To Sofia Ivanova, the minds of her family all manifested themselves as different archetypal creatures of their native land. Her husband's mind was that of the Russian bear itself: silent, formidable, slow to anger but ferocious beyond measure when roused. Her son's, meanwhile, was exactly like one of the extinct tigers of the Siberian wilds: just as vivid, just as majestic, and just as solitary – and also, she so often feared, just as doomed.
And then there was little Susan, who was a class unto herself. A fierce, winged glory, so golden and blazing that Sofia almost feared to touch it, the mind of her daughter was like nothing ever seen in the waking world – and yet it, too, had its unmistakable parallel in their nation's bestiary. For Sofia was learned enough in the folklore of the Rus to know a Firebird when she saw one.
Throughout her daughter's childhood, she delighted in telling her the stories of the beautiful, perilous mystery whose golden feathers toppled dynasties and overthrew the forces of darkness. She painted pictures of the Firebird to hang on her bedroom wall; she took her to see Stravinsky's famous ballet when the incomparable Katsulas danced it at the Kirov. And Susan was gladdened by these things, as she was by every sign of her mother's love.
There came a night, though, when Susan, then nine years old, seemed dissatisfied by the conclusion of her usual favorite bedtime story. When asked what was wrong, she only shook her head, pushed aside her mother's solicitously probing mind, and buried herself, head and all, under her goose-down comforter. Sofia, though mildly concerned, knew her daughter well enough not to try and force the issue; instead, she just kissed the stray lock of chestnut hair that poked out from under the covers, rose to her feet, and made to leave the room. She had a feeling that it wouldn't take long for Susan, if unpressed, to reach out on her own – and, sure enough, halfway to the door, she felt a golden finger touch her mind, and heard Susan's muffled voice call, "Mama?"
She smiled, and turned back to the bed. "Yes, darling?"
Susan sat up, shook the comforter off her, and heaved a sigh that seemed to deflate her little body like a balloon. "The Firebird showed Prince Ivan the magic egg," she said, "so that he could break it and kill Koshchei the Deathless."
"That's right," said Sofia.
"But why didn't the Firebird just break the egg on its own?" said Susan. "It must have been strong enough, if it could put Koshchei and his servants to sleep. It wasn't afraid, was it? Or didn't it care about the imprisoned princesses?"
Her voice was pregnant with anxiety, as though such cowardice or callousness on the part of her mythic totem might cast doubt on her own compassion and bravery. Sofia smiled, and reassured her daughter that the Firebird certainly hadn't been timid or uncaring. "But you know how it is in fairy stories," she said. "Magic creatures have rules of their own, which sometimes make them need humans just as much as we need them. Probably the Firebird had made some promise to Koshchei long before, and that bound its hands – or its talons, I should say."
Susan nodded. "Yes, I suppose so," she said moodily. "It's that way in a lot of the stories, isn't it? The Firebird takes the princess to the cave, but she's the one who upsets the witch's brazier and rescues the prince's heart." She sighed again, even more heavily than before. "Do you think the Firebird ever wished it could be the hero for a change, Mama?"
Sofia frowned as she sensed all that lay behind that question: the necessity of Susan's hiding her latent telepathy, Andrei's stern opposition to anything that smelled of soldiering, the unspoken but powerful feeling that Earthdome was the Western nations' private playground – all the barriers to an unhindered wingspan that couldn't help but weigh heavily on the youngest Ivanov's ardent little heart.
"Well, maybe so," she said softly. "But, if I were the Firebird's mother, you know what I'd tell it? I'd say that, if it was doing all it could to make the world a better place, then to my mind it was just as much of a hero as the prince or princess was. I'd say that it doesn't matter if your deeds are overshadowed by others'; what matters is whether they're the deeds you ought to be doing." She smiled. "And I'd also tell it that, whether it got the glamorous job or not, it was still a Firebird."
At that, Susan smiled, too. "Spasibo, Mama," she said.
Sofia leaned forward and kissed her daughter once more; then she turned off the lights, and left the fiery little fledgling alone to her dreams.
Many years later, Commander Jeffrey Sinclair was standing on the C&C bridge of the fifth Babylon station, gazing out into the dark immensities between the stars, when he heard a throat being meaningfully cleared behind him, and turned around to see a slender young woman in a severe brown braid standing rigidly at attention. "Lieutenant Commander Susan Ivanova reporting for duty, sir," she said.
Sinclair nodded. "At ease, Lieutenant Commander," he said.
Ivanova relaxed fractionally, and Sinclair grinned. "You come highly recommended," he said. "When your predecessor left the station, I consulted with Captain John Sheridan about finding a replacement, and he said I couldn't do better than his own second on Io. I quote: 'She's the best Earthforce has to offer – a real warrior's heart.'"
A blush of pride colored Ivanova's fair cheeks. "Well, he would know, sir," she said.
"Yes," said Sinclair. "Though I give you fair warning, Lieutenant Commander, you're not likely to find many opportunities for heroic glory as B5's operations officer. Nineteen days out of twenty, it'll be a matter of nothing more glamorous than pacing to and fro in front of this console, pressing buttons and giving routine docking instructions. It'll keep you busy, no question about that: you'll go to bed every bit as tired as if you'd been fighting on the front lines at Jareen, but without any of the visceral thrill that that kind of service provides.
"And what you have to remember," he continued with grave urgency, "is that, on the dullest such day you ever have, what you'll have done will be just as noble and worthwhile as the grandest battle you could have fought in. This place is our last, best hope for peace, and every bit of work that keeps it running is a good deed done for humanity, and a dozen other races besides. So never let yourself get discouraged just because you're not doing the kind of thing they build statues for."
Ivanova nodded. "Yes, sir, I understand," she said. "I point the way, and someone else breaks the egg."
Sinclair cocked his head inquiringly at her, and she hesitated for a moment and then shook her head. "Never mind," she said. "It's a Russian thing."
"Ah."
"Sir!" called a non-com from the central monitoring bay. "Jump point forming in sector 18!"
"Oh, that'll be the new Pak'ma'ra ambassador," said Sinclair. "Bring him in, Lieutenant Commander." He clapped a hand (surprisingly gentle for its size) on her shoulder, and added, "Welcome aboard."
"Thank you, sir," Ivanova replied.
As Sinclair exited C&C, she strode over to the command console and opened a channel to the docking chief. "C&C to Delvientos," she said. "Confirm bay 11 clear for Pak'ma'ra vessel."
"Confirmed, C&C," said Delvientos.
"Good," said Ivanova, and, with a swift flutter of her fingertips, shifted the comm from intra-station to outside hailing frequency. "Ambassador, you're cleared to land in docking bay 11. Welcome to Babylon 5."
She acknowledged the ambassador's grunt of thanks; then she closed the comm channel, folded her hands in front of her, and glanced around the command center with a small, private smile. "Caution," she murmured under her breath. "Here be Firebirds."
Author's Note: The terms of the Fatima Challenge are quite simple: write something nice about something Russian, to counter-balance all the hysterical xenophobia that seems to be going around just now (show cats? seriously?). It can be in any fandom you like, and can refer back to any aspect of Russian history, culture, or geography; when your subject extends across eight time zones, there's no sense in being narrow.
Disclaimer: После Смоленска Наполеон искал сражения у Вязьмы. (This may mean "I don't own Babylon 5", or it may mean "After Smolensk Napoleon sought a battle at Vyazma". Both statements are accurate.) Also, the cover image was created by a Russian lacquerer about whom I know nothing except her surname, which is Putylova.