The Gyptian Caravan Affair, Act 1: Enter, the Gyptians
The Gyptian Caravan Affair
-a Man from UNCLE slash fanfic by Taylor Dancinghands
Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin; Characters: Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin, April Dancer, Mark Slate
Genre: slash, h/c, BDSM, A/U: His Dark Materials Universe
Warnings: none
Rating: Mature/PG 13
Beta: Special thanks to my "His Dark Materials" beta: Avery11
Artist! Many thanks and much admiration to togsos for making the lovely, lovely pics which you will find featured in the Prologue and Act 1
Chapter Index
Act 1: Enter, the Gyptians
"We speak the language," Pasha assured Illya, his silver fox ears pricked up in confidence. "They'll at least hear you out."
"They'd better," Illya muttered, knowing he had no choice, in any event. Before today Illya would have said that a dæmon with the form of a venomous animal could not possibly carry real venom, but Napoleon's injuries strongly suggested otherwise. His condition was worsening, and his life very much in danger if they could not get help.
Most days, Illya thought about his childhood, and the grandmother who'd raised him during part of it, as little as possible. The language she'd taught him, however, and Illya's ability to speak it still, could well make the difference in just how hospitable the group camped at the riverbank would be now. Shifting rusty linguistic gears in his head, Illya began framing a carefully polite greeting as he approached the circle of caravans. He walked in the open, hands clearly visible and empty, and Pasha trotted beside him, ears and tail up in the most cordial of body language.
When Illya had gotten more than two thirds of the way across the meadow, a tall man stepped away from the camp, walking slowly up the slope Illya came down. He had the dark curly hair typical of Gyptians, which he wore down to his shoulders. His clothing was also typical homespun, decorated everywhere with colorful embroidery. Perched on his shoulder sat his dæmon, a hedgehog.
"Cautious, with a prickly personality," Illya predicted. Pasha curled the left side of his upper lip in a wry smile. "And what do you think he makes of us?" he asked, eyes on the harness and handgun visible under Illya's jacket.
"Sly," Illya answered without hesitation. "Secretive, not to be trusted, initially, at any rate."
"Well," Pasha said, not contradicting him, "perhaps speaking his language will help."
Illya passed him an only partially reassured smile and then put the theory to the test. "Good day to you, friend," he called out to his welcoming committee, raising his hand in greeting.
"And to you," the tall Gyptians answered, just as much as politeness required and no more.
"As you can probably guess, we are not from these parts," Illya said, knowing that at its best, his Gyptians language would carry the accent and idiosyncrasies of the place where he had learned it, several hundred miles to the east. "My friend and I have had the misfortune of crashing our car some miles back, and my friend is badly hurt. I would beg your assistance and hospitality, most humbly."
The man was silent for a moment, conferring with his dæmon. Then he turned back to Illya. "You speak like someone from Kiev, but you dress like a westerner. What business have you in these parts, you and your friend?"
Here, Illya had already decided that honesty would be the best policy. Thrush was unlikely to recruit from among these folk, though the truth might come with other complications too.
"My partner and I are agents from the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement," he began. "We were sent here to investigate a secret lab, somewhere in this area, where a private, outlaw organization may be studying a very dangerous technology. If what we suspect is true, our orders are to destroy it."
"UNCLE men, you say," the Gyptians replied after a skeptical moment. "And what proof have you?"
Illya was just reaching for the UNCLE ID card in his jacket pocket when another figure emerged from the ring of caravans. She was a girl, in her late teens, Illya would guess, with long, ringletted hair and wearing a brightly colored blouse and full ruffled skirts. Her dæmon, a long tailed, brown colored monkey, dashed out ahead of her, then back to play among her skirts.
"Uncle!" she shouted loudly, causing both men to direct their focus to her. "Whatever are you doing? He will think you are with Imperial Security."
"Have no fear," Illya said immediately. "If he were actually Imperial Security, he would be trying to kill me. That's how we got into this mess. My card."
The tall Gyptians took the ID card Illya proffered and examined it. "It all looks very nice and professional, Mr Kuryakin -just as anyone with access to a good print shop could make."
"They could," Illya agreed as the girl came to stand at her uncle's side and examine the card for herself. "But they would have a very difficult time finding the proper card-stock." He now gestured for the girl to hold the card up to the sun so that the watermark depicting the UNCLE logo could be seen.
"What do you say, Uncle?" the girl asked, clearly satisfied with this evidence. "Anyone that Imperial Security are trying to kill can't be all bad."
The man still didn't seem terribly happy about it. He remained, frowning as he deliberated for a moment, then Illya caught a movement from out of the corner of his eye and saw that the girl's monkey dæmon had picked something up from the grass -an acorn or some such- and now threw it so that it struck the man's hedgehog dæmon, startling him into a discomfitted hiss.
"Very well," the man conceded at last. "Go and bring your partner, and we will see what can be done. But mark, I make no promises. If your partner is beyond our help…"
"UNCLE does not take reprisals," Illya said firmly. "And we will be grateful for any effort."
"I'm sure you will be," said the girl, thrusting out her hand in introduction. "I'm Magda, and this here is Mikkadjee." She indicated her monkey dæmon who was just now making faces at the tall Gyptian's hedgehog. "My uncle there is Rudolfo with his Gemmeth. You mustn't mind them. They're usually a bit grumpy with newcomers, and They've had a lot on their minds lately."
"Illya Kuryakin," Illya said, shaking Magda's hand and then Rudolfo's. "And this is Pashapyrlitsei. My partner over there is Napoleon Solo." He indicated the tree beneath which Napoleon and Saphina sat, unmoving from where Illya had left them. He headed in that direction and Magda followed.
She gave a little gasp of dismay when she saw Napoleon's arm, purpling and terribly swollen where it rested across his lap. He seemed asleep or unconscious, but he gave a quiet moan, and Saphina, lying supine beside him, raised her head a little, when Illya crouched down beside him and softly spoke his name.
"If you can manage a few more steps we'll have you somewhere you can rest, yes?" he said. "We're among friends, for now."
The black panther dæmon stirred itself first, bumping her head against Illya's knee before turning to lick Napoleon's face encouragingly. At this Napoleon's eyes fluttered open and he drew a long breath, reaching up to take Illya's proffered hand with his good one. It still took every bit of Illya's strength and Magda's too, to get Napoleon onto his feet, and it took both of them to keep him upright as they made their way across the clearing towards the Gyptians encampment.
To his credit, Rudolfo stepped in to lend a shoulder once they had drawn near, and sent Magda to fetch her great aunt -someone Illya hoped would have some skill as a medic or healer. Soon enough there appeared an older woman with a staghorn beetle the size of one of Illya's hands for a dæmon, and she gestured them into her caravan.
"May I assume," Rudolfo said as he and Magda helped Napoleon up the caravan steps, "that whoever was thwarted in their goal of putting an end to you, will most likely try again?"
"Regrettably," Illya answered, "you are most likely correct. The car produced a rather distinctive cloud of black smoke when it crashed, and while we did our best to put some distance between ourselves and it, you may wish to take the precaution of not being in this area fairly soon."
"We'd have moved on in a day or so, regardless," Rudolfo said. "Magda! Go find Hanzi and tell him to bring the flocks in. I'd have us ready to depart within the hour."
Though his remarks were directed mainly at Magda, the whole camp heard and in seconds was abustle with preparations. Illya found himself managing Napoleon on his own, with the help of the woman Magda had called her great aunt.
"When was he bitten?" asked the old woman, who introduced herself as Dragana and her beetle as Tchifin, while she and Illya got Napoleon settled in a bed at the back of her crowded caravan.
"Earlier today," Illya said. Saphina did her best to curl up in an out of the way corner, though that was by no means easy. The small space was extraordinarily cluttered, with furniture, books, cooking gear, a woodstove, a well-worn loveseat, and even a sewing machine filling the space. Pasha lingered just inside the door, tail curled under his feet to prevent it being stepped on. The ceiling was festooned with bunches of dried flowers and herbs, which did assure Illya that he'd brought Napoleon to the right place.
"I know snakebite," said old Dragana, "but no snake that lives in these parts would cause such an injury as this." Her staghorn beetle dæmon was currently climbing among the hanging bunches of herbs and seemed to examine Napoleon from above.
"It was a dæmon," Illya answered uneasily. "It belonged to one of the men trying to kill us, and it bit him just as we were jumping free of the car, which was seconds away from plunging off a cliff. We thought that maybe it was because it knew it was about to die that it did what it did."
"I have myself heard similar stories," Dragana said, directing her dæmon to hand her various of the herbs from where they hung around the caravan. "So I would say that it is certainly possible." She lit a small brazier next and threw a mix of leaves, wood chips and other items onto it. A sweet, pungent smoke soon issued forth and she lifted it up to waft the smoke over Napoleon and Saphina, who sneezed.
"All evil presences begone!" she intoned. "I cast you out, by the power of Life. I banish you by the power of Fire and Air." Illya held his tongue and tried not to cough when she passed the brazier over him.
"This dæmon," Magda asked after she had set the brazier down. "Did he belong to a violent man? A man capable of killing?"
"Not only was he capable of doing so," Illya answered. "He was doing his utmost to kill the both of us, as he had almost certainly been ordered to do."
"If the man has the will and means to kill, then the dæmon may as well," said Magda, now collecting a different set of materials from her dæmon. Some of these she put in a small bowl while others were crushed in a mortar and pestle. All of the ingredients were finally mixed together with a little bit of what looked like honey, then Magda spread this mixture on a piece of cloth which she gently wrapped around Napoleon's swollen hand.
"This may draw away some of the fever and reduce the swelling," Magda said. "Much will depend on your partner, however."
"I understand," Illya said, wishing there was more that could be done. He was well aware that it was already too late for any sort of antivenom, if such even existed, and that not even the most modern hospital would likely be able to do much more for him. Dragana pulled a embroidered stool over so that Illya could sit at Napoleon's side, then excused herself to secure the interior of the caravan for moving.
Saphina eventually crawled up to stretch herself out next to Napoleon's legs on the narrow cot, her head resting on his belly. His partner's breaths were shallow and rapid, and his skin pale and beaded with sweat. Illya seethed inwardly, with frustration and helplessness as he sat. After a moment he felt a consoling lick on the back of his hand and Pasha's weight settled itself on his feet. Illya reached down to scratch him behind the ears.
"How long do you think it will be," he asked, "before we know…"
"Whether or not your friend will survive?" Dragana finished for him. "I would say six to eight hours. If he is still alive then, still fighting, then probably he will live."
She returned to the bedside with a pitcher and a glass of water, and a moist cloth. "There are, in general, two types of snake venom, you understand," she continued, gently wiping away the sweat on Napoleon's forehead. "Some cause paralysis, so that the victim dies when the lungs cannot breath, and the heart stops. If the snake that bit your partner had that kind of venom, he would be dead already."
Illya nodded his understanding. "And the other type?"
"Kills with pain," Dragana replied. "It inflicts first the bitten limb, then the whole body with such terrible pain, that many victims succumb to it alone. Those who can endure much, they can survive, but there is a secret to such endurance."
"And this secret is?" Illya asked, thinking that he sounded like a gullible fool, and yet desperate enough for any slim reed of hope.
"He who can endure such an ordeal, always has someone or something he is enduring for," explained the old woman. "Your partner, to whom or what is he most dedicated?"
"To UNCLE," Illya answered without thinking. "To the principles UNCLE stands for, rule of law, equal justice for all…" Dragana dismissed this with a gesture.
"These are fine sentiments, but seldom enough to support a man through such torments," she said. "What of his family? Has he a wife? mother? brothers or sisters?" Illya shook his head.
"He has no one, and neither do I," Illya explained. "It is the usual situation for UNCLE agents." Dragana tutted disapprovingly.
"Such men can be strong, but it is a fragile strength," she said. "Let us hope your partner's strength does not shatter under the weight of this ordeal."
Illya nodded, thinking that he and Napoleon had both endured much, but perhaps nothing so insidious as this -simple pain, growing and burning from within, asking for no passcodes, secret plans or even allegiance. Illya sighed and stroked his fingers absently though Pasha's fur. Outside he could hear the wagon's front steps being stowed away and horses being hitched up, and for a moment or two the old woman was outside, chatting with the driver. Then she was back inside, closing the front door and they were on the move, the whole space rocking from side to side as they rolled over the uneven ground at the side of the road. Napoleon moaned at being jostled and Illya took up the cloth to wipe his brow again.
"I told Luka -he's driving- to take care, as much as he can, to keep the ride smooth," Dragana said. "There will have to be some rough travel getting onto the road, however."
"Of course," Illya said absently, watching his partner's face contort in pain. Could Napoleon endure six to eight hours of this? The caravan settled onto the road with a quartet of bumps and Napoleon gave a pained cry at the last. Illya took up his good hand, the nearer one, thankfully, and squeezed it gently, willing all the strength and endurance he possessed into his partner.
On the road, the caravan's rocking slowed to a gentle sway, not unlike a ship at sea. Illya had hoped it would be calming, but after a while Illya began to notice his partner's eyes moving rapidly beneath the half closed lids.
"Too hot…" Napoleon murmured. "Can't bear it any longer… can't…"
Illya made soothing noises, wiping Napoleon's face and neck with the cloth.
"No... no… can't…" Napoleon continued muttering. "Can't go in the water… mustn't… sharks… already got Jeffries and Tarrant… waiting… out there… waiting…"
"Sharks?" inquired Dragana, coming with a fresh cloth.
"He was a pilot in the Asian wars," Illya said. "I believe his plane crashed at sea once."
In fact, Illya knew quite a few details about this misadventure of Napoleon's, but only because he'd bribed one of the girls in research to find copies of the citations for the medals he'd seen in Napoleon's desk drawer but which he'd never spoken of. It had been a horrific business and if that's where Napoleon was right now, then Illya must do what he could to bring him back.
"Shh… Napoleon, you're safe… you're here with me, far away from any ocean," Illya reached up to brush a sweat-damp lock of hair out of his partner's eyes. "I've got you… I'll keep you safe." Behind him, Illya heard old Dragana give an amused snort. The glare Illya focused on her had reduced other men to quivering heaps.
"Men!" was all she would say at first, then finally. "It's you, you fool. You are the one he'd endure all for. You are the one he will fight for, and possibly even live for, and yet you are afraid to speak of it."
Illya turned a frosty shoulder on the old woman, taking Napoleon's good hand up in both of his own. Of course, old old woman could well have the right of it, and he would cling to that hope for now. He knew he would fight through fire and flood for his partner, and likely the reciprocal was true. As for not speaking of it, even a man as rational as Illya had to admit, spies are a superstitious lot.
According to superstition, you did not speak much of the things you hold most precious, lest too much attention be drawn to them. There was nothing more precious to Illya than his partner's life, and it was precious in ways that even Napoleon would likely never know. Best then that it never come to anyone's attention, and the less said about his feelings in this regard the better. Pasha crept up into Illya's lap as he held Napoleon's hand and stretched his nose out to daintily lick Saphina's. The big panther blinked and returned the gesture and the sight warmed Illya's heart and kindled his hopes.
The wagons continued down the road into the evening, and Dragana came around and lit various oil lanterns in the caravan as the light faded. Later she came with a cup of broth, encouraging Illya to give what he could to Napoleon, but insisting that he should feed himself too. Later still there was strong, spiced, milky tea and a blanket over his shoulders and somewhere along the way Illya hoped he remembered to express his gratitude, but he was not sure. Eventually Dragna took herself to bed on the loveseat near the front of the caravan, extinguishing all the lamps save the one by the bed. Illya was no stranger to all night vigils -neither of them was.
In those darkest, pre-dawn hours, sometimes referred to as the 'hour of the wolf', Illya gave way to the thing eating at his heart, and leaned forward to press his lips against his partner's overwarm forehead.
"Fight for me, my Napoleon," he whispered. "Live. I know you are strong enough; I know you can do it, for me." Illya knew it was not trick of the lamplight that he saw his partner's lips shape his name, nor wishful thinking that he felt Napoleon's good hand squeeze his in return. He was still fighting. He would live.
Act 2
-a Man from UNCLE slash fanfic by Taylor Dancinghands
Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin; Characters: Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin, April Dancer, Mark Slate
Genre: slash, h/c, BDSM, A/U: His Dark Materials Universe
Warnings: none
Rating: Mature/PG 13
Beta: Special thanks to my "His Dark Materials" beta: Avery11
Artist! Many thanks and much admiration to togsos for making the lovely, lovely pics which you will find featured in the Prologue and Act 1
Chapter Index
Act 1: Enter, the Gyptians
"We speak the language," Pasha assured Illya, his silver fox ears pricked up in confidence. "They'll at least hear you out."
"They'd better," Illya muttered, knowing he had no choice, in any event. Before today Illya would have said that a dæmon with the form of a venomous animal could not possibly carry real venom, but Napoleon's injuries strongly suggested otherwise. His condition was worsening, and his life very much in danger if they could not get help.
Most days, Illya thought about his childhood, and the grandmother who'd raised him during part of it, as little as possible. The language she'd taught him, however, and Illya's ability to speak it still, could well make the difference in just how hospitable the group camped at the riverbank would be now. Shifting rusty linguistic gears in his head, Illya began framing a carefully polite greeting as he approached the circle of caravans. He walked in the open, hands clearly visible and empty, and Pasha trotted beside him, ears and tail up in the most cordial of body language.
When Illya had gotten more than two thirds of the way across the meadow, a tall man stepped away from the camp, walking slowly up the slope Illya came down. He had the dark curly hair typical of Gyptians, which he wore down to his shoulders. His clothing was also typical homespun, decorated everywhere with colorful embroidery. Perched on his shoulder sat his dæmon, a hedgehog.
"Cautious, with a prickly personality," Illya predicted. Pasha curled the left side of his upper lip in a wry smile. "And what do you think he makes of us?" he asked, eyes on the harness and handgun visible under Illya's jacket.
"Sly," Illya answered without hesitation. "Secretive, not to be trusted, initially, at any rate."
"Well," Pasha said, not contradicting him, "perhaps speaking his language will help."
Illya passed him an only partially reassured smile and then put the theory to the test. "Good day to you, friend," he called out to his welcoming committee, raising his hand in greeting.
"And to you," the tall Gyptians answered, just as much as politeness required and no more.
"As you can probably guess, we are not from these parts," Illya said, knowing that at its best, his Gyptians language would carry the accent and idiosyncrasies of the place where he had learned it, several hundred miles to the east. "My friend and I have had the misfortune of crashing our car some miles back, and my friend is badly hurt. I would beg your assistance and hospitality, most humbly."
The man was silent for a moment, conferring with his dæmon. Then he turned back to Illya. "You speak like someone from Kiev, but you dress like a westerner. What business have you in these parts, you and your friend?"
Here, Illya had already decided that honesty would be the best policy. Thrush was unlikely to recruit from among these folk, though the truth might come with other complications too.
"My partner and I are agents from the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement," he began. "We were sent here to investigate a secret lab, somewhere in this area, where a private, outlaw organization may be studying a very dangerous technology. If what we suspect is true, our orders are to destroy it."
"UNCLE men, you say," the Gyptians replied after a skeptical moment. "And what proof have you?"
Illya was just reaching for the UNCLE ID card in his jacket pocket when another figure emerged from the ring of caravans. She was a girl, in her late teens, Illya would guess, with long, ringletted hair and wearing a brightly colored blouse and full ruffled skirts. Her dæmon, a long tailed, brown colored monkey, dashed out ahead of her, then back to play among her skirts.
"Uncle!" she shouted loudly, causing both men to direct their focus to her. "Whatever are you doing? He will think you are with Imperial Security."
"Have no fear," Illya said immediately. "If he were actually Imperial Security, he would be trying to kill me. That's how we got into this mess. My card."
The tall Gyptians took the ID card Illya proffered and examined it. "It all looks very nice and professional, Mr Kuryakin -just as anyone with access to a good print shop could make."
"They could," Illya agreed as the girl came to stand at her uncle's side and examine the card for herself. "But they would have a very difficult time finding the proper card-stock." He now gestured for the girl to hold the card up to the sun so that the watermark depicting the UNCLE logo could be seen.
"What do you say, Uncle?" the girl asked, clearly satisfied with this evidence. "Anyone that Imperial Security are trying to kill can't be all bad."
The man still didn't seem terribly happy about it. He remained, frowning as he deliberated for a moment, then Illya caught a movement from out of the corner of his eye and saw that the girl's monkey dæmon had picked something up from the grass -an acorn or some such- and now threw it so that it struck the man's hedgehog dæmon, startling him into a discomfitted hiss.
"Very well," the man conceded at last. "Go and bring your partner, and we will see what can be done. But mark, I make no promises. If your partner is beyond our help…"
"UNCLE does not take reprisals," Illya said firmly. "And we will be grateful for any effort."
"I'm sure you will be," said the girl, thrusting out her hand in introduction. "I'm Magda, and this here is Mikkadjee." She indicated her monkey dæmon who was just now making faces at the tall Gyptian's hedgehog. "My uncle there is Rudolfo with his Gemmeth. You mustn't mind them. They're usually a bit grumpy with newcomers, and They've had a lot on their minds lately."
"Illya Kuryakin," Illya said, shaking Magda's hand and then Rudolfo's. "And this is Pashapyrlitsei. My partner over there is Napoleon Solo." He indicated the tree beneath which Napoleon and Saphina sat, unmoving from where Illya had left them. He headed in that direction and Magda followed.
She gave a little gasp of dismay when she saw Napoleon's arm, purpling and terribly swollen where it rested across his lap. He seemed asleep or unconscious, but he gave a quiet moan, and Saphina, lying supine beside him, raised her head a little, when Illya crouched down beside him and softly spoke his name.
"If you can manage a few more steps we'll have you somewhere you can rest, yes?" he said. "We're among friends, for now."
The black panther dæmon stirred itself first, bumping her head against Illya's knee before turning to lick Napoleon's face encouragingly. At this Napoleon's eyes fluttered open and he drew a long breath, reaching up to take Illya's proffered hand with his good one. It still took every bit of Illya's strength and Magda's too, to get Napoleon onto his feet, and it took both of them to keep him upright as they made their way across the clearing towards the Gyptians encampment.
To his credit, Rudolfo stepped in to lend a shoulder once they had drawn near, and sent Magda to fetch her great aunt -someone Illya hoped would have some skill as a medic or healer. Soon enough there appeared an older woman with a staghorn beetle the size of one of Illya's hands for a dæmon, and she gestured them into her caravan.
"May I assume," Rudolfo said as he and Magda helped Napoleon up the caravan steps, "that whoever was thwarted in their goal of putting an end to you, will most likely try again?"
"Regrettably," Illya answered, "you are most likely correct. The car produced a rather distinctive cloud of black smoke when it crashed, and while we did our best to put some distance between ourselves and it, you may wish to take the precaution of not being in this area fairly soon."
"We'd have moved on in a day or so, regardless," Rudolfo said. "Magda! Go find Hanzi and tell him to bring the flocks in. I'd have us ready to depart within the hour."
Though his remarks were directed mainly at Magda, the whole camp heard and in seconds was abustle with preparations. Illya found himself managing Napoleon on his own, with the help of the woman Magda had called her great aunt.
"When was he bitten?" asked the old woman, who introduced herself as Dragana and her beetle as Tchifin, while she and Illya got Napoleon settled in a bed at the back of her crowded caravan.
"Earlier today," Illya said. Saphina did her best to curl up in an out of the way corner, though that was by no means easy. The small space was extraordinarily cluttered, with furniture, books, cooking gear, a woodstove, a well-worn loveseat, and even a sewing machine filling the space. Pasha lingered just inside the door, tail curled under his feet to prevent it being stepped on. The ceiling was festooned with bunches of dried flowers and herbs, which did assure Illya that he'd brought Napoleon to the right place.
"I know snakebite," said old Dragana, "but no snake that lives in these parts would cause such an injury as this." Her staghorn beetle dæmon was currently climbing among the hanging bunches of herbs and seemed to examine Napoleon from above.
"It was a dæmon," Illya answered uneasily. "It belonged to one of the men trying to kill us, and it bit him just as we were jumping free of the car, which was seconds away from plunging off a cliff. We thought that maybe it was because it knew it was about to die that it did what it did."
"I have myself heard similar stories," Dragana said, directing her dæmon to hand her various of the herbs from where they hung around the caravan. "So I would say that it is certainly possible." She lit a small brazier next and threw a mix of leaves, wood chips and other items onto it. A sweet, pungent smoke soon issued forth and she lifted it up to waft the smoke over Napoleon and Saphina, who sneezed.
"All evil presences begone!" she intoned. "I cast you out, by the power of Life. I banish you by the power of Fire and Air." Illya held his tongue and tried not to cough when she passed the brazier over him.
"This dæmon," Magda asked after she had set the brazier down. "Did he belong to a violent man? A man capable of killing?"
"Not only was he capable of doing so," Illya answered. "He was doing his utmost to kill the both of us, as he had almost certainly been ordered to do."
"If the man has the will and means to kill, then the dæmon may as well," said Magda, now collecting a different set of materials from her dæmon. Some of these she put in a small bowl while others were crushed in a mortar and pestle. All of the ingredients were finally mixed together with a little bit of what looked like honey, then Magda spread this mixture on a piece of cloth which she gently wrapped around Napoleon's swollen hand.
"This may draw away some of the fever and reduce the swelling," Magda said. "Much will depend on your partner, however."
"I understand," Illya said, wishing there was more that could be done. He was well aware that it was already too late for any sort of antivenom, if such even existed, and that not even the most modern hospital would likely be able to do much more for him. Dragana pulled a embroidered stool over so that Illya could sit at Napoleon's side, then excused herself to secure the interior of the caravan for moving.
Saphina eventually crawled up to stretch herself out next to Napoleon's legs on the narrow cot, her head resting on his belly. His partner's breaths were shallow and rapid, and his skin pale and beaded with sweat. Illya seethed inwardly, with frustration and helplessness as he sat. After a moment he felt a consoling lick on the back of his hand and Pasha's weight settled itself on his feet. Illya reached down to scratch him behind the ears.
"How long do you think it will be," he asked, "before we know…"
"Whether or not your friend will survive?" Dragana finished for him. "I would say six to eight hours. If he is still alive then, still fighting, then probably he will live."
She returned to the bedside with a pitcher and a glass of water, and a moist cloth. "There are, in general, two types of snake venom, you understand," she continued, gently wiping away the sweat on Napoleon's forehead. "Some cause paralysis, so that the victim dies when the lungs cannot breath, and the heart stops. If the snake that bit your partner had that kind of venom, he would be dead already."
Illya nodded his understanding. "And the other type?"
"Kills with pain," Dragana replied. "It inflicts first the bitten limb, then the whole body with such terrible pain, that many victims succumb to it alone. Those who can endure much, they can survive, but there is a secret to such endurance."
"And this secret is?" Illya asked, thinking that he sounded like a gullible fool, and yet desperate enough for any slim reed of hope.
"He who can endure such an ordeal, always has someone or something he is enduring for," explained the old woman. "Your partner, to whom or what is he most dedicated?"
"To UNCLE," Illya answered without thinking. "To the principles UNCLE stands for, rule of law, equal justice for all…" Dragana dismissed this with a gesture.
"These are fine sentiments, but seldom enough to support a man through such torments," she said. "What of his family? Has he a wife? mother? brothers or sisters?" Illya shook his head.
"He has no one, and neither do I," Illya explained. "It is the usual situation for UNCLE agents." Dragana tutted disapprovingly.
"Such men can be strong, but it is a fragile strength," she said. "Let us hope your partner's strength does not shatter under the weight of this ordeal."
Illya nodded, thinking that he and Napoleon had both endured much, but perhaps nothing so insidious as this -simple pain, growing and burning from within, asking for no passcodes, secret plans or even allegiance. Illya sighed and stroked his fingers absently though Pasha's fur. Outside he could hear the wagon's front steps being stowed away and horses being hitched up, and for a moment or two the old woman was outside, chatting with the driver. Then she was back inside, closing the front door and they were on the move, the whole space rocking from side to side as they rolled over the uneven ground at the side of the road. Napoleon moaned at being jostled and Illya took up the cloth to wipe his brow again.
"I told Luka -he's driving- to take care, as much as he can, to keep the ride smooth," Dragana said. "There will have to be some rough travel getting onto the road, however."
"Of course," Illya said absently, watching his partner's face contort in pain. Could Napoleon endure six to eight hours of this? The caravan settled onto the road with a quartet of bumps and Napoleon gave a pained cry at the last. Illya took up his good hand, the nearer one, thankfully, and squeezed it gently, willing all the strength and endurance he possessed into his partner.
On the road, the caravan's rocking slowed to a gentle sway, not unlike a ship at sea. Illya had hoped it would be calming, but after a while Illya began to notice his partner's eyes moving rapidly beneath the half closed lids.
"Too hot…" Napoleon murmured. "Can't bear it any longer… can't…"
Illya made soothing noises, wiping Napoleon's face and neck with the cloth.
"No... no… can't…" Napoleon continued muttering. "Can't go in the water… mustn't… sharks… already got Jeffries and Tarrant… waiting… out there… waiting…"
"Sharks?" inquired Dragana, coming with a fresh cloth.
"He was a pilot in the Asian wars," Illya said. "I believe his plane crashed at sea once."
In fact, Illya knew quite a few details about this misadventure of Napoleon's, but only because he'd bribed one of the girls in research to find copies of the citations for the medals he'd seen in Napoleon's desk drawer but which he'd never spoken of. It had been a horrific business and if that's where Napoleon was right now, then Illya must do what he could to bring him back.
"Shh… Napoleon, you're safe… you're here with me, far away from any ocean," Illya reached up to brush a sweat-damp lock of hair out of his partner's eyes. "I've got you… I'll keep you safe." Behind him, Illya heard old Dragana give an amused snort. The glare Illya focused on her had reduced other men to quivering heaps.
"Men!" was all she would say at first, then finally. "It's you, you fool. You are the one he'd endure all for. You are the one he will fight for, and possibly even live for, and yet you are afraid to speak of it."
Illya turned a frosty shoulder on the old woman, taking Napoleon's good hand up in both of his own. Of course, old old woman could well have the right of it, and he would cling to that hope for now. He knew he would fight through fire and flood for his partner, and likely the reciprocal was true. As for not speaking of it, even a man as rational as Illya had to admit, spies are a superstitious lot.
According to superstition, you did not speak much of the things you hold most precious, lest too much attention be drawn to them. There was nothing more precious to Illya than his partner's life, and it was precious in ways that even Napoleon would likely never know. Best then that it never come to anyone's attention, and the less said about his feelings in this regard the better. Pasha crept up into Illya's lap as he held Napoleon's hand and stretched his nose out to daintily lick Saphina's. The big panther blinked and returned the gesture and the sight warmed Illya's heart and kindled his hopes.
The wagons continued down the road into the evening, and Dragana came around and lit various oil lanterns in the caravan as the light faded. Later she came with a cup of broth, encouraging Illya to give what he could to Napoleon, but insisting that he should feed himself too. Later still there was strong, spiced, milky tea and a blanket over his shoulders and somewhere along the way Illya hoped he remembered to express his gratitude, but he was not sure. Eventually Dragna took herself to bed on the loveseat near the front of the caravan, extinguishing all the lamps save the one by the bed. Illya was no stranger to all night vigils -neither of them was.
In those darkest, pre-dawn hours, sometimes referred to as the 'hour of the wolf', Illya gave way to the thing eating at his heart, and leaned forward to press his lips against his partner's overwarm forehead.
"Fight for me, my Napoleon," he whispered. "Live. I know you are strong enough; I know you can do it, for me." Illya knew it was not trick of the lamplight that he saw his partner's lips shape his name, nor wishful thinking that he felt Napoleon's good hand squeeze his in return. He was still fighting. He would live.
Act 2