Rory heaved a sigh, watching the single chicken cluck around and peck at the straw for grain. The fountain trickled away, quite soothing, if he didn’t have so much on his mind. Funny, the Doctor told him to stay out of trouble, keep things, he assumed, low key.
But he didn’t ask to be emperor. Bloody Caesar. So what if he commissioned a statue of Amy? He kissed her. Her face looked alright, not a perfect representation... He drew her as best he could for the sculptor and gods knew he had enough practice.
“Oh, Amy... I don’t know how long I can do this...”









