The Raven's Lair - The Three-Headed Eagle Affair

WARNING: Where do I begin? First: in my universe, Illya Nicovetch Kuryakin's name has been emended/changed/corrected/taken in vain and he is now called Ilya Nicolaievich Kuryakin. Second: Be on the lookout for a Mary Sue original character. Relax folks, she doesn't get to marry either one of our heroes. She doesn't even get a kiss. However, she is really competent.

PAIRING: Napoleon Solo and Ilya Kuryakin (see Warnings above)
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: None to my knowledge, that would meant I stuck to my guns (canons).
ARCHIVE: Not without my permission.
DISCLAIMERS & SUMMARY: See Author's Notes posted below.

Act VII - "Remembrance of Things Past..."

Ilya's morning rations consisted of kasha and a bluish cup of milk. He ate mechanically; lying on his stomach. Once again, the food was drugged. This time as Ilya slept, medical staff treated his wounds from the previous night. After applying antibiotic cream to the damaged tissues, they injected him with a powerful sedative. The three "orphans" were escorted to another cell. Before leaving their victim, one of the staff fitted him with a device that would collect his urine in a bottle attached to one of the legs of the bed. No detail would be overlooked.

Twenty-four hours later, Ilya woke to the same sounds. The sheets had not been changed. The contents of his "latrine" had been added to the sour-smelling fluids in his bed. Ilya's torturer went to work again as Kostoglotov watched on the monitor. This phase would continue for another ten days. After this, Kuryakin should be willing to confess to anything.

NS*IK*NS*IK*NS

Athea's escort was a charming and amusing conversationalist. She could see how her predecessors had been lured into a false sense of security. Her thorough study of Xenocrates's methods allowed her to flirt in turn all the while steeling herself for his coup de grace. Napoleon was in place, a directional microphone pointed towards the couple.

"You have achieved the impossible Miss Leonides." Xenocrates was almost purring.

"Yes, your excellency?"

"You have graced this place with a beauty that transcends time and the best our ancient sculptors could create."

"I'll bet you say that to all the girls."

"No. Only to those who are exceptionally attractive as you are."

"Thank you, your..."

"Please. Call me by my name: Phillipos."

Athea tried a few times before succeeding in giving the name its proper Hellenic pronunciation. "Then it's only fair that you call me Athea." Agent Charles pronounced her first name A-theee-uh.

"No, my exquisite one. Tonight we are acolytes in service to the gods. You are Athea." Xenocrates murmured, stepping closer. He pronounced the name Ah-tay-ah.

"Oooh, that sounds so romantic."

"This is the place for romance. The goddess of love reigned here until you came to usurp her power."

"Yeah right." Athea thought as she permitted Xenocrates to draw her into an embrace. The Acropolis was dedicated to the patron goddess of the city of Athens. The cerebral Athena Parthenos would have hooted like her pet owl at the notion of Aphrodite, bimbo supreme, reigning in her stead. "Wasn't she married to the god of war?"

"You are well-informed." Xenocrates leaned closer. "So it's only fitting you and I should be in this place. Your loveliness and my strength... Will you drain the power from my spear?"

"Nothing could do that, Phillipos. But, I'm willing to give it the old college try."

"Shall we retire to our Olympian rest?"

"Lead the way, my lord."

Xenocrates took her arm and they walked towards the remains of the Parthenon. Within its fluted columns a linen tent had been set up. Lifting, the drape, Phillipos gestured his "goddess" inside. A table with hors d'oeuvres, champagne and candles stood next to antique-style dining couches. Beyond was a canopied bed.

"Tonight, we must forego sweet songs and the music of the lyre. Instead, we will have sighs and the softly whispered words of our lovemaking as accompaniment."

"Hmmm." Athea assumed a recumbent position on one of the couches as Xenocrates poured champagne.

Napoleon moved in closer. The thin microphone was almost invisible in the darkness. Athea's small gold button earrings were picking up every word including his partner's soft resigned sigh. At least she'd get a last meal.

NS*IK*NS*IK*NS

Ilya's surroundings were a far cry from the seductive scene used by the Grecian general. Intellectually, he knew what his captors were trying to achieve. Unfortunately, even his formidable intelligence could not totally obliterate his feelings. As the nightly torture continued, bad dreams began. The bombardment of his senses allowed no respite. He looked terrible; bruises and scratches marred his pale skin. He smelled worse. Lying in his own wastes had resulted in a painful rash. He ached all over. Every time he shifted his position on the filthy mattress, it was all he could do to keep from crying out. The bland food did nothing to erase the taste of his tormentor. He would try to eat and end up retching, adding more foul odors to the cell.

The words of his torturer were even worse. Somehow, they'd discovered that while in the state orphanage, the director amused herself by telling the child he'd been that he was placed there deliberately by Grigoriev because he was a disgusting perverted piece of filth. "If your parents could see you now, they would beg us to shoot you. No one will ever come for you. You will die here. No one will ever love you." On and on, she repeated her lessons daily. They were the only instruction he'd received in that place.

Now, her words were hissed into his ear by the man who nightly came to hurt and befoul him. Despite himself, Ilya was beginning to feel lost. Who knew what the Grigorievs had been told? Maybe his love for Napoleon had been discovered. Napoleon. Oh God in heaven! Would he ever see Napoleon again? Kostoglotov smiled as the hidden surveillance equipment conveyed the young man's broken sobs. Not bad for only six days in hell. By the time, the "treatment" was concluded, Kuryakin would be willing to admit to anything.

NS*IK*NS*IK*NS

Photographs of Athea and Xenocrates were taken by her partner. The film was delivered to the UNCLE Athens office for "processing." After their moonlit rendezvous, Athea went immediately to her hotel room. The workman's jumpsuit and fisherman's cap allowed her pass through the rear entrance unnoticed. Within thirty minutes, she was in an UNCLE jet on her way back to New York.

The manipulated photos, enhanced her grimace as Xenocrates engaged the young woman in sexual intercourse. However, the whiz kids in Technical had added blood on Athea's dress, torso, the bed linens, and a large knife clutched in the general's hand. Additional photos of a Xenocrates look-alike driving a small three-wheeled truck along the waterfront and dropping a largish weighted bundle into the Mediterranean were included in the manila envelope delivered to the general's office the following morning. A doctored tape of his romantic evening included Athea's cries of "pleasure" augmented into screams of pain.

Finally, when news that an irate Nathaniel Stephens had gone to the American Embassy claiming his secretary had been raped and murdered by Xenocrates, the general decided it was time for early retirement. After a brief stop in Switzerland to clean out his private pension fund, he disappeared. General Kritiatides stepped into the vacancy. After a brief meeting with UNCLE representatives, who told him of his predecessor's involvement with THRUSH, the military coup was stopped. Mr. Stephens accepted the private apology of the Greek government for the untimely demise of his associate and left the country: mission accomplished.

NS*IK*NS*IK*NS

In more lucid moments, Ilya wondered how his captors had discovered so much about his incarceration in the state orphanage. Sounds from recordings of children crying filtered into his cell. The sensory assault was pervasive. Sleeping or awake, Ilya found it impossible to escape memories of his time in the hands those who seemed determine to break his mind and his spirit. He was alone with nothing to sustain him. The night before all of this was scheduled to end, Kostoglotov played his trump card.

UNCLE wasn't the only secret service with access to technological expertise. Kostoglotov's conversations with Grigoriev had been recorded and these tapes had been painstakingly manipulated; rendering their innocuous talks into something sinister. Ilya groggily came to as his silent abuser prepared to get to work.

"Wait." Kostoglotov's disembodied electronically distorted voice brought a halt to the proceedings. "Nikolai Isayevich, you can see what he's been doing in his spare time. Despite your best efforts, this man is nothing more than a disgusting sodomite."

"I agree, sir." Grigoriev's recorded voice replied evenly.

"What should we do with this pathetic bastard?"

"You know best, old friend. I have nothing to say in this matter. The boy is a disappointment. I leave him in your capable hands..."

Ilya sobbed aloud. He'd been abandoned. He might as well die now rather than in a camp. Mustering the last of his strength, he attacked his tormentor. It was no contest. Poor rations, his increasing nausea, the sleep-inducing drugs: Ilya never had a chance. He felt a forceful blow to the back of his head then succumbed to welcome oblivion. After medical personnel checked him for signs of concussion, he was injected with a strong sedative and moved to another cell. Phase Two was about to begin.

NS*IK*NS*IK*NS

Sighing, Alexander Waverly hung up the phone. His offers of intelligence to the KGB had been accepted. Nothing was offered in return. In addition, the head of the Second Directorate had all but threatened to shoot the UNCLE agent if any attempt was made to compromise Soviet leaders. For the thousandth time, the old man shook his head regretting he'd been unable to extricate Kuryakin's foster family from the Soviet Union. Sighing again, he asked his secretary to summon Napoleon. Alexander Waverly had failed. Every diplomatic measure had been rebuffed or otherwise countermanded. Despite his second-best agent's value to UNCLE, Ilya was not worth starting World War III.

NS*IK*NS*IK*NS

Ilya regained consciousness in what appeared to be a hospital ward. Unknown to him, the other beds were occupied by deaf mutes. A nurse was seated at the end of the aisle formed by two rows of beds. Ilya's groan brought her to his bedside.

"How are you feeling?"

Ilya was silent.

The "nurse" took out a thermometer and shook it down. Kostoglotov had chosen this female operative because of her uncanny resemblance to Irina Grigorieva. Her gentle features were a mask for an icy heart. Nodding, she placed the thermometer under Ilya's tongue and took hold of his wrist.

"Your fever is coming down nicely. Do you think you could drink some broth?"

Silence. Ilya closed his eyes, trying to figure out where he was. The aroma of the chicken broth made his mouth water. The nurse held a spoonful of the delicious smelling liquid to his lips. Before he knew what he was doing, the bowl was empty. The nurse smoothed the bedclothes and placed her hand on Ilya's forehead. The soup contained more of the sedative and Ilya's eyelids fluttered closed. Expertly administered local anesthetics had eliminated almost all of the pain from his torture sessions.

When he began showing signs of waking up, the lights in the "ward" were dimmed and the nurse resumed her post at his side.

"How do you feel? You've been sick for a very long time." She said softly.

Ilya decided to risk a question. "Where am I?"

"In hospital. Don't you remember? You became very sick; running a high fever. We didn't think you would live." The female agent smiled warmly.

"I want to go home."

"Soon, malenkaya. You're very weak. Now, would you like something to eat?"

Ilya shook his head. Vague memories of his recent ordeal made him uneasy. He suddenly drew his knees up toward his chest and was rewarded with a sharp pain in his anal canal. It hadn't been a dream. He was still in their power. Wincing, he stretched his legs out and turned his face towards the wall. "When can I go home?"

"Not for a while, malenkaya. Please, try to eat something."

Ilya frowned. Despite the drugs and the torture, he remembered to guard his tongue. The trick would be appearing to have lost his bearings. If only they had given him a different nurse. Employing this Irina look-alike backfired. His foster mother had been educated abroad. Six years at the Sorbonne had left their mark on her soft voice. Although this woman spoke gently, the subtle overlay of a Parisian accent was missing.

Since her "patient" refused to eat, the nurse had no alternative. She produced a hypodermic and injected the young man with sodium pentothal. The familiar nausea provided Ilya with his next cue. Fifteen minutes later, the questions began.

"Who are you?"

Ilya gave his name, slurring his speech.

"Do you know why you are here?"

" 'Cause of my grandmaman." Ilya figured his interrogators had known all along who he really was.

"You visited her frequently."

"Yes."

"What did she tell you?"

"I'm cursed." This response raised an eyebrow.

"Why?"

"... come from evil people." Ilya murmured.

'You want to reveal who you are, don't you?"

'No. Grandmaman said 's a secret."

"Did she tell you why it's a secret?"

"Yes."

"Why did she say it was secret?"

"Would hurt the Rodina. Make everybody angry. Don't tell."

"Nevertheless, you want revenge, don't you?"

"No."

"Come now, your Imperial Highness. Your parents were killed. You've been hurt. Don't you want to revenge yourself for the pain you've been dealt?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I deserve punishment. I come from evil people."

Kostoglotov listened in frustration. The truth serum was working. The little bastard admitted his heritage but that was all. Speaking into the transmitter, he watched as his agent nodded. The receiver was located in her ear.

"Don't you want to be rich?"

"No."

"You would have a large fortune to spend on anything you wanted. Wouldn't that be nice?"

"No."

"Why not?" The woman frowned.

"People need it more."

"Come now, your highness. It's your money. You're a prince. Didn't your Baba tell you this?"

"Yes."

"Well, all you have to do is tell the world who you really are and the money will be yours. Will you tell them so you can give the money to the people?"

"No. Can't tell anyone ever. People'll hate me."

Another thirty minutes of similar responses and Ilya was left alone. Unknown to his torturers, Ilya was now calling on a secret weapon more powerful than anything in the Soviet arsenal: Napoleon's love. The truth drug had worked up to a point before UNCLE's antidote kicked in. It worked enough for Ilya to remember a night, six months or so after he and Napoleon found they loved each other. They'd just returned from a harrowing mission in which Ilya had fared pretty badly. He spent a week in the infirmary before being released to his partner who nearly killed him again with kindness.

NS*IK*NS*IK*NS

"Ilyusha, my love. Wake up, dushka. You're having a nightmare." Napoleon's strength restrained his partner's flailing arms. "Shhh, love. Polya's here. You're safe, remember? We killed all of the bad guys." Napoleon leaned over and kissed the trembling lips then pulled the shivering Russian into his arms. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. But if I don't, you'll pester me until I do." Ilya sighed.

"Never, my love. If you wish to talk to me, do so. If it's still too painful for you, wait until you're stronger." Athea wasn't the only one gifted in psychology. Ilya snorted.

"I know what you're trying to do, Napoleon." Ilya slithered out of his lover's arms and pulled on his robe.

"Where are you going?" Napoleon was proud that his voice didn't shake. He secretly feared the day when Ilya would wake up and find someone more worthy.

"The living room. I need a drink. Care to join me?"

Napoleon leapt from the bed grabbing his own robe as he flew up the hall. Ilya was seated on the couch, a bottle of vodka before him. A glass of scotch was waiting on the end table.

"Polya, I didn't want what I'm about to tell you to pollute our bed. I thought I'd gotten over it. I was wrong."

"Gotten over what?" Napoleon tied the sash to his robe and sat down a discrete distance away.

Ilya told his lover about the orphanage and what happened to him there. This time, he kept his eyes on Napoleon's face; watching for the involuntary disgust and revulsion to make their presence known. He wasn't the only one who could keep iron control of his features.

Although Napoleon's usual mask was more pleasant, it was just as effective at keeping people from discerning his thoughts. Over the course of their partnership, both men had learned to read the other and Ilya examined the handsome face before him minutely. Napoleon's reaction surprised both of them. He threw up violently. Ilya despaired. If ever he'd seen disgust, this was it.

Nevertheless, he assisted his partner into the bathroom then turned to go. A strong hand clamped down on his wrist. "Don't leave." Ilya froze then sat on the edge of the bath. Napoleon rinsed his mouth and threw off the soiled robe.

"Napoleon, the rug, the couch..."

"Damn the rug." The light baritone voice was thick. "Help me to understand this, Ilya. For the past six months you've allowed me to make love to you while all along this has been on your mind? My God, why on earth didn't you tell me?"

"What would have been the point? I love you. I want you. What happened then has nothing to do with us. Remember, you're not the first man I've willingly made love with, although you will surely be the last." Ilya smiled gently. I didn't want your reaction coming between us. I didn't want you to be scared to love me in any way that clever mind of yours could devise. This was the first time I'd dreamed of those days in years. Five years to be exact. The last one was two days before Mr. Waverly assigned me to be your partner. From that moment, I had better things to think and dream about and ..."

"You truly are a rock, you know that don't you?" Napoleon whispered shakily. "I find myself a little afraid of your strength."

"And I'm more than a little concerned about your gentleness. Please tell me this won't change us, Polya."

"It already has, Ilyusha. Right now, I find myself more in love with you than ever. But, I won't lie to you. Now that I know what you went through, it's going to take a while for me to adjust to it. You've had years to move past the hurt. I haven't. I'm sorry about my reaction but... Oh shit. Never mind." Napoleon fell silent.

"No secrets anymore, Polya. Tell me." Ilya looked up at the splendidly naked man standing in front of him.

"I thought that maybe you were so lonely... Afraid I wouldn't want you without having sex, that you'd been putting up with me so to speak. The thought of you prostituting yourself to me for my love... I couldn't help but compare myself to those monsters who'd hurt you and..." Napoleon hung his head. It wasn't until Ilya felt tears dropping on his hands that he realized he'd underestimated his partner. Napoleon truly wanted his love. He needed Ilya's good opinion. Dazed by the power that had been placed at his feet, Ilya stood and gathered Napoleon into his embrace.

"Napasha, dushka moi, look at me." Ilya tilted the strong chin towards himself. "From the very first day I saw you, flirting with that silly woman in Communications, I desired you. When we were partnered and became friends, I found that I loved you. When you spoke to me my knees would shake. The first time you touched me accidentally, I came very close to dragging you onto the desk and making love to you until your eyes crossed. If I sometimes seem shy in our bed it's because I still can't quite get used to the idea that someone as wonderful as you, someone who could have anyone or anything he wanted, would want me." Ilya kissed the tear-stained cheeks. "Now let's clean up that mess you made and go back to bed."

"Tired, Ilya?"

"No."

"I love you. You know that don't you?"

"Yes. I've known it all along. But you're right. We've changed. Now, I believe it."

NS*IK*NS*IK*NS

Deep inside, Ilya smiled at the memory of their lovemaking that night. He was not alone. He hadn't been abandoned. Napoleon would not fail him. He loved and needed too much to let anything come between them, not even himself. Ilya closed his eyes and slept. As he drifted off, he idly wondered what they would try next. No matter what it was, he'd survive. Napoleon was counting on him.