Archive of Our Own

every single one of them's a lie

Sometimes Natasha thinks of all the other worlds out there. She has chosen and chosen again, and those choices have led her here to where she stands.

Somewhere there is a world where Sonya did not read the letter from Anatole (Natasha's mind shrinks from his name, but no, that won't help her any more), where Natasha hid it away and ran away with Anatole, to what end she doesn't know. She is already ruined; she would be ruined then as well, but in a strange country with no one she knows.

(You are not ruined, she thinks, and the words sound like Pierre's soft baritone, quiet and sure in spite of his confusion.)

There's a world where she plead ill with a headache after the terrible afternoon at the Bolkonsky manse and cried into her pillow while Marya went to the opera. Would Sonya have gone too? No, she would have stayed home to bathe Natasha's forehead and sing something soft and sweet to send her to sleep. And Natasha would have received Mary's apology, and Sonya would have reminded her (gently, kindly) of her duty to the family, and Andrey's letters would have continued. Would Natasha have married him? Who would she be in that world? The same girl as before, Natalya the beloved, free of this pain and sadness.

(You can never really be free of pain, she thinks. It sounds like Princess Mary, somehow, tired and sad and wise.)

There's a world far distant where she and Sonya aren't cousins, but sisters, she thinks. Where Sonya sings her beautiful songs and Natasha tells her stories about the way the moonlight turns them all into angels and there's magic, real and true, that brings them even closer together. Would it split them apart as well? Would they inevitably reach a turning point where she found fault with her dearest friend and cast her aside, when a man blinded her to the person who should be most important to her? Or would she have been brave enough and strong enough to cleave to Sonya no matter what?

(You always lose things when you're growing up, she thinks, and the words are Sonya's, aching with love and with loss.)

And there's a world out there where none of this matters, far beyond anything she can imagine. Beyond the war where men bleed and die, where her brother fights on for something greater than love or intrigue. Someday they will all be dust, bones gleaming pearly white within their graves, and all this will be one more story for her great-grandchildren to tell. All that has happened is just the blink of an eye against that timespan, a flash of a candle's flame in a mirror. It shouldn't weigh her down so.

(You don't get to choose what the lesson costs, she thinks, and the voice is strange and old and fearsome.)

Natasha touches the curtains where they hang before the window in her bedroom, gripping them to steady herself. There may be other worlds out there, but this is the one she is in. This is the time she has been given, the road she will travel. She has made mistakes, hurt people, done terrible things. But she can't change the past. She can only choose how she moves forward.

a circular story

It's always like this for Pierre. He'll have a moment of clarity, a moment when he can see everything laid before him and behind him, and he understands and he thinks he will finally be free. Free of the cloud that rises up around him, dulling his senses and his mind until all he knows is pain and his own failure. And not just his own failure as an individual man, but the failure of all mankind. It's enough to drive a man to drink.

It usually does.

He tries as long as he can to hold onto that evening. The moment when the comet shone in the sky. The air was so cold it seemed to make everything sparkle like crystal, so still that the slightest breeze rang in his ear like a great choir of angels. And the memory of Natasha's smile through her tears, the light of her face glimmering like a pearl seen through water. It should be enough, he thinks. Enough to remind him that there are things of value in the world, that there is beauty that does not cloak a rotten core. That he can be more than whatever he is doomed to be, stumbling through life like a drunken bear. That he could deserve someone like Natasha to love him, that he could be better than he is.

That doesn't work, of course.

He feels the darkness descend on him again, the cloud of voices that whisper how useless and terrible he is. He feels as though he is swimming through a muddy river, that he is lost in the middle of a great wood, that he will never see the moon and stars again.

He receives a letter from Natasha, a flower impressed on the wax seal.

Dear Pierre, it begins, in a childish but clear hand. I regret that I did not receive you with more composure the day before. But I thank you for your kindness to me, at a moment when I did not feel I deserved it. I still am not sure that I do. But the thought of your words has been a great comfort to me.

There is a blot of ink, as if she had hesitated in writing, and then:

This is most likely an improper letter to send. But then, I do not know if anything I do shall ever be proper again. How can it be? You know a little of that, I think.

I know I have no claim to your friendship now, not as I did before, beyond your connection to Marya. But I do hope I may call you friend - and you may, of course, call me yours. If you should wish it.

There's no complimentary close, just her name. Natasha.

Pierre pulls open the curtains of his study. It's late, and the comet still burns above the roofs of Moscow.

Perhaps he's been thinking about this the wrong way. Perhaps he thinks only of the darkness - and not of the light that follows.

blessed by a stranger

Natasha is regaining her strength slowly. She's able to walk a longer distance every day, to eat more nourishing foods, to begin wearing proper dresses again.

(The spangled dress that she wore to the ball has been shoved in the back of her wardrobe. The maids all seem afraid to touch it. Natasha isn't sure what to do with it either.)

And every day she feels clearer in her mind, more aware of what's been done and what is left to her. She was wrong, possibly, that all is over. She's done this often, flown from the highest heights to the depths of despair. Marya would say she is being overdramatic - but then, Marya doesn't seem to know what to say to her. And Sonya just waits for her to speak with those wide, shining eyes, always waiting for Natasha to make the first step.

Natasha doesn't know who she wants to be anymore. She's not the blithe young girl she was a few weeks ago. Everything happened so quickly, and yet it seems a lifetime ago. It was a different life. She's never going to be Natalya Bolkonskaya or Natalie Kuragina - the thought of that second name makes her shudder, even now - but will she be Natasha Rostova again? Is that who she'll be forever? What does that mean?

She receives a letter from Pierre.

I am coming to think that propriety is greatly overrated - it creates a cage for those who mind it, and for those who ignore it no appeal to strictures can be strong enough to bring them back. And why should we be satisfied with a place in a society that treats any real feeling as a scandal? It is true that we may treat others well or poorly, but that comes from a higher place than good manners or honor. Honor has never done me any good, and it did you very ill as well.

Natasha thinks of Hélène, arm in arm with a man not her husband; of Dolokhov, who had claimed to be overtaken by such a passion for Sonya that he robbed their whole family and left them in debt; of Anatole, who pretended love to her face when he could never make her a real wife.

No, she does not think she wants to be like them in casting off propriety. And yet she has already placed herself beyond it - so perhaps Pierre is right, and it is not whatever the glamorous set of Moscow thinks is correct. The letter goes on:

I don't know if this makes any sense at all. I spend too much time with my books and not enough talking to people. I never know who to speak to or what I should say. You always seemed to know what to say, and how to set everyone at ease. You shone like a star, not because you were pure and untouched, but because you had your own light. I hope that light comes back to you, Natasha.

He signs it with his initials, hastily, ink splattering the page. Natasha folds it and places it in her jewelry box; it's far less incriminating than the last letter Sonya read, but she wants to keep that to herself. She wants to be that star again. Or, if she can't return to that life, to find a new light to carry within her. Whatever that might be.

reveal it to me

Sonya waits and watches. It seems that's what she's always done, or at least since she arrived at Count Rostov's home. Her aunt and uncle were always kind enough to her, even if they didn't dote on her like their own children. Natasha treated her as another sister and became her closest friend. But Sonya was always aware that she was an outsider, that she lived with them because of family duty and honor and charity. If her parents had lived, she might have been more like Natasha; Sonya is quite sure she feels as deeply as her cousin. But the wild impulsivity, the declarations of love and hatred, the mercurial shifts from high to low - that's beyond her. It's too risky. Too much.

And where has her caution gotten her? True, she stopped Natasha from eloping. But she wasn't able to stop her from somehow procuring and taking the arsenic. She was able to call for help and for the doctor, and to nurse Natasha through the worst of her illness. And now that Natasha is well again, or approaching it… Sonya doesn't quite know what to do. She's used to letting Natasha lead the way, to picking her cousin up when she stumbles and falls. That's not the same as knowing what to do now that everything has changed.

She sits at the little writing desk in her room, biting her lip as she stares at a blank sheet of paper. She should write to Nikolai, she knows, to tell him of what has happened. To give him a choice. She's had so few chances to choose in her own life, and accepting his proposal was one of them. But will she be the downfall of the family she has tried so hard to protect?

Sonya stares at the blank page and does not write a word.

astonishment and dread

The darkness passes. Pierre is aware of it leaving slowly, as one coming out of a long illness. He feels weak in body as well as in soul, trembling as he walks down the hallways and shrinking from the light even of the weak winter sun.

"Marya Dimitrievna, with the Countess Natalya Rostova and Sofia Rostova," the butler announces, and Pierre clutches at his head.

"Show them in," he hears himself say.

The house isn't fit for guests - Pierre has no idea how to manage a staff, how to take care of this pile he inherited from the man who sired him on the wrong side of the blanket. Hélène and her brother and their set had run wild as Pierre retreated to his study. There are holes in the carpet from the ends of cheroots, a stain on the wallpaper where someone threw a glass and their wine soaked in. It looks like a ghastly fungus, or a face. Or both. And Pierre himself is sloppily dressed; he can't remember the last time he properly combed his hair.

Marya's lips thin into one unimpressed line, turning down at the corners. Even Sonya tries to cover her disgust, though she does it poorly. Sonya is a bit like him, Pierre thinks, with an appreciation of what is fine and worthwhile and what is not. But Natasha simply steps forward and smiles at him, her eyes warm and understanding. She still looks too thin, hollows under her eyes and in her cheeks, but Pierre wants to warm himself at the fire that burns in her eyes.

"Good afternoon, Pierre," she says, reaching out both hands to him. Pierre reaches for her and lets his hands fall - and then, remembering the drawing room, reaches for her again. Her hands are warm against his, small and slender against his bearlike paws. Pierre is frozen to the spot.

Marya clears her throat loudly. Pierre drops Natasha's hands, startled. "Uh. Some tea for our guests, please," he says, not looking away from Natasha. He wants to apologize, but for what he's not sure. The butler bows and exits the room, and Pierre asks his guests to sit. He does remember that much, at least. Sonya perches on the edge of the sofa, and Marya looks as if she'd rather put down a handkerchief before she sits on any of the furniture, but Natasha simply takes the chair closest and looks completely natural doing so. Pierre could weep at her kindness.

"Is your wife at home?" Marya asks. The words seem to stab him with hundreds of tiny needles. He is sure Marya would think she is being helpful by getting it out of the way as quickly as possible.

"No, I believe she is… visiting. In Petersburg," he supplies. Pierre has no idea whether this is true; he knows he hasn't seen Hélène in days. But she always avoided him when his moods were upon him.

"Then we shall simply have to take care of you in her place," Natasha supplies brightly, and Pierre almost cannot bear to look at her. When he does, she is smiling tenderly, as if Pierre deserves nothing less than their care and friendship. He can no longer see what Marya and Sonya think of this; he turns to Natasha and cannot turn away. Her liquid eyes seem to expand to fill his entire field of vision.

If they talk of anything else, Pierre does not remember it. Just Natasha's eyes, and the sound of her voice as she murmurs to him.

He should have this place set to rights.

ghosts don't bother me anymore

Natasha and Sonya take a walk by the river. It's cold and bright. This winter seems to have lasted forever, or like it will last forever, and the cousins are both heartily sick of it. Marya has made a new shawl for Natasha, which she wears over her coat, warmth she sorely needs. Sonya smiles, and then tries to hide it.

"What?" Natasha asks, peering at her around the wool.

"Nothing, it's just - you look like such a little old grandmother with the shawl, bent against the wind."

Natasha laughs and bends over further, affecting a little hobble. "Now, be nicer to your old grandmama, Sonyushka! Don't disrespect me, fetch me my slippers and my book and my knitting," and she goes on in a cracked voice and Sonya can't keep her laughter back either, and soon they're both laughing hard enough that they stumble right into the path of a man in uniform. He wears a trim, dark beard, and his eyes flash as he looks down at them.

"Andrey?" Natasha gasps. But no, it's not him at all. She can see that as she blinks and clears her eyes. Just another soldier, gray coat flaring wide in a gust of wind that threatens to take her shawl with it.

"I beg your pardon, miss. Misses." The soldier catches at the shawl deftly, settling it about Natasha's shoulders. If he recognizes her, he doesn't let on.

"We're very sorry, sir," Sonya says hastily, drawing Natasha back, worry already creasing her face. "Please, don't mind us."

"Not at all, miss." He wears a faint air of tragedy as he smiles and bows, as if their gaiety cannot reach him through whatever he has seen. Not that Natasha and Sonya are so innocent, these days. But what does he know of that? He only knows what he sees: two young girls, cheeks glowing from the cold, playing at some private game.

"Come along, cousin," Sonya says, looping her arm through Natasha's and fairly dragging her onwards. Natasha casts one last glance back at the soldier, who has already turned away to continue walking wherever it is he's going.

"Did he look very much like -- or was I just seeing things?" Natasha asks, voice low.

"A bit," Sonya admits, her own voice none too steady. "But all these soldiers look alike. They've gotten used to death. It makes them all sad, I think. And strange. Come, let's go home, we'll have some tea and some honey-cakes."

Natasha thinks of the dreams she used to have of Andrey on some anonymous battlefield, of the visions she feared of his death; of the way Anatole wore his uniform jacket like a costume rather than something that would ever be dirtied with the dust and blood of a battlefield. She thinks of honey thick in her mouth and warm like blood and sunlight.

She trembles.

all night long

It's not a ball. It's barely a party, really; Marya still can't quite decide what to do with Natasha and her strange new status. Marya might just be sick of sitting in the house with her two wayward girls and no other company. So she invites a few people over for dinner. Not even a party, just an evening with a good meal and a warm fire and some time spent shining their lights in defiance of the long, cold night.

Pierre is among the guests. He's awkward and quiet at first, ready to retreat back to his books and his stargazing and his tangled thoughts, but he's such an old friend of the family that everyone is determined to set him at ease. Sonya meets his eyes with understanding. Natasha gives him a smile; she doesn't mean to dazzle him, merely to greet him and let him know how glad she is, and he seems almost to blush behind his beard and glasses.

After the meal, they retire to the parlor, and there's a gradual agreement that some music would be most welcome as an aid to digestion. Sonya blushes and refuses to play before company, saying she would only strike the wrong keys, that she would be too frightened of making a poor impression and disgracing the names of the composers. It's not really an excuse. She's so terrified of attracting attention that all her private skill and grace would turn to clumsy dissonance. Natasha turns to Pierre and lays a hand on his arm, noting how warm he feels even through the layers of shirt and coat. She might be acting overly familiar - but she can't bring herself to care much for that anymore.

"Will you play, Pierre?"

And though Pierre looks as fearful of company as Sonya he draws himself up and sits at the piano. A few hesitant plunking notes show that it's at least in tune, and he asks, "What would you have me do?"

Natasha gazes down at him; she could give him the title of any number of arias she remembers, or something pious from a hymn. But there's no one here that she wants to impress, precisely. She wants to have fun again. At least once. So she replies with the first lines of a riddle song, one where a girl sets her lover a series of impossible tasks and requests impossible gifts.

Pierre looks like he might fall off the bench with surprise. But he gathers his wits about him and begins to play the music, focusing on the keys and never looking up. Sonya takes up the second part of the song instead, her voice a throbbing counterpoint to Natasha's clear soprano, and the pair of them tease each other with requests for stardust and honey and portraits of ghosts. It's almost like old times, except Sonya always had to play for them. But they get through the whole song without slipping up once. And then Pierre launches immediately into another song that he must have been reminded of, and it seems easy as breathing to follow him into the next song. Natasha takes up the melody and Sonya harmonizes with her, an ease borne of long years of companionship, listing the types of fair folk and fell creatures they might choose or despise to be, and by the end of it they're more laughing than singing.

"Perhaps that's enough music for now," Marya says, as Natasha and Sonya collapse onto the bench beside Pierre. He nearly slides off this time, catching himself with a discordant thump of his hands on the keys.

"You must play for us again, Pierre," Natasha says. She can't resist pressing her lips to his cheek in a quick kiss - a thank-you for the music, for all he's done for her so far. She feels that spark of fondness and gratitude inside her blossoming and unfurling. It's the strangest sensation.

That night, her dreams are touched by music.

living in the shadows of the sky

Pierre returns to his empty house after the party. His ears still ring with Natasha's laughter and the sound of her voice twining with Sonya's into a beautiful cry, their laughter haunting him in the empty halls. His cheek burns with the memory of her kiss. What did it mean?

As ever, when searching for meaning, he returns to his study. Books, so many books, lining the shelves and piled on the desk and spilling onto the floor, stacks teetering perilously close to the fireplace. It's a mess. He picks his way through the maze and over to the desk where his notebook lies open.

Pages and pages confront him with scrawls of numbers and letters, his own name and Napoleon's, combination after combination as he struggled to divine the answer he wanted from facts that would not give him what he wanted. The symbols swim before his eyes. Confounding nonsense that he cobbled together in a search for meaning where none existed. Surely Napoleon is a bad man. He must be stopped. Pierre might even be part of that effort - but a divine mission? Foolishness and confusion and indignity.

He pitches the notebook into the fire, smoldering with banked coals. It sits in an unsatisfying fashion amid the embers. When he pokes at it with the fireplace irons it begins to smolder with an appalling odor of flesh and sweet ash. Pierre hastily tears back the curtains and opens the windows, leaning out to breathe in the fresh air. The silence seems to speak to him again. Or perhaps it's the stars, seeing him and leaning down, their voices like the ringing of a wine glass. Perhaps it's Natasha's laughter again.

Perhaps it's something growing within himself. The comet is still barely visible in the sky above. He keeps thinking that feeling of inspiration was a fleeting shadow, one he could only have at that precise moment. But maybe Pierre needs to be nourishing it within himself, coaxing it to grow, clearing the air around him and giving it strong soil and clean water. Then he might be worthy of something better, someone better. Is it a thing that can be cultivated?

This might be the mystery he truly needs to study.

it's time to grow up

Natasha is daydreaming again. Or at least that's what it looks like when Sonya comes into the morning room and finds her sitting by the window. She looks ready to be painted for a portrait in front of the heavy drapes, her cheeks finally regaining their curves and her eyes dreamily distant.

"Natasha?" Sonya asks, walking closer. It must not have been a daydream after all; her cousin turns to her at once. Her smile is almost as ready as before (before everything, as Sonya keeps thinking of it).

"Sonya, what is it?" The smile fades as she looks at Sonya properly. Sonya has no idea what expression her face bears, but if it reflects her tangled thoughts it must not be happy. Confusion, perhaps. Shame? She's not sure if she's ashamed. This is the right thing to do, after all.

Sonya hands Natasha a folded piece of paper. It's an echo of their past that makes her stomach churn. "I was writing a letter to Nikolai. I thought you might like to see it before I sent it." Not that she's shared her love letters with Natasha before. This isn't one of them, though. But it seemed the easiest way to break this news.

Natasha reads the letter quickly, lips moving slightly as she scans Sonya's careful, small handwriting. She frowns. "Sonya, what is this? Not some sort of game you're playing?" She must know it isn't. Sonya doesn't play those sorts of games.

"It is what it says it is," Sonya says softly. A refusal - no, not that. A release. Letting Nikolai go.

"I don't understand," Natasha says, her fingers tightening, the paper crumpling a bit at the corner. She sets it down on the table before her, smoothing it out. "Why are you doing this? You'll break his heart, Sonya."

"I don't think it's mine to break." Sonya looks past Natasha, out the window at the courtyard. How is it still this cold and wintry? Will spring ever come?

"He told you he loved you. He promised to marry you! Why would you do this? I don't understand," Natasha says again.

"You told me once that I didn't know what love is," Sonya says. Natasha flushes and looks away, blinking hard.

"I was wrong. I was - you know I wasn't thinking clearly."

"No, you were right. Even if your reasons were wrong. Kolya and I - it was a child's idea of love. That since we'd known each other so long and we were… fond of each other, that we liked each other, that that was what love was." Sonya swallows, reaching for the windowsill to steady herself. "Watching you…" Her voice breaks in her throat, then drops even further. "I've never felt that sort of passion. Like my soul was on fire for another."

Natasha catches at her wrist, her fingers cold and trembling. "Sonya, that wasn't - it was madness. You shouldn't take that as an example. You shouldn't use it as an excuse to break your engagement! I did, and look at what happened!"

"Would you really have been happy with Andrey? With his family in that terrible house?" Sonya snaps back, but Natasha's grip is firm.

"I don't know. Would you be that unhappy with Kolya? I thought you wanted to be my sister, Sonya!"

"I can't be your sister if it destroys the whole family!" Sonya cries, and there it is, the truth flying out of her mouth like bullets from a musket, and she claps her free hand over her mouth.

Natasha looks up at her for a long moment, the air fairly crackling between them. She lets go of Sonya's wrist and stands up carefully, retrieving the letter and looking down at it again. "Is that really what you think?" she says. Her voice is brittle. She doesn't look at Sonya.

"How can you ask me that?" Sonya replies. The tears are already spilling from the corners of her eyes. She hates being so quick to cry. "Nikolai's debt is my fault. If he can't make a good marriage to someone, the family's ruined. Truly ruined."

Natasha touches Sonya's cheek, her shoulder, then draws her in for an embrace. The paper crinkles against Sonya's back. And Sonya has tried so hard for so long to be strong that she stiffens at first. But all at once she shudders and gives in, collapsing against Natasha's shoulder.

"It's not your fault," Natasha murmurs. "How could it be? You always hated talk of gambling." Sonya hiccups, because it's not just that. It's the way Dolokhov clearly drew Nikolai into that game as revenge for her refusal. But she can't get the words out. Natasha strokes her back and goes on. "You're an angel, Sonya. You were the best influence on any of us, far more than Mama and Papa. I don't know why you don't see it."

"It doesn't matter," Sonya sobs. "I can't keep him back like that. Not if I don't love him."

Natasha grows still again. And then she laughs, a warm rush of air beside Sonya's ear. "I still think you're making a mistake. But I'm the last person who should be telling you anything at all about love."

Privately Sonya thinks Natasha might have a better idea than any of them. If only through variety of experience. But she lets her cousin soothe her and dry her tears and ring for tea.

She can always send the letter tomorrow.

when the endtimes fall

The stink of the burning notebook has cleared. Now Pierre turns to the rest of the house. He's been tormented long enough. Or tormenting himself, which amounts to the same thing. It may be that he will never truly be free of this peculiar affliction. But there has to be more he can do. And his current methods have not worked. He's got so much more he wants to do now. He needs a clear head for all of it. And he needs to be better, especially if Natasha - but that's a dangerous thought, and he puts it aside for now.

He gathers up the bottles from around the house. They're all over, in his bedroom and study and the library and drawing room and everywhere else, from nearly full all the way down to the dregs.. Wine that he's quaffed from dawn to midnight, its red shade a comforting curtain to deaden the world around him. It carries the scent of sophistication still in the aroma of its sodden fruits. Vodka in all its crystalline glory, refracting the world into a million sparkling shards; now it reminds him of Anatole's snowy hair and glittering teeth and the glasses smashed on the floor in celebration. Rum in its dark bottles, the liquor dark and tempting, with a fiery heat that spreads from the stomach up to the heart. Marya always liked it for tea, saying it would warm him from the inside out. And the cask of beer, promising a foamy head and a beautiful brown body, almost as good as a loaf of dark bread and practically a meal in its own right.

Pierre brings all the bottles down to the kitchen, startling the cook as he drops them all on the vast table where the food is prepared. He'd thought of pouring them all out or smashing the bottles. Somehow that seems disrespectful now.

"Get rid of this lot," he says to the cook. "Please. Share them among yourselves, pour them into the river, I don't care. I'll have no more of it in my rooms."

The cook looks at him for a long while, like she wants to ask if he's joking. He's made impulsive gestures toward self-control before, promising himself he wouldn't drink - or wouldn't drink outside the club - or wouldn't drink before supper - or wouldn't drink before noon, and none of it lasting. But he's never gotten rid of it all before now.

"Very well, sir," she says.

Pierre looks at the bottles one last time. "Farewell, old friends," he murmurs, and he heads back up the stairs.

fathers and sons

Natasha writes letters over the next days. She writes to her father at the family estate. It's surprising that he hasn't sent for her or that Marya hasn't packed her home already. Natasha isn't sure that Marya has even told her father what happened. The genteel old lady might have been overwhelmed by shock or shame or the fear of a duel. Natasha hasn't been able to tell her parents what happened either, though her strength has returned. It's been too much, too overwhelming, too impossible to condense into words on a page.

But this isn't about her.

Papa, I know what you must believe. But Sonya still loves Nikolai. Please, do what you can to change her mind. Set her at ease. Tell her that she's still a part of this family, that you welcome her as a daughter. A dowry doesn't matter as much as a loving wife, does it? She will be the best wife Nikolai could find, caring and kind and a wonderful mother for his children. If you still have any love for me, please tell her to change her mind.

And she writes to Nikolai as well, hoping it isn't too late.

You mustn't accept this refusal, Nikolai. Sonya loves you still, I know she does! You must disabuse her of this foolishness and pledge your love again. You have loved her for so long. I believe your love is true, the love she bears you true as well.

(It had to be true. Their love had to be true. Love had to be real in some way. Someone had to learn from her mistakes, didn't they? If Natasha had learned anything in all this, it was that love was precious and should not be thrown away on a whim.)

Please, Kolenka, my dearest sweetest elder brother, whatever you do, don't reply to Sonya in haste. Wait and be patient and let the storm pass. Don't flee from her. I will do my best to convince her of her error. Just tell me you'll wait. That's all I ask.

If her father writes to Nikolai, Natasha never finds out. And she sees Sonya later reading a letter, tears falling from her eyes and her mouth set in a firm line. Natasha's failed again. Would they have listened to her if she were a man, another son that her father could rely upon? But then, if she'd been a son she could have gone out and made her fortune her own way, instead of being a daughter who's thrown away her chance at making a good marriage. She'll never know what it is to be a father or son.

the decaying trees

Hélène is gone.

Not just dallying at Dolokhov's house or visiting. Pierre has continued his quest to rid the house of its foul influence on him and it brings him to his wife's chambers. Until now he has respected them as her own, even if she showed him no courtesy or respect once their vows were said. But he wants to know if there is any temptation there in the form of wine or vodka, any other evils lurking that might drag him into despair once more.

But Hélène is gone. The rooms are not merely empty of her physical presence. Her wardrobe stands nearly empty, the rich furs and dresses she loved gone. The casket in which she laid her jewels is open and vacant. Her cosmetics and perfumes have vanished from the dressing table. There are a few items here and there - a comb with a broken tooth and a few of her hairs snagged, a novel abandoned under the bed, a pair of slippers that are spattered with mud. The dress she'd worn that frosty morning at the duel, still bearing a rusty stain of Dolokhov's blood. But everything else has gone. She's slipped away while Pierre was clouded in darkness and self-loathing.

And he has no idea where she's gone. To Petersburg to comfort her brother? Strangely altruistic of her. Pierre had always tried to close his ears to the rumors about Hélène and Anatole, but they were very close. Or maybe she's closer, having finally left him for Dolokhov. That would be fitting. Pierre can't really blame her; she may have been a terrible wife, but he wasn't much of a husband.

It doesn't matter. Pierre picks up the comb and turns it over, the pale carved wood delicate in his big hands. He remembers Hélène's smiles, alluring and inviting at the start, mocking smirks in the end. Her eyes, sparkling with wit so devastating when it turned against him. The slenderness of her wrists and the lilt of her voice and the smashing of glasses against the wall.

He leaves the comb on the table and shuts the door. The abandonment will remain a private thing for now. But it feels strangely final, like closing the door of a tomb on the corpse within.

two stars lost in time

Sonya is perfectly well. She keeps telling Natasha so. Natasha clearly does not believe her. But she is keeping her peace for now, as Pierre is visiting.

He's bought a telescope, of all things, and brought it to show to his old friend Marya and her charming girls. Pierre fumbles through the explanation and blushes behind his beard. Yet his hands remain steady and still as he opens the case to show them the mysterious instrument with its leather-wrapped cylinders and gleaming brass rings.

"Let's go look at the stars," Natasha suggests, and Pierre agrees, and Sonya trails after them to mind everyone's manners. There's a curious little balcony off the corridor of the servant's quarters at the top of the house where they all fit with scarcely any space for anyone's modesty. It's lucky that Marya's back wouldn't let her climb all the way up this evening.

Night has fallen early as it always does in this endless winter. But tonight there are no clouds or snowstorms or freezing rain to obscure the vast starry sky. Pierre holds the telescope out to Natasha and shows her how to focus it as she lifts it to her eye and regards the heavens.

"What do you see?" Pierre asks. Sonya tucks her chin into the collar of her coat. Marya is working on a scarf for her, but it isn't done yet.

"I see a red star," Natasha says. "Oh, how bright it is! Like fire in the darkness. Like an omen of war. How strange! I never thought the stars had color. Do you think they're like us? All different, as different as every man or woman is from one another?"

"What a remarkable way of putting it," Pierre says. Sonya glances over at him. She can see the look on his face, even in the dim light from the lamp that burns in the courtyard. He's seeing Natasha as if for the first time, his face transformed into something soft and wondering. (Sonya has seen that look on men's faces before. Andrey had it, if only in flashes. She doubts Kuragin ever did.)

Natasha keeps scanning the sky, exclaiming over another star that looks blue and watery, then a sprinkling of diamonds on the velvet of the night, spinning out fancies like she used to. Sonya watches Pierre watch her. Has he forgotten Sonya is there?

At last Natasha lowers the telescope, laughing a little at herself and rubbing her eye. She passes it to Sonya, who doesn't wait for Pierre to help her focus it. After all, she watched him the first time, and she's used to doing things for herself.

She forgets her growing apprehension when she looks up at the sky. It's a small circle pressed against her eye, but the lens magnifies the stars until they seem bright and close. Like she could reach into the air and pluck them out to be jewels for her throat and ears.

"What do you see, Sonya?" Natasha asks. Sonya moves the telescope a tiny bit and it blurs and she tweaks the focus again.

"I see… I'm not sure. I think it's two stars, but they're so close. Like they could almost touch each other."

"Like us!" Natasha says. Her voice is warm and delighted, like it used to be, like it always should be. Sonya keeps looking up at the pair of stars. If love and fondness could make them sisters, they would have been so long ago. But now she sees the two stars dancing together and thinks of the look on Pierre's face, of how Natasha seemed to almost lean into him for his warmth.

Sonya wonders what happens to one star if its counterpart leaves. Does it dance on alone, circumscribing its lonely path through the heavens? Or does it fall?

it's not the same at all

After Pierre leaves and supper is finished and Marya's had enough of their company, the two girls head back upstairs.

"Let me brush your hair out," Natasha says to Sonya. Sonya looks surprised, but she hands her brush over and sits herself down at the end of her bed. She unpins the braid from around her bun, lets down the rest of it, and waits.

Natasha's fingers are deft and gentle as they unweave the small braid, then run through the rest of Sonya's hair as she checks for any stray hairpins that were missed. She picks up the brush and starts passing it through the mass of red hair, slow gentle strokes from the crown of her head all the way down. Sonya's shoulders begin to lower from the tense position they were in. She's always so worried. Natasha used to think it was over nothing, but she knows better now.

"I'm sorry," Natasha says suddenly. The words seem to leap from her heart without passing through her mind first.

"Why? You haven't pulled my hair once," Sonya says. Her voice sounds amused.

"Not for that," Natasha says, her hand and arm still moving the brush automatically. "For… for everything. For putting you in the position I did, and for telling you I hated you." She can see Sonya's shoulders stiffening again. "For running to you after I -- well, after. And for trying to tell you not to make up your own mind about your future." She huffs out a breath. "As if I should be telling anyone what to do with their life."

Sonya starts to turn around, but Natasha pushes her shoulder slightly. "You don't have to apologize, Natasha. Not for any of it."

"That's not the same thing," Natasha says. "You're so good that you wouldn't even ask. You've always looked out for me and tried to protect me. But I haven't done the same for you." She keeps brushing Sonya's hair, looking past her cousin. She's taken Sonya for granted in so many ways, even though her cousin has been her closest friend of all. She's not thought about what that might have meant for her - being made to watch as Natasha and her siblings were spoiled and indulged, always holding back and knowing she was in a precarious position. Even this guest chamber is second-best, the view not as good and the space a bit cramped. But Sonya's never said that she minded. She's never expressed any dissatisfaction at all. And Natasha, who's always wanted more from life, adventure and songs and true love and admiration, can't quite fathom it.

"You've been very good to me. You all have." Sonya sounds almost defeated. Natasha finally sets down the brush and braids her hair into one thick plait, tying it off with a scrap of cloth. Sonya turns around and her eyes are brimming with tears.

"Oh, Sonya!" Natasha leans in and hugs her tight. "Not as good as you deserve, my dearest. You should do what you think will make you happy. Not what's best for the family. We'll muddle along well enough, I promise. But you should find someone that makes you happy and loves you, whether that's Dolokhov --" Sonya makes an alarmed noise -- "or someone else, or… go out and find something you love to do. You should be happy, Sonya."

Sonya pulls back and gives her a wistful smile, wiping at her eyes discreetly. "I'm content, Natasha."

"But you could be more than content," Natasha says, lifting her hand to touch Sonya's cheek.

Sonya gives her a doubtful look. "I'm tired. I think I'd like to go to bed."

It's not a no, but Natasha doesn't have it in her to argue, not when Sonya looks so exhausted already. So Natasha kisses her forehead and goes back to her room, sitting before her mirror to start taking her hair down.

It wasn't foolishness or just dreaming of the impossible, she thinks. Sonya deserves so much more. And it's easier to dream up new futures for Sonya than for herself. Now that she's known the love of Andrey, all maidenly blushes and perfect courtship, and being pursued by Anatole with heated desire and utter abandonment, she's no longer sure how to imagine her own future. There's potential, of course; there are men who wouldn't care about such things, or a life as the indulgent aunt who relies on the charity of one of her siblings. (If Sonya were still to marry Nikolai, she might have been happy in their home.)

And then there's Pierre - dear, bewildered, confused and confusing. Natasha isn't even sure if she should think of him like this. She wouldn't, if he hadn't told her once before that he would have sought her hand. And he's still married. Is his love even conceivable, even if it isn't attainable? She's not sure she can risk herself again, risk her heart and risk being hurt that badly.

But if the alternative is a life without love… Natasha knows she can't live that life.

the last piano in the world

Pierre returns home and puts the telescope away. He feels strange. He feels strange most of the time. But he doesn't really know how to feel. As long as he can remember he's felt odd, out of place, awkward. Sometimes like his skin doesn't fit him quite right, or like the face in the mirror looking back at him belongs to a stranger. Or he's felt those flashes of ecstasy and sublimity, like he can see beyond this mundane world and into something powerful and awesome and pure, and his puny mortal body with its aches and pains and needs is just an encumbrance in his way.

He returns to his salon, to his piano. Even at his lowest moments music has comforted him. This moment isn't precisely low, but he sits and begins to play anyway. The tune meanders up and jumps down, chords in a progression back up that's sweet and whole and romantic. Some philosophers used to think there was a music made by the ringing of the spheres in which the stars and planets circled. Now they know better. Pierre's not sure what that heavenly music would sound like - surely nothing like what he's doing now. No, this is a music that's better suited to those here on earth.

Inevitably his thoughts return to Natasha. Her joy as she looked through the telescope, the stories she spun out. The curve of her cheek and the sweep of her jaw above the collar of her coat as she lifted her face to the stars. He was right; her life is far from over. She has so much ahead of her. It's foolish to think he could ever be worthy of her. But his mind won't relinquish the possibility. His wife's abandoned him; a separation would be costly and complicated, and require effort from him. He's never thought it was worth the trouble before, not through the affairs and humiliations. But now… now, he might be willing to try. Perhaps that struggle is the one that will make him worthy.

"Worthy" might be the wrong word for it. Natasha doesn't seem to think he needs to be better than he is. Or it might just be that he doesn't want to be better for her. Being better for his own sake could be an end in itself. If he chooses to make it so.

The melody drifts on, up and down and back again, a circle and a cycle like a pair of dancers left on the ballroom floor long after everyone else has left for the night.

little bits of stardust

It's another night. It's late, dark and cold. There's a wind that seems to find every crack in the bricks and wood paneling and window frames and whistle right into the rooms, drafts chilling noses and toes no matter how many blankets are put atop the bed.

Sonya has joined Natasha in her bed, curled up together and facing each other, their breath warming each other's faces. Their feet tangle together and their knees touch and it seems like the whole world is just this bed and their faces and their breath. Neither of them know how long this will last or whether they'll be able to do this again. Not if Natasha tries to find another husband; not if Sonya chooses a life away from the Rostovs. But none of that is now. Now is just the two of them and their little world of warmth.

"Tell me a story?" Sonya asks. And Natasha spins out a tale of fancy, of two sisters who loved the same man, of betrayal and murder and magic that brought the wicked sister to her just and deserved end. She has a beautiful voice, but it's not a soothing tale.

Sonya shivers. "Another one? With a happier ending?"

Natasha smiles and holds her cousin's hand, and tells her another tale. This time she tells her about Vasilisa the Beautiful, who was good and kind and helpful, and who bested Baba Yaga with her kindness, and who became a seamstress and the wife of the Tsarevich.

Sonya curls closer, tucking her head under Natasha's chin. "See, it's better when you tell it." She yawns. "Maybe I'll be like Vasilisa. Go searching for Baba Yaga and see if she can help me find my fortune."

Natasha smiles against Sonya's hair. "You could try. Or we could look in the mirror with candles again. You never told me what you saw there."

Sonya shakes her head, bumping Natasha's chin. "We've had enough fortune telling. No more silly stories to scare ourselves with, all right?"

"All right."

a series of imperceptible shifts

The days pass. They get longer, minute by minute, until whole hours return to the daylight. It seemed like the winter would never end. But it must be dying now. Even the air smells different.

Sonya feels… itchy, is the best word she can think of. Irritated isn't quite right. But her old life doesn't fit her anymore. She still wants to be good. (She's no longer sure whether she is or who measures such things.) She believes it's important to be kind and gentle and treat others with love. But she can't go on living as she is. She's growing too old to be a ward of the count. She's broken her engagement. She has nothing to offer another prospective husband besides her heart. If she were a man she could do something noble and self-sacrificing and become a hero. As a woman she's condemned to stand by, to grow old and wither, her life falling away from her in a series of imperceptible shifts.

She writes to Pierre.

It's rude of me to press myself on you this way, but I hope that by the friends we have in common you will permit me your indulgence. I would like to know: how did you do it? You were an outcast from the nobility. I know you have no great love for them now. But you returned from your studies and you stayed here when you could have taken your fortune and left. What keeps you here?

She wishes she had fewer questions. Or questions with less impossible answers. Still, she senses some kinship between them. Both of them are the type that's content to watch and not to act. Even if Pierre tells her nothing she will have learned something.

the ghost is here

Pierre is thrown into confusion by Sonya's letter. Why does she think he knows anything? Can't she see that he's been lost for most of his miserable life? She must know that he's been either drunk or dreaming for years now. He's inherited a fortune he has no real right to and made a bad marriage. None of that is worth emulation. None of that confers him wisdom or intelligence.

He has, at least, learned enough to refrain from throwing a glass at the wall or drinking himself into a stupor to avoid thinking about the letter. (He still hasn't brought another bottle of wine into the house. Though he badly wants to at times. It would be soothing. But he'd only end up sick in body and mind and grieve his wasted days. He can slip easily enough into self-pity and self-loathing without the alcohol.) Instead he paces the length of the study and tears at his hair and plucks at his beard. When that's not enough he roams the house. And when that's not enough he puts on his coat and heads outside, walking the streets as he tries to outrun Sonya's questions.

The people he passes are surely looking at him and wondering what madness has overtaken poor Bezukhov. It's madness he's running from. That and the stain of his illegitimacy. And soon it's as if every cursed name he's been called is crashing on his ears, every way he's failed to measure up has caught at his heels, and he walks and walks until he comes to the river. The sunlight is stronger now than it was a week ago. In places the ice looks as if it's melting from the top. The water rushes by underneath as it always has; it's too quiet to hear under the ice.

It's rather like his mind; even when he's managed to put a good face on things, there's still that torrent underneath. Right now it's just breaking through, thanks to that letter. But it's not Sonya's fault, not really. He may not know how to answer her, but he doesn't have to think of her as a fool or her letter as an attack. Even to tell her he has no useful answers would be better than treating her as a ghost, a puzzle or a mystery he's not clever enough to fathom. She's just a young woman who's as confused and lost as he is, it seems.

Pierre removes his spectacles and fumbles for his handkerchief to clean them.

"Bezukhov!"

He nearly drops them at the call of his name. It sounds like Dolokhov.

the song of the dead

It is Dolokhov.

Pierre shoves his glasses up his nose and peers at the man.

"Oh, thank God, it is you." Dolokhov approaches; now that he's closer his dishevelment is obvious. His beard is scraggly and overgrown, his hair a mess, and there's a wild light in his eyes.

"Fedya Dolokhov?" Astonishment crowds out every other emotion. Pierre has no idea what to do or say. "What do you want with me?"

Dolokhov pulls out a fat envelope sealed with a blob of poison-green wax. Pierre knows that color, knows the wax quite well. It's the color Helene loved most.

"Take it," Dolokhov says. "It won't explode, I promise you that."

Pierre takes it gingerly. It's light in his hand, and as he hefts it something shifts inside.

"Don't read it here," Dolokhov advises. "Go home. Pour yourself a drink first."

Pierre looks from the seal back up at Dolokhov, at a loss for words once again. "Is she with you, then?"

Dolokhov gives him a smile that looks more like a pained wince. "I couldn't say. Take care of yourself, Bezukhov." He sketches an ironic salute and turns to leave.

Pierre doesn't bother calling after him. Whatever they could have to say to each other isn't worth it. Instead he goes home and retreats to his study. (He does not pour himself a drink. He rings for tea.)

A ring falls out when he cracks the seal and unfolds the large sheet holding the sheaf of papers together. He knows that ring well. He'd placed the simple gold band on Helene's long finger. She wore it for a while at the start of their marriage, then set it aside when she decided she hated Pierre more than she loved the fiction of her happy life as a countess. And now it has come back to him.

Pierre leafs through the papers; it's a divorce decree. No letter, not a single word of farewell or remembrance of love lost or thanks for the years they spent as man and wife. Just the ring. It sits on his desk and stares up at him unflinching and bright.

There's a rushing noise in his ears.

try to forgive

"Sunday morning, time for church!" Marya declares. She's gotten over her fear of distressing Natasha with loud noises, as she had during the worst of her goddaughter's recovery, and now her exuberance is in full force once again.

The streets have warmed enough that the troika is starting to have slow going through the slush. "The carriage next week, I think," Marya observes as the girls negotiate how to exit the sleigh without stepping directly into a puddle. It will freeze again overnight, but spring is on the way.

The service is long, as always. The liturgy drones on in their ears.

Natasha prays. She knows she has sinned against herself and against God and the church. But she is still alive. So she asks the blessed Virgin Mary, Bearer of God, for forgiveness. For a future. For a life that she can live proudly, with all her childhood wonder but the strength and constancy of a good woman. For love, no matter what form it takes.

Sonya wonders. She wonders if she can find a future of her own, one where she stands at the center of her own story instead of being a member of the chorus in someone else's life. She wonders if God will forgive her for her selfishness. She wants so badly to be bold and brave. But she's not sure if that is something the Holy Name will offer her.

Pierre asks. He hasn't attended church for years, too wary of all those eyes, too unsure that the real spirit of the divine can live within a house of brick and sound within the mouth of a dried-up old priest. But he asks the universe and the stars that hide behind the morning sky for absolution. For understanding that he's weak, that he has hated his wife rather than cherished her, that he has hated himself instead of appreciating the gift of life he has been given. He asks whatever higher power might be out there for courage to face the days ahead. For acceptance of his flaws and his errors.

There is no holy voice that answers, no shout from the stars or apparition of a saint. Just their own prayers and words and questions and thoughts.

Natasha breathes slowly and promises herself she will try to remember this.

Sonya closes her eyes and tries to forgive herself.

Pierre opens his windows and welcomes in the fresh new air.

one coincidence of thought

The word spreads quickly, passed in whispers behind hands and gossip among servants. Had they heard of what had happened, between Pyotr Bezukhov and his wife Yelena? Well, not his wife any longer - they said she'd decided to take up with that scandalous scoundrel of a lover for good, and somehow a real divorce had been obtained, and now Pyotr Kirilovich was rattling around in that big house all on his own. As if his money ever did him any good. But it just showed that blood would out.

Sonya heard all this. She didn't believe it. Not the divorce part - that seemed to be true - but she could not believe that it was his birth that had doomed him. Or that he was doomed at all. It seemed like a mess, one small choice and then another that had all turned into a tragedy. She knew what that looked like. She'd seen it in their own home. And just as before she couldn't see what any of them could have done differently.

The period after a marriage ends seems like mourning, but shorter. It's only a few weeks before Pierre joins them at Marya's for a small dinner party again. He's wearing somber colors as if he is mourning, his yellow waistcoat exchanged for one in sober brown.

"You look so grim," Natasha says, smiling and sparkling as she chides him gently. "Come, Pierre, let us make you smile again. Sonya, tell him he should smile."

Sonya meets Pierre's eyes. The light in them is strangely shuttered, but he seems less sad somehow. She smiles as well, tentative. "I think Pierre is allowed to smile when he would like to."

Pierre gives her a courtly bow, then offers his arm. "Sofia Alexandrovna, would you take a turn about the room with me?"

It so surprises her that she accepts without thinking, placing her hand at the crook of his elbow. Natasha doesn't look jealous, just distinctly amused.

"I never replied to your letter," Pierre says as they pass down the far wall of the room. "I apologize. I have been… preoccupied."

"It's nothing," Sonya says. "It was very forward of me."

"I don't care much for manners," Pierre admits. Sonya agrees. "But I have been trying… well. Trying to become a better man." He shrugs his shoulders like a horse trying to get rid of a fly. "And a better man would have answered your letter. You asked what keeps me here, and the truth is that nothing used to. Just habit, and familiarity, and the coincidence that the house I'd inherited was in Moscow. I should have left years ago."

Sonya feels strangely vulnerable, like something terrible is bearing down upon her. Like she will only hear that she's doomed in the same way that Pierre has been, both of them outcasts who will never know love or acceptance. They turn the corner of the room and Pierre stops for a moment. He releases Sonya's arm and looks down at her. She looks up and meets his eyes, her heart beating wildly in her chest.

"But I'm glad I didn't," he says quietly. "I think… I'm not special, I know, but I have changed. I think I could make your cousin happy. Do you think so?"

Sonya wants to lie, to break his heart, to lift up a sword and pierce his heart. But she can't bring herself to do it. It would not make her a hero to save Natasha from Pierre. It would leave her cousin utterly alone. It would destroy Pierre. It would make her a monster.

"I think you would," she says, miserable.

Pierre takes her hands in his, pressing them gently, the large fingers warming her own. "You will always have a place in our home should you want one, Sonya. But… I have another proposal for you. Not -- not that sort of -- I shouldn't mean to -- what I mean is --"

Sonya smiles in spite of wanting to cry. "You and I would suit terribly, Pierre. What is it?"

And he makes her another offer, as they walk back to the hearth where Marya is telling a story and Natasha is watching the fire and dreaming.

"There you are!" Natasha says, springing out of her seat as Pierre and Sonya return. She holds out a hand to each of them. "Come, sit with me. Marya's told this story a thousand times. You must save us. Please, one of you, say something clever."

Sonya and Pierre look at each other. Neither of them is a genius or a wit. But Pierre opens his mouth first.

"I'm holding a ball," he says. "All of you are invited."

wanted to watch over someone

It's a lovely ball.

The ballroom looks entirely different from the last time Natasha was here. Then it was filled with strangers, masks everywhere portraying all kinds of beasts and birds, glittering finery and sparkling lights and danger and desire so thick in the air that it made her head spin. Now it's just a room. Full of people, of course; everyone was wildly curious to see what a ball thrown by the near-recluse Pyotr Bezukhov would be like, and what his house would be like now that his wife had been cast out. (It's a house like any other in its quarter. Natasha notes that it's rather better cleaned and kept than the last time they visited.) But it's just a ballroom now, and the faces are familiar to her.

After the initial whispers and feigned politeness wear off, it's a ball like so many others. There are refreshments and music and little conversations all through the hall. Natasha finds herself lacking in invitations to dance - unsurprising - but she's content to sit with Marya and Sonya and enjoy the spectacle.

Eventually Pierre makes his way to them and bows to all three of the women in turn.

"Peter! Why, you look wonderful!" Marya exclaims. And he does; he's trimmed his beard and attempted to comb his hair, though it will never be anything but unruly. He even appears to be wearing a new jacket.

"You look very handsome," Natasha adds. Sonya elbows her gently. Pierre grins. It's marvelous.

He leads her to the dance floor. The musicians are just beginning a waltz.

"I have a confession to make," Pierre says, as he holds out his arms. He leans down to whisper as best he can. "I'm a terrible dancer."

Natasha beams up at him, her heart beating wildly in her chest even though they haven't started to move. "That's all right. I don't mind."

They join the other couples on the floor, twirling in circles within circles. Pierre was right: he's awful. But Natasha is deft enough to keep her feat out of his heavy tread as he stumbles through the paces. It's like waltzing with a bear, she thinks, and laughs.

"What?" Pierre asks. She shakes her head.

"I'm just happy, Pierre. That's all." Natasha hasn't had the chance to dance in so long. And there's no one she would rather be dancing with than Pierre.

"Good. That's good. I want you always to be happy, Natasha." Pierre falls silent. He holds her hand and her waist gently, carefully, as if she's a delicate doll he could break. But Natasha only feels safe in his arms.

"I am happy," Natasha repeats, smiling up at him. "Now, and with you."

Pierre slows, then speeds up when another couple almost collides with them. He's looking at Natasha in the most curious way.

"Do… do you think I would make you happy as your husband?" he asks. His voice is so low she can barely hear it above the music.

Natasha looks up at him for a long moment, this dear man who has been so kind to her when no one else was, this friend who has come to mean so much to her, this gentle soul who has seen her worst moments of despair and recognized only the spark of light that remained within her. "Oh, Pierre."

His brows come together. "I'm sorry, I should have done this better. I had thought of writing a speech, of telling you how precious you are, that I was trying to be a better man and that I could only hope to deserve you one day, but --"

"Pierre," she says gently, shifting her hand from his shoulder to rest on his heart for a moment. "Yes. I will marry you."

His whole face lights from within, transforming him utterly. He looks down at Natasha with wonder as if he's too astonished to smile. "Oh."

Natasha cannot stop smiling. "Yes."

"Yes." Pierre stares down at her. The smile breaks slowly across his face now like a sunrise coming out from behind the clouds. "Yes. Well, then."

They've slowed to a stop at some point, the other dancers continuing around them. Probably people are whispering again. But Natasha can't bring herself to care. She just stands there, safe in Pierre's arms, the music shimmering around them.

If there's a heaven it must be like this: the face of someone she loves and music and the light of the chandeliers sparkling above.

oh, the wind and rain

Spring is here. With it comes a rainstorm, melting the last of the snow. The grass is starting to show its tender leaves above the dark soil.

Sonya stands in the entry of the Bezhukovs' house. Natasha holds her hands and looks back at her with tears in her eyes.

"I wish you weren't going so far away," Natasha says, trying to smile. Pierre stands behind her, waiting patiently for his new wife to finish her goodbyes.

"I have to," Sonya replies. She's doing as Pierre did once ago. He offered the money as a combination of wedding gift and dowry for her, and when Sonya pointed out that usually wedding gifts were given to the couple he grew flustered. But he was insistent. And Sonya thought and thought and finally gave in. And now she is leaving for an education at a university that's started accepting women, far from Moscow, far from Russia and its frozen rivers and long summer evenings. She is leaving everything she knows.

Sometimes it's necessary to give up what one loves in order to be free.

Natasha draws Sonya in and hugs her tight, and Sonya holds her just as hard. Their chins dig into each other's shoulders. Their cheeks are both wet with tears where they press together.

"I'll miss you so terribly," Natasha whispers. "And you know you can always come home to me. To us. This will always be your home, I promise."

"I'll miss you too," Sonya says. "And I'll come home someday. I promise. I love you."

"I love you too."

But the driver will only wait so long. At last they pull away from each other and step apart, their hands trailing down each other's arms to clasp and finally let go. Pierre steps forward and bends to give Sonya a careful kiss on the cheek, his beard scratchy against her skin.

"Good luck, Sonya," he says.

"Thank you." Sonya smiles and touches his cheek. "For everything. Thank you."

He nods and steps back, uncomfortable as ever with complicated emotions, and puts his arm around Natasha. Sonya looks at both of them and knows they will be fine. They have each other now.

The storm gets worse. The wind howls around the carriage and the rain pounds on the roof, and her new maid mutters over her knitting.

Sonya wipes away her tears and looks out the window towards her new life.