Two Thousand Years Of Sleep
Help, how the devil do you do an LJ cut???
Hope this works....
Two Thousand Years Of Sleep
Afterwards, she thought of it as being no time at all. At other times, it felt like two thousand years. And by the end of it, she couldn't remember if the Doctor had lied to her about that bit or not.
She spent the two thousand years sleeping and waking. She had a third state of existance, which was between sleeping and waking, where Amy was never sure if she was asleep and thought she was awake, or awake and thought she was alseep. Ok, so that was four states, but whatever.
Sometimes she dreamed she was already out of the box, the years come and gone, and the world around her was black. The Doctor had failed. Or else he'd taken River's advice and run, leaving the universe to its fate. Then her eyes would focus on the interior of the Pandorica and she'd remember, and wonder when she was. For the Doctor had been right about that. Being in here was a form of time travel. Unable to age or die, the hours could turn into days and months could be but a few minutes. There was no way of knowing. For all Amy knew, it could have only been a few hours since the Doctor had strapped her into the box, or she could be only a few minutes away from being released. A few hours, and it already felt like years. Another two thousand years in this box. Oh, god, what if she ran out of air? And there was no way to get out. Of course, that was the point. The Pandorica was a prison. It would never run out of air; it was specifically designed to keep its occupants alive at whatever cost.
Two thousand years, ticking, ticking away like the grains of sand trickling through an hourglass. Amy wriggled in the chair. The straps were only very loose, the Doctor had only strapped her in to support her dead form. She untied herself now, and started to prowl. The box was taller than it looked from the outside and she had to stand on the chair to reach the ceiling. Amy walked around the chair, her hands trailing the wall, the new perimeters of her world. Well, it was exercise. The Doctor surely couldn't expect her to sit in a little box for two thousand years without stretching her legs. After a while, she sat back in the chair. She still felt dizzy, and she put her hand to her stomach. It was strange, in that she couldn't feel anything. The Pandorica had put her in a kind of stasis, but it couldn't heal her, just like the Doctor said. There was a patch on her left side that was numb, and yet felt heavy with suppressed hurt, the way you feel after having a tooth removed. The pain was still there, biding its time, but the anaesthetic dulled it enough to forget.
But Amy didn't forget. She remembered the look in his eyes when he shot her. The plastic in his eyes that had turned so painfully human a second later, when he realised what he had done. He. It. It was a plastic facsimile of her Rory, not the awkward boy she had fallen in love with without realising. Oh god, loving him would be like loving a... a blow up doll. Even his memories were false, plucked from her own mind and used to create him.
Amy shook her head, even though there was no one to see her. He was real. He was human. He was. He become human the instant he shot her. She knew that. He had renounced everything he had been made to be. Her memory of him had brought him back, and her memory of him had saved him. Her Rory. It didn't matter if he wasn't made of skin and bone and blood. He was still hers.
She drifted back into her half sleep, images swimming round her head, magnified on the walls like projections. Silurians and guns and daleks and angels. Amy gasped. There was an angel in the box with her. It leaped forward from the wall, no longer merely an image in her head. It was real, and Amy screamed.
"No..." She wailed, cringing down from the chair and covering her head with her hands. Her word echoed round the walls, taunting her. It would do her no good to hide her eyes, to save herself she had to keep seeing the angel, but it was a reverse psychology. If she couldn't see it, it might go away. She lay on the floor for a long time, and she wasn't sure if she slept again, for days or months or years, or a few minutes, but when she opened her eyes the angel was gone.
She tried to guess what year it was outside the box, as a means of passing the time. The quality of the light never changed so there was no way of knowing if it was night or day. Or perhaps the light outside did affect the light in the box. She just didn't know that yet because it was still only the first day in here and she was still trapped underneath Stonehenge. The thought made her feel claustrophobic again, so she slept to escape the feeling.
When she woke, the light was the same. There was no sound from outside, but there never was. She could have been stuck in the middle of the Second World War and she wouldn't have known. This time she smiled, thinking of the free Amy in Churchill's bunker, helping to save the world. Amy Pond, meeting the Prime Minister. The dead Prime Minister. Or perhaps he wasn't even born yet...
She was jolted out of her thoughts by a sudden movement inside the box. It seemed to be lurching from side to side. Amy's head snapped up, grabbing hold of the clamps and strapping them across her body. Looking around her, she saw the box was shuddering. This was it.
Amy braced herself, holding onto the straps, and waited. The seconds it took for the box to unlock seemed longer than the last two millenia. She felt strangely irritated. Bit by bit, the pain in her side intensified as the box opened her up to real time once again, and she realised she had a headache, the kind of headache that comes with sleeping in until noon on a Sunday. She wasn't ready, damn him. Damn that man and his secret plans. She was being thrust out into the light again, and all she wanted to do, more than anything, was sleep. She closed her eyes and waited.
The light snapped her out of it. The light pouring into the box, or out of it, and the luminous eyes and frightened, thrilled expression on the little girl's face. Amy was puzzled for a moment, and then recognised her. Amelia. The little girl who dreamed of stars.
"Ok, kid, this is where things get complicated."
And she stumbled out of the chair, half crawling, and wrapped her arms around her younger self's legs, taking strength from her, drinking her youth and life in, for Amy was two thousand years old, and her side hurt like her kidney had been torn out, and she wanted to sleep.
She knew now why the Doctor sought the company of the young.
Hope this works....
Two Thousand Years Of Sleep
Afterwards, she thought of it as being no time at all. At other times, it felt like two thousand years. And by the end of it, she couldn't remember if the Doctor had lied to her about that bit or not.
She spent the two thousand years sleeping and waking. She had a third state of existance, which was between sleeping and waking, where Amy was never sure if she was asleep and thought she was awake, or awake and thought she was alseep. Ok, so that was four states, but whatever.
Sometimes she dreamed she was already out of the box, the years come and gone, and the world around her was black. The Doctor had failed. Or else he'd taken River's advice and run, leaving the universe to its fate. Then her eyes would focus on the interior of the Pandorica and she'd remember, and wonder when she was. For the Doctor had been right about that. Being in here was a form of time travel. Unable to age or die, the hours could turn into days and months could be but a few minutes. There was no way of knowing. For all Amy knew, it could have only been a few hours since the Doctor had strapped her into the box, or she could be only a few minutes away from being released. A few hours, and it already felt like years. Another two thousand years in this box. Oh, god, what if she ran out of air? And there was no way to get out. Of course, that was the point. The Pandorica was a prison. It would never run out of air; it was specifically designed to keep its occupants alive at whatever cost.
Two thousand years, ticking, ticking away like the grains of sand trickling through an hourglass. Amy wriggled in the chair. The straps were only very loose, the Doctor had only strapped her in to support her dead form. She untied herself now, and started to prowl. The box was taller than it looked from the outside and she had to stand on the chair to reach the ceiling. Amy walked around the chair, her hands trailing the wall, the new perimeters of her world. Well, it was exercise. The Doctor surely couldn't expect her to sit in a little box for two thousand years without stretching her legs. After a while, she sat back in the chair. She still felt dizzy, and she put her hand to her stomach. It was strange, in that she couldn't feel anything. The Pandorica had put her in a kind of stasis, but it couldn't heal her, just like the Doctor said. There was a patch on her left side that was numb, and yet felt heavy with suppressed hurt, the way you feel after having a tooth removed. The pain was still there, biding its time, but the anaesthetic dulled it enough to forget.
But Amy didn't forget. She remembered the look in his eyes when he shot her. The plastic in his eyes that had turned so painfully human a second later, when he realised what he had done. He. It. It was a plastic facsimile of her Rory, not the awkward boy she had fallen in love with without realising. Oh god, loving him would be like loving a... a blow up doll. Even his memories were false, plucked from her own mind and used to create him.
Amy shook her head, even though there was no one to see her. He was real. He was human. He was. He become human the instant he shot her. She knew that. He had renounced everything he had been made to be. Her memory of him had brought him back, and her memory of him had saved him. Her Rory. It didn't matter if he wasn't made of skin and bone and blood. He was still hers.
She drifted back into her half sleep, images swimming round her head, magnified on the walls like projections. Silurians and guns and daleks and angels. Amy gasped. There was an angel in the box with her. It leaped forward from the wall, no longer merely an image in her head. It was real, and Amy screamed.
"No..." She wailed, cringing down from the chair and covering her head with her hands. Her word echoed round the walls, taunting her. It would do her no good to hide her eyes, to save herself she had to keep seeing the angel, but it was a reverse psychology. If she couldn't see it, it might go away. She lay on the floor for a long time, and she wasn't sure if she slept again, for days or months or years, or a few minutes, but when she opened her eyes the angel was gone.
She tried to guess what year it was outside the box, as a means of passing the time. The quality of the light never changed so there was no way of knowing if it was night or day. Or perhaps the light outside did affect the light in the box. She just didn't know that yet because it was still only the first day in here and she was still trapped underneath Stonehenge. The thought made her feel claustrophobic again, so she slept to escape the feeling.
When she woke, the light was the same. There was no sound from outside, but there never was. She could have been stuck in the middle of the Second World War and she wouldn't have known. This time she smiled, thinking of the free Amy in Churchill's bunker, helping to save the world. Amy Pond, meeting the Prime Minister. The dead Prime Minister. Or perhaps he wasn't even born yet...
She was jolted out of her thoughts by a sudden movement inside the box. It seemed to be lurching from side to side. Amy's head snapped up, grabbing hold of the clamps and strapping them across her body. Looking around her, she saw the box was shuddering. This was it.
Amy braced herself, holding onto the straps, and waited. The seconds it took for the box to unlock seemed longer than the last two millenia. She felt strangely irritated. Bit by bit, the pain in her side intensified as the box opened her up to real time once again, and she realised she had a headache, the kind of headache that comes with sleeping in until noon on a Sunday. She wasn't ready, damn him. Damn that man and his secret plans. She was being thrust out into the light again, and all she wanted to do, more than anything, was sleep. She closed her eyes and waited.
The light snapped her out of it. The light pouring into the box, or out of it, and the luminous eyes and frightened, thrilled expression on the little girl's face. Amy was puzzled for a moment, and then recognised her. Amelia. The little girl who dreamed of stars.
"Ok, kid, this is where things get complicated."
And she stumbled out of the chair, half crawling, and wrapped her arms around her younger self's legs, taking strength from her, drinking her youth and life in, for Amy was two thousand years old, and her side hurt like her kidney had been torn out, and she wanted to sleep.
She knew now why the Doctor sought the company of the young.