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the day after christmas affair part two

by aishling rhys


cont’d



Act three - 'Somewhere in Siberia'

Illya Kuryakin regained consciousness slowly, trying to shake the pneumatic drill from inside his head; it stubbornly remained. Instinctively he began to assess the situation, he was sitting in a large wooden chair, his arms tied behind its back, his ankles bound to each of the front legs. From very close behind his left ear he heard the sound of a cat purring, felt the softness of its fur against his skin as it brushed against his hand. He swung his head round as far as it would go but it was too late, he didn't see the Siberian tiger until it had already manoeuvred into an attack position. The beautiful creature sat before him, poised and ready to strike. She surveyed him dispassionately, myriad lights reflected in her ancient eyes, the history of the world was held there, suspended as he was in her gaze. She seemed to be reaching down deep into his soul, wrenching his innermost secrets and desires from therein, she knew even before he, she knew everything. Before he could blink he felt the full weight of her enormous front legs on his knees, face to face now they watched each other. Slowly, deliberately she ran her rough tongue up his cheek then fell silently to the ground. Illya exhaled loudly.

"An old friend from your homeland."

The woman glided silently into view and sat at the antique desk in front of him. She was dressed in a loose white linen trouser suit, her pale complexion and short cropped fair hair adding light to the dimly-lit room. The moment he saw her he knew who she was; the legendary, almost mythical figure - Archangel. The big cat curled around her feet, purring loudly. Mr Waverly's counterpart at THRUSH smiled benignly at him, not taking her eyes from his as she picked a white file from the desk. Casually she flicked through its pages, pausing occasionally to read aloud in a matter-of-fact tone, " Illya Nikolayovich Kuryakin, born Kiev, raised by maternal grandmother......." pause "...Officer in Soviet Army......proficient in Judo, Karate, fencing....sharp shooter.....exemplary service record........." long pause ".....until sudden re-assignment to UNCLE."

She snapped the file shut and bent down to bury her head in the tiger's fur before regaining her composure. " I can't help feeling...its more what we don't know. You're a very interesting man."

"And you..." he studied her carefully " are a fascinating woman."

"You're a perceptive judge of character Mr Kuryakin."

" Call me Illya, please."

Archangel walked around to the front of her desk and leaned back against it nonchalantly. "You know I could kill you at any moment..........."

He continued to stare up at her disarmingly "But of course, death would mean nothing to a man like you."

Illya smiled his slow smile and stared into his lap. Archangel stood over him for a long time, finally, slowly, she reached down and ran the fingers of her right hand through his tousled hair. It was silk to her touch, the colour of sun-rippened corn streaked with white. There was something about the stillness of him that was profoundly sensual, she felt drawn to him by a strong disorientating magnetism. It was hard for her to remember the last time she had seen a man this beautiful, somehow she found it disturbing, somehow he was just too perfect. A creature spawned by the mythology of an ancient civilisation or a child's fairy tale, he didn't seem to belong in this world of mortal men.

She felt the bump from where he had been knocked unconscious and drew her hand back, noticing the fresh blood on her fingers. He raised his head and met her eyes, his gaze open and trusting as her fingers traced the softness of his full lips, leaving a trail of blood there.

" You're somewhat of an enigma aren't you, to look at you now it would be like killing a child, and yet, you are probably responsible for killing more THRUSH agents than any other UNCLE operative, except of course, for Napoleon Solo."

His eyes darkened on hearing the name, but before she could react a large, burly man in army fatigues burst into the room. Archangel drew back, visibly irritated by the interruption.

"I assume you have a good reason for bursting in here like a bull in a china shop agent Bodie."

"Yes Maam," he drew to attention, saluting stiffly.

"If you were going to bother with formalities, I would have preferred you to have knocked before entering my office. Just tell me what you want!"

His ridiculously pumped up body seemed to deflate and when he spoke again his voice had lost its certainty. "I'm sorry Maam, I thought agent Vulcan had spoken to you."

"Obviously not."

She seated herself behind the desk and started flicking through a black file.

Illya tensed when he saw the cover was marked `Top Secret Information - UNCLE operative Solo.' Bodie continued to babble but no- one was listening. " .....of course, agent Vulcan would like the execution to take place immediately."

Archangel's head jerked up violently, Illya sensed the waves of hate as they washed over him to reach Bodie, saw the contempt in her eyes, " What exactly are you suggesting?." she said coldly.

Bodie seemed to crumble, taken aback by her reaction, his bullish features twitching nervously. "He's just a meaningless UNCLE agent, its obvious he isn't going to talk. What possible use could he be to THRUSH, I really don't think...."

"That's right agent Bodie, you don't think." she cut in sharply. Illya watched her closely. "Kindly leave us now and don't come back until I send for you."

"But I have express orders." Bodie faltered " If I don't kill him, you don't know what Vulcan will do to me."

He spoke in a nervous, clipped tone, his nostrils flaring, eyes staring straight ahead at nothing in particular. "If you do kill him, you don't know what I will do to you!"

Archangel met his gaze, calmly she held it until he turned sharply to leave, slamming the door shut behind him, defeated. When they were alone Illya spoke; his voice had a warmth she hadn't heard before.

"You didn't have to do that..........thank you."

Archangel lifted her head briefly to look at him, an uncertain, questioning look in her eyes, before she returned to reading Napoleon's file. Illya could do nothing but accept the uneasy silence. He'd never felt so helpless, so exposed, so vulnerable sitting there before her. He knew he owed her much more than his life, the stakes were so much higher than in the boys' games he'd been playing most of his adult life. All the ridiculous macho posturing, the cavalier defiance of his own mortality. He'd spent so long trying to cheat death he'd forgotten how to live, how to think, how to feel. He remembered all the questions gone unanswered, how they'd burned within him with such ferocity as a young man. He remembered the names of his bedfellows then, Socrates, Camus, Baudelaire, the struggle to understand this bizarre human condition.

Archangel rose to her feet, Illya searching her face desperately for some clue, he found the answer in her eyes - she had made her decision. She walked slowly across the room to an ornate wrought-iron candle holder, gently lifting a heavy white candle out of its resting place. She began to recite as she moved, almost to herself, fragments of a poem Illya rescued from memories of his youth.

"The young man whose eye is bright, whose skin is fair, the handsome twenty year old body which should go naked, and which, its brow circled with copper, would have been worshipped in Persia by an unknown Genie. Impetuous, with a softness both virginal and dark, proud of his first obstinacies like the young seas, tears of summer nights, turning on beds of diamonds;

The young man face to face with the ugliness of this world, shudders in his heart, generously provoked, and, filled with the deep unhealing wound. He must believe in vast purposes, in immense Dreams or Journeys across the night of Truth, and he must call you in his soul and sick limbs, O mysterious Death, O sister of charity."

Archangel placed the candle carefully on the ground next to Illya and lit it before disappearing behind him. He felt her hand on his right shoulder, felt her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, "Save yourself Illya Kuryakin, this world is a far more interesting place with you in it."

And with that she was gone, the big cat trailing behind her into the night. It didn't take long to burn through the ropes and once he was outside, it was just a matter of getting as far away as possible. He'd planted the plastic explosives in the central generator long before he was captured, now it was just a matter of time before THRUSH Central Siberia became another UNCLE closed file.

As he ran through the night, hearing only the wind in his ears and the crunch of soft snow beneath his feet he allowed himself the luxury of thought. When he was at a safe distance he stopped, turning to watch as the explosion lit up the night, the fire burned unforgivingly bright and fierce.

For the first time in his battle against THRUSH Illya felt regret. Somewhere in a corner of his heart he found a place for hope, he embraced the guilt, the feelings of disloyalty, somewhere in his heart he wanted Archangel to have survived.

"So, we meet again Kuryakin." A chilling voice reached out of the darkness. Illya swung round just in time to feel his chin connect with a truck, at least thats what it felt like. He fell back, dazed, seeing the second punch before it reached him this time. He caught the fist with the palm of his hand, grabbed the wrist and twisted the arm behind his assailants' back. Vulcan's knees buckled as Illya forced him to the ground.

"Not you again! "

"What kind of a welcome is that." Vulcan hissed through clenched teeth "I had to give my nemesis one more chance to destroy me, or ..." he struggled against Illya's grip "to be destroyed."

"I really don't like you." Illya said coldly

"You'll like me a lot less after I've finished with you."

Vulcan spun round, hurling a fist full of snow into Illya's eyes. With lightening speed he was on his feet and on the attack. On one of his fingers Vulcan had a huge ruby which flashed like a little red dancing flame. Illya caught a glimpse of it as it flew before his eyes, connecting with his chin, cutting deep. Instinctively he licked his lips, his own blood filling his mouth, hot and salty. A second punch missed him as he bucked but Vulcan's karate kick caught him off guard before he could breathe. He heard something in his left leg snap loudly, like a dry twig in winter, cold fire blazing through his body as he fell backward. Vulcan laughed contemptuously, "So Kuryakin, where is your strength now, where is the power of UNCLE."

"Where is the value of obtaining power through pain and exploitation, through the subjugation of the rest of the world." he clenched his jaw, his voice full of disgust "your power is corrupt."

Vulcan bent over him, roughly grabbing a handful of hair. He twined the golden hair about his fingers and pulled the head back sharply. His face was contorted with hate, his eyes like two back diamonds set in granite as he spat the words into Illya's face, pulling his hair harder to cause more pain. Illya cried out despite himself.

"You're in no position to judge me. You have never received the brutal summons to evil life, the return to man's forsaken instincts, the bitter and desolating reawakening of man's true nature."

With his free hand he stroked Illya's cheek, he struggled violently, merely causing himself more pain as Vulcan's grip tightened. " You've never known the pleasure power can bring. Power, any power really worth having must be corrupt."

He jerked Illya's head forward, forcing his face hard into the snow before releasing his grip. "Your leg is broken, you're bleeding, you're in the middle of nowhere, and you're going to die....slowly."

He reached down and tore the jacket from Illya's body "The icy winds will caress the life from you in a far more satisfactory manner than a bullet. Embrace them, they will release you from your pitiful existence."

As he lay with his cheek kissing the snow, his impotent leg immobilising him he heard the soft footfall of Vulcan running into the night. He looked down to see the blood run slowly away from him, defiling the virgin whiteness of the ground. The blood ran from a deep gash in his chin; two dark rivulets, a twin-branched scarlet tree. His eyes were fixed on the furthermost tips of each branch, inexplicably held there by a force he knew it was hopeless to fight against. As he saw them run further away from him he felt an unbearable lightness, as if his consciousness were running out of his body with the blood. He struggled to regain control, images and thoughts flashing into his mind like strobe lights; snatched cruelly away before he could reach out to them. They rekindled all those dreams it had taken him a lifetime to destroy. Dreams that roamed the no man's land between truth and untruth. Finally he felt himself drift slowly away, into a deep seductive sleep.

In his mind ; a withered hand came into view in sterile black and white, ravaged by the years, blemished by the irrepressible march of time. A small, fragile shaft of light hit the band of gold on a long bony finger and lingered there momentarily before exploding like a dying star. The hand shook as it held the taper to the edge of the curtain, pausing momentarily. The muslin took the flame to itself like a gently caressing lover, allowing itself to be consumed and torn apart, fragments of itself entwined with fire borne on the air. It spread like a cancer, indiscriminate and unforgiving, from room to room. As it stalked and ultimately consumed possessions, memories, history, it roared triumphantly into the dawn.

The terrible storm tore and shrieked, dancing wildly through the blackened ruins. The flames had left only the empty bones of what was once a home, standing tragic and alone. In the desolate snow-bound expanse trees sent naked branches reaching up to a sterile featureless sky. The silence broken only by the howling wind and the periodic crackling of a dying flame.

Kiev, a small boy barely six years old, with shoulder-length corn-coloured hair and eyes like a summer sky laughed. His face the face of an angel, luminous, innocent, his laugh like chimes in an autumn breeze. He skated over a frozen pond, his perfect hands hidden in massive fur-lined mittens, nose red from the cold, eyes bright and full of joy. He spun wildly then raced across the ice, blades cutting deep wounds where he passed. A brief feeling of happiness then the boy was gone, the pond was gone, Kiev was gone...........

Illya moaned softly into the snow. He saw the Soviet Army crossing Lake Sivash, saw Pudrovkin's `Mother' fall, the Red flag she carried trampled by the charging horses of Tsardom into the mud. Ice flows crashed and broke up against the bastions of a huge bridge, in silhouette against an angry setting sun. Before long, that too was gone.

He felt himself fall in the darkness; so deep, the blackness surrounding him; so cold. Faster and faster he spiralled downwards before he reached the bottom, despair his only companion. His heart felt as empty as the wilderness around him, he didn't want to die like this, not alone.

An invisible hand reached down and took him, pulling him up through the darkness until he saw a pale light approach. He felt like a diver rushing towards the sky, desperate to break the surface of the waters, lungs hungry for air. As he broke the surface into the light he gasped, breathing deep. His lungs felt like they were going to burst through his chest as the pressure bore down on him. It hurt so much.He felt an invisible arm around his shoulders and the fear was gone, somehow the loneliness he had felt all his life had faded away, the weight of responsibility lifted. He knew that now he was ready.

Illya summoned up what little strength he had in his dying body and pushed his right arm up above his head. His hand pushed its slender fingers into the snow, wanting somehow to be anchored to the earth, before he surrendered himself to the darkness that enveloped him.

From the brooding emptiness of the North Siberian plain came a piercing wind that burned Napoleon's cheeks and froze his nostrils, not a howling blast, but silent and sharp as a knife. Tears welled up in his eyes and gloved fingers flexed instinctively. All sense of direction had long-since left him but he knew he couldn't stop, not now, not after he had come so far. The dying embers of THRUSH Central had told him Illya was still out there somewhere. He used the direction finder Mr Waverly had pressed into his hand with his final words.

"Find him Mr Solo, we can't afford to lose him."

The signal was faint but clear as he pushed his way forward, becoming stronger with every hesitant step. Finally, squinting into the middle distance, he made out a figure. He ran clumsily towards the inert body, holding his breath, hoping against hope. As he approached he recognised Illya's unmistakable form, pushing himself on for a final burst of speed before dropping his backpack to the ground and falling to his knees. He turned Illya's body onto its back, searching desperately for any signs of life. Pushing wet, snow-caked hair away from blind eyes, he stared into the serene alabaster face, his heart breaking at the sight of the lifeless blue lips. He sat cradling Illya's head in his arms for a lifetime, rocking slowly, eyes closed, aching with the loss as the blizzard started to howl mercilessly around them.

His head was bent low, his cheek resting on Illya's icy forehead, the coldness of the flesh was unbearable to him. Tears falling silently, he pressed his lips gently to Illya's mouth, lost in his grief. He wanted Illya's life so badly, at first he doubted his senses, but as he pressed his lips again to Illya's, he felt the warmth of his breath, faint, so faint, but it was there. He scrambled to his feet and pulled a small silver flask out of his pack, unscrewing the cap with numb fingers. The fine French brandy trickled down Illya's throat, burning its path down to his stomach, slowly reviving him. He coughed, finding the strength to raise his head a fraction from the ground. His eyes focused unsteadily on Napoleon's concerned features, hovering so close over his own, and he smiled weakly.

"Here, have some more of this."

Napoleon cradled his neck in his left arm and put the flask to his lips once more. Illya spluttered and shook his head. He raised his right hand slowly, beckoning Napoleon to come closer, then whispered into his ear, "Are you trying to kill me."

Napoleon laughed softly and ran the back of his hand tenderly down Illya's right cheek. "No, I've come to save you - some habits are just too hard to break."

He was still very weak and the threat of hypothermia was frighteningly real, Napoleon knew it was in his power to determine whether Illya saw another daybreak. As he lay in a dreamlike state, barely aware of what was happening around him Napoleon took each of Illya's hands in turn, warming the fingers in his mouth. When he felt the blood return he lifted him gently, peeling the now wet black polo neck shirt from his torso. Quickly he laid the fur-lined coat he was wearing over Illya's prostrate body before peeling off his own shirt. He slid under the coat, circling Illya's slender waist with his right arm, drawing his body close to him. As their skin touched he shuddered, he held him tightly, so tight it hurt, waiting for his own body heat to warm the icy flesh next to him.

He buried his face in Illya's neck and drew the coat's hood over both their heads, plunging them into darkness. In their little cocoon he heard only his own steady breathing and Illya's soft whisper as he recited the same words over and over.

"Que diras-tu ce soir, pouvre ame solitaire. Que diras-tu, mon coer, coer autre ois fletri. A la tres-belle, a la tres-bonne, a la tres-chere. Dont le regard dirin t'a soudain refleuri."



ACT FOUR

'Somewhere in the Clouds'

The small aircraft sped across the runway and purposefully tipped its nose skywards, defying gravity as it soared, heaven bound. Inside the plane Illya Kuryakin watched the ground spiral away from him, he wanted never to forget the raw beauty of the barren wasteland below.

"Siberia" he whispered, almost to himself " Maxim Gorky once called it `a land of death and chains'."

Napoleon Solo shifted uncomfortably in his ridiculously cramped seat, turning his body towards Illya, watching him closely as he continued to stare out of the window.

"It almost was."

Illya said nothing. He continued to stare, long after the ground had disappeared from view, long after the clouds had lost their form and all that could be seen was a vast, empty, nothing. Illya had been very quiet and withdrawn since he regained consciousness in the hospital. He had always been prone to distancing himself at times from his companions, remaining cool and aloof, but something in his manner this time had Napoleon worried. There was something behind his eyes, this experience had changed him somehow.

Illya reluctantly drew his gaze from the emptiness and focused his attentions on the unwieldy cast that now encased his left leg from the knee down. It itched unbearably. Napoleon saw the irritation in his features, "Does it hurt?"

The question reminded Illya that, in fact, it did hurt, yes. But the dull throbbing pain was something he had learnt to accept, it was the fact that he couldn't control that indomitable itch that really got to him. He caught the attention of a rather harassed- looking flight attendant and ordered a large vodka. Napoleon looked at him questioningly.

"Vodka," Illya took the glass from the attendant and held it up to the light, examining it casually "as any Russian will tell you, has a delayed punch that strikes at the base of the neck with guillotine suddenness, severing brain from body. At this precise moment , I consider that a very desirable state of being."

With that he put the glass to his lips and tilted his head back sharply, emptying its contents in one. He handed the glass back to the pretty attendant with a polite smile then took a rather large and imposing-looking Soviet newspaper out from the side of his seat, burying his head in its pages. Napoleon resigned himself to the fact that he wasn't going to get any conversation out of him, not on this trip anyway. In a way, he was relieved, he still didn't know exactly how much Illya remembered of the events of the past few days. The way all his defences had crumbled when he had seen Illya so close to death made Napoleon feel uncomfortable. Since that terrible night he had worked hard at being friendly, concerned even, but always at a polite distance. It jarred with the closeness he now felt to Illya, his feelings about that night jarred with the distance Illya himself was working hard to maintain between them. Saving his life now had become more than just a professional duty, after all he was no longer officially working for UNCLE, making it personal had raised the stakes too high, and it scared them both.

Napoleon pulled himself out of his seat, "I'd better let Mr Waverly know we're on our way."

Illya nodded, engrossed in, from what Napoleon could make out with his limited Russian, an article about combine harvesters. As he made his way unsteadily down the far-too-narrow passageway a hand shot out from an aisle seat to his left and grabbed his sleeve.
"Come, come comrade, come and join us."

The hand belonged to a ruddy-faced, leather-skinned goliath who was beaming at him through broken teeth. Beyond him several pairs of eyes tried to focus unsteadily on the newcomer.

"Thank you but I'm on my way to the...Uh..." Napoleon pointed to the rear of the plane. "Oh but you cannot do that," he said gravely, the ringleader turned and winked at his compatriots "you are lacking in an essential piece of equipment."

Napoleon's face registered confusion, " No-ones ever said that to me before" he muttered to himself.

"Come, " he beckoned with his hand " come closer so I can tell you confidentially."

Napoleon bent down, inclining his head as requested. "Let me tell you this, a Siberian toilet consists of just one implement." He waved a significant digit in front of Napoleon's nose.

"Oh....whats that?." asked Napoleon innocently.

His confidante checked the expectant faces of his companions before continuing, "A stick to beat off the wolves!." he replied.

Napoleon straightened his back, a resigned look on his face, as the ringleader bellowed and slapped his thighs dramatically. His drinking partners, fuelled by several litres of vodka, choked back tears. Amongst the general uproar Illya peered over the top of his paper and raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a knowing smile despite himself.

Napoleon found himself happy to be caught up in their infectious good humour, he took the seat across the aisle from the ringleader and accepted a generous glass of vodka from him. It was thick and honey-coloured and it burnt a hole right through to his expensive shoes from the first tentative sip onwards. He began to relax; something he hadn't done for a long time. Dimitri Taras Shevchenko pumped his hand enthusiastically, simultaneously slapping him heartily on the back, almost propelling him into the seat in front. He smiled at him affectionately as Napoleon struggled to regain an upright position.

"You drink well my friend.........for an American. Tell me....." he jerked his head back, in the general direction of where Illya was sitting " your companion is not American."

"No, no I believe Illya was born in Kiev."

"Ah," Dimitri nodded solemnly "Ukrainians are a proud people." he twisted himself round in his seat so that he might have a better view of Illya as he studiously folded his newspaper and slipped it onto Napoleon's seat. "The Ukrainians have been fighting us for centuries for their independence," he turned back to face Napoleon, pouring them both an excessive measure of vodka as he did so, his eyes misting over "who does not know of the glorious and heroic past of Cossack Ukraine."

He sat staring into space for a long time, lost in history. Finally he returned, leaning over the aisle to place a huge hand on Napoleon's knee, "This man is your friend, Yes?"

Napoleon nodded dumbly, curiously he seemed to have lost the capacity for speech. His body tingled all over, wrapped in a soothing warmth from the inside out, he was happily surrendering himself to the moment.

"Then I must speak to you `Dusha - Dushe' as you say - soul to soul, heart to heart." he peered into Napoleon's open face, his voice low and grave " Russia is a great country, we have a great and glorious history, our culture, our art, our people....." he paused, his craggy features becoming infused with sadness " but we are told where to work, where to live, what to think. Because our public lives are so supervised, because we cannot afford to be open and honest with most people, when we find someone we feel we can trust....."tiny tears seemed to well up in his eyes, "the only real choice we have in our lives is to determine those we wish to call `friend'." He turned back to his companions, waving an expansive arm over them "my friends!" he nodded as he liberated another bottle of vodka, filling everyone's glass. He leaned back towards Napoleon, fixing him with sincere clear blue eyes,

"We invest our friendships with enormous importance. Relations between Russians are more intense, more demanding " he curled his right hand into a fist and beat the left side of his chest with it " we have much heart, much passion, our friendships are also more enduring, more rewarding. Do you understand?." he pushed his face to within an inch of Napoleon's startled features, his voice urgent, "We are friends Forever!." he leaned back, seemingly relieved, adopting the air of someone who had imparted a great knowledge, a solemn secret, the satisfied air of someone who had performed their duty well.

"I tell you this......" he took Napoleon's hand and crushed it in both of his " because I can see you have `Shirokaya Dusha' - a broad spirit." With that he fell back into his seat and passed out, a faint smile on his lips. Napoleon sat for a while, mulling over what Dimitri had said, a pang of guilt stabbed him every time he thought of what he'd done. He turned around, searching for Illya, wanting to meet his eyes, for once, wanting him to know how sorry he was. He found him in his seat by the window, his head resting on his left shoulder, unruly hair covering his eyes, lost in dreams Napoleon could never understand.


`A sensation similar to the feeling she always had when bathing, before she took the first plunge, seized her and she crossed herself. The familiar gesture brought back a whole series of memories of when she was a girl, and of her childhood, and suddenly the darkness that had enveloped everything for her lifted, and for an instant life glowed before her with all its past joys. But she did not take her eyes off the wheels of the approaching truck. And exactly at the moment when the space between the wheels drew level with her she threw aside the red bag and drawing her head down between her shoulders dropped on her hands under the truck, and with a light movement, as though she would rise up again at once, sank on her knees. At that same instant she became horror struck at what she was doing. `Where am I ? What am I doing ? Why ?" she tried to get up, to throw herself back; but something huge and relentless struck her on the head and dragged her down on her back. ` God forgive me everything' she murmured, feeling the impossibility of struggling. And the candle by which she had been reading the book filled with trouble and deceit, sorrow and evil, flared up with a brighter light, illuminating for her everything that before had been enshrouded in darkness, flickered; grew dim and went out forever.'

Illya closed the book, tapping his fingers nervously on the side of the armchair. He'd paid his farewells to Anna Karenin far too frequently these past few days, and each time felt the same frustration. How could Tolstoy have neglected to mention the love, ill-fated though it was, which had filled the book. The sacrifice, sorrow and deceit, all of which had had a meaning because of the love.

John Coltrane played the blues, long mournful notes hung heavy in the air. They cried like wounded beasts before dissipating into the brickwork. Illya sighed deeply, raising himself up and leaning heavily on the silver crutches he now relied on for some degree of mobility. He hated them. Hobbling slowly across the small, tidy room, he sat himself at his desk below the window. Its surface was littered with books and sheets of paper covered with his neat distinctive handwriting. He had worked hard at keeping himself occupied lately, but all the things that had once seemed so fulfilling and useful were now just empty and meaningless to him. A black and white hotograph of the Odessa Steps was stuck to the wall. It vied for attention next to a postcard of one of Van Gogh's self-portraits.Illya looked into the haunted eyes, saw the brutal war that raged behind them, the war between life and death, sanity and madness. He'd been there and it was the loneliest place on earth..

He gazed through the rain-streaked glass at the people in the street below, momentarily losing himself in their lives. Absentmindedly he reached for a brown grease-stained paper bag and pulled out a pastrami-on-rye, wrapping it gingerly in several serviettes. He chewed slowly, his eyes resting on a pretty young woman standing on the sidewalk, waiting to cross the street. The rain had plastered her long raven-black hair to her head, setting off the paleness of her skin dramatically, dark, troubled eyes stared out before her. Her lips were scarlet wounds. Illya recalled Vulcan's ring, his blood chilling at the memory. He shivered involuntarily then refocused his eyes on the girl. She looked small and vulnerable in her short crimson coat and matching gloves, over-powered by the greyness of the anonymous crowd. As she waited she tried to read her copy of the `New York Times', struggling for control of the cumbersome pages, fighting vainly with the angry gusts of wind. The headline read ` Woman found strangled in Central Park! ', he wondered what she thought, how she felt. The lights said `WALK' so they did, crowds jostling her into the street, she folded the paper and melted away.

Bells rang in his head, as he picked up the receiver he reprimanded himself for not having left the phone off the hook. When he heard the voice on the other end of the line he was glad he hadn't. It was Maggie, her voice shaky and quiet, " Illya, I'm sorry, its me Maggie, I don't want to bother you but I didn't know who else to call....."

"Don't be sorry, just tell me what's wrong." the concern in his voice made her stop, she breathed deeply, reassessing the situation. When she spoke again she sounded a lot calmer.

"Its just that I haven't heard from Napoleon for over a week now and he usually calls to let us know he's OK. I'm not usually so worried its just that..." she broke off, the tremor coming back into her voice " the last time I saw him he was in a pretty bad way." the line went dead. He waited for her to speak again, sensing that she still had something important to say to him.

"Illya, I've never seen him like that before, he came to me for help and I....I feel like I've let him down.....he was so upset about something."

"Napoleon is all right, don't worry." he said calmly " I'll come over and explain everything to you there. I'm on my way."

He hung up, moving as fast as he could towards the door, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair as he went. By the time he arrived Maggie had regained control of her emotions, she still didn't know what was going on but just knowing Napoleon was OK made her feel better. She even managed a weak smile as she opened the door to Illya. She was shocked to see his leg in plaster, and his face told her he was in pain.

"Oh, you're hurt, here, let me help you."

She took his arm and started leading him to the living room. He pulled his arm away gently, not wanting to hurt her feelings but saying firmly, "No, I can manage alone, thank you."

She watched him move towards the couch, marvelling at how gracefully he handled a broken leg and crutches. He was wearing a blue flannel lumberjack shirt, navy Chinos and a dark suede jacket that was clearly too big for him. He looked so different out of his sombre black suit, he looked younger, she realised then how much younger than Napoleon he was. She also understood why she'd been fooled for so long; he had the air of someone far beyond his years. Life hadn't left any tell-tale lines on his face but it did weigh heavy on his shoulders, anyone could see that. She had a strong desire to know what he'd been like as a child, in her heart she knew it hadn't always been this way.

"I was with Napoleon two days ago" he began, as she settled herself beside him on the couch,"we were on a mission" he paused, averting his gaze, " I can't remember much of what happened.....but I know he saved my life."

Maggie knew he wasn't telling her everything but she didn't want to press him further, she knew how he guarded his privacy, knew he could snap shut at any moment and she'd lose his trust. Nevertheless she cared about Napoleon, cared more than maybe she should, and if Illya knew what was going on she wanted to know too. She continued haltingly, "Illya, is something going on....." she checked herself as she saw him raise his head, his features troubled "I mean, have you two had a disagreement or anything " she was floundering " Why was he on a mission, I thought he'd resigned. I mean...." she became angry at herself, worry and frustration eating away at her "What the hell is wrong!"

Illya stood up, moving to the other side of the room, he stood with his back turned towards her, the fingers of his left hand flexing nervously, suddenly he seemed very slight and frail. His voice strained and hollow, "I don't know."

He stood, lost in himself, in his own sense of helplessness. The sound of quiet sobbing drew him back. He turned to see Maggie, her head in her hands, moving beside her, he sat very close. As she raised her head he saw tears running silently down her cheeks, he moved his face close to hers and stared directly into her eyes. His voice had the same soothing, cajoling tone she used with her own children, "There's no need for those." he said, smiling slowly.

She wanted him to raise his hand and brush the tears gently from her face with his fingers but he didn't. He remained close but never touching, holding her gaze and smiling tenderly. Somehow, it made her feel better, made her feel that he really cared. They sat for a long time before Maggie had calmed the storm inside her. She gazed at his strong, sensitive face, saw his features troubled, severe and impassive shift as suddenly into those of a child, open, warm, generous, tender. Finally she came to a fundamental conclusion, "You're such a sweet man."

Illya bowed his head and stared intently at the carpet. She had wanted to add "I can see now why Napoleon couldn't help falling in love with you." but knew it was impossible, suddenly she realised Napoleon hadn't even admitted it to himself yet.

The screaming phone broke the silence. Maggie moved over to Nelson's desk and answered, quickly brushing the tears from her face, hoping they couldn't be detected in her voice.

"Hi Maggie its me....Napoleon." the voice tired but urgent

"Napoleon ! " she turned to see Illya start, raising his head in alarm

"Where are you? I've been so worried."

"I can't explain now, can I come over right away ? "

"Yes, yes, come right now." she watched Illya closely "I'll see you soon then."

As she replaced the receiver she saw him stand hurriedly "I must leave."

She knew trying to stop him would be futile. As she saw him to the door she raised herself on tiptoe, kissing him gently on the lips, "Thanks."

He smiled faintly before turning to leave, hesitated in the doorway, then turned slowly round. His eyes asked the question long before she heard his voice. "He sounded OK.....tired.....but OK." she said

Illya smiled the same faint smile and left.

Maggie opened the door, smiled sweetly and brought her right hand across Napoleon's face with all the strength in her slight frame. The shock froze him as he stood dumbly on the doorstep. Then, slowly, he put his right hand up to his jaw and moved it silently from side to side, all the while gazing at her in disbelief.

"Ah...that's not quite the welcome I was expecting." he said as he went in. She ignored him, moving over to the desk and pouring herself a large gin. He hovered uncertainly by the couch, not sure whether it was safe to sit down. She turned and smiled sweetly at him, he winced visibly. "Don't smile at me like that, it makes me nervous."

"What were you expecting, a hero's welcome. I've been worried sick about you since you left a week ago." she said angrily. Sitting close to him, she put her left hand on his knee and looked into his eyes, "I was really scared." she continued, more calmly.

He put his arms around her and held her tight, feeling the tenseness in her body dissolve. The softness of her, scent of her hair, warmth of her embrace, it felt good. He felt like he was home.

They talked a long time, the afternoon fading slowly into evening. Both of them knew Nelson and the kids would be home soon and everything would have to change.Their last conversation was tinged with sadness, neither of them wanting the intimacy to end, Nelson wouldn't understand though, wouldn't understand how innocent it all was. "Before I go I want to pick your brain."

"Oh yes." Maggie looked at him quizzically

"There's something I'm trying to track down, I think it's a passage from a book or a poem."

"That shouldn't be too difficult. I did teach English Literature back in the dark ages; that is, the pre-Nelson years."

"Yes........" Napoleon paused and shifted uncomfortably "the only trouble is, its in French."

Maggie laughed incredulously, "Do you realise what you're asking me to do. " she checked herself, noticing Napoleon's expression "This is really important to you isn't it."

He nodded silently. "Well go ahead, shoot, its high time I brushed up on my High School French anyway."

He began slowly, his pronunciation awkward and hesitant at times. When he'd finished he looked at her expectantly. She was sitting with her head in her hands, her eyes closed. Slowly she raised her head, shaking an unruly curl out of her eyes. His heart sank when he saw her frown, the muscles around her mouth tense, frustration taking her over, edging into her voice, "I'm sorry Napoleon, I just don't recognise it."

"That's OK, we gave it our best shot." he tried not to look crestfallen.

She refused to be defeated, "Look, say it again, slower this time. I'll take it one line at a time."

" Que diras-tu ce soir, pouvre ame solitaire Que diras-tu, mon coer, coer autre foi...."

"What will you say....ce soir....tonight......hold on !" she shut her eyes and screwed her face up tight, concentrating hard. "What will you say tonight ? " She grabbed Napoleon's hand "I think I remember. Say it all again."

"Que diras-tu, mon coer, coer autre fois fletri A la tres-belle, a la tres-bonne, a la tres-chere Dont le regard divin t'a soudain refleuri." he continued.

"Wait here ! "

Before he had a chance to say anything she had disappeared up the stairs. He sat waiting, perplexed, glancing anxiously at his watch. Before long she returned clutching a dog-eared paperback book in her hand. "The first guy I ever dated at college gave me this." she sat down next to him, breathless, a new light in her eyes. She gazed at the cover, running her fingers over it lovingly, tracing the lettering of its title ` The Flowers Of Evil' by Charles Baudelaire. She buried her head in the index, turning the yellowing pages hurriedly.

"I knew it would be in here, look !" she said triumphantly, placing the book carefully in his hands, " the translation is at the bottom of the page."

What will you say tonight, poor lonely soul What will you say old withered heart of mine, To the most beautiful, the best, most dear, Whose heavenly regard brings back your bloom.

He continued to the end of the poem but his head swam with the words of the first verse, they were burning themselves into his memory. Maggie watched a stillness come over him.

"Its a beautiful poem." she said quietly.

"Yes..........." he said, before closing the book and handing it back to her, "yes, it is."


Illya didn't hear the key in the lock, exhaustion had taken him long since to oblivion. He didn't hear the door open or the tall dark man enter his room either. He lay vulnerable and unafraid, an inviting prospect for the grim reaper. It was fortunate for him then that the man standing on the other side of the room had no intention of harming him in any way.

Napoleon called to him, resisting the temptation to watch him sleep deep into the night. There was something very important he had to say to him. He called his name again, more insistent this time,

"Illya........Illya wake up !."

The dishevelled body on the bed stirred awkwardly, then, sensing the presence of another in the room, snapped suddenly into alert mode. Illya raised himself up on both elbows, ready to leap from his resting place and grab the Luger 9mm automatic pistol under his pillow at a moments notice. His gaze found Napoleon and he relaxed.

"Oh, its you."

Feigning nonchalance he lay on his side, resting his head on his elbow and rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his right hand. But Napoleon noticed the flush of colour come into his face, bleeding into his neck and into the paleness of his chest peeping through the partially-unbuttoned shirt. He felt his gaze rest there far too long, tore it away, suddenly finding fascinating a book sitting on the nearby desk. Tolstoy; it came as no surprise.

"Um...." he picked the book up, turning the first page, aware of Illya's eyes on his back. He tried to forget how much he wanted to kiss that neck. "I seem to recall she comes to a rather tragic end."

"She gave up her life for a wild, senseless love affair, her home, marriage, children, position, respectability........" there was sadness in Illya's voice.

"Some would say " Napoleon paused, shutting the book and returning it to the desk before turning to face him "there was madness in her obsession."

Illya's face was solemn as he stared into the middle distance, "Then perhaps beauty resides only in madness" he whispered.

Napoleon turned sharply to stare out of the window, "Well..." he said decisively "thats certainly an interesting opinion."

He heard Illya move clumsily from the bed, picking up his crutches and limping slowly to where he stood.

"Why have you come here? " he said softly, his voice cracking with emotion. As he turned to face him Napoleon's eyes passed over his anxious features, curiosity echoed in Illya's eyes - he really didn't know.

"I have something I have to tell you."

His eyes took in every pore, every line, every contour of the face before him, the translucent skin, finely chiselled features, high cheekbones, petulant lips. He saw uncertainty linger like an unwanted shadow there. Then there were those eyes; crystal blue and pure - when he looked into those eyes he felt like he was standing on the edge of the world. Something was different though, something had changed. Leading from just below his lower lip, an angry crescent-shaped scar embraced the left side of his chin, a souvenir of his final encounter with Vulcan. It was as if he were seeing this face for the first time. All the carefully-planned words in Napoleon's head melted away, suddenly everything seemed so simple. He saw him now as a man, with everything that entailed, mortal, fallible, desirable. It felt somehow easier to want him, to love him. He really didn't care about anything else.

Napoleon reached out his right hand and ran his fingertips gently over the scar. He smiled like a man who had a closely guarded secret hidden deep inside himself and then he put his arms around Illya's waist and pulled his body close. The last thing he heard was the loud clatter of his crutches as they hit the ground.

Illya felt his strength and it excited him, his breathing became heavy and laboured as he fought in vain against his feelings. He closed his eyes and surrendered to his embrace, his soft, murmuring voice, his kisses, no longer hesitant and shy as they had been the first time. The ferocity of Napoleon's kisses stunned him, they were full of wanting, of a desperate need, passionate and hungry. The intensity was almost too much to bear, his heart pounding so loudly it felt like it would burst his eardrums, his head spinning, every nerve-ending exploding at the merest touch. He felt Napoleon's lips on his neck, his shoulders, his chest, reaching up he tried to run his fingers through his hair but his arm dropped feebly as he felt his body sag and his head fall back.

He wanted to laugh out loud; joyously, triumphantly, like a child, but he was lost, senses reeling, his spirit rising above him. He was a man adrift on a vast clear blue ocean, his body undulating to the slow steady rhythm of the seas. Napoleon lifted Illya's gently yielding body up into his arms and carried him to the bed.

The darkness was so intense that it seemed impassable, the room heavy with the silence of the night. Time might have stopped as Illya and Napoleon lay spent in each others' arms. In the stillness Illya thought he heard something, but he couldn't be sure. The lack of sleep and strong pain-killers he had taken for his leg had clouded his mind so much he didn't know what was real anymore. He tried to focus his mind, to remember if it had really happened or if it had just been a fragment of a dream. Logic told him he couldn't be sure, instinct told him he hadn't lied to himself. He had heard it, Napoleon's voice saying something, just once, barely audible, a butterfly kiss.

"I've stopped running."

The end.

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