lapis lazuli (Part Three)
Rating: T
Word Count: ~4200 (this part), ~18000 overall
Summary: Witches walk the human world in secret, just out of sight and mind. Ianto Jones never reached Lisa Hallett’s side in time to save her, but he comes to Torchwood Three with a terrible secret nevertheless.
Disclaimer: I don’t hold the copyrights, I didn’t create them, and I make no profit from this.
Notes: Just to reiterate, this is totally not my fault. Um. Mostly.
Chapter three
Old civilizations put to the sword
Sometimes, Ianto thinks, it would be...not easier, but something close, if Lisa had managed to survive the fall of Torchwood One, even as a half-converted Cyberman. It would mean pain for her, of course, and Ianto would never wish that on her, but it would make everything clearer to his muddled mind.
As it is, Lisa has been dead for months now, and a part of Ianto can't help but move on.
Jack has so very much to do with that.
*.~.*.~*
Six hours, Ianto thinks, and there's a note of quiet panic to it, an edge of horror and terror that wouldn't exist if he were entirely devoted to his cause. He can't help it, though; Lisa has been dead, is dead, and Ianto has never been good at clinging to the past, not when his future looks like Jack, walks and talks and acts like Jack, pulls him forward into life whether he wants to be there or not.
Six hours, he thinks, and it's an executioner's axe, a death bell ringing before a burning, the end of everything Ianto has been clinging to for months now. The diagram is complete, from the Tree of Life to the Gate of Souls with the Eye of Eternity to tie it all together and the Maiden's Veil to tear through the barriers between the worlds. Ianto can feel like an itch beneath his skin, a burn, a whisper in the darkness. It calls to him, wants to be used, but Ianto doesn't want to use it.
Hasn't ever wanted anything less.
And then a basketball hits him in the chest, the others filing past as they head out to eat, and Jack is laughing with Gwen.
Jack doesn't even glance at him as he passes.
Ianto has always excelled at being invisible, but never before has it filled his gut with acid like this, twisted his heart in such a way and dragged it back into darkness.
Hands clenching on the ball, Ianto takes a deep, slow breath and then lets it out again.
Beneath his feet, painted into the concrete floor of the Hub, drawn across the walls and over every inch of free space, the circle glimmers with stray sparks of light.
Six hours turns to three, and Ianto carefully does not think about what the end of his preparations means for him, for Jack, for Torchwood.
All he can think about is Lisa's sweet, bright smile, and the way her eyes have never, ever looked right through him without pausing.
(And if his heart is an aching, painful knot in his chest, if all he wants in the entire world is to have Jack duck back through the door and invite him out, too-well. Ianto never gets what he wants, hasn't since he was thirteen years old, and he'll adjust. He will. He will.)
*.~.*.~*
Ianto can feel it in his bones when the sun begins to set. It's a caster's instinct, because change is a powerful thing, and a change in something as vast as the sun and the day is especially so.
There's a far-off twinge, too, like the memory of a bee sting, and Ianto knows that somewhere far distant from this world someone has dropped blood on the twin of Ianto's diagram. Someone has completed their preparations as well.
He takes a breath and steps into the center of the array, raises his arms like a conductor before his orchestra, and flicks his hands.
The trappings of Torchwood-computers and desks and machinery and the detritus of lives spent in a rush-fade away completely, leaving a vast, empty space around him. The Hub feels hollow like this, unreal, but Ianto shoves down the impression and draws a long, slim knife from his pocket. The blade glimmers with a faint sheen of crimson and blue, the edges traced with a ghost of gold, and Ianto doesn't bother to brace himself as he wraps his palm around the edges and lets the knife cut deep.
Blood splatters the ground as he opens his hand, and Ianto sets his teeth to keep from wavering. "Blood of my body, bind the halves," he says formally, and it's not necessary, not really, but all languages, all symbols have power, no matter how worn and stretched thin, and the English language is no exception despite its widespread use. "Edges of soul, stitch together. Spirit, be as a blade-tear through. Open."
Light blazes, brilliant gold and shimmering red, bright azure and snowy white and dark, depthless black all wound together, and then something pulls.
Ianto brings his hands together, draws the rune Raidho in the air between his palms, and then passes his bloody hand over it. "Open," he says again. "Part the ways. Bring them through the aether.”
The array unfurls like a flower opening, light spreading along the lines in elegant awakening, drawing power from Ianto's veins and the blood he's spilled. It shimmers and settles, and in the space between two seconds a man appears, tall and proud and crowned with darkness.
"Witch-King Madrigal," Ianto murmurs, going down on one knee before the man who owns his soul.
The Witch-King looks down at him, as he ever does, eyes wild and arrogant as no other Ianto has ever seen, and he nods. "Caster," he returns. "Stunning work, as ever, though only to be expected from the Golden Court's prodigy."
The half-compliment sets Ianto's teeth on edge, because even now, he has no loyalty to this man, no ties beyond a bargain made in desperation. "My king," is all he allows himself to say as he stands, though, because the Witch-King is mad and Ianto is no fool.
The light behind him shimmers, and one after another, soldiers in Onyx Court's black uniforms begin to step through the portal, binders with their leashed spirits wound around them like veils of darkness. Ianto counts ten, fifteen, maybe even more. It's straining the gate-he was told to expect one company of ten without familiars, not this series of knights, and the power is too much for an array written without Ezekiel's Balance.
A quiet takeover, the Witch-King had said. He would lead ten soldiers through while the team was out and Ianto would make a gate large enough for them all, would let them into Torchwood proper so they could occupy it like a foreign territory. Then the witches would control the last real Torchwood base, stranding Jack's team without their necessary resources, and there would be no risk of the Nevermore being discovered. It was a kinder fate than had met Torchwood Four when they discovered the Witch-King, so Ianto had agreed.
But he hadn't agreed to this. Not in any way. He'd been so careful with his wording, his phrasing, so that the boundaries would be clear.
Ten soldiers, he had said.
One gate drawn using the Maiden's Veil, he had said.
You'll bring Lisa back to life if I do this, he had said.
Warlock, he thinks now, because Ianto can feel the backlash building in his bones, straining under his skin, and it hurts.
It hurts almost as much as this betrayal.
"Sire," he manages, even as the appearance of another knight and bound spirit makes him waver, stagger, and reach for something to steady him. There's nothing, though, and Ianto falls, tumbles to the hard floor with a thud that jars his bones. He hisses, feels blood from his cut palm pooling under his fingers.
The Witch-King raises one dark brow, stepping around Ianto without concern and facing his knights. "Ah," he says carelessly. "Didn't you know, caster? A death must be fresh to re-bind a departed soul. Perhaps, had you asked in the very moment I pulled you out of Torchwood One, your lady-love might have been saved. But now? There is no binder in existence who could do what you ask."
Ianto closes his eyes, grits his teeth even as the gate keeps stretching, draining his power. Warlock, he thinks again. Our king the oath-breaker. It is a moment too late to recall Hamal's words about not being included in the Witch-King's mobilization, and that alone should have told Ianto that something was not right with this, but he had been blind, been deaf and dumb to anything but his own hurt and grief. The Lady of the Sun and the Lord of the Moon are the Witch-King's most loyal followers, his hands in combat and court and everything else, and though they love Ianto-
But they will not-cannot-follow a king who has been proved an oath-breaker, and for all of Ianto's own foolishness, the king had made him an oath to return Lisa to life.
That's been shattered now, and all that remains is the array Ianto cannot alter, the gate he cannot close while the other side remains open. He sets his teeth on a broken cry of rage, feels tears that are equally fury and heartache on his cheeks, but can't gather the strength to push himself upright again.
Another knight in Onyx Court colors, and that same blackness is edging Ianto's vision now, the ache in his bones nearly too much to bear.
Of course, that's the moment Jack and Owen burst through the door, weapons drawn.
"Ianto!" Jack cries, bringing his gun to bear on the Witch-King, and could Ianto do more than simply cling to consciousness, he would approve of Jack's ability to always pick out the most dangerous target on instinct.
But the Witch-King simply laughs, turning back to face Jack and Owen, Gwen sliding in behind them. "And you must be the Captain," he says archly. "How nice to finally meet the man who nearly turned my own servant against me-would have, even, if not for your lack of care!"
The gun wavers, just slightly, and Jack's eyes flick down to Ianto, confusion and dawning realization in the blue depths.
"Ianto?" he breathes.
Ianto gathers all of the strength he can possibly spare and bares his teeth at the Witch-King. "I call you oath-breaker," he hisses. "Warlock, you are not my king!"
Something very much like madness flickers in the king's eyes, and he disregards the Torchwood team entirely as he leans down to curl his fingers in Ianto's collar. The contempt in his eyes is dark and feverish, a living thing. "Ah, but I am not the only oath-breaker here," he murmurs. "You and I are alike, Ianto Jones. I will not allow you to forget that, even if you are to die here and now."
A gun cocks, and Jack growls, "Step away from him. I won't warn you again."
The Witch-King glances up at Jack and smiles, and it's terrifying. "My dear Captain, surely you cannot forgive him his betrayal. That's a weakness no leader can allow, after all. Though, I suppose, Ianto is sweet enough to give anyone a second thought."
Ianto's skin crawls at the implication, false as it is, but he has to grit his teeth against another surge of power from the array and can't refute it.
And then he realizes that four of his teammates went out, and there are only three here.
Tosh, he thinks with a sudden, desperate swell of hope. Tosh must be nearby. She'll need time.
It takes just about everything that Ianto has left to fight the gate's imminent overload and push himself to his knees at the same time, but he manages. The array wants to break, wants to snap under the weight of more power than it is built to contain passing through it, and Ianto can't change it as he normally would, not when he's attempting to hold both sides-here and in the Nevermore-in balance.
But one of a caster's first lessons is always in containing a diagram gone awry, and this will be little different. The backlash will be more powerful, and there's a fair chance that it will kill Ianto to direct and release it, but-
Lisa, he thinks, but already the grief is muted, more fury than anything else, and that's a sign he's already begun to move on, as much as he might not want to.
But-
He looks at Jack, sees the darkness in those blue eyes, the unwavering grip on his pistol, and says a last farewell to an old love.
With a breath, with a memory of their first and last kisses, with a whisper of regret and sorrow and longing and deep, soft fondness, Ianto lets Lisa go.
He's been saying goodbye for weeks now, and he just never realized it.
Ianto sinks his teeth into the inside of his lip, bites down until he tastes blood, and pushes himself to his feet.
"No," he tells the Witch-King, meeting those mad black eyes straight on. "No, you don't get to pretend you are anything like him." He spits the word at the binder, and it feels like freedom, like flying. "You're not my king, not my master, warlock. My loyalty is mine to give, and you don't have it. He does."
The knife is still in Ianto's hand, blade bright and shining. To break an array of this size requires far less strength than it took to activate it, which is fortunate because Ianto has none to spare. But he is the conduit of the power in the array, the means through which the magic that is a part of everything becomes something the runes can channel and use.
Break the channel, and the array will break in turn.
Owen snarls something fierce and warning as Ianto brings the blade down, slashing a deep cut down the length of one arm, then switching hands and doing the same to the other arm. But Ianto isn't listening, can't listen. The magic is singing in his veins, running down his arms just like the crimson blood, falling to the array in drips and splattering drops. But it only took three drops to activate it in the beginning, and too much blood to an array is even worse than not enough.
Light glitters again, dangerously bright, and Ianto grits his teeth, hopes that Tosh will take this chance to do whatever it is she's planning, grabs the edges of the tear between worlds, and wrenches it out of place.
Soldiers scream as the gate finally snaps, a wash of loosed power flooding the room like the lash of a whip. It sends several of them spinning back into darkness, knocks out the rest and raises welts on Ianto's skin, brings tears of pain to his eyes, but he doesn't let go, pours everything of himself into tearing the damned gate apart, here and in the Nevermore.
As he does, a shot rings out, piercing and deafening.
There's a cry, and then everything goes dark.
*.~.*.~*
Jack sees the crowned man fall, half a heartbeat before Ianto does, and feels his heart stop. For one mad moment, he wonders if his shot went astray, if his bullet hit Ianto somehow instead of the stranger. But then blood blooms on the stranger's chest, stark against the white of his shirt, and Ianto chooses that moment to groan softly, rolling over. His eyelids flutter, but don't open.
Then the Hub's lights come on, sudden and blinding, and the strange diagram of lines beneath their feet shatters like thin glass, like shadows before the sun, and vanishes completely. Tosh ducks out of the corner when she'd been playing with the wiring, mouth set in a satisfied line, and joins the rest of the Torchwood team.
Jack's team, and whatever has happened here can't change that, not when Ianto has made his loyalties clear, helping them when he easily could have turned away.
Ianto, Jack thinks, and can't help but recall the stranger's words about a lack of care on his part nearly turning Ianto away from them. It won't happen again, no matter what this is here.
I won't look away again.
But before he can say anything, do anything, the crowned man is rising to his feet again, despite the bullet that is so clearly in his heart, and his black eyes are entirely mad.
"No," he hisses. "No, this isn't the end of it." Something in the air around him ripples, shimmers, and falls away like water, and the blood is gone. The thing writhes on the ground for a moment before disappearing, but the man doesn't spare it so much as a glance.
He saves that for Ianto's still form, for the bloodied knife beside him, and takes a step forward.
This time, it's Owen who puts a bullet in his chest, though Jack isn't far behind.
"No," Jack says, grim. "Your fight is with us now. Leave him alone."
The man looks at him for a long moment, weighing, and then breaks into a wide, insane smile. "Ah," he murmurs, and the change in temperament is jarring. "Yes. The Lord of the Golden Court has named me oath-breaker, and that is not an insult that can go unanswered. I will take you, little mortals. That is a good price for his insolence, is it not?"
He raises a hand, and the shadows around the edges of the room are suddenly overwhelming, a wave of darkness sweeping around them, over them, substantial in the same moment as they're intangible. Jack sucks in a breath and chokes on unrelenting blackness, and then he knows no more.
*.~.*.~*
Awareness returns slowly, along with the pain.
Ianto takes a breath, surprised that he can, because breaking an array while it's in use is quite possibly the most foolish thing he's even done, next to trusting the Witch-King.
But there's only silence around him, and that's not right.
It hurts, but Ianto forces his eyes open and his body upright. The ache in his arms is worst of all, a burning, tearing pain that steals his breath and makes him close his eyes for a long moment, fighting off the dizzy darkness that threatens to overwhelm him.
When he opens them again, the Hub is still silent and motionless, empty of everything living. Even the shadows are gone, and Ianto knows very well what that means.
The Witch-King has played his trump card, his last defense as a binder, and returned to the Nevermore through the Way of Shadows, taking Jack and Tosh and Owen and Gwen along with him.
Footsteps on the metal stairs make him look up. Somehow, it's no surprise to find Hamal there, his usually cheerful face set in lines of weary grief. He's not dressed as a human businessman anymore, but the Lord of the Moon. In place of the charcoal slacks and blue oxford are a white shirt, dove-grey tunic, and black breeches, tall brown boots and an archer's wrist- and arm-guards. His longbow is unstrung and slung over his back, and his quiver is closed and hung on his belt beside his two long knives, but he looks nevertheless ready for war.
"My dear boy," he says as he comes to a halt before Ianto. Nothing more, but there's something akin to disappointment in his gaze, and Ianto can't bear it. He closes his eyes again, buries his face in his aching hands, and wishes that the entire world would just...leave him to grieve in peace, if only for a moment.
Strong hands close over his wrists, tugging his hands away from his eyes. He doesn't look up, but he doesn't have to in order to recognize Talia's grip, even through her black wyvern-hide gloves. One of her hands closes around both of his wrists, holding them in her lap, and the other curls around the back of his neck, tipping his head forward to rest on her shoulder.
"Foolish, foolish boy," she murmurs, but it's full of relief rather than anger. "Challenging the Witch-King like that, without even waiting for us to help you, were you trying to die? Idiot child."
"I just...wanted her back," Ianto manages, all the justification he will ever give for his actions. All the justification he has, in the end. "She was gone and I couldn't- They were all gone, and even if I was always a witch, never quite one of them, I couldn't-"
"Hush," Hamal says gently, kneeling beside the two of them and settling one hand in Ianto's hair. "Grief makes fools of us all, in the end. Are you well, Ianto?"
Ianto closes his eyes, forces back the upwelling of emotion at having the two knights by his side, on his side, even after everything he's done. "I named the Witch-King an oath-breaker," he says after a moment. It's an answer, if not a complete one. "As head of the Golden Court, that means more than any witch in a lesser position saying the same, right? It's a-"
"A challenge," Talia finishes for him, her voice dry. "I suppose that's why he took your team-insurance that you won't actually move against him."
For the first time, Ianto registers the lack of Onyx Court knights around them, and blinks carefully. Talia is wearing her claymore strapped across her back, and it's been rewrapped in its covering cloth, but there's a bit of blood on the hilt that she missed in cleaning it. "You-"
"Did you really think we wouldn't be watching, after learning that the king was mobilizing?" Hamal asks, sounding a little wounded. "His first mistake, my boy, was giving you to us to raise. His second was underestimating what that would mean for us-and him-in the long run."
Talia cuffs Ianto gently on the back of the head, then rises to her feet in one smooth, graceful motion. "It's our duty to make sure that any challengers with a solid claim can meet the Witch-King fairly, in single combat," she says, tugging her gloves back into place and resettling her crimson tunic. Her eyes are burning, though her expression is set. "How soon will you be able to open another gate, boy?"
Ianto looks between the two of them, mentally judging power levels and the necessary symbols, and then factoring in his own weariness. "An hour before I can start an array," he says. "At the most. And then another half an hour to complete it, on the outside."
She and Hamal exchange a long glance that holds an entire conversation in its depths, and then the Lady nods. "All right. The nearest natural gate I know is over two hours away, so your way will be quicker. In the meantime, we'll need a plan."
Hamal settles on his knees, tilting his head in consideration. "You're better in close quarters," he says after a moment. "I'll escort Ianto, and you will find his friends and make sure the king doesn't use their safety as leverage. Acceptable?"
Her mouth tightens a bit in distaste, but Talia nods anyway. "Acceptable. But if the boy gets hurt and you could have done anything to prevent it, Hamal, I will-"
"Gut me, skin me, filet me, then roast me over dragon-fire and feed my remains to a pack of dire-wolves," Hamal recites with the weary air of a child facing an often-taught lesson. "We had this same conversation before you let us walk through the Nevermore without you for the first time, and we have had this same conversation many times since. I am aware, Talia."
"Well. So long as you are," Talia says almost cheerfully, and pats him on the head like a particularly clever puppy. Hamal bears it with as much dignity as he's able, which isn't a lot.
Ianto laughs at them, and it's only after he does so that he realizes how long it's been since he last felt this light.
Despite everything that's gone wrong, despite the betrayal, Ianto has picked a side at last. He's declared himself, decided to risk everything for those he's loyal to, and it's incredible how simple the entire world seems right now.
Word Count: ~4200 (this part), ~18000 overall
Summary: Witches walk the human world in secret, just out of sight and mind. Ianto Jones never reached Lisa Hallett’s side in time to save her, but he comes to Torchwood Three with a terrible secret nevertheless.
Disclaimer: I don’t hold the copyrights, I didn’t create them, and I make no profit from this.
Notes: Just to reiterate, this is totally not my fault. Um. Mostly.
Chapter three
Old civilizations put to the sword
Sometimes, Ianto thinks, it would be...not easier, but something close, if Lisa had managed to survive the fall of Torchwood One, even as a half-converted Cyberman. It would mean pain for her, of course, and Ianto would never wish that on her, but it would make everything clearer to his muddled mind.
As it is, Lisa has been dead for months now, and a part of Ianto can't help but move on.
Jack has so very much to do with that.
*.~.*.~*
Six hours, Ianto thinks, and there's a note of quiet panic to it, an edge of horror and terror that wouldn't exist if he were entirely devoted to his cause. He can't help it, though; Lisa has been dead, is dead, and Ianto has never been good at clinging to the past, not when his future looks like Jack, walks and talks and acts like Jack, pulls him forward into life whether he wants to be there or not.
Six hours, he thinks, and it's an executioner's axe, a death bell ringing before a burning, the end of everything Ianto has been clinging to for months now. The diagram is complete, from the Tree of Life to the Gate of Souls with the Eye of Eternity to tie it all together and the Maiden's Veil to tear through the barriers between the worlds. Ianto can feel like an itch beneath his skin, a burn, a whisper in the darkness. It calls to him, wants to be used, but Ianto doesn't want to use it.
Hasn't ever wanted anything less.
And then a basketball hits him in the chest, the others filing past as they head out to eat, and Jack is laughing with Gwen.
Jack doesn't even glance at him as he passes.
Ianto has always excelled at being invisible, but never before has it filled his gut with acid like this, twisted his heart in such a way and dragged it back into darkness.
Hands clenching on the ball, Ianto takes a deep, slow breath and then lets it out again.
Beneath his feet, painted into the concrete floor of the Hub, drawn across the walls and over every inch of free space, the circle glimmers with stray sparks of light.
Six hours turns to three, and Ianto carefully does not think about what the end of his preparations means for him, for Jack, for Torchwood.
All he can think about is Lisa's sweet, bright smile, and the way her eyes have never, ever looked right through him without pausing.
(And if his heart is an aching, painful knot in his chest, if all he wants in the entire world is to have Jack duck back through the door and invite him out, too-well. Ianto never gets what he wants, hasn't since he was thirteen years old, and he'll adjust. He will. He will.)
*.~.*.~*
Ianto can feel it in his bones when the sun begins to set. It's a caster's instinct, because change is a powerful thing, and a change in something as vast as the sun and the day is especially so.
There's a far-off twinge, too, like the memory of a bee sting, and Ianto knows that somewhere far distant from this world someone has dropped blood on the twin of Ianto's diagram. Someone has completed their preparations as well.
He takes a breath and steps into the center of the array, raises his arms like a conductor before his orchestra, and flicks his hands.
The trappings of Torchwood-computers and desks and machinery and the detritus of lives spent in a rush-fade away completely, leaving a vast, empty space around him. The Hub feels hollow like this, unreal, but Ianto shoves down the impression and draws a long, slim knife from his pocket. The blade glimmers with a faint sheen of crimson and blue, the edges traced with a ghost of gold, and Ianto doesn't bother to brace himself as he wraps his palm around the edges and lets the knife cut deep.
Blood splatters the ground as he opens his hand, and Ianto sets his teeth to keep from wavering. "Blood of my body, bind the halves," he says formally, and it's not necessary, not really, but all languages, all symbols have power, no matter how worn and stretched thin, and the English language is no exception despite its widespread use. "Edges of soul, stitch together. Spirit, be as a blade-tear through. Open."
Light blazes, brilliant gold and shimmering red, bright azure and snowy white and dark, depthless black all wound together, and then something pulls.
Ianto brings his hands together, draws the rune Raidho in the air between his palms, and then passes his bloody hand over it. "Open," he says again. "Part the ways. Bring them through the aether.”
The array unfurls like a flower opening, light spreading along the lines in elegant awakening, drawing power from Ianto's veins and the blood he's spilled. It shimmers and settles, and in the space between two seconds a man appears, tall and proud and crowned with darkness.
"Witch-King Madrigal," Ianto murmurs, going down on one knee before the man who owns his soul.
The Witch-King looks down at him, as he ever does, eyes wild and arrogant as no other Ianto has ever seen, and he nods. "Caster," he returns. "Stunning work, as ever, though only to be expected from the Golden Court's prodigy."
The half-compliment sets Ianto's teeth on edge, because even now, he has no loyalty to this man, no ties beyond a bargain made in desperation. "My king," is all he allows himself to say as he stands, though, because the Witch-King is mad and Ianto is no fool.
The light behind him shimmers, and one after another, soldiers in Onyx Court's black uniforms begin to step through the portal, binders with their leashed spirits wound around them like veils of darkness. Ianto counts ten, fifteen, maybe even more. It's straining the gate-he was told to expect one company of ten without familiars, not this series of knights, and the power is too much for an array written without Ezekiel's Balance.
A quiet takeover, the Witch-King had said. He would lead ten soldiers through while the team was out and Ianto would make a gate large enough for them all, would let them into Torchwood proper so they could occupy it like a foreign territory. Then the witches would control the last real Torchwood base, stranding Jack's team without their necessary resources, and there would be no risk of the Nevermore being discovered. It was a kinder fate than had met Torchwood Four when they discovered the Witch-King, so Ianto had agreed.
But he hadn't agreed to this. Not in any way. He'd been so careful with his wording, his phrasing, so that the boundaries would be clear.
Ten soldiers, he had said.
One gate drawn using the Maiden's Veil, he had said.
You'll bring Lisa back to life if I do this, he had said.
Warlock, he thinks now, because Ianto can feel the backlash building in his bones, straining under his skin, and it hurts.
It hurts almost as much as this betrayal.
"Sire," he manages, even as the appearance of another knight and bound spirit makes him waver, stagger, and reach for something to steady him. There's nothing, though, and Ianto falls, tumbles to the hard floor with a thud that jars his bones. He hisses, feels blood from his cut palm pooling under his fingers.
The Witch-King raises one dark brow, stepping around Ianto without concern and facing his knights. "Ah," he says carelessly. "Didn't you know, caster? A death must be fresh to re-bind a departed soul. Perhaps, had you asked in the very moment I pulled you out of Torchwood One, your lady-love might have been saved. But now? There is no binder in existence who could do what you ask."
Ianto closes his eyes, grits his teeth even as the gate keeps stretching, draining his power. Warlock, he thinks again. Our king the oath-breaker. It is a moment too late to recall Hamal's words about not being included in the Witch-King's mobilization, and that alone should have told Ianto that something was not right with this, but he had been blind, been deaf and dumb to anything but his own hurt and grief. The Lady of the Sun and the Lord of the Moon are the Witch-King's most loyal followers, his hands in combat and court and everything else, and though they love Ianto-
But they will not-cannot-follow a king who has been proved an oath-breaker, and for all of Ianto's own foolishness, the king had made him an oath to return Lisa to life.
That's been shattered now, and all that remains is the array Ianto cannot alter, the gate he cannot close while the other side remains open. He sets his teeth on a broken cry of rage, feels tears that are equally fury and heartache on his cheeks, but can't gather the strength to push himself upright again.
Another knight in Onyx Court colors, and that same blackness is edging Ianto's vision now, the ache in his bones nearly too much to bear.
Of course, that's the moment Jack and Owen burst through the door, weapons drawn.
"Ianto!" Jack cries, bringing his gun to bear on the Witch-King, and could Ianto do more than simply cling to consciousness, he would approve of Jack's ability to always pick out the most dangerous target on instinct.
But the Witch-King simply laughs, turning back to face Jack and Owen, Gwen sliding in behind them. "And you must be the Captain," he says archly. "How nice to finally meet the man who nearly turned my own servant against me-would have, even, if not for your lack of care!"
The gun wavers, just slightly, and Jack's eyes flick down to Ianto, confusion and dawning realization in the blue depths.
"Ianto?" he breathes.
Ianto gathers all of the strength he can possibly spare and bares his teeth at the Witch-King. "I call you oath-breaker," he hisses. "Warlock, you are not my king!"
Something very much like madness flickers in the king's eyes, and he disregards the Torchwood team entirely as he leans down to curl his fingers in Ianto's collar. The contempt in his eyes is dark and feverish, a living thing. "Ah, but I am not the only oath-breaker here," he murmurs. "You and I are alike, Ianto Jones. I will not allow you to forget that, even if you are to die here and now."
A gun cocks, and Jack growls, "Step away from him. I won't warn you again."
The Witch-King glances up at Jack and smiles, and it's terrifying. "My dear Captain, surely you cannot forgive him his betrayal. That's a weakness no leader can allow, after all. Though, I suppose, Ianto is sweet enough to give anyone a second thought."
Ianto's skin crawls at the implication, false as it is, but he has to grit his teeth against another surge of power from the array and can't refute it.
And then he realizes that four of his teammates went out, and there are only three here.
Tosh, he thinks with a sudden, desperate swell of hope. Tosh must be nearby. She'll need time.
It takes just about everything that Ianto has left to fight the gate's imminent overload and push himself to his knees at the same time, but he manages. The array wants to break, wants to snap under the weight of more power than it is built to contain passing through it, and Ianto can't change it as he normally would, not when he's attempting to hold both sides-here and in the Nevermore-in balance.
But one of a caster's first lessons is always in containing a diagram gone awry, and this will be little different. The backlash will be more powerful, and there's a fair chance that it will kill Ianto to direct and release it, but-
Lisa, he thinks, but already the grief is muted, more fury than anything else, and that's a sign he's already begun to move on, as much as he might not want to.
But-
He looks at Jack, sees the darkness in those blue eyes, the unwavering grip on his pistol, and says a last farewell to an old love.
With a breath, with a memory of their first and last kisses, with a whisper of regret and sorrow and longing and deep, soft fondness, Ianto lets Lisa go.
He's been saying goodbye for weeks now, and he just never realized it.
Ianto sinks his teeth into the inside of his lip, bites down until he tastes blood, and pushes himself to his feet.
"No," he tells the Witch-King, meeting those mad black eyes straight on. "No, you don't get to pretend you are anything like him." He spits the word at the binder, and it feels like freedom, like flying. "You're not my king, not my master, warlock. My loyalty is mine to give, and you don't have it. He does."
The knife is still in Ianto's hand, blade bright and shining. To break an array of this size requires far less strength than it took to activate it, which is fortunate because Ianto has none to spare. But he is the conduit of the power in the array, the means through which the magic that is a part of everything becomes something the runes can channel and use.
Break the channel, and the array will break in turn.
Owen snarls something fierce and warning as Ianto brings the blade down, slashing a deep cut down the length of one arm, then switching hands and doing the same to the other arm. But Ianto isn't listening, can't listen. The magic is singing in his veins, running down his arms just like the crimson blood, falling to the array in drips and splattering drops. But it only took three drops to activate it in the beginning, and too much blood to an array is even worse than not enough.
Light glitters again, dangerously bright, and Ianto grits his teeth, hopes that Tosh will take this chance to do whatever it is she's planning, grabs the edges of the tear between worlds, and wrenches it out of place.
Soldiers scream as the gate finally snaps, a wash of loosed power flooding the room like the lash of a whip. It sends several of them spinning back into darkness, knocks out the rest and raises welts on Ianto's skin, brings tears of pain to his eyes, but he doesn't let go, pours everything of himself into tearing the damned gate apart, here and in the Nevermore.
As he does, a shot rings out, piercing and deafening.
There's a cry, and then everything goes dark.
*.~.*.~*
Jack sees the crowned man fall, half a heartbeat before Ianto does, and feels his heart stop. For one mad moment, he wonders if his shot went astray, if his bullet hit Ianto somehow instead of the stranger. But then blood blooms on the stranger's chest, stark against the white of his shirt, and Ianto chooses that moment to groan softly, rolling over. His eyelids flutter, but don't open.
Then the Hub's lights come on, sudden and blinding, and the strange diagram of lines beneath their feet shatters like thin glass, like shadows before the sun, and vanishes completely. Tosh ducks out of the corner when she'd been playing with the wiring, mouth set in a satisfied line, and joins the rest of the Torchwood team.
Jack's team, and whatever has happened here can't change that, not when Ianto has made his loyalties clear, helping them when he easily could have turned away.
Ianto, Jack thinks, and can't help but recall the stranger's words about a lack of care on his part nearly turning Ianto away from them. It won't happen again, no matter what this is here.
I won't look away again.
But before he can say anything, do anything, the crowned man is rising to his feet again, despite the bullet that is so clearly in his heart, and his black eyes are entirely mad.
"No," he hisses. "No, this isn't the end of it." Something in the air around him ripples, shimmers, and falls away like water, and the blood is gone. The thing writhes on the ground for a moment before disappearing, but the man doesn't spare it so much as a glance.
He saves that for Ianto's still form, for the bloodied knife beside him, and takes a step forward.
This time, it's Owen who puts a bullet in his chest, though Jack isn't far behind.
"No," Jack says, grim. "Your fight is with us now. Leave him alone."
The man looks at him for a long moment, weighing, and then breaks into a wide, insane smile. "Ah," he murmurs, and the change in temperament is jarring. "Yes. The Lord of the Golden Court has named me oath-breaker, and that is not an insult that can go unanswered. I will take you, little mortals. That is a good price for his insolence, is it not?"
He raises a hand, and the shadows around the edges of the room are suddenly overwhelming, a wave of darkness sweeping around them, over them, substantial in the same moment as they're intangible. Jack sucks in a breath and chokes on unrelenting blackness, and then he knows no more.
*.~.*.~*
Awareness returns slowly, along with the pain.
Ianto takes a breath, surprised that he can, because breaking an array while it's in use is quite possibly the most foolish thing he's even done, next to trusting the Witch-King.
But there's only silence around him, and that's not right.
It hurts, but Ianto forces his eyes open and his body upright. The ache in his arms is worst of all, a burning, tearing pain that steals his breath and makes him close his eyes for a long moment, fighting off the dizzy darkness that threatens to overwhelm him.
When he opens them again, the Hub is still silent and motionless, empty of everything living. Even the shadows are gone, and Ianto knows very well what that means.
The Witch-King has played his trump card, his last defense as a binder, and returned to the Nevermore through the Way of Shadows, taking Jack and Tosh and Owen and Gwen along with him.
Footsteps on the metal stairs make him look up. Somehow, it's no surprise to find Hamal there, his usually cheerful face set in lines of weary grief. He's not dressed as a human businessman anymore, but the Lord of the Moon. In place of the charcoal slacks and blue oxford are a white shirt, dove-grey tunic, and black breeches, tall brown boots and an archer's wrist- and arm-guards. His longbow is unstrung and slung over his back, and his quiver is closed and hung on his belt beside his two long knives, but he looks nevertheless ready for war.
"My dear boy," he says as he comes to a halt before Ianto. Nothing more, but there's something akin to disappointment in his gaze, and Ianto can't bear it. He closes his eyes again, buries his face in his aching hands, and wishes that the entire world would just...leave him to grieve in peace, if only for a moment.
Strong hands close over his wrists, tugging his hands away from his eyes. He doesn't look up, but he doesn't have to in order to recognize Talia's grip, even through her black wyvern-hide gloves. One of her hands closes around both of his wrists, holding them in her lap, and the other curls around the back of his neck, tipping his head forward to rest on her shoulder.
"Foolish, foolish boy," she murmurs, but it's full of relief rather than anger. "Challenging the Witch-King like that, without even waiting for us to help you, were you trying to die? Idiot child."
"I just...wanted her back," Ianto manages, all the justification he will ever give for his actions. All the justification he has, in the end. "She was gone and I couldn't- They were all gone, and even if I was always a witch, never quite one of them, I couldn't-"
"Hush," Hamal says gently, kneeling beside the two of them and settling one hand in Ianto's hair. "Grief makes fools of us all, in the end. Are you well, Ianto?"
Ianto closes his eyes, forces back the upwelling of emotion at having the two knights by his side, on his side, even after everything he's done. "I named the Witch-King an oath-breaker," he says after a moment. It's an answer, if not a complete one. "As head of the Golden Court, that means more than any witch in a lesser position saying the same, right? It's a-"
"A challenge," Talia finishes for him, her voice dry. "I suppose that's why he took your team-insurance that you won't actually move against him."
For the first time, Ianto registers the lack of Onyx Court knights around them, and blinks carefully. Talia is wearing her claymore strapped across her back, and it's been rewrapped in its covering cloth, but there's a bit of blood on the hilt that she missed in cleaning it. "You-"
"Did you really think we wouldn't be watching, after learning that the king was mobilizing?" Hamal asks, sounding a little wounded. "His first mistake, my boy, was giving you to us to raise. His second was underestimating what that would mean for us-and him-in the long run."
Talia cuffs Ianto gently on the back of the head, then rises to her feet in one smooth, graceful motion. "It's our duty to make sure that any challengers with a solid claim can meet the Witch-King fairly, in single combat," she says, tugging her gloves back into place and resettling her crimson tunic. Her eyes are burning, though her expression is set. "How soon will you be able to open another gate, boy?"
Ianto looks between the two of them, mentally judging power levels and the necessary symbols, and then factoring in his own weariness. "An hour before I can start an array," he says. "At the most. And then another half an hour to complete it, on the outside."
She and Hamal exchange a long glance that holds an entire conversation in its depths, and then the Lady nods. "All right. The nearest natural gate I know is over two hours away, so your way will be quicker. In the meantime, we'll need a plan."
Hamal settles on his knees, tilting his head in consideration. "You're better in close quarters," he says after a moment. "I'll escort Ianto, and you will find his friends and make sure the king doesn't use their safety as leverage. Acceptable?"
Her mouth tightens a bit in distaste, but Talia nods anyway. "Acceptable. But if the boy gets hurt and you could have done anything to prevent it, Hamal, I will-"
"Gut me, skin me, filet me, then roast me over dragon-fire and feed my remains to a pack of dire-wolves," Hamal recites with the weary air of a child facing an often-taught lesson. "We had this same conversation before you let us walk through the Nevermore without you for the first time, and we have had this same conversation many times since. I am aware, Talia."
"Well. So long as you are," Talia says almost cheerfully, and pats him on the head like a particularly clever puppy. Hamal bears it with as much dignity as he's able, which isn't a lot.
Ianto laughs at them, and it's only after he does so that he realizes how long it's been since he last felt this light.
Despite everything that's gone wrong, despite the betrayal, Ianto has picked a side at last. He's declared himself, decided to risk everything for those he's loyal to, and it's incredible how simple the entire world seems right now.