In memory of Periwinkle, one of the founders of our fandom
THE GOOD FIGHT
by
Avery
They gathered in the little courtyard, a small and solemn group garbed in black, a few of the women struggling unsuccessfully to hold back their tears. The splashing of the fountain echoed gently off the granite walls.
"There, there," Napoleon murmured, brushing back a lock of April's hair. "He wouldn't want tears."
"Well it's not his decision anymore, is it?" April turned away, burying her head in her hands.
Illya stood off to one side, hands clasped before him, head bowed in silent grief. For him, no words would suffice.
Above them, clouds moved swiftly in their courses, casting a shadowplay of sun and shade across pale and weary faces. A bee hovered over a yellow rosebush, contemplating the fragrant, newly-opened blossoms. It alit, and drank deeply of the nectar.
"It's time, Sir John said quietly.
Napoleon nodded, and stepped to the front of the assemblage. He stopped beside a white silk shroud concealing a portion of the granite wall, and allowed his hand to rest upon it for a brief moment, seeking strength.
"Thank you all for being here," he tried to say, but the words refused to come. Instinctively, Illya took a step forward, but Napoleon shook his head and waved him away.
He cleared his throat and began again. "Alexander Waverly was a giant among men - a brave warrior, a diplomat, a father-figure, a visionary. His loss -" He paused, wondering what words could possibly bring comfort to such heavy hearts. He sighed, knowing it was useless, knowing that he had to try. The Old Man would expect no less of him. Come, come now, Mr. Solo, he could almost hear him say. We've no time for histrionics; carry on. The thought of such a dressing-down brought the first smile in days.
"The loss of Alexander Waverly diminishes us all," he went on more easily. "We are here today to unveil his memorial, and to honor his contributions to UNCLE, and to the world.
"At this time, I ask you all to remember this remarkable man, who was so much more than the sum of his accomplishments or the accident of his birth. Remember his brilliant and facile mind. Remember his heart, the small kindnesses that felt like gold when he offered them. Remember his indomitable spirit, that refusal to allow evil to gain so much as a single millimeter of ground. The great manipulator, the master chess player, the kindly old professor in the rumpled tweed jacket. The friend."
Napoleon tugged at the cord, and the silk shroud fell away, revealing a marker of burnished marble set into the precise center of the wall. Around it, hundreds of markers - some old, some achingly new - honored the fallen agents who had died pursuing The Old Man's singular dream.
Alexander Waverly, 1892-1972, the inscription read. I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith. 2 Timothy 4: 6-8.
They stood in silence, lost in memories of a life well-lived, and perhaps contemplating their own fragile mortality as well. The bee, satisfied, had moved on.
Illya stepped forward. "Let us go forward now, and save the world." He shrugged, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "It is the least we can do."
*/*/*/