Theme: thankfulness
The prompt:
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The day was cold and crisp, with the clouds overhead threatening a heavy snowfall. For one of two the figures on the otherwise empty clifftop the chill of winter no longer held any discomfort. It never would again.
Illya Kuryakin shivered, as the wind whipped through his torn jacket, despite his best efforts to wrap it tightly around himself. On top of that, he'd been wounded, though the cold was helping to slow the bleeding. A small countenance, though in the long run it didn't matter if he froze to death. There was a distinct possibility in that happening as they waited on the clifftop for rescue.
He stared at the dark haired figure lying beside him as the snow slowly blanketed the body. He was forever silenced; Illya's feelings of grief and anger were held back for now. Having to to concentrate on surviving pushed those emotions aside. They could...no, would come later.
.
While awaiting retrieval, it was too late for… Trudeau. He and Kuryakin had been paired for this assignment. Waverly had his reasons, though Illya wasn't completely comfortable about it. Still, no one argues with the Old Man.
Trudeau was a bit headstrong, which was why he'd been partnered with the level-headed Russian. Waverly saw potential in the man and hoped Kuryakin would help the young agent focus for what should have been a simple assignment.
It was one that should have been an easy in and out to get the documents they needed. Somehow the satrapy knew they were coming; the UNCLE agents had been betrayed, and that could only mean one thing...there was a mole in headquarters.
They never event made it into the the satrapy, and were ambushed. In the ensuing firefight the young Canadian put his life on the line, diving in front of the already wounded Russian, taking a bullet that was meant for Illya.
Despite their wounds they managed to escape, and together the two men supported each as they struggled through the woods, making their way to the cliff, one painful step at a time.
.
"Why did you do that?" Illya finally hissed at Trudeau."You should have left me and escaped."
"No, that's not who I am. Won't leave a man behind...that's what the military taught me." Trudeau had been a decorated member of the Canadian Army.
"You should have left me and awaited help; they would have found me, eventually."
"And you would have been dead. You're too valuable an asset to the Command, "Trudeau shot back.
Kuryakin said nothing; no one had ever spoken to him like that before, not even Napoleon.
.
The wind was blowing violently and as they moved through the trees as Illya's jacket caught on a branch and ripped open with a large gash.
They stopped long enough to examine their injuries and catch their breath. Kuryakin's was to his left shoulder, but Antoine had taken a hit in the gut.
Calling a mayday on his communicator, Illya indicated both he and Trudeau were wounded. Help was on the way and he left his communicator open, letting it act as a homing signal; it would allow UNCLE to triangulate their position once he and Antoine reached their goal, which was a nearby cliff. It was the only place suitable for a helicopter to land.
Illya carefully removed his jacket, as well as a heavy sweater. Ignoring the pain, he took off his blood stained undershirt and used it as a bandage for his and Trudeau's injuries. He'd had enough experience to know that a belly wound was bad. The cold weather might help slow the bleeding, but...maybe not in this case. Moving would make it only worse; still they had to make it to the cliff…
He thought of Trudeau's words, 'no man left behind'...he was right. Illya could have very easily left him, but that was something he just couldn't do for the man who foolishly saved his life. His Soviet training and what Napoleon had taught hm over the years were always causing an internal struggle. In the end, he too followed the 'no man left behind rule...for others that was. He was always ready to sacrifice himself and be left so that another might survive.
He only hoped his young partner would live while they waited in the snow and bitter cold. It had been a struggle getting to the clifftop and once there, Trudeau began to fade as they huddled together to protect themselves from the wind and the falling snow.
"You must hold on Antoine. Fight for it," Illya whispered in French as he held the man in his arms. "They are coming for us."
He knew in his heart that his partner was dying. He was bleeding out; Illya couldn't staunch the blood loss with his makeshift bandage despite packing it with snow. The cold made no difference.
He watched as Antoine's eyes dulled. Illya, being the ever analytical scientist, recounted what happened to the eyes after death.
The change in color in the eyes of dead people was due to opacity of the cornea, aqueous humour and lense brought about by lack of oxygen. Once a person died, they stopped producing tears and blinking, and blood circulation ceased. The cornea had to be moist in order that oxygen might be absorbed. The iris of the deceased stayed whatever color it was, be it brown, blue, green… in this case hazel. However, the pupils dilated upon death and became enlarged; they took on that distinctive blue-white haze.
Illya suddenly realized the passage of time as it often took several hours for the eyes to change; why had the helicopter not arrived? It should not be taking this long. The cold must be dulling his senses.
He couldn't take much more it and apologizing while he did so; he removed Antoine's parka and wrapped it around himself, pulling up the hood to cover his head to prevent further loss of body heat. Antoine was saving his life...again. For that he should be grateful, but he was too cold to think about being thankful.
Illya shivered violently as he held the lifeless form in his arms, speaking to the body. If anyone were there they wouldn't have heard him as his voice was lost in the whistling winds.
"Why did you do it? Why?" He and Trudeau had no relationship, they were not friends. Illya had to let his anger go at what had happened. He himself acted the same way many's the time to protect Napoleon, though he lived to fight another day, unlike this young man.
His communicator chirped; he fumbled, as he removed his fur mittens, and pulled it from his pocket with cold fingers. The channel was still open.
"Kkk-Kuryakin here, " his teeth chattered his response.
"Illya we'll be there in a few minutes, hang on." It was Napoleon.
"Www-what is taking so lo-long?"
"The weather. Solo out."
Minutes later Illya heard the sound of helicopter blades cutting the air and he watched as the pilot of a Huey made a skilled but difficult landing, sending snow blowing everywhere as it touched down.
Three men dressed in heavy parkas exited the chopper, carrying a stretcher. One of them was Napoleon.
Once assessing the condition of the two agents, they tried to put Kuryakin on the stretcher but Illya insisted he could walk with some help and demanded they carry Antoine's body right away on the stretch. His teeth chattered as he mumbled something about 'no man left behind.'
Napoleon wrapped a blanket around his partner's shoulders and together they headed towards the helicopter; Illya didn't make it as his legs buckled beneath him just a few steps away. Solo caught him and carried him the rest of the way, with help from the rest of the crew, Illya was loaded inside.
There a medic quickly saw to Kuryakin's shoulder wound as Illya's eyes fluttered open. He watched in silence while the others brought the body of Trudeau on board.
Once everyone was settled, the chopper took off. It was rough, being buffeted by the continuing wind gusts as it rose into the air.
Solo sat beside his partner who was now wrapped in warming blankets, but said nothing. He knew the Russian well enough; Illya would talk when he was ready, or not at all. He was ever the stoic Russian, and Napoleon had learned to live with that.
Kuryakin finally looked up, making eye contact at last.
"He took that bullet for me. It was foolish and cost him his life. He told me I was too valuable an asset for UNCLE to lose."
"And how many times have you done the same for me?"
"But you are CEA and…"
"You know how I feel about that Illya," Napoleon cut him off. "I've given up arguing with you about putting your life on the line for me, though thankfully you've managed to live. So now the shoe is on the other foot as Antoine did it for you. Just be thankful Illya. He saved your life. I know you're grieving, you're angry, maybe feeling a little guilty. Antoine's listening from the great beyond, I'm sure...just talk to him."
"Napoleon, they knew we were coming. They were ready and ambushed us. There must be a mole in headquarters..." his voice trailed off.
Solo looked surprised, but said nothing.
Illya pursed his chapped lips and turned away. Curling himself up in the warming blankets; he clasped Trudeau's bloody jacket in his right hand, not willing to let it go.
"Thank you for your sacrifice Antoine. I swear you www-will be avenged. I will fff-find out who betrayed us," Kuryakin whispered ever so softly.
Napoleon smiled. Despite his partner's best efforts to mute his voice, he heard what Illya said.
He whispered his own gratia cantantes * to Trudeau for saving his partner.
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* Latin for 'thankfulness'