Illya Kuryakin wiped his forehead with his sleeve, leaning back against the wall. The prospect was really stunning. He was standing on the lip at the endingof a long dark tunnel. He had crawled in for hours until suddenly, he had seen something ahead of him. At first, he couldn't have called it "light" because it was just a gray shadow. Then, the rocky ground had become smoother as the U.N.C.L.E. agent had reached a makeshift pile of stones. There was more light now coming through some cracks. He had hesitated, but having no choice, he had pushed against the stones, which had given way. Amazingly, he had found himself in a huge circular room, with a dome, dimly lit though he couldn't say how. Light emanated from the walls, the dome... There were several doors. Twelve doors, plus the tunnel entrance.
He wiped again his forehead, looking around. It was really stunning. A black and white pavement, gray walls, thin white columns between the wooden doors. It didn't look like an ordinary Thrush satrap location, but Illya Kuryakin couldn't waste time in wondering whether he should or not go on. The blizzard would end, sooner or later, and the Thrush operatives would come hunting for him.
Earlier, the storm had given him an opportunity to flee. Examining his escape options, he had raced from the site, managing to haul himself towards the darker mass of the ice mountain. By pure chance, he had survived. Flattening himself against the icy wall of the mountain, he had started what he had not allowed himself to call a mortal journey, though he had known... And the ice wall had given way. He had slid down a slope into the strange tunnel. Dark, cold, but it wasn't ice anymore. It was stone, and as his fingers had brushed it, he had realized that it wasn't natural. These were man-made walls. He wouldn't have been able to climb up back, so he had made his way forward, towards the end of the tunnel.
He wiped his forehead again. He felt so hot. He had been almost frozen to death, outside, and though his crawling along the tunnel had heated him up, the coldness was still there. But at the very moment the stones had fallen down, the atmosphere had changed.
The black and white pavement formed spirals, and looking at it made him feel dizzy. Each branch of the spirals, either black or white, led to a door. The Russian agent couldn't help smiling: this place reminded him of "Alice in Wonderland" or of "The Wizard of Oz." But it wasn't either of them, he knew. He was probably somewhere in a Thrush lair, and he was being offered twelve choices, twelve deadly choices, probably. Or perhaps only one, for he didn't know what he would find behind the first door. Now that he was thinking of it, what door would he try, first? A black path? A white path? What were the rules of that game? Illya Kuryakin sighed impatiently. It wasn't a game; there was no good path, no bad path! Deliberately, defiantly, he took some steps forward, determined to ignore the code of the pavement, refusing to be forced into a choice. Of course, he couldn't; not choosing was a choice.
It was a sophisticated trap, discouraging. The Russian sneered at it. He was a logical man. So, he would act logically. One door after the other, clockwise. Or... counterclockwise?
A faint rustle, behind him, gave him a start. His pursuers? He turned back, ready to pounce, and froze.
He still stood in a huge circular room, with a dome, a black and white pavement, twelve wooden doors, thin white columns between each of them. Twelve. And absolutely no trace of the tunnel entrance. He burst into almost hysterical laughter, knowing that what had obviously happened was impossible. It was not logical. It was a dream. The new wall was smooth, with its own thin white column. No more gravel, no more hole.
Probably, in reality, he was dying, somewhere, in the blizzard. Or his pursuers had taken him back, drugged him, again. He felt feverish, dizzy. Hungry and thirsty. At least, he could throw away those stifling clothes: the ski overcoat, the sweater... He wouldn't need them any more.
He felt better, lighter, freed from the overcoat. He bent over the heap of clothes, on the floor intending to pick them up, but gave up. Anyway, he had no place to hide them. It was a dream. It didn't matter.
Twelve doors. The twelve months? Illya Kuryakin smiled bitterly. The twelve days of Christmas? Because it was Christmas time, he remembered that.
Napoleon Solo sighed and muttered something under his were lost in the desert. Not a sand desert, with large, soft dunes. No. A stony place. Rocks, sharp stones, gravel. From place to place, some bigger rocks. And, of course, wind. Wind and dust. Napoleon Solo cursed. " This must be the hundredth time", his partner thought. He knew why. He leaned back against the rock, and tapped his pocket feeling the prize inside it. They had succeeded. They had fulfilled their assignment. Their enemies had been defeated. They were lost in this desert, but their friends were looking for them, they would find them.
"Too late."
This time, Napoleon had spoken louder. Illya Kuryakin looked at him inquiringly. Too late? Too late for what? Napoleon Solo looked up, blinking.
"Do you know the date, Illya?'' He shook his head, as the Russian chose to keep silent.
"Of course, you don't. It's Christmas, Illya, Christmas"
Of course, he knew. A strong Solo family's tradition. Christmas.
"Oh... I see. So, happy Christmas, Napoleon."
Napoleon Solo rolled his eyes, before lowering them. When he raised his head, he was smiling. He squeezed his friend's arm.
"Merry Christmas, Illya."
They had been rescued, and eventually, had shared a Christmas party. Just a little late.
So, clockwise, then. Taking a deep breath, he looked around. Air? Where did the air come from? The room had good ventilation, though he couldn't see anything. Air. A bracing air, which gave him new life. Illogical. Impossible. He deliberately walked towards the first door, ignoring the rhythm of the black and white pavement, though he was expecting the floor to give way under him, or the dome to fall on him.
So, of course, nothing happened. He stood in front of the wooden door, grabbing the copper handle. Careless? Probably, but did it really matter? Not surprisingly, it wasn't locked. Pushing the door open, he found another room. An empty one, gray walls, gray floor. Cold. It looked like a cell, a Thrush cell. If he took some steps in, the door would be slammed behind him, and he would hear his enemy's laugh.
Illya Kuryakin shut the door and walked toward the next door. It was the same, exactly the same. Until he pushed on it, and he knew for sure that he was dreaming. It was not a room. It was a boundless place. An absolutely impossible place. He couldn't help entering, irresistibly enticed. In front of him, staircases. No. One staircase, giving way to a flight of staircases stretching away endlessly, intersecting again and again, making him feel dizzy. Each landing leading to several stairs, suspending over the others.
He staggered towards the wall and leaned back against it. An extraordinary place, yes, but kind of familiar. He had already seen it, or, at least, something like it. He concentrated himself on the first steps which looked like to be some gray concrete, at first. Then, the staircase flew away so lightly. The banister was cold, and Illya Kuryakin was startled. He was about to go up, though he didn't intend to. He had been leaning against the wall. Now, he was already on the second step. No. Struggling against himself, he rushed out of the room, expecting the door to be closed. It was not.
A labyrinth? A sort of spider's web? He didn't know. Something, someone dangerous? He was not sure. He felt exhausted, and sat on the pavement, smiling bitterly.
Napoleon would probably be mad at him. At least, his partner was safe, in his apartment, with his Christmas tree. The Russian's smile faded. Of course, he wouldn't be alone.
"Aie!"
Napoleon Solo cursed and sucked his fingers. Illya Kuryakin stared at him with amusement. The Section 2 Number 1 of U.N.C.L.E. New YorkHQ, also known as the CEA, Napoleon Solo, held a beautiful branch of holly, dark green, shiny, with red berries. He looked daggers at his partner who should have known better than to comment, but Illya Kuryakin wasn't one to miss such an opportunity. He asked innocently, waving his handkerchief, "Did you prick yourself, my friend? You should be careful. This branch of holly could be a dangerous enemy. Thrush might have recruited it..."
Napoleon Solo waved the holly under his friend's nose.
"Do you remember why we are placing it over the doors, Kuryakin?"
The Russian knew. Looking at his partner, with an infuriatingly innocent gaze, he replied seriously, with his teacher's tone, "In Northern Europe, Napoleon, ghosts and demons come with the winter winds. Holly has magical power , it drives evil away."
Napoleon Solo stared at him, pursing his lips. Illya Kuryakin smiled and went on.
"So, either it's pure legend, or... I am not an evil creature. Give me that; let me fix it, Napoleon."
His friend had chuckled, and both of them had fixed the branch of holly, finally.
Napoleon wouldn't be alone. For the last years, his friend had made a point of honor to invite him. He had first dragged him to the U.N.C.L.E. Christmas parties. Usually, now, they had dinner, they talked, they bantered. They had a good time. But Napoleon wouldn't be alone tonight. Some pretty brunette/blonde/red-head would have volunteered to keep him company. "Poor Napoleon", with his broken wrist. Escaping from a volcano, racing through the jungle, bringing back a secret formula and an innocent with , back to the HQ, slipping on the snow, falling and breaking his wrist.
That was why Illya Kuryakin was there. Why he was there, alone. But alone, Napoleon wouldn't be.
Illya Kuryakin opened his eyes, sighed, and got up. Ten doors left. He opened four of them, finding himself in four rooms, like the first one. Four gray cells, dimly lit, empty and clean. Someone, somewhere, was making fun of him. He walked towards the seventh door. The seventh day? It was a gray room, again, but not empty. Not empty at all. There were several chests, wide open. In the chests, around them - the Russian frowned - masks, monsters' masks, made of paper, leather and wood. Masks he knew from his own childhood. Masks his babulya had often told him about. This was so personal. It had been thought up for him, precisely, devilishly, but it was impossible. Deliberately, Illya Kuryakin scratched the back of his hand. He felt the twinge of pain, he saw the blood. But he didn't wake up.
Coming up to one of the chests, he picked up a mask and studied it. It was that, exactly that. The day after Christmas, in Ukraine, people with monster masks were used to scare the other people. They fought, in a ritual fight, until the monster-masked ones were defeated. The triumph of the good over theevil. He put it down, took another one, thoughtful. He wasn't dreaming. A trickle of blood ran down his fingers and some drops fell on the floor, like some red berries of holly. He went back in the circular room, slowly, still holding the mask. What was he expecting? He couldn't have said. Would the mask crumble into dust? Would it burst like a bubble? Would it...? The mask just remained a mask, and he left it against the wall.
"Illya?''
"Yes, Napoleon?"
"I was wondering..."
The usually self-assured Napoleon Solo was amazingly awkward. Illya Kuryakin raised an inquiring eyebrow, but his friend still hesitated.
"Napoleon?"
The dark haired man walked to the window and looked out.
"I was wondering... Have you... Did you ..."
Tongue-tied Napoleon? That was new. New and amazing. New and quite funny. The Russian smiled faintly, keeping silent. His friend suddenly turned to him.
"Had you... have you someone, in Russia?"
"Napoleon, you know that..."
"I don't mean family, Illya. When you left Russia, well, had you a... friend?''
The Russian's smile faded. The question was not that funny. His partner's dark eyes looked deeply in his own. What the hell did he want? But Napoleon Solo shook his head, raised his hands, in a gesture of apology.
"I am sorry. I didn't want to pry. This... this is none of my business. Forget it. Excuse me, Illya. It's late. Well... I'll see you tomorrow."
Friendship. Napoleon was a friend. More than a friend. They had never talked about it after that. Now, they would never have any opportunity of doing it.
Illya Kuryakin looked around and sighed. He had to go on. He opened four doors, found four gray rooms, four empty cells, empty, dimly lit and amazingly clean.
Now, there was just one. The twelfth. The last door, his last chance, probably. When he pushed it, he couldn't refrain from whistling.
It was not a room. It was what it could not be. It was a garden, an amazing, an extraordinary garden and it couldn't be real because it was ... outside. Illya Kuryakin looked up at the blue, entirely blue sky. He could feel the warmth of the sun, though he couldn't see it. The tempting grass enticed him to walk on it. There were flowers, he could smell their odor. At a distance – how far? - trees, a forest. It was fascinating. Because, outside the cave, the storm was raging, that, he knew for sure.
He realized, suddenly, that he was walking, mechanically, towards this forest, and he stopped. The second before, he had been next to the door, looking around. Of course, the place was far more pleasant than the staircases, but perhaps, it was too pleasant. The staircases were strange but they could be real. This garden was not. Outside, it was winter, the blizzard raging. This – what should he call it? - thisroom? was a trap.
He turned to the entrance, slowly, expecting the worst, and froze. The walls and the sky merged and the top of the door was barely visible, hidden behind bushes standing in front of him. Holly, holly and ivy, forming an inextricable entanglement, a dark, green entanglement, with some red spots. Instinctively, without thinking about, he rushed into the threatening fence, desperately pushing his way through it, pulling up, tearing. He felt the holly scratching him, the ivy tying his wrists and his ankles, but it was not real. He refused to pay attention to it. They were not here.
Suddenly, he fell down on the black and white pavement, panting, choking. He curled himself in a ball, his hand, his arms, his face were intact, except for the scratch on the back of his hand. And he shivered. He felt cold. Not from fever. The temperature was falling. That was logical, at least.
Outside, the light was dazzling. The storm had ended, leaving everything covered with a crusty twinkling gossamer. It was beautiful, deadly beautiful. They had found what had been the Thrush base camp, and some of the Thrush villains, frozen. There was no trace of Illya.
"We found those by sheer luck, Mr. Solo. The others are probably somewhere under that mess, and..."
The man had stopped, as he had met Napoleon Solo's eyes.
There was this kind of a hill, which looked like a cake, with icing sugar. As he came closer, the U.N.C.L.E. agent realized that it was not a hill. Some geometrical shapes appeared under the icing. Napoleon Solo felt light-headed. Though the odds were against him, Illya could have taken refuge there.
Napoleon Solo noticed a narrow entrance. He slipped into it, holding his gun, discovering a dark corridor and a door which he pushed carefully. Then, he whistled with surprise. In front of him, occupying the whole room, there was a staircase. He couldn't see where it led, for a strange mist was hiding all: steps, ceiling, just a few inches above him. Illya was there.
When he came out of the mist, Napoleon Solo blinked. A terrace. A terrace? Amazing, and impossible. They had flown over it; they hadn't seen anything like that. Anyway, though it was impossible, it was a terrace, the floor uneven covered with the same crusty icing. The dark haired man swept out the frost. Stones, logs, a branch of holly. Holly? There was something else, leaning against the wall. Napoleon Solo, hesitantly, brushed the frost aside. This was not "something". This was a shoulder. A shoulder carved out of ice. A statue carved out of ice. Cold. Copying exactly the folds of a shirt. The nape of a neck. Napoleon Solo's fingers went on sweeping out the frost, slightly shaking. He knew.
This was a face. Familiar, well-known features, fixed into ice, reproduced with ice. Napoleon Solo scolded himself. Locks of hair, a stubborn forehead, fine features. He gulped, freeing smiling lips, the smile both shy and teasing that he knew so well, the determined chin. Panting, Napoleon Solo put his hands on the ice face, letting his fingers run down. It was cold, so cold that it didn't even melt. A deadly cold statue of ice. The eyes were impressive. The artist, whoever he was, had reproduced the eyelids, almost every eyelashes, the iris, the pupil, all translucent. Illya. Illya Kuryakin.
His hand brushed the cheek, throwing the statue off balance. Under the eyes of a powerless Napoleon Solo, it rocked and suddenly shattered. The dark haired man staggered, knelt down, lost in his own darkness.
Shivering, Illya Kuryakin grabbed the sweater and put it on. He looked around, noticing the strange mist which was surreptitiously invading the room. It was undulating like a lake. Twelve doors, ten leading to empty gray rooms, useless. The twelfth was a mischievous illusion. No way out of the dome, except for the second room. One way, and probably a one-way ticket.
He found himself standing in front of the staircase, which was still there, still endless, still stunningly entangled. Coming up to the first step, he started to climb slowly, carefully, towards the next landing. Each of them meant a choice. Each landing gave way to several new staircases, some going up, some going down. Wooden, stone, steel staircases, and he went on, again and again, up or down, choosing one way or another. By pure chance, or not, he didn't know, he didn't want to know. At least, he didn't feel that tired, nor hungry, nor thirsty.
He climbed for what seemed hours, when something caught his attention. It was different, this time. Something, small, red and green, was glittering on a step. He bent over to pick it up, carelessly. What was the use? It was a small branch of holly, three dark green leaves, some red berries, fresh, as if someone had just cut it.
A protection against evil? He chuckled bitterly and slipped it in his pocket. Looking up, he caught sight of something else. More exactly, five small things. He took two steps forward, frowning. Toys. These were tin soldiers, apparently. Tin soldiers? The Russian sat down, and studied them. Tin soldiers? No, they weren't. He looked at them, one after the other, shaking his head. This was strange, not that anything was normal, logical, in this universe. He stared at the little thing, in his palm, and put another one next to it. A third. These were not toys; these were miniature statues which he recognized immediately. This was a reproduction of a statue of Lenin. This one was the statue of Horatio Nelson. The third... the third was the statue of Liberty. Lenin? Russia? Nelson? Trafalgar Square, London. The Statue of Liberty? He couldn't help smiling. The Statue of Liberty, New York... Memories, memories of his life. He squeezed them in his hand, before picking up the two others, his smile fading. He looked at them with uncertainty and he lay down on the steps, laughing, laughing until he cried. Someone, somewhere, had a devilish sense of humor. Getting his breath back, he stood up, hesitating, still holding the five small statues. Memories? Some were memories. Moscow, London, New York. Some would be memories of ... nothing. The statues joined the holly in his pocket, and he went up.
"Mr. Solo? Are you okay, sir?"
Napoleon Solo sat straight, panting. No terrace, no shattered ice. A young man was looking at him inquiringly.
"We'll be there in a few minutes, sir. We'll land on the road, just beside their camp. It looks deserted, sir."
The dark haired man wiped his forehead with his hand, awkwardly. This bandage was really infuriating.
"Sir?"
"I am fine. We have to hurry. When we get there, I want..." He stopped. What did he want? It was a dream, a nightmare. "Let's go'
Napoleon Solo sighed. He knew why he was there. He had made his position clear, and Alexander Waverly had just stared at him above his glasses. He hadn't harrumphed. He hadn't frowned. The Old Man had pointed at his agent's wrist.
"See about getting him back, Mr. Solo. But be careful."
Exhaustion. Cold. Hunger. Thirst. And regrets. A new landing. New staircases. Were they new? A name occurred to him. Escher. He remembered the name of the artist, now, and the title of a lithograph. Relativity, with those crazystaircases, obedientto different sources of gravity. He leaned against the banister, and slid down on the floor. He felt exhausted, cold. If he could sleep, just a few minutes, he would be fine. He would be able to go on. He curled in a ball, his right hand on his pocket, squeezing his memories.
Napoleon Solo knew who he was looking for. He paused to peer around, breathing heavily, fearing the worst. There were things you could forecast: as storm, a blizzard, a betrayal. But others were unpredictable. The breakdown or the failure of a competent agent was one of them. A man who had always been to be relied on, who had come, so many times, to rescue them. Not this time, however. He had run away, fleeing from the blizzard, from the enemies. Fleeing from Illya, leaving him behind and his friend had been captured.
Outside, the light was dazzling. The storm had ended, leaving everything covered with crusty twinkling gossamer. It was beautiful, deadly beautiful. Déjà-vu. Napoleon Solo shivered. It was not the coldness. They had found what had been the Thrush base camp, some of the Thrush villains, frozen, and of course, there was no trace of Illya.
"We found those by sheer luck, Mr. Solo. The others are probably somewhere under that mess, and..."
The man stopped, as he met Napoleon Solo's eyes. The man was the CEA. At the moment, a very angry CEA. Another agent was running loudly on the frosted snow.
"Sir! Look, there is something, there. You see this mass of snow? It's not only snow. There is a structure. It could be a sort of warehouse, I don't know."
As Napoleon Solo was about to race towards the said mass of snow, the other agent took hold of his arm.
"Excuse me, sir. Mr. Kuryakin could have taken refuge in this place. I hope he has. But perhaps some of the Thrush operatives..."
Napoleon Solo didn't waste time arguing. He shook the man's grasp off his arm and they ran towards the structure.
At first, they couldn't see anything. Then, with their powerful flashlights, they had discovered the strange place. It had been a warehouse, or perhaps a barn, as there were some stalls. Twelve stalls, dusty, with debris, rubbish. A gallery ran along the walls, and a quite dilapidated wooden staircase led to it. Lying on the first steps, curled into a ball, Illya Kuryakin.
He was alive. Frozen, deadly pale, but alive, wrapped into warm blankets, leaning against his partner.
"lllya?"
"Yes, Napoleon?"
"I was wondering...''
He had worked out his speech, covering up his purpose with a light tone. It had been a complete failure. His partner had looked at him inquiringly.
"Napoleon?"
He had walked towards the window, pretending to look out. And he had made a fool of himself again.
"I was wondering... Have you... Did you ...'' At a loss with words... "Had you... have you someone, in Russia?"
Illya had frowned with disbelief.
"Napoleon, you know that..."
"I don't mean family, Illya. When you left Russia, well, had you a... friend?''
Illya's smile had faded. His ice blue eyes had looked daggers, and Napoleon Solo had raised his hands, in a gesture of apology.
"I am sorry. I didn't want to pry. This... this is none of my business. Forget it. Excuse me, Illya. It's late. Well... I'll see you tomorrow.'"
The day after, he had seen his friend. They hadn't spoken about it. Never.
Napoleon Solo started as his gaze met two blue, uncertain eyes. A faint smile appeared, and the pale lips articulated some words, barely audible.
"Shhht, tovarish. We are taking you back home. Do you want some water?''
Illya Kuryakin nodded. He felt dizzy, but foolishly safe,and couldn't help smiling, idiotically, as he saw a white bandage waved above him, hearing his partner cursing. He sipped with delight.
"Take some rest, now, my friend. You..."
The Russian agent closed his eyes obediently, whispering again.
"...Christmas, ..poleon."
Napoleon Solo chuckled softly, brushing aside some blond locks.
"Merry Christmas, Illya."
One year later.
When Napoleon Solo came in the living room, his friend stood next to the fireplace, staring thoughtfully at something. The dark haired man sneaked up on him, and put his chin on the Russian's shoulder.
"A penny for your thoughts?"
Illya Kuryakin sighed, as his friend's arms slid around his waist. Napoleon Solo peeped at the mantelpiece, and chuckled. Five small stones were lined up, beside a withered twig of holly.
"Illya, will you, some day, tell me about that?"
The blond man rolled the stones with his fingers. Five stones. Five stones which had been five small statues. Next to them, a twig of holly.
At the U.N.C.L.E. HQ Medical, he had pestered Napoleon about them, until the precious stones had been carefully lined up on his bed table.
"That's all you had in your pocket, Illya. Some gravel, and a withered twig. I don't know...''
But Illya Kuryakin had already fallen asleep, smiling.
Later, they had talked about what had happened. According to the Doctor, he had gone into shock, due to the Thrush drug, the blizzard. He had recovered, in no time, and they had gone on, as usual, though he didn't say anything about the five stones.
Later, again, they had talked, again. They had asked, answered, genuinely, sincerely, for both of them had experienced the same frustrating feeling: regret.
The Russian turned to him lithely, sliding his own arms around his lover's shoulders.
"Need some Christmas tale, my friend?"
Napoleon Solo knew better than to answer and kissed him, endlessly. As they lay next to each other, Napoleon Solo chuckled.
"Every night is a Christmas tale, Illya, you know that?"
The blond man babbled something.
"Illya? Would you tell me, about those stones? Illya? Illya?"
He leaned over the Russian, soundly asleep, and sighed. One day, he would know about those five small stones, very ordinary, which his friend treasured carefully.
Illya Kuryakin crossed the living room on tiptoe, coming up to the mantelpiece. Five small statues were lined up: a statue of Lenin, Horatio Nelson in Trafalgar Square, the Statue of Liberty... Russia, London, New York… Then, the statue of Napoleon, place Vendôme, and the statue of Eros in Piccadilly Circus. A fresh twig of holly was twinkling, beside the statues.
"Happy Christmas..."