The Great Aftermath Of 1812

Anatole Stop That's Weird

Anatole Kuragin was trudging through the snow of Moscow. He hadn't really gone to Petersburg when he was cast out of his home, he had simply hidden in his sister's house, and she didn't even know. Some may think him strange, even mad, but he knew that was wrong. He simply needed Natalie Rastova like he needed air or food, couldn't leave her behind. All the weeks he had spent lying low would pay off soon. Suddenly the forest ended and Anatole was upon a familiar road. He smiled to himself, for it was the road he and Dolokov had run on to escape when the Abduction had failed. He was close.

He picked his pace up to a run, no matter the pain it caused him due to his malnutrition and frostbite. He would be reunited with his pleasure, amd what a joyous occasion that would be! After a few moments of frantic sprinting, a large manor came into view, the door sign reading Home of Akrushimova. This is where Natasha had resided the last time they had been together, this large brown house with grand windows and gardens, so it seemed reasonable that she would still be there. Knowing he couldn't be seen, he opened the front door as slowly as possible to keep it from creaking. It took him many minutes, but it was finally open enough for him to step through.

The house was dark and empty, filling Anatole with joy and relief, but he was wiser than that. He knew not to rush ahead in case someone was in another room or upper floor. He tiptoed in, not making a sound. All his training truly had paid off. Eventually, after he had passed portraits, round tables, pots of red roses, even gone up the thin staircase, he was upon the closed door of Natalie's room. No longer caring if he was heard, he threw open the door with a crash, and there she was. His beauty was laying motionless under the silken blankets of her large four poster bed, her hair strewn around the pillow like that of a lion's mane. He ran around the bed to see her face, but there was no color in it. Her chest was still, her cheeks bloated. His wide grin faltered as he took in the scene in front of him: Natalie was dead.

Well, she would still do.

He scooped up her body, silken sheets and all, and put a single dying rose in her hair as a promise; she was still his flower--death had changed nothing. He jumped out of the second floor window, landing with cat like agility. Anatole set off for the forest, disappearing into the night, Natalie stuffed inside of his cloak as a shriek rose from the open window of her cousin's bedroom.