Torchwood: "Lucis Ferre", 1/?
Jul. 31st, 2008 08:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mclachlandLucis Ferre, 1/?
By R.C.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mclachlan
Jack/Ianto
Post-season 2
Author's Notes: Well, here we go again. Thanks toetharei for the beta.
I. The Fall
His great aunt Crwys was born on a small farm in 1909 to extremely religious parents in an extremely religious town. They would get up every morning in their single bedroom, taking care to rise before the sun, wash their faces, dress in their very finest, and walk in silence to St. Mary's, a rather quaint little chapel that had a small claim to fame as the eponymous church in a very long name.
His Da used to tell him about their austere life, how they found simple pleasures in working the land well, in watching their small flock of sheep grow to an enormous colony of walking cotton, in knowing that they were serving God to the best of their abilities. His Da had never been a particularly religious man, and whatever beliefs he held were his alone. He'd never once tried to force anything upon his son.
When his parents would go away for a weekend here and there during the year, taking the earnings from his father's tailoring business to faraway lands, like Paris or London or once to Tahiti where his Mam complained about the heat the entire time, they would take Ianto to visit great aunt Crwys for the duration. She was the only other relative that could be trusted to keep an eye on him.
He can still remember holding onto great aunt Crwys's hand, her fingers like kindling for a fire, so many years of hard labor taking its toll, and walking down the road, an endless, winding path that was so long that he thought they might encircle the entire world if they would go a little bit further, until they reached the old iron gates of St. Mary's. Usually they were the only ones so early in the morning, making it easy to take the front pew where she would force him to his knees before the small altar and the large icon of Jesus Christ on the cross, and tell him stories right out of the Book, teaching him to appreciate what he had, what sacrifices had been made for him, what to revere and what to abhor.
The cross on which Christ hung was surprisingly ornate for such a modest rectory, each end boasting a beautiful jewel carved into significant shapes. The Alpha, the Omega, the Chi-Ro, and the last symbol that his great Aunt Crwys adored but didn't understand. She would point them out and tell the corresponding tale from the Bible, and he would half-listen, too concerned with the way his knees ached, fidgeting unhappily and dreaming of going back home where a color television waited for him with his favorite cartoons, his action figures lying in mid-battle on his bedroom floor. The days with great aunt Crwys were a lesson in punishment.
"Stop fidgeting, boy! You're in God's house right now."
God's house never left him feeling reverent, or enlightened. Just bored to tears with aching knees, wondering how his parents could sleep at night in their posh hotel beds while he was forced to eat cod-liver oil and memorize each line of Ode to Joy before he was allowed to sleep.
Then his Mam died, and there were no more visits to great aunt Crwys's.
The funeral had been a quiet affair, and great aunt Crwys said very little, save when she took his hand into her gnarled grasp and whispered --
"For through me your days will be many, and years will be added to your life," Ianto mutters, the sky opening up the moment he sits down, a great dam breaking in the sky with a deafening crack that sets off car alarms outside. Worried patrons, fearing the shrieks might be coming from their own vehicles, stumble to their feet and crowd the doorway, peering into the rain-darkened evening to see if it is, indeed, their lights that are flashing with the shrill but even beat of the sirens. The last thing he needs now is a headache on top of the pain in his leg muscles, caused by anticipation.
He's not entirely sure why great aunt Crwys is foremost in his thoughts tonight, especially where he's sitting alone in a fancy restaurant, waiting for the other half of the party to arrive. He thinks for a moment that he ought to set his expectations a lot lower.
Ianto had been perfectly fine going back to the uncomplicated role of teammate and butler upon Jack's return. With Jack's First Leaving, Ianto had been quick to learn his place in Jack's life. A fleeting fancy. Something new and shiny that hadn't received Jack's Midas Touch. New, undiscovered territory. And once Jack had staked his claim, the novelty had worn off and Jack had gone, in search of other, more interesting prospects and adventures, leaving Ianto behind to flounder with nothing to show for it, save Jack Harkness's flag piercing his chest.
The Second Leaving had hurt more than it should have. Ianto had known the dire position the earth, not to mention twenty-six other planets, was in, had known that Jack needed to be with his Doctor, saving the universe from destruction. Again.
But he'd left them. Without a thought. A simple grin and an indulgent, "I'll be back". Left him, left Gwen, to whatever mercy or lack thereof the Daleks wanted to show.
Jack had looked at Ianto, smiled, and left.
What was it Owen had said, all those months ago? "In your sad, wet dreams, where you're more than just his part-time shag"? Something along those lines. Trust Owen to see the truth in a muddled situation.
In his sad, wet dreams, indeed. Wouldn't great aunt Crwys be thrilled to see her only nephew waiting for a man who had his cock shoved up Ianto’s ass mere hours ago. She's probably rolling in her grave, turning the soil so more weeds can grow in St. Mary's.
Ianto remembers when he used to be in control of his own life, when he had common sense and a will more resilient than diamond. Before Jack, before the Doctor, before the death of comrades, before Daleks and missing planets.
Good times.
"I was thinking, maybe -- when this is… all done -- dinner? A movie?"
Except this will never be all done. "This" is Torchwood, and Torchwood is never done.
He sighs and lifts a hand to the gaping mouth of his crystal glass of water, dipping his index finger in and running it lightly around the rim, bringing forth a mournful wail, The Lament of Pressed and Heated Sand, ignoring the dirty look an elderly couple tosses his way at his rudeness. He breaks off, the glass's warbling coming to an abrupt end, and checks his watch. Twenty-six minutes late.
A man, older, maybe in his early forties, smiles at Ianto from three tables over, his tiny spectacles slipping down his rather fine nose. Ianto smiles back and turns to his water, mourning that the flag is still there, waving the Harkness crest to ward off other explorers. Ianto is charted territory now.
One car is still bleating piteously outside, probably his own. And the umbrella that he carries around in case of emergencies is snuggled up in the back seat.
This is all sorts of ridiculous.
Throwing down a tenner to pay for his free water, Ianto rises and heads for the exit, bypassing all of the dining patrons of Signor Valentino, hoping that none of them are whispering about the man in the suit that had waited half an hour for someone who didn't care enough to show up, even to call the whole thing off.
He stands under the awning for a moment, staring out at the rain, dreading the thirty-second walk to his car, when the screaming starts.
Ianto rushes out onto the street, peering through the heavy curtains of rain, the street lamps hardly a help, just blurry balls of yellow, stars in a Van Gogh painting. But there's something here. The air is ablaze with the promise of a chase, tempting those that are of Torchwood to come out and play. Not a Weevil, then. This is something else, something new.
A woman runs by him soundlessly, sobbing in fright, her heels making wet clacks in growing puddles. He hears her fall somewhere behind him before she pushes herself back to her feet and continues to run. Through the pounding of the rain, he can hear something wet and hard crack and splinter. Something, or someone, is being eaten.
Checking to make sure his weapon is on him, Ianto taps his earpiece, rushing back for his car. His fingers struggle into his pocket, fighting wet fabric, to pull out his automatic starter. His car chimes twice and he gets in without so much as a thought. Key in the ignition, put it into drive, accelerate, and go. Reckless driving under duress has become second nature now.
"Jack? Gwen? I'm on Stuart Street -- We have a situation."
"I have no idea where Jack is, Ianto, but I'll head that way now. What are we dealing with?" Gwen.
"Not sure. Big. Dangerous. Make sure you're armed. I'm going to flush it toward City Hall Road. Can you be there within six minutes?" He speeds after it, rolling down his window, sparing a thought for his interior as the rain pours in. He cocks his gun, beautiful and sleek work of art, and fires. Misses. Spinning the wheel, he glides onto Bute Street.
"Half-way there. I was out with Rhys."
"Sorry." I should have been out with Jack, he wants to say, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. Things are cooling down. The flag is tattered and Jack is beginning to look elsewhere, see where the latitudes and longitudes take him, what new worlds wait to be conquered. He's not even a part-time shag any longer, just a name and a vacation destination on a map. He's bloody Virginia; new, beautiful, and ultimately a disappointment.
"I'm at City Hall, Ianto. How far away are you?"
"Give me about eight minutes," he huffs, firing off another shot, missing spectacularly, the windshield of someone's car exploding, the glass shards mingling with the rain, diamonds among crystals. He curses and increases his speed, the toe of his shoe pressing down on the accelerator with more force than is strictly necessary.
He taps his earpiece again, turning onto Corbett Road. "Jack! Jack, can you hear me?"
Nothing. Bastard.
The only thing that will happen when "this is all done" is Jack getting shot.
There's a crack of thunder so strong that causes the car to swerve, his shoe slipping momentarily on the pedal, the street coming alive with a flash of lightning, giving Ianto a quick glimpse of the creature. For a moment he sees nothing except a great, hulking octopus-like thing. Tentacles, maybe eight. Another flash of lightning shows him that it's actually ten.
"Jack," he snarls, hitting his earpiece with the palm of his hand. "I hope you're hearing me, because so help me God -- I'm in pursuit of an alien on Corbett Road, coming up on City Hall. It is at least eight feet tall with ten tentacles that I can see. Incredibly fast. Casualties unknown." He can't fall into anger. Not with the clock tower so close. Through the rain and the dim light, he can just make out the Torchwood SUV.
"Fuck!" He switches off the comm before Jack can answer, before Ianto can say things that he knows he would regret, and gets out of the car, fingers slipping on the wet shell, inviting more rain to ruin his suit. The driver's side door to the SUV opens as well, and Gwen takes out her gun, firing a shot at the creature. A howl unlike anything he's ever heard, even in his nightmares, rents the air, and he watches as one of the ten tentacles breaks off and slams into the pavement.
The creature brays loudly, and the severed tentacle writhes. And grows, larger and taller until it towers over them, their cars, bloated and covered with some kind of liquid, like a membrane. Something is moving inside of it.
"Gwen, get back!" He shouts, and the bulbous sac explodes, splattering the street with whatever had been inside. It splashes against Ianto's face and neck, the exposed skin beginning to itch. He lifts a rain-soaked sleeve and wipes it off, groaning with relief at the scratch of the fabric against his irritated skin. Gwen is cursing, scratching at whatever exposed skin she can get at. He looks up and swallows a gasp.
There are two. The first one, still missing a tentacle, spins with frightening speed and wraps a tentacle around Ianto's ankle, launching itself into the air. He shouts in surprise and then bites down on his tongue as the alien fixes itself to the wall of City Hall, climbing up and up, slamming him into the marble and cement with every lunge. Gwen calls his name, but her voice is lost to the rain and the thunder.
Suddenly, the thick, pulsing rope around his ankle slips away, tossing him into the air like a rag doll. Then there's nothing except beautiful free-fall. For a moment, he thinks, "I've done this", and then crashes back down, scrabbling for purchase on the wet roof of the clock tower, body folding and careening over the edge. His fingers find a hold and he grunts as his stomach slams into the hard cast iron of the clock, wrapping his arms around the face, trembling with exhaustion and cold.
"Try it again, Ianto. Mean it!"
"Freude, schöner Götterfunken,
Tochter aus Elysium,
wir betreten feuertrunken,
Himmlische, dein Heiligtum."
He groans in pain, tongue throbbing, and uses his body to keep steady as he reaches up with a shaking hand to tap his earpiece. Something warm fills his mouth and it tastes sharp, like an American penny.
"Jack…"
"IANTO! Oh, thank God! Hang on; I'm coming up for you right now!"
"Where were you?" He grunts, kicking at nothing. They make it look so easy in movies. There's a ball of flame in his chest, fanned with each wretched gasp, each attempt to hook his leg around the sloping clock face.
"Weevil attack near the Senedd. I got here as soon as I could. Listen to me, Ianto. You need to keep still. Can you do that for me? That's an Aktarhm -- they respond to movement. Hide somewhere and stay there until I get to you."
His grip is slipping. He can hear the iron squeaking as his fingers loosen, too tired to hold on any longer. And he thinks of his great aunt Crwys, who had made him go to church, who had taught him not to fear anything because he was loved by someone who loved everyone else.
Considering whom he's sleeping with, that's almost funny.
The Aktarhm howls to the sky and crawls over the roof of the clock tower, slinking easily down the side of the concrete and marble to where Ianto struggles to hold on. There's another flash of lightning, so bright that he's blinded for a moment, the moon exploding behind his eyes, paving the way for another path, winding like the road to St. Mary's.
Light.
It was once the vernacular.
The Aktarhm lets loose a sound that sends a shudder through him, a manic giggle that causes the iron to shake. Its tentacles wave madly, the lightning catching them, writhing silhouettes that look like a hydra, something out of the books his dad used to read to him in order to help him forget the words imprinted on his brain, harsh syllables that had no true meaning to him.
Clenching his teeth, he drags himself up the iron slope, body and left arm straining, right coming to his side, fingers curling around an empty nothing, a distant memory that has no place in his head, finding no solace or strength in the air he grasps at needlessly. His one-armed hold weakens, gravity forcing him down, a Looney Tunes cartoon where Tweety is picking off each of his fingers from a telephone line, a window sill, the clock tower of Cardiff City Hall.
He won't go like this. He will go down fighting, like Tosh, like Owen.
Like --
Like whom?
Another giggle, devastating in the lightning-wrought air, and the Arktarhm lunges forward. Ianto pushes off and for one beautiful moment is airborne, the wind bowing before him and pushing him up, aloft, his right hand curling over solid fire, bringing it down with all the force he can muster.
Try again, boy! Like you mean it!
But he can't mean what he doesn't know.
Doesn't remember.
"IANTO!"
He's falling, back to earth, and the entire way down he thinks how it was never like this. He was always going the other way.
Up.
Freude, schöner Götterfunken,
Tochter aus Elysium,
wir betreten feuertrunken,
Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!
By R.C.
mclachlanJack/Ianto
Post-season 2
Author's Notes: Well, here we go again. Thanks to
etharei for the beta.I. The Fall
His great aunt Crwys was born on a small farm in 1909 to extremely religious parents in an extremely religious town. They would get up every morning in their single bedroom, taking care to rise before the sun, wash their faces, dress in their very finest, and walk in silence to St. Mary's, a rather quaint little chapel that had a small claim to fame as the eponymous church in a very long name.
His Da used to tell him about their austere life, how they found simple pleasures in working the land well, in watching their small flock of sheep grow to an enormous colony of walking cotton, in knowing that they were serving God to the best of their abilities. His Da had never been a particularly religious man, and whatever beliefs he held were his alone. He'd never once tried to force anything upon his son.
When his parents would go away for a weekend here and there during the year, taking the earnings from his father's tailoring business to faraway lands, like Paris or London or once to Tahiti where his Mam complained about the heat the entire time, they would take Ianto to visit great aunt Crwys for the duration. She was the only other relative that could be trusted to keep an eye on him.
He can still remember holding onto great aunt Crwys's hand, her fingers like kindling for a fire, so many years of hard labor taking its toll, and walking down the road, an endless, winding path that was so long that he thought they might encircle the entire world if they would go a little bit further, until they reached the old iron gates of St. Mary's. Usually they were the only ones so early in the morning, making it easy to take the front pew where she would force him to his knees before the small altar and the large icon of Jesus Christ on the cross, and tell him stories right out of the Book, teaching him to appreciate what he had, what sacrifices had been made for him, what to revere and what to abhor.
The cross on which Christ hung was surprisingly ornate for such a modest rectory, each end boasting a beautiful jewel carved into significant shapes. The Alpha, the Omega, the Chi-Ro, and the last symbol that his great Aunt Crwys adored but didn't understand. She would point them out and tell the corresponding tale from the Bible, and he would half-listen, too concerned with the way his knees ached, fidgeting unhappily and dreaming of going back home where a color television waited for him with his favorite cartoons, his action figures lying in mid-battle on his bedroom floor. The days with great aunt Crwys were a lesson in punishment.
"Stop fidgeting, boy! You're in God's house right now."
God's house never left him feeling reverent, or enlightened. Just bored to tears with aching knees, wondering how his parents could sleep at night in their posh hotel beds while he was forced to eat cod-liver oil and memorize each line of Ode to Joy before he was allowed to sleep.
Then his Mam died, and there were no more visits to great aunt Crwys's.
The funeral had been a quiet affair, and great aunt Crwys said very little, save when she took his hand into her gnarled grasp and whispered --
"For through me your days will be many, and years will be added to your life," Ianto mutters, the sky opening up the moment he sits down, a great dam breaking in the sky with a deafening crack that sets off car alarms outside. Worried patrons, fearing the shrieks might be coming from their own vehicles, stumble to their feet and crowd the doorway, peering into the rain-darkened evening to see if it is, indeed, their lights that are flashing with the shrill but even beat of the sirens. The last thing he needs now is a headache on top of the pain in his leg muscles, caused by anticipation.
He's not entirely sure why great aunt Crwys is foremost in his thoughts tonight, especially where he's sitting alone in a fancy restaurant, waiting for the other half of the party to arrive. He thinks for a moment that he ought to set his expectations a lot lower.
Ianto had been perfectly fine going back to the uncomplicated role of teammate and butler upon Jack's return. With Jack's First Leaving, Ianto had been quick to learn his place in Jack's life. A fleeting fancy. Something new and shiny that hadn't received Jack's Midas Touch. New, undiscovered territory. And once Jack had staked his claim, the novelty had worn off and Jack had gone, in search of other, more interesting prospects and adventures, leaving Ianto behind to flounder with nothing to show for it, save Jack Harkness's flag piercing his chest.
The Second Leaving had hurt more than it should have. Ianto had known the dire position the earth, not to mention twenty-six other planets, was in, had known that Jack needed to be with his Doctor, saving the universe from destruction. Again.
But he'd left them. Without a thought. A simple grin and an indulgent, "I'll be back". Left him, left Gwen, to whatever mercy or lack thereof the Daleks wanted to show.
Jack had looked at Ianto, smiled, and left.
What was it Owen had said, all those months ago? "In your sad, wet dreams, where you're more than just his part-time shag"? Something along those lines. Trust Owen to see the truth in a muddled situation.
In his sad, wet dreams, indeed. Wouldn't great aunt Crwys be thrilled to see her only nephew waiting for a man who had his cock shoved up Ianto’s ass mere hours ago. She's probably rolling in her grave, turning the soil so more weeds can grow in St. Mary's.
Ianto remembers when he used to be in control of his own life, when he had common sense and a will more resilient than diamond. Before Jack, before the Doctor, before the death of comrades, before Daleks and missing planets.
Good times.
"I was thinking, maybe -- when this is… all done -- dinner? A movie?"
Except this will never be all done. "This" is Torchwood, and Torchwood is never done.
He sighs and lifts a hand to the gaping mouth of his crystal glass of water, dipping his index finger in and running it lightly around the rim, bringing forth a mournful wail, The Lament of Pressed and Heated Sand, ignoring the dirty look an elderly couple tosses his way at his rudeness. He breaks off, the glass's warbling coming to an abrupt end, and checks his watch. Twenty-six minutes late.
A man, older, maybe in his early forties, smiles at Ianto from three tables over, his tiny spectacles slipping down his rather fine nose. Ianto smiles back and turns to his water, mourning that the flag is still there, waving the Harkness crest to ward off other explorers. Ianto is charted territory now.
One car is still bleating piteously outside, probably his own. And the umbrella that he carries around in case of emergencies is snuggled up in the back seat.
This is all sorts of ridiculous.
Throwing down a tenner to pay for his free water, Ianto rises and heads for the exit, bypassing all of the dining patrons of Signor Valentino, hoping that none of them are whispering about the man in the suit that had waited half an hour for someone who didn't care enough to show up, even to call the whole thing off.
He stands under the awning for a moment, staring out at the rain, dreading the thirty-second walk to his car, when the screaming starts.
Ianto rushes out onto the street, peering through the heavy curtains of rain, the street lamps hardly a help, just blurry balls of yellow, stars in a Van Gogh painting. But there's something here. The air is ablaze with the promise of a chase, tempting those that are of Torchwood to come out and play. Not a Weevil, then. This is something else, something new.
A woman runs by him soundlessly, sobbing in fright, her heels making wet clacks in growing puddles. He hears her fall somewhere behind him before she pushes herself back to her feet and continues to run. Through the pounding of the rain, he can hear something wet and hard crack and splinter. Something, or someone, is being eaten.
Checking to make sure his weapon is on him, Ianto taps his earpiece, rushing back for his car. His fingers struggle into his pocket, fighting wet fabric, to pull out his automatic starter. His car chimes twice and he gets in without so much as a thought. Key in the ignition, put it into drive, accelerate, and go. Reckless driving under duress has become second nature now.
"Jack? Gwen? I'm on Stuart Street -- We have a situation."
"I have no idea where Jack is, Ianto, but I'll head that way now. What are we dealing with?" Gwen.
"Not sure. Big. Dangerous. Make sure you're armed. I'm going to flush it toward City Hall Road. Can you be there within six minutes?" He speeds after it, rolling down his window, sparing a thought for his interior as the rain pours in. He cocks his gun, beautiful and sleek work of art, and fires. Misses. Spinning the wheel, he glides onto Bute Street.
"Half-way there. I was out with Rhys."
"Sorry." I should have been out with Jack, he wants to say, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. Things are cooling down. The flag is tattered and Jack is beginning to look elsewhere, see where the latitudes and longitudes take him, what new worlds wait to be conquered. He's not even a part-time shag any longer, just a name and a vacation destination on a map. He's bloody Virginia; new, beautiful, and ultimately a disappointment.
"I'm at City Hall, Ianto. How far away are you?"
"Give me about eight minutes," he huffs, firing off another shot, missing spectacularly, the windshield of someone's car exploding, the glass shards mingling with the rain, diamonds among crystals. He curses and increases his speed, the toe of his shoe pressing down on the accelerator with more force than is strictly necessary.
He taps his earpiece again, turning onto Corbett Road. "Jack! Jack, can you hear me?"
Nothing. Bastard.
The only thing that will happen when "this is all done" is Jack getting shot.
There's a crack of thunder so strong that causes the car to swerve, his shoe slipping momentarily on the pedal, the street coming alive with a flash of lightning, giving Ianto a quick glimpse of the creature. For a moment he sees nothing except a great, hulking octopus-like thing. Tentacles, maybe eight. Another flash of lightning shows him that it's actually ten.
"Jack," he snarls, hitting his earpiece with the palm of his hand. "I hope you're hearing me, because so help me God -- I'm in pursuit of an alien on Corbett Road, coming up on City Hall. It is at least eight feet tall with ten tentacles that I can see. Incredibly fast. Casualties unknown." He can't fall into anger. Not with the clock tower so close. Through the rain and the dim light, he can just make out the Torchwood SUV.
"Fuck!" He switches off the comm before Jack can answer, before Ianto can say things that he knows he would regret, and gets out of the car, fingers slipping on the wet shell, inviting more rain to ruin his suit. The driver's side door to the SUV opens as well, and Gwen takes out her gun, firing a shot at the creature. A howl unlike anything he's ever heard, even in his nightmares, rents the air, and he watches as one of the ten tentacles breaks off and slams into the pavement.
The creature brays loudly, and the severed tentacle writhes. And grows, larger and taller until it towers over them, their cars, bloated and covered with some kind of liquid, like a membrane. Something is moving inside of it.
"Gwen, get back!" He shouts, and the bulbous sac explodes, splattering the street with whatever had been inside. It splashes against Ianto's face and neck, the exposed skin beginning to itch. He lifts a rain-soaked sleeve and wipes it off, groaning with relief at the scratch of the fabric against his irritated skin. Gwen is cursing, scratching at whatever exposed skin she can get at. He looks up and swallows a gasp.
There are two. The first one, still missing a tentacle, spins with frightening speed and wraps a tentacle around Ianto's ankle, launching itself into the air. He shouts in surprise and then bites down on his tongue as the alien fixes itself to the wall of City Hall, climbing up and up, slamming him into the marble and cement with every lunge. Gwen calls his name, but her voice is lost to the rain and the thunder.
Suddenly, the thick, pulsing rope around his ankle slips away, tossing him into the air like a rag doll. Then there's nothing except beautiful free-fall. For a moment, he thinks, "I've done this", and then crashes back down, scrabbling for purchase on the wet roof of the clock tower, body folding and careening over the edge. His fingers find a hold and he grunts as his stomach slams into the hard cast iron of the clock, wrapping his arms around the face, trembling with exhaustion and cold.
"Freude, schöner Götterfunken,
Tochter aus Elysium,
wir betreten feuertrunken,
Himmlische, dein Heiligtum."
He groans in pain, tongue throbbing, and uses his body to keep steady as he reaches up with a shaking hand to tap his earpiece. Something warm fills his mouth and it tastes sharp, like an American penny.
"Jack…"
"IANTO! Oh, thank God! Hang on; I'm coming up for you right now!"
"Where were you?" He grunts, kicking at nothing. They make it look so easy in movies. There's a ball of flame in his chest, fanned with each wretched gasp, each attempt to hook his leg around the sloping clock face.
"Weevil attack near the Senedd. I got here as soon as I could. Listen to me, Ianto. You need to keep still. Can you do that for me? That's an Aktarhm -- they respond to movement. Hide somewhere and stay there until I get to you."
His grip is slipping. He can hear the iron squeaking as his fingers loosen, too tired to hold on any longer. And he thinks of his great aunt Crwys, who had made him go to church, who had taught him not to fear anything because he was loved by someone who loved everyone else.
Considering whom he's sleeping with, that's almost funny.
The Aktarhm howls to the sky and crawls over the roof of the clock tower, slinking easily down the side of the concrete and marble to where Ianto struggles to hold on. There's another flash of lightning, so bright that he's blinded for a moment, the moon exploding behind his eyes, paving the way for another path, winding like the road to St. Mary's.
Light.
It was once the vernacular.
The Aktarhm lets loose a sound that sends a shudder through him, a manic giggle that causes the iron to shake. Its tentacles wave madly, the lightning catching them, writhing silhouettes that look like a hydra, something out of the books his dad used to read to him in order to help him forget the words imprinted on his brain, harsh syllables that had no true meaning to him.
Clenching his teeth, he drags himself up the iron slope, body and left arm straining, right coming to his side, fingers curling around an empty nothing, a distant memory that has no place in his head, finding no solace or strength in the air he grasps at needlessly. His one-armed hold weakens, gravity forcing him down, a Looney Tunes cartoon where Tweety is picking off each of his fingers from a telephone line, a window sill, the clock tower of Cardiff City Hall.
He won't go like this. He will go down fighting, like Tosh, like Owen.
Like --
Like whom?
Another giggle, devastating in the lightning-wrought air, and the Arktarhm lunges forward. Ianto pushes off and for one beautiful moment is airborne, the wind bowing before him and pushing him up, aloft, his right hand curling over solid fire, bringing it down with all the force he can muster.
Try again, boy! Like you mean it!
But he can't mean what he doesn't know.
Doesn't remember.
"IANTO!"
He's falling, back to earth, and the entire way down he thinks how it was never like this. He was always going the other way.
Up.
Tochter aus Elysium,
wir betreten feuertrunken,
Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!
