The Art of Far and Near (Part 8) ~ Complete
Rating: PG
Word count: ~ 1,200
Warnings: Angst, fluff, magic, etc.
Summary: Twelve steps to immortality: this is the pinnacle of alchemy, of all alchemists. Ianto has reached final goal, and all he feels is empty.
A/N: Last chapter! I’ll admit, I've had this written for some time-it was always going to be the end of this story-but I wasn’t certain whether I was going to be adding more chapters or not. The answer is, sadly, not, because I'm out of Torchwood now. However, rather than leaving this an eternal WIP or taking it down (because I'm fond of it, really), I'm going to stick a period here. Other people are welcome to add to this universe, but here I bid you all adieu.
(For those who follow it/are interested, Ianto Jones and the Airship Pirates will not be getting this treatment; it has a full final chapter that’s nearly ready to go up.)
The Art of Far and Near
Chapter Seven
(Find an end and run it forward; other stories must start from here.)
They walk in darkness, halfway between the shadow of the land and the light of the city, forever caught here. Jack was fixed, and Ianto has fixed himself, though in the end he had perhaps as little choice as Jack. But they are both of them immortal, both of them unchanging even as they change forever, held here at this point in time with the universe unfurling at their feet.
Roundstone Wood is cool and silent, eerie in the dimness, and Ianto knows that there are eyes within the trees, brownies and sprite and dryads, Sidhe like half-seen shadows gliding past. But here is where he and Jack are equal, neither Torchwood nor civilian life, but somewhere in between.
The universe spins, the stars align, and Ianto looks up from the leaves his steps turn black and says, very softly, “You know what the ouroboros stands for, Jack.”
It’s not a question, because Ianto remembers speaking these words before, “All twelve of the greatest alchemical symbols, the final stage of alchemy, and the ouroboros for immortality”, murmuring them into ash-scented air when Jack reached out and put a hand over Ianto's heart-as though he had already realized, even then, that it was his and his alone.
Jack stops in the shadow of a particularly tall tree, which blocks out the moonlight and leaves his face a mystery. “Yes,” he says at length. “You told me.”
“And I saw you wake up,” Ianto continues, looking away from the darkness of an unknown face, familiar turned unrecognizable with the lack of light. They’ve neither of them said the words, never once said I'm immortal even though it’s clear that they both recognize it well enough. Jack is still hesitant, unwilling to risk his heart so completely even when the risk is really very small. Because as it is now, he can pretend that he doesn’t understand what Ianto is, can keep him at arm’s length and pretend that it’s because Ianto is mortal and will die. Truthfully, honestly, Jack is scared because he has had an eternity condensed into two hundred years to become accustomed to leaving people, to being left. It’s gone on so long that Ianto has to wonder if he even remembers how to stay.
Ianto has never had to face eternity before, and he does so now with hands that do not shake, but only because they never shake. There is steel in his heart and iron in his blood, and with his alchemy steel can be oak and iron can be gold, and Ianto can live through the ages.
“You did.” Jack whispers it like it’s a deeply held secret, like he’s never told anyone before, and maybe he hasn’t.
Ianto looks back at him, because he always does, he can't look away for long no matter what is happening around them. Jack has shifted, or the moon has, and now light glances off his skin, dances across his cheek and tumbles from his jaw like tears to stain the ground. Jack is watching him in return, eyes so wary and careful that it just about breaks Ianto's heart, but there's a spark of hope there, too.
No matter what, Jack always has hope.
It’s one of the things Ianto loves most about him, besides everything.
Ianto looks at him, and Jack looks back, and Ianto could say the words if he wanted, could bind them together with two simple words that are more constraining, more compelling than any “I do.”
But he won't, because that’s not how it is between them. Because Jack runs and flies and is forever free, and Ianto will always, always, always be the one to wait, to hang behind and look past, to see what he needs to and do what he must, while Jack is the brave, bold hero, saving both of them.
Ianto is wearing a simple dark oxford, not quite buttoned all the way. He undoes the buttons that are still closed, pulls away the jewel-toned cloth and lets it fall among the leaves. His tattoo glitters in the moonlight like diamond-dusted obsidian, stark against his pale skin. One hand pressed over it, memories of trees and wood and water and blood and ash, and Ianto says simply, softly, “Yours , Jack, it’s always been yours. Didn’t you know? Haven’t you realized?”
Jack steps closer, one step, two steps, out of the shadows and into the light, and he lays his hand over Ianto's as though it belongs there.
(It does.)
“I…couldn’t,” he whispers, pained, but whether he means now or then Ianto isn’t sure. “But…”
“Yes,” Ianto tells him, because Jack will never get another answer from him. It’s always a yes for Jack, and if he doesn’t know that by now he hasn’t been watching closely enough these past few weeks.
Jack kisses him in the darkness, kisses him in the light, holds him under the moon and in the wild wood and in the midst of a million souls, none of them watching-or all of them watching, maybe, but Ianto wouldn’t care at all. Jack is like gravity, painful and grounding and permanent, like the death that will never touch either of them, sure and certain and to be feared even as it comes with a soft and careful touch.
They break apart, shatter into two separate pieces once more, but only for the breadth of a sigh and the length of a breath before the word settles once more.
The kiss ends, but everything must end before something new may start.
(The universe spins, the stars align, and the world turns. Above and below them, there is only sky.)
caret initio et fine
Latin translation-y stuff, for those curious (some are conjugated, some are not, as I picked them for their dramatic sound more than their meaning):
Inmotus - immovable
Incipere - begin (v. form)
lapis philosophorum - Philosopher's Stone
Praescribo - draw/write/inscribe
Evito - kill/murder (v. form - interestingly enough, it also has a secondary meaning of 'escape', which I thought was fitting.)
Permuto - shift/alter/swap
Coepio - begin/commence
Muto - transform
Adnihilo - destroy
Termino - end/terminate/destroy
Word count: ~ 1,200
Warnings: Angst, fluff, magic, etc.
Summary: Twelve steps to immortality: this is the pinnacle of alchemy, of all alchemists. Ianto has reached final goal, and all he feels is empty.
A/N: Last chapter! I’ll admit, I've had this written for some time-it was always going to be the end of this story-but I wasn’t certain whether I was going to be adding more chapters or not. The answer is, sadly, not, because I'm out of Torchwood now. However, rather than leaving this an eternal WIP or taking it down (because I'm fond of it, really), I'm going to stick a period here. Other people are welcome to add to this universe, but here I bid you all adieu.
(For those who follow it/are interested, Ianto Jones and the Airship Pirates will not be getting this treatment; it has a full final chapter that’s nearly ready to go up.)
The Art of Far and Near
Chapter Seven
(Find an end and run it forward; other stories must start from here.)
They walk in darkness, halfway between the shadow of the land and the light of the city, forever caught here. Jack was fixed, and Ianto has fixed himself, though in the end he had perhaps as little choice as Jack. But they are both of them immortal, both of them unchanging even as they change forever, held here at this point in time with the universe unfurling at their feet.
Roundstone Wood is cool and silent, eerie in the dimness, and Ianto knows that there are eyes within the trees, brownies and sprite and dryads, Sidhe like half-seen shadows gliding past. But here is where he and Jack are equal, neither Torchwood nor civilian life, but somewhere in between.
The universe spins, the stars align, and Ianto looks up from the leaves his steps turn black and says, very softly, “You know what the ouroboros stands for, Jack.”
It’s not a question, because Ianto remembers speaking these words before, “All twelve of the greatest alchemical symbols, the final stage of alchemy, and the ouroboros for immortality”, murmuring them into ash-scented air when Jack reached out and put a hand over Ianto's heart-as though he had already realized, even then, that it was his and his alone.
Jack stops in the shadow of a particularly tall tree, which blocks out the moonlight and leaves his face a mystery. “Yes,” he says at length. “You told me.”
“And I saw you wake up,” Ianto continues, looking away from the darkness of an unknown face, familiar turned unrecognizable with the lack of light. They’ve neither of them said the words, never once said I'm immortal even though it’s clear that they both recognize it well enough. Jack is still hesitant, unwilling to risk his heart so completely even when the risk is really very small. Because as it is now, he can pretend that he doesn’t understand what Ianto is, can keep him at arm’s length and pretend that it’s because Ianto is mortal and will die. Truthfully, honestly, Jack is scared because he has had an eternity condensed into two hundred years to become accustomed to leaving people, to being left. It’s gone on so long that Ianto has to wonder if he even remembers how to stay.
Ianto has never had to face eternity before, and he does so now with hands that do not shake, but only because they never shake. There is steel in his heart and iron in his blood, and with his alchemy steel can be oak and iron can be gold, and Ianto can live through the ages.
“You did.” Jack whispers it like it’s a deeply held secret, like he’s never told anyone before, and maybe he hasn’t.
Ianto looks back at him, because he always does, he can't look away for long no matter what is happening around them. Jack has shifted, or the moon has, and now light glances off his skin, dances across his cheek and tumbles from his jaw like tears to stain the ground. Jack is watching him in return, eyes so wary and careful that it just about breaks Ianto's heart, but there's a spark of hope there, too.
No matter what, Jack always has hope.
It’s one of the things Ianto loves most about him, besides everything.
Ianto looks at him, and Jack looks back, and Ianto could say the words if he wanted, could bind them together with two simple words that are more constraining, more compelling than any “I do.”
But he won't, because that’s not how it is between them. Because Jack runs and flies and is forever free, and Ianto will always, always, always be the one to wait, to hang behind and look past, to see what he needs to and do what he must, while Jack is the brave, bold hero, saving both of them.
Ianto is wearing a simple dark oxford, not quite buttoned all the way. He undoes the buttons that are still closed, pulls away the jewel-toned cloth and lets it fall among the leaves. His tattoo glitters in the moonlight like diamond-dusted obsidian, stark against his pale skin. One hand pressed over it, memories of trees and wood and water and blood and ash, and Ianto says simply, softly, “Yours , Jack, it’s always been yours. Didn’t you know? Haven’t you realized?”
Jack steps closer, one step, two steps, out of the shadows and into the light, and he lays his hand over Ianto's as though it belongs there.
(It does.)
“I…couldn’t,” he whispers, pained, but whether he means now or then Ianto isn’t sure. “But…”
“Yes,” Ianto tells him, because Jack will never get another answer from him. It’s always a yes for Jack, and if he doesn’t know that by now he hasn’t been watching closely enough these past few weeks.
Jack kisses him in the darkness, kisses him in the light, holds him under the moon and in the wild wood and in the midst of a million souls, none of them watching-or all of them watching, maybe, but Ianto wouldn’t care at all. Jack is like gravity, painful and grounding and permanent, like the death that will never touch either of them, sure and certain and to be feared even as it comes with a soft and careful touch.
They break apart, shatter into two separate pieces once more, but only for the breadth of a sigh and the length of a breath before the word settles once more.
The kiss ends, but everything must end before something new may start.
(The universe spins, the stars align, and the world turns. Above and below them, there is only sky.)
caret initio et fine
Latin translation-y stuff, for those curious (some are conjugated, some are not, as I picked them for their dramatic sound more than their meaning):
Inmotus - immovable
Incipere - begin (v. form)
lapis philosophorum - Philosopher's Stone
Praescribo - draw/write/inscribe
Evito - kill/murder (v. form - interestingly enough, it also has a secondary meaning of 'escape', which I thought was fitting.)
Permuto - shift/alter/swap
Coepio - begin/commence
Muto - transform
Adnihilo - destroy
Termino - end/terminate/destroy