"Antonio?" Napoleon whispered as the first guard stood to be replaced by another.  "You said he was dead."  He felt the next guard parting his  nether cheeks seeking his opening.
 
The guard never found it; he fell over dead from a soundless shot.  Soon  everyone in the camp was dead except Don Julian and his son.  The  senior Solo reached for the weapon at his hip.
 
"Don't even think about it," the voice that had spoken earlier said as  armed people -- women as well as men -- poured into the clearing.  "I  have absolutely no reason to spare your life, and several very good ones  to take it."  She bound his hands behind him, took his weapons, and lead  him away.
 
The dead guard falling on him had knocked the wind from Napoleon, and  he could feel the stickiness of blood on his back.  There was stickiness  on his thighs as well, but he tried not to think about it.  He pushed upward  with his arms and felt the body above him fall to the side, then he was  being covered with something -- a blanket? -- and his Illya was there,
holding him tight.
 
"It will be all right, my Pasha," he softly said as he helped him to stand.   "Come; we will get you cleaned up and warmly dressed, then we will  have something warm to eat."
 
"Illya, I -- I've been -- he --"  Napoleon closed his eyes and gritted his teeth

as the words refused to come.
 
"I know, love," he gently replied.  "Is there a lot of pain? Can you walk a  short distance?"
 
"I can walk," the other man affirmed through still-gritted teeth, "but not to  his tent!  Anywhere else, but I refuse to stay where he's been!"
 
They walked a little further away to the tent which had been set up for the  Commander and her guards.  Illya wrinkled his nose at the overly-feminine  atmosphere as he helped Napoleon to a cot and let him gently down on it.   He noted a portable stove and -- miracle of miracles -- a large container of  water, still hot, sitting on it.  He quickly dipped out water into a basin and  found soap, washcloth, and towels.
 
Returning to his stricken lover, he began washing him with gentle  efficiency.  Face, neck, arms, chest, back, belly -- then  Napoleon's  hands stopped him,  and he looked into his shattered face.

"I can wash there," the former THRUSH operative said, not wanting Illya to see what had been done, as if by doing so he could somehow deny it happened.
 
"I have to examine you," Illya said gently, "so we will know how fast we  can move with you, and what sort of transport you will need.  If you are torn too badly inside you could bleed to death in less than an hour -- I have seen such things happen to rape victims, even women -- and it would kill me to lose you that way."
 
"Let me stand then," Napoleon conceded, "so you can do it quickly."  He stood and bent over a small dresser with his legs slightly spread.
 
Illya quickly washed his hips, thighs, and genitals, noting the color of the  blood staining the washcloth.  He then moved a lantern closer to better see for his examination of Napoleon's anus.  There was some tearing externally but the bleeding had nearly stopped.  Warning of what he was about to do, he inserted a single finger into him to check for internal  damage, ignoring the choked sob from his patient.  He didn't feel anything  unusual, but the finger came out bright red, indicating there was some bleeding  inside.  No blood was leaking from the anus, however, so he concluded it was safe enough for him to travel, if the going wasn't too hard.
 
Clothing and boots had been delivered during the washing, and Napoleon donned  them gratefully after Illya gave the OK.  They took a moment to  share an embrace and a kiss, warm if not passionate -- Illya let Napoleon set the pace, allowing him some much-needed control -- before exiting the tent and allowinng it to be quickly torn down and stowed for transport.
They ate on the fly as the last vehicle pulled out, leaving nothing but trampled  ground and a mystery for THRUSH.