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It was a clear night in November, and the Last Centurion sat silently beside his box. The stars were bright in the sky above, and the air was still. Anyone else might have been cold, ice glittered in the starlight where puddles had frozen over, but the living plastic soldier could not feel the chill.
The Centurion had expected it to be boring, and it was, it was. Time seemed to drag, until the silent watcher got so used to the slowness that it seemed to speed up again and pass by unnoticed. Rome had fallen, it seemed, all at once. History moved on. Things changed, and the lonely soldier stayed the same.
But it was nice, too, the waiting. Peaceful. Night, most of all. The Last Centurion watched the stars turn slowly, slowly, night by night, and marked each one that blinked out. The world was still so huge and bright, at least for now, but this was still the center.
The world turned, the universe darkened, time moved on, too swiftly and too slowly to count, and still the guardian of the Pandorica stood watch. One day it would open, and when it did Rory Williams would be waiting.