The Art of Torture - Short Affair - Feb 1st

[jantojones.livejournal.com]

Prompts - Pallid/Red
Word Count (approx.) - 570

Illya had a pallid complexion at the best of times, but after being held underground for the best part of a week he was positively ghostly. As he looked in the mirror of his medical room bathroom, Illya had to admit that the paleness of is skin made an almost beautiful contrast to the angry red welts and multi-hued bruises across his torso. They were all the results of several sustained beatings, which surprisingly hadn’t led to any broken bones. Thankfully, because of this, he had only spent one night in medical and was preparing to go home.

The Russian had decided to freshen up before he left, but had been captivated by his injuries. It wasn’t the first time he’d been left with such marks, after all, his body still bore the white scars of previous tortures, but the way they stood out against his pale flesh gave him pause. Illya couldn’t help but admire the beauty of colours. The bruises, because they were at different stages of development, ranged from black to yellow to blue and also purple. It was as though his body had provided the canvas for some avant-garde artist. The welts, caused by various implements were in many wonderful shades of red and pink, and were laid out in quite an attractive pattern. They criss-crossed in a way which was quite pleasing to the eye.

Admittedly, his whole torso felt as though it was on fire, but compared to the beauty of the marks the pain was insignificant. The thought came to him that he really ought to feel angry at being used as a ‘punching bag’ by yet another THRUSH megalomaniac, but he honestly didn’t. Illya had reached the point of acceptance long ago. If his suffering kept one innocent safe, the he was more than willing to endure it. One day, it would lead to his death, but that was a price he had always known he would pay eventually.

“Are you in here, Tovarish?’

Napoleon’s voice brought him back to the present.

“I’m in the bathroom,” he answered. “You don’t need to drive me home. I’m not that badly hurt.”

“It’s not a problem,” Solo told him. “I thought could buy you one of the lunches I owe you on the way.”

Illya came back into the room, buttoning up his shirt.

“Is a week of torture all it takes to get back what is owed to me?” he said, with mock surprise.

“I thought you’d be already be out of here,” Napoleon commented, ignoring Illya’s snarky remark. “The doc said he signed you out half an hour ago.”

“I was . . .” Kuryakin began. “Well, it doesn’t really matter. I’m ready now.”

“You were what?” the American asked, intrigued by the strange way his partner had stopped himself.

“Fine, if you must know, I was looking at the marks and bruises on my body. “Illya confessed. “I thought thy looked quite artistic.”

“How many times were you hit over the head?”

“I cannot fully explain it, my friend. It was something which struck me as I looked in the mirror. Did you not say something about lunch?”

Napoleon smiled. He would never admit it, but there had been times when the same thoughts had come to him. At least now he knew he wasn’t going mad.

“Come on then, Tovarisch. There’s a large amount of food somewhere awaiting your attention."