Accenting Life - Song Story 5/26
The prompt is The Pretender by Jackson Browne.
~~~~~:
The early morning air was a crisp reminder to Illya Kuryakin that he was not in New York today. He and Napoleon Solo were in a remote location north of everywhere worthwhile, it seemed to the Russian. Not since his days in the Soviet Union had he been this cold, nor had the landscape appeared so desolate.
“I hope this contact is not going to leave us sitting here in the cold; he should have been here by now.”
Napoleon noted a deeper inflection of his partner’s native Russian as he spoke. It was interesting when the self-control lapsed slightly and Illya’s finely honed, upper crust alter ego lost a little of its trained restraint. Sometimes Napoleon wondered what would happen if Illya weren’t so un-Russian sounding? Of course that wasn’t a word, and he would never suggest it to the blond Bolshevik.
“You’re not getting cold are you? I thought you could weather the frosty temperatures better than this, Illya.”
The only thing frosty was the look in the Russian’s eyes as he turned to look at Solo. They were both wrapped up in down-lined parkas, with boots suitable for tramping across Siberia. As it happened, they weren’t too far away from that forbidden zone.
“Cold is cold regardless of where one was born, Napoleon. This assignment …”
Hmmm… What was this? Napoleon heard something in his friend’s voice that sounded a little bit wistful. No, not wistful…
“Something bothering you? It seems that the farther north we travel the less of an English accent you have. What gives?”
Illya smiled that crooked smile of his at the disclosure. So, sometimes he sounded more Russian. He would need to keep a watch on that, perhaps.
“Do I sound Russian to you? I will admit that there was some attention given to my accent, to speaking English like an Englishman; well, in much the same way I was trained to speak French like a Frenchman.”
That little dig went without a response. Napoleon was wise to that one.
“Yes, well… you do have rather a mastery of languages and accents, I’ll give you that. But, do you feel as though you need to avoid sounding Russian now? Is there still a fear of rejection, or …”
“Reprisal?’
Illya looked out across the frozen tundra that surrounded them. Here there was no need for keeping up appearances.
“Yes, I suppose at times there is the thought that some people might react differently to me were my accent decidedly more Russian; if I were to request wodka instead of vodka.”
Napoleon noted the vague glimmer of something like sadness in his friend’s blue eyes. How much of who Illya Kuryakin seemed to be was really all just a pretense? In that moment the American wondered how well he really knew his partner.
Illya sensed it, knew instinctively that Napoleon was looking at him and considering how expertly the Soviet Union trained its people. It was common knowledge now that Soviet spies were placed early, and were virtually undetectable from the native populations they infiltrated.
Still, even among the international diversity of UNCLE, Illya still stood out as the solitary Soviet agent. Change was not coming fast enough, and living this life sometimes took its toll on the young man whose talent and intellect had recommended him to the Command.
“Do you doubt me, Napoleon? Do you find yourself wondering who I am, really? I would understand, of course; my country’s reputation always precedes me.”
That shocked Napoleon, as though the partnership was subject to such things. How could Illya even ask him that?
“Illya… how many times have we risked our lives for each other? We’re partners, friends … I trust you completely.’
That comment elicited a deep sigh from the blond. Of course. He knew what Napoleon said was true, for both of them.
“Da tovarisch. You are indeed a true friend. Spacibo.”
There was no need to pretend here, in this place and with this man. Here was a friend, and he had proven himself repeatedly.
“How did you master that accent, anyway?”
Both of them were smiling now, and Illya’s British accent was back as he replied.
“It is a gift, my friend, for which I can take no credit.”
“And humble, too. No wonder Waverly wanted you on our side.”
“No, not truly humble. Like so many other performances, it is merely what I was trained to do. You understand?”
Napoleon did understand.
~~~~~:
The early morning air was a crisp reminder to Illya Kuryakin that he was not in New York today. He and Napoleon Solo were in a remote location north of everywhere worthwhile, it seemed to the Russian. Not since his days in the Soviet Union had he been this cold, nor had the landscape appeared so desolate.
“I hope this contact is not going to leave us sitting here in the cold; he should have been here by now.”
Napoleon noted a deeper inflection of his partner’s native Russian as he spoke. It was interesting when the self-control lapsed slightly and Illya’s finely honed, upper crust alter ego lost a little of its trained restraint. Sometimes Napoleon wondered what would happen if Illya weren’t so un-Russian sounding? Of course that wasn’t a word, and he would never suggest it to the blond Bolshevik.
“You’re not getting cold are you? I thought you could weather the frosty temperatures better than this, Illya.”
The only thing frosty was the look in the Russian’s eyes as he turned to look at Solo. They were both wrapped up in down-lined parkas, with boots suitable for tramping across Siberia. As it happened, they weren’t too far away from that forbidden zone.
“Cold is cold regardless of where one was born, Napoleon. This assignment …”
Hmmm… What was this? Napoleon heard something in his friend’s voice that sounded a little bit wistful. No, not wistful…
“Something bothering you? It seems that the farther north we travel the less of an English accent you have. What gives?”
Illya smiled that crooked smile of his at the disclosure. So, sometimes he sounded more Russian. He would need to keep a watch on that, perhaps.
“Do I sound Russian to you? I will admit that there was some attention given to my accent, to speaking English like an Englishman; well, in much the same way I was trained to speak French like a Frenchman.”
That little dig went without a response. Napoleon was wise to that one.
“Yes, well… you do have rather a mastery of languages and accents, I’ll give you that. But, do you feel as though you need to avoid sounding Russian now? Is there still a fear of rejection, or …”
“Reprisal?’
Illya looked out across the frozen tundra that surrounded them. Here there was no need for keeping up appearances.
“Yes, I suppose at times there is the thought that some people might react differently to me were my accent decidedly more Russian; if I were to request wodka instead of vodka.”
Napoleon noted the vague glimmer of something like sadness in his friend’s blue eyes. How much of who Illya Kuryakin seemed to be was really all just a pretense? In that moment the American wondered how well he really knew his partner.
Illya sensed it, knew instinctively that Napoleon was looking at him and considering how expertly the Soviet Union trained its people. It was common knowledge now that Soviet spies were placed early, and were virtually undetectable from the native populations they infiltrated.
Still, even among the international diversity of UNCLE, Illya still stood out as the solitary Soviet agent. Change was not coming fast enough, and living this life sometimes took its toll on the young man whose talent and intellect had recommended him to the Command.
“Do you doubt me, Napoleon? Do you find yourself wondering who I am, really? I would understand, of course; my country’s reputation always precedes me.”
That shocked Napoleon, as though the partnership was subject to such things. How could Illya even ask him that?
“Illya… how many times have we risked our lives for each other? We’re partners, friends … I trust you completely.’
That comment elicited a deep sigh from the blond. Of course. He knew what Napoleon said was true, for both of them.
“Da tovarisch. You are indeed a true friend. Spacibo.”
There was no need to pretend here, in this place and with this man. Here was a friend, and he had proven himself repeatedly.
“How did you master that accent, anyway?”
Both of them were smiling now, and Illya’s British accent was back as he replied.
“It is a gift, my friend, for which I can take no credit.”
“And humble, too. No wonder Waverly wanted you on our side.”
“No, not truly humble. Like so many other performances, it is merely what I was trained to do. You understand?”
Napoleon did understand.