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Illya sat quietly and stared at the wall. It glistened with varnish and the carvings etched into it were colored by the hand of time. The bench he sat on was hard and uncomfortable. He wondered if that was by accident or design.

This town had been untouched by THRUSH, for one reason or another, and UNCLE had centered its recovery effort here. Experts and technicians flew in and out daily, and the locals had opened their hearts and homes to them. Illya had managed to secure one of the few rooms at the inn for himself and Napoleon. He needed privacy to come to terms with what had happened. Or so he thought. This time, it hadn't helped.

Illya tried to push the images from his mind. They had been so close, a few more seconds and they would have saved the village. The broken bodies that the blast had left haunted him. True, there had been a few survivors, but so many casualties. The ache in his shoulder was of little comfort to his own survivor status. He should have died with everyone else.

Waverly knew they were having trouble reconciling this disaster. He flew in UNCLE's best psychiatrists to help with the recovery efforts and Illya had, for once, spoke openly and freely with them. Their advice was the same as always. It wasn't your fault and, here, take these sleep aids until the nightmares pass.

Illya didn't want sleep aids; he wanted an explanation. Why had this happened? And why now? What had that one village ever done to anyone? It was like Nagasaki during World War II. It had been bombed because the original target was clouded over that morning. Now, more than ever, he wanted answers.

He could now understand why Napoleon would seek out sanctuary in a church like this, but Illya felt like an intruder. Soon people would be gathering to sing welcoming praises to their newly-born messiah. It was a situation he neither embraced nor ignored. To ignore the religion of a people was to be foolish, indeed. Although many injustices were done in the name of various gods, just as much good was also done.

There was a sound to his right and it didn't surprise him to see Napoleon sliding into the pew. Napoleon smiled at him and then turned his attention to the altar. He crossed himself and closed his eyes in prayer.

Illya envied Napoleon his faith and he hated him just a little for it. He wished he had something he could believe in so strongly. Sighing quietly, Illya turned back to the wall. Outside the lights of a passing car flashed across a darkened stained glass window, making the colors momentarily come alive. It didn't seem right that a bit of light could make inanimate objects live and a bit of light could make so many innocents perish.

"Are you okay?" Napoleon voice was soft, in deference to their surroundings.

"I would suppose it depends upon your definition of okay," Illya said, not taking his eyes off the window. This was a poor village and yet they had this beautifully crafted and cared for church. It had a marble altar and brass fixtures. Illya was fairly certain the chalice and other accoutrements were solid gold and yet they sat out in full view, untouched.

"How about the definition as it applies to Illya Kuryakin?"

"I am told I will be."

"It wasn't your fault."

"So I have been told again and again."

"And yet you have doubts."

"I should have been able to stop that laser, Napoleon."

"Illya, you were shot, you were weak from blood loss. What you did was herculean. No one could have asked more from you."

"I can. I was too slow."

"Illya, I'm going to say something and, laugh if you will, but perhaps it was God's will."

"Why would God strike down his own people?"

"He does it all the time. Our job is to trust there is a reason behind it and not to doubt His judgment. Bad things happen all the time. We don't know why, but there has to be a reason. What if one of the people killed in that village would have gone on to destroy the world? What if a plague of global proportions was about to start there? What if there was a thought or idea being harbored that was so insidious that the cost of a village was but a small price to pay?"

"How would you know?"

"You can't. You have to believe in His decisions."

"I have no such beliefs."

"I know and I'm sorry for that, my friend. My grandmother always said there was nothing sadder than a man with no beliefs."

People were starting to file in. Illya recognized the town butcher and his family, as well as the local doctor and his entourage. There were people he'd come to know as part of the relief effort and from their time here.

A Section Three agent entered, carrying a box. He spotted Napoleon and hurried to him.

"Here you go, sir. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Steven." Napoleon handed the box to Illya. "Open it, Illya. It's for you."

Illya opened the box and nearly gasped. Inside were two small kittens, curled tightly together. "What is this?"

"They were pulled from the wreckage this morning. Sloan figured their mother must have been killed. They need someone who understands cats to take care of them. I thought you would be their best bet." Napoleon patted Illya on the shoulder and started to stand. Illya's voice caught him

"Your grandmother was wrong, Napoleon." Illya stroked the head of one of the sleeping kittens tenderly. "There is nothing sadder than a man who has something to believe in and refuses to see it. I believe in you."

"That's a dicey belief, Illya."

"I don't think so. Happy Christmas, Napoleon." Illya looked down upon his charges and smiled. Suddenly he felt a rush of calm overtake him. He was at ease and peaceful and he cocked his head to one side, puzzled.

"It's called the magic of Christmas." Napoleon sat back down, placed an arm around Illya's shoulders and together, each in their own way, they celebrated the season.