Rating: T

Word Count: ~5300 (this part), ~18000 overall (complete)

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: For this story, I'd really appreciate whatever comments you want to throw my way—I have this vague, sinking feeling like I've done something rather unforgiveable, and would like to know if that's justified.

Chapter four

All things fall and are built again

Jack is not overly fond of cells, but at least this one has a fairly decent view.

"Is that...?" Tosh, who has her face nearly pressed to the barred window beside him, trails off in wonder at the sight of the creature making its way past.

Admittedly, Jack's restraint isn't a lot better. He leans forward, too, his eyebrows rising.

Gwen's the one who answers, pressed right up against Jack's other side and just as wide-eyed. "A unicorn? I think so."

Well. It's quite clear they're not in Kansas anymore, though the Medieval-chic decor already rather gave that away.

Owen is on the far side of the cell, pretending that he's above their gaping, but Jack can see him twitching every time something really fantastical walks by. He also drooled a bit when a couple of green-skinned women with leaves growing in their hair started dancing naked in the street.

They watch the graceful white unicorn pick its delicate way down the cobblestone street, and then sit back, all of them fairly speechless.

Surprisingly, it's Gwen—who's been mostly quiet so far—who breaks the silence. "So this all has something to do with Ianto?" she asks softly.

It's the very question they've all been avoiding since they woke up in here several hours ago. Jack chews on the inside of his cheek, debating how to answer.

"It looked like a deal gone bad," Owen says flatly. "Tea-boy must have been trying to do something, and he got in over his head. That madman didn't seem like the type to hold his end of the bargain."

When they all look at him in surprise, he scowls darkly at them. "What? Just because I don't like the tea-boy I can't be insightful? He barely survived the destruction of Torchwood One, saw pretty much everyone he knew killed by Cybermen, Daleks, and Hartman's mad schemes, and you think he wouldn't be a little off his rocker afterwards? A deal with the devil seems like a minor reaction, if you want my professional opinion."

"Doctor Harper," Jack says, unable to stifle a small smile. He forgets, sometimes, because Owen is a prickly bastard, but he's a good doctor. One of the best.

Owen levels a threatening finger at him, scowl deepening. "This would be why I suggested psych evals, Harkness. Going to brush me off again? Say it's a waste of time?"

"No, Owen," Jack offers, placating, as he raises his hands in surrender. "You're right, and it was very wrong of me to suggest otherwise."

With a sniff, Owen settles back against the stone wall. "Good. Now, what are we doing about Ianto?"

A sudden clatter makes them all spin back to the window, where a pair of heavy leather boots has come into view at street level. The boots take two steps past, then pause and turn, and a blond man in green and brown slides down the wall to sit on the sidewalk beside their window, long legs stretched out in front of him. There's a deep gold band of cloth around one bicep, embroidered with a twisting Chinese dragon done in silver thread, and he's wearing what looks suspiciously like a scimitar on his belt and metal bracers on his forearms.

"Well," the stranger says cheerfully. "Lovely day, isn't it?" He casts a glance back at them for a brief second before turning to the street again, and then says more quietly, "You wouldn't happen to be meaning Ianto Jones, would you, gents?"

"Lovely," Owen mutters. "We're being eavesdropped on by an extra from Robin Hood: Men in Tights. Why'd I get out of bed this morning?"

The man laughs at him cheerily enough, and strips off the thin black gloves he's wearing, letting them drop and then turning his hands over to show them the runes inked onto the backs. "Peace, healer," he murmurs. "I'm one of his Court, and I'd never do a fellow caster harm. There aren't enough of us as it is."

Tosh leans past Jack's shoulder, squinting a little to get a better look at the symbols on the man's skin. "Those are Norse runes, aren't they? Um..."

"Uruz, for speed and strength," the man says, sounding pleased at her insight. "Eihwaz, for enlightenment and endurance." He shows them the palms and the two additional runes there. "Laguz for healing, and Algiz for protection. I'm not a strong caster, but my runes do their work."

"Caster?" Gwen asks in confusion. "Court? What do you mean?"

"Lady Sun and Lordy Moon," the stranger exclaims, waving a dramatic hand. "You've really no idea of any this, have you? Witches have five houses, or clans—we call them courts. Azure Court for the shifters, Vermillion Court for the summoners, Golden Court for the casters, White Court for the crafters, and Onyx Court for the binders. Casters like myself and the lord, we put our runes on things to affect them. Circles, letters, languages, arrays—that's our power. Not many of us, these days, but we make do."

"And that man?" Tosh asks softly. "The one who brought us here?"

The man's voice darkens, and he pulls his gloves back on with short, sharp motions. "Ah. You'd be speaking of the Witch-King, I believe. He's Onyx Court, though he should be above the politics, by rights. King's job, yeah? Keep the peace, don't show favor, let the world keep on turning. Too bad he's pants at it, and mad as a March hare to top it off."

Jack debates with himself for a moment, but the stranger seems chatty enough, and there doesn't seem to be any other way to get information right now. "Ianto called the king a warlock. Is there—?"

"He did?" the man interrupts, and he actually pulls away from the wall, turning to look straight at them with wide, startled green eyes. "You're sure? Lord Ianto called him a warlock where others could hear it? In public?"

"More or less," Owen answers, rolling his eyes. "Bunch of soldiers in black heard him. And us. Who are you again?"

"Mercy. Mercy, mercy," the man mutters, tugging worriedly at his gloves and then touching his scimitar lightly. "I'm Remus, Keeper of the Dawn Gate. And yes, there's quite a difference between a witch and a warlock, if that's what you were to ask. A witch keeps his or her word—always. If we don't, it breaks something in our magic, corrupts it and turns it bad. That's a warlock, someone with their magic gone bad from breaking an oath. Warlocks can't be Witch-King—Lord Ianto just challenged His Majesty's right to the throne, unless I'm mighty mistaken."

With a clatter of metal and leather, Remus rises to his feet, just barely avoiding tripping over his own sword. "Mercy, I've got to tell the rest of the Court. If there's a challenge on, no telling what the king might do. Best be prepared for a war with Onyx, if it comes to that. Excuse me then, ladies and gents, I must be off."

He hurries off down the street, dodging a pair of women with blue hair and a man carrying an eagle before ducking around a corner and out of sight.

Jack watches him go, more confused than ever.

"Lord Ianto?" Owen manages after a moment, slightly strangled, and Jack can't help it anymore. He laughs.

It's an unspeakable relief when the gate opens smoothly, the diagram perfectly drawn. The hum of the magic still makes Ianto wince, sensitive to even properly controlled power right now. He can feel it in his bones, in his blood, like muscles overused for the first time, and it's overwhelmingly unpleasant.

He's going to have to face the Witch-King like this, though, so he'd best get used to it quickly.

Talia immediately steps away from the gate, pulling off one glove. "Boy, give me your knife. I'll do this the simple way."

Wordlessly, Ianto passes it over, because he knows that tone.

The knife nicks one of Talia's fingertips easily enough, and she tosses it back, then sweeps one arm out in a grand gesture that leaves two drops of scarlet blood behind. "Come forth, Sylph! Come forth, Dryad!"

The air before her shimmers, then parts, and in a swirl of wind a creature with pale blue skin and a cloud of ghost-white hair drops to her knees on the ground, head bent. Next to her, a twist of jade light bring another kneeling figure, this one with green skin and hair like freshly turned earth. They're similar in that they look too perfect to be human, all bare, slender limbs and graceful bodies and pointed ears, cat-eyes and nails like claws. The elements that birthed them still hold them, the air spirit's hair whirling in an unfelt breeze, the earth spirit with her feet rooted in the ground.

Even after seeing them so many times before, even after living in the Nevermore for half a decade, Ianto still thinks of them as some of the strangest beings he's ever encountered.

"Mistress," Sylph murmurs, looking up through a tangle of white hair. Her eyes are nearly colorless, a breathy blue like clouds in the dawn, and her teeth are pointed. "What would you have of us?"

Dryad looks up as well, golden-eyed and wild, vines curling like tattoos beneath her skin. "Command us, Mistress," she echoes, and there's the buried, ancient power of a mountain in her voice.

"There are humans here," Talia tells them. "Four humans from Earth, held by the Witch-King. Lead me to them."

There's a whisper of power so vast and ancient that it nearly makes Ianto's eyes cross, and then Sylph vanishes, her body bursting apart into tiny gusts of air and dispersing. Dryad shimmers for a moment before she fades back into the ground like water being absorbed, and the earth trembles slightly before settling again. Talia nods to herself, then turns to Ianto and Hamal.

"Don't lose the challenge," she says, sharp and fierce. "Don't you dare, boy." She tugs Ianto forward into a brief, hard hug and then is gone, striding away towards the center of the town.

Hamal watches her go with a fond smile, sighing a little to himself. "She's correct, as ever," he murmurs, glancing at Ianto. "You can't lose this challenge. It's the first true one in decades. The Nevermore needs this."

"A new king?" Ianto asks, glancing at the Lord. He knows that Hamal and Talia both consider themselves loyal to the position of Witch-King, more than the person who holds the title, but there hasn't been a new Witch-King in over two hundred years, since the current king killed his predecessor in challenge and took the throne, and then refused to give it up when Onyx Court's cycle was through.

But Hamal is already shaking his head. "Change," he corrects. "The position has never been held by one Court for so long before. Madrigal should never have been able to keep his seat once Onyx's cycle was finished, but Azure Court's candidate was too weak to force him to give it up." He looks at Ianto and smiles a little wryly. "Perhaps it is fitting that you are the one to challenge him—Golden Court has always supported the balance of power more than any Court, and Madrigal has overturned it entirely. The Lords of each Court need to share their power and take their turn as Witch-King every five years. Otherwise the Nevermore grows stagnant and the magic fades. Just look at the Golden Court now."

Ianto thinks of the mere fifteen members of his Court compared to the hundreds it once had, of how it's been six years since the last caster was born, and sets his jaw. "Onyx should be the last stage before it starts over with Azure," he says. "Just as it was supposed to. By rights it's Azure's turn again this year, isn't it? That's the fitting part."

"Indeed," Hamal says cheerfully, even as brings his longbow forward and strings it. It's only a few inches shorter than he is, far more powerful than the smaller recurve bow he normally carries. "Off we go, then. Best to present your challenge before Madrigal can dismiss the Courts, hmm?"

He leads the way towards the Witch-King's hall, humming softly under his breath. Ianto falls into step with him after a moment, taking slow, careful breathes as he tries to think of a strategy, something, anything that will let him come through this and still be breathing on the other side.

Witch-King Madrigal is mad and vicious, and everyone knows he's a warlock, has known since he failed to give up his throne when Onyx Court's cycle ended. He's never been challenged before, because a warlock—like a mad, rabid animal—is something to be feared more than anything else in the Nevermore, but Ianto takes comfort in the thought that even if he does die today, at least something will have changed. At long last, someone with weight behind their words will have declared the king an oath-breaker, and Ianto's challenge won't be the last.

He'll have changed something, done as much as he can to make up for betraying Jack.

Talia will see the team safely to the human world. Ianto takes a deep breath and believes it, as he hasn't tried to believe anything in years, and then pushes all extraneous thoughts away.

When the guards at the Witch-King's hall push open the tall doors and bow him through, it's the Lord of the Golden Court who strides over the threshold and across the wide marble floor. It's a caster who walks unerringly up to the black throne and lifts his head, and says clearly into the silence that's fallen over the assembled Courts, "Witch-King Madrigal, I name you oath-breaker and warlock. What say you?"

It's likely a testament to the strangeness of Jack's life that he barely blinks when a naked woman with blue skin, white hair, and pointed ears swirls into existence in the middle of the cell. Gwen and Owen both yelp, and Tosh flinches violently, but on the whole they're adjusting to weirdness as well, and instead of panicking they simply brace themselves.

She looks at the four of them, something satisfied in her expression, and then bares pointed teeth in something that only a blind man would term a smile. "Here," she says, and her voice is breathy and cool, like a gust of spring wind. "Mistress, I've found them."

Then she's gone again, and they're alone in the small stone room.

But not for long. The door bursts open, and one of the black-clad guards Jack has been trying to get a rise out of for hours now bursts in, sword in hand and dark cloud hovering around his shoulders like a cloak of shadows. He only has time to snarl at Jack, who's closest, and raise his short sword before a booted foot slams into the side of his helmet.

Before Jack or the guard can even begin to react, another person is in the cell with them, a woman with hair the color of apricots and the biggest damn sword Jack's ever see in her hand. She whirls it around once, moves forward in a blur, and slams one boot straight into the guard's groin. He makes a strangled sound, faltering, and the woman hisses, "Dryad! Take him!"

The earth moves, and the guard is gone.

Jack blinks at the woman as she casually wraps a length of cloth around the sword and slings the huge thing across her back, and then he says carefully, "Can I help you?"

The woman looks up, golden-brown eyes narrowing sharply, and marches right up to him. It's rare for Jack to have to look up at anyone, especially a woman, and he does so now with no small amount of trepidation. She looks vicious.

"Captain Jack Harkness?" she asks darkly.

Jack gets the feeling that if he tries to play dumb here, his entrails will shortly be making friends with the stone floor. Septic shock isn't a fun way to die, so he nods, offers up his most charming grin, and says, "I see my reputation precedes me."

Entirely unimpressed, she looks him over, curls her lip, and leans forward like she's never heard of personal space. "Ianto Jones. If you break his heart, I will tear you into tiny little bits, soak your sad remains in salt, and then feed you to a manticore. It will be fun. Do not tempt me. Are we clear?"

Jack swallows and manages, "Crystal."

The woman smiles, deceptively sweet, and takes a step back. "Perfect. I'm Talia. I'll show you the way back to the human world if you'll just—"

"Ianto," Jack interrupts, because he physically can't restrain himself anymore. "Do you know—?"

"Of course I know." Talia narrows her eyes at him, one hand twitching towards her sword. "That fool of a boy is challenging the Witch-King right now, and it's not as though Hamal will keep him from doing anything stupid. But Ianto's as stubborn as a cat by water. He'll be fine."

The fact that she seems to be reassuring herself more than anything makes the words an empty comfort at best, and Jack sets his jaw. Ianto is part of his team, regardless of what he's done. Moreover, he and Jack are…something.

(He's the first person in a very long time who Jack's wanted this particular something with.)

"Take me with you," he tells the witch. "Send the others back, but take me with you to wherever Ianto is."

Perhaps predictably, Tosh and Gwen immediately protest, Owen snarling in his agreement half a beat behind them, but Talia silences them with an absent wave of one deadly hand. She studies Jack for a long moment, and then nods slowly. "All right," she agrees, and there's something terrifyingly like approval in her eyes as she tugs off one glove and raises her thumb to her mouth. A flash of white teeth, a splash of crimson blood falling in two perfect drops, and she sweeps a hand out grandly. "Come forth, Undine! Come forth, Djinn!"

The torches in their sconces flare, and the air goes bone-dry in a sudden rush as every single bit of moisture condenses in the center of the room and then twists itself around. The tongues of flame shape themselves around the figure of a muscular man with burning pits for eyes and a long tail of scarlet hair. He bows to Talia, even as the other figure settles into a more slender form—another man, this time with waves of sea-green hair and eyes so blue they put Ianto's to shame.

Not, Jack reminds himself, that this creature can compare to Ianto in any other way. Jack much prefers Ianto's lean muscle and fair skin to these two's dark coloring, Djinn's muscle-builder look and Undine's nearly feminine slenderness. Ianto is all sinew and strength, muscle earned in work rather than at a gym, and—

"Stop drooling," Talia orders, smacking him in the back of the head without looking, and Jack can't decide whether he's grateful or not that she doesn't realize he's picturing Ianto naked at the moment. It's sad that she thinks he's so easily fickle with his looks (though, really, if men like that are going to wander around naked—well), but she seems rather maternal where Ianto is concerned, and that sword is terrifyingly large and sharp-looking.

"Mistress," Djinn rumbles.

"You called, and we have come," Undine murmurs.

Talia nods sharply to both of them. "Undine, guide these three humans through the city to Vermillion Court's Cornwall gate and take them through. Follow the river to get there. Djinn, make sure no one intercepts them. Once this is done, dismiss yourselves with my thanks."

"Mistress," both of them echo, straightening from their bows. Undine heads for the door and pauses there, clearly waiting, while Djinn raises his hands, whirls back into tongues of flame, and then vanishes.

"Jack—" Gwen starts, about to argue, but Jack doesn't have time to hear her out right now, not when Talia is so obviously vibrating with the urge to move, to get back to Ianto and make sure he's safe. Jack feels the same urge himself, exacerbated by the unfamiliar surroundings, and this isn't the time for Gwen to press the fact that their teamwork could use improvement.

That can wait until after Ianto is back home, in Torchwood, where he belongs.

"Go," he says simply. "Get back to Cardiff and make sure the world hasn't ended while we've been gone. I'll bring Ianto back soon."

Tosh gently takes hold of Gwen's wrist, pulling her towards the door with a quick nod to acknowledge Jack's order. Owen shoots Jack a sour look and mutters something nasty—whether at being left out of the action or stuck with the girls for the next few hours, Jack can't tell—but follows, and the four of them slip out of the cell together.

Talia lets out a long breath and rubs a hand over her face, then nods to herself once and says sharply, "Let's go. If we're lucky, the challenge hasn't ended yet."

She heads out into the dark corridor, then through a door and into the strangely luminescent twilight of this world, with Jack right on her heels.

There is blood running down Ianto's arm, splattering and speckling the floor of the challenge circle as he turns to keep the Witch-King in sight. For once it's not a deliberate wound, not self-inflicted in order to trigger his magic—Madrigal hasn't kept his throne so long out of goodwill and kindness. The Witch-King is a mad fighter, and the fact that he's a binder does little to help opponents; with his leashed spirits to take the blows, Madrigal can meet even deadly attacks headfirst and without wavering.

But he only has so many spirits at his command, and four already lie on the arena floor, wavering and fading like smoke on the water.

Nevertheless, Ianto is at a disadvantage in this kind of fight, and the long gash down his shoulder is hardly the only wound Madrigal has given him, nor the deepest. There's a reason casters are the balance, the diplomats of the Five Courts; they're no good in challenges, preferring patience and forethought and premeditated attacks when it's least expected and when their circles and runes can be carefully planned and prescribed. Circles are only as permanent as the substance in which they're drawn; the greatest are laid in stone and metal for just that reason, and last centuries. Even good ink will fade within a few years, and pen on paper lasts only a month at best.

To draw circles in the air, with half his attention elsewhere and someone actively opposing him, as is required for sudden combat like this—

Ianto is lucky if his spells last minutes, at best.

And someone in the crowd of grim-faced spectators is humming. It's enough to drive Ianto to distraction.

This is the very worst time to be distracted, too, Ianto reminds himself as he just barely ducks away from a sharp, shooting strike like a sword. He throws himself aside and rolls, coming up just in time to see a shadow-sending retreat towards the King once more. Stupid, stupid, he berates himself. Former Lord of the Onyx Court, the Nevermore's warriors. Over two hundred years of building his style and strategy, even if he wasn't actively fighting anyone at the time.

This is a battle Ianto is quite certain he will lose, so long as he plays it fair.

Still, he flicks rapidly through a string of symbols and images—Mountain's Death, the Sumerian symbols for darkness, mist, and forest, a glyph for Sirius the Dog Star and then Crane's Fifth Dance to unite them—and lets the array burn in the air for a brief moment to gather strength before sending it at the Witch-King with a flick of his fingers.

Darkness explodes over the arena, thick and choking, with shadows writhing through it to add to the confusion. It's not a direct attack, but a smokescreen, because while Ianto is a good many things a trained soldier isn't one of them. He's more the chess type, but chess takes pause and thought and he can't do that when Madrigal is throwing bound spirits at him one after another.

As he retreats to the far side of the ring, he carefully avoids looking in Hamal's direction, not wanting to see whatever expression is on his face right now.

He can't avoid the other face in the crowd, though, couldn't even if he wanted to, and he can't make himself want that. Because it's Jack, because Jack is here and tense and worried for him, even though Ianto is a traitor and nearly got the entire team killed.

Slowly, carefully, Ianto takes a breath and a mental step away. Regardless of his joy, regardless of the hope that's bubbling up in his chest at the idea of maybe, perhaps, someday being forgiven for his actions, it's not the time for that.

And whoever's humming still won't stop.

But Ianto's always had a slightly odd mind, one half-step sideways from eidetic and one diagonally to the right of normal—part, he suspects, of being a caster and having so many thousands of symbols and languages in his head. In that moment of aggravation, something clicks into place.

As I went down through Dublin City at the hour of twelve at night, who should I see but a Spanish lady washing her feet by candlelight?

It's an old folk tune, memorable and lively, and Ianto closes his eyes as the pieces click together.

Oh.

I see.

He risks a glance into the crowd, seeking the source of the song, and it's easy enough to find once he looks—a tall redheaded man, lanky and sporting a lazy grin as he leans against the arm of Azure Court's ceremonial throne. Ianto snorts a little, even as he brings a hand up again, this time tossing one of his pre-drawn arrays into the dissipating darkness. It's the same one he nearly used earlier, outside of Torchwood when he still clung to his doomed dreams, and somehow it's even more satisfying to use it now. With a simple murmur of, "Bellow, Thunder Gods," the array explodes like a grenade, shaking the arena and making the Witch-King cry out in pain.

Another bound spirit falls away, writhing with a death-blow, and then fades.

Five spirits released back into the aether, then. Only two more remain.

Another shadow-sending slams into the floor where Ianto had been standing, but he's learned (painfully) from Talia how to reduce even a caster's weak points, and he's already moving. Four steps to the left, a quick half-spin to avoid another sword-like blow as the Witch-King emerges from the darkness with his spirits around him, shadows forged into a blade that eats the light. Not quite fast enough, and Ianto's spent far too much time wielding a gun in the human world if this is how sloppy he's gotten, letting the King score a shallow slash down his cheek as he moves. But the next array is already spinning from his fingers, a streak of molten gold and sullenly glowing red, and with a murmured, "The dragon wakes at dawn," it bursts directly in front of Madrigal like a supernova, blindingly bright. He cries out, lifting a hand towards his face even as another spirit—the next to last one—falls away, and maybe Ianto could move in now and deliver a final blow, draw a circle or a rune and win the match if Madrigal has nothing left up his sleeve, but that's not the right thing to do.

Ten years and it will be the Golden Court's turn on the throne, but Azure and Vermillion come before, and if Ianto takes the throne from either of them the cycle will remain broken.

The power is tempting, because power is always tempting, but Ianto is no fool.

He takes a step back, another, and steps out of the ring entirely. It's a clear forfeit, and the crowd is deathly silent.

Then Ianto turns, dizzy with adrenaline and from the blood seeping from his skin in scarlet trails, and bows to the redheaded man lounging in Azure's throne.

"Shifter," he says, "you asked for my favor. Have it and claim your victory, with Golden Court's blessing."

The redheaded man—formerly a small Spanish lady with long dark hair—slowly rises to his feet, grin growing wider. "Ah," he says, and it's entirely satisfied. "Thank you, caster. I believe I will."

Dropping his sword belt to the ground, he strides past Ianto and into the ring, calling out, "Another challenge for you, Madrigal. Will you cry off, milord?"

With his mad eyes and bared teeth, the fury in ever line of his face, it's little surprise that Madrigal doesn't.

Perhaps Ianto should watch as the warlock, his Witch-King, dies at the hands of a bear, a dragon, a griffin, a wolf, a shifter-man with flaming hair—but he doesn't.

He turns, lets the dizziness overcome him, and tumbles straight into Jack's arms.

"I'm sorry," is the very first thing he says.

And then Jack kisses him, kisses him like breathing, like magic, like everything that's good and sweet and that Ianto had thought lost to him, and whispers back, "Don't be."

Even if it's not forgiveness, even if there is so much left to do and say and rebuild, it's enough.

It's so much more than enough.