A.N. I don't own anything cos if I did, Ianto, Owen and Tosh would still be alive and Gwen would have never joined. Anyways this is my first story that i have gotten around typing, so please tell me what you think.

Chapter 1

Memories

Memories are a strange thing. They can bring you happiness or pain; joy and sadness and sometimes they fade away, leaving no trace. But sometimes, just sometimes, they remain as vivid and bright as the day they happened and you find yourself reliving them constantly, just so you can feel that way again. Just so you don't forget him.

You remember the first time you saw him.

It was winter of 1243 and you are in Cardiff, visiting your sister and her new husband. You had just entered the inn (Paradys, you remember it was called, but only much later) and the room was warm and smoky as he offered to help you with your rain sodden coat. Glancing up, you meet his eyes.

They were so blue; like the summer sky, and just as far away. Nodding your head, you watch him as he takes it and hangs it up close to the fire. So it might dry he says and there is a hint of amusement in his voice. He gets called away them and in the noise of pub, you don't manage to catch his name. You watch him go, staring after him until you realise a maiden at a nearby table was laughing at you.

You remember when you first learnt his name.

You begin frequenting Paradys more often in hopes of seeing him. You become friendly with the innkeeper and when you ask about him, you are dismayed to learn that he was just filling in for a server that night; no one really knew him and his name isn't remembered. Disappointed, you down the rest of your drink and leave. It s bitterly cold outside as you begin to trudge your way back to your temporary home, a small apartment near your sister's house. Deep in thought, you don't notice the half frozen figure in the street until you almost trip over him. Blue eyes look up at up pleadingly and you instantly recognise him (those eyes have been haunting your dreams and sometime your waking ones). He isn't dressed for the weather, wearing only a thin shirt and trousers and his lips are turning blue. Unthinkingly, you extend a hand and he grabs it, his hand icy against yours. And later, when you are hand him a glass of some alcohol (scotch you think, but you aren't sure) and sit him in front of the fire, he tells you his name.

Ianto Jones.

You remember falling for him.

You discover that living with him is comfortable and you both quickly fall into a routine. You go to work as an alchemist's assistant and he cleans and cooks for board (you offered to cook some nights but he promptly refuses, saying something about wanting to have edible food. That made you laugh.) You don't ask about his past and he doesn't offer any explanations. You don't care about his past, you find yourself thinking, as long as he doesn't leave. As the weeks pass (they go by so quickly sometimes you think the hours have been replaced by seconds) the fascination you originally felt melts into something you can't quite identify. (You find yourself thinking about him constantly and when your sister asks who you are thinking about, you just smile and say nothing)

You find yourself watching at him one night as he clears away the dinner dishes and you realise that you find him beautiful. You stare at him and when he looks up and smiles at you, your insides melt. And later, when you press your lips against his cheek as he sleeps, you finally realise what the warm feeling is.

Love.

You remember loving him.

He looks at you strangely for several days before saying anything. You are both in the sitting room when he finally asks you.

Why did you kiss me? He asks and you find yourself unable to think of an excuse so you just tell him the truth, even though it might push him away.

I think I'm in love with you, you say and you can't look at him. So when he gently lifts your head and presses a tender kiss on your lips, it surprises you. He quickly pulls away and hurries out of the room blushing but several days later, when he crawls into your bed and falls asleep beside you, he doesn't pull away when you wrap your arms around him.

The next few weeks pass in a happy daze; gentle kisses stolen in secluded corners, exploring hands and shyness forgotten. When your sister sees you next, she takes one look at your face and asks who captured your heart. You smile and when you start describing eyes as blue as the summer sky and soft, slightly curling dark hair, but refuse to give a name, she laughs and says she'll get it out of you one day. You laugh along, knowing that if she knew, she would disown you. But you don't care.

You're in love.

And even though you don't want too, you remember losing him.

It begins just as a cough. He insists that he is fine, but you don't quite believe him and insist that he rest. He does so, albeit unwillingly. After a few days however, he seems to get better and you let him out of bed. You later regret that decision when you find him on the floor of the kitchen coughing up blood.

The doctors don't know what is wrong with him, but they suspect there is something wrong with his lungs. There is nothing you can do, they say, except pray. You try that, and when that doesn't work, you turn to other methods. Herbal remedies to ease the pain, blessings of a wise woman and finally alchemy. You master tells you that it won't help, but you don't listen. You don't want to lose him.

He steadily gets worse, coughing constantly, never eating and unable to breath properly. Eventually, he is unable to get out of bed, so you spend all your time at his side. When he is sleeping, which is often, you throw yourself into your studies. But when he wakes, he talks to you, finally telling you about his past. About his parents, how they were kind people until bandits killed them on their way home from the markets. His sister, who has three children and is pregnant with a forth. And finally, his own wife, who died in his arms after being trampled by a horse. You listen silently, cradling his head, wiping away the occasional tear as it escapes. Eventually, he runs out of stories and you both lay in silence when suddenly he speaks again.

I love you, he says, please don't ever forget that. And please don't forget me.

You nod and hold him as he drifts back off to sleep, his breaths uneven and his heartbeat weak.

He never wakes up again.

You remember living without him.

You bury him in a country cemetery, next to his parents. There is a woman at his burial and when she looks at you with red rimmed eyes so like his, you realise that this is the sister he told you about. You share a look and she eventually turns her head away with a look of understanding before leaving, her hands unconsciously on her stomach, which is large with child. You stand there for hours, just staring at his tombstone, trying to imagine life without him. You can't.

You try to live in your apartment. You find you cannot stay. His scent, his memory is everywhere.

You leave the next day.

You wander awhile before renting a small cottage near a forest. You aren't quite sure where you are but you are certain of one thing.

You can't live without him.

So you throw yourself into your research of alchemy once more. They say the science is folly and you are a madman, but you don't listen. The thought of having him back in your arms drives you. You try to find the Elixir of Life, but each one is a failure, making you violently sick or doing nothing. You lose track of time; the days-weeks-months all bleed together and you think you might have gone mad. You don't care.

Then one day, you realise something. You don't know when you last ate. You don't know when you last slept. You don't even know what month-season-year it is. You put down the vial of sickly green liquid and venture outside for the first time since you arrived. Its cold outside and your clothes aren't up to keeping you warm, but you don't really feel it as you stumble your way onto a road. A man stares at you as he passes and you quickly ask for the year. Still looking at you strangely, he tells you its 1312 before hurrying off, crossing himself rapidly. You don't notice. You are dumbstruck.

It was impossible. There was no way that so much time had passed and you remain unchanged. Unless…

You stare at your hands, still smooth and unlined and realise what must have happened. The Elixir… You must have found it. Going back to the cottage, you change your clothes and pick up little bottles of crimson liquid and pick the ones you think might be the right ones. When you finish packing them up carefully, you take you need and leave.

You never go back there again.

You start travelling again. You leave Wales and go to places you always dreamed of going, all the while studying the local legends and myths, looking for a way to bring him back. You realised alchemy, whilst having the means to preserve life, cannot create it, so you cannot resurrect him by using it. You go to Paris, Russia, China and more. But no matter where you go, you don't forget him. Other memories fade; your mother's maiden name, what your sister's husband looked like and what your brother looked like before he died. But yo can still recall every detail about him; the exact shade of blue his eyes were, the scent of his skin, the soft curl of his hair. Years, decades, even centuries pass but you don't forget him.

You won't let yourself.

Eventually, you realise that your name is becoming too well known. You don't want to be found, so you change it, but force yourself not to forget the original. You eventually have to change your name again, so you take another. The process continues over the centuries until, one day, you return to Cardiff. The city has changed; the old buildings knocked to make way for the new. All the old landmarks are gone and even the place where Paradys is now a mall. Everything you remember is gone. Except of the cemetery.

His grave is still there, blackened and crumbling. You stand there; hands shoved deep into the pockets of your greatcoat and you let the memories assault you. And when the sun starts to set, you finally rename yourself with the name he used to murmur as you held him late at night.

Jack Harkness