The food had even tasted Russian, Chekov mused as he lay in a rustic bed that night. It wasn't that the food had been made from recipes gathered among the peoples of the Russian Federation. The food actually carried the flavor of Russian soil. Each individual area of every planet imparted a different flavor to the plants it nourished and the meal he'd just ate tasted as though the vegetables had absorbed the nutrients that were unique to his Motherland's black earth.

The dwelling they were in wasn't actually authentic, the Navigator noted. The wooden ceiling he stared at had been milled by machinery. Their surroundings were a strange combination of real and reproduction. The trick was figuring out which was which: and why Tiimeron had gone to such lengths.

He sighed irritably. The late hours of mind-numbing diplomatic conversation and rich food seemed to have had no effect on the Doctor. It was not the first time Chekov had shared a room with McCoy, but it was the first time he regretted it bitterly. The Enterprise's Chief Medical Officer was a light sleeper: probably something to do with his job, but Chekov wanted him to sleep undisturbed tonight. Twice the Navigator eased himself up to a sitting position, only to have the Doctor spin in his blankets and mutter at him fiercely.

After what seemed like an eternity, he was finally able to step carefully out of the room without a reaction from his roommate. He quickly made his way through the darkened house and stopped to peer into the kitchen. Silently sneaking out of a manor house at night was second nature to him. The only real challenge to make it out into the garden unseen came from overzealous breakfast cooks: something to be expected when there were guests to be fed.

Chekov was lucky. The kitchen was still dark and empty, except for the several people who had climbed onto the oven's built-in shelf to sleep. As he passed them on his way into the garden he regretted that he couldn't do so himself. The luxury of the oven's heat was a prized sleeping spot: even at the height of summer.

Once outside, the Navigator was assaulted with the smell of Russia again. It was even more intense in the dark when his other senses could not be relied on. He moved past the swaying plants fillling the vegetable plots and in through the rustling leaves of the fruit trees in the orchards. The vegetation gleamed in surreal, reflected light from the dual moons suspended high in the sky.

He strolled leisurely, only casting an occasional glance into the branches of the trees he passed. Chekov had learned that searching for this woman was futile. You simply had to accept that she revealed herself when she wanted to. It was a bitter tasting lesson that he had learned late.

Frankly, he confessed to himself ruefully, his stubborn nature had never really conceded to the idea.

Chekov stopped when he came upon her deep in the cherry orchard. It was where he expected to find her: the woman was always partial to the bright, sweet fruit. His hours of failed searches among these orchards back home was probably why he loved the smell of their blossoms so much. She was sitting on the ground beneath one of the trees: her delicate, tapered fingers gently caressing the fur of a silver fox who stood beside her.

"I had thought, perhaps, that you were not coming," she cooed softly, an edge of sadness in the melody of her voice.

"You knew I had to," Chekov observed quietly. "I'm sorry I was delayed," he added truthfully.

"Ah," she trilled a confirmation, eyes bright as a soft smile played on her delicate lips. "You do know who I am."

"I recognized you immediately, Zharpesta." It was a stupid thing to say; he'd never seen her before. His soul, not his eyes, recognized her.

The fairytales of Russia were filled with stories of this woman and how she had swept across their land, inundating it with the wild and extraordinary beauty it was known for. His father's vivid word pictures from the telling of the tales swelled his imagination with visions of her.

Zharpesta looked exactly as Chekov had expected her to, shimmering with colors that were downright fluid in how vibrant they were. Her riveting, black eyes held him captive.

"What did your Captain say when you told him?"

"I didn't tell him."

She chirped approvingly with a shine of self-satisfied victory in her eyes. "You love me, Pavel Andrieivich."

Disgruntled, Chekov scowled and shifted with irritation. He purposely ignored the fact that she'd learned his name. "The lack of energy needed for such an assumption is beneath you. I'm male, I'm Russian: of course I love you."

How could the Navigator explain that to James Kirk? The notion was absurd–no matter how true it was. Males in Russia began searching for Zharpesta the moment they were physically able: sometimes before. They were often carried into the orchards by their older male relatives before they could even walk.

The men continued searching throughout their life, holding to a solemn confidence between them which was sealed by the desire–the need– to at least see the unobtainable vison of beauty. A veil of secrecy allowed them to pretend that the real women around them weren't aware of their clandestine activities or longings.

Since Chekov had seen her when they'd first arrived here, he had frantically searched for a way to explain to the Captain what he couldn't make sense of himself.

WHO, or more aptly, WHAT she was overshadowed the more obvious question of why they should encounter her here. It was not so odd that his very first landing party–when they had met the 'god' Apollo–kept coming back to the forefront of his mind.

What is she doing here, so far away from Earth? he demanded of himself again. And why has she so easily allowed me to see her?

Humans had always represented a wild danger to everything this woman held dear and she protected herself from them with a vengeance that was blinding. Blatantly showing herself to Chekov meant putting herself into a precarious situation that must have required every bit of trust the woman could muster.

Others she had trusted in the past had betrayed her, but it was not in Chekov's nature. He had known of and loved her far too long, too intensely. She was clearly relying on that now.

But why?

Chekov began to suspect that everything around them–land and people–were a ruse specifically designed to trap this woman. Always able to escape such traps, if someone had succeeded in caging her all these years, than the landing party had beamed into dire peril.

"We can bring you back to Rhodina," Chekov urged in a hushed voice finally. "We can bring you home." He, of all people, had found Zharpesta. Chekov had found her here, of all places, and he, of all people, would bring her back to Rhodina. The thought of his planned heroics was downright dizzying.

Long lashes fluttered over her large eyes repeatedly and she trilled in sublime superiority. "You?"

She interrupted his visions of parades with a biting tone. "Did you mean that you will bring all my companions back, or were you just saying that only I would be welcome back?"

Chekov's face became ghost-white and he stilled, her words clutching at the very pit of his soul.

"We?" he repeated breathlessly. "Companions? By companions you mean...?" Chekov clamped his jaw shut. He couldn't say such a thing. His heart was pounding so loud, he couldn't even hear himself think such a thing.

She was obviously not referring to the humans in this place. Russia's wild lands were filled with unseen occupants, if one was to believe common lore. The fairytales of his childhood were filled with accounts not only of this woman, but with a whole myriad of other creatures that, like her, were elusive and yet frighteningly ever-present.

The vivid images of them came filtering through the Navigator's mind. Domovoi, the house spirit; Dvorovoi, the yard spirit; Leshii, the forest spirit; Ved'ma, the farm spirit; Polevoi, the meadow spirit; Ruslaki, the water spirit; Bannik, the bathhouse spirit; Baba Yaga, D'yed Moroz; Cherti...

The existence of the Russian spirits was an accepted fact in Russia–just as Santa Claus was an accepted fact elsewhere. Everyone knew the stories and encouraged their children to believe them, but no one actually left Christmas gift-giving to D'yed Moroz and his daughter.

Still, the creatures' presence crept into daily conversations. Unstored, leftover food was being left out for the Domovoii and the bathhouses closed at night: supposedly to meet the demands for sole use by the Baniik. A whole host of spirits could be credited for forcing humans to be respectful to each other and Chekov had never heard anyone in his homeland admit to getting lost: the spirits were always to blame.

Rural people who lived with deep connections to their wild land, like Chekov had in his youth, had more than a few suspicions that the stories were actually true. Chekov had grown up with more suspicions than most. His father collected, recorded and taught folktales from around the world.

The problem in Russia was that people knew where the spirits' favorite haunts were but never knew what to expect of them. Yes, Zharpesta made things beautiful, Baba Yaga stole off badly behaved children, Rushlaka drowned men who wandered by water alone, and Cherti rescued children from abusive parents.

On the whole, however, there was no telling what reaction the spirits may have on any given encounter with a human. They could be helpful and pleasant, or they may torment you because they thought it funny or were ill tempered that day. The Russian spirits were wildly, dangerously unpredictable.

The Navigator's hand edged instinctively for the phaser that he wasn't carrying. His dark eyes swept the world as he felt completely exposed suddenly. Although they lived apart from the general population of the land, it had never occurred to Pavel Chekov to consider them as a unit before. He realized that she was telling him that they were all one species, and that they had traveled here together.

Good God, they're real...!

They're real and they're all here...all around...everywhere...in control...all of them here. He shivered despite the warm night air.

The woman chortled softly at his visible reaction. "Even after all this time, humans still believe they are the only sentient species that ever lived on Terra," she confirmed dismally. "I'd hoped you'd grown more introspective as a species."

"They're all here," he said aloud, straightening his back and clearing his throat as he did so. It did very little to quiet his pounding heart.

Glancing down at the fox she still petted, the woman's long, curled lashes fluttered again before she looked up through them at him: amusement tugging at the corners of her petite mouth. She laughed lightly at him, an airy sound that he found enchanting. "All here, Pavel Andrieivich.

"I see," she continued, stretching her neck with a bitter flutter. "You only meant to take me back. You don't want them."

Chekov stared at her, feeling both desperate and ashamed. He knew she saw the horror he couldn't chase from gripping his dark eyes. Of course everyone in Russia would eagerly and enthusiastically welcome Zharpesta back. The others, however... His face flushed on behalf of all his people.

"You see," Zharpesta cooed softly. "You don't want all of us."

Chekov stared at her, an overwhelming sadness overtaking him as he understood. "I thought perhaps you had been abducted. You aren't being held against your will."

"No."

"Zharpesta, what are you doing here? Why did abandon us?" Chekov demanded indignantly then, the bright moonlight shining in his intense, dark eyes.

"Abandon you?" She seemed genuinely surprised and her eyes regarded him with warm amusement. "In all this time, who noticed that we left? You may have looked, but you never expected to find me: and you were glad to never encounter my companions."

"We never stopped looking for you," Chekov protested hotly. "Never..." He clamped his jaw shut again, his face growing sullen. He knew what she said was true.

"Why did you leave?"

She shook her head then, sending ripples of light down the length of her thick hair and fixed him with unkind eyes. "My people and yours lived together in peace once, Pavel Andrieivich. The Earth was a wide world which was large enough to meet both our needs.

"Than the Earth grew small. Human arrogance closed in the horizons and left no room for our needs. Even knowing about us became a liability. We couldn't live under those circumstances."

"So you left the Motherland?" he blurted out bitterly.

"Tiimeron offered us what we wanted, and dignity besides."

"Zharpesta, how could you, of all people, leave Rhodina to the whims of nature?"

She made a cackle of disapproval, shaking the length of her hair again. "Has Rhodina suffered so without me? Did you think my touch was so fleeting?" she chided him then. "That the flowers, the fruit and vegetables would fade after I had given them such glory?"

"We still looked for you," Chekov muttered sullenly. Only the spirits weren't in Russia: not anymore. Bannik had never been there to placate. Neither had Domovoii that Chekov had fed so often, or any of the others that he had enjoyed entertaining as a child. They simply were not there. "You were never there."

She cocked her head to the side and fixed him with her huge almond eyes. Her delicate lips skittered with sublime amusement. "I wasn't?"

"No. You were here," he said morosely, digging the toe of his boot into the familiar black soil that he now knew had been imported from his homeland. "This isn't Russia." And he wasn't Grand Duke Ivan riding up on a white horse to rescue her.

"Ivan?" he asked suddenly as the image came to his mind. "Where is he? Did Grand Duke Ivan come with you?"

She hunched forward, balancing on her toes and curling her arms about her body. "You must go," she cooed softly. "The Doctor will find you gone when he wakes."

"He's going to know anyway," Chekov muttered with a sinking feeling as she recalled him to the Starfleet team he accompanied. McCoy had been giving him daily exams every morning for the last two weeks. Some nonsense about not eating enough...

"Aren't you going to kiss me?" she asked as he turned to leave.

Chekov hesitated, his eyes on her shimmering skin and entrancing features for a moment. "No," he replied.

She laughed deliciously. "I thought you were in love with me all these years."

"I was," Chekov agreed with smouldering, dark eyes. "Zharpesta, visions of you have filled my dreams for as long as I can remember," he explained quietly. "But if I get what I always wanted now, than I will lose everything I have always had.

"I couldn't bear that."

Her eyelids fluttered again, shielding an obvious sadness that overtook them. "Than I am sorry for both of us."

The woman's form wavered: the brilliant red hair shimmering into a fluttering, golden-edged river that overtook her essence. She shifted elegantly, gracefully stretching herself out and taking flight.

Chekov stood silently and watched the Firebird until her vibrant form disappeared into the anonymity of the night sky.