Summary: She was a woman on the run, but that didn't please him so she stopped. She wore her hair in a bun; he didn't like it so she stopped. She wore pants out of the house; he didn't like that, so she wore skirts instead.

~~~~~~

She smiles brightly for all of them to see before retreating to the kitchen. Irina Navrykey is nothing if not the perfect hostess. She's stunning, articulate, and an amazing mother. She's the envy of every woman at her home this night. She steals the breaths of men in a scarlet knee-length dress with beguiling spaghetti straps that she turns around to reveal a plunging back with narrow straps crossing the bare expanse of flesh to and fro. With the dress, she wears matching heels of ribbon that wind their way up her legs like vines on a trellis. Around her neck hangs a simple ruby surrounded by diamonds on a golden chain. Her hair spills over her shoulders in a cinnamon waterfall. It is restrained with a plate and dowel, tendrils falling out rebelliously to frame her face. She is beautiful.

She glides across the kitchen floor more gracefully than someone of a full six feet would be expected to. She winks at Cleci, who's sequestered herself on the tabletop, sneaking treats from the various trays that pass her way. The maids let her, they love her. Who doesn't?

"What have you been up to all night?" The young eyes soak in her mother's appearance, enchantment shining so innocently that it pains Irina to look.

"Nothing. I just watch all the people. They don't pay that much attention to me. Why don't they pay attention to me, mama? I've been good. Haven't I?" Her soft Italian-accented voice is so disappointed, so heart broken. Irina wishes she could tell her how much she would give to have these people not care about her, not watch her with such rapt attention, such envy. But she won't. This is simply of phase in childhood. They all go through it. She would survive it.

"Oh, yes, my little starlight, you've been wonderful. They are all over-stuffed shirts with trophy wives and more power than their little minds know what to do with." Little doe eyes peer at her from under her fringe and she is reminded of Sydney at this age. The remembrance of her late daughter breaks her heart. She blinks away the tears and goes back to helping prepare the hors douevres.

"Mama, what's a trophy wife?" Sometimes the maturity of her gaze blinds Irina to the fact that her daughter is in reality still a small child.

"A trophy wife is…a pretty woman that a man marries just for being pretty instead of for love." Her eyes widen. The notion of marrying someone for any reason other than love is preposterous in her eyes. It goes against all her mother has ever taught her.

"But why? Why marry if not for love?" Irina shrugs. That is something that she, herself, will never understand. She prays that her daughter never realizes that her mother was in fact, her father's trophy wife and it wasn't just because she was pretty.

"I don't know, sweetheart. I don't know why else one would bind themselves to another for life, if not for love. I never--" She stops herself. She won't lie to her daughter. She owes her honesty and so, she simply doesn't say anything.

She can hear Viktor's boisterous laughter all the way in the kitchen and knows that he's on his way. He'll have a conniption if he realizes that Cleci is in the kitchen. She's not even supposed to be awake. Her bedtime was hours ago. She looks into Ceci's eyes and sees the fear that has dwelled there from day one.

"Ceci, take the servant's staircase and go to your room." Irina helps her down off the counter and pushes in the right direction. "Go now, Cleci Gaza Navrykey!" The little girl hightails it up the well-concealed steps and is soon out of sight. Thank God…

Irina immediately returns to preparing the trays as if nothing had happened. Literally, moments later the kitchen door swings open and in comes Viktor.

"Irina, what are you doing in here? The guests miss you. Come back outside." She doesn't meet his gaze, but continues cutting the kiwi for the fruit tray.

"I have to finish this for the fruit trays, Viktor." She says this through a locked jaw. She can feel him moving closer and her body tenses.

"Is it possible that you are defying me, Irina?" He's so quiet that if it weren't for the inflection of his words, they'd be a verbal caress.

"No, of course not, Viktor. I would never do that."

"Of course you wouldn't, Irina. I mean, what reason would you have?" She keeps looking down, the tendrils falling into her line of sight. They only make it harder for her to see, her eyes already blurry with tears. She knows what he will say, and just like always, it will hurt her. Just the way he intends.

"None." She keeps cutting the kiwi and when she finishes with the last one, she walks over to the sink and rinses it off before returning and starting with the pineapple.

"Right. You would have no reason to defy me after I saved from your past…forgave your sins. Made sure that you didn't go to jail for killing your husband and daughter. Not to mention, your unborn child…you innocent son." Her heart aches from the memories he recalls that she can't. Her chest heaves as she struggles against the sobs inside that dare to claw their way to the surface. She holds them in, because if he sees them, it won't stop. Not tonight, not tomorrow, maybe not for months. And she won't be the only one to suffer. Her children will suffer; maybe even the servants will feel his wrath. She doesn't want this. There's enough blood on her hands.

"I know, I was there, Viktor." She bites her lip and prays that he lets it pass. The room is inundated in silence. For a moment, she even dares to hope that he's left the room, but she peaks up through her fringe and sees him standing there almost resplendent in the stillness. She looks back down and tries to resume her cutting, but her hands shake so badly that she accidentally slices her palm open. She doesn't cry out, too aware is she of his presence. She goes to drawer nearest to sink, rifling through for something to stop the bleeding. He hates it when they use the kitchen towels to clean up blood. There's more blood spilled in this kitchen than is healthy for anyone, especially her. She reaches deep back into the drawer, still searching, and her fingers encounter something silky and lacy. She wraps her fingers around it and pulls it out. Panties. Red, silk and lace panties. Irina is sure that those aren't hers. She would like to put these down now, but can't think of a way to do it gracefully. She silently sits them back in the drawer and closes it. She'll go to the bathroom to find something.

She starts up the service staircase, but his voice stops her. "Take the main staircase. It would look strange for you to disappear from the kitchen and reappear in the den." She nods. Taking a moment to check herself over with her good hand, she slips back out into the part and declining various offers to dance, ascends the stairs. She plays the battered wife so well. An Oscar winning performance. She wishes it were just an act. It's become her life.

She walks the hall towards the bathroom so that she may tend to her hand. Her acute hearing picks up a door opening down the hall. She steps closer to the aforementioned door. She crouches down to come eye to eye with Ceci. Her daughter yanks the door open and throws herself at her mother. Irina cradles the shaking girl in her arms.

"It's all right, sweetheart. Don't worry. Everything's all right, now." Ceci reaches up and presses a hand to the side of her face.

"Did he hurt you again?" Irina shakes her head.

"He didn't hurt me. Look, I'm fine." Ceci checks all over with a suspicious glance. She turns around and takes her mother's hands.

"Oh, momma. You said he didn't hurt you."

"He didn't. I did that accidentally." She looks into her eyes skeptically.

"Positive?" Irina nods. "Cross your heart, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye?"

"Yes, to all that. Though it sound like it hurts a little."

"Okay." She tips her head, turning Irina's injured hand in her smaller one. "Come on, we gots to put something on this." She takes Irina's good hand and guides her into her room. Irina looks behind her to make certain that Viktor isn't coming. He isn't. She can hear his false laughter all the way up here.

Cleci closes the door behind them. "Come on, we're going to the bathroom." She starts on her way, fully expecting Irina to follow on her own. She does. Ceci pushes the cracked door all the way open. She walks over to the toilet, putting the lid down obviously expecting Irina to sit down. She does. She's learned to understand when she's being led.

Cleci pulls her little wicker stool over to the sink and stands on it to reach the medicine cabinet. She rifles through it for a moment and comes down with an armful of bottles, tubes, and a box. She drops them all onto the floor.

"Put out your hand, please." Irina hesitantly does as she's told. She knows that she never approved of any of the items scattered on the floor. Ceci picks up a bottle of alcohol. She gestures for Irina to follow her over to the tub. Irina does and holds her hand over it. With an apologetic glance, Ceci pours a generous amount over the gash on her hand. Irina doesn't make a sound, but flinches minutely. Ceci turns on the cold water tap and hold Irina's hand under it for a moment before shaking it off a bit. She goes back to the pile near the toilet for peroxide and witch hazel. She holds them up for her mother to see and analyze. Irina's consent given, she pours on a bit of peroxide and watches as it bubbles around the laceration. She winces, because she knows first-hand how much that stuff stings, but it's for a good cause. It'll keep the infection down. She continues to pour it on until the fizzing is minimal. She holds Irina's hand back under the tap for a moment or two longer than before and takes it back out with another good shake. Almost done. She pours on the witch hazel and nothing happens. Good. Nothing is supposed to.

She leads her mother back to the toilet and goes back to her first aid pile on the floor. She opens the box and rifles through it for something. She takes out a little paper packet and tears it open. Irina puts her hand out and the little girl carefully rests the little square onto the wound. It's just big enough to cover it. She then pulls out some medical tape and bites off pieces to tape on each side of the little square, securing it to her palm. Irina flexes her hand and it follows the motion. It's a good wrap.

"Thank you, sweetheart." Ceci leans up and kisses her momma on the cheek. She learned early on how to take care of her own wounds. "Let's get you to bed. We have to go shopping in the morning. Remember?" She nods and Irina hoists her up into her arms. It's bedtime.

Laying her on the bed, she pulls the comforter up around her shoulders. She doesn’t deserve a little girl as wonderful as this one. She wishes that she didn't have to know how to treat wounds so well. She's just a little girl, her mother should be able to protect to her. So, why does Irina feel like she's failed so spectacularly?

Sydney walks purposefully, but her face is distracted. Her mother is being held prisoner. She knows. She likes to believe that she and her mother share a connection, one they both know of, but never speak of. Every night, as she sleeps, she relives her mother’s pain, her torment. It is just as much her cross to bear as her mother’s. She stops for a moment and leans on the wall for support. A searing agony blurs her vision and she soon finds herself on her knees, then on her back.

Her whole left side is throbbing with pain and her face feels like it’s being dragged across a rock quarry. She can vaguely hear a name being called. It might be hers or it might be her mother’s. She’s too lost in her pain to notice. Soft voices of the past and present whisper comfortingly into her ear.

Don’t cry, my baby. Don’t cry. It’s all going to be okay. Just hold on, sweet one, hold on. It will be over soon. She can feel a feather-light kiss across her brow. She calms, but her body starts to shiver as though she’s been thrown into ice-cold water. God, it hurts.

Irina gasps as the rains pours over her head and struggles to swim in the freezing pool. Her clothes are pulling her under. Her hair floats about her face and her dress billows in the water. She's drowning.

He’s taken everything from her. Her children are probably already so buried in bribes and bureaucracy that finding them again will probably be the impossibility of her life. He’s taken her freedom and her very breath. She can hold her breath with the best of them, but time’s running out and her strength isn’t what it used to be. Her toes just touch the pool floor and her fingers don’t even brush the surface anymore. She needs a hero, but history seems all out of them. She’s resigned herself to drowning. Does she even deserve any better? He didn’t think so and she couldn’t think at all.

Suddenly a pair of bodies break the surface and she’s saved from her freezing cold hell. As they pull her out, she vaguely realizes that it’s raining. Out of the water and into the rain. The irony of that is largely lost on the two agents they lay her on the stone walkway surrounding the pool. They don’t think she’s breathing. She can’t be; she was in for far too long to breathing. She takes a gasping breath and tries to regurgitate all the water that invaded her body for those long minutes. Just another thing taking what isn’t theirs. She guesses it isn’t hers either anymore. Invasion shouldn’t be so simple.

They rub her back with surprising compassion and wrap her in one of their coats. She’s thankful for that. She’s chilled to the very marrow of her bones, her skin is a golden kind of gray, if that’s possible, and her eyes are lifeless with a side of misery. It’s no surprise that her bruises show and her hand has begun to bleed again. They ask her her name and she can’t think of anything to say. They flash a light into her eyes and apparently they don’t like what they see.

“Agent Derevko, can you hear me? Agent Derevko?” His partner shakes his shoulder and makes a negative gesture with his head. His partner steps away and allows him to try. He crouches down in front of her and studies her dazed face.

“Ma’am, it’s Agent Trinity. Irina, are you in there? Irina, I know you’re scared, but you have to tell me if you’re all right so that we can get you some help. Are you all right?” She shakes her head and she crumbles, tears coming down her already wet face against her will. He, against what is probably the best advice he’s ever received, takes her into his arms and strokes her hair. He knows a broken woman when he sees one. She clings to him, afraid of what has been and what more is to come. No one will be able to forgive her. Forgiveness is all she wants. She had another chance to live her life better and she failed. She doesn’t deserve to live.

She lives the way she was taught and believes just the same. Viktor ought to be very proud of himself. He’s broken the great Irina Derevko.

And she will, at vulgar cost, rend the world to utter desolation. She will have had her affect never having seen my sky behind Mt. Subasio. Maybe it could’ve cooled her fire. Maybe.

~~~

She was brought into the Rotunda in a wheelchair, Agents walking protectively on each side of her. It was hard to tell if she was a prisoner or a protectee. She looked so small, she felt even smaller.

Sydney stopped outside of the briefing room as her mother passed by. She wanted to reach for her but something stopped her. That woman wasn’t her mother; she was just a broken woman. Just like Sydney. She would see her later.

But as she turned to walk away, she felt the dark and empty gaze of that woman on her back. She looked over her shoulder to see is see if she was, in fact, being watched, but they’d already headed for the Recovery Wing. Her mother was hurt. She hoped she’d see her again.

~~~

Irina is poked and prodded with more things than she can remember from Muzafrabad. She doesn’t complain though. She knows better than to complain. She lets them do what they will to her. She deserves it. Viktor’s voice commands that she make their name the most feared, but she only curls into a ball and cries. She can’t do anymore. She can’t stand anymore. She just wants her Sydney and her Jack back. She wants heaven when all she’s had is hell. She wants Ceci and Andres. She wants to scream, but her throat is raw from chlorine. She wishes she’d died. She’s already dead.

She doesn’t see her late daughter and husband watching her through a two-way mirror. They shouldn’t be there. She thinks they’re dead. She misses them so much. Killing them was her worst sin.

“What happened to her, Dad?”

“She was held prisoner in Italy. La Provencia de --.”

“How long was she held there?” Jack sighs.

“It’s impossible to know, but if the agents hadn’t found her when they did, she’d be dead. She was at the bottom of a pool in the villa. When they pulled her out, surprisingly she was still breathing. She’d held her breath the whole time.”

“She didn’t try to get out?”

“Apparently she’d been drugged. Her glass was at the bottom of the pool, so that was impossible to test, but it was in her blood.”

“Who?” He looks down sideways at her. “Who did it? Who would poison her? Who would dare?”

“Whoever dared to imprison her in the first place.” Sydney doesn’t understand. She didn’t look like a prisoner.

“Why didn’t she run away? She was in a villa, she had to have had the opportunity to escape after three months. Why didn’t she try to escape?”

“She was conditioned.” Syd frowns and tries to comprehend the term conditioned.

“Conditioned? I don’t understand.”

“She was trained…or tortured to believe certain things and to respond to situations a certain way. She’s been conditioned to accept any punishment or treatment. She’s not putting up any kind of a fight. She’s just taking it. That’s not the Irina I know.”

“Me neither.” That isn’t Laura Bristow or Irina Derevko. So, who is this woman, this enigma and why is she broken? Who will fix her now? Can she be fixed?

~~~

She writhes on her bed, screaming in Russian, begging Viktor to give her her family back, to return them to where they rightfully should be. With her. He refuses, laughing and spitting in her face as he has done to her before. You are not deserving of such mercies, he had said. She would look away in shame, but would allow no tears to come. Her tears are all she can call her own. Her tears and her sins. These are all she owns, nothing more. She longs for more. So much more.

She eventually thrashes so violently that orderlies are sent in to restrain her. She only fights harder, finding the strength that had been stolen from her. She screams, but is weak and finally can fight no longer. She closes her eyes and shuts her awful ultraviolet world away. She chokes on her own sobs and coughs. She wants nothing to do with these people. They only want to punish her. Everyone wants to punish her. The orderlies cover her with the standard, blue-knit sheet. She turns her head away from them, her humiliation complete. She wishes for silence and with the subtle, considerate click of the door, she has it. Her silence. An empty joy casts itself upon her features. Something new that belongs to her, something to own. Her silence. That alone will not warm her broken heart and shattered soul, but somewhere deep within this mere shadow of a woman, Irina Derevko bides her time and practices her circadian rhythms, so that she‘ll be ready. And soon, she will be strong again and when she is, the world at large will quiver at the strength of her might and cower when they see the devastation that she will leave in her wake.

Irina Derevko has not begun to lose, for she has not begun to fight. But she will. And at that time, she shall wield the Power of Hera.

...she will, at vulgar cost, rend the world to utter desolation...

She has not begun to fight.

…Utter desolation…

Not yet.

Next Part

Last Part