Cursed

It was about two o’clock on Monday morning when the fever took hold.  Ianto was too exhausted for restlessness or fever dreams, but the headache never fully abated.  He sweated profusely the entire time, and Susan and Freesia had a time of it, keeping dehydration from setting in. 

He was flushed, and his skin was scorching to the touch, but he was chilled the whole time.  Jack had put a sheet over him in an effort to keep the constant sweating from making him cold, but Ianto’s misery seemed to ping back and forth from feeling wretchedly overheated to pitifully cold. 

He was no more coherent than he had been since about four hours after the potion had been administered, and Jack was alarmed that perhaps the fever had done some sort of damage, but Susan told him that Ianto was suffering no permanent harm.  She once again reassured Jack that while what Ianto was enduring was unpleasant, it was temporary, and he would make a full recovery.

Jack dozed fitfully in the chair facing Ianto’s, and it was only at the behest of the others that he ate.  He tried to take their advice and not worry, but he found that nothing could ease the pain of watching his beloved suffer.  He could not achieve the same level of detachment the Healers could, nor could he be expected to.  So they supported him as best they could while making sure Ianto was enduring the fever, providing plenty of ice and keeping him hydrated.

***

It was the witching hour, and the fever had not abated in more than twenty-four hours when Ianto began raving.  He begged for death, first from Jack as punishment for his betrayal with the cyberwoman.  What surprised Jack was when Ianto began begging the Master to just kill him and be done with it.

“What is it?” Bill asked.  It was his turn to sit with Ianto (and Jack) as Susan and Freesia rested.

“He didn’t do that,” Jack said, shaken.  “On the Valiant.  He never said a word.  Never begged for death, no matter what,” he choked, remembering the Master’s cruelty. 

Bill nodded.  He had seen Ianto’s memory of it when he had used legilimency to see if the younger man had remembered the Lost Year.  “I only got snatches of memory from him.  What…”

“Ianto led the resistance.  He was a thorn in the Master’s side for more than eleven months.  They came so close to surviving,” he whispered.  “But they were found.  Ianto killed his own people, to keep them from being captured and tortured.  But that meant…”

“I still can’t believe that was Ianto,” Bill said, feeling appalled.  The wizarding world may not have had access to the televised execution, but they knew about it, nevertheless.  “Well, actually… I can.  But Merlin.”

Jack nodded miserably.  “The Master wanted to make an example.  And he wanted the Doctor to know that he wouldn’t be saving anyone, either.”

“It was meant to be a mockery,” Bill nodded, sighing.

“How can you save this planet, when you can’t even save yourself?” Jack mimicked the Master’s words.  The mad Time Lord had gone on to remind his audience of what happened to Earth dwellers who fancied themselves saviors. 

That had been one of the only ways he had not killed Jack.  He said he wanted Jack to wonder what it had been like, for Ianto.  He had somehow known that leaving Jack wondering was far worse than allowing him to experience Ianto’s fate. 

The immortal shuddered, trying to drive the memories from his mind.

“He never once begged for it to stop,” he repeated.  He felt ill.

“And now he is,” Bill sighed.  He ran a hand through his hair.  “He did say it felt like too much.”  He looked at Ianto, cast a few spells, and read the runes before letting out a breath.  “He’s stable, Jack.  I think it might just be a nightmare.”

Jack leaned forward and began whispering sweet nonsense into Ianto’s ear.  Every now and then, he would kiss his lover’s neck or nip his ear before speaking, again.  As they watched, Ianto seemed to settle, and Jack spent the next few hours whispering a litany of flattery, honeyed words, and flat out blarney. 

When he finally stopped long enough to eat a bite, Ianto’s rest seemed a bit more peaceful.  A small smile actually graced his lips as Jack ate.  The restlessness came and went throughout the day, and the hot and cold misery.  They tried to keep him comfortable, but it was a long day.  And finally, a bit after eight o’clock that evening, after forty-two hours of hellish privation, the fever broke.

They cleaned Ianto up and changed him into soft robes made of a cool material that would keep him comfortable.  Then they settled him into the bed with crisp, fresh sheets.  Jack took the time to shower and change before crawling into the bed with Ianto and collapsing, exhausted. 

***

Jack slept for twelve hours and woke up feeling refreshed.  Ianto did not seem inclined to wake any time soon, and quite frankly, Jack didn’t blame him one damned bit.  He asked Susan to send word to invite Augusta to join him for lunch and settled in to do some quality Ianto-watching.  Now that his lover was resting comfortably, Jack could look his fill with relief and wonder.

He was almost afraid to trust that the ordeal might finally be over, but Susan and Bill had assured him that the potion had been the last piece of the puzzle.  Ianto would now be left to rest and recover. 

They would likely keep him at St. Mungo’s for another week or so, but that was merely to be sure that they could quickly respond to any issues that might linger.  Susan did not expect this to be necessary, but there had been too many surprises during Ianto’s treatment, and she wanted to ensure that his recovery was as effortless and uneventful as possible.

Augusta joined Jack in Ianto’s room after her visit to Frank and Alice.  She fretted over Ianto for a few moments until Jack pointed out how deeply and peacefully he was sleeping, as well as how good his color was.  Gone was the pallor that had looked just slightly sickly and had Owen checking Ianto regularly for anemia.  His complexion was now a lovely shade of Welsh pale that nevertheless looked healthy. 

Augusta had brought a basket of food, and as they ate, they got to know one another better.  She wasn’t entirely sure what to make of Jack, who was not the larger-than-life character known throughout the wizarding world, if only by reputation.  This man was kind and humble and utterly besotted with her grandson. 

She could see the bravado in how he interacted with the Healers who came in to tend Ianto, but she could also see how often his eyes strayed across the room to check on her grandson.  She realized that for the most part, he was simply Jack, Ianto’s partner.

For his part, Jack was pleased by the questions Augusta asked, trying to glean more information about Ianto.  There were things that Jack knew Ianto would want her to know but would not want to tell her himself, so he found himself relaying that information, in order to smooth the path of their reconciliation.

So he told her about Ianto’s education, and how he had anchored his Welsh-ness into his identity.  He told her about Ianto being recruited to Torchwood One and his work there.  There were no complications with this, as the wizarding world was well aware of aliens and the work that Torchwood did. 

He told her that Ianto had pulled his girlfriend from the wreckage of Torchwood Tower and brought her to Cardiff to try to save her.  She pulled out her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes when he told her of the cyberwoman’s demise, but it was when he described Ianto’s work during the Year that she openly wept.

It had been one of the few times that a muggle (or so they’d thought) had made it onto the front page of the Daily Prophet.  (Well, besides Jack.  His suffering had been well known, as well.)  The poor man in the picture had been beaten so badly his face was nigh on unrecognizable.  But she could still remember the wild, angry look in his eyes as he defiantly faced the Master after his capture.  The incident had been televised in the muggle world, so it had been easy enough for the Prophet to obtain the image.  She had a vivid memory of the picture, and she remembered how she had found it so compelling.  To realize now that the stranger in the paper had been her grandson…

She turned her thoughts back to what had happened next.  Ironically, Ianto’s death had the opposite effect than the one the Master had envisioned, because his defiance had been a call-to-arms.  Rather than just another victim, he had become a martyr to the cause.

She asked Jack if Ianto realized this, and he shook his head with a sad smile.  “He wouldn’t believe you if you told him so,” he said fondly.  “But you’re right.  The fact that he never backed down gave everyone hope.  He was probably at least as well-known as Martha Jones.”

“Ah, the Nightingale,” Augusta nodded.  At Jack’s look of surprise, she smiled.  “There were some wizards who defied the Ministry’s edict that the wizarding world stay out of the conflict.  Harry brought her to us, to tell her story.”

“He has a lot of anger around that edict, I think,” Jack admitted.

“Yes, but I don’t think he realizes our predicament,” she sighed.  “He mentioned to his parents that he could feel the Earth dying?”  At Jack’s nod, she continued, “We all felt it, and it affected our magic.”

“An imbalance in the elements,” Jack nodded, realization dawning.

“Precisely.  For Ianto, it was a motivating factor.  For us, it was a debilitating one.  Not even the strongest of us could do even the simplest of spells.  Things like apparating were beyond anyone’s abilities.  And even fighting without magic was difficult, because we were so off-balance.  It is possibly the lowest point in the magical community’s history.”

“So Kingsley circled the wagons and hoped to ride it out.”

“Anyone with any sense of the elements knew we would die in hiding if something wasn’t done,” she sighed.  “But we would have been a liability in an open fight.”

“He’ll understand,” Jack said, his eyes straying once more towards his lover.

“I hope so,” she sighed.  She glanced towards the bed before straightening her spine and asking, “Were you there, when…”

Jack suddenly lost his appetite, despite the delicious meal she had brought.  He pushed the plate away and nodded.  Then he closed his eyes and tried once more to shake the memory.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, reaching out and taking Jack’s hand.  “That was foolish of me.”  Too late, she remembered that Jack had been held captive by the Master during the Lost Year, his own suffering incomprehensible.

“It took so long,” he whispered, clearly caught in the memory.  “I tried to talk to him, to let him hear my voice.  The Master had chained me up in front of…” he sniffed.

“Tell me,” she commanded, but Jack shook his head, tears beginning to fall.  “You must.”

“You don’t need that in your head,” he said, still shaking his head.

“It’s already there,” she replied.  “The article in the Daily Prophet said he was beaten, then whipped, and then…” she drew in a breath.  “I need to know if it’s true.  Did that madman…  Did he really…” she cleared her throat.

“Please,” Jack begged.  “I don’t want…”

“I must know,” she insisted.

“Alright,” Jack sighed.  “Yes.  It’s true.  Ianto was the leader of the resistance.  He was the only one captured.  He killed those with him to protect them from torture, and provided a diversion so the others could escape.  The Master was livid.  He had been saving the… apparatus for me, but he decided there would be a sort of poetic justice…” he sobbed and shook his head again.

“Tell me,” she pleaded, her voice no more than a whisper.

“He crucified him!” Jack sobbed.

***