Story disclaimer: I own none of the following. Many of the references in this story are owed to the writers and the rest of the team(s) involved in the creation and production of Torchwood and Doctor Who. Without them, this story would not be possible. My character Teya owns me. I am making no money from this or any of my other fics posted on this site.
Scene Three – Cardiff, 1905
It was late for some, early for others, and as always she was up long before the Sun scrubbing down the great, oak tables to remove the remnants of last night's ale before it could stain too badly. Washing tankard after tankard and preparing the kitchen for another day's work. She had paused long enough at the start of her day to sweep the ashes from the cold grate and to set a small fire. It had kindled quickly, burning with far more light that heat, but then that had been its purpose. She knew that if she had lit the expensive tapers in the wall sconces then she would have been beaten black and blue, just as she would be if her chores were not done before the Master and Mistress rose to greet the day. And yet she would pause for a moment, now and again, to stare into the flames. Just for a moment to dream.
When she closed her eyes, she was home. She could become lost in the rich sights and scents of the great stone corridors of the castle, surrounded by the rolling wildflower fields. The crackle of the tiny fire at her feet was the fire in the Great Hall, the rumble of ominous thunder that threatened rain was but the rumble of her father's deep laughter; the breeze through the cracked window pane became the tornado of her brothers rushing past lost in their tussling. Even the shrieks of the landlady at her idle day-dreaming were merely the sharp remarks of her tutor, or the constant nag of Cook as she instructed her team in the preparing of meals as she and her brothers had rushed through, pilfering bits of newly-baked bread... All of that was gone now.
A swift blow to the ear was enough to send her staggering sideways and to call her back to the present. She sprang for the kitchen, eager to avoid another blow and escape the tirade that already followed her. She set water on to boil for her Master and their guests, then set to peeling and chopping vegetables, but only after scraping her hair back into a warrior tail, binding it with a leather thong to secure it as befit her people. It was a vanity that was all she had left of her pride and would no doubt earn her another clout about the head for revealing her delicately pointed but very abnormal ears. Oh yes, Aranteya Voranalagrect Celentura knew her place very well. By her count, and by Earth's calendar, she was thirteen years old and living in darkness.
She was serving food and drink to the evening's clients when she set eyes on Jack Harkness for the first time. The door opened violently, thrown wide by the storm. He stood there for a dramatic moment, lightening silhouetting his shape in the doorway before he entered the inn. He took off his long military cloak as she sprang to close the door, keeping in the precious heat and locking the autumn weather out. She took the cloak from him, eyes always downcast, feeling it's soft but dense texture and knowing it was of the best quality. He thanked her quietly; unlike any other man because it was without a hint of a sneer, and something in his voice dared her to meet his eyes. And unlike any other man, he neither gasped, nor stared wide-eyed, nor gave any sign of disgust. In fact, he smiled at her.
All evening she watched the strange soldier furtively. He drank but little, paying his way but all the while being solicitously hovered over by the landlady who was hoping to wring more than just a few coins from him. He played along, offering outrageous compliments along with his tips. Stretched languorously in his seat by the fire, he watched the girl more openly as she moved amongst the patrons, lithely avoiding groping hands, and dealing firm slaps to those that managed to get too close, along with coy smiles and unsubtle winks to keep the guests happy.
"You like her?" Her Master asked the soldier at one point. "She's yours if you want her, for a price."
A moment's disgust flashed across his face at that, the expression come and gone so quickly that she doubted that anyone without her sharp eyes would have seen it. Just as quickly, she felt an instant of annoyance – most men found her a comely young serf – then her eyes met his from across the room and suddenly she understood that it was the offer and not her that repulsed him.
"Maybe." He replied quietly, though she saw him mouth the word rather than heard him speak it. She dodged another hand, deftly filling the man's mug before its owner could refuse, and forcing him to give her a copper instead of a quick feel. Suddenly she hoped that if she was to be given to any man tonight, it would be the soldier by the fire, but after all, she owed it to her master and mistress to earn her keep after they had so thoughtfully taken her in as a young girl. She was told so often enough.
"Better claim her quickly." Her master was advising the soldier sagely; in a voice loud enough to be addressed to those favoured enough to be sitting close to the fire. "Before another man does."
"I'll think on it."
He didn't, not even for an instant. Prostitution repulsed Jack Harkness, even though he knew it was more prolific in this time than most. He had been told time and again that for a one-time con-man he had a remarkable set of morals. Besides, he was there to watch the girl, not sleep with her, no matter how attractive she was. No, Jack was here to assess whether the alien girl's danger level, to assess whether the Everlarth was a danger to the human race. He chuckled, more to himself than at the land lord's joke, because so far she just looked like she was enslaved by these humans, jumping to the demands of both customers and her masters. But what caught Jack the most was her eyes. When their gazes met, Jack could see the stars shining in her deep amber eyes. Underneath her oppression, behind the mask that her job demanded, was a spark of life that not even this fate could hide. Little did Jack know that, in the distant future, he would be the reason for that spark to gutter and die.
Yet Jack knew the job was not yet done, and so, when another man claimed the girl to warm his bed, Jack requested a room for the night. He was forced to pay through the nose for little more than a lice-ridden mattress and a chamber pot, which was all the more galling because he suspected that he wouldn't be getting much use out of the bed. But for now he stayed in his chair, enjoying the ale which was surprisingly pleasant. It wasn't very often that his tasks were warm, dry and so easy.
When the girl and her client, a rich enough gentleman with all the signs of his wealth – stout figure and port-red cheeks - began to show signs of leaving the inn's main room, him finishing his drink whilst she kneaded his shoulders and avoided his sweaty palms, though Jack suspected that this was more due to reflex than intent. He longed to sweep her up and claim her for himself, but Jack settled himself to making a great show of his tiredness. Yawning widely and half-reluctantly accepting a final mug of ale for which the land-lord refused payment as a gesture of good will, Jack waited for his moment.
He did not leave as soon as they did, he could not afford to be that obvious lest the master of the house think that he was after the girl for himself or worse, should figure out exactly what Jack Harkness' mission was; he gave them a good half an hour before he retired. Let the girl give the Lord a good time, after all, before he headed for his own room. Hearing from the room next door the grunts of the patron having a good time, Jack relaxed a little. It was only when, ten minutes later, the sound of silence intruded upon him, Jack chose to take action.
Jack produced a small hand-gun, as far out of that time as its owner, every hair on the back of his neck standing on end as he listened intently. His back pressed against the wall by the side of the door, gun raised in a typical Jack pose, Jack could feel the rough stone catching on his coat and even the coolness of the wall. But he could hear nothing, and so he turned sharply, giving the door a good swift kick. The door burst open and Jack stormed through, almost recoiling in his disgust at what he saw. She was feeding from the man, both as naked as babes, her mouth fixed on his wrist as she sucked the blood from his veins. Her amber eyes met Jack's and she stopped feeding to give him a smile laced with both pleasure and blood.
"You can put your gun away." She assured him, running her tongue about her lips with an air of finality. "I've no intention of killing him, he's a regular... he puts the food on my table if you will." She placed the talon-like nail of her index finger against the pad of her thumb, drawing a drop of her own blood. She took the man's hand long enough to dab the blood on the cut on his wrist from which she had been feeding, and Jack watched in growing astonishment as the cut began to heal. The girl rose without shame, crossing to Jack, who watched her closely, still on edge. She was tall, almost as tall as him, and lean, her curves perfect, her hair bound back to reveal her daintily pointed ears...
Jack knew a moment's shock as she reached out to run her hands through his hair, the pulled him close as she kissed him hungrily. Feeling his body respond, Jack kissed her in return, his warm hands running the length of her spine, her skin cool against his. She hooked a foot about his ankle, her curves pressing into his body. The moment was electric, and both gave an involuntary shiver. Pulling away to catch her breath, she took Jack's hands in hers and led him next door to his bed. Jack uttered not a word of protest, merely followed her as if both had been waiting for this moment all their lives. Besides, Jack had a feeling that their lives would be entwined for decades to come...
