The boy turned sharply away and led the way quickly through the forest. The path was overgrown and obviously not well-traveled. The man dragging Napoleon was not particularly rough with him, but he was not noticeably careful, either.

The boy never said anything further, other than to make sure the men were staying quiet. Napoleon had quickly decided antagonizing his captors would be a very bad idea. Besides, he really wanted to find his partner—his ex-partner—as soon as possible. However, after an hour of being pulled along, Napoleon had had enough. Banking on the fact that Illya had probably taught his son English, he finally whispered, "Hey, kid, you wanna tell Igor here to back off? He's ruining my suit."

The young man froze and turned to face him, gracing him with a very familiar imperious stare. In heavily accented English, he replied, "My name is not "kid." I am Illya Stefanovich Kuryakin. Stefan, to my friends. Which you are not. You may call me Stefanovich." Suddenly a glint of humor showed in his eyes as he cocked his head and smiled. "My father said you would complain about your suit."

He smirked and translated his words into Rom, which had the other two laughing. Stephanovich then pointed to Napoleon's captor who grinned widely and only adjusted his grip slightly as he was introduced. "Also, Mr. Solo, his name is not Igor. His name is Petrov." He smirked again as he pointed to the other young man. "His name is Igor."

Napoleon rolled his eyes as they started off again at a quicker pace than before. So much for the Solo Charm.

~MFU~

Another half-hour brought them to their destination. Two more young men dropped from the trees near them and joined the group. Obviously, the area was well-guarded, and they were taking no chances. They pushed their way through a copse of tangled vines and branches and into a large clearing. The sight that met Napoleon's eyes nearly took his breath away. He felt as if he had been transported back at least a hundred years. He found himself on the edge of a Gypsy encampment; brightly painted caravans, a few tents, and cooking fires, a variety of farm animals in pens off in the distance…and staring at him curiously, a number of people as variously and brightly clothed as the caravans. None of them looked particularly friendly, and Napoleon saw no sign of Illya.

A beautiful woman with flowing black curls stepped out of one of the caravans and looked him over carefully. Napoleon had not seen her in a very long time, but he recognized her instantly. Maryam stepped up to him, and he stood before her awkwardly, as he was still bound. His captors, except for Stephanovich, had melted into the crowd. Napoleon knew better than to speak, and he stood quietly under her scrutiny. Silently, she held out her hand, and the boy, his eyes mutinous, handed her his dagger. Apparently, he also knew better than to speak.

She looked deeply into his eyes, which made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. His heart dropped at her next move, as she then pressed the point of her son's dagger under his jaw and slowly lifted his chin. She drew no blood, but she could very easily have slit his throat. She held her hand perfectly still as she finally spoke, her dark eyes cold.

"I know why you have come, Mr. Solo. So does my husband. You want to see him. Fine. But make no mistake. If you hurt him, I will kill you."

She spoke to her son without turning her head, or moving the dagger. "You will take Mr. Solo to your father. He is with the horses."

Turning back to Napoleon, she stated flatly, "You were once family. No more. You will not call him by his first name, or by his Rom name, as you were once privileged. You have lost that. It will be up to him, whether you regain that standing. Your betrayal hurt him. Therefore, you have hurt the tribe. You will be treated as any stranger would be treated. Hospitality is always shown to a stranger. But nothing more. After you speak to my husband, he will decide."

Maryam walked behind Napoleon and sliced easily through the ropes binding his wrists. "Now go."

~MFU~

Napoleon's heart was breaking as he followed Stefanovich through the encampment to the other side of the clearing. They followed a pathway through a wooded area on the far side which opened into an even larger meadow. Here, a sight took Napoleon's breath away and temporarily made him forget his problems. For here, he found his partner. And he was without a doubt, completely in his element.

On one side of the meadow was a large paddock. Cantering around the paddock was one of the most beautiful black horses Napoleon had ever seen. The stallion was like none he had ever seen before, larger than any quarter horse, with a longer mane and tail, which both flowed like silk, and shown like satin! And on its back, Illya was going through various acrobatic tricks…some of them so quickly, Napoleon could barely register them. What amazed Napoleon even more was that all of this was being done bareback!

At one point, Illya was balancing in a one-armed handstand when he shouted something in Rom, and the horse sped up to a gallop, and Illya flipped over and immediately began doing a series of back flips and twists. Another shout and the horse slowed back to a canter. Illya then started into a series of side leaps on each side of the horse as they cantered around the paddock. Another command and the horse began to "dance" as Illya performed some balancing and spinning tricks. A final command and the horse slowed to a walk.

Illya then sat cross-legged on the stallion's broad back, patting and talking to the horse, as both horse and man cooled down after their work-out. A few minutes later, the pace slowed even more, and Illya lay down length-wise across the stallion and closed his eyes, his arms hanging down by the great horse's sides, his hands carding the silky mane, seeming to nearly fall asleep. The stallion simply plodded around the paddock, content to commune with his human friend.

Napoleon watched in awed silence. He wished he could freeze this moment forever, so that what was to come wouldn't have to happen at all. His partner looked more at peace than he had ever seen him. For a moment he considered simply turning and walking away. He could just pretend he had never found Illya at all, and…

And at that moment, Illya opened his eyes, and looked straight at him. He shut his eyes again for a brief moment, and when he opened them again, the Mask was firmly in place. The one Napoleon recognized so very well. The Ice Prince was there. In this place he did not belong. And Napoleon despised himself for causing the pain only he could read behind the mask.

Illya slipped from the stallion's back and lead the magnificent animal out of the paddock area over to where a stream ran through the back of the meadow. He rubbed the horse down while he drank without once looking at Napoleon. Once Illya was satisfied the stallion was ready, he led him over to the meadow, where a small herd of similar black horses where milling about. Illya patted him and whispered something to the horse, and patted his flank. The horse trotted off to join the others, and only then did Illya turn to look at his former partner.

Illya looked at his son. In Rom he instructed him to return to the camp. When the boy protested, it took only one look from his father to send him back, grumbling under his breath. Napoleon couldn't help but chuckle, as he had recognized the look on his partner's face so very well. And even though there was so much pain between them, Napoleon noticed the slight twitch at the corner of Illya's mouth. It gave him a glimmer of hope. Maybe all's not lost after all…

~TBC~