Storm Descending (Torchwood/Merlin) - Part I
Rating: R
Word count: ~ 14000 (The brevity fairy was overly generous with me when handing out her gifts, and I'm trying to train myself out of it.)
Warnings: Gratuitous abuse of Arthurian legends, myth!porn, and several self-indulgent fix-its.
Summary: “See anything?” Jack asks, and Ianto should, he’s been a hunter for more than a thousand years, but he can't. It isn’t time yet; Arthur still sleeps and their fates haven’t converged. But soon. Very soon. (Crossover with Merlin)
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the creators, and no copyright infringement is intended.
(Longass) A/N: The very first thing to be said needs to be a huge thank you to my beta, Angstosaur, whom I'm sure I drove very much nuts with my constant bombardment. She’s brilliant and patient and knows just where to nitpick, and this story would be half the monster it turned in to without her. Secondly, thanks again to morwencath for looking over my Welsh and grammar-greatly appreciated!
I must acknowledge that I deviate wildly from Merlin’s canon at the slightest provocation, or whenever I like the legend better. That being said, in writing this I tried to stick with the show’s AU of the Arthurian legends, and adapted the other stories I used in light of that. Mabon ap Modron is actually a fairly minor character, though versions of him seem to pop up in every major story I can think of. The main basis for this fic is the tale Culhwch ac Olwen, which is where Mabon makes his biggest appearance. This story should be understandable without knowing the tale, but it’s very interesting to those who’d like to Google it. Again, please be aware I've altered these legends quite a bit to suit my tastes, and if that's going to offend you, please don't read it. If it won't, please enjoy this monster-thing. I certainly had fun writing it. :)
Storm Descending
There are church bells ringing in the distant city, and the smell of spring is on the wind. The air feels green, like growth, and the sky is clear and blue. Ianto walks along the hilltop with loose, easy strides, and the grass springs up from each footprint even stronger and more verdant than before.
There are birds in the sky above him, dipping and rising as the wind ebbs and swells. They're hawks and falcons, mostly, with the odd eagle rising above the rest-goshawks and red kites and kestrels, peregrines and gyrfalcons and merlins, a golden eagle’s feathers catching the warm rays high up and burning like burnished copper. Farther away, out of range of the falcons’ interest, are the other birds, storm petrels and gannets and terns, doves and swifts and swallows, bright-feathered kingfishers and dull-drab finches. Ravens and jays, rooks and crows all add their harsh-voiced calls, joining with the sweet songs of the thrushes.
But there is no competition between them, no fights to be seen. A brave pied flycatcher flutters and dips beside a fierce osprey, and a dove coos and warbles with a sharp-eyed buzzard.
Ianto watches all of them, and he smiles, because they're beautiful and free and so very, very fierce, from the largest gyrfalcon to the smallest nuthatch. He shakes the sleeve of his leather coat down and then raises his arm, though his steps never pause.
From the blue, a silver shape descends, and a merlin plummets to land on Ianto’s forearm. It’s a male, relatively young, with white and tan-speckled chest feathers and clever golden eyes. Ianto chuckles as it preens itself, and dares raise a hand to gently stroke its breast. The small falcon permits it, though Ianto can tell he’s only just allowed; if he were anyone else, he’d be missing a few fingers already.
“Thank you,” he tells it politely, before raising his arm. The bird launches itself away from him, rising with remarkable strength and speed to join its kin, and Ianto shades his eyes to watch it go.
“A merlin. Well. That time already?” he remarks to no one in particular. “Either it’s early this turn or I'm falling behind.”
The wind picks up around him, carrying a faint bite of metal. Ianto can't tell if it’s copper or steel that he’s smelling, though certainly neither is entirely welcome. Blood or blades-there's always a choice to be had, and never a good one.
In the distance, the trees are rustling, oaks and birches shaking their branches. The new leaves are still fresh and brilliantly green, and the moisture in the air carries the tangy earthiness of moss and old leaves. There are rowans somewhere nearby, as well; Ianto can feel them like a bright splash of color in the surrounding greenery. Holly and beech are making their presence known, too, as light as laughter amongst the stately, sturdy oaks.
The forests stretch all the way down to the sea, to where the waters leap and dance and the waves are crowned with foam like the white hair of the water sprites. Ianto pauses at the crest of the hill, where the land slopes away to the shore, and breathes deep.
It feels as though he never has the opportunity to do so, lately.
A fox streaks past his foot, brilliantly russet, followed by another. They tumble, tussle, fall end over end as they hurtle down the hill and then vanish back into the woods. Deer lift their heads from where they sleep in the bracken, and then lower them again, assured that there is no danger here and now. Wild dogs, feral cats, sleek polecats, and curious weasels slip in and out of the shadows, winding through the trees.
Ianto watches them all, listens to the absolute absence of human sounds in this spreading refuge, and at long last allows himself to relax. He breathes, and the world breathes with him. The earth thrums beneath his feet and the ocean rolls with the beat of his blood and he can feel every animal, every plant, every heart that has ever beat upon this land.
Somewhere far away, there is a song, a lament. Ianto closes his eyes and listens to it, tries to make out the words, but he cannot. It rises and falls with a breeze, gets lost between the ocean waves and whispering boughs, and Ianto turns away from it soon enough, looking back out at the grey-blue sea.
There is an island in the distance, shining white spires and green sweeps of land clothed in silver mists. Ianto’s eyes are very, very good, and he can just make out the silvery-white rush of waterfalls, the curves and sweeping lines of a lazy river, a high white wall and the glitter of diamond-cut glass.
“Ynys Avallach,” he murmurs, as the merlin streaks across his line of sight and rises again, vanishing out over the sea.
A cloud drifts slowly over the face of the sun, a long shadow falling over the quiet hill and languidly sliding away.
When it clears, Ianto is alone on the hilltop. The birds and animals have vanished, and the scent of metal is gone from the wind. Only the faint rustling of new leaves remains of the previous peace, as the stillness is shattered by the distant groan of traffic, the lofty whine of an aeroplane, and a thousand other faint, human sounds that Ianto has grown accustomed to in his life.
With one last look back towards the ocean, once again void of that beautiful, shining island, Ianto resettles his coat, turns on his heel, and strides away.
The merlin dips and wheels behind him, tracing a path from land to sea before it, too, vanishes into the light.
*.~.*.~.*Ianto is gone.
He’s been gone a lot lately.
Jack leans on the railing overlooking the main floor of the Hub, frowning a little. Usually, Ianto isn’t the one he worries about, since the Welshman is grounded and steady and as practical as they come, especially compared to Owen and Gwen, who are relatively high-strung. Even Tosh has her moments of drama, and gods know that Jack himself is hardly levelheaded, but Ianto always is. Without doubt, without fail, Ianto is the rock Torchwood Three is tethered to, and they need him to stay sane.
But lately, that rock has been drifting a bit, and Jack can't make out why.
Something to do with him, maybe? He has to wonder, sometimes, how it is that Ianto can care for him, can love him-and Jack knows he does, just the way he know that he loves Ianto, for all that neither of them has ever spoken the words-when Jack was the one to order Lisa’s death, when Ianto spent so long sliding around him and hiding his true self even when they slept together. Surely it’s not healthy for Ianto to go from the first woman he ever seriously dated-the woman he planned to spend the rest of his life with-to the man who killed her.
Surely it’s not healthy for Ianto to love Jack, who is old but eternally young, a fixed point in time and space that will never, ever change.
Far above, the sun is shining through a thin layer of wispy clouds, and Jack looks up, making little effort to shake himself out of his grim thoughts.
Then the haze parts, and the cog door rolls back, and Ianto walks in. He smiles at Jack, gorgeous and sweet and a little awkward, even after they've been together this long-longer than Jack's been with anyone in years, if he’s going to be truthful-and the clouds cease to matter at all.
There's only sunshine, and Jack is happy.
*.~.*.~.*“Four car wrecks in the past week, all at the same spot and all just after sunset.” Jack drops a pile of incident reports in the middle of Ianto’s desk-by virtue of it being clearest and closest-and looks around the Hub. “Ideas?”
“Car wrecks?” Tosh spins around in her chair to face him, frowning. “Sure, it’s a high number, but school’s out for the summer. Couldn't it just be reckless teenagers?”
Ianto rolls his eyes, if surreptitiously, at Jack's dramatics and picks up the four files, riffling through them. “Not teenagers, though,” he counters. “Forty-seven year old man, twenty-three year old woman, fifty year old man, thirty-six year old man. No connections that the police could find, except for using the same route home.”
“Well, that's it then!” Owen scoffs, throwing up his hands. “The bloody coppers say there's nothing to it, they must be right. What are four more dead, anyway?”
“Git,” Gwen snaps at him, coming over to take the files from Ianto. Ianto surrenders them easily, having already noted the names to run a search of his own.
“Ideas?” Jack repeats, folding his arms over his chest and regarding them all with the exaggerated patience of a primary school teacher.
Tosh obediently spins back to her monitor. “I’ll run a check, see if anything similar has happened before. Ianto, can you check incident reports in the non-digitized section of the Archives?”
Ianto is tired and still a bit sore from a close call with a Weevil the other night-no matter what the others think, he and Jack do actually hunt Weevils when they say they do. Mostly. But Torchwood marches ever on, and it’s a Tuesday. That's reason enough to hurry and get it over with.
Nothing good ever happens on a Tuesday.
(Ianto knows this from experience; this time last Tuesday, he switched places with a version of himself from an alternate reality, and had to spend six hours as the Chief Engineer of a clockwork-powered airship hunting down sky pirates over Wales, all while fending off the advances of a Captain Jack Harkness who was even more randy than the normal version. Ianto will never look at his stopwatch the same way again.)
Muffling a soft groan, Ianto levers himself to his feet. “All right, I suppose I’ll have to brave the Archives alone, then. If you lot are still so scared of that alien jack-in-the-box-”
“Hey!” Owen protests, even as he snags the medical reports from Gwen. “We all know how you are about alien monsters hiding in dark corners, tea boy, but the rest of us-”
“Enough, Owen,” Jack cuts in, clearly amused by the bickering. “I want you going over those coroner’s reports with a microscope for anything that doesn't fit. Gwen, backgrounds. Go talk to the families, friends, anyone. I want everything there is to know about them. Find me a connection. Let’s treat this like an alien attack until we know it isn’t.”
“Oh, yes,” Ianto mutters, scrounging in his desk drawers for a torch and a spare light bulb. One of the furthest lights has been flickering, and regardless of his words to Owen, there are things down in the Archives that he doesn't want to be trapped in the dark with. “Because that worked so well with the cannibals. Which, might I remind you, was also a Tuesday.”
Nevertheless, he carefully drapes his suit jacket over the back of his chair, pockets the torch, and heads down to look through nearly two hundred years’ worth of Torchwood’s paper records.
It’s not the most auspicious start to the morning, but Ianto’s had worse.
*.~.*.~.*
Perhaps predictably, there's nothing in the Archives that screams coincidence, not even two hundred years back. Ianto surrenders gracefully after six hours of squinting at tiny print and deciphering nearly illegible handwriting-a good portion of the latter belongs to Jack, and even familiarity doesn't breed ease of interpretation there.
Tosh is hunched over her keyboard, glasses sliding down her nose, forehead wrinkled. The others are conspicuous in their absences, leaving the Hub echoingly silent. High up in his nest, Myfanwy stirs and settles, one bright-dark eye following Ianto as he makes his way to the cog door.
“I'm off to the station,” Ianto calls back over his shoulder-not because he thinks Tosh will hear him, but so there's a record left if Jack checks the security cameras. It’s a leftover neurosis from the incident with Lisa, perhaps, and the time when he was betraying Torchwood with every step he took for her sake, that he feels the need to mark his presence and intentions whenever he goes off on his own. “Want to have a look at those wrecks before they're shipped off.”
Tosh hums in vague acknowledgement, lifting a hand. Ianto shakes his head, silently amused, and heads out, trying not to laugh when the door alarm makes her jump and glance up. He waves as he steps through the opening, and has to force himself not to hum a tune while the elevator takes him up to the garage.
One of the stray cats that frequents the area is perched on the bonnet of Ianto’s Audi, cleaning her paw. As he approaches, digging out his keys, she looks up and chirps a greeting, pinning him with brilliant green eyes.
“Prynhawn da, little queen,” Ianto returns with amusement. “You're looking well today. How run the mice?”
A curled lip and a dainty sneeze are answer enough. Ianto laughs and digs a cat treat from the inner pocket of his coat, offering it to her with his fingertips. “I'm sorry I can't offer a mouse, but I've no time to hunt myself today. Will this suffice?”
The black cat surveys him for a moment, studies the treat, and then lazily gets up, stretches, and allows him to lift her down from the bonnet and give her the biscuit. Her chirp is one of absent thanks as she crunches it between her teeth.
“You're welcome,” Ianto tells her, stroking a fingertip down her spine before straightening and heading for his car.
The smell of metal is in the air again, but this time it’s comforting, nostalgic. Ianto breathes it in and thinks of campfires and drowsing horses, men in mail seated around a blaze in the darkness with only their good humor and tall tales to keep away the night.
It’s a good memory, as distant as it is.
Ianto sits in his car for a moment and closes his eyes, as though wishing can take him back to that time. For all the hardships he faced-for all the hardships they all faced-it was a time of legends and heroes and brotherhood that never wavered. Ianto misses it more than he likely should, being as he is, and how that time had a severe lack of plumbing and other modern conveniences.
But he starts the car regardless, steels himself to face a world that isn’t entirely his own, and pulls out of the garage with a soft sigh.
The traffic is fortunately light-or as light as it ever is, mid-afternoon in Cardiff-and he makes good time to the police station. The woman at the front desk is cheerfully helpful, and within half an hour Ianto is standing in front of three of the four wrecks.
It only takes a single glance to know that no simple crash caused this amount of destruction. The cars are crumpled, with the damage radiating out from a single spot that differs on each, as though they were struck hard by some great force. Deep gouges decorate one car, and there is blood splattered over the interior of all three. The sheer amount of it tells Ianto that, without a doubt, whoever was in these cars didn't get out under their own power.
“Nasty business,” the constable accompanying Ianto murmurs, studying the cars.
Ianto nods in agreement, pulling on a pair of gloves and bending down to inspect one of the long gouges. It almost looks as though someone took a vast knife and attacked from the side. Two parallel cuts, slightly offset so that they don't begin or end in the same place-there's an itching at the back of Ianto’s neck, a thought he can't quite seem to grasp.
There are traces of whatever did this, actually. Ianto frowns and leans closer, carefully swipes his fingers over the edge of the torn metal and comes up with a few coarse brown hairs, unlike any alien he can think of.
Sitting back on his heels, he glances at the constable, who’s watching with unconcealed interest, and asks, “Can you put a hold on these for Torchwood? I think our tech needs to run a few tests on them.”
The constable nods, cheerfully enough. The people here tend to like Ianto, especially when he brings them coffee, and as long as they can pretend that he’s not related to Captain Jack Harkness in any capacity.
“I’ll make a note,” the man promises. “Really, you lot are welcome to them. We can't make heads or tails of it, ourselves.”
“Neither can I,” Ianto agrees wryly, rising to his feet. “Thanks. And if there are any more incidents like these-”
“We’ll let you know, Agent Jones.”
Small comfort, really, that it’s sincerely meant. There's a twisting certainty in Ianto’s gut that says there will be more, and that they'll come soon.
It also says, unequivocally, that Ianto has the answer to this mystery, if he could just connect the pieces that he has before him.
*.~.*.~.*By the time Ianto has finished with the cars and gotten back to the Hub, twilight is creeping into night and the others are gone. Ianto passes Owen in the hallway, but the doctor seems lost in his own thoughts, something that's been happening more and more lately. Ever since the five of them woke up in the conference room with two days worth of memory missing, he and Tosh have acted differently around each other. Tosh has a little more confidence now, even outside of work, and Owen looks at her with a touch of surprised admiration, as though he’s startled to realize that his coworker is female-and even more startled to find her attractive.
Ianto is pleased for both of them, truly he is. But their mooneyes are a bit distracting, and he really doesn't want to come in to find that they've done the deed somewhere that he’ll have to clean up after them.
In the main part of the Hub, Jack is up in his office, bent over his desk. Ianto studies the line of his back for a moment, judging, and then goes to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. Coffee is all well and good, and something that Ianto would never have survived Torchwood Three without, but there's also something intensely comforting about a good cup of tea. Once the pot’s been brewed, Ianto measures out two mugs, one with milk and sugar and the other with just milk, then carries them up to the office and raps his elbow on the doorframe.
With a faint start, Jack looks up, and a brilliant smile breaks out over his face, stuttering Ianto’s heart to a halt before kickstarting it into a double-time rhythm.
“You're back,” Jack says warmly, rising to his feet and coming to relieve Ianto of the sugared tea. “Another twenty minutes and I might have started to worry.”
Ianto leans forward on his toes to steal a kiss, and the brief but fervent slide of lips does more to warm him than any hot drink or hearty meal. By the time he manages to convince himself to pull away, they're both breathing hard, and there's a look in Jack's eye that tells Ianto dinner will come second to dessert today. “Heaven forbid,” he drawls, stretching the vowels that Jack so loves just for the pleasure of seeing the Captain’s gaze darken further. “Is there any way I can make it up to you?”
The two mugs are set deftly on the floor, and by the time Jack straightens up his hands are already around Ianto’s waist, reeling him in. “Oh,” Jack purrs, grin turning wicked as their bodies slide so perfectly together. “I might be able to think of a few ways.”
The vague thought Ianto had put to ordering Italian vanishes forthwith beneath the onslaught of Jack's lips and tongue and teeth, and Ianto is hardly sorry to see it go.
*.~.*.~.*
Tonight the moon is a thin, weary crescent in the sky, nearly overwhelmed by the light of the stars. The lack of light turns the rocky shore treacherous, but Ianto makes his way steadily enough, familiar with this oft-trodden path after years uncounted of walking it in all conditions.
The ocean seems calmer at night, the waves subdued. They whisper and creep, not quite daring to reach Ianto’s toes, and then retreat again. He leans down and traces his fingers through the cool surf, inhaling the scent of brine. The seawater feels like silk against his skin, soft and smooth, and when he raises it to his lips it tastes like joy.
Far out, at the edge of the horizon, the island once again rises from the swells, pale and shining, spires catching what moonlight there is and capturing it, enhancing it. Like a spear of light from the darkness, Ianto thinks, and his fingers twitch closed around the remembered weight of a long spear, which flew unerringly from his grasp but was guided by a greater hand than his own. He doesn't have it anymore-like him, it’s waiting, bound inexorably to time and place, to a certain person who will spark a certain chain of events at a certain moment, and set them all free.
Ianto stands in the darkness, at the edge of the sea, and has to admit-if only to himself-that he can't quite imagine when that day will come. Years, decades, centuries already he’s been waiting, and it’s happened once, briefly, only to end in the same mess of tragedy as before.
This time, Ianto swears, will be different.
This time, he will circumvent fate.
Or he’ll help someone else to do it, he thinks, and smiles to himself a little.
A sharp cry breaks the night’s stillness, and with a flutter of powerful wings, the merlin from before alights on Ianto’s shoulder. He puts an absent hand up to steady it, watching the play of starlight on the water. Ynys Avallach is a beacon to his heart, a desire that he can't quite put into words-not yet, in any case, though if it’s already this close, then doubtless the time is almost upon them.
“One man,” he murmurs to the merlin. “Everything hinges on one man. Will it come to pass this time, or are we doomed to wait forever?”
The falcon chirrups and sifts its fearsome beak through Ianto’s hair, tugging gently. It’s an admonishment, and Ianto laughs, startling in the hush.
“Of course,” he says in amusement, reaching up to free his hair from the merlin's grasp. “Forgive me, I'm being dramatic. Too long spent with Captain Jack Harkness, I'm afraid. I've an over-developed sense of the theatrical.”
With a sound very much like scoffing agreement, the merlin hops from his shoulder to his elbow, and then down to his wrist. It looks Ianto straight in the eye, clucks warningly, and then launches itself into the air to disappear among the shadows.
Even as it goes, footsteps crunch on the rocky shore.
Ianto doesn't have to look up to know who it is.
“We’re kin, you and I,” the woman says, coming to a halt beside him.
“We are,” Ianto acknowledges, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She’s young and lovely, with long dark hair and equally dark eyes, dressed all in purest white. “But you're a long way from Myddfai and Llyn y Fan Fach, milady.”
Her smile is a little sad, a touch wistful. “You heard of that? He was a beautiful boy, and I loved him well, but he had three chances and wasted all of them. So it was back to the lake for me, I'm afraid. I’d not be here now, but the time is approaching, and we’ll all be needed shortly.”
There is a song drifting over the ocean, a battle hymn sung softly but growing louder as it approaches. Ianto tips his head to listen to it, and nods. “Yes,” he murmurs, and wishes for his spear, his bow, his sword, longs to take up any and all of them and follow that melody back to its source. “It’s been a long time coming. But…the twenty-first century is when everything changes, or so I've been told.”
The lady’s smile is brilliant, and her laughter is like golden bells. “I suppose,” she says. “Is that another thing that Captain of yours is always saying? He’s a fine figure of a man, isn’t he? Reminds me of Culhwch, a bit. Brave and bold and steadfast, even when it might be better to surrender.”
Ianto laughs too, remembering the radiant, dazzling, overwhelming man he left just an hour ago, asleep in their bed and dreaming peacefully. “More like Gwaine, at times,” he admits, though it’s hardly a bad thing. “A loveable fool, and I the greatest fool of all for loving him as I do!”
She lays a hand on his arm, cool and elegant, as smooth as clear, deep water. “Not a mortal, though. He has that much in his favor,” she reminds him, and her voice is bittersweet with remembered tragedies. “Sometimes I envy the others, reborn to this life rather than existing in such a permanent state as ours. At least they have the chance to live as the rest of humanity does, once in a great while.”
“But can you imagine it?” Ianto crosses his arms tightly over his chest, though the breeze is warm and the night far more balmy than Cardiff should be. “To come into this world lacking something, and to never find it, no matter how you search? To be a thread in a tapestry that you cannot understand, and that no one else is even aware of? We’re fate-touched, milady, the lot of us, and if such a thing is hard to bear when we know of it, I can't contemplate what it must be like to feel the same way and never know why.”
Far away, the bells are ringing again. Ianto and the lady both turn to look, and the night sky is suddenly dimmer, the city’s light blocking out those of nature.
“Ah, well,” the lady sighs, though when Ianto glances at her, she’s smiling. “I suppose no night can last forever, regardless of how we wish.” She turns back, and there is a lake before them, stretching out blue-green from their feet. Mist is rising, thick and melancholic strands of pearlescent haze, but the lady parts it with a flick of her fingers and steps into the water. No ripples rise, even as she wades further out, white gown drifting and billowing around her. Her hair floats in the water like a dark cloud as she glances back over her shoulder to give Ianto a last smile, and then vanishes beneath the surface without a sound or sign.
The lake and its reed-lined shore are swallowed by the mist and slowly fade from sight.
Ianto glances back out at the empty sea one more time before setting off up the beach, back towards Cardiff and the Hub.
*.~.*.~.*
(Jack rolls over in the bed-a bigger one that they found in one of the storage rooms, since Ianto spends almost every night here in the Hub now-
Or at least, every night that he can manage to remain in bed.
It’s not that Jack thinks Ianto is cheating on him, going out to another lover in the middle of the night. Ianto is nothing if not loyal, truly to a fault, and Jack can hardly think of anything more ridiculous. It’s also not that Jack's never had a sleepless night himself. He has, many of them, and for little or no reason at all.
But Ianto has been going wandering so often that it’s almost like he can't bear to stay in bed with Jack, and that…
That hurts, in a way nothing, not even dying, has hurt in a very long while.
Jack throws an arm over his face, covering his eyes, and waits-hoping, hating himself for it-for the inevitable sound of the door alarm going off, and Ianto coming back.)
End Part I
Word count: ~ 14000 (The brevity fairy was overly generous with me when handing out her gifts, and I'm trying to train myself out of it.)
Warnings: Gratuitous abuse of Arthurian legends, myth!porn, and several self-indulgent fix-its.
Summary: “See anything?” Jack asks, and Ianto should, he’s been a hunter for more than a thousand years, but he can't. It isn’t time yet; Arthur still sleeps and their fates haven’t converged. But soon. Very soon. (Crossover with Merlin)
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the creators, and no copyright infringement is intended.
(Longass) A/N: The very first thing to be said needs to be a huge thank you to my beta, Angstosaur, whom I'm sure I drove very much nuts with my constant bombardment. She’s brilliant and patient and knows just where to nitpick, and this story would be half the monster it turned in to without her. Secondly, thanks again to morwencath for looking over my Welsh and grammar-greatly appreciated!
I must acknowledge that I deviate wildly from Merlin’s canon at the slightest provocation, or whenever I like the legend better. That being said, in writing this I tried to stick with the show’s AU of the Arthurian legends, and adapted the other stories I used in light of that. Mabon ap Modron is actually a fairly minor character, though versions of him seem to pop up in every major story I can think of. The main basis for this fic is the tale Culhwch ac Olwen, which is where Mabon makes his biggest appearance. This story should be understandable without knowing the tale, but it’s very interesting to those who’d like to Google it. Again, please be aware I've altered these legends quite a bit to suit my tastes, and if that's going to offend you, please don't read it. If it won't, please enjoy this monster-thing. I certainly had fun writing it. :)
Storm Descending
There are church bells ringing in the distant city, and the smell of spring is on the wind. The air feels green, like growth, and the sky is clear and blue. Ianto walks along the hilltop with loose, easy strides, and the grass springs up from each footprint even stronger and more verdant than before.
There are birds in the sky above him, dipping and rising as the wind ebbs and swells. They're hawks and falcons, mostly, with the odd eagle rising above the rest-goshawks and red kites and kestrels, peregrines and gyrfalcons and merlins, a golden eagle’s feathers catching the warm rays high up and burning like burnished copper. Farther away, out of range of the falcons’ interest, are the other birds, storm petrels and gannets and terns, doves and swifts and swallows, bright-feathered kingfishers and dull-drab finches. Ravens and jays, rooks and crows all add their harsh-voiced calls, joining with the sweet songs of the thrushes.
But there is no competition between them, no fights to be seen. A brave pied flycatcher flutters and dips beside a fierce osprey, and a dove coos and warbles with a sharp-eyed buzzard.
Ianto watches all of them, and he smiles, because they're beautiful and free and so very, very fierce, from the largest gyrfalcon to the smallest nuthatch. He shakes the sleeve of his leather coat down and then raises his arm, though his steps never pause.
From the blue, a silver shape descends, and a merlin plummets to land on Ianto’s forearm. It’s a male, relatively young, with white and tan-speckled chest feathers and clever golden eyes. Ianto chuckles as it preens itself, and dares raise a hand to gently stroke its breast. The small falcon permits it, though Ianto can tell he’s only just allowed; if he were anyone else, he’d be missing a few fingers already.
“Thank you,” he tells it politely, before raising his arm. The bird launches itself away from him, rising with remarkable strength and speed to join its kin, and Ianto shades his eyes to watch it go.
“A merlin. Well. That time already?” he remarks to no one in particular. “Either it’s early this turn or I'm falling behind.”
The wind picks up around him, carrying a faint bite of metal. Ianto can't tell if it’s copper or steel that he’s smelling, though certainly neither is entirely welcome. Blood or blades-there's always a choice to be had, and never a good one.
In the distance, the trees are rustling, oaks and birches shaking their branches. The new leaves are still fresh and brilliantly green, and the moisture in the air carries the tangy earthiness of moss and old leaves. There are rowans somewhere nearby, as well; Ianto can feel them like a bright splash of color in the surrounding greenery. Holly and beech are making their presence known, too, as light as laughter amongst the stately, sturdy oaks.
The forests stretch all the way down to the sea, to where the waters leap and dance and the waves are crowned with foam like the white hair of the water sprites. Ianto pauses at the crest of the hill, where the land slopes away to the shore, and breathes deep.
It feels as though he never has the opportunity to do so, lately.
A fox streaks past his foot, brilliantly russet, followed by another. They tumble, tussle, fall end over end as they hurtle down the hill and then vanish back into the woods. Deer lift their heads from where they sleep in the bracken, and then lower them again, assured that there is no danger here and now. Wild dogs, feral cats, sleek polecats, and curious weasels slip in and out of the shadows, winding through the trees.
Ianto watches them all, listens to the absolute absence of human sounds in this spreading refuge, and at long last allows himself to relax. He breathes, and the world breathes with him. The earth thrums beneath his feet and the ocean rolls with the beat of his blood and he can feel every animal, every plant, every heart that has ever beat upon this land.
Somewhere far away, there is a song, a lament. Ianto closes his eyes and listens to it, tries to make out the words, but he cannot. It rises and falls with a breeze, gets lost between the ocean waves and whispering boughs, and Ianto turns away from it soon enough, looking back out at the grey-blue sea.
There is an island in the distance, shining white spires and green sweeps of land clothed in silver mists. Ianto’s eyes are very, very good, and he can just make out the silvery-white rush of waterfalls, the curves and sweeping lines of a lazy river, a high white wall and the glitter of diamond-cut glass.
“Ynys Avallach,” he murmurs, as the merlin streaks across his line of sight and rises again, vanishing out over the sea.
A cloud drifts slowly over the face of the sun, a long shadow falling over the quiet hill and languidly sliding away.
When it clears, Ianto is alone on the hilltop. The birds and animals have vanished, and the scent of metal is gone from the wind. Only the faint rustling of new leaves remains of the previous peace, as the stillness is shattered by the distant groan of traffic, the lofty whine of an aeroplane, and a thousand other faint, human sounds that Ianto has grown accustomed to in his life.
With one last look back towards the ocean, once again void of that beautiful, shining island, Ianto resettles his coat, turns on his heel, and strides away.
The merlin dips and wheels behind him, tracing a path from land to sea before it, too, vanishes into the light.
*.~.*.~.*Ianto is gone.
He’s been gone a lot lately.
Jack leans on the railing overlooking the main floor of the Hub, frowning a little. Usually, Ianto isn’t the one he worries about, since the Welshman is grounded and steady and as practical as they come, especially compared to Owen and Gwen, who are relatively high-strung. Even Tosh has her moments of drama, and gods know that Jack himself is hardly levelheaded, but Ianto always is. Without doubt, without fail, Ianto is the rock Torchwood Three is tethered to, and they need him to stay sane.
But lately, that rock has been drifting a bit, and Jack can't make out why.
Something to do with him, maybe? He has to wonder, sometimes, how it is that Ianto can care for him, can love him-and Jack knows he does, just the way he know that he loves Ianto, for all that neither of them has ever spoken the words-when Jack was the one to order Lisa’s death, when Ianto spent so long sliding around him and hiding his true self even when they slept together. Surely it’s not healthy for Ianto to go from the first woman he ever seriously dated-the woman he planned to spend the rest of his life with-to the man who killed her.
Surely it’s not healthy for Ianto to love Jack, who is old but eternally young, a fixed point in time and space that will never, ever change.
Far above, the sun is shining through a thin layer of wispy clouds, and Jack looks up, making little effort to shake himself out of his grim thoughts.
Then the haze parts, and the cog door rolls back, and Ianto walks in. He smiles at Jack, gorgeous and sweet and a little awkward, even after they've been together this long-longer than Jack's been with anyone in years, if he’s going to be truthful-and the clouds cease to matter at all.
There's only sunshine, and Jack is happy.
*.~.*.~.*“Four car wrecks in the past week, all at the same spot and all just after sunset.” Jack drops a pile of incident reports in the middle of Ianto’s desk-by virtue of it being clearest and closest-and looks around the Hub. “Ideas?”
“Car wrecks?” Tosh spins around in her chair to face him, frowning. “Sure, it’s a high number, but school’s out for the summer. Couldn't it just be reckless teenagers?”
Ianto rolls his eyes, if surreptitiously, at Jack's dramatics and picks up the four files, riffling through them. “Not teenagers, though,” he counters. “Forty-seven year old man, twenty-three year old woman, fifty year old man, thirty-six year old man. No connections that the police could find, except for using the same route home.”
“Well, that's it then!” Owen scoffs, throwing up his hands. “The bloody coppers say there's nothing to it, they must be right. What are four more dead, anyway?”
“Git,” Gwen snaps at him, coming over to take the files from Ianto. Ianto surrenders them easily, having already noted the names to run a search of his own.
“Ideas?” Jack repeats, folding his arms over his chest and regarding them all with the exaggerated patience of a primary school teacher.
Tosh obediently spins back to her monitor. “I’ll run a check, see if anything similar has happened before. Ianto, can you check incident reports in the non-digitized section of the Archives?”
Ianto is tired and still a bit sore from a close call with a Weevil the other night-no matter what the others think, he and Jack do actually hunt Weevils when they say they do. Mostly. But Torchwood marches ever on, and it’s a Tuesday. That's reason enough to hurry and get it over with.
Nothing good ever happens on a Tuesday.
(Ianto knows this from experience; this time last Tuesday, he switched places with a version of himself from an alternate reality, and had to spend six hours as the Chief Engineer of a clockwork-powered airship hunting down sky pirates over Wales, all while fending off the advances of a Captain Jack Harkness who was even more randy than the normal version. Ianto will never look at his stopwatch the same way again.)
Muffling a soft groan, Ianto levers himself to his feet. “All right, I suppose I’ll have to brave the Archives alone, then. If you lot are still so scared of that alien jack-in-the-box-”
“Hey!” Owen protests, even as he snags the medical reports from Gwen. “We all know how you are about alien monsters hiding in dark corners, tea boy, but the rest of us-”
“Enough, Owen,” Jack cuts in, clearly amused by the bickering. “I want you going over those coroner’s reports with a microscope for anything that doesn't fit. Gwen, backgrounds. Go talk to the families, friends, anyone. I want everything there is to know about them. Find me a connection. Let’s treat this like an alien attack until we know it isn’t.”
“Oh, yes,” Ianto mutters, scrounging in his desk drawers for a torch and a spare light bulb. One of the furthest lights has been flickering, and regardless of his words to Owen, there are things down in the Archives that he doesn't want to be trapped in the dark with. “Because that worked so well with the cannibals. Which, might I remind you, was also a Tuesday.”
Nevertheless, he carefully drapes his suit jacket over the back of his chair, pockets the torch, and heads down to look through nearly two hundred years’ worth of Torchwood’s paper records.
It’s not the most auspicious start to the morning, but Ianto’s had worse.
*.~.*.~.*
Perhaps predictably, there's nothing in the Archives that screams coincidence, not even two hundred years back. Ianto surrenders gracefully after six hours of squinting at tiny print and deciphering nearly illegible handwriting-a good portion of the latter belongs to Jack, and even familiarity doesn't breed ease of interpretation there.
Tosh is hunched over her keyboard, glasses sliding down her nose, forehead wrinkled. The others are conspicuous in their absences, leaving the Hub echoingly silent. High up in his nest, Myfanwy stirs and settles, one bright-dark eye following Ianto as he makes his way to the cog door.
“I'm off to the station,” Ianto calls back over his shoulder-not because he thinks Tosh will hear him, but so there's a record left if Jack checks the security cameras. It’s a leftover neurosis from the incident with Lisa, perhaps, and the time when he was betraying Torchwood with every step he took for her sake, that he feels the need to mark his presence and intentions whenever he goes off on his own. “Want to have a look at those wrecks before they're shipped off.”
Tosh hums in vague acknowledgement, lifting a hand. Ianto shakes his head, silently amused, and heads out, trying not to laugh when the door alarm makes her jump and glance up. He waves as he steps through the opening, and has to force himself not to hum a tune while the elevator takes him up to the garage.
One of the stray cats that frequents the area is perched on the bonnet of Ianto’s Audi, cleaning her paw. As he approaches, digging out his keys, she looks up and chirps a greeting, pinning him with brilliant green eyes.
“Prynhawn da, little queen,” Ianto returns with amusement. “You're looking well today. How run the mice?”
A curled lip and a dainty sneeze are answer enough. Ianto laughs and digs a cat treat from the inner pocket of his coat, offering it to her with his fingertips. “I'm sorry I can't offer a mouse, but I've no time to hunt myself today. Will this suffice?”
The black cat surveys him for a moment, studies the treat, and then lazily gets up, stretches, and allows him to lift her down from the bonnet and give her the biscuit. Her chirp is one of absent thanks as she crunches it between her teeth.
“You're welcome,” Ianto tells her, stroking a fingertip down her spine before straightening and heading for his car.
The smell of metal is in the air again, but this time it’s comforting, nostalgic. Ianto breathes it in and thinks of campfires and drowsing horses, men in mail seated around a blaze in the darkness with only their good humor and tall tales to keep away the night.
It’s a good memory, as distant as it is.
Ianto sits in his car for a moment and closes his eyes, as though wishing can take him back to that time. For all the hardships he faced-for all the hardships they all faced-it was a time of legends and heroes and brotherhood that never wavered. Ianto misses it more than he likely should, being as he is, and how that time had a severe lack of plumbing and other modern conveniences.
But he starts the car regardless, steels himself to face a world that isn’t entirely his own, and pulls out of the garage with a soft sigh.
The traffic is fortunately light-or as light as it ever is, mid-afternoon in Cardiff-and he makes good time to the police station. The woman at the front desk is cheerfully helpful, and within half an hour Ianto is standing in front of three of the four wrecks.
It only takes a single glance to know that no simple crash caused this amount of destruction. The cars are crumpled, with the damage radiating out from a single spot that differs on each, as though they were struck hard by some great force. Deep gouges decorate one car, and there is blood splattered over the interior of all three. The sheer amount of it tells Ianto that, without a doubt, whoever was in these cars didn't get out under their own power.
“Nasty business,” the constable accompanying Ianto murmurs, studying the cars.
Ianto nods in agreement, pulling on a pair of gloves and bending down to inspect one of the long gouges. It almost looks as though someone took a vast knife and attacked from the side. Two parallel cuts, slightly offset so that they don't begin or end in the same place-there's an itching at the back of Ianto’s neck, a thought he can't quite seem to grasp.
There are traces of whatever did this, actually. Ianto frowns and leans closer, carefully swipes his fingers over the edge of the torn metal and comes up with a few coarse brown hairs, unlike any alien he can think of.
Sitting back on his heels, he glances at the constable, who’s watching with unconcealed interest, and asks, “Can you put a hold on these for Torchwood? I think our tech needs to run a few tests on them.”
The constable nods, cheerfully enough. The people here tend to like Ianto, especially when he brings them coffee, and as long as they can pretend that he’s not related to Captain Jack Harkness in any capacity.
“I’ll make a note,” the man promises. “Really, you lot are welcome to them. We can't make heads or tails of it, ourselves.”
“Neither can I,” Ianto agrees wryly, rising to his feet. “Thanks. And if there are any more incidents like these-”
“We’ll let you know, Agent Jones.”
Small comfort, really, that it’s sincerely meant. There's a twisting certainty in Ianto’s gut that says there will be more, and that they'll come soon.
It also says, unequivocally, that Ianto has the answer to this mystery, if he could just connect the pieces that he has before him.
*.~.*.~.*By the time Ianto has finished with the cars and gotten back to the Hub, twilight is creeping into night and the others are gone. Ianto passes Owen in the hallway, but the doctor seems lost in his own thoughts, something that's been happening more and more lately. Ever since the five of them woke up in the conference room with two days worth of memory missing, he and Tosh have acted differently around each other. Tosh has a little more confidence now, even outside of work, and Owen looks at her with a touch of surprised admiration, as though he’s startled to realize that his coworker is female-and even more startled to find her attractive.
Ianto is pleased for both of them, truly he is. But their mooneyes are a bit distracting, and he really doesn't want to come in to find that they've done the deed somewhere that he’ll have to clean up after them.
In the main part of the Hub, Jack is up in his office, bent over his desk. Ianto studies the line of his back for a moment, judging, and then goes to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. Coffee is all well and good, and something that Ianto would never have survived Torchwood Three without, but there's also something intensely comforting about a good cup of tea. Once the pot’s been brewed, Ianto measures out two mugs, one with milk and sugar and the other with just milk, then carries them up to the office and raps his elbow on the doorframe.
With a faint start, Jack looks up, and a brilliant smile breaks out over his face, stuttering Ianto’s heart to a halt before kickstarting it into a double-time rhythm.
“You're back,” Jack says warmly, rising to his feet and coming to relieve Ianto of the sugared tea. “Another twenty minutes and I might have started to worry.”
Ianto leans forward on his toes to steal a kiss, and the brief but fervent slide of lips does more to warm him than any hot drink or hearty meal. By the time he manages to convince himself to pull away, they're both breathing hard, and there's a look in Jack's eye that tells Ianto dinner will come second to dessert today. “Heaven forbid,” he drawls, stretching the vowels that Jack so loves just for the pleasure of seeing the Captain’s gaze darken further. “Is there any way I can make it up to you?”
The two mugs are set deftly on the floor, and by the time Jack straightens up his hands are already around Ianto’s waist, reeling him in. “Oh,” Jack purrs, grin turning wicked as their bodies slide so perfectly together. “I might be able to think of a few ways.”
The vague thought Ianto had put to ordering Italian vanishes forthwith beneath the onslaught of Jack's lips and tongue and teeth, and Ianto is hardly sorry to see it go.
*.~.*.~.*
Tonight the moon is a thin, weary crescent in the sky, nearly overwhelmed by the light of the stars. The lack of light turns the rocky shore treacherous, but Ianto makes his way steadily enough, familiar with this oft-trodden path after years uncounted of walking it in all conditions.
The ocean seems calmer at night, the waves subdued. They whisper and creep, not quite daring to reach Ianto’s toes, and then retreat again. He leans down and traces his fingers through the cool surf, inhaling the scent of brine. The seawater feels like silk against his skin, soft and smooth, and when he raises it to his lips it tastes like joy.
Far out, at the edge of the horizon, the island once again rises from the swells, pale and shining, spires catching what moonlight there is and capturing it, enhancing it. Like a spear of light from the darkness, Ianto thinks, and his fingers twitch closed around the remembered weight of a long spear, which flew unerringly from his grasp but was guided by a greater hand than his own. He doesn't have it anymore-like him, it’s waiting, bound inexorably to time and place, to a certain person who will spark a certain chain of events at a certain moment, and set them all free.
Ianto stands in the darkness, at the edge of the sea, and has to admit-if only to himself-that he can't quite imagine when that day will come. Years, decades, centuries already he’s been waiting, and it’s happened once, briefly, only to end in the same mess of tragedy as before.
This time, Ianto swears, will be different.
This time, he will circumvent fate.
Or he’ll help someone else to do it, he thinks, and smiles to himself a little.
A sharp cry breaks the night’s stillness, and with a flutter of powerful wings, the merlin from before alights on Ianto’s shoulder. He puts an absent hand up to steady it, watching the play of starlight on the water. Ynys Avallach is a beacon to his heart, a desire that he can't quite put into words-not yet, in any case, though if it’s already this close, then doubtless the time is almost upon them.
“One man,” he murmurs to the merlin. “Everything hinges on one man. Will it come to pass this time, or are we doomed to wait forever?”
The falcon chirrups and sifts its fearsome beak through Ianto’s hair, tugging gently. It’s an admonishment, and Ianto laughs, startling in the hush.
“Of course,” he says in amusement, reaching up to free his hair from the merlin's grasp. “Forgive me, I'm being dramatic. Too long spent with Captain Jack Harkness, I'm afraid. I've an over-developed sense of the theatrical.”
With a sound very much like scoffing agreement, the merlin hops from his shoulder to his elbow, and then down to his wrist. It looks Ianto straight in the eye, clucks warningly, and then launches itself into the air to disappear among the shadows.
Even as it goes, footsteps crunch on the rocky shore.
Ianto doesn't have to look up to know who it is.
“We’re kin, you and I,” the woman says, coming to a halt beside him.
“We are,” Ianto acknowledges, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She’s young and lovely, with long dark hair and equally dark eyes, dressed all in purest white. “But you're a long way from Myddfai and Llyn y Fan Fach, milady.”
Her smile is a little sad, a touch wistful. “You heard of that? He was a beautiful boy, and I loved him well, but he had three chances and wasted all of them. So it was back to the lake for me, I'm afraid. I’d not be here now, but the time is approaching, and we’ll all be needed shortly.”
There is a song drifting over the ocean, a battle hymn sung softly but growing louder as it approaches. Ianto tips his head to listen to it, and nods. “Yes,” he murmurs, and wishes for his spear, his bow, his sword, longs to take up any and all of them and follow that melody back to its source. “It’s been a long time coming. But…the twenty-first century is when everything changes, or so I've been told.”
The lady’s smile is brilliant, and her laughter is like golden bells. “I suppose,” she says. “Is that another thing that Captain of yours is always saying? He’s a fine figure of a man, isn’t he? Reminds me of Culhwch, a bit. Brave and bold and steadfast, even when it might be better to surrender.”
Ianto laughs too, remembering the radiant, dazzling, overwhelming man he left just an hour ago, asleep in their bed and dreaming peacefully. “More like Gwaine, at times,” he admits, though it’s hardly a bad thing. “A loveable fool, and I the greatest fool of all for loving him as I do!”
She lays a hand on his arm, cool and elegant, as smooth as clear, deep water. “Not a mortal, though. He has that much in his favor,” she reminds him, and her voice is bittersweet with remembered tragedies. “Sometimes I envy the others, reborn to this life rather than existing in such a permanent state as ours. At least they have the chance to live as the rest of humanity does, once in a great while.”
“But can you imagine it?” Ianto crosses his arms tightly over his chest, though the breeze is warm and the night far more balmy than Cardiff should be. “To come into this world lacking something, and to never find it, no matter how you search? To be a thread in a tapestry that you cannot understand, and that no one else is even aware of? We’re fate-touched, milady, the lot of us, and if such a thing is hard to bear when we know of it, I can't contemplate what it must be like to feel the same way and never know why.”
Far away, the bells are ringing again. Ianto and the lady both turn to look, and the night sky is suddenly dimmer, the city’s light blocking out those of nature.
“Ah, well,” the lady sighs, though when Ianto glances at her, she’s smiling. “I suppose no night can last forever, regardless of how we wish.” She turns back, and there is a lake before them, stretching out blue-green from their feet. Mist is rising, thick and melancholic strands of pearlescent haze, but the lady parts it with a flick of her fingers and steps into the water. No ripples rise, even as she wades further out, white gown drifting and billowing around her. Her hair floats in the water like a dark cloud as she glances back over her shoulder to give Ianto a last smile, and then vanishes beneath the surface without a sound or sign.
The lake and its reed-lined shore are swallowed by the mist and slowly fade from sight.
Ianto glances back out at the empty sea one more time before setting off up the beach, back towards Cardiff and the Hub.
*.~.*.~.*
(Jack rolls over in the bed-a bigger one that they found in one of the storage rooms, since Ianto spends almost every night here in the Hub now-
Or at least, every night that he can manage to remain in bed.
It’s not that Jack thinks Ianto is cheating on him, going out to another lover in the middle of the night. Ianto is nothing if not loyal, truly to a fault, and Jack can hardly think of anything more ridiculous. It’s also not that Jack's never had a sleepless night himself. He has, many of them, and for little or no reason at all.
But Ianto has been going wandering so often that it’s almost like he can't bear to stay in bed with Jack, and that…
That hurts, in a way nothing, not even dying, has hurt in a very long while.
Jack throws an arm over his face, covering his eyes, and waits-hoping, hating himself for it-for the inevitable sound of the door alarm going off, and Ianto coming back.)
End Part I