| General Fiction posted July 1, 2025 | Chapters: |
2 3 -4- 5... 
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The Mother of Sorrows
A chapter in the book Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 4
by tfawcus
| Background In the preceding chapters, Dmitri became catatonic after losing his twin sister, Mira, in a bombing. He is transferred to a clinic, but a chronic bed shortage sees him moved into Elena's care. |
'Elena.'
Dmitri said her name aloud, more firmly this time, stretching the middle syllable as if trying to give it more substance. El-ay-na.
He had always thought of her in the same way as a boy might think of his mother, a person placed on this earth to care for him. Now, his viewpoint had altered. He realised she carried a weight of grief as heavy as his.
He closed his eyes. Memories of his mama came flooding back, and in particular, of the day when the news had broken; the day when he'd pledged to be strong. Had it really been three years ago?
He remembered the knock. Three sharp raps. Mama's footsteps, the creak of the door, and the commander's voice:
'Mrs Zahir?'
There had been a short pause before she replied, 'Won't you come in, please?'
She led the way into the parlour and gestured for them to sit down, but they remained standing, and they declined the tea she offered from the samovar. The junior officer shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Their words had been quiet and well-rehearsed:
'We regret to inform you...'
Their stay was brief. It was almost certainly not the only call they had to make that afternoon. He remembered the eerie silence when they left. Mama had not cried; at least, not at first. Her face was expressionless, and without a word, she turned towards the family shelf of icons. She genuflected, crossed herself, and took down a bust of the Mother of Sorrows. She cradled it gently, gazing at it as if into a mirror. The scene unrolled in his mind like an old movie played at half speed.
He could not comprehend what was happening: it was written in a foreign language. But instinctively, he understood he should give his mother space to assimilate her grief. He held Mira back, but she suddenly wrenched free, her breath catching as if something was tearing her apart. She lurched forward, letting out a sob that cracked his heart.
Startled, Mama looked up. The treasured icon slipped from her fingers as Mira rushed forward and buried her face in her mother's blouse.
He remembered how Mama encircled his sister, scuffing the shards aside. The shuffling movement had been accompanied by a whirr as the grandfather clock prepared to strike. Three measured, doleful chimes echoed through the void, as if they were signalling the end of time.
He stepped forward, wrapped his arms around them both, and held tight as they wept. In that moment, his childhood ended. It wasn't spoken, but something had changed. He knew he had to be brave, that they needed him to be strong.
Strong, like Elena was strong. She hadn't withdrawn, curling grief into her womb, and praying for its death. Instead, she had carried it to full term, and it had given birth to empathy and compassion.
He inhaled slowly. He would no longer be a victim. He, too, was a survivor, and he was beginning to realise that with survival came responsibility. He got out of bed, drew the curtains back, and threw the window open. It was still dark outside. Stars were reflected in the stillness of the lake, and a faint breeze stirred.
In the distance, a lone wolf set up a howl. It was answered by another, and then another. He shivered. Ancient voices calling from the wilderness. Only the fittest survived. He shut the window, turned on the light, and picked up his sketchbook. During his time at the lodge, drawing had become his main way of sorting out emotions.
Elena's description of Stanislav had been of a young man in uniform leaning against a doorway. He drew him with a devil-may-care attitude, full of the promise of adventure. He captured the outline quickly, but shaded slowly, using light strokes and the side of his pencil to soften the shadows. Around the figure, he added faint shapes of smoke and a suggestion of broken ground.
After a while, he relaxed against his pillows and stared at the portrait, sucking the end of his pencil, and then he started on the face. All he had to go on was Elena's, but that was enough. He caught the shape of her eyes, the tilt of her chin, and the arch of her eyebrows, but drew something firmer, more like his own father, in the set of Stanislav's jaw.
By the time he had finished, the sun was over the horizon and flooding into his room, erasing the spectres of the night. Elena's footsteps were in the corridor, and he flipped the pages of the sketchbook to a half-finished picture of the lake. Now was not the time.
She paused as she put down his breakfast tray. 'That's nice,' she said. 'Are you going to work on it again today?'
Much to her surprise, he glanced up and said, 'I might.'
They were the first words he had spoken to her.
'That's good,' she said. Her voice surged with inner joy. 'I don't imagine you'll be needing me to spoon-feed you today, then?'
'No. I'll manage. I've been thinking ...'
'There's no need. Take your time. I'll come back later. We can talk then. Really talk.'
He reached out, and their fingers touched.
As she left the room, she paused. Her hand lingered on the doorknob, and she let go a lightly held breath.
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