section7mfu | Nocturne of Shadow (non-challenge fic)

My other present for David's birthday...

Title: Nocturne of Shadow
Rating: PG13
Word count: ~4400
Author: Rose of Pollux

(Cross-posted to fanfiction.net and AO3, if you prefer reading there. This is an "early days" fic, the sequel to the "Serenade of Water" I posted last month--and a continuation of the "Baron of THRUSH" arc.

With renewed purpose, Napoleon and Illya kept careful watch over Moran’s movements over the next several weeks. The trackers had allowed them to keep a close watch on the boat, and it was a bit of a surprise when, out of the blue, Moran dropped everything, headed to the nearest airport, and set off for Europe, according to eyewitnesses—and all evidence indicated that he was heading for the Black Forest—specifically to an old, abandoned castle known only as Dunkel Schloss.

“We weren’t anywhere near him,” Napoleon mused, as they dutifully began to search the area where Moran had been last seen. “Why would he take off like that? And here, to the Black Forest?”

“Perhaps something THRUSH-related here required his attention,” Illya mused. “Of course, one wonders if he was trying to--”

Illya suddenly froze in his tracks as something came into view ahead behind the trees. Both he and Napoleon drew their Specials, waiting for whatever it was to make a move.

But nothing happened.

Puzzled, the duo wandered closer, pausing as they realized that it was a large lynx, lying unmoving in place. The cat’s eyes were open, staring ahead as though it had been reacting at something.

“Strange place to leave a piece of taxidermy…” Napoleon said.

Illya suddenly paled.

“Bozhe moy…!”

“What!?”

“That is not a piece of taxidermy, Napoleon.”

He approached the immobile lynx, placing a hand in front of its mouth first, and then upon the cat’s chest. The lynx did not move, but Illya looked back at Napoleon with a worried expression.

“It’s alive.”

“But how is that…?” Napoleon trailed off as the realization sunk in. “Oh, God… They’ve perfected the paralytic gas!”

“They are probably storing it in Dunkel Schloss; it’s been abandoned for centuries,” Illya said, looking up at the old stone structure. “But that is why Moran is here; he is getting ready to oversee the shipment to wherever their demonstration will be!” He exhaled, trying to stay calm. “The very nature of paralytics mean that they are temporary; even if this one lasts longer than the first batch in Brazil, it should wear off, and the lynx should recover. But we still cannot allow Moran to use it on anyone. We must take him into custody here, Napoleon.”

The American nodded.

“The castle is going to be crawling with THRUSH guards if Moran is there; we’ll have to steal some uniforms if we have any hope of maneuvering in there unnoticed,” he said.

“Da; we can get some from the guards patrolling the outside and take their uniforms. But we mustn’t put our eggs in one basket,” Illya said. “One of us should try going through the front, and the other through the secret passageway.”

“There’s another way in?” Napoleon asked.

Illya nodded.

“The last owner of this castle could have put Vlad the Impaler to shame with his cruelties,” he said. “The dungeons are full of torture devices that he used to convince the peasants who lived in the surrounding villages to pay heavy taxes to him. They suffered under his cruelty, tormented and starving—and people frequently vanished without a trace, never to be heard from again. But, one day, the peasants united to put an end to his tyranny. He had foreseen this, and had constructed an escape passageway to evade them.”

“So, they never caught him?” Napoleon asked.

Illya shook his head.

“Not only did he get away, he took the majority of his wealth with him,” Illya said. “The peasants recovered what little that remained, and the castle has been abandoned since. However, I had been researching the area around the castle; I think I might have an idea as to where the secret passageway may be. But in case I am wrong, it is best that you go through the main entrance—but be careful.”

“Don’t worry; I’m not wearing any loud shirts this time,” Napoleon said, with a wan smile. “Okay, we’ll grab some uniforms and split up. But keep in touch with me whenever possible.”

“Da, of course.”

They headed towards the castle; Illya took one last look back at the paralyzed lynx, looking at it in sympathy before following in Napoleon’s footsteps.

The two partners parted ways after knocking out two guards and stealing their uniforms. Illya found the passageway after a great deal of searching, and was pleased to find that it was intact, even after all the centuries that had passed.

He quietly murmured into his communicator as he walked down the passageway.

“I’ve entered the passageway, Napoleon. What about you?”

“A little bit turned around here; each hallway looks the same to me,” Napoleon murmured back.

“Well, try to find your bearings, but be careful,” Illya cautioned him. “If you’re recognized as an U.N.C.L.E. agent, you could--”

Illya stopped in midsentence as he suddenly realized that the passageway was no longer made of plain bricks and mortar; there were human bones cemented into the wall—skulls grinned at him with empty eyes.

“Illya?” Napoleon asked, concerned by his silence. “Illya, what happened? Are you alright?”

“I… I’m fine,” Illya said, realizing that these must have been here for centuries. “Never mind me, Napoleon. Remember the mission.”

“Right,” Napoleon sighed. “Well, if you’re sure you’re alright--”

“I am sure. This passageway goes on a bit longer than I thought, Napoleon; I shall need more time before I can enter the main part of the castle.”

“Alright; I’ll keep looking for either Moran or the gas,” Napoleon said. “Keep the channel open; we don’t want the communicators going off.”

“Right…” Illya said. He placed his communicator, still on, in his stolen uniform’s chest pocket and gently touched the nearest skull in the wall, murmuring two quiet words under his breath—“I’m sorry.”

He continued down the passageway, quietly. Neither he nor Napoleon spoke for a while. Finally, he heard a sharp intake of breath from the American.

“Illya, there’s a door that goes down to a keep,” he said. “I think that might be the best place to look.”

“Da. Can you give me a good idea of where you are? We can try to rendezvous.”

“Let me see if I find anything, and then I’ll try to figure out where the heck I am,” Napoleon mused.

“Good idea; I am almost at the end of the…” Illya paused as he felt nothing but solid wall in front of him. He swore in his native tongue.

“What happened?”

“The passageway has been sealed! I cannot enter the castle!”

“…Well, that’s inconvenient.”

“You think?” Illya asked.

Napoleon was suppressing a chuckle as he descended down the stairs and into the keep.

“Hang in there, Tovarisch. Just scurry around to the front entrance and…” Now it was his turn to trail off.

“Napoleon? Did you find the gas?”

“No. This… this isn’t the keep. It’s a dungeon…!”

There was something in the American’s tone of voice that told the Russian there was more to it than that.

“…It’s not just the dungeon, is it?” Illya realized.

“…Uh-uh. All those nasty torture devices you mentioned--”

BANG

Illya’s blood froze as he heard a gunshot over the communicator, followed by a cry from Napoleon. There was a crunching sound a split-second before the communicator went silent.

“Napoleon!? Napoleon!?”

There was nothing but silence.

“Nyet…” the Russian breathed, running a hand through his hair. He quickly relayed the situation to U.N.C.L.E. Northeast and then contemplated on what to do until backup arrived. He would have to decide now whether to run all the way outside and go through the front and contend with a bunch of THRUSHies that were surely waiting for him, or attempt to find a way past the blocked exit of the passageway. Running a hand across the wall blocking his way revealed an iron chain. Illya took a flashlight and ran the beam up the length of the chain, pausing as he saw the chain sealed on the ceiling by a gigantic glob of wax that was stuck there. And mounted around the wax were several unlit torch brackets.

Illya exhaled, deciding to gamble on the hope that if he lit the torches and melted the wax, the chain would release and the passageway would open.

His decision made, all he could do now was hope that he wasn’t too late to save his partner.

****************************************

Napoleon, despite keeping his arms raised in surrender, stared defiantly as Silas Moran pointed his weapon at him. A casual shot from an impressive range had knocked Napoleon’s Special out of his hand; his communicator had slipped from his other hand, and one of Moran’s men had quickly crushed it under his boot. He was quickly searched and deprived of his other devices, including the tracking device he had intended to use to help Illya find him.

Napoleon was quietly chastising himself for allowing himself to be taken by surprise. He had been walking down the stairs, expecting a storage keep, but instead had stumbled upon a room full of torture devices, including the x-shaped saltires that had been at the THRUSH facility where Illya had been questioned about the launch codes after Monte Carlo. Seeing the saltires again, and being forcefully reminded of how Illya had been taken and tortured, had distracted him long enough for Moran to have gotten the drop on him.

“So… You are Napoleon Solo,” Moran said, looking at him with some amount of admiration. “I wasn’t certain of who you were when I saw you by my yacht last month. I’d heard you had been seeking the Baron, but I had no idea you were as close to capturing me as you were.”

Napoleon glared in silence.

“And it would seem that the Soviet I was questioning for the launch codes is in cahoots with you,” Moran continued, scoffing. “Where is he, Solo?”

Napoleon continued to glare.

“Come, come, Solo; there’s no use in protecting him—not when he is only using you to get to me.”

“I’m not going to fall for that this time,” Napoleon vowed, quietly.

“Very well, Mr. Solo, I see you’re going to be just as difficult as he was,” Moran said. He snapped his fingers, and one of his goons shoved Napoleon into an open trapdoor about six feet down. Napoleon hissed as he landed on the cold stones; looking around, he saw that he had fallen in front of another saltire in a narrow corridor, and that there were skeletons seemingly stuck to both of the short walls on the opposite sides of the corridor.

“Chain him,” Moran ordered.

A rope ladder descended from the open trapdoor, and Moran’s men climbed down. Napoleon considered fighting them, but Moran had his weapon drawn from the upper dungeon, and so the American didn’t resist as he was chained to the saltire as Illya had been.

Moran descended into the narrow room now.

“Move the shipment out; the Russian will have called for backup, and we must be gone before they get here. Don’t wait for me; I’ll find my own way out.”

“As you wish, Lord Moran.”

The goons all left.

“I suppose I’ll be keeping you company until Illya arrives with backup?” Napoleon asked, dryly.

“Not necessarily. Perhaps we can talk business, and should we arrive at a deal, you would be free to go.”

“…You have no proposition that will interest me. I can guarantee it.”

“Every man has his price, Mr. Solo.”

“What I want isn’t something you can get me.”

“Hmm, so you’re not in this for the money; you’re a glory-seeker? That accounts for you going after targets such as Emory Partridge and myself. I would be another impressive feather in your cap.”

Napoleon gave a dry chuckle.

“You too? Your man Broker also thought I was in this for the glory. I’m not.”

Moran sighed.

“Ah, so you’re an idealist.”

“That’s right.”

“Really, Mr. Solo, surely you are wise enough to know that the global peace you desire isn’t truly attainable? You know it isn’t, and it will never be.”

“But why should that stop me from trying? And even if I’ll never see global peace, I’m content with preventing immediate war from breaking out.”

“Ah, but you see, that is THRUSH’s vision, as well!”

“…If I wasn’t chained up, I’d laugh at that.”

“But it is true, Mr. Solo. First, we get the Russian launch codes. Then, we get the American launch codes. And then, the entire world comes under one rule—with THRUSH at the head. We would like to avoid war to achieve this; it would simplify things for us.”

“And how many people would suffer in your twisted view of utopia?” Napoleon quipped. “I know that the ‘R. U.’ in THRUSH stands for ‘Removal of Undesirables.’ Just how do you decide who falls into that category!?”

“Well, Mr. Solo, I can tell you that you are rapidly falling into that category yourself,” Moran said. “It is just as my grandfather Sebastian stated when he named the organization—sometimes, a desirable will end up becoming an undesirable due to foolish notions. It cannot be helped. Our ancestor who lived in this castle learned that lesson, as well.”

“I was beginning to suspect that this was family property after I saw the same saltire here as in your private THRUSH dungeon,” Napoleon muttered. “Your ancestor made it to England with his stolen wealth, didn’t he?”

“Not stolen, Solo—it was dutifully paid by the peasants. They didn’t appreciate the vision that our family has had for centuries.”

Napoleon shook his head in disgust.

“You know what? I think we’re done here.”

“Solo, do you honestly think that the views of the Soviets are any different than that of THRUSH? Even if THRUSH fails, they will seek to achieve the same global rule.”

“Can we skip the ‘Us Versus Them’ lecture? I’ve heard this chestnut more times than I can count—including from your friend Broker.”

“Mr. Broker was wise enough to see that THRUSH seeking to stop the Soviets was beneficial to your country, Mr. Solo. And he should know, knowing Kuryakin personally.”

“Yeah, yeah; he told me all about how Illya is secretly a mole and will stab me in the back to hand you over to the Soviets. OK, then--Broker’s wise, and I’m a stupid undesirable who still trusts Illya,” Napoleon said. “Now we’re done here.”

“Your trust is ill-placed, Mr. Solo—very ill-placed. But, alas, I do believe we are done here, as you say. And it is time I got going; I have no desire to be apprehended by the Soviets.”

“Don’t forget to write,” Napoleon said, glibly.

“I shall lament your decision to be an undesirable,” Moran said. “You would have been an asset to THRUSH. I will have flowers sent to your funeral.”

“Oh, thanks.”

Moran raised his hand, and Napoleon steeled himself for what he thought was going to be an incoming bullet at close-range. But, instead, an acrid-smelling substance was sprayed into his face. Napoleon coughed, wincing at the stench.

“What the--?” He frowned as he noticed Moran climbing the rope ladder.

“I hold you in such high regard, Mr. Solo, that you shall have the honor of being executed by the current owner of Dunkel Schloss.”

He disappeared from view for a moment, and then Napoleon began to hear a clanking sound as chains and gears moved around in the walls of the narrow room where he was being restrained. His heart skipped a beat as he noticed the short wall of skeletons approaching him; he turned his head as best he could and saw that the back wall was also approaching him—and it was the he noticed the numerous spears jutting out of the wall, and that it was the spears upon which the skeletons had been impaled.

Napoleon attempted to yelp, but, suddenly, his throat didn’t seem to be working. His head was suddenly feeling very heavy, and his limbs were losing all feeling.

Moran appeared at the trapdoor, holding a metal bar that had been holding the trap in place. He cast the bar aside.

“And because I admire you, I had the basic decency to use our perfected paralytic gas on you, Mr. Solo. It takes ninety seconds to take full effect, and it lasts for three hours—water or no water. Of course, it’ll be over for you in another sixty seconds—but I promise that you shall not feel a thing.”

Napoleon now hung limply from the saltire; every single voluntary muscle in his body had been numbed, and his eyes, though open, were staring unfocused at the stone floor as his head lolled on his neck. His mind was in a haze, but he wasn’t falling unconscious—to his horror, he realized he was going to be fully awake when those spears impaled him. And yet, there was nothing he could do; he couldn’t lift so much as a finger.

The sound of a gunshot caught his attention, but he couldn’t turn his head; he did, however, see Moran’s gun as it clattered to the stone floor right in front of him.

“You!?” he heard Moran fume.

“Where is he?” he heard Illya ask. The Russian’s voice was as cold as ice.

Napoleon tried to make a sound to alert his partner to his presence, but he couldn’t.

“If you’re referring to Solo, he’s down there—with approximately thirty seconds left to live.”

Napoleon heard footsteps—Illya’s, no doubt, as he looked down the trapdoor. And then Napoleon heard another set of footsteps running away.

“Stop!” he heard Illya order.

There were two more shots, a curse in Russian, and then, after a few seconds more, silence—the clanking of the gears and chains that were being caused by the moving spear-laden walls had stopped; though he couldn’t see them as he couldn’t lift his head, Napoleon was willing to bet that they were far too close for comfort.

“Napoleon…!”

Illya’s voice sounded as though he was climbing down the rope ladder. There was a pause as Illya stopped in his tracks to see what was happening—and how close Napoleon had come to death. Illya cursed again and now approached him; Napoleon could see his shoes—out of focus, but in his line of vision.

“Napoleon?”

Napoleon’s head lifted up as Illya gently raised his head; he couldn’t feel the sensation of Illya’s hands on his face, but he could see the Russian’s blurred form—and could still discern the blue eyes, wide in concern and horror, even if he couldn’t focus on them.

He could hear Illya hold a breath as he placed a hand in front of Napoleon’s nose and mouth. And as Napoleon exhaled, so did Illya.

Illya now set about unchaining Napoleon from the saltire; Napoleon fell into Illya’s arms like a giant, living ragdoll. With some difficulty, Illya maneuvered Napoleon onto his back and, clinging onto one arm with his own, used the other arm to climb up the rope ladder, and then proceed to carry him out of the castle piggyback.

“There’s no one left,” Illya said, quietly, as he carried Napoleon out. “They all have fled—the Baron, too. I could have captured him. I could have killed him.” He swore. “I should have killed him—killed him and saved you.”

You were too worried about me to think straight… Napoleon silently transmitted. And after Broker said you’d leave me for dead and take Moran back to Russia by yourself… I knew you wouldn’t.

Illya now sat down in a sheltered part of the woods nearby, in case there were any THRUSH stragglers around; he transferred Napoleon so that he was reclining on the ground, with his head and torso supported by Illya’s chest and arm. Napoleon was hoping for one of Illya’s witty remarks—something about blaming him if he ended up with a hernia or even berating him on getting captured so easily, but the Russian was silent. And Napoleon wasn’t sure why, but something about that silence concerned him deeply.

********************************

There wasn’t anything Napoleon could do other than sleep—or try to, as it was difficult to do so with his eyes open. But once Illya sensed this, the Russian obligingly covered his eyes, allowing Napoleon to doze for a while. He was still quiet, and though Napoleon eventually was given an eye mask to allow him to sleep once he was in U.N.C.L.E. Berlin’s wing of Medical, he could still sense Illya there, sitting in absolute silence.

There was the sound of someone clearing his throat by the door, and Napoleon could sense Illya stand abruptly.

“Mr. Beldon…” he said.

“You’ll be pleased to know, Mr. Kuryakin, that the paralyzed lynx you found has fully recovered,” Beldon said. “Therefore, there’s nothing to suggest that Mr. Solo will not.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“I have Mr. Waverly here over Channel D.”

“Oh. Good evening, Sir.”

“Yes, good evening, Mr. Kuryakin,” Napoleon heard Waverly say. “How is Mr. Solo faring?”

“Well, as you heard Mr. Beldon say, there’s no reason why he should not recover. I believe he is sleeping now.”

“Yes, let him rest. And I would prefer it if the two of you compile the mission report together again. Your initial report seemed to suggest that you were being rather hard on yourself again.”

“Sir, I had the Baron right in front of me!” Illya exclaimed. “I could have captured or killed him…!”

“…And then Mr. Solo would have surely perished,” Waverly finished.

“I understand that, Sir, but between what happened in Monte Carlo and here, I am wondering if it would be best if Napoleon returned to New York alone, and I returned to my old position here in Berlin.”

Napoleon was wide awake now, even though he couldn’t see beyond the eye mask. Illya was wanting to end their partnership over this!?

“…I think that is a decision that both you and Mr. Solo have to agree upon,” Waverly said. “Don’t you think so, Mr. Beldon?”

“Well, I wouldn’t object to having Mr. Kuryakin here at Northeast again,” Beldon replied, honestly.

“Sir, this transfer to New York was done so that I might be an asset in Napoleon’s mission to stop the Baron. While I may have been an asset at first, it is clear to me that I have now become a liability.”

“I think that’s for Mr. Solo to decide; this is his case,” Waverly said. “You two shall have to work it out between yourselves.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Waverly,” Beldon said. “I think it is highly improper for Mr. Kuryakin to remain in New York against his will, regardless of what Mr. Solo decides.”

“No one shall force Mr. Kuryakin to go or stay anywhere,” Waverly assured him. “I merely request that Mr. Solo be involved in these discussions. If, after involving him, you wish to remain in Berlin, then none of us will try to move you.”

Napoleon wasn’t so sure of that.

“Mr. Beldon and I have other things to discuss, so do carry on, Mr. Kuryakin,” Waverly continued.

Illya mumbled something in the affirmative and returned to Napoleon’s side as Beldon left to continue his conversation in private.

It was another hour before Napoleon finally regained the use of his limbs; the first thing he did was remove the eye mask and wince at the sudden light.

“Napoleon…!” Illya exclaimed. “How do you feel?”

But Napoleon responded by giving the Russian a long stare.

“I’m not going back to New York without you,” he said, his throat croaky from disuse.

Illya’s eyes widened.

“You… you heard.”

Napoleon took a drink of water, taking a moment to let his throat recover.

“Yes, and I refuse to accept this,” he said, at last.

“Pulling rank on me won’t work; I already received word from Mr. Waverly that I will not be forced to return to New York. And, indeed, I fail to see why you want me to return when your reasons are purely sentimental.”

“They aren’t purely sentimental. And even if they were, what’s wrong with that?”

“It was sentiment that cost us a successful capture of the Baron—not once, but twice! And it is far worse now, as he has escaped with the perfected paralytic gas!”

“So what are you saying? You want a new partner—one you wouldn’t mind ditching to complete the mission?” Napoleon asked. “Do you really expect me to believe that’s the kind of person you are—that you’d let a colleague or even an innocent bystander suffer for the sake of the mission?”

“Of course not; I’d return to working alone.”

“Illya… you were the one who told me in Rio how important it was that we stop the Baron to prevent World War III. Are you seriously going to drop everything and walk away from this? I don’t think you will. You wouldn’t have joined an organization that believes in fostering bonds across borders for the sake of world peace if you weren’t committed to the cause.” Unless you really were a mole—and I know you’re not, Napoleon silently added. “And you know as well as I do that we’ve made greater strides in this case together than I did while on my own.”

Illya glanced back at him with a pained expression.

“Illya, we are so close,” Napoleon continued. “All we need is one more chance.”

“All we’ve got is one more chance,” Illya said, flatly. “He’s going to use that paralytic gas to make his demonstration—and his threat. If we do not stop that from happening… It could be over for all of us.”

“I know. And that’s why I need you. I need to know that I’ve got backup I can count on.”

Illya exhaled again, but nodded in agreement.

“Da. One more chance,” he said.

Napoleon managed a smile.

“Thanks, Tovarisch. And thanks for… saving me from getting impaled.”

“Of course. Just so you know… I don’t regret that I did succeed in saving you.”

“I’d certainly hope not!”

Illya finally cracked a smile, and Napoleon had to hope that things would be alright. He had convinced Illya to stay in New York a while longer; there was still the question of what Illya would do after their one last chance against the Baron, but Napoleon would cross that bridge when he got to it. The important thing was that Illya was fond enough of him to stay for now—and that any and all of Broker’s claims of Illya’s latent treachery were completely unfounded.

He could live with that.