Eɴᴄʜᴀɴᴛʀᴇss ( Aɴᴀᴛᴏʟᴇ/Nᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ/Hᴇʟᴇɴᴇ)

Ships: Anatasha, Natélène, lil bit of Sonyakhov

Disclaimer: This is NOT Anatole/Hélène fanfiction. That’s gross. It’s more like Natasha/Anatole and Natasha/Hélène, coexisting at the same time.

Basically it’s Anatole and Hélène’s reaction to meeting Natasha. Enjoy.

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As Natasha walked up the steps to the ornate Moscow opera house, she didn’t know what to expect. She had never been to the opera before, and, having been raised in the country, had little experience with decadent Moscow society.

She figured she would be well liked— she usually was— but as she looked in the glass of the window, she saw the reflection of someone she didn’t recognize. No longer a just girl, yet not quite a young woman, but very beautiful regardless.

Was that really her reflection?

She felt like someone different. Someone new. Someone who belonged in this society.

As Marya Dmitrievna stepped out of the troika, Sonya following behind her, Natasha couldn’t help but notice the beautiful, well-dressed crowd of Moscow socialites who were attending tonight’s show.

Sonya, who was much less charismatic than Natasha, though arguably equally beautiful, followed behind her, dragging her head down. Sonya Rostova hated social events, and did not want to be here at all, but had been dragged along by Marya and Natasha.

Noticing her friend’s dismay, Natasha slowed her pace, making sure Sonya was alright.

Sonya nodded, sighing and muttering “Natasha smooth your gown” to her cousin, halfheartedly smiling as she did so, and dragging behind.

The two incredibly pretty girls, who had not been seen in Moscow in many years, soon caused attention and envy throughout the theatre.

Natasha relished in the way that everyone seemed to like her, the men iring her beauty, and the women looking at her with jealousy— surely they all knew of her engagement.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Marya pointed out their old friends. Alexey, who had recently returned from the war, and Mikhail Kirillovich had grown stouter still!

Boris Drubetskoy (who had once been Natasha’s childhood crush) was there, now engaged to Julie Karagina, an old friend of Natasha and Sonya’s.

“Look, Sonya! It’s your old suitor, Fedya Dolokhov!” Marya cried, pointing him out to Sonya through the crowd, as the same group of girls that had been jealous of Natasha now giggled and sighed over Dolokhov.

“Dolokhov was in the Caucasus, and he killed the Shah’s brother. Now all the Moscow ladies are mad for him....” She sneered, making it clear that there was at least one lady who was not. “‘Dolokhov, the assassin!’”

Sonya blushed, ing his proposal. He was quite a bit more handsome than she ed, maybe she’d been wrong about him...

“Stare much?” Natasha laughed, rolling her eyes at Sonya.

Sonya flushed furiously, turning her eyes away. So what if she’d been staring? Was it wrong to be attracted to someone?

Her thoughts were cut off when Hélène Bezukhova walked in. Hélène was the queen of Moscow society, though a bit of a slut, and Natasha couldn’t help but ire her as the type of woman she’d like to be.

“She’s beautiful!” She gasped, watching iringly.

“She’s barely clothed!”

Scoffed Marya, shaking her head.

It was true, the woman was very scantily clad, in a dress that exposed not only her bare arms and shoulders, but also a great portion of her breast. Nonetheless, she was absolutely beautiful, and Natasha couldn’t help but ire her. The way she pranced about the room with such delight was enchanting...

One could just fall in love with her.

Natasha watched as the Countess sauntered up to Dolokhov. They seemed to be having an affair, while Pierre (who was enjoying himself at home that evening) was nowhere to be found, and gave no thoughts to his wife and her whereabouts.

Hélène spotted Natasha, and though she was regarded as a cold-hearted woman, even she couldn’t help but smile. She had heard that Natasha was the most beautiful girl in all of Moscow, and now, seeing her, she knew it at once to be true.

Anatole will be tripping over himself for her,

she thought, knowing her brother and his inability to resist pretty women.

Oh well, allow me to talk to her first.

She sauntered up to her, dragging Dolokhov with her— although Fedya really had no interest in seeing Natasha, he wouldn’t mind seeing Sonya again, and he was happy to accompany Hélène.

As Hélène climbed the steps to enter the Rostovs’ box, she couldn’t help but feel a rush of excitement at meeting the young Countess Rostova. She knew Anatole would want her immediately, and couldn’t help but desire some fun of her own with Natasha.

Entering the box, she smiled at her, a warm, genuine smile that Hélène did not use often, but that felt right in this given moment, with Natasha.

“You must be Countess Rostova.” she said, smiling sweetly at the young Countess.

Natasha nodded. “You must be Countess Bezukhova.” She couldn’t help but stare at Hélène, dazzled by her outfit and the pearls around her neck, dazzled by Hélène herself, perhaps.

Hélène laughed. “Please, call me Hélène. I’m not one for formalities, anyway.”

Natasha laughed and blushed so slightly. “Oh! Well in that case, you can call me Natasha.” She paused. “Oh, that neck.... Oh those pearls.....”

“So beautiful! What a charming young girl! So enchanting!” Hélène said, though she was not sure whether she had said it aloud or just thought it, although it must’ve been the former, as the young Countess seemed to have heard her.

Natasha, blushing scarlet, couldn’t help but smile at Hélène. She was about to respond when Marya cut her off, greeting Hélène coldly.

“Ah! Countess Bezukhova! Pierre’s wife! How long have you been here, Hélène?” she said, with words that appeared to be friendly, though her tone was cold and contemptuous.

Hélène shrugged, returning Marya D’s cold stare.

“Where is your dear husband? He never used to forget us...” said Marya, taking up a much warmer tone.

Natasha nodded at the prospect of seeing Pierre. She had not seen her friend in a while, it would be nice to sit and talk with him again. “He must come visit us!”

“I will implore him to do so!” laughed Hélène, her tone suggesting that she would do nothing of the sort. Oh dear..

“There’s a woman one should stay far away from.” said Marya, as she dragged Natasha away from her.

‘But.... why?’ thought Natasha, glancing once again at Hélène. ‘She had been so nice, so sweet, why must I stay far away from her?’

She shrugged it off, figuring Marya knew best.

During this time, Sonya had been speaking with Dolokhov. She had not seen him since she refused him, and now found herself utterly charmed by him. Perhaps she was having second thoughts....

It was then that the lights began to flicker, and she knew that the show was starting. Natasha took her seat, in between Marya and Sonya, as the actors flooded onto the stage. She had no idea what to expect for the opera.

As the show unfolded, Natasha failed to understand its appeal. It was not that she disliked the opera— but she was too confused and frightened to be certain whether she liked it or not, she found it all so strange.

The queerly dressed actors who moved and sang so strangely under the faint white spotlight of the stage felt false and unnatural, and Natasha was ashamed and amused at herself for having come to see such a performance, and yet, as she looked through the boxes and halls and balconies, everyone else seemed as if they understood the story perfectly, and seemed to at least feign delight.

Unable to understand the performance at all, Natasha was vaguely intoxicated, feeling as if she would reach out and tickle Hélène in front of her.

It was then, and with a rush of cold air, that someone else came in, in the middle of the show, how strange! He was exceptionally handsome, his blonde hair fluffed up in a pompadour style, and the aura about him was confident, yet somehow courteous.

This was Anatole Kuragin. Hélène’s brother, who walked with such a cocky swagger that it would’ve been utterly ridiculous had he not been so incredibly good-looking.

And though it was indeed in the middle of the performance, he proceeded to walk right down the aisle, and his sword and spurs jangled as he walked.

It was then that Anatole looked directly at Natasha, and Natasha flushed deeply, looking back at him.

He was so handsome that Natasha found him intoxicating, much like Hélène, although now there was a different feeling inside of her. Hélène had made her feel confident and flirty, like a more mature, newer Natasha. But Anatole made her feel intoxicated, frightened, and all around enraptured, as though he had put her under some sort of spell.

Anatole, as well, was completely enchanted by Natasha. He whispered something to Hélène.

“Mais charmante!” — how charming!

And Hélène couldn’t help but laugh, as Anatole had fallen for her, exactly as she had predicted, and now she would have to pick up the pieces when her brother’s plan failed.

And yet she couldn’t help but feel envious. Anatole wanted Natasha, and she knew as his sister that Anatole must always get what he wants. She would be forced to help him, so he could take her away, and she would never it that maybe she wanted her too— but it could never be.

Anatole was smitten with her, Anatole would get her, Hélène just felt a ing attraction. At least that was what she told herself, she would be over it, Anatole could have her, no problem.

And still Hélène felt that she had been touched by this little enchantress, this charmer who had won over both of the Kuragins, and conquered Hélène’s frozen heart.

She sighed, waved Anatole goodbye, and watched him disappear into her box.