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Napoleon crinkled his nose in disdain as he watched his partner move with skilled but bloody hands.
Illya was in the middle of skinning and gutting the rabbit he’d killed for their supper. He’d nailed it with one deadly shot, yet Napoleon watched as the Russian paused to bow his head over the animal, laying a gentle hand on it.
The American had never been one for hunting, the four-footed kind of prey that is, finding it a bit disgusting. His preference was stalking the female of the species of homo sapien, no bloodletting there, unless Angelique or Serena were involved.
Illya readied the coney, as he called it, and put the carcass on a spit over the fire, turning it periodically as it cooked. It would make for a meager meal as the rabbit was a skinny one, but still better than nothing.
“You’re pretty good at this, aren’t you? I mean beyond basic survival skills.” Napoleon said, huddling close to the fire.
“I was taught to hunt by my father Nicholaí, and was but seven years old when I killed my first hart, though moments later I was nearly killed myself by wolf, had it not been for my father’s quick and skillful hand with his rifle *
“Seven, you were hunting at seven?”
“Yes, Napoleon, the world you and I grew up in were very different from each other. You had a life of privilege, with your Admiral, and Ambassador grandfathers.”
"Well it wasn't exactly a bed of roses chum, I grew up in a very strict home, the only breath of fresh air really, was my Aunt Amy. With my parents it was always, yes sir, yes ma'am, and I was expected to be seen but not heard, unless me and my siblings were paraded out for some formal function. Sometimes I think my parents forgot we were children....at least my father did, mom just did as she was orderd by him."
"So we both have our moments of unhappiness in our lives," Illya acknowledged that, not wanting to demean his partner. There would be no 'my life was worse than yours while growing up' conversation.
"Enough about me,"Napoleon nodded for Illya to continue, as it wasn’t often the Russian revealed things about his past.
Illya looked into the fire, focusing on it. He let out a deep sigh and began to speak
“We were in the middle of a war, literally, and survival was by any means. I have never told you part of the reason why I hate dogs...when I was an orphaned and trying to survive on the streets of Kyiv, I was hunted by packs of wild dogs as were all the bespriorzi. I turned the tide, and hunted them, though I was still afraid of them...dog meat is quite tasty by the way when you are hungry enough.”
“Bespriorzi, tovarisch?”
“It is an old term, not well known outside of the Soviet Union, dating back to the first world war...or maybe further back. It is used to reference the millions of unwanted children, orphaned mostly by war, street children, as it were.”
“I never heard that term before, so you were a street child?”
“Yes, after my family was killed, I lived in the ruins of Kyiv hiding from the occupying forces of the Germans, that was until I was captured...”
“Okay so what happened after you were caught? Don’t stop there.” Napoleon urged his partner to continue. This was a rare moment of candor for the Russian. Yet like so many times before, Illya would say a little and then clam up, speaking nothing more on a particular subject. Sometimes Solo wasn't even sure what was coming out of his partners mouth was the truth or not, but this time it felt real.
“Okay, we won’t go that route,” Napoleon said. “Now as to the dogs; I thought you were afraid of them because they used dogs as part of your training in the GRU.”
“Well, that too.” Illya quirked his head, checking on the rabbit. “Sometimes all I can see in my dreams is a dog leaping at me, trying to rip out my throat.” He drifted into silence again, no doubt connecting with some old memory.
“You bowed your head over the rabbit when you killed it, were you praying?” Napoleon asked.
“Nyet, I do not pray, but my father taught me to thank an innocent creature for sacrificing its life to feed me.” *
“Really?” Napoleon was mesmerized, as it was rare that his partner spoke so openly about his past. “Your father sounded like an amazing man.”
“Nicholaí Alexaevich Kuryakin was a great man,” Illya said proudly, jutting out his chin. “He died fighting with the partisans against the Nazi invaders, as did my older brother Dimitry.” **
“You had an older brother...you’ve never mentioned him before?”
“You know I prefer my privacy.” Illya took the rabbit from the fire.
“So any more you’d care to share with me,” Napoleon gently prodded.
“The only other thing I will be sharing with you tonight is this rabbit, well that , and the tent. Now eat before it gets cold.” He sliced off some meat, offering it on the tip of his knife.
Just like that, Illya had opened and closed the door on his partner. Napoleon would take what he could get from his friend. He didn’t really need to know the Russian’s past, he just needed to know he could trust him, and there was already no doubt of that.
Solo watched his partner as he stared again at the crackling fire, lost in some recollection that he was keeping to himself.
The American got up, stretched, and told Illya he was going to bed; better to give his friend some time alone to his thoughts…
As he walked towards the tent he thought he heard something whispered in Russian.
“Spacibo Papa. YA skuchayu po vsem vam_ thank you Papa. I miss you all.”
Illya continued staring, glassy-eyed into the fire, his elbows leaning on his knees, his hands clasped together in front of him.
“Napoleon, I am fine,” he spoke out, half-smiling at his partner’s concern. “You can go to sleep now moy drug.”
Solo smiled as well, shaking his head as he crawled inside the tent and into his sleeping bag...
.
* ref “The Hunting Party.” ** “Beginnings”
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