When They Fall

Part I: The Beginning of the End

Mini-Story Summary: Rome's days are numbered. Would-be invaders loom on the horizon. In the midst of a collapsing civilization, Rory must make difficult choices, new enemies, and new friends to keep the Pandorica safe.

410 A.D.

Rory paced the dry stone fortifications, shield in one hand, spear in the other. Every torch he passed set his armor glimmering in the flame. The nurse-turned-soldier, parading the Aurelian Walls of Rome, was doing what he'd promised to do over three hundred years ago. Each second of his nighttime guard duties was a step closer to reuniting with Amy.

The waiting, though, was the worst part. Each second buried Amy ever further beneath the crushing weight of three centuries' ceaseless memories. Rory's short stint in the TARDIS was no more than a dream, and even his life in Leadworth was becoming foggy, the memories seeping away like water in a sieve.

It was enough to drive him mad.

He'd developed a few tricks over the years, some games to pass the time. He numbered each step he took, and for the year of his life that corresponded to that number, he thought of a memory. Bonus points if that memory included Amy.

"Eighteen," he muttered as his left foot touched the cobblestone. My age when I started working at the hospital. Amy, with all her talk about the Doctor, never told me to do it, but I went and did it anyway, didn't I? Just to impress her. Now look at me. Seventeen hundred years until she's even born, and here I am, guarding her, just to tell her I've been waiting for her. Waiting for her approval.

"Stupid," he said to himself. "Rae, Tacitus, Gallus…all the lives I've twisted…all because I was impulsive. Rash. Gosh, I was young, and stupid! So, so stupid."

"Oh, come to a revelation, have you?" A watchman poked his grinning face through the tower door.

"Buzz off, Junius," Rory grumbled, sitting down.

"Not a chance," quipped the soldier, hopping through the door and surveying the pitch-black sky. "Fine evening, eh?"

"It was."

Oh, don't act that way," Junius said, flopping down beside him. "We all know under that crunchy exterior, you're a real softy inside. Like those Greek pastries, the ones with the walnuts, y'know?"

"Baklava," grunted Rory.

"Baklava? What would you know about food? I've never seen you so much as touch your rations."

"Never hungry."

"Huh, never sleepy either, are you? I'm half-dead by the end of my shift, but you've gone three times that, back-to-back, without even blinking. You know what, Rory? You're weird."

"Thanks, Junius," huffed Rory.

Junius opened his mouth, but his words were drowned in the blasting of a distant horn.

"Oh, that's my signal," he said, jumping to his feet. "Shift's over! Off to bed. You have a good night, Rory. Don't go letting any Trojan horses through, eh?"

"Well, if I see any giant mythical horses approaching through the darkness, we'll know the wine's gone bad."

Junius laughed. "'Til later, then." He ducked through the tower door, and, once again, Rory was utterly alone.

Rory leaned his spear and shield against the ramparts, listening to Junius' fading footsteps. Once he was certain no eyes were watching, he slid a hand beneath his chestplate and pulled out the note he kept hidden there. The smeared writing, two centuries old, held a message as poignant as the day the dying Tacitus had passed it with to him. Rory had long since memorized the words, but the note reminded him every minute of the task he was bound to perform.

When they fall, it said, don't stand behind them.

Rome was dying. Everyone felt it, Rory most of all. War was coming, and he'd fight on the winning side.

Casting one final look over his shoulder, Rory leapt over the ramparts into the chill night air.

Once again, Rory's Auton endurance came in handy as he raced through the woods, faster than any human could dream of running. Each step carried him farther from Rome and closer to his task. Trees whizzed by at inestimable speeds. He could hear fauna scurry from his path as he darted past, and the occasional owl hooting from distant branches in protest.

"Rory."

Rory skidded to a halt, leaf litter flying everywhere.

"Rory."

"Who's there?" Rory scanned the trunks for the source of the voice.

Silence.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

After a few seconds, Rory spun around to resume his journey.

A face was blocking his path.

"Rory," it whispered in a voice like the leaf-strewn wind.

Rory jumped back. "Quintus? Is that you?"

"Open the Pandorica."

Rory blinked, confused. "What?"

"Rory, open the Pandorica."

"Quintus, you're dead. How can you be here?"

"Open it. Remember."

Then, the ghost was gone.

"Oh, I'm going crazy," muttered Rory with a shiver. "Just like the Doctor said. Time's driving me mad."

Then, shaking his head, he continued on his way.

Rory slowed to a walk once he spotted the campfires. Pulling his helmet off, he strode into the firelight.

"I'm Roranicus," he announced to the Barbarian guard. "I'm here for Alaric."

"The commander of the Visigoths won't see just anyone, y'know," said the watchman.

"Oh, he'll see me."

The suspicious eyes of the Visigoth soldiers did not go unnoticed as Rory marched towards the commander's tent. Rory stifled a chuckle. These centuries were so quaint. The soldiers worshiped their mystic pantheons and put stock in ludicrous superstitions, but found the sight of a Roman at the Barbarian encampment utterly impossible. He was still laughing silently as he ducked through the tent flap.

"Oh. You again."

"Nice to see you too, Alaric," said Rory, sinking onto a stool.

"I can't say the same for you," said the Visigoth commander, sipping liquid from a golden goblet. "Last time, you prophesized that I'd invade Rome. 'Penetrate to the city,' you said."

"I said nothing of the sort," Rory protested.

"Words whispered to my ear in a sacred grove? You have such a taste for theatrics, Roranicus. Only you would do something that melodramatic, while being so dramatically wrong. I was defeated by your people, Roman."

"Yet here you are," said Rory. "Poised to strike Rome once again. Anyway, yeah, the voice in the sacred grove, that was me. Probably the strangest way I've ever dispensed advice, but I was afraid of being seen."

"Bad advice, no less."

"No, not bad advice. Good advice, just given a bit too soon. What was the year…401 A.D.? Yeah. And now it's 410."

Alaric leaned closer. "Nine years. Most would call that a big gap."

Rory met his gaze. "You know what I'd call it? Dyslexia."

"What?"

"The dates. 401, 410—same difference."

"Well," said the Visigoth, adjusting his seat, "whatever arbitrary calendar you're using, you know as well as I do that the clock is winding down. Rome was once the envy of the civilized world. Now it's our turn." He took another smug sip from his goblet. "You know what 'Alaric' means?"

Rory shook his head.

"'King of All'. An interesting name, wouldn't you say? One might almost call it…prophetic."

"So, you want to rule the world?" asked Rory cautiously.

"No," said Alaric, "just to tear down those who think they do. I believe you can help me with that."

Rory cleared his throat. "Uh, well I certainly can. I perform guard duties at the Porta Salaria. In addition to valuable information, I can provide an easy means of entry to the city."

"That would be excellent, Roranicus. But, how freely you offer your services! So, out with it. What do you want in return?"

"I simply want what I've always wanted. The reason I've been visiting you over the course of your life, committing treason against Rome. It's all preparation for the end. When Rome falls, I'm not standing behind it. So, with my help, you'll get inside the walls, and you will promise to leave the Pantheon and its contents untouched."

"The Pantheon? An old relic to forgotten gods. A pretty lump of shaped stones, nothing more. Why would you care?"

"Call it a promise, made long ago. Tradition. My duty, above all else, is to do whatever's necessary to ensure the safety of the Pantheon's contents. I want you to swear that you and your men will not set so much as a toe over its threshold." He wanted the Visigoths to stay as far away as possible from the Pandorica.

Alaric looked confused. "What? No requests for gold, glory, fame? That's what most men want. You're different, Roranicus. Strange. Anyway, what makes you think I'll keep my word, uncivilized Barbarian that I am?"

"You're more civilized than most of today's Romans. A man of your word."

Alaric chuckled. "You're right. I'm no liar. Very well, then. If you get me behind the walls of Rome, I give you my word that none of us shall set foot inside the Pantheon. Agreed?"

"Agreed," said Rory, and Roman and Visigoth sealed their pact with a handshake. "Well," he said, jamming his watchman's helmet on his head, "it's been great. It's a relief to meet someone with a name that doesn't end in 'us'. Junius, Julius, Marcus, Aurelius…all these names blend together over the years. Anyway, I'd best go before someone notices I'm gone."

"What? Rome's a week's ride away. They're inevitably going to notice your absence—that is, if they haven't already."

"Well, I'll just run, then. It's much faster," said Rory with an elusive grin. Then he lifted the tent flap. "See you soon enough, Alaric. Don't forget your promise."

Scaling the Aurelian Wall undetected was the most difficult part of the trip. Hand over hand, Rory pulled his way up the cut stones, trying his best not to groan or pant too heavily. He'd always suffered from a mild case of vertigo, but Rory carefully avoided looking down. All the same, he breathed a silent sigh of relief as he heaved himself over the ramparts and back onto the walkway. After a brief moment to regain his composure, he grabbed his sword and spear and resumed his watch. Safe.

"Rory," whispered a voice above the faint bustling of the city.

Oh no, thought Rory. Here comes hallucination number two. Then he swiveled around. "Hello, Lucine," he said. "How's life? Oh, wait, sensitive question. You've been dead for several centuries, haven't you? But here you are."

"Rory," said Lucine, eyes fixed upon some distant sight. "Open the Pandorica."

"Why?"

"Amelia Pond must survive."

"Well, that's what I've been trying to do. Keep her safe. How's opening the Pandorica going to help? It's like cutting off her life support, for crying out loud. It'd kill her."

"Open it."

Then Rory blinked, and the phantom was gone. "Mad. I've gone completely mad."

THIRTEEN DAYS LATER

Rory adjusted the straps on his armor as he strode towards his watch. The muggy, twilit streets were swarming with people hustling to get home before dark and market workers packing away their stalls. He caught snippets of conversations as he passed.

"Have you heard the rumors? Claudius tells me the Visigoths are closing in."

"Indeed! Could be here any day, that's what my sister says."

"Scary, that's what it is. These are dark days to live in."

Rory ducked into the armory, muffling the conversations behind a thick wooden door. Nestled in the corner were his favorite sword and shield.

"Evening, Roranicus," came a voice from behind Rory's shoulder.

"Junius," Rory acknowledged, slipping his sword into its sheath. "You're on watch tonight too?"

Junius nodded. "Last-minute switch. Why? I'm not disrupting any secret plans of yours, am I?"

Rory forced a laugh. "You git," he half-joked. "You caught me."

The fellow watchman jammed his helmet onto his head and grinned lopsidedly. "Let's go."

The pair each pulled a spear from a rack on their way out the door.

"Ready for another boring night?" asked Junius as they climbed up the tower staircase.

"It'll be boring only if we're lucky," Rory quipped, taking the stairs two at a time.

"All those dark, dull, dreary watches, though…don't you ever yearn for some action?" Junius asked, huffing as he tried to keep pace.

Rory shot a side-glance out an arrow-slit as he passed. The sun had nearly set, and some towering clouds loomed on the horizon. "As a rule, I don't go looking for trouble. It finds me easily enough as is."

They continued in silence until they reached the top of the staircase and strode outdoors. "Tell you what," said Rory. "I'll guard the gatehouse tonight if you take my stretch of the wall. Changes things up, y'know?"

"Agreed." Junius turned left. "See you in a couple of hours."

Rory nodded and headed for the gatehouse. He reached the twin turrets just as the sun dipped below the earth. The thunderclouds rolled closer; Rory could all but taste the electricity in the air.

The storm heralded its arrival with a single raindrop upon the cobblestone. Then another, tickling as it slid down Rory's nose. Then the first spear of lightning arced across the sky, followed closely by a rumble that rattled the mortar beneath his feet.

"Perfect," Rory muttered. Now, he could use his hand-gun to his heart's content; the guards would mistake the laser's report for the roar of the thunder above. He cast a look to either side. A gatehouse turret blocked Junius's view, and the other guards were well beyond sight. Nobody was watching. Which left Rory to do as he pleased.

Rory slid his sword-point through a gap in the gatehouse door and lifted the lock bar from its groove. He re-sheathed his weapon as the door swung open with a satisfactory creak. At the bottom of the turret stairs was the gate room, gleaming with well-oiled winches. Through the murder holes in the floor, Rory could see the reinforced oaken gate directly beneath. A chain snaked up through the floor to the winches above; snap it, and the doors would swing open to welcome whatever intruders were camped outside. Which, right now, were Alaric and his Visigoth army, poised just beyond sight, ready to sack Rome. Tonight, Rory would make history.

Two guards stood before either winch. Rory sighed; he should have known the military would never leave such an important building unguarded. Very well, then. He'd just have to find a clever way to handle them.

He jumped into the middle of the room. "I'm a traitor!" he announced. "I've sold information to the barbarians and am about to cause the destruction of the greatest civilization in history. Try to stop me."

The surprised soldiers spun around, spears at the ready. At the sight of Rory's face, they relaxed and laughed. "Nice one, Roranicus," one chortled, grinning. "Did Junius put you up to this?"

Not at all the anticipated reaction, but Rory could use it nonetheless. "Yeah," he shrugged. "He needs the pair of you over at the Southern gate. They're short-staffed. I'll cover for you here."

The watchmen nodded, still smiling, and shuffled out of the room.

Once they were out of view, Rory breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever the circumstances, he was glad to avoid fighting his colleagues.

Rory's palm flopped open and he aimed his hand-gun at the iron chain. The lightning outside drowned out the laser flash, and the bang of the gun was lost amidst rumbles of thunder. As the half-melted chain fell limply to the floor, a heavy groan accompanied the opening of the gates below.

Rory sprinted up the stairs to the very top of the turret. The night-watch torches, fully fueled, stood in their stands, ready to be lit. Rory lifted one from its sleeve, pulling a small alabaster vial from its hiding place in the folds of his tunic. He tugged off the stopper and poured the vial's liquid contents onto the business end of the torch. Then he felt his tunic.

"Not good. I forgot the flint," he said aloud. The pounding rain would make any friction-sparked fire impossible, and, at any rate, the tinder was soaked through. A burst from his hand-gun was more likely to blow the turret to bits than to set the torch alight, so that simply wasn't an option. But there was an alternative, of which Rory was not particularly fond. Rory's body was powered by electricity; what he needed was an electrical fire.

"Fine, then," he grumbled, setting the torch aside. He then proceeded to pull off his breastplate and tunic. An old gash, neatly stitched, stretched from his collarbone to an inch above his leggings. Perhaps, this one time, his inability to heal would come in handy, for if the stitches were loosened, the cut would be accessible.

Rory drew his sword and reversed his grip, guiding the point towards his chest. As the tip sliced through a hand's length of stitches, Rory grimaced. It didn't hurt at all; rather, Rory hated the grim reminder that beneath the skin and personality, he was still an inhuman facsimile of his former self. The blade-work done, he dropped his sword and slipped a hand into his chest. This is why I never wanted to be a surgeon, he thought, groping around for a suitable wire. At last, his fingers closed around a thin cord that pulsed with the warmth of electricity.

"God, I hope this doesn't do anything vital," he whispered, and cut the wire.

Sparks cascaded from the gap in his chest like a miniature fireworks display. In a burst of effort, Rory seized the torch and held it close. It exploded with miraculous flames, fueled by the chemicals Rory had poured upon it. A bright green flame cut like a beacon through the storm. Rory waved the torch a few times, keeping his eye on the distant forest. A momentary glint of a distant flame was enough to assure him that Alaric had received his message: the gate was open.

The torch flame spluttered and danced in the rain, finally hissing away into darkness. Rory collapsed to the cobblestone. He pushed his breastplate against his chest to muffle the spray of sparks and slowly pulled his tunic back over his head. Rory felt weaker, as if each spark stole a week of his life force as it fizzled against the inside of his armor. His legs seemed sluggish, so he grabbed his spear and hefted the crossbar from the torch rack to serve as makeshift crutches. Slowly, awkwardly, he inched down the stairs. An occasional glance through the arrow-slits showed Rory the darkness descending upon the land, but not only the dark of nightfall; the approaching shadow, Rory knew, was composed of hundreds—no, thousands—of men. Alaric was coming.

Far too late, Rory heard the distant blasts of the alarm horn and the futile cries of the Roman defenders. A faint vibration shook the gatehouse as the Visigoths stormed through the archway beneath.

Rory made it as far as the ninth stair from the bottom before his spear snapped and he tumbled down the steps to land in an inglorious heap against the doorframe. After no more than a minute, the door swung open and a hand hauled Rory to his feet and leaned him against the wall.

"Roranicus, you liar," said the watchman, swinging a furious fist into Rory's face. "Junius never summoned us. And what do we find when we return? The gate unlocked and unguarded, a stream of Visigoths pouring through the door! You yellow-bellied, wretched villain! A traitor, that's what you are. A traitor to Rome and every man, woman, and child within its walls."

"I told you so," breathed Rory, head spinning.

The soldier's next right hook smashed into Rory's nose. "I'm bringing you in," he growled. "No torture is too terrible, too painful, for your crime. Before the dawn breaks, you will die, but the people you've betrayed, the families you have doomed…they will haunt you forever."

"They already do," whispered Rory.

Another punch. "Stand up, you dog-hearted knave," said the Roman. "I want you to go to your grave walking on your own cursed feet."

"I can't," spluttered Rory. "Really. I can't feel my legs." Apparently the wire he'd cut was basically equivalent to a human's spinal cord. Everything below his waist was numb and limp. Rory was worse than paralyzed: he was useless.

"Hmph," said the soldier, slinging Rory over his shoulder, "so it seems you're a weakling too."

"Just get me somewhere safe…" Rory's voice warned of impending unconsciousness.

The watchman laughed mirthlessly. "Safe? You've opened the floodgates, Roranicus. Look around you! Rome is burning. The last safe place on Earth just became a war zone."

Head bobbing limply against the soldier's back, Rory could only gaze helplessly at his surroundings. He vaguely suspected that the watchman was taking him to the military barracks, but in the turmoil, Rory could hardly tell. Citizens, soldiers, and Visigoths alike flooded the streets. Women and sons fled with their prized possessions; Visigoths and Roman lowlifes looted the emptying buildings. Statues and jars and rubble accumulated in heaps in the gutters, and, through the rain, Rory caught whiff of the unmistakable reek of fire.

"I don't believe it," said the watchman.

In the corner of his eye, Rory sighted the barracks; that is, what remained of them: a pile of stone rubble and smoldering rafters. There was no place to go.

"Very well, then," said the soldier. "I'll just have to do it myself." Rory slipped from the man's back and landed facedown in the gutter-water. Above the din of battle and the gurgle of the muddy water, Rory detected the unmistakable shick of a sword being drawn. A metal point dug uncomfortably into his neck. A small amount of pressure would separate his head from his body.

"So," said the watchman, "before I become a murderer, do you have any last words?"

"Give me some time to come up with something memorable. A lifetime might suffice."

Rory could feel the sword-point pressing deeper into his neck.

"STOP!" yelled a familiar voice.

Rory lifted his head to find Junius, thoroughly disheveled and a stream of blood issuing from his scalp, sprinting towards him.

"Gallus, stop this insanity!" Junius addressed the soldier.

"Gallus?" Rory asked, incredulous. "Your name is Gallus?"

"Yes," answered the guard, taken aback. "Why?"

"I knew a Gallus once," said Rory. "Did you take your name from an ancestor?"

"Yes, like most Roman names," countered Gallus. His rage, Rory noted, was slowly dissolving into curiosity.

"He was adopted," said Rory. A confirmation, not a question. "And his adopted grandfather was Tacitus, but they never knew each other."

"Wait, that name sounds familiar," interjected Junius. "You said it before, didn't you, Roranicus? I overheard you muttering a few names—Gallus, Tacitus, and what was the last one? It began with an 'R.'"

"Rae," said Rory. "But, Gallus, am I right? The Gallus I'm describing, was he your ancestor?"

"Yes," breathed Gallus.

"Tell me his story."

"Why should I?" Gallus slid back under the mask of anger. "You're a traitor standing on your own grave, asking for tales to forestall your execution."

"Please," whispered Rory.

Gallus sighed. "My namesake was one of the lucky survivors of the Antonine plague. My father told me that Galen himself and Gallus' tutor worked together to bring him back from the brink of death, and—"

"The tutor," interrupted Rory. "What was his name?"

Gallus' eyes widened with realization. "His name was Roranicus."

Rory smiled.

"So, are you a blood relative of his?" asked Gallus.

"Oh, we're definitely closely related," said Rory. The same person, in fact.

"By the gods!" cried Gallus. "Gallus owed Roranicus his life. He swore to honor his debt, but he never got the chance. The responsibility thus falls to his descendant—me."

"Great," muttered Rory. "You want to repay me? Start by getting your sword away from my jugular vein."

Gallus sheathed his weapon guiltily and pulled Rory to his feet, leaning the paralyzed man against his shoulder. "Nevertheless, you owe me an explanation," said the soldier. "Why did you betray Rome?"

"You have your debts to pay. I have mine. Let's just leave it at that, shall we?" groaned Rory, trying in vain to keep his knees from buckling. "We need to go."

Junius threw one of Rory's arms around his own shoulder to ease the load. "Go? Where can we go? No place is safe."

"I made sure one place would be left untouched," countered Rory. "We need to get to the Pantheon."

The bizarre sight of two grown men dragging around a third like a helpless child attracted little attention in the chaotic city. Rory dangled helplessly between Gallus and Junius as they staggered through the streets.

"There," said Rory, nodding his head to the left, and the trio adjusted course. Soon enough, the stone pillars of the Parthenon loomed overhead. And ahead—

"Something's wrong," said Rory. "The doors are open."

At that moment, the holler of a lone Visigoth signaled danger. Rory fell to the ground as Gallus and Julius turned around, simultaneously drawing their swords. In front of him, nestled in the heart of the Parthenon's spectacular chamber, stood the Pandorica. Surrounded by opulent marble that stretched upward into a magnificent dome, bedecked with gilded statues, the Pantheon was a fitting home for the Pandorica.

Then Rory saw the soldiers.

Three Visigoths had violated Rory's agreement and entered the Pantheon. One's eyes gleamed with greed as he rocked a statue off its pedestal. The second, a good head taller than Rory, was collecting candlesticks; the third, worst of all, ran a hand along the ridges in the Pandorica, hooked by a dangerous curiosity.

Rory saw red. He pushed himself on his arms over the threshold, legs trailing limply behind. "Get OUT!" he stormed.

"What did you say?" said greedy-eyes dangerously.

"Huh, that Roman's got nerve," said the tall one, towering over Rory. He kicked him, slamming Rory onto the hard marble floor. "Looky here! This whelp can't even walk. It's true what they say, then—the puny dogs make the most noise. Now, if I were you," he said, looking deep into Rory's eyes, "I'd shimmy home as quick as I could and hope we don't stab you on the way there."

"No." Rory would use his hand-gun if he had to; he'd die before leaving the Pandorica vulnerable.

"What's that? Impudence? Come now, what're you going to do?" The tall one pulled Rory's hands together and effortlessly heaved Rory into the air, suspending him by his wrists against the wall. Rory was, for all intents and purposes, immobilized.

The one that had surveyed the Pandorica came closer. "I vote we teach him some respect for authority." He drew a knife from his belt. "Look at that nose of his! All big and pointy and Roman-like. A sign of arrogance, methinks. I don't like arrogance." The knife inched towards Rory's face.

"Don't," spluttered Rory. "Really, just stop."

"That's exactly what we said when the Romans invaded our lands. They didn't listen. Why should we? This is our—" The barbarian stopped, the knife slipping from his hands, and stared at his chest. An arrowhead poked its way through his clothes. Before he could issue a sound, he toppled to the floor, eyes glazed over. Greedy-eyes was next to go. As the tall one groaned and fell, an arrow protruding from his back, Rory saw a bow-wielding figure silhouetted in the archway. The pose was unmistakable.

"Alaric," Rory said.

The Visigoth king nodded, eyeing the threshold but remaining outside. "I am sorry. I told my men that none would enter here, as I promised you. They disobeyed me."

"Thank you," said Rory. "But I don't understand. I'm a traitor to my own people, forsaken by honor. No man would respect an agreement with me. I'd hoped you would, of course, but I didn't expect it. Why?"

"Oh, Roranicus," sighed Alaric. "Look around you. This city died a long time ago. The Roman Empire let its heart rot, and now I'm cleaning it out, making space for new growth. We're all going to hell for it, Roranicus, but I intend for my good deeds to fall short of my evils by only a slight margin. Now, your friends insist upon seeing you. I must go."

"'Till next time, then," said Rory.

"Will there be a next time?"

"No."

Alaric smiled. "Your counsel will be missed, Roman though you are. Very well! Goodbye."

Then he was gone.

"Rory!" Rory turned to find Junius and Gallus running towards him. "Sorry, we were dealing with a few impudent barbarians. So were you, by the look of him." Junius eyed the tall barbarian outstretched on the floor.

"Wait a second," said Rory. "What did you call me?"

"I didn't," said Junius. "Neither did Gallus."

"'Rory', I heard. Nobody uses that name anymore, not except—"

There, emerging from an alcove, was a ghost.

"—my hallucinations," whispered Rory. He squinted his eyes. "Tacitus? Is that you?"

"Rory," said the ghost. "You came. Now open the Pandorica at last."

"Who's that?" asked Junius.

"He looks like me," said Gallus, incredulous.

"Wait, what?" said Rory, eyes flitting between his two companions. "You can see him too?"

"Why not?" asked Gallus. "He's as real as we are."

"Yes," agreed Rory. "Which means I'm not hallucinating."

"Open the Pandorica!" urged the ghost.

"Why?" asked Rory, his hand inching towards one of the Visigoths.

"Roranicus, why does he look like me?" asked Gallus. "Wait, you called him 'Tacitus.'"

Rory's hand closed around a knife handle. "Yes, I did."

"But that means—"

Rory hurled the knife. A thud echoed around the chamber as the "ghost" fell to the floor.

"Impossible," whispered Junius. Sparks flew from the knife-wound.

"Electricity? But that means it's a cyborg or a robot or something," said Rory, moving closer. "It's not a ghost, not a hallucination; it's an invention. What for?"

Then he thought back to all those years ago, when Gallus—not the soldier, the child—was sick and his family dead. Galen had brought the child to his practice and asked Rory what had happened to his family's bodies.

When people die, they leave bodies, Galen had said. What happened to them?

I don't know, Rory had answered. As if he had never considered this obvious issue…or, rather—

"I forgot," he said. "I forgot what I did with the bodies of Gallus' family, just like I forgot what happened after Tacitus attacked me. He died shortly afterwards. Now, all these 'ghosts' I've been seeing were people I once knew, people close to me. Somebody needed their bodies. That somebody turned them into this." Rory indicated the sparking hulk of electronics that was Tacitus's remains. "That somebody also wanted me to open the Pandorica and erased my memory to hide themselves. Who'd have that capacity?"

"You said 'Tacitus,'" interrupted Gallus. "That's the Tacitus, isn't he? My ancestor. And you called him by name. That means you're not just the ancestor of Roranicus, are you? You're Roranicus himself."

"Whoever did this has technology way ahead of this time," continued Rory, ignoring Gallus. "That leaves three options. One, time's spewing out anomalies again. Just like my old friend, the pterosaur. But this whole dilemma reeks of intelligent manipulation, so I doubt that's the cause. Two, somebody's been copying my technology. Unlikely. So, option three: we're dealing with something alien and belligerent. Not an exciting prospect."

"Aliens? Pterosaurs? Roranicus, you're rambling." Junius looked utterly lost.

"Listen to me," said Rory. "Forget the Visigoths. We're facing something much bigger, scarier, and more insidious than anything we've ever faced. I need you—both of you—at my side."

"Well, I want answers, so count me in," said Gallus.

"Junius? What about you?"

"I'm not so sure," said Junius. "I'm not used to the dangers, the thrills, you know? I'm just a novice."

Rory smiled. "I was the same way once. I won't lie; whatever lies in front of us won't be easy, but I can promise you one thing: it'll be worth it."

Junius nodded. "Have it your way, then. But I still stand by what I said earlier."

Rory cocked an eyebrow. "What did you say?"

"Underneath that shell, you're a real softy inside."

Rory laughed and patted the Pandorica. "Junius, I think you're right."

Author's Note:

Finally, another story complete! It's taken me forever, but then again, this chapter's longer than most, so please, please, leave my head attached to my neck. Thank you for your patience and your support! I love reading your reviews, and everybody who's kind enough to leave me one gets a profile view at the very least, and a review of their own if you write for fandoms with which I'm familiar. Just a small gesture of thanks…I wish I could do more.

Also, feel free to check out my other Who fanfic, "The House of Mirrors," a shorter story featuring Rory, the Doctor, Weeping Angels, and more than its fair share of timey-wimeyness. OK, enough with the blatant plugging. Thanks for reading, and tell me what you think!

Allons-y!