The Heart of the Wolf

by Fiorenza-a

The concerned face of the woman concealed behind the lace draperies of the ground floor window was invisible to the studious young man at whom she peered intently as he shuffled his feet on the porch.

The concerned face of the woman concealed behind the lace draperies of the ground floor window was invisible to the studious young man at whom she peered intently as he shuffled his feet on the porch.

He was anxious, that much was evident just from the death grip he had on the posy of wild flowers in his hand, but there was also self assurance. Diffidence, but not self-effacement. And something of his demeanour led her to conclude that her presence did not go entirely unsuspected, although the young man never once glanced in her direction. Field agent then. And if that was so, he was here for only one reason.

All of her charges had served U.N.C.L.E. in one capacity or another. Some in the more arcane offices of that organisation, others on the frontline of the battle with THRUSH, some had moved seamlessly between the two. All were valued and cared for, but only one still had youth enough to fuel cruel dreams of a return to duty.

Shattering those dreams was a necessary part of recovery. There was a life still to be had, not the life which had been, but a new life which could be forged from the ruins of the old. This young man was here to help begin that. She had asked for him, though she hadn't known who he was, because her patient had asked for him. Restlessly calling out for him in sedated sleep.

Someone let the young man in. A few minutes more to check his credentials and he would be ushered before her. The boy with the crushed stemmed flowers. And he was a boy. She hadn't been prepared for that. Her charge was a man. Intelligent and sensitive enough to be aware of the price his chosen role in the world exacted, worldly and tough enough to pay it and get done the job he believed in. It now belatedly occurred to her that her usually infallible instincts had led her astray and that she had misunderstood those unconscious pleadings.

Awake her charge was an impervious facade of wit and charm. Occasionally she'd glimpse a thoughtful sadness as it lingered in his eyes, but he would admit nothing, determinedly cheerful, optimistic and upbeat. She had met resistance like this before. Such men were trained to resist the dubious talents of a THRUSH interrogator, after time, after a long time, he may stop resisting and give in, but how much of life would have passed him by? How many years wasted in a futile private war driven by the hope of an impossible future? He had called out in his sleep, she had believed, as if for a saviour, but had he been merely fearful for this boy's safety, out there in the field alone?

The door to her sanctum was rapped smartly. ''Come in'' she said, unaware of the authority revealed in just those few perfunctory words. Alexander Waverly sent her his most vulnerable, she was part of an elite, handpicked by the Old Man to see that the most needy casualties of his crusade against the subjugation of humanity found some form of peace. Some stayed a few weeks, some a few years, some would never leave, all were cared for. All became family, but none returned to U.N.C.L.E. There were other facilities for that.

''Illya Kuryakin, Miss Heart'' the freckled and bespectacled young nurse introduced the visitor with brisk efficiency and then, as she had been trained, returned immediately to the more pressing duties of caring for the men and women in their charge.

Miss Heart extended a hand ''Rowena, please'' she said as the young man shook it with studied politeness. The man who was at the centre of their concerns had kissed it. Old world charm and what? This boy wasn't New World. This boy wasn't of her world at all. She had nursed enough in the frontline of conflict to know a Russian accent, no matter how obscured, when she heard one. That too was unexpected. But perhaps revealing. There was truth in the ancient exhortation to judge a man by the company he keeps. But what truths were revealed about a man whose all American subconscious craved the company of Soviet youth?

''May I see Napoleon now?'' the youth of Russia asked.

''I'd like to talk to you first'' she replied.

His gaze was beguilingly innocent as he replied ''Of course. Would it be possible to have these put in water?''

She nodded and pressed an intercom on her desk ''Nurse Phillips, would you come in here a moment please?''

A petite brunette nurse appeared, took the indicated flowers almost wordlessly and disappeared.

Rowena Heart watched the interaction between the man she had supposed her patient's saviour and the young nurse. Nurse Philips was uncommonly attractive. She had hesitated in hiring her because of it, despite her undoubted skill, fearing a flighty nature, but had instead found only dedication. The young Russian handed over his flowers with the same impersonal efficiency with which they were received. Dedication was peculiar neither to nursing nor to the unattractive, but so often a world bewitched by beauty made of it a cage, imprisoning those gifted with it behind gilded bars. A vacuous incarceration those not similarly gifted seemed incapable of understanding.

''Thank you'' the young Russian said. ''How may I be of assistance?''

Rowena Heart had been in the employ of U.N.C.L.E. for a couple of decades now and had nursed fighting men for longer than that. She had formally hung up her cap and her uniform when Alexander Waverly had come to call, but nursing was in her blood and she considered each and every one of the men and women in her care to be her patient, even if other names appeared on their medical charts. The young man before her was polite, unassuming, reticent even, but it was he who had effortlessly taken control of the conversation, it was he who was dictating the terms upon which they interacted. Unthinking male ego in the presence of female authority or a hint of something more substantial? Something that might cause Alexander Waverly to value this Russian boy for more than the symbolism of his presence? Something which might cause a man like Napoleon Solo to call out for him in the dark hours of torment?

''Mr Solo can never return to duty. You understand that?''

''I have read the medical reports.''

Another surprise. U.N.C.L.E. was not normally so cavalier about patient confidentiality. ''You understood what you read? The implications?''

''I am not a medical doctor, but yes I understood.''

Rowena Heart was used to listening to what men did not say. She found women were rarely so opaque, trusting in her version of the universal sorority. Not a medical doctor was an interesting construction. The precision of man speaking a language learned in a classroom and not absorbed at his mother's knee, or yet one more clue?

Bringing them to the point of their interview she explained ''Mr Solo is having difficulty adjusting to the reality of his situation. He is making no attempt to move forward. I believe he still thinks he can recover sufficiently to return to duty.''

''You have not discussed this directly with him?''

And there it was, the snap of authority. The man was used to giving orders, used to having the right to interrogate the actions of others. In what context? She wondered. The Old Man sourced his recruits eclectically, demanding future devotion to his credo but not past virtue. This man could be anything from the scion of Russian aristocrats to an émigré street thug.

''The doctors have spoken with him'' she answered. ''He was informed of the prognosis before he was sent here. I have discussed it with him since, but I do not believe he believes it.''

''Delusional?''

''No. I would say something more akin to denial.''

''Forgive me, but are you qualified to make such a judgement?''

Forgive me, a velvet glove for the iron behind the question. Not a subtlety often employed by street thugs. ''Qualified? No. Sufficiently experienced? Yes.''

She expected bluster. The male ego dismissing her unqualified judgement in favour of the omniscience of testosterone. She had fought many such battles. She had lost very few.

''And what, in your judgement, is the best course of action?''

That she hadn't expected, but experienced nurses were rarely derailed by the unexpected. ''It can only be in his interests for him to be brought to believe it. He is an intelligent man with a good future ahead of him, if he would only reach for it. At this present time his mind is more of a handicap than his legs.''

''But the paralysis is not psychosomatic?''

She hesitated. The man, by his own admission, was not a medical doctor. She only had his own assessment of how much of the report he had understood, but he had not made any stupid assumptions thus far. ''The injury is real, the paralysis was also real, but it should have been temporary. It is unlikely he will ever recover the full use of his left leg. He will probably always need a cane, perhaps even a wheelchair at times, but he should be able to walk.''

''And he will not?''

''He cannot'' she corrected.

''Forgive me, but you have just said that he could, but is not. That is a matter of choice, not fact. The only question remaining therefore is, is he aware of having made such a choice?''

The point had the dispassionate logic of a text book. It was hard to believe that this same man had almost strangled a bouquet of flowers waiting to make it. ''I concede the point Mr Kuryakin, but you understand, for him, the paralysis remains very real.''

''He is frightened. Napoleon is a brave man, his fear cannot find a way to be heard.''

It was not a fanciful assessment, she had considered this same point herself. ''He needs reassurance. He needs to be made to understand his life is not over.''

''If what I read of his condition is true, then his life is over. I will not lie to Napoleon, but perhaps I can help persuade him that a man may have many lives. I have had more than one myself. And there is one point I should like him to understand very much. May I see Napoleon now?''

She looked into the earnest eyes before her and wondered that they could have seen one life, let alone more than one. She could discern no clouds in the innocent blue. ''Very well Mr Kuryakin. I will take you to him.''

She watched the flicker of comprehension at her words. The young man understanding that he was not yet trusted, that she would not leave him alone with her charge. That Napoleon was to be guarded even from his friends. That he must earn the right to come and go, escorted only as matter of courtesy. She wondered anew at the quicksilver brightness of a mind that grasped so much so quickly. Who was this young man with the cloudless blue eyes?

They found Napoleon in the conservatory. He had fallen into a fitful sleep, an open book on his stomach, a crocheted coverlet drawn almost to his chest, reclining amongst the potted ferns of a bygone era. The house had once been a mansion and retained many features of its past life. Rowena Heart never forgot that for some of her charges this was still a home.

She moved to wake Napoleon and found a gentle restraining hand on her arm. ''Allow me'' the Russian said.

She nodded and caught the eye of a passing nurse. ''Please bring the flowers Mr Kuryakin brought for Mr Solo.''

She didn't take her eyes from the Russian as he stood before the slumbering form. She could not see the young man's face, but when he sank carefully to one knee beside her patient she was reminded of a nineteenth century print of Sir Galahad hanging in the library. The young man reached out and took one of Napoleon's hands in his. ''Napoleon?''

The dark lashes responded instantly, revealing eyes filled with the warmth of recognition.

For a moment neither man spoke, then Napoleon surprised her by saying ''It's good to know that you are still in one piece.''

The Russian dipped his head a little and responded ''How are you feeling Napoleon?''

She had asked that same question herself, many times in many ways, and had yet to hear an answer she believed.

''Tired Illya. I want to go home.'' But she believed that answer.

''Then you need to start facing some truths my friend.''

''I can't walk Illya, that's enough truth to last any man a life time.''

''You can walk Napoleon, but you may never do so unaided again.''

''So they tell me.''

''You don't believe them?''

''I can still move my toes.''

''You are no longer paralysed, you have lost neither leg, which is assuredly a miracle, but there will always be a weakness.''

Napoleon shook his head with frustrated vehemence. ''You don't understand Illya, they felt the same, both legs felt the same.''

''Did you tell the doctors this?''

''I tried, at the hospital, but they wouldn't listen. I tried again here, but they believed the doctors.''

''And so you gave up? That is not the Napoleon Solo I have come to know and be burdened with.''

''That man died under the rubble.''

''That man saved my life.''

''And now you intend to return the favour?''

''If you will allow it, my friend.''

Rowena Heart frowned. She believed in science. In the science of medicine and all it could vanquish. In the manmade miracles of antibiotics and vaccination. But she was a nurse not a doctor and she had learned there was more to healing than could be found in a laboratory and she had learned too to listen to her patients. So she listened now as a shy Russian taught her how to hear one of her own countrymen.

''I have walked Illya.''

''When?''

''I tried standing at the hospital, when I could grab a little privacy. But they stick you in a damn wheelchair to go anywhere, I couldn't be sure.''

''And here?''

''Here I walked. It wasn't pretty, and my left leg was weak, but no weaker than any other time I've taken a bad hit. You've had worse.''

Rowena Heart saw the Russian wince in recollection as he said ''What did you tell them?''

''I told them I thought I could walk.''

''What did they say to that?''

Napoleon sighed defeatedly and turned his face away and into the pillows stacked behind him. ''That they were very pleased with my progress and then they offered me a cane, rehabilitation and a cosy tête-à-tête with somebody they call a resettlement officer. Did you know how many career opportunities exist for a man like me? Not with U.N.C.L.E. you understand, not in the field, not with the one man who needs me at his back, but so many other opportunities. Apparently I have a very bright future and you will find a new partner. After all America is not your country, you'd probably be happier relying on someone from your own side of the Iron Curtain.''

''They actually said that?''

''Not in so many words, but it carries the general flavour of the thing.''

''And so you gave up?''

Napoleon turned back to stare at the ceiling. ''And so I gave in. Decided to play it their way. I took their damn cane and went to the first rehabilitation session. I figured if I could get the leg into the hands of a qualified physiotherapist I might get someone they'd listen to on my side.''

''I am assuming your grand plan failed?''

''Then you would assume in error, my doubting friend, my grand plan worked. Like a dream. First session out they agreed with me, the leg was weak, it might take months of work before I'd be fit enough even to tackle the gymnasium, let alone THRUSH, but they agreed with me.''

Rowena Heart heard an unexpected tenderness in the young Russian's voice as he asked ''So what went wrong Napoleon?''

She already knew the answer to that and so she spoke, both men turning to listen attentively as one of the older nurses delivered Illya's flowers into her hands. ''A fall Mr Kuryakin. Mr Solo tried the grand staircase on his own one evening, we found him almost immediately, unconscious at the bottom of the main flight.''

''Bed rest for two days'' added Napoleon. ''I couldn't walk when they finally let me back up. I tried, Illya, believe me I tried, but it's all gone. I must have wrecked the legs in the fall. I'm sorry my friend. Truly sorry.''

There was accusation in the blue eyes which confronted her but did not leave Napoleon's side ''None of this was in the medical report.''

''I am not responsible for that'' she countered, still perturbed that this unqualified young man should have seen anything of her patient's notes. ''It's in the record here and what I told you was based on our records.''

The young man rose at that, abandoning Napoleon momentarily to relieve her of the vase of flowers and turn with them back to the injured man. ''Remember these Napoleon?'' he asked, stooping with some difficulty to place the vase of flowers on the seat of a white painted cast iron chair near her patient's day bed.

''I don't think I'll ever forget them. I thought you were dead. Even after I found you I thought you were dead.''

''You'd been told I was. All the reports said so. U.N.C.L.E. believed it, Moscow believed it, even Mr Waverly believed it. You risked more than your career to find me.''

''I'd do it again tomorrow, Illya. If I could, if they'd listened.''

''Napoleon I came here today to make sure you understand. It doesn't matter. It will never matter. I am your friend because I am your friend. I trust you. I have always trusted you. If you can't walk on that leg, then fine. That's how it will be, I will still trust you. But if you are now saying that you can, then let them hang themselves with their reports. Just as you did for me. Your instincts have saved my life more than once. If they are now needed to salvage yours, I stand by them.''

This was precisely what she had feared. ''Mr Kuryakin'' she stepped forward and stopped. There was no menace in the eyes that met hers. Just as there was no menace in the pristine beauty of the Arctic wilderness. But men died in that cold.

''I told you I would not lie to Napoleon. I have not lied to you.'' Now she saw it, the price of living one life too many. The almost unholy devotion to the man in her charge. The reason a man like Napoleon Solo would cry out across the barricades of political enmity to a man still wrapped in a red flag. The reason this boy was not a boy and may never have been a boy. The Russian wolf.

The wolf turned back to the man for whom they both feared ''I remember those flowers too Napoleon. They were the last thing I remember seeing and I thought, if I must die today, then the air is sweet and the flowers are beautiful.''

''I took some to the hospital.''

''They are the first thing I remember seeing.''

''It was close that time, my friend.''

'''I never worry about the ones that miss' do you remember saying that?''

''That night on the Danube?''

The Russian wolf nodded and plucked the book from Napoleon's stomach. He reached over stiffly to take one of the wild flowers to hold the place and then closed the book and laid it on the chair next to the vase. ''Do you need to sleep Napoleon?''

''I feel as if I could for the first time in a millennium.''

The Russian wolf tugged the folds from the crocheted blanket to cover his injured partner and Rowena Heart watched one of the bravest men she knew finally find serenity enough to sleep peacefully and without the assistance of medication. The wolf didn't turn from his vigil over the sleeping man as he asked ''Did the fall do any further damage?''

''He sprained his right ankle. We strapped it. It would have compromised his mobility while it healed, made walking much more difficult for him, but it should no longer be significantly affecting him.''

The man she had thought a boy reached up and brushed back a wayward lick of dark hair. ''Are you sure he hasn't attempted walking again?''

It was a fair question. ''Yes I'm sure. He's been watched since the fall, we didn't want him trying anything like that again.''

''Broken bones are a common hazard of our chosen profession. I see no benefit in wrapping him in cotton wool.''

''We can't risk a concussion.''

''Why?''

She paused at that. Rational human beings didn't ask that question. It was self evidently wrong to allow a patient to come to harm. Medicine was based on that very principle. If hurt must be done it should be minimised and for the sake of a greater healing. Bumps and bruises gained in learning to walk again could be tolerated, life threatening concussion could not. ''You have not visited Mr Solo before...''

''I was unavoidably detained.''

''I should have thought, if you were so concerned...''

''I was not made aware of Napoleon's condition until I was returned to this country and then I was not in a position to visit. I asked for the medical reports but it took some time before I was allowed access.''

It was then that she saw how pale the wolf was. How his collar was a size too big, remembered how he moved around the furniture, how carefully he had knelt beside his partner. Until I was returned... the wolf had been in one of those other facilities, the facilities which returned their charges to U.N.C.L.E. so that they could be beaten up and shot at and blown up by THRUSH all over again. The wolf had been injured.

Napoleon's first remark upon seeing his captive wolf made sense now. Her patient must have known about this other patient. Known and not asked. Had he been that afraid of the answers? Is that why he had called out the wolf's name in his dreams?

''Do you want to stay with him while he sleeps?''

''It is permitted?''

''I can have another bed brought in. I think he would like it if you were here when he wakes.''

''He can be somewhat overprotective'' the wolf replied and Rowena Heart smiled quietly to herself as she watched him adjust the crocheted cover to make sure Napoleon was securely tucked in and remembered that legend had it that a wolf suckled the babe who grew to found Rome.

Rowena Heart had another day bed wheeled in for the wolf. It must have been a long stay in that other facility for a young man not to question being given a bed when the sun was barely an hour past the meridian.

Now that she was aware to look for it she saw the grey exhaustion under the fair skin and wondered how long the young wolf had been discharged and then another thought occurred to her and as the wolf eased himself down on top of the bed and closed his eyes she headed for her office.

It was Napoleon who woke first. Dark eyes searching the patchwork of shadows early evening brought to the conservatory. It was Napoleon who raised the alarm. Hauling himself to his feet to crash an ungainly pathway to the door, overturning the vase of wild flowers, scattering the tiny colourful blossoms and soaking the book with water. Rowena Heart grabbed and supported him as the resident medics dashed past her and tore open Illya's shirt to get at the bloody dressing beneath.

''He discharged himself'' she said to the man whose weight she supported. ''When he knew I'd asked for him, he discharged himself.''

''Illya'' breathed the man on unsteady legs.

''It's a bleed, not unexpected in the circumstances, we've been checking on him every fifteen minutes. It looks worse than it is. It shouldn't have happened at all, but then he should never have left his bed.''

''My fault, he has a tendency to be overprotective'' her patient berated himself as she nodded to an orderly to grab the man sliding from her arms to the floor. They propped Napoleon on a strategically placed chaise. There was a piece of strategically placed seating artfully located every twenty feet or so. Nothing that drew attention to itself, but there because so many of Rowena Heart's charges found twenty feet a challenge and she never wanted them to have to ask for a seat. Alexander Waverly never picked anything less than the best. ''My fault'' muttered Napoleon again.

Rowena Heart acknowledged the departing medics with a nod of her head as she concentrated on her patient. ''Would you like to see him?''

The dark head came up at that ''He's OK?''

''It looked worse than it was and we were prepared for it. He will be fine if he co-operates.''

Then Rowena Heart heard something that made all the long weeks of worry for her patient worthwhile. Napoleon chuckled. ''Then he's a goner. 'Co-operate' is the one word Illya has never learned in any language and there are probably close to a thousand THRUSH operatives who'd give you testimony on that. Maybe more, who knows what he got up to in Europe.''

Rowena Heart smiled and repeated ''Would you like to see him?''

''Where's that orderly when you need him?'' asked Napoleon as he struggled to his feet. The orderly reappeared seemingly from nowhere at Rowena Heart's behest to help Napoleon back to his bed. Napoleon paused, hanging onto the man like a creeping vine to look at Illya stripped now of his jacket and ruined shirt. Illya was asleep or maybe unconscious but a surprisingly good colour for a man who had threatened to haemorrhage his life's blood onto the sheets.

Rowena Heart came up behind her patient to repeat ''It looked much worse than it was. Our Russian wolf is quite safe.'' But Napoleon never took his eyes from Illya as they tucked him back into his bed and he fell asleep still watching over his partner.

It was Illya who woke next, in unfamiliar surroundings with Napoleon in the next bed. Illya struggled to sit up and then tried to get out of bed. He was caught by the preternatural omniscience of all U.N.C.L.E. nurses and found himself bundled back under the covers by a petite blonde wearing a look that said if he thought THRUSH was his worst enemy he need only cause her one more minute of aggravation in order to discover otherwise.

With typical serendipity Napoleon slept through the whole episode only to wake when the doctor arrived with Mr Waverly and Rowena Heart, making an almost never heard of visit to one of U.N.C.L.E.'s other facilities, the sort of facility that put its patients back into the lists and fully expected to have to operate a revolving door policy in that regard. Everyone knew the legendary Miss Heart only normally saw those that fell off the merry-go-round.

''How are you boys doing?'' she asked the wolf and his keeper.

''Why is Napoleon here?'' asked her wolf.

''I listen to my patients Illya'' she replied gently ''and I watch them. Napoleon could barely walk the night of your bleed. He barely supported himself. But he did it on both legs, so I spoke to his physiotherapist and then I spoke to Mr Waverly.''

''A full recovery?'' asked Napoleon and there was something almost unbearably poignant in the manner of his asking.

''In time'' she replied.

Rowena Heart had no favourites amongst her patients, they were all family. But once a year an unassuming posy of wild flowers would be delivered to her door. Always in a small crystal vase, she had quite a few of those now, all put aside for the use of her patients, there was never a message, but at the bottom of the vase, when the flowers finally faded and she tipped the last of the water away, would be a small charm. Sometimes in silver, sometimes in glass, sometimes carved from a semi-precious stone or mother of pearl, but always, always in the image of a wolf. And the wolf had never been her patient.

END