There Was a Man

by Tir-far-thoinn

There was a man. He was a lot of things. But there's only two that stick anymore. A brief reflection about Rory. Post The Angels Take Manhattan. Read and Review if you like.

There Was a Man

By: Chrissy Truman

Disclaimer: The rights to Doctor Who, you say? In my freaking dreams.

AN: This is just a bit about Rory, because I loved him. He was fantastic.

Reviews are nice things.

He had a box. A big stone box. A children's book named it the Pandorica.

He wore a red cape, and armor. He brandished a sword. He loved a woman. He was made of plastic.

His name was Rory, Rory Williams. But it had been years since anyone had ever used that name.

They called him The Last Centurion instead. They called him Centurion because he sat next to the great stone box, and guarded it with his life. (Wait, no, that's a sentry. Stupid girl.) They called him Centurion because he was a Roman military officer who commanded a century. (Way to go Rory! Got your own century and everything...Anyways.)

He was The Last because he never died, because he was eternal. Because when winter howled, and armies marched, and fires raged Rory Williams was always the last man standing.

He watched the world turn around him, and he became old. Not in the way most people do. He became old in the way that he spoke twelve languages for a while. He killed more men then he could remember. He had more than eight mid-life crises.

He got old in the way that when the sunset and stars came out, and he closed his eyes, he could hear the whole world humming; she had gotten used to him now, and didn't mind letting him hear. He was old, older than the Doctor, for a little while.

He wouldn't know that the two thousand years of perfectly cataloged, plastic memories would neatly package themselves up, as if in a zip file, in the corner of his brain. They would replay with surprising clarity. Two thousand years. Waiting for Amy.

Now he's back again. He can manage. He's lived through this time before, even if it was in a non-existent reality. This one is for keeps though. He turns over in bed to look at a lightly snoring Amy. The Angels have sent him back, but he's got Amy and that's he's ever needed.

There was man. He had a wife. A loud, beautiful wife. Her hair was fire, and her name was Amy.

For a while, he wore clothes that didn't quite belong in the 1930s. He loved a woman. He adopted a son. He was made of mismatched times, ancient memories, and heart.

His name was Rory, Rory Williams.