section7mfu | "Memories at Sunset"~ for the Short Affair Challenge

Challenge: The Short Affair

-Prompt Word #2 – Piano

-Prompt Colour – Purple

Author: mrua7

Title: Memories at sunset.

Word Count: Approximately 730

Illya Kuryakin sat at a baby grand piano; property of one Delila VanSandt who was the woman he and Napoleon were guarding. Though the Russian was quite an accomplished pianist, he had no inclination to play as it was the view that had his attention.

Delila’s home was an upscale apartment overlooking Central Park; the widows spanning from floor to ceiling, giving a spectacular overlook that anyone would envy. The sun was setting, filling the sky with vivid hues of yellow, orange, pink and purple, painted like a great canvas by an unseen artist.

Soon only lights of the city below and the twinkling stars above might give people a moment’s pause from their busy lives.

Delila was asleep in her bedroom, and Napoleon had just emerged from the kitchen, carrying two mugs of coffee with him.

“Here, this’ll help keep you awake.”

Illya said nothing, as he continued to watch the sunset, lost in thought.

“Penny for your thoughts tovarisch?”

The Soviet agent let loose a deep sigh.”I was just thinking of...home. It is the time of year when the white nights are are at their most brilliant...day after day of constant sunsets. The skies are filled with such colors as this," he pointed out the window.

“Homesick?”

“No not really. I was thinking of the last time I was in Leningrad many many years ago. I was spending a few days there on a short holiday…” his voice trailed off.

“And?”

“Hmm, what?”

“You were in Leningrad on a brief holiday? Anything interesting happen? Meet any pretty girls?” Napoleon relaxed, legs crossed, sitting in a chair beside his partner; drinking his coffee.

“Nothing happened. I went to the Winter Palace of the Tsars as it is a museum and took in a few sights around the city as well. That was it.”

It was the summer of 1951, and a young Illya was on a break from his classes and assignment at the Sorbonne. He decided to go to Leningrad as it was the time of the White Nights when it was constant twilight and the skies were filled with brilliant colors.

While tourning the Winter Palace, he looked away from studying the details of carvings that surrounded a doorway, to see a blonde woman who had caught his eye. She was toting a young child in her arms. The girl was following behind a couple, a man in a Colonel’s uniform and a homely looking woman dressed in a grey skirt and jacket, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. She had a mole on her chin, Illya swore was the size of a Kopek coin.

Young Kuryakin hardened his gaze at the blonde, recognizing her now in disbelief.

He approached her cautiously, stepping up beside her. ”Natasha?” He whispered tentatively, and was amazed it was truly her. Natasha Asimov, his friend from the orphange in Moskva where they grew up. it was she who taught him love, and tenderness in a place where it was non-existant. She’d been sent away at the age of sixteen to a life of servitude, and this officer was the one to whom she'd been endentured.

They tried to talk, but Natasha had to hurry. Her master summoned.

Illya never thought he would see her again after they first parted years ago, and yet here she was today. It was at least good to know she was alive, yet it made him feel even lonelier. His heart went out to her, but there was nothing he could do to help her. She was a prisoner of fate, just as he was.

Illya bowed his head, backing away holding his black hat in his hands as the Colonel reprimanded him to get away.

He turned away, glancing back at the girl. She looked so worn, so very tired, and older than her young years. He watched as she gave him a little wave and a smile.

“Be happy,” she mouthed the words, and he did the same to her.

Happiness never happened for Natasha, as she was dead...killed by the Colonel himself. She’d been raped by him and the child she cared for was his. Taken as his own, though his wife wanted nothing to do with it; she was not the motherly type.

Illya took satisfaction in the fact that he eventually killed the man, revenging his friend. Her son was handed over to him by the Colonel’s wife, and Illya found the boy a good home.

These were the memories this sunset brought to Illya Kuryakin as he finally sipped his coffee in silence with his partner.

references to my stories: “White Nights.”, "A Dish Best Served Cold" , and "The Orphanage"