MFU Fanfic: The Rosebay Affair
Sep. 4th, 2010 07:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
saki101As often happens with me, a picture provoked a few thousand words. This little, fluffy fic is the result of one of the beautiful photos posted on mfu_yumdaily on 31 August 2010 by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dhswi in her post entitled "Let's tiptoe through the tulips" 
. (This story was also posted on Network Command and MFUWSS .)
As ever,utopiantrunks offered kind encouragement. All the faults are mine.
Title: The Rosebay Affair
Author: saki101
Fandom: Man from UNCLE
Pairing: Illya/Napoleon
Genre: Slash
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The usual, because MFU is not mine.
Excerpt:
“Protect him!”
“What?” the others replied drowsily, for the summer sun was warm on their leaves. The days had burned bright for months and the ground was dry around their upper roots, but their leaves were supple and green because the tap root was old and strong and dipped down to the underground stream running along the bedrock far beneath the soil. They were never thirsty and could enjoy the hot, cloudless days.
The Rosebay Affair
“Protect him!”
“What?” the others replied drowsily, for the summer sun was warm on their leaves. The days had burned bright for months and the ground was dry around their upper roots, but their leaves were supple and green because the tap root was old and strong and dipped down to the underground stream running along the bedrock far beneath the soil. They were never thirsty and could enjoy the hot, cloudless days.
“The large flower is in danger; someone is coming to pluck or prune him! Protect him! He is ours!”
“Where? Large flower?” They were confused and sleepy and had been dreaming of bees and humming birds, but the tap root knew all. Rising through the trunk and into the upper branches its consciousness reached high and gathered knowledge from the sky, from the birds, the insects, the drifting seeds and the vibrations in the air, even the ones that could not be felt. Through the seasons, its roots burrowed deeper and wider, connecting with the roots of others throughout the garden, beyond the wall and far and far, farther than they could imagine. So they drew in around the presence in their midst which was not like them.
“Don’t cover the blue!”
The leaves curled back from in front of the blue…berries perhaps, ripening still, the colour of the sky on a clear day. “Was someone coming to pluck them before they were ripe and take away the seeds?” Along the outer edge of their leaves and branches bordering the path a white sap began to ooze. It would itch and burn any who touched. And if they licked their tormented skin, they would swoon or die. “Let them try to pluck those unripe berries,” they thought, thoroughly awake now. “He is ours!”
*******************
The dawn twilight was beginning to outline shapes in the garden. Napoleon moved cautiously through the foliage away from the paths between the flower beds and shrubbery, his gun drawn. He had seen Illya run into the garden hours ago. He could be gone or… No, I can feel him, Napoleon thought and crept further east, away from what was left of the structure after the first wave of fire. The wind blew west and took the acrid smells with it.
He saw a large bush, nearly a tree, covered in simple, white flowers on a slight rise and changed his direction. Its pale flowers stood out from the shadows in the grey light. They reminded him of Illya. Won’t put that in the report, Napoleon thought as he progressed, stepping over the occasional body which seemed to litter the path leading to the shrub. Now that would be a more acceptable explanation of why I thought Illya might be in this direction, Napoleon reasoned. He couldn’t be sure they were all gone now, dead, sedated or fled. The clean-up crew had been summoned, but their location was remote. It would be hours before they could arrive and vigilance had to be maintained. THRUSH didn’t usually inspire loyalty, desertion was much more the norm, but there could be enemies crouched in the shadows still.
“Shall we snare him? Strangle him?” they asked as Napoleon approached. Several branches disentangled themselves. Ready.
“No, not this one.”
“He has metal like the others,” they thought and rustled.
“Smell him. He is not bitter like the others. Smell how sweet he is.”
The surfaces of the leaves tilted in Napoleon’s direction. “Oh,” they sighed and their petals unfurled slightly.
Napoleon peered at the leaves. There appeared to be dew in the blossoms, but something thicker and white on the branches. Sap perhaps? Instead of using his hand, Napoleon reached out with his gun to part the branches. There was a whispering sound. He tensed. It seemed as though the branches drew back before him. He stepped into the deeper shadow. “Illya?” he whispered.
The cadence of those syllables was understood and the branches closed behind Napoleon.
He glanced over his shoulder as the dim light disappeared. His shoe struck something yielding. There was a faint grunt near the ground. Carefully, Napoleon lowered himself to his knees. “Illya,” he whispered again. He could smell his partner now. He lowered his head further. He was close enough to hear Illya breathing. The wind didn’t reach inside this verdant coccoon. Laying his head down on Illya’s chest, Napoleon felt it rising and falling regularly, the heartbeat slow and steady. Napoleon let his body relax. It was fragrant in the centre of the bush, but it was Illya’s scent which was unknotting his muscles. “I was a little worried, Illya.”
Illya stirred. He lay a hand on Napoleon’s head as it rested against his chest. “I should be offended,” Illya replied quietly. Napoleon both heard and felt the words.
“A lot of THRUSH escaped the building. I imagined many of them came through these gardens,” Napoleon explained.
“And you thought I couldn’t handle them?” Illya replied.
“I didn’t know how much ammunition you had or whether you were injured,” Napoleon explained. He could smell that Illya wasn’t bleeding. He smiled and rubbed his cheek against the cloth of Illya’s shirt.
“Well, I handled them,” Illya replied.
“Yes, I saw on my way here.”
“There are several more a few feet beyond and a couple across the path in the shrubbery,” Illya said.
Napoleon lifted his head and tried to distinguish Illya’s face in the darkness. “All right, even knowing you, that’s impressive,” he responded.
“I think I had some help,” Illya said.
“You think?” Napoleon asked. “A sympathetic scientist, an opportunistic guard?” He leaned forward and bumped into Illya’s chin. “You need a shave,” he added.
“So do you,” Illya retorted and took a deep breath. “Not human help.”
“Ah, what gadgetry did you capture?” Napoleon asked, sitting back on his heels.
“Not mechanical help either,” Illya answered and shrugged his shoulders. Leaves rustled and dew drops rained on them. Faint grey light appeared through a few gaps in the foliage. Illya rubbed the moisture over his face, sat up and peered towards where his legs disappeared into the shadows. “My feet feel strange,” he said.
They both reached towards his feet at the same time. Napoleon slid his hand back up, curved around one of Illya’s calves and slipped downwards again. “Illya, is there a reason you buried your feet?” he asked.
Illya wiggled his toes and raised one knee. His foot easily pulled free of the loose soil and he bent down to dust off what turned out to be bare skin. “Feel around and see if you can find a shoe,” he whispered. “I don’t recall doing this.” He felt a tingling beneath the arch and a tightening around the toes of his other foot.
Napoleon felt around along the ground next to him. He twisted to reach behind him and found a sock.
Illya lay his hand on the earth over his still buried foot. There was a tickling along his palm, between his fingers. “Oh,” he said.
Napoleon’s left hand closed around a shoe. There seemed to be a sock in it. “I think I’ve got your socks and one shoe,” Napoleon said, turning his attention back to Illya. It was a little brighter now. He could see Illya leaning over his extended leg, his head down.
“Is it sprained? Broken?” he asked quickly. Was burying an injured limb supposed to help keep down the swelling? he tried to remember. The soil would be cool. Maybe it was broken and Illya had done that before passing out from the pain. “The clean-up crew should only be another hour or two.”
“There are others still in the garden,” Illya said. His hands remained on the ground over his foot. “An old man and a female child, his granddaughter, maybe. I don’t think they are wounded, but they are frightened.” Napoleon couldn’t see Illya close his eyes. “Off the path on the left, further along, there is a potting shed. They’re inside. They could be armed.” Illya took a deep breath. “The child is terrified. The man fearful that he cannot protect her.” Illya looked up. “You can soothe them, Napoleon. Bring them back here. I don’t think I should move just yet.”
Napoleon nodded, watched Illya lay his head on his knee. He’d seen Illya ignore pain often enough. Perhaps his injury had become numb in one position and sitting up disturbed it. “Do you still have a functioning weapon?” Napoleon asked. Illya stretched an arm to the side to move some leaves and exposed four or five THRUSH guns. Napoleon raised both eyebrows. “I see you have that covered then. I’ll be back as quickly as I can,” he said and turned to peer out onto the path before emerging from the undergrowth.
***************
Was the fire releasing fumes from some new THRUSH chemical? Illya pondered. He closed his eyes and checked the whole garden and over the walls. Aside from the two people Napoleon had gone to find, no danger presented itself. The inside of the building was burning quietly. The wind was still westerly and carrying most of the smoke in the opposite direction from where he was. The reinforced concrete of the outer walls looked almost unchanged, the small, bullet proof windows still intact, but every surface was hot and around the building's perimeter the shrubs had been incinerated and the trees singed. Were the smoldering plants causing him to hallucinate?
He patted his jacket. The camera was still in his inside pocket. So they had the research notes from the project as well. We’ve thwarted another plan.
He concentrated on Napoleon; he had reached the shed and was speaking. The door to the shed opened; Napoleon continued talking. Illya couldn’t catch the words, but the expression on Napoleon’s face was reassuring. If this is an actual effect, is it going to fade?
Illya sighed and opened his eyes. He felt light-headed. It had been many hours since he’d eaten. The dim light beneath the leaves was growing greener. He kept his eyes on the branches through which Napoleon would return.
The scent of tangerine caused him to turn his head. Near the guns were two bananas and four tangerines, one with its skin slightly torn. The previous evening he had noticed a citrus grove on the south side of the garden, but not any banana trees. Illya was finishing the last of the fruit when the branches moved. He lifted his gun quietly and aimed.
Napoleon poked his head in. “Mission accomplished,” he grinned. “And you look better.” He sniffed and noted the tangerine peel on top of Illya’s foot which was still under a mound of dirt. “Where did the fruit come from?” he asked.
Illya lowered his gun. He finished chewing and swallowed. “We are in a garden,” he replied.
**************
Where a bit of moss nestled in the chipped corner of one of the brownstones near Illya’s balcony, a white bud was beginning to open in the cooler northern sun. Numerous shallow roots firmly anchored it in its small niche. One long, slender root ran along the seams between the stones up to the roof and into a large flower box in which one of the tenants was raising tomato plants. He fertilised them often. A second, far longer tendril followed the moisture behind the drain pipe down to the pavement and along the cracks in the sidewalk to the square of earth around the chestnut tree just to the right of the front of the building. Spiky nut casings were forming in the branches of the tall, old tree.
Illya came out onto the balcony in robe and slippers with a glass of orange juice. He leaned against the ornately carved balustrade and looked out over the treetops of the park.
“Illya,” Napoleon called inside the apartment. “Illya,” he repeated as he opened one of the French doors to the balcony. “Ah, there you are,” he said, stepping outside with a plate of toast and jam in one hand. He set it on the small metal table near the door and pulled his robe further around him, retying the belt over his pyjama bottoms. “There’s a hint of autumn in the air today,” he said, stepping up close behind Illya.
The flower felt the vibrations. It rotated on its stem. The wavelengths of light reflected off the green robe and glossy hair pleased the young plant.
Napoleon picked up the plate and held it around Illya’s side. “What some?” he asked nearly in Illya’s ear. Illya turned to look over his shoulder at Napoleon and smiled. “Some toast, that is,” Napoleon clarified, grinning.
Illya turned back to the plate, picked up a triangle of bread and took a bite. “Mm,” he murmured and finished off the piece of toast. “What kind of jam is that?”
“Date and tangerine peel,” Napoleon replied.
Illya ate another piece and looked over his shoulder again. He licked some excess jam from his lips. “Delicious,” he said.
“There’s a new Lebanese import store near headquarters,“ Napoleon explained. He watched the tip of Illya’s tongue disappear. “Wait, you missed a bit,” he said and wiped a dab away from the corner of Illya’s mouth with his index finger. He watched Illya’s eyelids lower. “Come inside,” Napoleon urged softly and sucked the sweetness off his finger.
“Do you have more jam?” Illya asked, his eyes lingering on Napoleon’s mouth. Napoleon nodded. Illya stepped away and pivoted towards the living room. Napoleon followed, setting the plate down on the table and reaching out with both hands towards Illya as they went through the doors. An instant later the doors clicked shut and the drapes closed across them.
***************
Attracted by the aroma, a bumble bee flew down from the roof and settled on the plate, buzzing against the china as it moved slowly from drop to drop of the jam. When it had its full it rose heavily into the air, stopping to examine the little flower in the cranny of the wall before flying towards the chestnut tree.
The blossom felt the question flowing through it. “He is blooming,” it responded. A light breezed ruffled the treetops. Momentarily, the young plant was pressed against the side of the brownstone.
“Good,” the distant reply came. The small flower felt the warmer sun of the tropical garden, sensed the vibrations coming through the earth as the ruins of the burnt building were demolished, the rubble scooped up and carted away. “Watch him. Protect him. He is ours.”
“Ours,” the blossom repeated. It was absorbing the mixture of nectar from the plate and pollen from the tomato flowers on the bee’s wings. Intoxicated, it turned its pale petals towards the cool sun.
The End
If you would like to read the sequel, "The Rosebay Affair: Part II" may be found here: http://saki101.livejournal.com/5375.html
dhswi in her post entitled "Let's tiptoe through the tulips" . (This story was also posted on Network Command and MFUWSS .)As ever,
utopiantrunks offered kind encouragement. All the faults are mine.Title: The Rosebay Affair
Author: saki101
Fandom: Man from UNCLE
Pairing: Illya/Napoleon
Genre: Slash
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The usual, because MFU is not mine.
Excerpt:
“Protect him!”
“What?” the others replied drowsily, for the summer sun was warm on their leaves. The days had burned bright for months and the ground was dry around their upper roots, but their leaves were supple and green because the tap root was old and strong and dipped down to the underground stream running along the bedrock far beneath the soil. They were never thirsty and could enjoy the hot, cloudless days.
The Rosebay Affair
“Protect him!”
“What?” the others replied drowsily, for the summer sun was warm on their leaves. The days had burned bright for months and the ground was dry around their upper roots, but their leaves were supple and green because the tap root was old and strong and dipped down to the underground stream running along the bedrock far beneath the soil. They were never thirsty and could enjoy the hot, cloudless days.
“The large flower is in danger; someone is coming to pluck or prune him! Protect him! He is ours!”
“Where? Large flower?” They were confused and sleepy and had been dreaming of bees and humming birds, but the tap root knew all. Rising through the trunk and into the upper branches its consciousness reached high and gathered knowledge from the sky, from the birds, the insects, the drifting seeds and the vibrations in the air, even the ones that could not be felt. Through the seasons, its roots burrowed deeper and wider, connecting with the roots of others throughout the garden, beyond the wall and far and far, farther than they could imagine. So they drew in around the presence in their midst which was not like them.
“Don’t cover the blue!”
The leaves curled back from in front of the blue…berries perhaps, ripening still, the colour of the sky on a clear day. “Was someone coming to pluck them before they were ripe and take away the seeds?” Along the outer edge of their leaves and branches bordering the path a white sap began to ooze. It would itch and burn any who touched. And if they licked their tormented skin, they would swoon or die. “Let them try to pluck those unripe berries,” they thought, thoroughly awake now. “He is ours!”
*******************
The dawn twilight was beginning to outline shapes in the garden. Napoleon moved cautiously through the foliage away from the paths between the flower beds and shrubbery, his gun drawn. He had seen Illya run into the garden hours ago. He could be gone or… No, I can feel him, Napoleon thought and crept further east, away from what was left of the structure after the first wave of fire. The wind blew west and took the acrid smells with it.
He saw a large bush, nearly a tree, covered in simple, white flowers on a slight rise and changed his direction. Its pale flowers stood out from the shadows in the grey light. They reminded him of Illya. Won’t put that in the report, Napoleon thought as he progressed, stepping over the occasional body which seemed to litter the path leading to the shrub. Now that would be a more acceptable explanation of why I thought Illya might be in this direction, Napoleon reasoned. He couldn’t be sure they were all gone now, dead, sedated or fled. The clean-up crew had been summoned, but their location was remote. It would be hours before they could arrive and vigilance had to be maintained. THRUSH didn’t usually inspire loyalty, desertion was much more the norm, but there could be enemies crouched in the shadows still.
“Shall we snare him? Strangle him?” they asked as Napoleon approached. Several branches disentangled themselves. Ready.
“No, not this one.”
“He has metal like the others,” they thought and rustled.
“Smell him. He is not bitter like the others. Smell how sweet he is.”
The surfaces of the leaves tilted in Napoleon’s direction. “Oh,” they sighed and their petals unfurled slightly.
Napoleon peered at the leaves. There appeared to be dew in the blossoms, but something thicker and white on the branches. Sap perhaps? Instead of using his hand, Napoleon reached out with his gun to part the branches. There was a whispering sound. He tensed. It seemed as though the branches drew back before him. He stepped into the deeper shadow. “Illya?” he whispered.
The cadence of those syllables was understood and the branches closed behind Napoleon.
He glanced over his shoulder as the dim light disappeared. His shoe struck something yielding. There was a faint grunt near the ground. Carefully, Napoleon lowered himself to his knees. “Illya,” he whispered again. He could smell his partner now. He lowered his head further. He was close enough to hear Illya breathing. The wind didn’t reach inside this verdant coccoon. Laying his head down on Illya’s chest, Napoleon felt it rising and falling regularly, the heartbeat slow and steady. Napoleon let his body relax. It was fragrant in the centre of the bush, but it was Illya’s scent which was unknotting his muscles. “I was a little worried, Illya.”
Illya stirred. He lay a hand on Napoleon’s head as it rested against his chest. “I should be offended,” Illya replied quietly. Napoleon both heard and felt the words.
“A lot of THRUSH escaped the building. I imagined many of them came through these gardens,” Napoleon explained.
“And you thought I couldn’t handle them?” Illya replied.
“I didn’t know how much ammunition you had or whether you were injured,” Napoleon explained. He could smell that Illya wasn’t bleeding. He smiled and rubbed his cheek against the cloth of Illya’s shirt.
“Well, I handled them,” Illya replied.
“Yes, I saw on my way here.”
“There are several more a few feet beyond and a couple across the path in the shrubbery,” Illya said.
Napoleon lifted his head and tried to distinguish Illya’s face in the darkness. “All right, even knowing you, that’s impressive,” he responded.
“I think I had some help,” Illya said.
“You think?” Napoleon asked. “A sympathetic scientist, an opportunistic guard?” He leaned forward and bumped into Illya’s chin. “You need a shave,” he added.
“So do you,” Illya retorted and took a deep breath. “Not human help.”
“Ah, what gadgetry did you capture?” Napoleon asked, sitting back on his heels.
“Not mechanical help either,” Illya answered and shrugged his shoulders. Leaves rustled and dew drops rained on them. Faint grey light appeared through a few gaps in the foliage. Illya rubbed the moisture over his face, sat up and peered towards where his legs disappeared into the shadows. “My feet feel strange,” he said.
They both reached towards his feet at the same time. Napoleon slid his hand back up, curved around one of Illya’s calves and slipped downwards again. “Illya, is there a reason you buried your feet?” he asked.
Illya wiggled his toes and raised one knee. His foot easily pulled free of the loose soil and he bent down to dust off what turned out to be bare skin. “Feel around and see if you can find a shoe,” he whispered. “I don’t recall doing this.” He felt a tingling beneath the arch and a tightening around the toes of his other foot.
Napoleon felt around along the ground next to him. He twisted to reach behind him and found a sock.
Illya lay his hand on the earth over his still buried foot. There was a tickling along his palm, between his fingers. “Oh,” he said.
Napoleon’s left hand closed around a shoe. There seemed to be a sock in it. “I think I’ve got your socks and one shoe,” Napoleon said, turning his attention back to Illya. It was a little brighter now. He could see Illya leaning over his extended leg, his head down.
“Is it sprained? Broken?” he asked quickly. Was burying an injured limb supposed to help keep down the swelling? he tried to remember. The soil would be cool. Maybe it was broken and Illya had done that before passing out from the pain. “The clean-up crew should only be another hour or two.”
“There are others still in the garden,” Illya said. His hands remained on the ground over his foot. “An old man and a female child, his granddaughter, maybe. I don’t think they are wounded, but they are frightened.” Napoleon couldn’t see Illya close his eyes. “Off the path on the left, further along, there is a potting shed. They’re inside. They could be armed.” Illya took a deep breath. “The child is terrified. The man fearful that he cannot protect her.” Illya looked up. “You can soothe them, Napoleon. Bring them back here. I don’t think I should move just yet.”
Napoleon nodded, watched Illya lay his head on his knee. He’d seen Illya ignore pain often enough. Perhaps his injury had become numb in one position and sitting up disturbed it. “Do you still have a functioning weapon?” Napoleon asked. Illya stretched an arm to the side to move some leaves and exposed four or five THRUSH guns. Napoleon raised both eyebrows. “I see you have that covered then. I’ll be back as quickly as I can,” he said and turned to peer out onto the path before emerging from the undergrowth.
***************
Was the fire releasing fumes from some new THRUSH chemical? Illya pondered. He closed his eyes and checked the whole garden and over the walls. Aside from the two people Napoleon had gone to find, no danger presented itself. The inside of the building was burning quietly. The wind was still westerly and carrying most of the smoke in the opposite direction from where he was. The reinforced concrete of the outer walls looked almost unchanged, the small, bullet proof windows still intact, but every surface was hot and around the building's perimeter the shrubs had been incinerated and the trees singed. Were the smoldering plants causing him to hallucinate?
He patted his jacket. The camera was still in his inside pocket. So they had the research notes from the project as well. We’ve thwarted another plan.
He concentrated on Napoleon; he had reached the shed and was speaking. The door to the shed opened; Napoleon continued talking. Illya couldn’t catch the words, but the expression on Napoleon’s face was reassuring. If this is an actual effect, is it going to fade?
Illya sighed and opened his eyes. He felt light-headed. It had been many hours since he’d eaten. The dim light beneath the leaves was growing greener. He kept his eyes on the branches through which Napoleon would return.
The scent of tangerine caused him to turn his head. Near the guns were two bananas and four tangerines, one with its skin slightly torn. The previous evening he had noticed a citrus grove on the south side of the garden, but not any banana trees. Illya was finishing the last of the fruit when the branches moved. He lifted his gun quietly and aimed.
Napoleon poked his head in. “Mission accomplished,” he grinned. “And you look better.” He sniffed and noted the tangerine peel on top of Illya’s foot which was still under a mound of dirt. “Where did the fruit come from?” he asked.
Illya lowered his gun. He finished chewing and swallowed. “We are in a garden,” he replied.
**************
Where a bit of moss nestled in the chipped corner of one of the brownstones near Illya’s balcony, a white bud was beginning to open in the cooler northern sun. Numerous shallow roots firmly anchored it in its small niche. One long, slender root ran along the seams between the stones up to the roof and into a large flower box in which one of the tenants was raising tomato plants. He fertilised them often. A second, far longer tendril followed the moisture behind the drain pipe down to the pavement and along the cracks in the sidewalk to the square of earth around the chestnut tree just to the right of the front of the building. Spiky nut casings were forming in the branches of the tall, old tree.
Illya came out onto the balcony in robe and slippers with a glass of orange juice. He leaned against the ornately carved balustrade and looked out over the treetops of the park.
“Illya,” Napoleon called inside the apartment. “Illya,” he repeated as he opened one of the French doors to the balcony. “Ah, there you are,” he said, stepping outside with a plate of toast and jam in one hand. He set it on the small metal table near the door and pulled his robe further around him, retying the belt over his pyjama bottoms. “There’s a hint of autumn in the air today,” he said, stepping up close behind Illya.
The flower felt the vibrations. It rotated on its stem. The wavelengths of light reflected off the green robe and glossy hair pleased the young plant.
Napoleon picked up the plate and held it around Illya’s side. “What some?” he asked nearly in Illya’s ear. Illya turned to look over his shoulder at Napoleon and smiled. “Some toast, that is,” Napoleon clarified, grinning.
Illya turned back to the plate, picked up a triangle of bread and took a bite. “Mm,” he murmured and finished off the piece of toast. “What kind of jam is that?”
“Date and tangerine peel,” Napoleon replied.
Illya ate another piece and looked over his shoulder again. He licked some excess jam from his lips. “Delicious,” he said.
“There’s a new Lebanese import store near headquarters,“ Napoleon explained. He watched the tip of Illya’s tongue disappear. “Wait, you missed a bit,” he said and wiped a dab away from the corner of Illya’s mouth with his index finger. He watched Illya’s eyelids lower. “Come inside,” Napoleon urged softly and sucked the sweetness off his finger.
“Do you have more jam?” Illya asked, his eyes lingering on Napoleon’s mouth. Napoleon nodded. Illya stepped away and pivoted towards the living room. Napoleon followed, setting the plate down on the table and reaching out with both hands towards Illya as they went through the doors. An instant later the doors clicked shut and the drapes closed across them.
***************
Attracted by the aroma, a bumble bee flew down from the roof and settled on the plate, buzzing against the china as it moved slowly from drop to drop of the jam. When it had its full it rose heavily into the air, stopping to examine the little flower in the cranny of the wall before flying towards the chestnut tree.
The blossom felt the question flowing through it. “He is blooming,” it responded. A light breezed ruffled the treetops. Momentarily, the young plant was pressed against the side of the brownstone.
“Good,” the distant reply came. The small flower felt the warmer sun of the tropical garden, sensed the vibrations coming through the earth as the ruins of the burnt building were demolished, the rubble scooped up and carted away. “Watch him. Protect him. He is ours.”
“Ours,” the blossom repeated. It was absorbing the mixture of nectar from the plate and pollen from the tomato flowers on the bee’s wings. Intoxicated, it turned its pale petals towards the cool sun.
The End
If you would like to read the sequel, "The Rosebay Affair: Part II" may be found here: http://saki101.livejournal.com/5375.html
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-10-03 10:48 pm (UTC)Oh, I am pleased to hear about the jam!
(I did post the next bit on my LJ.)