbled back away from Rory. He eventually crashed into his bed and collapsed onto the mattress. His chest heaved as he took deep breaths. It seemed like he couldn’t look away from the dead body of his only child.
Even if he had no heart, it still felt like the knife was in his chest and someone was twisting the blade. Knowing anything he said would be meaningless, Rory quietly took his leave from Ichiro’s cabin. He travelled the few short steps to Kasumi’s berth and carefully laid her down on her bed. He knelt down on the floor next to her and took up one of her hands. She was already cold to the touch.
He knew what she would say to him. This wasn’t his fault. She had wanted to come along. It was the right thing to do. That seemed to be Kasumi’s mantra. Everyone in the world deserved to be helped. There were no such things as useless or unworthy causes.
“Thank you.” He wasn’t sure which language he used, but it was the sentiment that counted.
The floorboards creaked and Rory looked back over his shoulder. Yamada filled the doorway to the room. His gaze briefly strayed to Kasumi’s body and in that moment he even couldn’t hide his emotions. Then he blinked and the mask settled over his face once more. “The Pandorica is loaded.” The word didn’t roll effortlessly off of Yamada’s tongue, but most of the sounds were there.
Rory was about to give his thanks when he noticed the fabric of Yamada’s kimono shined slightly in the light. He reached out before the samurai could step away and his fingers came back covered in blood. “You are injured.” He could see it now. A cut along Yamada’s side. It was partially hidden amongst the folds of the fabric.
“It is nothing.”
“It is not ‘nothing’.” Rory got to his feet. He still had medical supplies stored in his chest in the hold. “I am stitching you up right now.” He pushed Yamada out into the hallway. He only managed a step forward when he saw Ichiro exit his cabin. The captain immediately noticed him, too. They held each other’s gazes for the span of several awkward seconds.
For a man who had been drinking heavily, he was certainly light on his feet. Rory barely saw him move and the next thing he knew, Ichiro had landed a punch to his jaw. It hurt, but Rory didn’t even bother with defending himself. He let the blows come.
Ichiro punched and punched until his arms grew tired and he could barely draw a breath. Tears were streaming down his face as he feebly slammed his fists down onto Rory’s chest. Rory caught him before he could collapse onto the floor.
They stood there in the hall with Yamada as their silent sentry. Ichiro shed enough tears for all three of them.
* * *
“The Star Cults insist that the stars used to be other planets in the sky. If the Celts didn’t make the Pandorica, are you saying that it came from another planet?” Even though Sarah Jane was the one asking the question, it seemed like she couldn’t believe that she was actually asking it. “Richard Dawkins would have a field day with that one.”
Barbara smiled, curbing the urge to shake her head, as she always did whenever someone mentioned the infamous creator of the Star Cults. Dawkins was an intelligent man; it was a shame that he wasted that intelligence on something as ridiculous as a cult.
She was prepared to add her own thoughts when her phone rang. Instinct told her that it was Dorothy, checking up on her. Ten minutes had barely passed since she walked off with Sarah Jane. Barbara was surprised the young woman had managed to wait that long. She smiled apologetically at Sarah Jane and picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“The security guards want to talk to you about surveillance in the exhibit. Can you spare a minute?” It sounded like a legitimate reason to get her out of her office. No one was about to steal the Pandorica, but the museum wouldn’t want anyone defacing it either.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can”
“Ace.” Dorothy sounded from far relieved, despite the use of her favourite expression.
Barbara hung up. “I’m afraid duty calls,” she said to Sarah Jane.
“No, it’s perfectly all right.” Sarah Jane closed her notebook and shoved it back into her purse. “When I get back to the office I’ll phone you to set up a time for a formal interview.”
Barbara had no idea when that would be, but she could figure out that one later. “While you’re here, you could talk with the museum’s director. I’m sure he would be delighted to speak with you about your programme.”
“I’ll do that.” Sarah Jane stood up and held out her hand. Barbara rose from her chair and they exchanged an eager handshake. “Thank you. This has been enlightening.”
“The feeling is mutual. I hope the British public will express the same amount of enthusiasm when the exhibit opens.”
Sarah Jane smiled knowingly. “Oh, I’m sure they will. Everyone loves a good mystery.”