to the health of married women, and their lovers

• Cupid Screwed Up •

Years had passed since that fateful first ball, and Helene wished she could say that Fedya Dolokhov had slipped from her mind. But unfortunately for her, he had not, and she had seen him several more times since that night. She fell a little bit in love with him again every time she saw him, and the two would have so much to talk about. Since then, she had learned her way about society, and wasn't so cautious and nervous as she had been as a young debutante. She could now dance the waltz and the mazurka with ease, with no need to look down and make sure she hadn't missed a step, and seducing and flirting with officers came quite easily to her. In fact, she was known as the Moscow slut, and as negative as that may sound, she flaunted that title and wore it with pride, proud of her loose sexuality.

It came to be that she would be quite disappointed if Dolokhov was not at a certain ball or party, and would tend to deflate in boredom for the rest of the night. It was not that she could not entertain herself, but she found herself missing him more than was usual as of late. She found other officers to flirt with, but a small part of her died each time her Fyodor was not at a gathering.

It was then that she started to realize she was in love with him. Sure, somewhere deep inside her, she had always kinda known it, but she had rejected the thought, and denied it every time. I don't love him! I can't love him! I could never! She thought, and her more sensible side knew that to be at least partially true. In truth, Helene did not consider herself to be capable of love, and many who knew her would agree with her. Helene was a cold-hearted slut of a woman who had no morals, and seemingly no feelings, was what everyone said about her. Was this true? Not necessarily, but, like most rumors, it was at least partially rooted in the truth, or at least the "truth" which Helene had created for all of society to believe. She didn't want them to think that she was vulnerable, or soft, or that she was capable of feeling such emotions. And part of her had convinced herself that she was this heartless woman, and it was not hard at all for her to believe it.

So, it came as quite a surprise when she realized she was in love with him. And when she did, she went into hysterics. She knew she could never be with him, her father would expect her to marry a rich man, and Dolokhov was a penniless soldier of little means who could barely afford to heat his own home. Still, she could fantasize, couldn't she?

Helene had never been one for dreamy romantic fantasies, had always found them frivelous and silly. But now, she found herself practically consumed by fantasies, about what it would be like if she and Dolokhov were to run off somewhere and elope. The thoughts entertained her, though she knew she should not think of these things, she couldn't help herself, and she enjoyed having some fun once in a while.

It was late in April when Helene discovered that she was to be married to Pierre Bezukhov. She would've said no, but she had very little choice in the matter, as her father insisted, and there was no use arguing, as Vasily Kuragin always gets what he wants. It wasn't that Helene actively objected to Pierre- sure, he was nice enough, and he was so rich he made Vasily look like a peasant, but he was so polar-opposite to Helene that she was certain he would cramp her style.

Older than her, clumsy, awkward, shy, generally unattractive, depressed, and ill-tempered, Pierre was not the ideal husband Helene had had in mind. His only good qualities included his money, status, and the fact that he was vastly intelligent, and he was almost charming, had he not been so socially awkward. From a business perspective, Pierre was a brilliant match, and Helene could definitely see the reasons her father was asking her to marry him. But her father was not the one who would end up having to sleep with him, and, while she knew she could not have Dolokhov, she at least wanted someone she could tolerate sharing a bedroom with.

Helene laughed, smoothing her dress, and preparing for another ball. She was excited. Her last ball had been at the Livenovs', and they had no idea how to have a good time. She straightened her dress, a silky green créme moiré number with black and gold accents and beading, rearranged her double-string of pearls, and climbed into the troika.

That night, she saw someone who she had not expected to see for quite some time. Fedya Dolokhov, the same man she had fallen in love with, was apparently back in Petersburg. She approached him carefully, making sure no one could see them together, as she was technically engaged to Pierre. Still, she and Dolokhov talked and danced for hours, and Helene felt as in love with him then as she had at her very first ball. She was so entranced by him that it slipped her mind to tell him she was already betrothed. But, what he doesn't know can't hurt him right? In fact, Helene would prefer that he not know, so as to keep their relationship lasting for as long as it could. Even so, she knew she must tell him eventually, and now would be as good a time as any.

The ball droned on, and Helene soon found herself alone in a hallway with Dolokhov. He tried to kiss her, and though she normally couldn't resist, she pulled away, unable to keep this from him.

"Fedya, I'm sorry, I'm already betrothed!"

"Betrothed? T-to who? You didn't tell me..." His voice was confused and nervous.

"To Pierre Bezukhov. I didn't tell you, because I didn't want to marry him at all."

"Well, then why are you betrothed to the man?"

"Er, it's complicated- my father is forcing me to marry him, and if there's one thing you should know about my father, it's that he always gets what he wants." Helene felt terrible seeing this. She wished she could stay with Dolokhov forever and never have to worry about marrying, but given the way society was structured, and the way that her father had raised her, she knew that that was out of the question. Her brother Anatole didn't understand why he had to marry, and prefered to play around with various beautiful girls, ruining them in the process. But Anatole didn't give a damn what people thought of him. Helene didn't care that much either, but she cared that people think that she cared about it. Surprisingly, she felt tears start to come to her eyes. She looked at Dolokhov sadly, her tearful eyes full of longing.

"Hush, dear, it's alright." said Dolokhov, pulling Helene into his arms, and holding her close to him. "If you ever need anything, or if Pierre ever tries to hurt you, I'll be here. Just know that you can come to me." He said, running his hands through her hair.

Helene smiled up at him appreciatively, and wanted to tell him she loved him, but instead, all she said was "I'm sorry."

Fedya shook his head. "Don't apologize. You did what you had to do."

She nodded, Dolokhov's words helping her feel a bit better, though she was still very upset.

"So... are we really over?" She sobbed, leaning against his chest.

"No, my dear. As long as you love me, we shall never be over." He said, smiling down at her.

Helene smiled, and without hesitation, pulled Dolokhov into a kiss. She kissed him passionately, knowing this may be the last time she could ever do this again. After quite a while, she pulled away, and collapsed back into his arms.

"I love you," she whispered, smiling up at him.

She meant it. Every word.