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glennagirl.livejournal.com2013-07-30 08:00 am
Entry tags:
Eye Con - PicFic 7/29
The potential for getting things wrong on this one is great. I hope I didn't mix things up too much.
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Napoleon let out a low whistle at the sight before him. The sound alerted the other man to his partner’s presence, causing the Russian to straighten his posture as he attempted to shake off the memories that had nearly overwhelmed him.
“Are you all right, Illya?” The blond continued to stare at the icon, disbelieving both its presence and his reaction to it.
“I am. It was a momentary thing, it … I remembered something.” Napoleon knew a little something about this artifact, or what appeared to be the Black Madonna of Czestochowa. Illya’s Ukrainian family would most likely have also been familiar with it, as was Illya if his reaction was any indication.
“So, do you think it’s real? Is this the Black Madonna?” Napoleon’s mission here, and Illya’s, was to ascertain the veracity of this icon; it was eerie though, being in here with it and knowing the legend of how it came to be.
“I … when I was a child…’ Illya began, almost without awareness of the other man in the room. He was being transported to another time, among other people. A little boy stood among the solemn group of women and watched as they bowed, one by one, and kissed the image of the Holy Mother and then the Christ Child. It was a scene that would not play again in the ensuing years among the rhetoric and vehement denials of a Soviet education. But now, looking into this ancient image…
“I do remember it, or some copy of it perhaps. That was before the Nazi’s came, before the purges of Stalin… a very long time ago.”
Napoleon’s expression was both confused and compassionate. Illya didn’t often speak of his past, especially his youth in the Ukraine. Seeing him now, glasses perched on the aquiline nose in his best impression of an academic, Solo could easily imagine a young Kuryakin among his Slavic kin; an inquiring child whose early religious training was ripped from him at a time when he could have used it the most.
Illya removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, a useless attempt to reduce the strain of the situation. He hadn’t wanted to come here, knowing as he did the emotional toll it might take. Even now the memories were threatening to overwhelm him; he saw his babushka as she bowed her head and prayed. He didn’t know to whom, had forgotten how to identify the presence of deity and the particular mannerisms of obeisance. That perplexed the already stoic Russian; he could see them but not their veiled humility amidst so much piety.
Napoleon was talking to no one. Illya’s attention was far away. “Illya! Hey, come back tovarisch. We need to get our expert in here and see what he has to say about this. If the icon is real then it needs to go back to Poland.” Illya nodded, his concentration back on the issue at hand.
“It is, I believe, a reproduction of the original. I am no expert, however there are some differences in the marks on her face…. See?” Illya was pointing to two streaks across the face of the Madonna. They were a pinkish color beneath the dark marks.
“Is that wrong? I mean, you know for sure that the color is wrong?” Illya nodded again, putting on his glasses to get another closer look.
“Yes, definitely the color is wrong. It is too bright, too … pink. It is not the original.” His statement was so final, so authoritative. Napoleon wondered at his friend’s familiarity with this image, given his reticence about religious customs and thought.
“So, you have seen this before?” The room was immaculate, white and pristine. Whitewashed, that was the word. Napoleon found himself imagining candles glowing in the dark as parishioners murmured their thanks to the silent icon. Illya looked uncomfortable now, as though his time in this room had a deadline of some sort.
“I have seen something like it.’ A deep sigh punctuated that statement, followed by a shrug and eventually more disclosures. “Icons were… are, a very important part of the Orthodox traditions. Russian icons, those that have survived, are revered as holy by those who believe. This one belonged to the Ukrainian church at some point, before it was taken to or by Poland. There are copies in varying degrees of accuracy, this is simply one of them.”
As the words were sinking in, the man who would make the final determination arrived, notebooks and briefcase in hand. He would analyze, examine and extrapolate the clues before rendering his verdict on the painting. Illya was already certain of the final outcome; Napoleon would let the expert, Dr. Jonathan Siegel, complete his task nonetheless.
In the end it was determined that the icon was, in fact, a copy of the one in Poland. Situated as this one had been, in a church high in the French Alps, there had been little chance of it being the original. The copy was simply something brought here by a pilgrim, or refugee trying to escape the Nazis or the Soviet government, or both. Sentimentality and superstition was what Illya would call it if asked.
Privately he would call it devotion.
~~~~~:::::~~~~~:::::~~~~~:::::~~~~~:::::~~~~~:::::~
Napoleon let out a low whistle at the sight before him. The sound alerted the other man to his partner’s presence, causing the Russian to straighten his posture as he attempted to shake off the memories that had nearly overwhelmed him.
“Are you all right, Illya?” The blond continued to stare at the icon, disbelieving both its presence and his reaction to it.
“I am. It was a momentary thing, it … I remembered something.” Napoleon knew a little something about this artifact, or what appeared to be the Black Madonna of Czestochowa. Illya’s Ukrainian family would most likely have also been familiar with it, as was Illya if his reaction was any indication.
“So, do you think it’s real? Is this the Black Madonna?” Napoleon’s mission here, and Illya’s, was to ascertain the veracity of this icon; it was eerie though, being in here with it and knowing the legend of how it came to be.
“I … when I was a child…’ Illya began, almost without awareness of the other man in the room. He was being transported to another time, among other people. A little boy stood among the solemn group of women and watched as they bowed, one by one, and kissed the image of the Holy Mother and then the Christ Child. It was a scene that would not play again in the ensuing years among the rhetoric and vehement denials of a Soviet education. But now, looking into this ancient image…
“I do remember it, or some copy of it perhaps. That was before the Nazi’s came, before the purges of Stalin… a very long time ago.”
Napoleon’s expression was both confused and compassionate. Illya didn’t often speak of his past, especially his youth in the Ukraine. Seeing him now, glasses perched on the aquiline nose in his best impression of an academic, Solo could easily imagine a young Kuryakin among his Slavic kin; an inquiring child whose early religious training was ripped from him at a time when he could have used it the most.
Illya removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, a useless attempt to reduce the strain of the situation. He hadn’t wanted to come here, knowing as he did the emotional toll it might take. Even now the memories were threatening to overwhelm him; he saw his babushka as she bowed her head and prayed. He didn’t know to whom, had forgotten how to identify the presence of deity and the particular mannerisms of obeisance. That perplexed the already stoic Russian; he could see them but not their veiled humility amidst so much piety.
Napoleon was talking to no one. Illya’s attention was far away. “Illya! Hey, come back tovarisch. We need to get our expert in here and see what he has to say about this. If the icon is real then it needs to go back to Poland.” Illya nodded, his concentration back on the issue at hand.
“It is, I believe, a reproduction of the original. I am no expert, however there are some differences in the marks on her face…. See?” Illya was pointing to two streaks across the face of the Madonna. They were a pinkish color beneath the dark marks.
“Is that wrong? I mean, you know for sure that the color is wrong?” Illya nodded again, putting on his glasses to get another closer look.
“Yes, definitely the color is wrong. It is too bright, too … pink. It is not the original.” His statement was so final, so authoritative. Napoleon wondered at his friend’s familiarity with this image, given his reticence about religious customs and thought.
“So, you have seen this before?” The room was immaculate, white and pristine. Whitewashed, that was the word. Napoleon found himself imagining candles glowing in the dark as parishioners murmured their thanks to the silent icon. Illya looked uncomfortable now, as though his time in this room had a deadline of some sort.
“I have seen something like it.’ A deep sigh punctuated that statement, followed by a shrug and eventually more disclosures. “Icons were… are, a very important part of the Orthodox traditions. Russian icons, those that have survived, are revered as holy by those who believe. This one belonged to the Ukrainian church at some point, before it was taken to or by Poland. There are copies in varying degrees of accuracy, this is simply one of them.”
As the words were sinking in, the man who would make the final determination arrived, notebooks and briefcase in hand. He would analyze, examine and extrapolate the clues before rendering his verdict on the painting. Illya was already certain of the final outcome; Napoleon would let the expert, Dr. Jonathan Siegel, complete his task nonetheless.
In the end it was determined that the icon was, in fact, a copy of the one in Poland. Situated as this one had been, in a church high in the French Alps, there had been little chance of it being the original. The copy was simply something brought here by a pilgrim, or refugee trying to escape the Nazis or the Soviet government, or both. Sentimentality and superstition was what Illya would call it if asked.
Privately he would call it devotion.
