Illya Kuryakin was a man born to adversity it seemed. His youth had been filled with the anguish of an orphan, the only solace of those years his absolute determination to not be a victim of that circumstance. A superior intellect set him apart from others whose lives would be the fodder of tragic literature and endless speculation, the sad faces in the crowds that represented hapless creatures surviving under Stalin's reign of terror.
Years of education and the eventual servitude within the domain of Soviet spy masters sent the young man into places he would remember with a weariness known only to those whose lives were not their own. Being sent, finally and eventually with much gratitude, to the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, Kuryakin was finally elevated from out of the heavy hand of his Soviet masters and into the care of Alexander Waverly.
He reflected on that, and more, as he lay in a feverish state inside a cabin that had seen decades of use in this wilderness. His partner Napoleon was busy tending the fire, a welcome aid in spite of a raging storm outside. A blizzard on Christmas Eve wasn't exactly the type of white to resonant with happy memories and festive gatherings. It was only the two of them here, and time was ticking down on the two men from UNCLE.
"Illya, how are you doing?" Napoleon's voice was raspy from yelling through the noise of the blizzard. Getting here, to the cabin, had come only after what seemed like an eternity of trudging through snow drifts as Illya struggled to breathe. The constant sound of Napoleon's voice had been his only inspiration to continue as the effects of a THRUSH drug ravaged his system.
Illya had been exposed to the Hierarchy's poisons before, as had Napoleon. He wondered at times what the long term effects might be until, with the wisdom of experience, he countered his own arguments with the near certainty that he wouldn't live long enough to face long term effects of anything. The life of an agent was a case of probabilities and statistics.
As he lay in front of the fire, sweat pouring from every pore in his body (or so he imagined), the Russian remembered being sick as a child, of his grandmother's caring hands and soothing words. His mother was there too, but it was the older woman whose ministrations he thought of now. His babushka was very old he remembered, and in imagining her through the fever he spoke a few words in Russian, as though in conversation.
Napoleon listened as his friend mumbled, he caught a few words but showed a quizzical look when he recognized butterfly as one of them. Illya was repeating it, a smile on his face that seemed to be part of a delirium; he couldn't possibly be happy about anything at this point.
"Voz'mite menya s soboy, babushka, malen'kaya babochka… babochka…" Illya repeated the phrase several times, almost a chant to Napoleon's ear. He caught the word for butterfly and wondered what kind of dream his friend was having. Illya wasn't dreaming though, he was flying with his grandmother. Two butterflies floating through the air, their wings lustrous and kaleidoscopic against a perfectly pale blue sky. This was freedom, this is what it felt like to owe no one and answer only to … eternity. Eternal bliss. How wonderful it felt.
As Illya soared alongside his babushka in his delirious state, Napoleon sat by his side and applied cool water to the fevered brow. He thought back on how he had finally found his partner in the bowels of the old armament factory that THRUSH was using to produce yet another dangerous drug for use against UNCLE and other enemies of the Hierarchy. Illya had been sent to destroy the building, but one missing detail of their plans of the building had sent him to the wrong door and an encounter with a giant of a man who easily subdued the wiry Russian agent. When Illya awoke it was to the familiar feel of being bound to a chair, his skin being punctured by needles.
Napoleon followed his partner into the building after losing contact with him. He somehow missed a similar encounter with the oversized guard, instead winding through the old facility until he heard a familiar voice cursing in Russian. It was like a beacon, and he knew it as for him. So long as he was able, Illya was going to yell at the top of his voice until Napoleon showed up.
Solo did show up, but the damage was done by the time he shot the villainous scientist who was keen to use Illya as a guinea pig until he had the results he wanted, or the Russian was dead. Napoleon took exception to that methodology and shot the man. No one would miss him and no strains of a guilty conscience would overtake him at night. His job was to save his partner, so that is what he did. Napoleon also planted the explosives he had carried in with him, helping his friend stay on his feet as the effects of the drugs began to manifest. They exited the building and ran towards a wooded area well beyond the blast zone. Stumbling while he tried to keep up with Napoleon, Illya knew the poisons in his body were roiling and bubbling up trouble that would soon render him unable to function.
As they fell onto a spot behind a large boulder, Illya was limp with fatigue. He felt snow in the air, perhaps a heightened perception being produced by the drug.
"Napoleon, I am weak, will slow you down…' his words came slowly, his mouth dry as dirt.
"You should go on without me, I will only slow you down." He knew his thinking was sluggish, and hoped that Napoleon could hear him through the noise in his head.
Napoleon looked more closely at his partner, shaking his head in response to what was being suggested.
"I saved you in there, and you think I'm going to leave you now just because it's a little more difficult than we thought it would be? Think again moy drug. You're coming with me."
Just then the explosion ripped through the building, ending the threat of whatever was being produced inside, and setting a blaze that lit the sky against the dark clouds forming above.
"It is going to snow, and we have nowhere to shelter." Illya's accent was thick, something that occurred when he was in pain or affected by drugs… or both. Napoleon looked through the trees and past them, seeing open ground beyond. This part of the country was mostly uninhabited, the munitions factory built here during the war because of the camouflage provided by the forest.
"I'd lay odds that someone has built a cabin up here for hunting, all we need to do is find it." Some people said Napoleon was lucky, and sometimes he was. Mainly he had a determination to get his way, and right now he intended to have a shelter for him and Illya. The Russian was right about the snow, and they needed to find a place to spend the night. His communicator was full of static, but he hoped that the homing signal would alert Headquarters to a need for help. The office in Berlin could have a chopper here in a matter of hours. He only hoped Illya's condition wouldn't worsen quicker than a rescue could be achieved.
Napoleon's recounting of their trek through woods and across open land pelted by the beginning of the blizzard was interrupted by laughter. Illya was still dreaming, or hallucinating; the sound he was making seemed to be the Russian equivalent of Wheeee, a never before heard utterance as far as Napoleon could recall.
"That must be one heck of a hallucination tovarisch." Napoleon smiled at the outburst, glad that it was not a groan of pain he was hearing from Illya.
There is a Russians belief that when people die their souls transform into butterflies. Illya Kuryakin was not a man who yielded to such things, preferring instead to remain the scientific secularist he was trained to be. But he was raised by a woman, his babushka, who believed in the whimsical and the spiritual. The fragment of those words she had spoken to the young Illya Kuryakin were still in the man's memories, and now, in the feverish condition brought on by the drugs, he was also transformed into a butterfly as he flew alongside the old woman of his childhood. It was glorious, full of love and peace. He would be content to stay here. But something, or someone, was pulling him back to life on earth.
"Illya, you need to wake up now. I don't want to have to tell Mr. Waverly that I let you drift into a coma or something. C'mon, wake up!" Napoleon was worried now, Illya's breathing was labored and his complexion beginning to have a grayish, waxy appearance. Whatever he'd been dosed with was coming into full effect.
"Illya!" That did it, the blue eyes opened reluctantly at the sound of Napoleon's shouting. Illya regretted it instantly. He was having difficulty breathing, and the butterflies… they were gone. Napoleon was surprised when his friend's eyes filled with tears, a symptomatic response perhaps.
"I'm sorry Illya, but you need to stay awake. I can't have you slip into a coma. Do you understand me?" Illya heard the words, and slowly he deciphered what his friend was saying. His mind was translating everything to Russian, and it seemed now to be an arduous task to do so. Something was being said to him that was not coming from Napoleon. The image of the butterfly returned, causing Illya to smile and reach out to touch it. The blond seemed to be hallucinating, a worrying aspect of this ordeal. If Illya got too far into it, Napoleon would have difficulty communicating and possibly lose him again to sleep.
The butterfly stopped in mid air and spoke.
"The fever will break, moy syn, if you lie down in the snow. You need to freeze it. Do you hear me Illyushka?"
Illya was nodding his head, mumbling something in Russian that Napoleon couldn't quite catch.
''What are you trying to say Illya?" The words weren't clear, and Illya was becoming agitated by his friend's refusal to understand him. He started to sit up, straining against the pain that was trying to overwhelm his body. He needed to go outside and get into the snow. His babushka was speaking to him, the butterfly would not lie to him. What was wrong with his legs, with Napoleon?
"Sneg, mne nuzhen sneg!" Why wouldn't Napoleon help him? He must go outside, he needed snow.
Snow? Napoleon understood the word, but he couldn't let Illya go outside, the cold might finish him off. The Russian was adamant now, and against all odds he managed to pull away from his friend's restraining hold and stand up.
"Illya? What the …" And suddenly it hit him. Illya was a scientist, and perhaps even in his state of delirium something was urging him to go outside and seek a cure for whatever was happening in his body. Against ever bit of sound judgement, Napoleon decided to help his partner go out into the cold.
Little by little, Illya's feet held him up for the seemingly endless walk to the door of the cabin. It was agonizing, but he knew it was the right thing to do. Butterflies don't lie, and his babushka was a butterfly now. She would never lie to him.
They reached the door, Napoleon still wondering what would happen next. He opened the old wooden plank that served as the door and led Illya out onto the small porch. Before he could stop him, Illya fell face first into a snowdrift that was about three feet high. The blond disappeared into the powdery stuff, sinking through it until he was barely visible. Napoleon was stricken with panic and concern. Why had he helped him do this? He began to paw at the snow, pushing it aside until he reached Illya, who was face down and perfectly still.
"Illya! Illya, come on… talk to me." The urgency he felt was numbing, the freezing cold would kill his partner and … it would be his fault.
Finally Illya moved. He began to push against the snow and the hard earth beneath him, turning over until he was looking up into his friends worried eyes.
"Illya? Are… speak to me."
"What should I say?" Clear as a bell in that odd accent of his, Illya answered Napoleon with a typically cryptic response. Napoleon nearly jumped for joy, but first he needed to help dig his partner out of the snow.
"What was that all about? Are you telling me that… ' Napoleon shook his head.
"Never mind. I'm sure you'll explain everything later. Are you okay?"
"I am fine. The freezing temperature was the antidote to the poison. My … um… somehow my instincts guided me. I suppose you might call it a Christmas miracle." There was a mischievous glint in the blue eyes, and Napoleon was fine with calling the outrageous behavior a miracle. It didn't matter what worked, only that it had indeed worked.
Just then Napoleon's communicator warbled its tune, demanding attention and breaking the moment of miracle observations.
"Solo here, is help on the way?" He was grinning. Illya was fine, somehow, and help would arrive soon since the blizzard had passed.
"Yes Mr. Solo. How are you and Mr. Kuryakin faring?" Mr. Waverly was still at Headquarters. It was Christmas Day, and the Old Man was still on duty.
"Sir, we are fine, just anxious to get out of this wilderness and into some clean clothes."
"Very good then, Mr. Solo. Berlin is sending help and should be there within the hour. I will see you and Mr. Kuryakin back here in two days. Waverly out. Oh, and a Happy Christmas to you both.''
"Thank you sir. Happy Christmas to you as well."
Napoleon closed the communicator, still marveling at his partner's wild antics and the cure it provided. Stranger things had happened, but not by much.
It was a matter of a few hours before the two agents had been transported to Berlin Headquarters, checked out in Medical and sent on their way. A hotel suite was waiting for them, as was a fine meal at a festive Christmas buffet. Napoleon was still wondering how Illya had managed to come up with the concept of an antidote while in a delirious state. He waited until they were enjoying dessert, creme brûlée for both of them, before asking for the explanation.
"Illya, you kept saying butterfly when you were delirious. Do you remember what you were seeing, or dreaming?" Illya looked past Napoleon at something unseen, a memory perhaps.
"I'm not sure, only that I was thinking of a time, as a child, when I was sick and my grandmother…"
"Your babushka…" Illya smiled at the interruption.
"Very good Napoleon. Yes, my babushka. Anyway, I just remembered her touch and the words she spoke to me. I suppose it helped somehow."
"But what about the butterflies?" Illya thought back to the episode, of the images he had of butterflies in flight. How he had been one of them.
"I don't know. Perhaps you mistook the word, it sounds similar to babushka. Butterly in Russian is baboshka, so perhaps you only thought I said butterfly."
Illya was not going to try and explain what had happened, and Napoleon reluctantly accepted the explanation given by his friend.
After dinner, the two friends decided to take a walk and enjoy the decorations in the city. As they exited the hotel lobby, a solitary butterfly lighted on Illya's arm. Napoleon saw it and started to make mention of it, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
Illya seemed to not notice, but Napoleon did not fail to observe a hint of a smile on his face.