Work Text:
The Blackthorn’s Whisper
for Aconitumn
by DH Bryn
The wind, a chill, a whispered sigh,
Through branches stark against the sky,
But wait, a promise, soft and white,
Blackthorn's bloom, a hopeful light.
A carpet soft, a gentle grace,
Upon the bough, a sweet embrace,
Each tiny bloom, a star so bright,
A beacon in the fading night.
- The Blackthorn’s Whisper
The addled man shook his head, hard, trying to clear it. He did not know where he was, exactly, only that he was teetering on unsteady legs, bare feet icy cold on a concrete floor. He leaned against the wall, rubbing his burning, red-rimmed eyes. The man took several deliberate, deep breaths, attempting to gather himself. With a concentrated effort he mentally recited a few odd words that he sensed had significance, but he was uncertain of their exact meaning.
Farber…
…Thrush…
…Solo…
…Uncle…
…Albion…
…Kuryakin…
Wait! He thought, in a moment of blinding clarity. Kuryakin --- familiar ---
Desperate for understanding he shook his head again, hard. Nothing.
He slapped his own face, hard. Once. Twice. More clarity, for a moment.
Kuryakin. That’s me…!
What am I doing here? Why?
Why?
Why?
“Is there any word on Mr. Kuryakin’s whereabouts, Mr. Solo?” Alexander Waverly’s voice was tinged with impatience. “Do you have any idea how he disappeared?”
“He was pursuing a lead related to Project Albion, sir, and was contacting a Jason Farber the day he disappeared. When I attempted to follow up on Farber, the office where he was employed claimed not to know of him at all.”
“And since then?”
“The offices in question were shuttered when I returned. I’m still pursuing the leads we have with the assistance of our London section.”
Waverly’s audible sigh of frustration mirrored Solo’s own mood. “Well then, get on with it, Mr. Solo. The lab data Mr. Kuryakin relayed to us suggests this Project Albion could have terrible implications. Utilize all of your considerable skills, young man. Stop this Thrush scheme. And, if possible, retrieve your partner.”
Terrible implications. Solo felt those possible implications in his gut, and he feared his partner was the one already suffering from them.
Noisy, pounding footsteps were closing in on him, and the confused man knew he had to evade his pursuers or the consequences would be dire. He did not know why, he just knew in his heart that he had to stay free. Blinking rapidly in confusion, Kuryakin glanced around, desperately seeking an avenue of escape. A door at the side of the hallway beckoned him, and he saw light through it. He staggered through the doorway and was confronted by stairs: he realized there was nothing for it but to climb.
Breathing heavily with the effort, the exhausted man made his way up the stairs, his cold, bare feet slapping against each step. His body ached from his very bones, the result of three days of intense questioning by a master Thrush interrogator. Clad in torn trousers and a soiled white T-shirt, he shivered as he struggled upwards. Illya was mindful of the pursuers not far behind him. Unsure why he was in this situation, he did know that he needed to get free.
Arriving on a landing, Kuryakin faced a door; he pushed on the panic bar in order to crack the door open and see outside. Peering around the edge of the door, he saw a huge yard edged with a white flowered thicket of some kind. In the gray of the rainy spring day, the white flowers resembled tiny white fairy lights used for party or Christmas décor. It was impossible to discern what the thicket actually was. Illya thought he needed to get closer to see the hedge more clearly. He hoped that he could go through it to reach freedom or, at the very least, that he could conceal himself in the shrubbery or whatever the thicket was. Steeling himself, he edged out of the doorway.
The warble of his communicator interrupted Napoleon Solo’s gloomy thoughts as he indulged in a solitary lunch at a private gentleman’s club around the corner from U.N.C.L.E. headquarters London. As the club was frequented by higher ranking Command personnel, the sound did not attract undue attention.
“Solo here,” he said into the device.
“Mr. Solo, I’m connecting you to Agent John Paulson.”
“Go ahead,” Napoleon said, a frisson of excitement piquing his senses. Paulson was one of the agents pursuing Farber and Albion.
“Napoleon, we have a lead.”
That was all that Solo needed to hear. “Where?”
“A country estate in Hertfordshire. We have requisitioned a chopper and plan to leave as soon as we can. Will you be…”
“I’m on my way,” Napoleon snapped, quickly signing off and racing to the U.N.C.L.E. offices, his heart pounding with renewed hope.
The clouds of white blossoms were beckoning the confused Russian as he made his way across the yard, his bare feet sliding on the rain-slickened grass, slowing his progress. A steady spring rain had been falling since he left the building to make his way from the yard. It was a classic English spring shower, gentle and steady, and Illya shivered with the cold, wet atmosphere. For some reason, his instincts were urging him to hurry to the thicket where he could hide in the safety of the white clouds of flowers. It looked so soft, like a welcoming blanket…
Sweeping wet hair from his eyes, Illya finally reached the thicket and decided to plunge into the billowing white softness and attempt to take cover from any pursuers. If possible, he could burrow through the hedge and, hopefully, find a way clear on the other side.
Groggy, unable to think clearly, Illya bit back a cry of pain as he landed in the thicket. Ordinarily he would have remembered that the mayflower was also called blackthorn for a reason. What felt like a thousand needles being driven through his flesh shocked him and he instinctively tried to roll away from the source of the discomfort, which simply led to the nasty thorns tearing at him, aggravating the existing pain and leading to new tears and punctures. Already weakened, the shock hit him hard, and Kuryakin helplessly succumbed to unconsciousness.
The U.N.C.L.E. task force left the helicopter a distance from the estate that had been tentatively identified as the Thrush base and the heart of Project Albion. They stealthily collected their equipment and started off through the gloomy grey wetness of the English late afternoon towards their target.
As Illya Kuryakin gained awareness his first sensation was of being cold and wet. Then he felt the piercing discomfort of the blackthorns that were stabbing him. Other parts of his body were numb with swelling. He opened his eyes slightly and visually scanned his body, wondering distractedly when he had obtained a red spotted shirt. Napoleon must have given it to me…one of his jokes…I don’t wear polka dots…
He shifted his weight and more of the blackthorns jabbed unprotected flesh. One thorn pricked his exposed neck, and he felt hot blood trickling down. Illya realized that the spreading dark splotches on the wet white T-shirt were also his blood. His ragged breathing was the only sound, occasionally joined with his involuntary groans of pain. The thicket was far enough from the building that he could hear nothing from the facility. Illya suspected that the Thrushes were confident that he would end up exactly as he was now, entangled in the blackthorn thicket, and that they could gather his body up in the morning.
After a few moments of attempting to gather himself, he peered over to the far end of the thicket and saw that several flashlights were approaching, sweeping the area… looking for me…
The Russian agent clenched his jaw, determined to get past the hedge and get away, no matter how painful the undertaking was.
And it was painful.
Illya forced himself to roll over through the hedge, picking up additional thorns on his neck, face and the front of his body. About three rolls in, he reached the edge of the trees and crashed into the open with a grunt of pain, his breath knocked out of him. The flashlights turned in his direction and Kuryakin felt a greater urgency to make good his escape.
As Illya struggled to squirm away from the thorny branches that continued to torment him, he heard additional footsteps moving in his direction, then the sound of men shouting at one another, voices he could not distinguish clearly. The familiar sound of silenced weapons reached him, as well as the sound of what he knew to be Thrush rifles. The pained agent rolled onto his stomach and stayed as low to the ground as he could be, gasping for breath. He was incapable of moving any further and simply struggled for control and to remain conscious – a battle he lost.
Napoleon Solo supervised his squad as they overwhelmed the Thrush personnel at the facility. Once he had called for backups and the facility was breached, he chose a couple of agents to help him search for his missing partner.
Roughly an hour later it became clear that Illya was not in the building. This realization was a gut punch to Solo. He sensed that perhaps Illya had been killed, his body removed, which chilled him.
As he stood in the hallway supervising, one of the Thrush personnel being guided from the building recognized him. “Hey Solo! Where’s your Russian pal?”
Napoleon turned sharply toward the man. “What?”
“You haven’t found him? We couldn’t either,” the man concluded with a laugh.
“What?” Solo repeated. “Where is he?”
The Thrush laughed. “Out there somewhere, I guess.”
Groggy and confused, weak and pained, Illya Kuryakin lay near the blackthorn hedge, staring helplessly at the night sky. The rain had started again, and he intentionally opened his mouth to try and catch some of the rain to ease his thirst. He shivered with shock but tried to calm himself and relax.
He knew that he had heard the sounds of conflict, but all the action had moved into the Thrush facility. Illya guessed that he had been forgotten in the hubbub, so he figured that if he could marshal his resources, perhaps he could continue with his escape attempt in the morning. Trembling and muddled, he closed his eyes and mentally recited the list of words that had become a mantra for him.
Farber…
…Thrush…
…Solo…
…Uncle…
…Albion…
…Kuryakin…
He repeated the words in his mind until he dozed off, briefly. His slumber was interrupted as he heard a man calling out, “Napoleon! Over here!”
Illya forced his heavy eyelids open just as a dark-haired man bent over him, gently touching his shoulder.
“Illya? Talk to me…come on, it’s me, Napoleon. An ambulance is coming. Can you wake up?”
The pained blue-eyed gaze met Solo’s concerned stare with a look of utter confusion. He blinked at his partner, who was surveying Kuryakin’s various wounds, especially the painful blackthorn punctures, even visible thorns protruding from bloody wounds.
“Easy, friend. We’ve got you now.”
Illya merely blinked, his expression pained. His drug-addled mind slowed his understanding, though he was starting to feel a sense of increased safety. Struggling to speak, he said to no one in particular, “Something stuck me.”
Stricken at seeing his friend in this state, Solo nodded. “Thorns, we’ll get them out. Don’t worry…”
“Pretty flowers,” the injured agent murmured. “Napoleon…”
Solo smiled broadly for an instant, relieved to have been recognized.
“Yes, Illya, you’re stuck with me.”