A/N:
Chekov drabble. :)
Enjoy!
EDIT: Had to add some stuff, so I decided just to repost it! I didn't like the feel of the accent - it felt too comical for me.
I also added a little more poignant stuff in the end.
Disclaimer - I own nothing of the Star Trek franchise.
Pavel Chekov wasn't sure of what to do. He didn't know if he should breathe, or walk, if either would do any good for him besides allow him to live a little longer, imprint his memories into the ground, maybe grow a minute older. Perhaps seconds. Perhaps the rain would fall on him in seconds, fall from a heavy sky, misshapen with heaven's tears. If Heaven was supposed to be so perfect, he wondered, clutching rain-spattered roses in pale, grief-stricken hands, then why did it gray? Why did it grow old and thick with darkness?
Why would it take her away?
Everything was so…new. He watched the world with wide eyes, and reached out with small hands, wanting to touch it. Wanting to touch everything, just to see what life felt like. Did it breathe? Did it giggle, if he touched the right spot? She would know.
The first day of his life, Pavel didn't quite know what to make of the strangely beautiful woman, whose eyes were polished with a glossy sheen of tears. Mesmerized, he stared at her. No blinking, his body told itself. No blinking, or you'll miss her.
"Oh, my malinkey," came a strangled cry, unfurling from bowing, rose petal lips.
He thought of the logical facets of rain. Less poetic, it seemed, when faced with the stolid expressions and the black and white features of science. Replenishment of the earth, the death of thirst. Rain was merely a cycle of life, as was death and decay, rebirth and revival. It could not be helped, nor ignored as it trickled down the limp whorls of hair that hung like the leaves of weeping willows down the planes of his water-stained face. He blinked away a raindrop, and his lashes grew heavy and sodden, their thirst put to rest in a shallow grave. Something warm trickled down his cheek, stinging as it brushed past blush-red skin.
There was something warm pooling within his taut grip, and as he looked down at his hand, aimless and weary-eyed, he watched a current of blood seep down his fingertips. Staining the rose thorns.
"Mama?" Came a musical voice.
"Yes, melkiy?"
Pavel's hand rose to indicate the sparkling heavens. "Mama, why is there dew in the sky?"
Her laugh was infectious. It reminded Pavel of the church bells, high in the morning sky. His own was not foreign. Always bubbling with mirth and traced with glee; Mama always said she was blessed with a happy child.
"Little Pavel, always the humor," her laugh trickled off, tapering into silence. "Those are stars, my child."
"Star…" He hummed, blinking softly as he whispered a soft hello to the sparkling little trinkets, reflecting in his eyes.
The roses were pelted with torrents of rain, their red petals mingling with the lush green beneath their scarlet limbs. What more was there to do but go on? Chase the stars, as his mamin had always said. He wished she could remind him now. Remind him of his endeavors.
But his mama's lively soul was sleeping. No longer dormant; merely traces of wistful smoke outlining the falling rain.
And he couldn't follow her this time.
"Mama, you are wrinkling my uniform," Pavel grumbled teasingly, and she seemed to wake from her trance.
"Oh, melkiy," she crooned ruefully, smoothing a crease from his bright yellow shirt. "I am always forgetting. You are a man now. And I am an old, old zhenshina."
"You will always be young to me, mama," Chekov whispered, and pulled her close to him, tucking his head beneath her neck. Pride forgotten, his mind wandered back to a time when he would nestle himself deep within the wraithlike haze of her perfume. Wildflowers. He'd always love wildflowers for their maternal beauty.
"You always did love the stars," she murmured into his ear. "I could never drag you away from them so easily. You'd sooner starve then let yourself away from them. I suppose it is only natural that you join them now, after so many years of waiting for them."
"Ya tebyA lyublyu, mama," he replied. "I will bring them home for you, when I return. I will bring you the stars."
He'd kept his promise. Kept it as close to his heart as he could fare, the oath so heavy with nostalgia that he could scarcely pass a day without its reminder. His mama's laugh, her constant poise. The softness of her eyes beneath the Russian sky. He would always love his papa; who could resist the strength and wisdom of a father, so unyielding to treachery, relentlessly brave?
But it was his mama who had the largest portion of Pavel's heart, and though wanderlust had spirited him away from her, stolen what was rightfully hers, he did return. He returned with the stars.
Behind the weary figure, as he trudged through quagmires of sodden earth, battered with rain, there lay a gray-washed stone, engraved with somber letters. But beside the blood-brushed roses, and the half moons of sullied puddles spreading across the sparse earth, there lay a little pin, star-shaped and glowing just as bright, even beneath the austere sky.
Tanya Chekov
May 17, 2220 – August 30, 2254
Mat, Zhena, Podruga