Regret [non-challenge piece]
Jan. 30th, 2016 01:13 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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section7mfuAs I understand it, we can post non-challenge pieces here, so here is this.
Mentions of torture, so tread with caution, but it’s dealing with the aftermath. Meant to take place early in the partnership. And the dungeon saltires described in this drabble were largely inspired by those in the Shadow Temple from The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time.
Napoleon’s heart was in his throat as he made his way through the THRUSH dungeon. It seemed to be deserted; THRUSH had, apparently, left the moment they had gotten wind that U.N.C.L.E. was sending in reinforcements to rescue Illya, who had been captured for a piece of Soviet military information that they desperately wanted.
A code, Napoleon thought, bitterly. They wanted a stupid launch code. But did they leave Illya here, or did they take him with them?
And though the fact that THRUSH had wanted a code was bothering him, the circumstances of Illya’s capture were what were gnawing at Napoleon’s conscience. Napoleon had been distracted—a brunette caused him to turn his head, like so many times before. And like so many times before, Illya had gotten frustrated and had decided to wander off on his own rather than be witness to another charm attempt. Napoleon had only heard the sounds of a struggle later, but by the time he had arrived to back his partner up, he had vanished.
And now the trail had led to here. Each room was just the same—dark and cold. Napoleon suppressed a shudder.
“Illya!?” he called.
There was no answer. Napoleon kept walking down the stone-carved corridor until he reached the antechamber at the end. There were large, wooden x-shaped structures all around him in this room—giant saltires, each with chains and manacles dangling from them, like metal vines off of dead trees.
The American agent was about to turn and leave when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a large, limp shape dangling by his arms from one of the saltires. Blood dripped from many wounds onto the floor.
“ILLYA!?”
Even before he had gotten over there, he knew it was him—it couldn’t have been anyone else. And, sure enough, after Napoleon had unchained the unmoving form from the saltire, he turned him over in his arms to see his partner gazing up with wide, glazed-over eyes.
“Illya!? Illya, say something!”
There was no sound from the Russian—no movement, either. Only the faintest pulse fluttered beneath Napoleon’s fingers when he placed them to Illya’s neck—and he could swear it was growing weaker by the second. And in the back of his mind, a voice shouted accusingly at Napoleon, Your fault! Your fault! YOUR FAULT!
“Illya…!” Napoleon’s voice was choked with a sob. He should have been there! Should have been there to back him up like a good partner was supposed to do! “Illya, please…! Don’t die on me!” He cursed himself; even now, he sounded so selfish! His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m sorry, Illya. I should have been there with you, not some girl.” He froze, thinking he felt something change in the Russian’s pulse. “Illya!?”
And then he heard the faintest whisper—so faint that it might have been a sprite in the wind—
“Na… po…leon…?”
Napoleon glanced back down, staring into the Russian’s eyes again. They were still slightly glazed, but now they were trying to focus—on him. Illya didn’t look angry or upset; he looked relieved, and Napoleon felt his heart being squeezed—Illya didn’t hold anything against him. He never did.
Napoleon cradled his partner’s wounded body close to him.
“Will you hang on, then?” he asked, at last, feeling Illya’s pulse strengthen slightly even more.
“…Da…” The Russian’s eyes closed, tears of pain springing to them.
“Sleep now,” the American instructed him, gently. “I’ll look after you. I promise. This time, I’m not going anywhere.”
Illya gave a slight nod as the tears slipped from his eyes.
“I… didn’t tell… anything…” he said.
“Shh. I know. Of course you wouldn’t,” Napoleon said. “Sleep. I’ll be right with you the entire time. I’ll get you out of here.”
He stood up, carrying his partner in his arms as he carried him away from the room of saltires.
They would pay, he silently vowed. They would pay dearly for what they had done to Illya Kuryakin.
And after that, Napoleon would vow to be a better partner. Second chances were rarely given; he would make the most of it.
Mentions of torture, so tread with caution, but it’s dealing with the aftermath. Meant to take place early in the partnership. And the dungeon saltires described in this drabble were largely inspired by those in the Shadow Temple from The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time.
Napoleon’s heart was in his throat as he made his way through the THRUSH dungeon. It seemed to be deserted; THRUSH had, apparently, left the moment they had gotten wind that U.N.C.L.E. was sending in reinforcements to rescue Illya, who had been captured for a piece of Soviet military information that they desperately wanted.
A code, Napoleon thought, bitterly. They wanted a stupid launch code. But did they leave Illya here, or did they take him with them?
And though the fact that THRUSH had wanted a code was bothering him, the circumstances of Illya’s capture were what were gnawing at Napoleon’s conscience. Napoleon had been distracted—a brunette caused him to turn his head, like so many times before. And like so many times before, Illya had gotten frustrated and had decided to wander off on his own rather than be witness to another charm attempt. Napoleon had only heard the sounds of a struggle later, but by the time he had arrived to back his partner up, he had vanished.
And now the trail had led to here. Each room was just the same—dark and cold. Napoleon suppressed a shudder.
“Illya!?” he called.
There was no answer. Napoleon kept walking down the stone-carved corridor until he reached the antechamber at the end. There were large, wooden x-shaped structures all around him in this room—giant saltires, each with chains and manacles dangling from them, like metal vines off of dead trees.
The American agent was about to turn and leave when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a large, limp shape dangling by his arms from one of the saltires. Blood dripped from many wounds onto the floor.
“ILLYA!?”
Even before he had gotten over there, he knew it was him—it couldn’t have been anyone else. And, sure enough, after Napoleon had unchained the unmoving form from the saltire, he turned him over in his arms to see his partner gazing up with wide, glazed-over eyes.
“Illya!? Illya, say something!”
There was no sound from the Russian—no movement, either. Only the faintest pulse fluttered beneath Napoleon’s fingers when he placed them to Illya’s neck—and he could swear it was growing weaker by the second. And in the back of his mind, a voice shouted accusingly at Napoleon, Your fault! Your fault! YOUR FAULT!
“Illya…!” Napoleon’s voice was choked with a sob. He should have been there! Should have been there to back him up like a good partner was supposed to do! “Illya, please…! Don’t die on me!” He cursed himself; even now, he sounded so selfish! His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m sorry, Illya. I should have been there with you, not some girl.” He froze, thinking he felt something change in the Russian’s pulse. “Illya!?”
And then he heard the faintest whisper—so faint that it might have been a sprite in the wind—
“Na… po…leon…?”
Napoleon glanced back down, staring into the Russian’s eyes again. They were still slightly glazed, but now they were trying to focus—on him. Illya didn’t look angry or upset; he looked relieved, and Napoleon felt his heart being squeezed—Illya didn’t hold anything against him. He never did.
Napoleon cradled his partner’s wounded body close to him.
“Will you hang on, then?” he asked, at last, feeling Illya’s pulse strengthen slightly even more.
“…Da…” The Russian’s eyes closed, tears of pain springing to them.
“Sleep now,” the American instructed him, gently. “I’ll look after you. I promise. This time, I’m not going anywhere.”
Illya gave a slight nod as the tears slipped from his eyes.
“I… didn’t tell… anything…” he said.
“Shh. I know. Of course you wouldn’t,” Napoleon said. “Sleep. I’ll be right with you the entire time. I’ll get you out of here.”
He stood up, carrying his partner in his arms as he carried him away from the room of saltires.
They would pay, he silently vowed. They would pay dearly for what they had done to Illya Kuryakin.
And after that, Napoleon would vow to be a better partner. Second chances were rarely given; he would make the most of it.
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Date: 2016-01-31 11:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-01 02:28 am (UTC)