Martha never did find out what had happened in the east wing, but that didn't really matter. She was more concerned with Rory. Over the last week, he had been almost normal, save for the occasional grin that was a bit too wide to be completely trusted. That worried her more than anything. She didn't like the thought of him having something buried so deep he couldn't even let hints of its existence slip without fear. Not that she didn't have secrets of her own, but she wasn't the one who almost accidentally killed Venice.
Despite her reservations, she went through life more or less normally. As normally as was possible under the circumstances, anyway. Rory had assured her that the Armory was completely outside of time, so they could stay inside for as long as they needed without having to worry about any pesky little problems like aging.
Still, she wanted to move on as soon as possible; she doubted that the Armory's defenses would stand up to a truly determined Time Lord. Because of this, Rory had a computer monitor ready to turn on at all times that would alert them to any attempts from the outside world to contact them. It hadn't so much as flickered.
Martha spent nearly all of her time training or planning. A long table had been erected in one of the many unused rooms with a map that contained all the information they had, and a bit they didn't. When she asked how he had gotten it, Rory had just shrugged as if he was just as surprised as her and told her to get back to work.
She and Mihail usually trained in a padded courtyard of sorts deep inside the Armory. In fact, they hadn't actually been in the Armory proper since that first day. She had asked how big the Armory was once, too. Rory had said it was "just as big as it needs to be." He had also said "theoretically finite" and "only conditionally possible".
At any rate, she was doing extremely well and was confident that they would be able to move on in another week and a half at most. Her favorite weapon was her pugio that, at Rory's insistence, she had named Carnwennen. He had also managed to get River to make another perception filter out of her precious Vortex Manipulator. For reasons known only to himself, he had embedded it in Carwennen's hilt. Rory had lately been reaching levels of crypticness she hadn't known were possible. It was starting to get on her nerves. In fact, that was the only time he had talked to River for the past three days.
After one especially irritating practice session, Martha tracked down Rory, who was running a whetstone down Naegling's edge. How that was humanly possible, Martha wasn't quite sure.
"What is it with you lately?" she demanded.
Rory very calmly set down the sword and turned to fix all his attention on her. "What do you mean?" he asked calmly.
She raised an eyebrow at him. "You've been avoiding everyone unless it's to chew us out for something or other, you refuse to explain anything and I have no idea if the roof is going to try to eat me because apparently that's a real possibility, you put a perfectly good perception filter in, of all things, a dagger, you couldn't give me a straight answer if your life depended on it. What the hell is going on?"
Rory gave her a small, bitter smile. "You tell me I can't give a straight answer if my life depended on it, and yet you expect to receive one?" He shook his head tiredly. "Very well. I will answer you, but it may be difficult for me to answer plainly. I will do my best. Pull up a seat."
Martha sat down.
Rory inhaled deeply, gathering his thoughts. "Do you know the difference between you and me?" he asked. "It lies in the old ways. Old names, old titles. Obsolete, perhaps, in this overcomplex and yet oversimple age, but far from lost." Martha could see the gleam in his eyes and knew that he was lost in the much for a straight answer.
"We must look at our lives in the context of the gods," Rory continued, "for that is how they see us. To explain the difference between you and I, let us start with my daughter.
"River, dear River, is a poet, an artist. Strange, I know, to think of her this way, but it is the truth. She sings the gods' praises in one breath and mocks them in the next, but she is no hypocrite. Capricious is perhaps the best word for she is not so much a follower of the gods as she is their lover, though she serves them in her own way. This is by her own choosing, of course, for what god could order her life? Death alone can lay claim to her, and when he comes her final breath will be without lamentation. This is who she is, my dear daughter.
"As for myself, I am a priest. I am utterly devoted to the one goddess. There are those who would call me obsessed. They are not wrong. There are those who would call me blind. That could not be farther from the truth. My devotion allows me to see the gods with unshrouded eyes, and their faults are laid out before me, but it only strengthens my worship. When Death comes for me I will follow him willingly, for who am I to deny the will of the gods? But he will not come soon, for he has no need of me and, for now, I am content to wait. This is who I am.
"Now you, Miss Martha Jones, you are a prophet. You speak for the gods but they are wary of you for as much as you have their favor, your words have power even over them. You could twist the words they have gifted you to your will, even spew falsehoods, and they would be able to do nothing without grave consequences. They have plenty of reason to be less than fond of you. But make no mistake; you are blessed and burdened far beyond a poet or a priest. I envy you as much as I pity you. Death will come for you as soon as he can, perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of necessity, but he can not take you unless you allow him. In time you will. You are the only one who truly understands that the true sorrow in Death is that there are still those left living. That is our difference, Martha. Those are our burdens. May you bear yours well."
With that he turned back to Naegling. Martha sat in silence for nearly a minute, contemplating his words.
"I don't understand," she finally said. "What does that have to do with putting a perception filter in Carnwennen?"
"You speak the words of the gods," Rory replied, not glancing at her. "I carry them out. Don't ever let yourself become fool enough to think they tell you everything."
Martha sighed. "Is that also why you've been avoiding River?" she asked.
The weight of the world settled on Rory's shoulders. "No."
"Why then?"
He looked up at her and his eyes were as horribly sad, blank even, as they had been the day Martha met him.
"I am old, Martha. So impossibly old. I have known Death long enough to know his habits. He is coming, and soon. Tell me, Martha, who among us, poet, priest, or prophet, do you think he will come for?"
Before Martha could answer, not that she would have known what to say, an alarm sounded. "The computer," Rory said, surging to his feet, "Someone's here."
And then another sound entered the room. A drumbeat. One-two-thee-four. One-two-three-four. The Master had found them.
To be perfectly honest, most of this chapter is just an excuse for the cliffhanger. Sorry about that. Next chapter should be up early, though. Please take the time to leave a review.