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section7mfuNapoleon shuddered, and clutched miserably at the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the same scene all over again. Himself grappling with Ludovic, fighting for control of the pistol, then Ludovic had wrenched himself free with a heave of immense strength, pushing Napoleon to the ground. He had lain on his back, propped up on his elbows staring up at the muzzle of the gun pointing at him…and then…”
Napoleon shuddered again and wiped away a tear that dared to stray down his face. It was mistake, it had to be! Illya, that stupid, idiotic, foolhardy, brave, amazing Russian had come barreling in from the side, and both of them had gone tumbling into the river. Napoleon had heard the sound of the gun firing, and then there was Ludovic breaking the surface of the river and swimming raggedly to the shore where four section three agents had taken him prisoner. Illya, however, had not reemerged. Not for some five minutes. Napoleon had found himself running alongside the raging torrent, searching frantically for some sight of his partner. As soon as the blond head was sighted, He had plunged in…swum across to get to him, but it had been too late.
Napoleon had watched as paramedics worked feverishly on Illya for30 minutes until they finally called it. Illya was dead. He died saving Napoleon Solo’s life. A noble act, all the more as Napoleon knew without a shadow of a doubt that it would be exactly the way Illya would have chosen to go had he had a choice in the matter. Unfortunately, as the unwilling recipient of such a noble gift, all Napoleon wanted to do was scream.
He felt more tears threatening, and his nose too was stuffy. God, he needed to get away, go home and wallow in private. He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief and paused, electrified, as his fingers found a long metallic object. He drew it out. It was a large copper key…the one Illya had given him a few months ago. He gulped and staggered to his feet, removing the blanket from his back.
“Sir, are you all right, sir?”
It was one of the section three men, the one assigned, apparently, to take care of him.
“No Agent Carberry, my partner has just died saving my life, so right now I am not all right. I am a long way from all right!” He started to walk away. Carberry was trotting after him frantically.
“Sir, Mister Solo, the doctor says you should stay here for now…”
He felt Carberry pull at his arm, trying to hold him back. Napoleon shrugged him off. He vaguely heard in the distance Carberry’s voice still calling him,
“Mister Solo! Mister Solo, come back!”
Napoleon walked away from the scene, climbed into his car and drove home, breaking several speed limits in his hurry to get far away from all the sympathetic eyes. Waverly would expect him to report in the morning, then medical and psyche evaluations…he threw open his apartment door and slammed it closed behind him with a force that surely shook the building.
His feelings were starting to break through now. At first he had experienced terror at the knowledge of his loss, how would he get through every day at UNCLE now without his partner and best friend? How could he live with himself knowing that it was his fault that Illya had died? Then grief had hit him with a force like a sledgehammer. Now it was anger, at himself for being unequal to the struggle with Ludovic, a man twice his size, but mostly his anger was directed at Illya. Illya who had thrown himself in front of knives and bullets before to save Napoleon and survived. He had pushed his luck once too often and he had paid the ultimate price for it. They both had. He started to scream, to cry out, in anguish and despair, in anger and rage at Illya for throwing his life away so easily.
It was his own screams that awakened Napoleon. He sat up all in a rush, sweaty and grief stricken, tears pouring down his face. He sat on the edge of the bed and breathed slowly, trying to calm himself.
“Napoleon, are you all right?”
Napoleon stared. Illya had snapped on his bedside lamp and was propped up on one elbow, rubbing his eyes blearily with the other hand.
“Was it a nightmare?”
Napoleon seized his tumbler of water and splashed it into his own face, in an effort to make the illusion go away. Instead the illusion got out of bed and came across the room, full of concern.
“You’re white as a sheet, and you’re trembling! You need a shot of something I think.”
Napoleon found his voice.
“Illya…are you real?”
He held out his hand towards his friend’s face and then paused uncertainly.
“May I?”
Illya nodded, aware that this nightmare, whatever it was, had shaken his friend to the very core.
“Be my guest.”
Napoleon touched Illya’s face with his outstretched hands, feeling the warm skin under his fingers, the feel of his friend’s very much alive breath.
“Napoleon, what was it? What could have done this to you?”
“I was reliving everything…except in my nightmare you didn’t come back up…you drowned. You were dead Illya, and it was so real…so real!”
Unable to stop them, tears slipped down Napoleon’s face. The images were still so very vivid; it would be a long time before he ever forgot them…if he ever did.
“Promise you’ll never die on me, Illya.”
Illya smiled at his friend.
“You know I cannot give you that promise, any more than you can give it to me. I can make one promise though?”
“Yes?”
“I promise to try never to die on you?” Illya smiled. “You’ve had a shock. I think we could both use a drink!”
Napoleon shuddered again and wiped away a tear that dared to stray down his face. It was mistake, it had to be! Illya, that stupid, idiotic, foolhardy, brave, amazing Russian had come barreling in from the side, and both of them had gone tumbling into the river. Napoleon had heard the sound of the gun firing, and then there was Ludovic breaking the surface of the river and swimming raggedly to the shore where four section three agents had taken him prisoner. Illya, however, had not reemerged. Not for some five minutes. Napoleon had found himself running alongside the raging torrent, searching frantically for some sight of his partner. As soon as the blond head was sighted, He had plunged in…swum across to get to him, but it had been too late.
Napoleon had watched as paramedics worked feverishly on Illya for30 minutes until they finally called it. Illya was dead. He died saving Napoleon Solo’s life. A noble act, all the more as Napoleon knew without a shadow of a doubt that it would be exactly the way Illya would have chosen to go had he had a choice in the matter. Unfortunately, as the unwilling recipient of such a noble gift, all Napoleon wanted to do was scream.
He felt more tears threatening, and his nose too was stuffy. God, he needed to get away, go home and wallow in private. He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief and paused, electrified, as his fingers found a long metallic object. He drew it out. It was a large copper key…the one Illya had given him a few months ago. He gulped and staggered to his feet, removing the blanket from his back.
“Sir, are you all right, sir?”
It was one of the section three men, the one assigned, apparently, to take care of him.
“No Agent Carberry, my partner has just died saving my life, so right now I am not all right. I am a long way from all right!” He started to walk away. Carberry was trotting after him frantically.
“Sir, Mister Solo, the doctor says you should stay here for now…”
He felt Carberry pull at his arm, trying to hold him back. Napoleon shrugged him off. He vaguely heard in the distance Carberry’s voice still calling him,
“Mister Solo! Mister Solo, come back!”
Napoleon walked away from the scene, climbed into his car and drove home, breaking several speed limits in his hurry to get far away from all the sympathetic eyes. Waverly would expect him to report in the morning, then medical and psyche evaluations…he threw open his apartment door and slammed it closed behind him with a force that surely shook the building.
His feelings were starting to break through now. At first he had experienced terror at the knowledge of his loss, how would he get through every day at UNCLE now without his partner and best friend? How could he live with himself knowing that it was his fault that Illya had died? Then grief had hit him with a force like a sledgehammer. Now it was anger, at himself for being unequal to the struggle with Ludovic, a man twice his size, but mostly his anger was directed at Illya. Illya who had thrown himself in front of knives and bullets before to save Napoleon and survived. He had pushed his luck once too often and he had paid the ultimate price for it. They both had. He started to scream, to cry out, in anguish and despair, in anger and rage at Illya for throwing his life away so easily.
It was his own screams that awakened Napoleon. He sat up all in a rush, sweaty and grief stricken, tears pouring down his face. He sat on the edge of the bed and breathed slowly, trying to calm himself.
“Napoleon, are you all right?”
Napoleon stared. Illya had snapped on his bedside lamp and was propped up on one elbow, rubbing his eyes blearily with the other hand.
“Was it a nightmare?”
Napoleon seized his tumbler of water and splashed it into his own face, in an effort to make the illusion go away. Instead the illusion got out of bed and came across the room, full of concern.
“You’re white as a sheet, and you’re trembling! You need a shot of something I think.”
Napoleon found his voice.
“Illya…are you real?”
He held out his hand towards his friend’s face and then paused uncertainly.
“May I?”
Illya nodded, aware that this nightmare, whatever it was, had shaken his friend to the very core.
“Be my guest.”
Napoleon touched Illya’s face with his outstretched hands, feeling the warm skin under his fingers, the feel of his friend’s very much alive breath.
“Napoleon, what was it? What could have done this to you?”
“I was reliving everything…except in my nightmare you didn’t come back up…you drowned. You were dead Illya, and it was so real…so real!”
Unable to stop them, tears slipped down Napoleon’s face. The images were still so very vivid; it would be a long time before he ever forgot them…if he ever did.
“Promise you’ll never die on me, Illya.”
Illya smiled at his friend.
“You know I cannot give you that promise, any more than you can give it to me. I can make one promise though?”
“Yes?”
“I promise to try never to die on you?” Illya smiled. “You’ve had a shock. I think we could both use a drink!”
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