ASHES

by Kitty Fisher

Sequel to DUST

The apartment was exactly as he had left it so long ago. It was untouched; the door unopened. Neither footsteps nor breath had stirred this air for many years. Dust coated his finger when it skimmed idly across a table's surface. The roses bought a lifetime ago had turned to ashes, crumbling at his hesitant touch.

The air smelt close, stale, though his fine–honed senses could taste the remembrance of the life he had lived here. The walls, the fabrics, every ornament, every painting was shadowed by the man he had been.

And the man he had loved.

Spice and sweat; sex and laughter; dreams and delight. Friendship. Partnership. Pain. The history of his life with Napoleon Solo was written here for anyone with enough care or sensitivity to read.

Napoleon.

He breathed the word and dust–motes danced along his breath, sparkling bright in the afternoon sun's light.

From madness and despair then, to this. To be here. This place had pulled at the essence of his being, at that which he no longer dared call his soul. He had dragged himself howling through the flames of insanity to be here, fought hard for the balance of his mind, with this simple goal as his aim. Why? He had never known, only been sure that one day he had to return.

All the rooms were empty, untouched now for longer than the sum of all the years of his other life. He walked through, counting them off like beads on a string. They had made love in all of them. A long time ago.

How many years? It was beyond his skill to tell. The muddying madness had stolen more than his reason. Waverley was long dead. U.N.C.L.E. was only a distant memory. The millennium had passed without his awareness. So much that he had known was gone, fallen to ruin, rotted with age.

He hesitated, then stared through a flyblown glass. There was a young man; he was so young. The hair was still fair, though now it trailed past his shoulders in a fall of heavy silk. His white, so white, skin was taut, smooth, unmarred by line or wrinkle, though none but the blind would mistake this for extreme youth; the shadowed eyes told a different story. There must be some change. Perhaps he was thinner? Perhaps. The mirror–image touched its face, wondering. What he should be was old, cracked and raddled with age. Dead. Instead, the changes that had tilted the world on its axis hadn't touched him at all.

Except inside.

Deep in his self he was a stranger to the man who had lived here.

He blinked, closing his eyes to the mirror, turning away in denial. There must be something there; something that had called him, needed him. He continued his progress.

The bedroom. The room that had been theirs was at the end of the hall. Hesitant fingers touched the cracking paint. He leaned against it and sorrow as fiery as aquavit burned through his veins.

Napoleon.

He dragged breath through his lungs and as tears he never allowed to fall clung like crystals to his dark lashes, opened the door. The room was in darkness, but his vision — the clear sight of a nocturnal hunter — betrayed him.

The madness screamed, fighting with its bonds, straining with the chains that bound it. Madness. This must be madness.

He was shaking like an aspen in a summer squall.

Napoleon.

The figure on the bed could have been cast from wax.

"Napoleon..." The whisper barely stirred the air.

Could this be a dream? Was reality a padded cell and somehow the demons had got loose and conjured this to torment him? Napoleon was dead. The taste of his blood lingered still on his tongue.

Remembering how to move he crossed the room to stand by the bed. Dressed in a dark suit that was shrouded by age, Napoleon looked so perfect that it made his bones ache.

Questions tumbled through the maelstrom of his thoughts. Who had left the body here? Why had he been meant to find it? Why was it so beautifully preserved? where was the rotting, the putrefaction?

His senses warned of no danger. Despite it all, they were alone. Safe. This was no trap — except perhaps for his sanity.

With a finger that was not quite still, he reached out and touched the well–beloved face. Its softness made him shiver. Why had it come to such an end? They should both have lived to a fine old age and died together; been buried together. Napoleon would have hated this.

There was a scattering of dust on the smooth olive skin. He brushed it off, murmuring to himself. His knees gave up the unequal task and suddenly he was kneeling, his face close to the other, his eyes misted with tears. His hands clutched convulsively at the sheets, his whispers died to silence.

Sorrow as barren as winter rolled through his life. This, then, was all that was left. He shivered and with one hand tidied the lock of hair from his lover's forehead.

A kiss.

One kiss.

His lips brushed the chill skin and a murmur of sound, of pain, slipped through to touch the air. He closed both eyes and bade farewell; a kiss for parting; a kiss for remembrance; a kiss for love.

The tears he had misered so carefully, for so long, spilled unheeded down his cheek.

"Illya..."

The single shocking word held him still, caught in a vice as madness ripped loose its bonds and clawed.

"Illya...I knew you would come."

Insanity.

A hand brushed against his back and his eyes were open, staring wide. Belief and doubt. Hope and death. He almost prayed. "Napoleon?"

"Yes?"

"You are dead."

There was a short laugh, the sound so much part of his dreams that it almost was proof that this was not real. But it had to be. This had to be.

Napoleon's voice was roughened, unused. "I am only as dead as you are. Are you alive?"

"Yes." Illya nodded. "I breath, I eat, I think, so I must be."

"Then trust me, so am I." Napoleon shifted indolently as limbs recalled to life stirred, blood flowed. "Or I will be soon..."

"Napoleon, I killed you..."

"And gave me life. Didn't you think it through? You spent long enough pouring over every vampire book that had ever been written."

"But, that was...different."

"Why?"

Illya could only shake his head. He reached out and touched Napoleon's face, feeling the warmth where there had only been cold. A pulse beat insistently close to the sharp jaw.

"Napoleon, I was crazy for a long time. Tell me, am I still?"

"No, my love. I promise you I'm not a phantom." And with a smile he pulled Illya down and kissed his lips.

Lightning crackled around the darkened room. Hunger, long buried, long ignored, came to life. Napoleon fell back against the pillow, his breath unsteady, rawly uneven.

Illya understood. Stripping off his pale linen jacket he bared his wrist, intent as his pale fingers neatly tucked back the starched cuff. The veins were so beautiful this close to the translucent skin.

Blue, mauve, lavender, violet. The colours of life.

With a practised move he pulled the tiny knife free from its sheath, loosing it eagerly from where it hung so innocuously on a silver chain around his neck. The blade was so sharp that time seemed to stand still as it slashed into the skin; the bright, lush red flowing out of the perfect wound only after the slightest pause.

"Napoleon..."

Illya held his wrist close to the parched lips and waited as the scent, the savour, the need, coalesced. Then, like a babe, Napoleon fed.

Illya waited until the room began to swirl dizzyingly around him. Then he pulled his wrist free, replacing it with a long kiss.

They parted with a smile. There was blood, bright, on Illya's mouth. Napoleon wiped it off then sucked his thumb clean. He felt very good.

Alive.

He laughed, softly. "I knew you'd come."

The certainty made Illya shiver. "I took so long. I might not have..."

"No, I knew."

Illya sighed. "You always did. Napoleon, how long have you lain here, how long have you been waiting? And how...?"

"I don't know. I wasn't at my sanest, myself. I knew you would come back, I knew it. I found my way here after a while. I just went to sleep and knew that when I awoke you would be at my side."

"The world we knew is gone, everything has changed."

"How long?"

Illya shrugged. "Would you believe sixty years?"

Napoleon breathed deep, scenting the air. "Sixty years. Am I still like you, am I still young?"

"The same as the day you died. The day I..."

"Shush! No guilt, you must promise. We are both alive, after all."

"Napoleon, I have wanted you so much, needed you, mourned you." Illya hesitated, then went on almost shyly. "I am very glad you are alive."

"I trust that is Slavonic understatement at work. I am delirious that I am still alive!" Their glances met; sombre blue and warm brown. Napoleon grinned. "Thank you for coming back."

Illya shook his head. He had no words for this joy that welled from so deep inside him that it seemed to have no end. The madness was gone, fragmented.

He stood up and offered his hand to Napoleon. "Come, I'll show you the new world."

Together they walked out of the old apartment block and stood by the curb. The city was the same yet different. They laughed in surprise and delight as the thought slipped between their minds.

The same but different; just like ourselves.

In that was hope enough for the future.

END