The Art of Far and Near (Part 2)
Rating: T
Word count: ~ 2,100
Warnings: Kind-of spoilers up to Small Worlds, angst, magic, dialogue semi-borrowed from the show, and too little world building.
Summary: Twelve steps to immortality: this is the pinnacle of alchemy, of all alchemists. Ianto has reached final goal, and all he feels is empty.
A/N: Geh. Like I don't already have enough WIPs already. But the bunny bit, and I obeyed. (On that note, I adore the manga Fullmetal Alchemist, and you might see a few similarities, but there are also differences. For one thing, there's no Law of Equivalent Exchange here. In my way of thinking, alchemy’s main goal was the creation of the Philosopher’s Stone, which could change lead into gold, or one base metal into another. From there, my mind took the short jump to “atomic manipulation breaking all the laws of physics.” Hey, it’s magic. Go with it.)
The Art of Far and Near
Chapter Two
Come away, oh human child, to the waters and the wild.
With a fairy, hand in hand, for the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.
Jack opens his hands, setting Jasmine free.
“Take her,” he says, and the world is saved.
(It just doesn't feel like it.)
*.~.*.~.*
(Wait. That's too far forward. Go back.)
*.~.*.~.*
Ianto is nearly fifteen the first time he wakes up with a fire burning in his blood, gasping and breathless in a room of hand-me-downs and battered old books. He reaches out, instinctive and desperate, to turn on his bedside lamp.
He touches the stand, and it turns to gold.
(There has not been an alchemist in his family in over six hundred years.)
When he is fifteen, Ianto sells the lamp to someone who will melt it down. He never tells Rhiannon or his father about his gift, and they never find out, even when Ianto cannot touch iron for fear of changing it to gold before their eyes.
The gold sends him to college in London, far away from Newport, where he meets other people with gifts similar to his-none with the same gift, though, none at all until he finds himself recruited by Torchwood One, taken to work in their shining tower overlooking Canary Wharf.
(“Don't tell anyone,” the man-middle-aged, possibly ancient, quite probably immortal-tells Ianto. “Alchemists very nearly don't exist, and we like it that way. The research is all that matters, so fix your eyes on that and never waver.”
Ianto wavers. He wavers and falls and tumbles downward.
But Jack catches him. So that's all right, then.)
*.~.*.~.*
(Too far back. Skip ahead.)
*.~.*.~.*
There are faery lords arrayed beneath the branches of the trees, a shining court, beautiful and supernaturally perfect. Thirteen men and thirteen women, half mounted on horses as white as burning moonlight and the other half standing stately, arrayed in robes of summer colors. Ianto looks at them, sees the shining hair and pointed ears, the swords and the magic woven into every thread of their clothes.
But their faces are so still and cold, haughty and distant.
“Suppose we make her stay with us,” Jack says, just shy of desperate. His hold on Jasmine tightens, just a little, holding her back.
(Ianto can see that she wants to go, can see the longing in her face. He understands, though he can't exactly say. He understands what it’s like to be the odd one, the one left outside to stand looking at what people term normality.)
(He won't begrudge her, when she goes.)
Jasmine looks up at the Captain, and there's a sort of resigned anticipation on her face. “Then lots more people will die.”
(She doesn't sound upset by that; only by the fact that they might not let her go.)
“They tell you that?”
“They promised.”
One of the female sidhe steps forward, tall, as thin and graceful as a willow wand. Her hair is raven and her skin is milk, her robes the color of oak leaves. She hold out her arms, and whispers, “Come away, oh human child.”
And then she smiles, and the indifference is gone. She is the mother, the maiden, the wise grandmother, full of love and all the warmth of the summer sun. Ianto finds himself straining towards her without even meaning to, drawn to that smile as a flower turns towards the light.
Jasmine looks at the woman, then at Jack again. She’s a pretty child, but there's something wild to her that makes it harder to see. “Next time, they'll kill everybody at my school, like they killed Roy,” she says, sharp and anxious. “And that man. And your friend.”
Gwen looks shaken, hopeless, stubborn. She’s still holding her gun, even though it will be worse than useless against the sidhe Summer Court. “How do you know these things?” she demands.
(She wants to save Jasmine, they all do. Is Ianto the only one who sees that she doesn't want to be saved?)
As if feeling that, Jasmine turns to look at Ianto. He stares back at her, silent-he’s still careful, because he’s only been an active Torchwood member for a day, after his suspension. He doesn't want to risk it, but this-this isn’t something he can prevent, isn’t something he will prevent.
“If they want to, they can make great storms, wild seas, they can turn the world to ice, kill every living thing.” Jasmine tugs against Jack's grip, and Ianto takes an aborted step towards her. “Let me go!”
“Let her go, Jack,” Ianto echoes softly. He’s torn, though, hopes it doesn't show in his voice-if Jack asks him to, he’ll use his alchemy, the reason they brought him along. He’ll inscribe his circles into the earth and burn the wood to ashes, break it back down to carbon and oxygen and hydrogen. But he doesn't want to, because Jasmine wants to go, and he can't find it within himself to blame her.
Jack looks at him, eyes dark and shuttered. The others look at him, too, shocked betrayal on their faces-but it’s not the first time he’s seen that expression, not the first time they've turned it on him, so it’s all fine. Ianto meets Jack's eyes, tries to lets Jack see all the reasons behind his words.
Jack takes a short, shuddering breath and looks back at the sidhe woman. “The child won't be harmed?” he asks, and it’s more of a plea than a demand.
“Jack, you can't!” Gwen sounds horrified and outraged as she takes a half step forward, as though she can stand against these creatures, as though any of them can. Ianto would laugh at her, if he had the breath.
“Answer me! She won't be harmed?” Jack is purely anguished now, and Ianto can't help but remember how he looked when they brought Estelle’s body back. What must it be like, to even contemplate surrendering a helpless child to the creatures who had so cruelly murdered his friend?
The sidhe woman looks at him, her eyes huge and liquid and midnight blue, the faintest hint of that achingly beautiful smile still on her lips. “We told you. She lives forever.”
(Her voice is a bell, a thousand silver echoes on a summer night, and it makes Ianto ache for her warmth, her touch, her kindness. Glamour, he tells himself sharply, but it doesn't drive the feeling away.)
“Dead world. Is that what you want?” Jasmine cries, and perhaps that's the breaking point, the match in the powder barrel. Ianto can see it in Jack's eyes.
“What good is that to you? There will be no more Chosen Ones.”
The question, the demand is directed towards the sidhe, but it’s Jasmine who answers.
“They'll find us, back in time.”
It’s possible Ianto should find that more terrifying than he does, but he can't. The sidhe have always existed. They're as much a part of this world as carbon and oxygen-more, perhaps, because even alchemists can't affect them.
Jack looks at Ianto, and Ianto looks back. He sees the decision half a heartbeat before Jack opens his hands, setting Jasmine free.
“Take her,” he says, and the world is saved.
(It just doesn't feel like it.)
*.~.*.~.*
(That's the inevitable ending. Rewind.)
*.~.*.~.*
“She calls them fairies. I don't.”
“What do you call them?”
“That’s too broad a term. There are lots of kinds of fairies, but only one kind that steals children like this.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like in science: ‘fey’ is the kingdom, ‘fairy’ is the family, and these…they're sidhe. That's the species. Summer Court, specifically, judging by what side of the equinox we’re on.”
“Are we talking fairy like the kind in the movies?”
“Worse.”
“How come?”
“Because they're part of us, part of our world, yet we know nothing about them. So we pretend to know what they're like. We see them as beautiful men and women, kings and queens and lords, ladies in bright dresses. We imagine them riding their horses on hunts and laughing.”
“But they're not?”
“No. Think dangerous. Think something you can only half see, like a glimpse, like something out of the corner of your eye with a touch of myth, a touch of the spirit world, a touch of reality, all jumbled together, old moments and memories that are frozen in amongst it, like debris spinning around a ringed planet, tossing and turning, whirling, backwards and forwards through time, all of it shaped into a creature that can enchant you with a mere breath and kill you just as easily. We only know as much about them as they want us to, only see them as they want to be seen. That's them, we have to find them, before all hell breaks loose.”
(But the stakes are already laid, the game is set.)
(It’s foolish to play games with the sidhe.)
*.~.*.~.*
(Exposition, not explanation. Moving on.)
*.~.*.~.*
“You shouldn't be here.”
“Neither should you.”
*.~.*.~.*
(But neither of them can leave. Not now. Run it forward.)
*.~.*.~.*
“I blame it on the magic mushrooms.”
“What you do in private is none of our business.”
(How would you like it to be? Ianto doesn't ask.)
(Very much so, Jack doesn't answer.)
(But they can't fool themselves, not for long.)
*.~.*.~.*
(Skip ahead a bit, to the very end of this story.)
*.~.*.~.*
Alchemy is the science of change, of alteration, of breaking things down to their simplest state and then rebuilding them as one wants. Ianto sits in his chair, at his desk, with an iron paperweight in his palm. He tosses from hand to hand for a moment, getting a feel of its weight, and then sets it down on the wooden surface.
A whisper of will, a murmured, “Praescribo,” and an alchemical circle with a pair of runes in the center burns itself into the desk, beneath the iron sphere.
There's a creak of wood as Jack settles down in the seat across from him, crossing his arms on the back of the chair and resting his chin on them. He looks tired, and he smells a little of whiskey.
“How do you do that?” he asks after a moment.
Ianto taps the paperweight, traces the circle with a fingertip. “I imagine what I want the circle to look like, chose the symbols to represent the change that I want. Then I just…want it to be, and it is.” He raises his hand over the circle, palm flat, and murmurs, “Incipere.”
The circle glows, the runes burn, and the iron orb twists itself up, tendrils spreading and changing, leaves forming. A little more will, another nudge, and the iron atoms shift as wells.
When the light fades, a tiny tree with summer-green leaves is growing on the desk, roots buried deep. If Ianto looks closely enough, there are even acorns hanging under the leaves. He picks one carefully, because it’s smaller than the head of a pin, and holds it out for Jack to see.
“Life from soulless metal,” he says softly. “That's alchemy. We take the building blocks of everything and rearrange them as we see fit.”
Jack takes the acorn between his thumb and forefinger, holding it up to the light to see it more clearly.
And then he smiles, and it’s the like the sun has come out again.
“Amazing,” he murmurs, and Ianto doesn't tell him that the most amazing thing in the room isn’t his alchemy, isn’t even Myfanwy the dragon roosting above their heads.
It’s Jack.
*.~.*.~.*
(On the other side of every end is another beginning.)