A Voice on the Wind (part 3)      A Voice on the Wind (part 3) by
ChannelD  
 

Another voyage. Napoleon stood on the deck, and lifted his face to the
sun. He wanted to get the most of it before they sailed back into the
winds and clouds and poison of the areas nearer the Dome. It had been a
year since he last traveled this way, and he was ready for an adventure. 

"Isn't daily life adventurous enough?" Susan had asked curiously while she
diapered baby Rose. Napoleon had been holding Violet while she waited her
turn, and he was trying to entertain her by making faces and sticking out
his tongue. She grabbed for it, and Napoleon hastily withdrew it. 

"Yes," he had answered, and meant it. It had been a busy and hazardous
year. There had been such snowfall that they had been completely snowed in
- he and Illya, Charles with his family, everyone else within their own
homes. The snow had covered doors and windows and it had been a battle
just to clear a way to the privy - a path which disappeared again within
the hour. Food was hard to find, and the hungry animals came down into
their settlement, prowling the streets, bold as if in their own distant
dens. Fox, bears, and pumas were seen, and on one harrowing occasion a
pack of wolves had invaded the butcher shop, leaping on the hanging
carcasses, tearing open the cupboards and devouring everything not locked
in the cold storage basement. 

"And you let them?" one of the women had demanded of the butcher. "What
are we supposed to do now without meat?" 

"Next time you come and tell them no," the man had answered roughly. "They
didn't pay my complaints much mind." 

"We'll have to get more," Charles had said, and expeditions had been
organized on the spot. They had focused on the predators this time instead
of the tastier prey, with an eye towards both refilling their larders and
lessening the threat. 

Yes, it had been a hard winter. But with spring had come food, and the
animals had subsided into their usual haunts. More storage cellars were
built, and the butcher added sturdy shutters to his windows. 

"Yes," Napoleon repeated now, handing over Violet and taking Rose, smiling
into her blue eyes, so like Illya's. "But we need supplies, and medicines.
We also want to get more salt to preserve the meats, so we don't run so
low in future. More people want dogs, and we plan to arrange a special
transport for horses." 

"All well and good," Alexis spoke up from where she was nursing Edwin.
"But why do you, and Illya, and Charles all have to go? Leaving these poor
mites fatherless if something should happen to the ship - or on land." 

"Everyone will look out for you and our children." 

"Humph." Alexis buttoned up. "A lot of fine talk to justify the three of
you running away to sea like boys with no responsibilities. But we'll say
no more about it. Can you keep Edwin tonight? Illya's already agreed to
take the girls. Susan and I want to go to the dance." 

"Of course. I'll bring him along with me now." Napoleon took his son and
smiled into those brown eyes, which crinkled up as the baby whooped with
joy and thumped him on the nose. "Remember when you could tuck him into
his cradle and he'd sleep through any dance?" 

"I do, but now that he's walking he needs a close watch at all times. At
all times, Napoleon," she repeated, giving him a stern look. 

"I will," he promised. "You know I will. Come on Eddie, let's go see your
cousins." 

It was a hectic, loud, and cheerful evening. They took the babies to
Charles' home because Sarah loved caring for them, and Mary was a welcome
help. All four babies - Charles's Elizabeth as well - toddled about, fell
and wailed, were lifted and comforted. Napoleon wished he were an artist,
because the sight of Illya holding his twins on his lap was something he
would like to capture and hold. Lacking that he contented himself with
looking, and trying to imprint it on his memory. They ate on the floor,
and the babies ranged from one adult to the other, taking whatever food
took their fancy from each in turn. Alcott Solo frowned. 

"We're raising a pack of wolf cubs," he said. "We need a bigger table so
we can teach them how civilized people eat. And eat like civilized people
ourselves, even when we are many." 

"Next winter, Father," Charles promised. "And high chairs for the little
folk. It will be a good project. If you two will do the same, Napoleon, we
shall tame these wolves." 

"Yes," Napoleon said, and smiled over at Illya, who was now holding
Elizabeth. "Ready to go?" 

"Let me get their bags." Illya handed Elizabeth to Mary, who took her and
confronted him. 

"Don't take the babies away, please? I want to sing them to sleep." 

"You can sing Elizabeth to sleep," Napoleon said, and she stamped her
foot. 

"No! I want to sing them all to sleep! I want to tuck them all in! I want
my cousins here!" 

Alcott Solo, who frankly doted on Mary, frowned at the two men again. "It
is a kind wish," he said sternly. "It should be obliged." 

"It's all right," Sarah said, smiling. "The more the merrier. In fact,"
she blushed. "There will be one more by next springtime." 

That brought a round of congratulations and exclamations of joy and
surprise, and Solo, all sternness gone, had to sit down and wipe his eyes.


"Now I am thinking that I will have to add another room on to the house,"
Charles said by way of distraction, and Illya and Napoleon took their
leave. 

"We should do the same," Napoleon said as they walked, hand in hand, down
the path to their home. "We really don't have any place for the babies to
sleep even if Mary ever let us take them home." 

"I know. We can add on. Another room down, and an extension on the loft
above. At some point they'll need separate rooms. Edwin and the girls, I
mean." 

"I suppose so," Napoleon said, startled. He hadn't given it a thought, but
of course they wouldn't be babies forever. Even now the tiny infant who
couldn't hold up his head was a distant memory, replaced by this
rambunctious boy. "Let's not wait for winter. Let's start as soon as we
return." 

"I'll ask Dillard to hew us some good wood," Illya promised. "Oh,
Napoleon." He stopped, and looked at Napoleon solemnly. "Who would have
ever thought we would come here. I never -" he pressed close to Napoleon,
who embraced him. "I thought my life was effectively over. There would be
nothing but sorrow and suffering and shame until I died. When your father
bought me I was so frightened. He was so stern and grim I thought his son
would be the same, would punish me for the smallest infraction and keep me
short of food to ensure my docility. If I could have willed myself to die
that night, waiting for you to enter the room, I would have." 

"My love," Napoleon whispered in his ear. "I entered that room a callow
selfish boy, thinking only of the pleasures ahead. My pleasures. By the
time I left it for the last time, I was a man. I had learned so much -
first, that I was not cruel. The sight of your fear quenched my desire so
effectively and quickly that I knew that I would not be one who took
pleasure in such. I wanted only to comfort you - and yet I was so worried
about my position, my status in your eyes. `Be strong', my teachers all
said. `He will respect nothing less.'" 

"You were strong," Illya whispered against him. "You unchained me, you
calmed my fears, you ... you did want my services but nothing was done to
add to my misery. And that night -" 

"Yes." How well he remembered the welcome warmth of the boy against his
back, and how it had warmed his heart, too, to feel the shivering stop, to
feel him relax into sleep. "That night - and every night thereafter." 

"Every night," Illya echoed, and turned his face up for a kiss. Napoleon
obliged, and they kissed there on the dark path, kissed for a long time,
and when they finally moved on Napoleon's desire was flaming. Illya's was
too, he had felt it, hard and urgent against his own. They hurried through
the closing up routines and came together in the big bed in the small loft
with joy. 

Now Napoleon wished his thoughts had not turned in that direction, as he
shifted position to accommodate his burgeoning erection. He should have
kept on the train of thought that involved the new construction they had
been planning. They would need nails as well as wood, and insulation, and
more glass for windows ... the children should have a bright sunny
nursery, but with strong shutters against the wind - and the wolves. The
image of wolves leaping through the glass as they had leapt through the
butcher's windows, tearing at soft baby flesh ... oh, hell. His erection
was gone, and why were those images in his mind? He looked about for
distraction and Illya was standing right beside him, clearly waiting for
him to return from his introspection. And Illya had both arms folded
across his chest, and Illya's mouth was set hard. Napoleon blinked at him.


"What? Why do you look like that?" 

"Why do you think? You were looking right at them." 

"At ... looking at ..." baffled, Napoleon turned his head again and he was
staring at the water. At the sailors and other passengers, in the water.
Laughing and swimming and frolicking about ... "and?" 

"I'm going in," Illya said firmly. "How often does this chance arrive? It
is safe at midday, all the sailors say so." 

"Safer," Napoleon corrected and now it was Illya's flesh he saw being torn
and devoured. "I thought I made this clear. I do not want you ..." he
faltered, and stopped at the steel in the eyes that met his. He should be
over this by now, he knew he should. Illya would not obey him anymore, he
just would not and that was all there was to it. In fact, Napoleon
suspected him of refusing perfectly reasonable directives just to avoid
the appearance of obedience. But arguing with Illya, commanding him, did
not work; would not work ever again. He felt a pang of loss for the gentle
boy who had looked at him with such open adoration, and who had hurried to
fulfill his least request. But he changed tactics anyway. 

"Please?" he asked coaxingly. "Please do not go in. See - I am not telling
you, I am asking you." 

"I will go in," Illya answered. "This is only another way of commanding
me. You still feel you know best, that your fears matter more than my
common sense, just because they are yours. I am going in and ... and you
don't have to watch if it frightens you so." Without another word he
turned, stripped off his clothes, and went over the rail in a clean dive,
landing in the middle of the group of men, greeted with whoops and
laughter. 

Stricken, Napoleon stared at the water. Illya didn't look up at him,
didn't seem to care one whit whether Napoleon Solo was watching or not,
worried or not. And Napoleon's teachers' words came back to him again -
`if a male, he will respect nothing less than strength. Be strong.' But he
had not been strong, he had relinquished his authority and this ... this
was the result. He was angry, and felt guilty for that anger; and he was,
as Illya had so mockingly said, frightened. That shark was down there, and
more besides. Gritting his teeth, he removed his clothes and dove over the
side. He would guard Illya as best he could, that was his responsibility
whether Illya recognized - or appreciated - it or not. But as he swam
about, searching for Illya in the crowd of swimmers, his feet fairly
tingled with the expectation that at any moment they would be seized in
savage teeth and he would be dragged down, down to his death. Damn Illya!
Damn ... 

"Damn you!" Illya exploded. "What are you doing in here?" 

"Protecting you, of course," Napoleon snapped back at him, treading water,
trying to keep his legs close to his body. "Since you're determined to be
a fool ..." something brushed against his foot and he yelped, pulling them
both up as far as he could, overbalancing and going under, choking,
peering about with frantic eyes. Then he was yanked to the surface again. 

"Unbelievable," Illya said through his teeth and swam towards the ropes,
pulling Napoleon with him. He slapped the end of one into Napoleon's
hands. "Go up!" 

"Not without you." 

"Because I am only a foolish boy who cannot be trusted out of your sight?
I can take care of myself, my lord!" Illya hit those words with such venom
that Napoleon, shocked, stopped swimming and sank again. Sputtering, he
came to the surface. 

"How could you take care of yourself against that shark?" he demanded,
holding the rope. "How could anybody?" 

"Then how could you protect me?" 

"I don't know. But I'd die trying." 

Illya sighed. The anger left his face, and he looked sad. "You really
don't get it," he said, shaking his head. "You see me - will always see me
- as a helpless, frightened child, and nothing I ever do will change it." 

"No," Napoleon protested. "I don't. Illya - you know that's not fair.
We've -" he was interrupted by a yell from above. 

"Shark! Shark!" 

He grabbed Illya's arm and fairly dragged him up the rope, climbing with
one arm wrapped around it, hand clutching it as the other one clutched at
Illya. Then Illya took the weight off of him, and he was climbing too. The
rope twitched and shook as other men swarmed it. Illya and Napoleon fell
over the railing onto the deck and scrambled up, leaning over to help the
others. Then they heard the laughter. 

"No shark," one sailor gasped, tears streaming down his face. "Just
thought you'd lingered there long enough chatting back and forth. But oh,
your faces ..." he went off in a gale of laughter. 

Napoleon didn't laugh. He turned to Illya, and made him a stiff little
bow. "Forgive me for offending you," he said. "I'll try to avoid it in
future." 

"I'm sorry too," Illya answered. "I was angry, and I said some things I
don't mean. I know you're only trying to look out for my well being. I ...
I do know that, Napoleon. I may wish you didn't feel the need quite so
strongly, but I ... well." He smiled ruefully. "Who would have thought I
would ever complain about someone caring about me too much?" 

"Do I? Care too much?" None of the things Illya had said had hurt him so
deeply. Illya thought he cared too much? Illya found his caring, his ...
his love ... burdensome? 

"No." Illya came to him, laid his head down on Napoleon's shoulder.
Napoleon's arms went around him. "I didn't mean it like that. It's the way
you show it ... but no. You could never love me too much, Napoleon. And I
love you. That is why your opinion of me matters. When I feel you are
taking me lightly ..." 

"I never take you lightly." Napoleon drew back enough to look into his
eyes intently. "You are the most important thing in the world to me. I'm
sorry if I make you feel otherwise." 

"And if I want to swim tomorrow?" 

"I'll not say one word about it. I promise." 

"But you'll come in with me. And try to swim with your knees tucked under
your chin." 

"I may do that," Napoleon allowed. "How can I not? When I see it as so
dangerous, even though you do not? How can I not follow you, and be by
your side?" 

"All right, Napoleon," Illya answered gently. "All right." The sailors,
who had been clustering around the railing laughing at those underneath,
were returning to their tasks and the two men drew apart. They said
nothing further, and the next day the sky began to darken, the winds
picked up, and nobody went swimming after all. 

 

"We should split up," Charles said. "This becomes more dangerous every
time. Enough people have left the Dome for our land that the authorities
are becoming suspicious. At first, they didn't care. A few radical
dissenters vanish - what of it? Good riddance. But now we draw teachers
and bankers, law enforcement and ..." his mouth quirked, "elderly leading
citizens. So Napoleon, you obtain our medical supplies." He handed
Napoleon a list. "I will see to the food. Illya, you go to the animal
market. More goats, and dogs, and make inquiries about horses. Perhaps, if
we lay in enough supplies, we can have a dedicated ship for the horses
next time." 

"Wait a minute," Napoleon protested. "Is it safe for Illya to go alone?
And don't say it!" he snapped at Illya, who had bristled. "I fear that you
may be recognized, and recaptured to be sold again. It is nothing to do
with your capabilities." 

"And if you say that often enough you may believe it, but I never shall!"
Illya flared back at him. "Who will recognize me? That boy no longer
exists. I am a man now, and they will not be looking for a man!" 

"Napoleon has a valid point," Charles said, and Illya's eyes widened.
Before he could speak, Charles continued. "At least conceal your hair. It
has not changed. And speak as little as possible - what else would one of
your background be doing here except as a slave? I had forgotten all of
that." 

"Napoleon hasn't!" Illya said through clenched teeth. "But just because
that is what you see when you look on me doesn't mean others do! I will
meet you at the transport point!" He whirled on his heel and stalked away.
Charles sighed. 

"I'm sorry, Napoleon. I should have said nothing. And I hope you are
wrong, and we gather what we need and depart without incident." 

Napoleon frowned, watching Illya's retreating figure until he turned a
corner and disappeared from sight. "I do too, Charles," he said finally.
"I certainly do." 

 

Illya saw the slave trader as he left the second animal market. He was
feeling pleased with himself - four heavily pregnant goats were at that
moment being herded towards the pick-up point, and two mastiffs paced
along behind them. He had stroked cats, but not bought any. The cats from
the first voyage were busy breeders, and there were felines aplenty. He
had an eye out for a small male dog to breed with Brownie, and was also
following a lead on laying hens. His eyes passed over the slave trader,
and snapped back. The man was lounging against a wall, watching a video
screen in a store window. For a moment Illya quailed. Was Napoleon right?
Did he still wear his slave status like a brand? But the man looked at him
indifferently, and then his eyes moved on. Illya straightened. He had been
the right one after all. That part of his life was behind him. Nothing of
the boy remained in the man he had become. He continued on his way,
swaggering a little. He would never be that boy again. He couldn't. He was
a proud, independent, hard working and hard fighting man. Whether Napoleon
recognized it or not. And ... a sound from behind made him turn, wary
again, but there was nothing to be seen except street, and hurrying
people, and ... 

And then there was nothing. Blackness descended over his face and he
brought his hands up to push it away. But a yank around his throat closed
off his air, and he was pulled backwards, off his feet, dragged. He
grabbed for the rope around his neck but his hands were pulled behind him,
and bound. He lowered his head and charged forward, striking someone and
knocking them down. The rope loosened, and he gasped in a breath, then a
sickly sweet smell filled his nostrils, his head spun, his legs crumpled
and he was falling, falling - and gone. 

He opened his eyes to see bars. Bars in front of him, beneath him and
above. He looked about and he was in a cage, a low cage, with barely
enough room for him to crouch on his knees and forearms. His wrists were
now bound in front of him, and, when he tried to speak, the words were
choked off by a thick wad of cloth. He pulled at the gag and a jolt of
pain went through him. He screamed - or tried to scream, though no sound
emerged, and the pain came again, and again. It surrounded him, hurting
him everywhere. When it stopped he whipped his head from side to side,
trying to find the source, but he could see nothing besides the bars of
his cage. Everything beyond was in darkness. He reached for the gag again,
and again the pain came. This time he could see the sparks on the bars.
The entire cage was electrified. There was no place to go to escape the
agony that went through him again, and again, and again. Frantic, he threw
himself against the bars and was hurt. He backed up as far as he could and
was hurt again. He screamed behind the gag and the pain rose. He had to
get out! But every move brought the pain. Maybe if he didn't move ... he
crouched low and remained motionless, and heard a chuckle. 

"That's it, boy. Be still, and quiet. Else ..." and the pain came again,
even stronger than before, and longer. He thrashed, jerking and twitching,
every chance contact with the bars throwing him against another side,
hurting him again, hurting him more. 

"Remove the gag," another voice said. "I fancy hearing him scream. Think
you're something, don't you, boy? Running away from your master? Don't you
know the penalty for that?" And again the pain came, and again. In the
next pause someone reached through the bars, hands filling his vision, and
pulled the gag out. As soon as the hands were gone the pain returned and
he did scream, scream and scream until he couldn't scream anymore,
couldn't move, could only lie in a huddled ball and jerk as the current
ran through him. He wished wildly that he could pass out, but he didn't.
He wished that he could get free, but he couldn't. All he could do was
suffer - unendurable suffering that he nonetheless had to endure, because
there was nothing else he could do. 

Finally it stopped. The top of his prison lifted off and he was pulled out
of the cage, thrown to the floor. A booted foot kicked him in the side and
he cried out again. "Now," the strange voice said. "Where exactly did you
think you were going, boy? You know it was only a matter of time before we
found you. Was it worth it? Worth this?" And a new pain shot through him -
burning him! Hot ... no! He rolled to the side, away from it, and it
followed. He could smell his flesh scorching now and he was screaming
again. He wanted to cry Napoleon's name, wanted Napoleon to hear, to come,
to save him, but something kept him back. He didn't have the leisure to
wonder what that something might be, just held onto its imperative. 

When the burning stopped - although it didn't stop, the hurt places raw
and savage but at least there was no new burning to endure - he gasped and
looked about him again. Then the slave trader was holding his head back by
his hair and talking right into his face, softly, almost commiseratingly. 

"Where have you been all this time, hey, boy? Have you run mad, thinking
you could just go free? Where is your master, Alcott Solo, and where are
his sons? Did you kill them? Or did someone else kill them, and steal you?
Tell me, and it may go easier on you." And when Illya just stared at him,
mouth clamped shut, the man shrugged. "It makes me no matter," he
observed. We found you again, didn't we? And mad or sane, it's all one so
long as you are obedient." 

"He's not obedient, though," the other man objected. "Lord Solo doubtless
sold him cheaply. An unruly slave is worse than useless. Throw the cage
into the pit and be done with it." 

"But look at him," the slave trader said. "Look at him. He's made for
fucking, he is. No, I'll recoup my costs with this one. You'll see. Lay
him out." 

Hands grabbed him, shoved him flat onto his back and while he was still
trying to make sense of their words a thick wet cloth was slapped over his
face. He gasped, choked on it and then more water was poured through it,
making him strangle, and gag, and drown. The water sent him down into a
terrible darkness, from which he was ejected by more pain, more shocks. It
was a rod of some sort this time, touching him and hurting him everywhere
it passed. He screamed, tried to pull away and the water returned, the
water and the darkness and the pain, over and over and over again. 

Time passed, but he didn't know how much, or how swiftly. He could only
track time by the pain. Either they were there, hurting him, or he was
alone in the cage, and the cage hurt him. He screamed and cried, but
wordlessly. Words were dangerous. They weren't questioning him, not
seriously. His life, his story, was of no interest to them. But if they
knew - if they even suspected that he did know where the Solos - father
and sons - had gone, that there was a place, a world - he couldn't really
follow that to a conclusion but images of soldiers, of burning homes,
screaming babies, filled him so he swallowed the words, buried his
dangerous knowledge. And after a while there were no thoughts, and there
was certainly no knowledge. There was nothing but pain and fear, and shame
at his own weakness. He should be able to keep silent, manfully silent,
under this torture, but he couldn't. The screams were dragged from him by
the pain. He shouldn't weep - but the tears came whether he wanted them to
or no. He should be stronger, he shouldn't break ... but that thought,
like all his thoughts, was lost in the waves of pain and suffocation. 

Hands around his throat, squeezing. He coughed, retched, tried to push the
hands away, and was shocked again. Then the hands were gone and he tried
to crawl backwards, away from them, but they followed, reaching for him,
reaching for his throat. For his life. The rod shocked his legs, and he
couldn't make them work anymore. It moved up, to his knees, his thighs.
His genitals and that pain was so much beyond anything that his screams
brought blood from his throat, blood he choked on. 

Words exploded from him then, words he couldn't hold back. "No! No no no
no please don't do that, please stop hurting me please stop please I'll do
anything!" He broke wide open, then, desperate to somehow make it stop
before ... before ... `please! I'll do whatever you say, I will, just
please stop hurting me! Please?" 

There was a pause. "You still don't get it, boy, do you? You'll do
whatever we say, whatever we want, anyway. No bargaining, no trade off. I
own you, boy. I own you!" And he flicked the switch and the pain ravened
through him and when he opened his mouth to scream the cloth was back, the
water was back, and the man was right, he was right. There was no appeal,
no escape. They would do whatever they wanted, and he would suffer, and
... and that was all. 

They bathed him, holding him under the water with a carelessness that was
almost worse than the deliberate torture. They washed his hair with his
head under the water because it was easier for them, and his breathing a
matter of indifference. They dragged a comb through it and that pain,
which should have been minor compared to everything else, wrenched moans
from him. He was dizzy and sick, his head spinning. 

"You're weak, boy," the trader said with contempt. "Weak as well as mad.
Look at you, who strutted himself down the street, thinking himself a free
man. You are good for nothing, except fucking. You're a pretty little fuck
boy, and that's it. It's a pretty mouth, too," he added. "Shame to change
its shape by pulling out all his teeth. Get the pliers, you." 

There was always another horror, something he had not expected but that
they wanted to do to him, and that would hurt so much ...Illya wanted to
beg him not to, wanted to plead, wanted to scream out his protests, but
when the pliers were lifted and the trader said, "Open your mouth, boy,"
he did. 

He did. He opened his mouth because to refuse would only mean more pain
and then they would do it anyway. He opened his mouth and waited. 

"Ah," the slave trader said quietly. Caressingly, he brushed Illya's teeth
with the pliers. "A fuck boy who doesn't use his mouth is pretty
worthless, don't you agree?" 

He nodded. Yes, he was worthless, yes he was. He must be. If he had any
worth this wouldn't be happening to him. Napoleon wouldn't have sold him,
he wouldn't have lost his mind. 

"Now if I thought you'd be good, and not bite, I might let you keep those
teeth. Your looks will suffer if I remove them, for a certainty, and the
price be lower." He frowned as if considering it, weighing the risks and
benefits, all the while tapping Illya's back teeth with the pliers. 

I won't bite, he almost cried. I promise, I promise I won't bite ... but
he held back the words. He hadn't been addressed, he hadn't been asked,
and there would be no bargaining, no trade off. 

"Ah," the man said again. "Tell me, boy. Will you bite my cock when I put
it in your mouth? Will you ever bite a man's cock, or his tongue, or
anything else he cares to put in you?" 

Illya shook his head. And when the trader shoved his erect penis into his
mouth he certainly didn't bite; he sucked, and licked, and used all the
tricks he had been taught so long ago - no. Not so long ago. Because he
was mad, wasn't he. That other world, that other life, was only in his
mind, and that was so sad that he wanted to die. He wished he could die.
But they wouldn't let him die. He was a pretty fuck boy, and they liked
that. So they would hurt him, but they wouldn't kill him. Maybe if he did
this well enough they wouldn't hurt him - for now. For right now nobody
was hurting him, and that was as close to good as he was ever going to
get. He was crying again as the man came in his mouth, holding his nose so
he strangled and choked even as he swallowed. Just as merciful blackness
began to steal over him he was thrown aside, kicked aside, kicked into the
cage. The top was fastened down, the bars lit with that cruel electrical
glow and he jerked and screamed and finally, finally, passed out. 

"We have a buyer," the trader said. He opened the cage door and kicked the
sides. "Boy! Hear me? We have a buyer. Come out. Stand up." 

He tried, he really did, dragging himself onto his knees, but he couldn't
get to his feet. They shocked him again and he fell, tangled up in the
cage, twisted and broken and weak. Weak. He was weak, and he was crazy,
and he was up for sale like ... like the goats, his mind whispered, but he
turned away from that. It was part of the madness, that was all, and meant
nothing. Then they pulled him out of the cage and cleaned him again, with
the same indifference to the suffering they caused. They dressed him in a
plain slave tunic, put a metal collar around his neck, pulled his hands
behind his back, cuffed his wrists, and pushed him to his knees. He stayed
there, swaying. He was cold and hungry, thirsty and throbbing with pain
everywhere. 

"How much?" 

That voice! That voice! Illya lifted his head, incredulous, and was
looking up into Napoleon's face. He started to come to his feet and the
shock blasted through him, the collar and the cuffs alive with current,
sending him to the ground, writhing and screaming. Napoleon stared at him,
lip curled with distaste, eyes the eyes of a stranger. 

"I thought you said he was ready," he snapped and Illya, who had thought
himself broken before, broke completely. Napoleon didn't know him.
Napoleon ...he had made Napoleon's kindness and consideration and ... and
love ... up out of whole cloth in his own diseased mind. 

"He is," the trader said and gave Illya a look that made his bones turn to
water within him. "Aren't you, boy." Without waiting for a reply he
dragged Illya back to his knees, and gave him a hard shake. "Aren't you?" 

Illya nodded. Yes, he was ready, yes he was good, yes, he would obey. Yes
yes yes. 

"He is as beautiful as you said," Napoleon - or the stranger who
inexplicably wore Napoleon's face - mused. "But a little battered for the
price you gave me, surely?" 

"I can get that much easily from any brothel, if you don't want him." 

"You must be mad. A beaten, bruised, rebellious slave? Half that." 

"He is not rebellious," the trader protested. "You there! Bring me the
rod!" 

The rod, sending that sizzling jolting agony all through him ... he could
feel the tears again, streaking his face, but without a word he lowered
his head, waiting for the pain. 

"No," the buyer said. "I need him able to walk. But not at that price." 

There was some more bargaining and haggling, and when it was finished the
buyer handed over a bag of coins, and the trader handed over the keys to
the cuffs and neck collar. After all the buildup it was quickly over, and
Illya found himself following his new master out the door. 

The sun blinded him, tore at his eyes the way the electricity had torn at
his nerves, the way the poker had torn at his flesh. He had to squeeze
them shut but then how could he walk? How could he follow this man? He
stumbled forward, hoping desperately that he was moving in the right
direction. His arm was seized and he was put up against a wall. Something
came down over him, over his head, his body, covering him. He whimpered,
but made no resistance. He would never resist. He had learned. He was ...
he could open his eyes? The hood over his face dimmed the light while
still allowing him to see. "Come," the man said curtly, and strode away.
Illya stumbled after him. 

He was clad in a long robe that tangled around his feet and made him trip.
Made him fall. He landed hard on his face, unable to break the fall with
his hands cuffed behind him, and heard the man curse. A foot nudged his
side. "Up." The man rasped harshly. "Up and walk or by all that's sacred,
boy, I'll turn back and see if that rod is for sale as well as you. Now!" 

He did. He got up, and he walked. He walked behind his new owner, who was
setting a stiff pace. Illya hurried to keep up. He hurt everywhere, and
his calves and thighs were cramping with the sudden exercise after all the
time caged and in chains. He forced himself ahead, on and on and on. They
descended stairs, still hurrying, and were in a crowd of people, being
buffeted on all sides by people. The man gripped his upper arm and fairly
dragged him onward. Then they were in a small room and the man was pulling
the robe off him, up and over his head. His face - Napoleon's face! How
could that be, how ... 

"Step in," the man said urgently. "That's it, Illya, one foot, now the
other." He obeyed, accepting the use of his name without question. His
name had been sold along with him, and there was nothing odd about that.
He stood still, docilely allowing the man to snap up some sort of suit, a
white heavy suit. When the helmet came down, covering his face, he
whimpered softly but not in protest, no, he wouldn't protest. If this
strange contraption cut off his air he wouldn't protest. He would be good.
He wouldn't bite, he wouldn't argue, he wouldn't struggle. He wouldn't ...
he was pulled out of the room and again they - the man in an identical
white suit, his face hidden now too - were in the crowd of people, many in
similar suits, hurrying, hurrying ... down more stairs. A door slid open. 

Rows of benches stretched out ahead of him and the man guided him to a
place towards the front - a strange room, long and cylindrical in shape.
But he didn't wonder at it. He didn't wonder at anything. At this moment
nobody was hurting him. He hurt, of course, he always hurt, but he wasn't
being actively punished or tortured, he could breathe ... he would take it
for as long as it lasted. They sat, and the man put an arm around his
shoulders. Illya trembled. Now what? There were hundreds of men crowding
into this place. Was he for all of them? Would they drag him down and
penetrate him, one after the other? He shook with fear, and tears wet his
face again inside the mask. 

The space moved. It moved forward, accelerating quickly. The arm around
him tightened, and the man patted his shoulder. He didn't speak, so Illya
didn't either. Nobody spoke. Everyone sat still and silent and the space
continued to move forward at a tremendous speed. He didn't understand, but
he didn't need to. The man's hand slid up his neck, to his head, pressed
it down onto his shoulder. It was surprisingly - shockingly - comfortable.
He was dizzy with the shocks, one after the other, the changes, the
newness, and yet... and yet there was something familiar, too, about these
rows of white suited men, this silently gliding train. Train. Where had
that word come from? But that was what this was, of course, a train of
some sort. His head was spinning and he didn't even know when his eyes
closed and he slept. 

He slept, and woke, with no idea how much time had passed. They got up and
used lavatories. They sat at tables, and food was placed in front of them.
Illya looked at it. He didn't remember the last time he had eaten but he
wasn't hungry, either. In fact, the smell of the food made his stomach
roll forward. He fought back the need to vomit because how angry would
this man - all these men! - be if he did. Then the man across from him
lifted his visor, showing his mouth and a strong chin with a deep cleft.
Illya stared at it. The man reached over and pushed up Illya's own visor,
indicated the tray of food. Obedient, Illya put his fork in it and stirred
it around. 

"Eat," the man said and, still obedient, Illya put a forkful of something
brown into his mouth. His gorge rose and he gagged, clapped both hands
over his mouth, swallowed. He fought to keep it down and in a moment took
another forkful. It was no use, he was going to throw up, he was ... the
spasm sent him tumbling to the floor, retching and choking. When the hands
closed over his shoulders he screamed - almost soundlessly, because his
throat was so raw and swollen. 

"I'm sorry," he gulped, staring at the mess he hadn't, after all. been
able to keep from making. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, my lord I'm ..." other
people swarmed around them and he could hear his owner talking earnestly.
Only a few words reached him as another wave of sickness went through him.


"No, nothing contagious ... it's just been a long time since he ate or had
any real rest. Yes, that would be better. That would be kind. Thank you."
He was moved, lifted by other hands. It was on him, then. They would fall
on him, one after the other ... they carried him and he didn't struggle,
he didn't ... he was good, he was. He was laid down on a flat surface and
his helmet removed. A cool wet cloth touched his forehead - the water! The
water poured through the cloth ... but it didn't. His face was wiped
carefully and his tongue came out to lick at the wet cloth without his
willing it. 

"It's okay, Illya," his buyer said, and his voice was gentle, tender ...
loving. What ... what was happening? Was he losing his mind again? Would
it be so bad if he did? Blackness was pulling him away, away from here,
away from now, away from everything. Maybe he was dying. Wouldn't that be
good? Dying, and beyond their reach. Dying. 

 

Napoleon looked down at Illya's face, and wiped his cracked lips again.
Even from the depths of wherever he had retreated to his tongue came out
to catch the drops. Napoleon squeezed some more out and Illya swallowed
once, twice, before turning his head away. 

Napoleon had wanted to go in raging, armed to the teeth, and tear Illya
away from them, but Charles had forbidden it. "We cannot risk being
pursued," he had said - harshly, for him. "As it is, suspicions are being
raised. Soon we will have to find another way to get the supplies we need.
If you steal him -" 

"You can't steal a human being! Who knows what they're doing to him in
there? We have to rescue him now!" 

"No," Charles had repeated. "We have to be more subtle than that. We will
set up a viewing, and purchase him. No one will think anything of that -
they are already putting out feelers to their wealthy buyers. A rich man
will enter, buy a slave, and leave with him. Nothing out of the ordinary,
nothing to remember. Just one transaction among the many they will carry
through this year. And it should not be you." He eyed Napoleon, and
sighed. "But I know you will insist. Have you considered that he may give
us away when he sees you? He may cry out your name, make it plain he knows
you. If he hasn't given it all away already, under the torture." 

"Not Illya," Napoleon said confidently. "He's too brave, and too smart for
that. He has told them nothing, else they would already be looking for us.
And even when he sees me, he'll play along." 

"I hope he is in a condition to do so. They will have drugged him, at the
very least." 

"They'll be hurting him." Napoleon swallowed hard. "I have to get him out
of there." 

"We will." 

And they had. But it was so much worse than Napoleon had expected. Illya
was beaten and burned, starved and nearly out of his mind with fear. At
first Napoleon had thought he would give the plan away after all, but then
he had shrunk from Napoleon as if he were indeed a stranger, a dangerous
stranger. Napoleon had hoped he was only playacting, but well before
Illya's collapse in the dining hall he had known that for the folly that
it was. Illya was ... he was in worse shape than he had been that first
night, chained to Napoleon's bed. He cowered away from Napoleon's touch,
he shrank from his voice. But if he was broken, he was also safe. At this
very moment he was safe, head on Napoleon's lap, and that was the
important thing. The only thing. Everything else could be - would be -
managed. Surely it would. 

 

When Illya woke, he felt not better, but different. Even as he lay, eyes
still closed, he realized where he was. The conflicting images from the
day before solidified in his mind, making sense now as they hadn't before.
The white uniform with visor - yes. The long lines of sitting men, the
forward motion - he was on a carrier, as he had been previously. Napoleon
- Napoleon, helping him dress, offering him food, wiping his face with a
cool cloth. Napoleon kicking him, shouting at him, threatening him with
the rod. Which was real? Was anything real? Maybe he was still in prison,
even at this moment drowning, his brain frantically trying to call up
images his mind could tolerate. His whole body jerked at the thought, and
another voice came - familiar, reassuring, but not Napoleon's voice, not
his master's voice. 

"Illya. Be still." 

Oh, he would be still, he would obey. He froze, waiting for further
commands. They came. 

"Look at me, Illya. Open your eyes and look at me." 

He did, and was looking into the face of a man, a worried man, a man he
knew. But he said nothing. He wouldn't speak first, he knew better than
that. He knew ... he knew how to be good. He would be good. So he looked
into Charles Solo's face, and locked the questions and the fears behind
his closed mouth. 

"Good." Charles smiled at him. "You know me?" 

He nodded. Was that the right response? He did know Charles, Napoleon's
brother. 

"Napoleon hasn't slept since you didn't meet us at the rendezvous point.
We're still a long way from home, so let him rest. Is there anything I can
do for you?" 

Oh, that was a hard question. If he shook his head no, wasn't that the
same as telling this man no? If he nodded yes, then what? If he ignored
the question that was bad, surely. He didn't know what to do. Tears
spilled over and he pressed closer to the comforting warmth against his
back. Charles reached a hand towards his face and he flinched, squeezed
his eyes shut, feeling more tears streak his face. 

"All right," Charles said. "It's all right, Illya. You're safe now. The
drugs should be wearing off, and that will help too." 

Drugs? What drugs? He looked at Charles again, and although he didn't ask
the question, Charles seemed to read it in his eyes. "They drugged you
very heavily," he said. "If you're having trouble with time and place,
that's why. Now you're in withdrawal, which is why you were so sick." 

Sick? Oh! Yes, he had vomited! In front of his master! What were they
going to do to him? He whimpered, then, freshly horrified, clamped his
hands over his mouth to keep silent. The warmth against him shifted,
moved, and Napoleon's voice reached him. 

"Illya? What - was I asleep? Charles. Is he all right?" 

He had woken Napoleon up after being told not to. He hadn't meant to wake
him, but he had. Now surely would come the strap, the fists, the water and
the rod. He turned, pushed his face against Napoleon's stomach, realizing
too late that he was seeking protection from the man who was about to
punish him. Before he could react to that he was drawn even closer, arms
strong around him, Napoleon leaning over him, whispering into his ear. 

"Illya. Illya, my love. It's all right. It's all right. You're safe here,
with me. I'm sorry I had to act - I'm sorry I - I had to get you out of
there without them suspecting. Charles said ... Charles thought ... I'm
sorry, sweetheart. So sorry." 

"Charles was right," Charles said tartly. "No one is chasing us, we need
not fear this carrier will be halted and searched, or that troops will be
waiting at the ship; endangering not only ourselves, but risking the
entire enterprise. But I too am sorry, Illya, that it took so long. We did
our best, Napoleon and I." He waited, then, "Why won't he speak, Napoleon?
Illya - don't you understand me?" 

"He won't speak first. He will only answer. Illya. Do you know where we
are?" 

"A ... a carrier, my lord?" 

"Napoleon. Yes, that's right. A carrier. Good. Do you know Charles ... and
me?" 

"Yes, my lord." This was easier. Simple questions, to which he knew the
answers. He looked up into Napoleon's face. The cold stranger was gone and
Napoleon was ... Napoleon was smiling at him. 

"Good, Illya," he said softly, and Illya relaxed a little. He was pleasing
his master. "And after the carrier is the ship, and then home. It's over.
You were captured, it was bad, and now it's over. Yes?" 

"Yes, my lord." 

"Napoleon." 

Why did his master keep repeating his name? Did he think Illya still
didn't recognize him? Would that make him angry? So he nodded. 

"Say it." 

"Napoleon. I know you, my lord. But they said ..." he choked. He was
saying too much, nobody had asked him what `they' had said. "I'm sorry." 

"No, go on. What did they say?" 

"They said I was mad, my lord. That you had doubtless sold me for
insolence, and I was insane." 

"Why would they say that?" Charles voice was sharp. "What did you tell
them, Illya? Did you tell them about the ship? About our life in the new
world?" 

"I ... I don't ... I'm sorry! I don't know! I'm sorry!" 

"Stop it, Charles," Napoleon said, and his voice was sharp too now. They
were cutting him open with their sharp angry voices. "You're frightening
him." 

"He is frightening me," Charles returned, but the anger was gone. "Illya.
Try to think. Why exactly did they tell you that you were mad? Their exact
words." 

Their exact words. He thought, although it meant sending his mind back,
back to that place, back to ... "Me, strutting down the street like a free
man, when I am a thing, only a thing, a thing made for fucking." He wept
then, great tearing sobs and Napoleon cradled him, rocked him, stroked his
hair, kissed his forehead. But Charles persisted. 

"Nothing else? They said nothing about ... about the sun, and dolphins,
and forests? Illya! Think!" 

But he couldn't think. Charles was angry with him, and angry men were
dangerous, they were ... Napoleon lifted him into a sitting position,
shifting so they were now side by side. 

"Stop it, Charles," he said again. "Let me. Illya. Is that all? That you
were a free man? Is that all they tried to take from you?" 

"All?" 

"I don't mean it like that. Did they - or you - talk about this carrier
right here, with the white suits and the endless days of travel? Think,
Illya. Charles is right- it is important." 

"No, my lord. Nothing like that." 

"All right. What about the ship? The time in the hold, the time on deck,
the ... the sharks in the water. Storms and wind, and seeing the sun. Did
they taunt you, perhaps, with the impossibility of any of those things?" 

"No, my lord. They didn't know about ... I ... I didn't tell them!" It
burst from him as if his head had cracked open, and a shaft of light had
spilled through. "They asked where I had been, but I knew ... I knew that
was a secret. A great secret. I thought of them landing on our shores,
storming into our camp ... the women and the babies ... the houses in
flames ... I didn't tell them, my lord! Truly I didn't! I said nothing!
They didn't really care, anyway; didn't think I could have anything of
worth to say. They just hurt me, and they killed me, over and over again,
into the water, the water in me, the rod ... my lord! Is it really you?
Your arms - they have never harmed me, never. You found me? You saved me?
I ... I was worth that to you? Truly? Or am I mad indeed, now and forever
mad?" He cried again, ashamed at his lack of control but unable to prevent
it, any of it, the tears and the sobs and the gasping for breath. 

"And under the drugs?" Charles said. "They drugged you. Did they question
you then? Because you might not remember, Illya, what you said. I don't
know what they gave you but if it was a truth drug of some sort you might
have answered, despite your best efforts. No blame could attach to you,
brother. But we need to know." 

"I didn't know they drugged me. But ..." he fell silent, letting himself
remember their voices, hearing it, feeling it ... he clutched at Napoleon,
afraid of his own daring, afraid to let him go. "I'm sorry my lord," he
gasped, fingers digging into Napoleon's arms through the suit. "I'm sorry,
I'm sorry ..." 

"It's all right," Napoleon soothed him. "Illya, it's all right. Hold on to
me all you want. I'm not angry. I promise. Answer Charles." 

That part was a command, and he tried again, tried to think. He thought
about what they said to him, and how they treated him, and finally he
shook his head. "They didn't ask me anything. They told me. They told me
what I was, and what they would do to me. They - they wanted me to stop
fighting, to be obedient, to have value. I have no value as a rebellious
slave. My only value is my looks. It's always been my looks. I'm made for
fucking, and I can't fight them. I won't, my lord. I promise you. I'm
good. You won't regret taking this trouble for me. I don't even feel sick
anymore. You'll like fucking me again, you'll see. And you can put it in
my mouth if you want. I won't bite, I'll be good. You'll see, my lord."
Comforted by Napoleon's arms, Napoleon's body, Napoleon's voice,
whispering reassurances, whispering words of love, he laid his head down
on Napoleon's shoulder. He was sleepy again, but that was all right. He
could sleep. Even Charles had stopped asking questions, and was patting
his shoulder. 

"Good for you," he said, and his voice wasn't sharp anymore. It was kind.
"Illya - good for you. You kept us all safe - the women and the babies and
the homes. Good for you." 

"Good for you," Napoleon echoed and he was rocking again, back and forth,
slow and steady, a sweet rhythm that made it impossible to resist the
black tide stealing over him, pulling him down, down into Napoleon's arms,
deep into Napoleon's love, and once safely there he slept. 

 

 Napoleon leaned on the railing once again, and stared out over the blue
water. Beside him, Illya stood very close. They didn't speak - Napoleon
because he had nothing to say, and Illya because he wouldn't speak unless
Napoleon did. He pressed against him, as he always did these days; right
up against him, and Napoleon's arm was wrapped around his shoulders. It
was a peaceful moment, and Napoleon savored it. Because despite the
terrible ordeal he had been through Illya was alive, with him, and doing
better. He was, Napoleon thought, stealing a glance at that pure, clean
profile. He was doing better. 

Physically he had almost completely recovered. He was too thin, still, but
the bruises and welts and burns had faded. He ate with real appetite, and
slept without screaming - as long as Napoleon was there. And Napoleon was
always there. He stayed close to Illya, knowing that all Illya's security
was tied up in him. 

Furthermore, Illya was oriented to time, and place. He understood the
sequence of recent events. He no longer questioned his own sanity, and
seemed contented enough on this journey. He smiled at Napoleon frequently,
and acquiesced to everything he said. Everything. Napoleon sighed. In
short, he was the perfect Companion for a well born man. Even as Napoleon
thought that, a burly sailor ran to the railing, peeling off his clothes
as he went. He vaulted over and hit the water with a splash, greeted
loudly by those already there. Again, Napoleon looked at Illya. 

Illya watched the swimmers below with the same air of detachment he gave
to everything except for Napoleon himself. Napoleon cleared his throat,
and Illya turned to look at him - not inquiringly, but signaling his
attention. 

"Do you want to go in?" Napoleon asked, and, when Illya's brows furrowed,
he indicated the noisy crowd below. "It's hot today." 

"If you want to, my lord, of course I will accompany you." 

"No, I don't want to. But I thought that you might." 

"If you wish it," Illya said, rather doubtfully. 

"What do you want?" 

"To be here beside you, my lord. But if you want me to swim, I will." 

And if somebody had told Napoleon that he would miss Illya's contrariness,
his obstinacy; that he would desire above all else to see Illya dive into
that water whether Napoleon wanted him to or no, he would have scoffed. In
fact, hadn't he been waxing nostalgic for his sweet biddable Companion;
missing the boy who had hung on his every word, and watched him with
adoration in those great eyes? Hadn't he? Well, now he had it. Illya
wouldn't swim against his wishes - Illya wouldn't do anything unless
Napoleon Solo told him to. And it was ashes in his mouth. Looking ahead to
their homecoming, he felt a great load of responsibility. He did not have
a partner in their hard life. He had ... not a burden, no, because he
loved Illya; and moreover Illya would complete whatever tasks Napoleon set
him. If he told Illya to cut wood and carry water Illya would, willingly.
But in an emergency, what would he do? Would he rise to an unexpected
occasion? Or would he wait for orders? What if ... what if Napoleon right
now jumped into the water? Leaving no instructions, just going. What would
Illya do? Would he remain on deck, or would he follow? 

He remained on deck. Napoleon had jumped, trying very hard not to think
about sharks and other monsters in the depths, because suddenly he had to
know. He jumped, sank, and regained the surface, looking up at the ship.
He could see the sun striking fire off of Illya's hair, and waved to him.
Illya lifted a hand in response, but he made no other move. Was he
anxious, at being left? Napoleon knew that he would be, so he waved again,
this time a clear gesture to join him and Illya jumped, landed beside him,
surfaced and treaded water by his side. He showed no surprise at
Napoleon's actions, but after a moment he smiled, lifted his face to the
sun. 

"Feel good?" Napoleon asked, and he nodded. 

"Yes, my lord. It does." 

"Swim with me," Napoleon urged him and struck out, making a circuit around
the ship. Illya followed him, and when they returned to their starting
point the ropes were coming down. Napoleon put Illya's hands onto one of
the great knots. "Hold on," he said, and as Illya was lifted he grabbed on
too and together they were brought up onto the deck. Illya smiled at him
again. 

"That was -" he began and stopped, face stricken. 

"Was what?" Napoleon asked coaxingly. "Go on, Illya, it's all right. You
can speak whenever you like. You are free, do you remember? I will not be
angry, I promise you." 

"Nothing, my lord." Illya had bent his head, and Napoleon couldn't see his
eyes. So he put a finger under Illya's chin, and lifted his face again. 

"It's all right," he repeated. and Illya looked at him searchingly. 

"Is it?" he asked, and Napoleon kissed the tip of his nose. 

"Yes. It is. It is more than all right. Do you not remember, sweetheart,
how it was between us? How we talked, and disputed, and laughed, and even
argued? Like when you wanted to swim, and I was afraid of the sharks?" 

"Yes." Illya frowned. "You were angry with me, my lord. Very angry. I ..."
he trembled, and Napoleon drew him close. 

"Perhaps I was. But it meant nothing." 

"I went in, against your expressed desire, and ... and we quarreled!
Didn't we? We quarreled about swimming! You were ... is that why you sold
me back to them? Because I defied you? I am sorry, my lord. Very, very
sorry! I will never ..." he choked, and Napoleon rocked him a little. 

"I did not sell you back to them, Illya," he said, trying to maintain his
calm, knowing that this was important, right here and right now. This -
what Illya had said, what he said now - was important. "They captured you.
They abducted you, imprisoned you, drugged and tortured you. It had
nothing to do with any disagreement we had had. They knew nothing of it -
nothing of me. Nothing of you, Illya, because in you they had all the
secrets of the rebellion, if they had known it. They saw an opportunity
for profit - and revenge, I am sure - and that is all. I would never sell
you. I cannot! You are not mine to sell." 

"Am I not?" Illya trembled again, and Napoleon brought him down to their
little secluded sleeping place behind the mast. "Then what am I? Whose am
I? What holds us together, then, if not that you own me, that I am your
property?" 

Napoleon waited for a moment while he ordered his thoughts. "You are not
my property - or anyone's. You are your own, and a free citizen of our new
world. We are held together, and I will never leave you, because I love
you. Love is our bond. That is all we need." 

Nothing more was said as they settled in for the night. The sky had
darkened, and they gazed up at the stars together, Illya's head on
Napoleon's shoulder, their arms tight about one another. Then Illya
whispered, "I love you too, my lord." 

"Napoleon. Please. Call me Napoleon." 

"Napoleon. I love you. The rest of your words are hard for me, and I will
have to think about them. But that you love me, and I love you, yes. I
remember that. I know it." 

"I'm glad." He kissed Illya's cheek, rejoicing. It would take time, but
Illya would come back to him, all the way back to him. And if you want to
swim alone, or ... or leap from the mast and ride the backs of those
dolphins, I will applaud you and ... and let you go. Because you will
always come back to me, and I to you. 

 

They were becalmed. For endless days, and now weeks, they lay motionless,
the sails drooping limply. As they stood by the rail, Napoleon told Illya
about the ancient days he had read of, where slaves sat below decks, oars
thrust out through openings in the ship's hull, and rowed. "They were
chained to their posts," Napoleon related, and Illya looked at him
somberly. 

"And if a storm came? And the ship sank?" 

"I suppose they sank with it." 

Illya shivered. "It is a terrible thing, when people are owned, like the
goats." Then he paled, shrank ... not away, but closer against Napoleon's
side. "Are you offended with me, my ... Napoleon? I'm sorry!" he added
quickly, when Napoleon turned his head to look at him. "I know you don't
want me to call you that. I'm trying to remember, I am, I ..." when
Napoleon hugged him, dropped a kiss on the top of his head he subsided,
plainly relieved. He didn't move away, however, just rubbed his cheek
against Napoleon's shirt. 

"I rather like the mistake," Napoleon said after a moment. "It sounds as
if you are saying `my Napoleon', reminding me that I belong to you, too,
that I am your Napoleon as you are my Illya. Not belong belong," he added
hastily. "Just ... well, that we belong together." 

"That's a nice way to think of it," Illya said after a long moment.
Napoleon nodded. It was nice. After another long pause he ventured to ask
another question. 

"What do you remember of our life at home, Illya? Do you - do you remember
the babies? Your babies, and mine?" 

Illya was so still that he almost seemed to cease to breathe. "Yes," he
whispered finally, voice so soft Napoleon had to strain to hear him. "I
pushed that away, down, back and down and away, because I didn't want them
to know." 

"Them? The babies?" 

"No. The slave trader and his men. I thought of what they would do to our
little ones, so I buried it deep. I never thought about them. It seemed
safest. But now ... now I can?" 

"Now you can," Napoleon agreed, and hugged him some more. "Have I told you
lately how awed I am by your courage, and your resourceful mind?" 

 "It is kind of you to say so, my ... Napoleon." Then he looked up at
Napoleon with a very faint trace of his customary impish smile. "My
Napoleon." 

"My Illya," Napoleon answered and Illya turned his face up, as if ... as
if for a kiss. They had not kissed on the mouth since Illya's rescue
because Napoleon didn't want it to look as if ... as if he wanted what
they had wanted, what Illya feared. But this seemed like a good time, and
no one was around, so he did kiss Illya's lips, softly, very lightly; no
hint of tongue or passion. When Napoleon drew back, Illya's eyes were
shining. 

"I remember that as well, Napoleon," he whispered. "Don't worry that I
would ever confuse you with them. I remember how it was, how it is, when
you love me and I you. I will not be sorry when we are once again ..." he
frowned, as if trying to pull something back up from the depths he had
talked of. Then his face brightened. "Once again in our own home, in our
loft, on our soft mattress and wonderful linens. That's where we are
going, right? Home?" 

"Home," Napoleon agreed. "I suppose the babies will have grown." 

"We were going to build tables, and add another bedroom on to our house,
weren't we. Because they are growing so quickly." 

"Yes." 

"Good. Will - will everyone have to know what happened to me?" 

"Not necessarily. It is only Charles and I who know, and if you wish it
kept among us, then that is where it will stay." 

"Good." Illya looked relieved. 

"But you know, sweetness, that none of it was your fault. It was just bad
luck that the slave trader was there, and recognized you. I wish we had
considered that that might happen earlier, but it never occurred to me.
You seem so different to me, but of course your face and hair and eyes are
unchanged. Did they not notice that you are far more, well, like a grown
man in your build?" 

"They did comment that whoever had held me in the intervening time had had
other uses for me besides the obvious. They held him - that unknown owner
- in some contempt, because after all, I'm only made for fucking." 

"I wish I could have killed them all," Napoleon said savagely. "I wanted
to - I lusted to. But Charles would not permit it. And I suppose he was
right. We did make our escape unpursued and unhindered. But I think it
would be best if you did not return with us next time. Until we hear that
all who would recognize you are gone, that is." 

"Have no fear," Illya said, and shivered. "I have no desire to return.
Even before that happened I found the city depressing and dark." 

"Me too. I wish we could be self sufficient, but we have no way of making
medicines, and despite the men's best efforts coffee beans do not grow
well in our new world." 

"Did we get the supplies we came for? I forgot all about that. I was
supposed to be seeking animals." 

"Yes, the goats are on board and two have given birth already. The two
biggest dogs I ever saw share their very own cabin, and it has struck me
that we could perhaps find wolf cubs or fox kits to breed with our own." 

" Brownie and a fox," Illya said, clearly bemused. "It is an interesting
prospect." 

"A small brown dog with a big bushy red tail," Napoleon said, and laughed.
Illya smiled, then leaned over the rail. "Would you like to swim?"
Napoleon asked, and Illya shook his head. Then he stiffened, leaned
further. Napoleon clutched his arm. 

"Please do not hang so far over. You could ..." then he stopped. He had
seen what Illya had seen. And, from the shouts coming from the others on
deck, they were not alone. 

It was a small boat, without sails. It was too far distant to clearly make
out any details, or determine who, if anyone, was aboard. As Napoleon was
straining his eyes the captain came over, and Charles was with him. The
captain was using his spyglass. "Are we pursued?" Charles asked sharply. 

"Too small," the captain answered, without lowering the glass. "But I do
not understand the strange symbols on the flag. Here" He passed it to
Charles, who looked through it for a moment, then turned to Illya. 

"Here," he said, and his voice sounded odd, Napoleon thought. "You look." 

"Napoleon should go first," Illya said nervously, stepping back. "I -" 

"No. I want you to look." Charles put it in Illya's hands, and, with
obvious reluctance and a sideways look at Napoleon, he used it. Then he
dropped it. Napoleon snatched it out of the air before it could fall
overboard, and the captain grabbed it from him. He cuffed Illya on the
side of the head. 

"Stupid!" he shouted. "It is the only one I have! Don't think it!" he
added harshly to Napoleon, who had rounded upon him in fury. "I am the
captain here and I am over every man on board! And if our spyglass falls
into the ocean we will all regret it!" 

"It's all right, Napoleon," Illya said, rubbing his head. "I didn't mean
to be careless," he added to the captain. "I was just so surprised ... may
I see again? I will take greater care." 

"Best do that," the captain grumbled, but he handed it over. Illya stared
again at the boat, which seemed to be drifting aimlessly, just as they
were. Then he handed it back. "Well?" the captain barked. "What is so
surprising, beyond the fact of its presence here at all?" 

"It is ... Illya began, then stopped. He looked uncertainly at the
captain, then at Napoleon. 

"Go on," Charles urged. "Or let me guess. It is a ship of the Others, is
it not?" 

"Yes," Illya said reluctantly. 

"The devil you say! We'll blow it out of the water then!" 

"No!" Illya's voice was suddenly harder than Napoleon had heard it since
his capture. "No! Why would you do that? They are clearly fleeing, just as
we are! And I think I saw women and children on board!" 

"If they are fleeing in an open boat they are desperate indeed," Charles
said. "And no danger to us, I warrant. We could, as you say, blow them out
of the water. In fact, they know it. See how they are rowing away!" 

Indeed the small boat was moving off, and when Napoleon took the spyglass
he could clearly see two men rowing hard, casting terrified looks over
their shoulders. In the back of the boat three women huddled together, and
smaller shapes lying on the bottom might be children. 

"I will hail them," the captain declared. He lifted a megaphone. "Ahoy
there in the open craft! Stop rowing and prepare to be boarded!" 

The men only redoubled their efforts, and Illya snatched the megaphone.
The captain grabbed for it back but Illya hung on. "They don't understand
your language!" Illya said urgently. "Let me try! Please!" 

"Well ..." the captain began. He said nothing else, but let Illya take the
megaphone. Illya lifted it to his lips and called out. 

It was such a strange sound! Napoleon stared at him. He wished suddenly
that he had made more of an effort to learn Illya's tongue. They had
tried, using the books Napoleon had brought back, but with even the
letters so different, and so many of the words being unpronounceable no
matter how he tried, they had let it drop. But Illya was still talking,
and the men in the boat had stopped rowing to look back. Then one rose,
cupped his hands to his mouth, and shouted back in the same tongue. 

"They are taking on water," Illya said. "They have been bailing and rowing
for ..." he called out again, and the man answered. "They don't know how
long. They have lost most of their party. The children are nearly dead.
What - what are they doing!" 

Two of the sailors had run to the deck and were aiming guns at the craft.
They fired, and the men bent low and began rowing again. Illya dropped the
megaphone and ran to the sailors. He grabbed for their guns, and they
shoved him aside. He grabbed again and this time Napoleon and Charles
joined him. "What are you thinking?" Illya demanded, and they looked at
him as if he were mad. 

"They are the Others! I have heard their wretched tongue before! And how
do you come to speak it so well?" 

"I am Other," Illya retorted, and when they stared at him in slack jawed
surprise he took advantage of the moment to grab for their guns again. He
got one away this time, and Charles took the other. "I am Other, and they
are defenseless. They are women and children! What is wrong with you? Why
would you fire at such helpless frightened people?" 

"They are nearly out of range anyway," the captain said. "Let them go.
They won't last long out here . What are you doing!" 

Illya had climbed onto the rail, and without a pause dove out into space,
slicing cleanly into the water. In a moment his head reappeared, and he
began swimming to the boat. Napoleon was in after him before pausing to
think. He swam hard, but before he could catch up Illya was being pulled
into the boat by one of the men. Napoleon put his face into the water and
stroked as fast as he could. When he lifted his head to breathe he saw the
rowboat was coming towards him. It was Illya now leaning over the rail,
and Napoleon grabbed for him. Illya pulled him in and there they both
were, on the small open craft with - with the Others. 

Napoleon quailed. He had grown accustomed to Illya, but had always
considered him an anomaly; had not changed his mental image of the Others
as savage, hulking, uncivilized brutes. But these men were ... just men.
If Napoleon had not heard their strange speech - if he were not hearing it
now, as they conversed earnestly with Illya - he would not have known them
for what they were. How many times do I have to learn the same lesson, he
thought ruefully, and then a soft sobbing came to his ears. He turned, and
knelt beside a woman, who was weeping and cradling a naked child. 

It was plain to see that the little boy was near death. His mouth was
cracked, and his tongue swollen. His eyes were sunken in his head, and his
little body was skeletal. As Napoleon's eyes moved over to the other
child, he saw that she was in the same state. He could see, too, his own
baby boy, starving, dying of thirst, too weak even to cry, and he saw
Alexis sobbing over him. Tears stung his eyes. 

"We must take them on board our ship," he said to Illya. "They will die
else." 

"Yes," Illya said. "But they are fearful, and who can blame them? And we
should ask the captain. He is right, it is his ship. You swim back and
talk to him. I will remain here, and try to reassure them." Then he
stopped, looking so dumbfounded that Napoleon would have laughed if his
heart were not breaking in two, looking at the miserable people huddled in
the boat, shrinking from him as if he were just as likely to hurl the
children overboard as to help them. "Is ... is that all right, my ...
Napoleon? I mean - I am giving you orders, as if ... as if ..." 

"As if you were in command of this situation, and I were not," Napoleon
said, and smiled at him. "Yes, it is all right. I will do as you say. Tell
them that I am going to get more help." And as Illya once again broke into
that incomprehensible talk he gently brushed the child's face. "Fear not,"
he said to the woman, hoping his voice and his touch would say what his
words could not. "We will help you - all of you." Then he went back into
the water, and swam for the ship. The ropes were already down and he
grabbed them, suddenly remembering the sharks. Odd that he hadn't thought
about them before. 

"There are two men, three women, and two children, little more than
babies," he reported to the captain. "They seem to be unarmed. All are
near death from hunger and thirst and exposure. I request permission to
bring them on board. They could stay in the empty cabins that women
generally use." 

"And you would bring the Others to your new world?" the captain asked.
"Bring war and destruction down upon your families and friends? If you had
told me your man was of them I would not have taken him on board in the
first place." 

"They are trying to escape war and destruction," Charles said. "And if you
had asked about Illya's origins - about his accent, for example - we would
have told you. We did not consider it important. We will be responsible
for their conduct." 

"The first sign of rebellion or trouble, and they are overboard," the
captain warned and Napoleon, taking that as assent, went to the railing
and waved. He made welcoming gestures, urging with his hands and his arms,
and first Charles, then the captain, joined him. 

The small craft approached, the two men rowing as before, and Illya in the
stern. He caught the ropes they threw him, and secured the boat to it.
Then he scrambled up the rope. "The men can climb," he reported. "They
have long had the larger share of rations, and any fish they could catch,
as well as more rainwater. All knew that without them the vessel would
have been lost already. But the women and children are too weak. We will
need to fashion some sort of basket for them. Someone go ahead to prepare
their quarters, and get them some water, and something to eat." 

Napoleon had to smile, watching the sailors hurry to follow Illya's
orders. Together he, Charles, and Illya found a deep wicker basket,
generally used to stow bread. They tied it securely to the ropes and first
they, then the basket, went over the side. 

It took several trips, and there were some harrowing moments when the
basket tipped, but each time there was a man there to hold it, to right
it, to reassure the terrified passenger. Finally, all were aboard. 

Face to face with the Others, both captain and crew rallied quickly. The
women and children were whisked off to their quarters, to be given food
and drink and new clothes. Illya talked earnestly to them, clearly
offering reassurances and promises of safety. The men hung awkwardly back,
but seemed relieved to have the burden of their party's safety lifted from
their shoulders. They ate ravenously, and later that evening they told
their tale, with Illya interpreting as they spoke. 

 

"We had taken shelter in one of the smaller Domes," one said, pausing to
let Illya interpret. "It had never been of much importance, and had no
military value. We were overlooked. The war ended. We felt safe. We had
children, and raised them. We ... and then the Dome cracked." 

There was a longer pause after this statement while Illya, clearly
incredulous, talked and then the man talked, the other man breaking in,
both nodding vigorously. Finally, Illya turned to Napoleon. "He says the
Dome cracked," he said, and there was absolute silence. The captain broke
it. 

"Cracked! How could that be? The Domes are impregnable! Unless ... unless
it was damaged in the war?" Illya turned to the men and, presumably, asked
the captain's question. The men shrugged, but one shook his head 

"I do not see how. It was never targeted, never bombed. Of course we did
not know how to do any of the maintenance it no doubt required. Perhaps
there are steps that should have been taken that were not. All I know -
all we know - is that one day there was a huge tearing sound and then a
crack appeared. A small crack, but every day it grew. We ... there was a
great dispute. Some felt it meant nothing. Some - we - felt it presaged
disaster. We urged flight, but in the end it was only a small party of
about twenty who took to the tunnels." 

"Tunnels?" Napoleon asked. "You mean - like the carriers use to travel
between Domes?" 

"Yes, although most of the carriers had been moved to more valuable areas,
and some were destroyed. We had to climb over them, and ..." 

"Twenty?" the captain said. "Twenty of you left the Dome? But there are
only seven now." 

"Yes. We lost a large group in the tunnels when an empty carrier tore
loose and, running uncontrolled, came upon us while we slept. We ran, we
climbed, we pressed against the walls, but the carrier was so large and it
ran them down ..." then his voice broke, and he wept. "It ran down my
son," he choked. "I climbed, and reached to pull him up, and the carrier
rushed through and tore him from my arms." 

"How did you know there was any place to escape to?" Charles asked, after
a period of silence while the man recovered himself, and Illya repeated
his words. The other man answered. 

"We did not know. We only knew that when the outside air got inside the
Dome, all would die. I work in manufacturing and building, and a crack
like that - it does not heal itself. We hoped to find another Dome,
perhaps, or ... we knew not. We were just fleeing for our lives. The
tunnel ended at a seaport, and we ... we stripped the suits from the
corpses lying about and took to the sea in this boat. From that time to
this we have lost everyone else - only we who speak to you live. We rowed
straight out, away from the poisoned air - and, we believed, away from
your land. We knew what sort of greeting we would get from Destroyers." 

"Destroyers!" the captain snorted. "How dare you refer to us as such? We
..." Illya put up a hand. 

"Please," he said wearily. "I am not even interpreting that. You call us
Others - when to ourselves we are the True Sons of the Land. We call you
Destroyers, and to yourselves you are the Righteous. Have not enough
people died over those words? Do we need to continue the battle here, and
now? And what sort of greeting did they get from you and your men?" He was
interrupted by one of the Others, and listened intently. Then his face
darkened. He answered at length, and when he gestured towards Napoleon,
then at himself Napoleon knew, without being told, that Illya had been
asked why he was with Destroyers, and he had answered. 

"Please tell him," Napoleon said awkwardly, "that it is not that way
between us now. That we have no lords, only companions, in our new world.
Tell them - that you were asked to join your line with ours, that children
of your blood live and thrive there. Tell them they are welcome to join
us, or, if they do not wish to, that we will repair their craft and give
them provisions. Tell them ..." it was his voice that broke now. "Tell
them I am sorry, for the devastation of their land and all the deaths. I
did not know." 

Illya was looking at him with that deep affection that Napoleon had not
seen in too long. "I will tell them," he answered, and, turning, talked
for a time. The men looked at him, and at Napoleon. They looked at
Charles. Then the man held out his hand and first Illya, then Napoleon,
then Charles, shook it. 

"Hey," the captain objected. "What about me? I had naught to do with that
war. I confess to having believed that all Others were violent brutal
beasts, but I see I was wrong. I see ... that you are men like myself, and
my crew. Will you not shake my hand as well?" 

When Illya had translated that, the man broke into a wide grin and instead
of shaking hands he embraced the captain, who, after an awkward moment,
embraced him back. There was much embracing after that, and back thumping,
and when all was done the men went to sleep in the hold - `we've seen
enough open sea, thank you very much,' one said drily to Illya when
sleeping areas on the deck were proposed, and the captain went to his
quarters. 

Illya, Napoleon, and Charles stood by the railing. "The Dome cracked,"
Charles said, and his voice was troubled. "How could that be? Is it indeed
a lack of maintenance, or possibly a weapon did strike it before this
party retreated there? Because otherwise ..." 

All were silent. Then Illya said, "I don't know, Charles. But if it is
maintenance - what type of maintenance is done now? Are there crews of
workers who know how to keep it in working order? Or is that, like much
else, a lost skill?" 

"Like what else?" Napoleon asked. Illya frowned. 

"It seemed to me, on this last journey, that things were looking - well,
run down. Your people adopted the social ways of a much earlier time, a
time called medieval, am I right? With lords and slaves, and a rigid class
structure? With education so very specialized that each class of workers
is taught only what is needed to perform its specific task? It seems to me
that that leaves no place for innovation, for progress." 

"Progress is what brought the Bad Times upon us," Napoleon said
automatically. "When all is stable and all is well, what need for
innovation, or progress?" 

"But what if new problems arise?" Charles asked. "Anything could have
happened to their Dome. A meteorite strike - we see the falling stars from
our forests and marvel at their beauty, but what if one struck a Dome?
Would they even see it coming, or know what it was? An earthquake could
shift the ground underneath a Dome, and, with its foundation damaged, who
would know how to fix it? I am in the same case as the workers in that I
was educated solely to fill my position. I was taught how to command, not
how to repair." 

"The people who built the machinery for the Domes are gone," Illya mused.
"Did they pass down their knowledge of how to maintain them, or have we -
all of us, Righteous and True Sons alike - been relying on everything
continuing to run as it always has? Your father would know, Napoleon. He
might remember. He might ... oh. That feels so good." He had lifted his
face to a breeze that ruffled his hair. "It feels - oh!" He stared at
Napoleon with startled eyes, and at the same time the captain bellowed. 

"Hoist the sails! All hands on deck! The winds return!" 

The ship erupted into a beehive of activity, sailors running everywhere,
Illya climbing the rigging to let the lines loose. As Napoleon too was
pulling on lines he turned his head and one of the Others - the True Sons,
he corrected himself, was pulling with him. They exchanged grins, and then
the man faltered. He said something incomprehensible to Napoleon and
Napoleon, feeling helpless, shook his head. The man pointed urgently
overboard and Napoleon, looking where he indicated, saw their little boat
being left behind. 

"You want your boat?" he asked. "Why?" Now it was the man's turn to look
helpless. Both looked about for Illya, but he was on the mast. Napoleon
hesitated, then gestured to one of the small life rafts which hung
suspended over the side. Without exchanging another word they lowered it,
climbed down the side, and began rowing for the storm ravaged little
craft. 

Why on earth does he want it, Napoleon wondered. Were there other
passengers aboard, kept hidden for some reason? Or ... were there arms?
What was he thinking, setting off from their ship, which was surely
pulling away from them by now. Who even knew he was gone? Then a spotlight
struck them, highlighting them in the water and he could hear distant
cries from their vessel. Someone had seen them. He waved both arms, and
then pointed to the boat. They had reached it now and the man leapt into
it, pointed back towards the ship and began rowing. Napoleon rowed the
raft, and the man rowed his battered craft and then heads appeared in the
water beside them - Illya, and two seamen. With more arms for the rowing
they made rapid progress, and Napoleon could hear the man talking urgently
to Illya, whose surprise was obvious. When they reached their vessel the
man began handing crates over to Napoleon, who handed them to the sailors
on the ropes, who helped carry them - six in all - up to the deck. The
strangers' boat was firmly tied to their ship for towing, and then
everybody scrambled back up. 

Three of the crates contained weapons. The captain frowned darkly at sight
of them, but when the man offered them to him he nodded, and passed one
back to him. Two contained books - more foreign books, Napoleon thought,
for their library. One contained bottles of clear liquid and Illya lifted
one in wonder. He asked the men something and they nodded. He turned to
Napoleon. 

"It is vodka," he said, and Napoleon nodded dumbly. He didn't know what
vodka was, but by the expression on Illya's face - and the difficulties
involved in transporting it all this way - he knew it was important. Illya
laughed at him. "Like your whiskey," he said. "Only better - at least to
my way of thinking. I was young when my world ended, but not that young.
It was mother's milk to us. But perhaps we should not open it here," he
added, returning it to the crate and shutting the lid. "It is very strong.
We will drink to our safe arrival once we are home." He said something to
the other men, and they nodded agreement. 

The ship was well under way now, skimming over the water like a bird set
free from a cage. Before retiring for a few hours sleep - what a strange
night it had been! - Napoleon, Illya, and Charles went below decks to
check on the women and children. 

The sound of wailing and sobbing filled their ears. "Oh no," Napoleon
said, and Illya hurried forward. He talked, and the women talked, and the
children cried. But after a few moments everyone calmed down, and Illya
turned back to them. "They were expecting to be eaten," he said. "They
thought that their men had already been our dinner, and they feared
becoming dessert. I have reassured them. Can we get some goats' milk for
the little ones? They are too listless to eat the rations." he added, and
Charles turned and left. He returned quickly with two cups brimming with
frothy goats milk and handed them over, going back for more. The women fed
the babies, and smiled gratitude at the three men. Illya said something,
and one woman answered. 

"Let's go," he said softly to Napoleon. "Sleep is what they need now." 

"Will they live?" Napoleon asked. He was looking at the baby boy he had
first seen, and while he was swallowing the milk being dribbled into his
mouth, he was a pathetic sight. Illya shook his head. 

"I don't know," he said. "I will be glad to get home and let Mrs. Giraud
care for them. You - you don't think it will be a problem, do you? You
don't think those of our company will object to more Others coming?" 

"They didn't object to you." 

"Yes, but ... one man is quite different from this small tribe. I think
that that is why they want to keep their boat, even more than the
provisions aboard. If they need to flee again, they think they will need
it." 

"We will let Charles - and you - go ashore first," Napoleon said. "You two
will explain the situation, and smooth the path. Surely they will be
welcomed. Actually it is our father who may be the only voice against it.
But all are accustomed to his ways. " 

"We will get Mary to talk to him," Illya said, and smiled. "She can do
anything with him. It was due to her that he stopped objecting to the
girls being schooled with the boys." 

Napoleon laughed aloud. "I remember. All she said was "But Grandfather, I
like school," and he ceased his protests. Illya - when I looked at that
dying child I thought of Edwin, and my heart broke. How many times do I
need to be taught that we are all men together, and all have the same
thoughts and feelings and desires? Because when I realized that ship was
of the Others, I was afraid. I fully expected the ravening brutes I had
learned of." 

"Just as they fully expected to be devoured," Illya said. "We will
continue to learn, my Napoleon. We will learn from one another." They had
reached their secluded corner on the deck and curled up together. "Oh.
Napoleon. Thank you so much for rescuing me. It was ... it was so
terrible, and it destroyed me so completely. So quickly I went from
thinking of myself as a man, a proud, competent man, to accepting again
that I was a thing, a nothing. So quickly they reduced me from standing
and fighting them to cowering in a corner. But you came for me." 

"I came for you. Of course I came for you. I was nearly demented with fear
for you - and for me, without you. And you would have done it for me." 

"Oh, I would, Napoleon. I would. I will not let anyone tear us apart."
Then he gave Napoleon a sideways look. "And are you sure that you
appreciate my standing again? Because there were times before I was taken
that I thought you would have preferred me as I was, docile and obedient
and clinging to you." 

"No," Napoleon protested. Then he stopped. "I will not be dishonest with
you. There were times when I missed that boy - but only because I was
secure that he would never leave me. He needed me desperately, and I was
pleased to provide shelter. As you became more independent, I became
afraid that one day you would turn that cool blue stare upon me and wonder
why on earth you were saddled with me. Every move you made towards manhood
felt - sometimes - like a move away from me. And I .. I need you, Illya.
It may be I clinging to you." 

"We will cling to one another," Illya whispered in his ear. "I never once
thought of leaving you, my lord. I feared that you would no longer want me
if I grew too bold, and then I would act bolder than I was because I had
to know - I had to be sure - that you loved me still." 

"I love you. And you love me?" 

"Yes, my Napoleon. I love you." 

"My Illya. We will grow in manhood together, and our love will only
strengthen over the years. I know it. Right here and now, lying in your
arms, sharing our innermost thoughts and fears, I know it." 

"And I know it too." They twined closer then, and, clinging one to
another, they fell asleep. 

 

There was the usual welcome home feast with its accompanying music,
dancing, and laughter. Any arguments that had been made against the
admittance of Others to their shores were silenced as the people
themselves were unloaded from the rowboats; emaciated, terrified, but
wearing big smiles as if to proclaim their harmlessness. 

"Well, at least until they recover," the butcher had grumbled. "I wouldn't
send a dog away looking like that. Here, Mistress Nolan. Take these cuts
of rabbit. Tender meat is what those babies need. And here are some pork
ribs. Give them to the men. It'll fill `em up, it will." 

So the Others were installed in a private home, vacated by the death of
its previous tenant over the hard winter just passed. Mistress Nolan moved
in with them, to help with the babies. It was all settled very amicably,
after the buildup of apprehension, and since Alcott Solo preferred
remaining home with Sarah to joining the rest, that encounter was at least
averted. So it was a pleasant evening; pleasant to see and greet old
friends, pleasant to eat fresh food after the weeks of shipboard rations.
Pleasant to be far away from the city, and the Dome. 

It was relatively early still when Napoleon rose to leave. Illya followed
suit immediately, grateful. He hadn't wanted to hurt anyone's feelings by
leaving too soon, but the multisided conversations, the questions about
his trip, about his time in the city, wearied and bewildered him. He
didn't know what to say, and had kept busy eating to avoid answering. Now
he followed Napoleon away from the tables. It was a relief to have
Napoleon lead so decisively when he himself was so tired, and sick at
heart from the answers he hadn't given. He yawned, and stumbled over a
tree root. Napoleon caught his arm and pulled him in closer. "Let's just
say goodnight to Charles, and head straight for home," he suggested. 

"Yes," Illya answered and, still leaning on Napoleon's strength, he smiled
up at Charles. 

Charles smiled back. "Goodnight brothers. Have I said how pleased I am to
see you so fully recovered, Illya, and how in awe I remain of your
recuperative powers, as well as of your courage?" 

"Courage?" Illya shook his head. "You would not say that if you had seen
me cringing and begging and finally agreeing that they had the right to do
whatever they wanted to me. You would not say that at all." 

"I certainly would," Charles said firmly. "My hope is that one day you
will believe it as well." He went on his way, and Illya put his head on
Napoleon's shoulder. Napoleon smiled, kissed his temple. 

"My love," he said softly. "Teach me how to say it in your tongue." 

Illya smiled at him. "Moya lyubuv," he whispered, and they too went down
the path to their home. 

Inside, once Brownie had been properly greeted, given treats from dinner,
walked, and fed, they climbed up to their sleeping loft. Napoleon opened a
small casket, and withdrew the tube of lubricant. Illya eyed it, but said
nothing until they were in bed together. Then he spoke. 

"Napoleon? I don't ... I mean I think it's ... I mean even though ..." he
trembled. "I don't want to." 

"And how pleased am I that you will say that to me?" Napoleon said, and
smiled at him. "Just let me ..." he put the ointment on his palms, rubbed
them together, then applied it to Illya's organ. Illya jumped. 

"What ... why ... my lord?" He was trembling again but not with fear now.
His organ had leaped to attention, and as Napoleon continued smoothing the
ointment onto it it swayed and jerked. Then Napoleon squeezed another
portion of lubricant onto Illya's finger and laid down, on his back, legs
spread. He wasn't hard - in fact he was trembling with fear himself, but
he had resolved to do this, and he would carry that resolve through. He
smiled up at Illya. who was staring, thunderstruck, at the lubricant on
his finger. 

"Apply it thoroughly," Napoleon said. "Very thoroughly. Please." Then the
wry tone altered. "Illya? I want - I want to do this. I want us to be
equal in this, as in everything else." 

"You don't have to prove anything to me," Illya began, but Napoleon
reached for him, took his hand and guided it to his entrance. Illya
swallowed, and began making small circles there. Napoleon gasped. Oh, it
was like melting, like ... like ... he had no words for the sensations
filling him. But his cock needed no words, it had perked up, was rising,
and seeing it, Illya seemed reassured. He leaned over and kissed the tip,
then continued preparing Napoleon with more confidence. When Napoleon was
ready, more than ready, hips rising and falling, body glistening with
sweat, Illya propped both Napoleon's legs up on pillows, leaned in, and
entered him. 

Napoleon hissed with pain and Illya froze. "My ... Napoleon?" 

"Don't stop," Napoleon gasped. "Just ... just hold on a minute. Give me a
minute." 

"Let me try this," Illya offered, and wrapped his fist around Napoleon's
organ, squeezing it, pumping it. Involuntarily Napoleon moved forward and
Illya slid in further. Again Napoleon hissed, and again Illya stopped.
They continued that way; Illya stroking, Napoleon moving, and with each
move they were closer, and closer, and finally Illya was all the way in.
Napoleon gave a strangled cry as a new sensation filled him, like a spark,
like a tiny fire there. He clutched at Illya's hips, and Illya thrust into
him, and after the prolonged build up it was fast, and hard, and sweet. So
sweet, Napoleon thought, nearly drowning in that sweetness, Illya's
sweetness, the sweetness of what they had made together. When he screamed
aloud Illya screamed too, letting loose and finishing it up in a frenzied
burst that left them both panting, and sweating, and ... a great sob broke
from Napoleon's chest and he turned his face away, trying to hide the
tears. Illya, who had withdrawn and was reaching for the washcloth
Napoleon had left beside the bed, came back instantly. 

"Napoleon? Napoleon, what? I hurt you! I hurt you, didn't I? At the end, I
forgot! I ... I was ... selfish, wasn't I. I am so sorry, Napoleon, oh, my
lord, I am so sorry!" 

"No," Napoleon managed, turning his face back because protecting his pride
meant nothing compared with protecting Illya from this terrible guilt.
"No, you didn't hurt me. It was wonderful. You must know it was. I ... I
mean, look at us. Look at the bed. I loved it. I can't believe I waited so
long. It was ... Illya." He embraced Illya, rocking him, comforting Illya
even as Illya was comforting him. 

"Then what? Why? What's wrong? Don't pretend nothing is, Napoleon - you're
crying!" 

"I know. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to spoil it. I just ... I could see how
it would be, Illya, if I were unwilling. How it would feel, if someone
just went ahead and forced it into me, whether I wanted it or no. How much
it would hurt, how shameful and terrifying and ... negating, as if I were
nothing. And I thought of you, and ..." his voice broke, and he wept
openly. Now it was Illya rocking him. 

"You're right, Napoleon. It is terrible, when I ... you ... when someone
is unwilling. It hurts, and it seems intolerable, but you must tolerate
it. It seems unbearable, but it must be borne. You're right." 

"And that first time I ... I did that to you! Not just uncaring strangers,
not just brutal slave traders, but me!" 

"No, Napoleon, no. Even that first time it was not like that. It hurt,
yes, but you were trying to make it not hurt and that made me feel like
... like not nothing. Like something - no, like someone. My feelings
mattered to you. I could tell that. You just didn't know any better, and I
certainly didn't. The next time, when you made me want it too, and when
you used the ointment ... the ointment Charles recommended ..." he
laughed, and Napoleon laughed too, and if there was a touch of hysteria in
both of their laughter neither minded. Napoleon kissed him, then, and
Illya kissed him back. He used the washcloth, cleaning both of them
carefully, and tossing it into the basket they used for linens. Napoleon
drew him down, and Illya tucked himself into his usual sleeping position,
head on Napoleon's shoulder, body turned towards Napoleon's, Napoleon's
arms around him. There was a long silence, and then, just as Napoleon was
sliding down into sleep, Illya whispered, "Napoleon?" 

"Yes?" 

"Next time I do want you to be inside me. I had forgotten how it could be,
because it was all tangled up again in how it was, but watching your face
reminded me. You ... you must really love me, to let me do that. Want me
to do that." 

"I do." 

"Yes. I love you too, Napoleon. Moya lyubuv." 

"My love." 

And then there was sleep. 

Epilogue 

The children ran on the grass, laughing, falling, tumbling, wrestling.
Mrs. Giraud sat with a baby of the Others on each arm, and they sucked
goat's milk from cups, and watched her with eyes from faces no longer
shrunken with hunger. Edwin, Elizabeth, and the twins toddled about with
the rest, weaving in and out among the legs of the older children,
occasionally being knocked over but getting back up again none the worse
for wear. The grass was thick, and the ground soft after plentiful rains.
In the schoolhouse both languages were being taught to adults, and the
children were picking them up naturally - chattering away in a mix of
English and what Illya had told Napoleon was Russian. Charles was putting
together another expedition to go investigate the situation in the city,
and to attempt to surreptitiously inspect the Dome itself, and to find out
how it was maintained - if at all. And a bigger journey was planned for
the next summer - to the land of the Others, in search of survivors who
would be open to a new life in a new world. Both Illya and Napoleon
planned to join that expedition, with a mixed crew of what they now called
the `True Righteous' - the word `Sons' having been roundly voted down by
the women. Neither planned to return to the City, but Charles was, and he
told them that they would do something about the slave trader. 

"You are safe," he said to Illya. "But I presume you were not the only
captive they were mistreating so. Am I correct?" 

"Yes," Illya said, and shivered. "I could hear them screaming ... yes,
Charles, please stop him. He - and his associates - are terrible people.
They took so much pleasure in my suffering, and yet it was also a matter
of business as usual to them. Will you kill them? 

"Probably not. But we will arrange their arrest on some charges that will
result in their exile from the Dome. Essentially the same thing." 

"Yes. Thank you." 

"Not just for you, but you are welcome. And meanwhile, here we are." He
spread his arms and Illya looked about them, and smiled. Yes, here they
all were. He had fooled his captors into believing him a nothing, a
trifle, not worth questioning, so this was all still here, unsuspected,
unspoiled. And he was still here too. Maybe not unspoiled, per se, but
then he had hardly been that when Napoleon and he had first met. Napoleon
didn't mind - more, Napoleon didn't blame him. Napoleon ... Napoleon loved
him. 

And next summer there would be more travels, more great adventures, and
probably some would be bad, and maybe some would be painful, but when all
was over they would hopefully return here, to see their children grow up.
In their love, each had found his own best self and devoted it to the
betterment of the other, and all these, too, whose lives were now entwined
with their own. How completely splendid, Illya thought, to have thoughts
and dreams and aspirations and goals beyond his own self, beyond his own
day to day safety. How much better life was now, with a family, and
friends, and a community to care about; to protect, to fight for if
necessary. 

`You're mad, boy, do you know that? Quite mad.' The slave trader's voice
echoed in his mind, and Illya supposed his thoughts would seem mad to him,
and to his colleagues. But it was their world that was mad. He, and his -
he smiled as Napoleon took his hand, turned him towards him - were just
fine. 

The End  


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