-- "You must prove your bond; take away anny doubt that Cthulu could ever take Illya from you."...

"Right Now?"

"Time is of a short commodity." Waverly said dryly. --

Somehow, Napoleon knew that proving that he did not fear Cthulu's claim on his partner and lover was a harder thing to prove than he might have imagined. He *was* afraid...afraid that no matter how tightly he held him, that the small Russian could be yanked from his grasp -the very fear that had kept him from pursuing Illya before these dark days. By the violent circumstances that surrounded their work or, now, by magicks, he had always been afraid that he would never be strong enough to keep Illya at his side...alive...and safe. And the joining of bodies, here, was too fleeting a thing to turn aside something that the mind of this Church-raised man had already identified without the aid of his frustratingly silent familiar.

Cthulu. An old name. One of hundreds if not thousands. Worn by what? Not just a low spirit. No mere demon. No. Much more than that.

The Beast.

There was a thunderous explosion and a foul wind that sent dirt and grit pelting against their skins like hail as Professor McKeigh was thrown to the ground, limp as a rag doll, his mouth moving slackly. His eyes were white...and there was no light in them. [Not strong enough...] a voice whispered at the back of Napoleon's head. [More fool he to think that he could use the power of the Devil to command angels to bind the Darkness.]

The rippling in the ether before them grew ever more pronounced, twisting light into darkness and within that darkness, something moved.

"God...oh God..." Napoleon whispered brokenly, tears spilling from his eyes. "Tell me what to do!"

{You know.}

"Who..?" A new voice. Not Lovecraft. Nor any of his companions. "Who *are* you!"

{You *know*. I always was. I am. I will ever be.} The new still small voice whispered, heard somehow above the din. {And you *know* what to do.}

A reverberating roar shook the grounds. Yes, Napoleon realized, he knew what to do. To prove he did not fear losing Illya to Cthulu or anything...he had to let go. Napoleon brushed aside a soft wheaten lock placed a kiss on the palid brow. He had to let go *now*.

Even as that realization came to the American UNCLE agent, the body in his arms stirred, eyes snapping open. But this time, Illya's eyes were not the white emptiness of the possessed or the cursed.

They blazed with holy fire.

---

This page is an unofficial site that exists only for the fun of it. All characters and situations from the television show "The Man from U.N.C.L.E." are property of Norman Felton and Warner Bros. Nothing ill is intended by this use of any television characters in these amateur efforts. Any fiction linked to these pages is the intellectual property of the amateur author who created it and is not presented here for profit.