AN: I own nothing. This my first story. Enjoy.

(This chapter has been updated and edited for the sake of the plot. And also, get rid of loose ends.)

L'EMPEREUR DE FER

or

THE IRON EMPEROR

By

DhertyDan (AKA JacooziPrime)

Chapter I — A Strange New World

"I came. I saw. I civilized."

— Napoleon of House Bonaparte, 298 AC

Napoleon Bonaparte was shivering under the cover of what was his overgarments, if you can even call it that. A green Russian greatcoat with thick fur linings and an ushanka consisted of his present attire. He knew well that it was not enough to shield him from the frosty winds that overcame what was left of his Grand Army. The men were hungry, battered, sick, and exhausted. They tire of this long march, this long retreat across the Russian frontier. If only had Alexander faced his defeat like a man, instead of depriving him and his entourage the proper supplies, food, and water for his soldiers and horses. And lastly, his victory.

The cold became more and more unbearable by the second. He was now relying on the sole strength of his right arm to remain balanced on the makeshift hiking stick one of his officers had provided. Tried as he might to look around the scenery—two columns of tall trees they walked betwixt, down towards a road made of nothing but snow, mud, manure, and wet soil. Behind him, he heard the disorganized march of his commanders and senior officers, as well as the agonizing whims of the long fatigued men. A thousand wails, a thousand yelps for God to bring mercy upon them. Their cries had remained unanswered for a long time. As boots made thumps on the soft ground, the wind howled frivolously and harshly, biting the bare skin of his face and inducing more pain that he had ever imagined.

When had things gone down this way?

Well, it certainly started with his stubborn drive to force the Russians to heel, to follow the terms of his Continental System, and reduce the British of their economic functionality. Their Tsar, sadly, has broken his word and continues to trade with the British. It was always the British. Those bastards from hell could go back to their inferno for all he cared. Nothing would satisfy him more than to humiliate George IV and his cronies by parading them naked through the streets of a theoretically captured London. Napoleon lost his patience and threatened to use force, a war, further decreasing any chance of reviving a French-Russian alliance. He decided the only way to get the Russians' attention was war, and war he had. Despite the protests of his own Marshals, and even the counseling from his own wife, Empress Marie Louise, Napoleon refused to listen to their advise. Amassing an army of 685,000 soldiers, 1,400 artillery pieces, and 200,000 horses, the invasion begun on late June of 1812.

His arrogance, he did not realize, was a main factor to his defeat. Napoleon simply figured that with a much more experienced military force and advanced strategies, the Imperial Russian Army could be down to its knees. What he did not expect was the sudden change of tactics used by the Russians. The scorched earth policy denied Napoleon and his Grand Army the much needed resources for the fighting, mainly to fill the bellies of his men and pacify the qualms of stallions that numbered two hundred grand. He did not set up any proper supply line system since he figured, by merely taking tribute from the Russian rural population, he would be able to feed the Army. Then again, no supply system would have worked anyway. His heavy wagons were not accustomed to dirt roads of the undeveloped rural Russia, compared to the cobbled pathways of Austria and Prussia.

And what annoyed him the most was that, regardless of a victory, the Imperial Russian Army always managed to retreat and escape his grasp. There were no victories. The Emperor's plan was plain and simple: he would capture Moscow, request for a quick peace, and finally, march his tired men home, rejoicing and feasting with loyal citizens. Alexander and his dog Kutuzov were all too happy to reprieve him of his much deserved achievement. He, alone, had conquered Russia. However, no peace had come. In quick succession after the Battle of Borodino, he occupied Moscow for some time. His men had been reduced to a mere hundred thousand.

Sitting in the ashes of an ancestral capital with no foreseeable prospect of a Russian capitulation, idle troops and diminished supplies due to use and Russian operation of attrition, Napoleon had no choice but to move on the retreat. And in winter too. He had figured that, from the start, that the Army should have never left. There was ample stores left in the capital and food hadn't come up as issue until now. Then again, would he have faced a siege instead of the extreme weather? Yes. At least, there were cannons and fire involved. It would be warm. But, they just had to march on—the withdrawal, so far, was unsuccessful in the long run. The army, now reduced to a 1/6 of its size, moved hastily. His honor and glory was tainted with Russia interference. Soon, the mighty French Emperor would have his due.

Napoleon was pulled out of his thoughts as the wind blew more violently. He knew well that this was not natural, even for a Russian winter. This was something else far more malevolent than he anticipated. If this weather goes on any longer, they could be stranded in the middle of a snowstorm, a blizzard, without proper encampment or fortifications to warm themselves, let alone, defend against the Slavic menace. Napoleon would not reach his goal of reaching Berezina River by the end of the day. The stronger currents seemed to have answered his fears. They needed to stop, lest he cause the downfall of is own entire armed forces.

"Sire," a familiar voice suddenly chimed in as Napoleon continued his walk. "The men, Sire. They are exhausted. Shall we make camp?" The vocal message came along with the loud huffing of an Arabian stallion, as well as the sound that resonated from it's metallic shoes. Then again, it was muffled by the mudded ground. Has his hearing gone sensitive again?

Marshal Michel Ney observed carefully as to what his Emperor would respond with. It was neither ridicule nor refusal that he got. It was more of a grunt. Napoleon was aware of the conditions the environment had presented. It presented an excruciating circumstance that no action will resolve. The Smolensk road would be their home for the night.

"It seems like it, my dear Marshal." Napoleon replied, still looking onward. By now, he was head of the army, the rest of the column formations following behind him. "There is no way we'll be able to pass the river at such river. We'll lose more men than we would a single day in this infernal wasteland. Any news on the rear?"

"None, Sire. Nothing noteworthy, though, the men continue to protest. It seems that their demands have fallen on deaf ears. Our own officers are busy trying to fight off the bitter cold," Ney mused, slightly chuckling at his own joke. Napoleon made no effort to respond, nonplussed by the attempted jape. Ney continued nonetheless, a little disappointed with himself. "They want to leave much of the battery and artillery pieces... to dine on the horses."

"The cavalry lives, Marshal." Napoleon quickly rebutted. "Without them, we won't have scouts. Well, for that matter, scouts fast enough to alert us of any nearby enemy belligerents." Ney took it upon himself to think of the consequences. Upon weighing the possibilities, the Marshal figured it would be wiser to let the horses pull the cannons. Movement creates heat, heat creates comfort. Comfort allows the horses to move with ease. Plus, on the other side of things, they immediately have a viable way of travel, even in the severely temperatures.

"I trust you on this judgement, Sire," Ney finally composed himself to speak. Napoleon nodded and returned his endless gaze on the Russian frontier. Ney decided to return to the rear of the army for the time being, pulling the horse away from Napoleon's way and marching all the way back to the elements. The Emperor noticed a small snowflake flap graceful from above, which was followed by another, and then another. He lost count on how many had already fallen, the sky giving him no quarter. Bringing its full wrath upon the French Grand Army, the storm began to pick up.

Napoleon

The march continued without further difficulty. As Ney had said, the Grand Army was halted in its tracks, as per order by the Emperor himself. The men, relieved that they could rest their gangrened feet, huddled en masse amongst themselves to help protect against the oncoming blizzard. They lacked any tents or sleeping bags. Why? Most of the equipment the men carried were hauled off into train carts. Unfortunately, their lives were made harder as constant assaults from partisan forces on their weakest flanks pressured them to diverge from many of their planned routes. The dilemma was as intolerable as the weather. The splits in their ranks allowed such irregular armed troops to continually harass and molest smaller divisions, particularly train battalions, bringing them to this particular situation. One that Napoleon had continued to engrave into his already clouded mind. Never mind that it was dark. It would have been all for naught.

A thousand had perished during that day, in that march alone. How many more will follow?

The Emperor tried not to think about the ghastly moaning and wails of his men, Napoleon himself already occupied by the frigid weather. Even with the confines of his pavilion, there was no way of keeping the cold out. He was waiting, pondering what would happen next. Should this blizzard be any more intense that he and his officers sought out, it would be the end of them.

The man in question was seated on a wooden chair, beside a table of similar design and material. Pieces of paper and parchment lay strewn across the flat surface, themselves dancing along with the winds. It barked and scratched the tent's dangerously thin covers, always making that flapping sound. It was all Napoleon could hear. The several oil lamps hanging about were the last bastions of light and heat in the midst of the dark, long night.

Napoleon slowly closed the lids of his eyes, surrendering himself to the cold. His life flashed before him, remembering the reality that he was about to leave. He thought of his son, his wife Marie Louise, and his brothers and sisters. He thought of his Marshals, his loyal Old Guard, the hundreds of battalions of soldiers that has rallied to his cause for liberty and freedom. He came to France, he saw France, and he conquered France. He conquered hearts and minds. He had conquered the world./

The true heir to Octavian!

Before long, he fell unconscious, ignorant of the world around him. As darkness loomed around his mind, a great flash of light was in happenstance with the raging snowstorm. No soul was there to witness the Grand Army's quick disappearance into nothingness, seemingly wiped off from the face of the earth.

Napoleon

Napoleon jolted wide awake, returning to his dull reality. He glanced around for awhile. The tent was as empty as ever, complete with his bed and a small garment chest. To his left was the wooden table from last night, still apparently disorganized. He told himself he'd fix it later.

The Emperor suddenly noticed a lack of wind. The tent was still, silent, and unmoving. He figured that the blizzard had simply stopped and passed over. Napoleon shook his head in dismissal. None of it mattered. The Army needed to continue moving. Should the climate be in favorable conditions, they could cross the Berezina with what pontoons they had left. He thanked God in Heaven for answering his prayers.

Napoleon stood from his rested position and adjusted his overgarments. It seemed warmer, but not any less colder. It still felt like the same, a winter that had reduced his army to nothing more than a foraging horde of disheveled Frenchmen. Damn them, he thought. Damn Alexander.

After adjusting his coat and fixating his ushanka into an appropriate and comfortable position, Napoleon made the effort of departing the more-than-sufficient encasement of his temporary quarters. The cover unveiled a surprising, if not, baffling sight—the men were squabbling among themselves as if they had gained back their health before the invasion. In all honesty, he himself felt a little better than yesterday. They talked in close quarters, trying to conserve as much heat as possible, but the morale has remarkably improved. Other men, meanwhile, were working on menial tasks and their respective jobs. Some of them drilled, others were patrolling the many rows and columns of tents that other lucky souls were able to gather, and the majority merely went about their business: doing nothing in particular.

Napoleon was unfazed by this sudden lack of movement. After all, all they have been doing is marching and stopping and marching and stopping every so often. He was simply pleased, that at least, the blizzard didn't get in the way of losing numbers or hope breaking among the surviving Grand Army. However, the Emperor was not without his doubts. There will come a time, and very soon too, that food will become a problem. Dissent, rebellion, and corruption can descend the Army into a mass schism.

He begun to walk. Napoleon desired to inspect the battery cannons and munitions, as well as the available rations. He hoped they'd make it to the river without Russian intervention. He was forced out of his thoughts when Marshal Ney, with several other commanders, approached him. He expected an immediate report on this morning's casualties, or any news from the morning scouts. Of course, he hadn't quite expected the news he had received.

"Sire," Ney started grimly, "the road, Sire. It's gone."

Napoleon stood silently. He was shocked, but his face made no attempt in reflecting his emotion nor his thoughts. It was just empty, his eyes glaring at Ney. "How exactly is it gone, Marshal Ney?"

"Our morning patrols saw no sign of the Smolensk route. Nothing but snow fields for at least a few miles. There are nearby banks of forests, evergreens Sire. The far east show mountain ranges and hills. The maps were not in correspondence with any of our observations." Ney replied, his voice shaking. He was afraid, Napoleon realized this. They were lost and the Russians could attack them any time of the day, if they wanted to.

The Emperor was overcome with tense tranquility, thinking of what to do. What could he do? He could do nothing. If the road, as Ney claims, disappeared into the snow, and the terrain has changed dramatically, then there is no hope for the Army. If they were lost, the Russians would surely crush them by the end of the day. Until he realized, there could be a chance.

"And the river, Marshal," he begun, trying to keep his peace, "have you found the river?" Napoleon's hope was destroyed as soon as he noticed those eyes—one that contained guilt and betrayal.

"The Berezina is not here, Mon General."

The Emperor kept his composure before it could erupt. "I thank you, Marshal, for the news. I want an immediate logistical report on our munitions and supplies. We should prepare for departure, two to three days, give and take. These are your orders, Marshal. Do not fail me." With that, Ney nodded in compliance and turned around, followed by the other Marshals and officers. Napoleon was left to his own accord, to which he promptly retreated back to the confines of his tent.

He was enraged.

Napoleon thrashed the chair and table to his left, but not before ripping apart his maps and plans. He threw the pieces of paper into the went ground, kicking the table and chair in simultaneous order. As the table toppled over, the ink pot spilled its contents onto the ground, creating a thick, blackened puddle. The oil lamp spilled onto the floor, going out. By then, not enough fuel was able to ignite the tent ablaze. He grabbed hold of his bed's mattress and blanket, proceeding to throw it into the rough flooring. Recoiling his leg to boot the wooden bed frame into oblivion, his fury-induced rampage was interrupted by the arrival of one Jérôme Bonaparte, the youngest brother of Napoleon.

"Jérôme?" he asked, Napoleon's rage quickly replaced with fragmented thoughts and a befuddled mind. What on Earth was he doing here?

—x—X—x—

The youth, in his late twenties, returned an identical facade that signified his own confusion. His thin lips grew to a smile, and then evolving to a grin.

"Napoleon? You're here!" Jérôme yelped, quickly lunging to embrace his older sibling. Napoleon was still shocked, his mouth gaping. He quickly removed himself, pushing the man away, his ferocity resurfacing.

"What are you doing here?" the Emperor questioned, or rather interrogated, which caused Jérôme to back off, suprised at his brother's sharp tone, the snarling still bright as day.

"I know, I know. I left for Westphalia," Jérôme confessed, "yet here I am. One night, we made camp, a snowstorm blew over—"

"And it brought you to me," Napoleon finished for him, "and here you are indeed."

The Emperor shook his head. "And you dare show yourself after your treason?"

"Treason? Is that what you call it?" Jérôme answered, having the gall to actually talk back.

"Yes! You abandoned Mir Castle against my orders! You disobeyed me! Your Emperor! Your own brother!" Napoleon threateneningly countered, his anger still pervading and reverberating when the echo of his harsh words. Jérôme was immediately subjugated, defeated, unable to mount a defense or justification for his actions. It was true that Jérôme had hastily left the Grand Army after the Battle of Mir, Napoleon knew of this, as his scouts and ushers alerted him while on the frontlines. The Emperor was appalled, of course, and he took the offense to heart. It was desertion—one of the highest treasons.

"Can you, with all your ingeniuty and audacity, explain yourself before I send you to the iron cages as my prisoner?" he asked, trying to find a reason not to imprison his own brother. It would be a great blow to the reputation and integrity of the Imperial House of Bonaparte to have one of it's own members tried for a crime, treason no less, and by the leading political and military figure of all of the World.

"The.. the argument we had... I loathed your orders, to stay in Mir Castle, and not with my wife and family. I wanted to return to Cassel, to my kingdom—"

"And what? Spend the rest of your life there in extravagance and excess? You've taken things too far, Jérôme, you know that. This was war. You needed to experience it. You cannot run away," Napoleon offered, and be knew it struck true. The younger French Prince looked down, in an exceedingly losing stance, unable to support his own actions.

"I'm... I'm willing to admit my mistake... But you cannot blame me for that, Napoleon. You cannot... you cannot..."

Napoleon knew exactly what Jérôme alluded to, and it wasn't an easy time either. Their father, Nob. Carlo Maria di Buonaparte, Patrician of Tuscany, had died, when Jérôme was only three months old, barely able to talk and walk. It was at that time that his older brother, Joseph, took on the title of the family's head, before Napoleon himself led his family to the highest echelons of human society. A struggle, indeed, that left many of Napoleon's younger siblings fatherless and without coin. They were penniless when the old bastard left them, and due to his frivolous spending, the rest of the Bonaparte's were left poor, left to the bitter mercies of a God that did not care. And now, just as when they were in the height of their power, Jérôme had forgotten to be humble. That had to be gone, as soon as they started moving again.

"I've been blind, 'tis true, for all of my fears and wants. I feared for my family, and I yearned for them. This war... it was not mine to fight. You yourself knew that Napoleon. Marie wanted to you stay with her. The same I could say for my beloved Catharina..." Napoleon was confronted with the sight he had never seen before—he younger brother's eyes wattered, and coincidingly, reddened as he brought out his feelings. A single drop flowed from his pupil to his cheeks, creating a fine, curving streak across his face.

"She was so faithful, you know... So beautiful. Me?" A sad chortle followed. "I was a sorry excuse for a human, to betray her and fornicate with others. I had feared our separation, but she turned a blind eye. She truly did love me after all of my sins..."

"The war? Suicidal. I did not want to leave. You forced me, though, and I did. I played war, yet, I knew nothing good will come out of it. You never invade the Russian bear during the winter. Never..."

"After our quarrel, and when you left Mir to me, I was quick to leave, and brought my entire retinue. I burned it to the ground. We rode hard for Westphalia. When news of your defeat spread, no one would host us, not the younger brother of the 'infallible' Emperor, not when supporting the losing side of war could land you disaster."

Napoleon heard, and had heard enough. He couldn't allow Jérôme to continue with his ramblings, the ramblings of a defeatist. Love was the death of duty, and he had to assure that as of right now, duty was more important that anything.

"Swear to me," Napoleon dictated, "swear to me again, that you will serve me faithfully and without question, that you will provide your undeniable support to me, the People of France, and the Grand Army. You will do your duty."

Jérôme, cornered with another round of surprise, would bite back a sob, unable to retort a proper answer. He dropped to his knees, notwithstanding the dirt from the ground tarnishing his trousers.

"I... I swear to you, now and forever. You have me to command," the Westphalian monarch acknowledged, and with a nod, the Emperor ushered him upwards.

With a new invigorated mindset, Jérôme gathered the necessary courage to finally discuss with his brother the Emperor the true dilemma of the day: the disappearance of the Berezina. Napoleon sensed it from a mile away.

—x—X—x—

"B-brother," the King of Westphalia managed to spurt out from his mouth. "I've heard of the news." Jérôme glanced around the state of the tent. He had expected this to happen as soon as the report reached his older brother's ear. Napoleon figured that either he had heard of it first, after his mysterious arrival, or, was only alerted by one of the general staff. Likely Berthier, or Davoust.

"So you have." Napoleon replied dismissingly. He was still as concerned with such an outrage, only barely hiding a raw anger within his blood.

"Do not lose hope." Jérôme responded, walking closer to his older brother. "We still have the men with us. They haven't lost hope in you yet, why should you?" Napoleon was as determined to shoot down his brother's useless qualms.

Napoleon did not answer, merely glaring at his brother. Air left and entered his nostrils in a rhythmic fashion as he closed his eyes. He made a great sigh before opening it. Napoleon opted for the tarnished chair and arranged it in its upright position. He made for the seat and rested his stressed back and shoulders. Napoleon craned his neck from left to right, the bones cracking back to their place.

"What can we do?" Napoleon asked, his tone still incandascent. "What ever shall we do?"

By this time, Napoleon only had a slimmer amount of hope, and mixed with his fury, only served to stress his mind further. It was a poor combination of emotion and distress that had not come to him for years. From then on, there were only sucesses and victories. Has hubris finally waked him of his arrogant reverie? Perhaps.

No, this was not how it ends for him. The Russians may take him, but he will not die in the cold. Not like this. Not with Marie and his son still out there, alone and surrounded by the leeches of Britain and Spain, while his people remain entrapped by traitors and usurpers.

"We can march south," Jérôme countered, "We can march south, towards Brabruysk."

"But we cant find Berezina!" Napoleon refuted. "How can we find a town whose based on the very river we cannot spot—"

"I say once again, Brother, do not lose hope! You are the Emperor of the French, for God's sake! There is still a possibility! The blizzard could have merely frozen the river itself and our scouts couldn't spot it. Do not let your emotions cloud your judgement!" Jérôme finished with a mouthful and loud frequency. He reconfigured his tone to the proper levels, as such, how brothers would usually speak. "You mustn't lose hope." he said, this time with as much sympathy and calmness.

Napoleon stood agape. He hadn't seen his youngest brother act like this, but, he was right. Jérôme was correct. He had let his own anger and panic blur his own mindset. He was Emperor! The very same man who defeated the Coalition in five separate wars, outnumbered and outgunned. But, the French Empire not only persisted, it expanded. The people and soldiers loved him for this victory, wins that they have been so unfairly deprived of.

"I guess you are right, Brother. I mustn't lose hope." Napoleon finally conceded. Their short counseling session was again interrupted another individual. This time, it was Marshal Louise-Alexandre Berthier, the Chief of Staff of the Army.

"Mon General," he respectfully said in greeting and upon noticing Jérôme's strange appearance, "His Majesty's Brother." The pair nodded in response to the greeting, upon which Napoleon broke the silence.

"What is it, Marshal Berthier?"

"A matter of great importance, Sire. The scouts have found an Englishman running through the woods." the Marshal emphasized the adjective with as much mirth and hatred that he could come up with. "While he is in good health, the man has several minor bruises and cuts to his face. He seemed panicked while they found him, yelling for help."

"An Englishman, here in Russia?" asked Jérôme, seemingly perplexed and confused. Napoleon made no comment about his insinuation, and instead motioned for the Chief of Staff. "Show him to me," he spit out.

"As you wish, Mon General." The man took his leave on quick succession, and the pair was once again left all alone.

"What do you think it is, Brother? Has the Russians allied themselves with the British? Has the Duke of Wellington arrived?" Jérôme asked, growing more concerned at that certain possibility.

"I do not know, Jérôme," Napoleon retorted, "but I do know this."

"I believe," he paused for effect, "I believe we're no longer in Russia."

Jérôme stopped to think for a second. Then, reality hit him. "WHAT?!"

Jérôme

"Brother, whatever did the cold do to you to jump to such exaggerated conclusions? Transporting from one place to another in a blink of an eye? Do you take me for a fool?" said Jérôme, his faced affixed in a scrutinizing expression, cursing every inch of what made up Napoleon's being. His physical existence, thought of as nothing more than a mad man's shell by his own sibling. How proper.

"It isn't a conclusion, Jérôme," Napoleon reaffirmed him determinedly, "it's merely a possibility. From what our scouts had perceived, not only did we lose track of Berezina, but two, larger rivers now exist to our west and to the north."

"The geography has drastically changed, transformations far too advanced and far too bizarre for us to ignore. It is highly regular for the scale of the land to simply reshape itself at will."

Jérôme stooped to think at first, before opening his mouth and recoiling again. He snapped his neck to the tent's main entrance. No one seemed to be there.

"So. Is it true? Have we really arrived upon lands that we do not know of?"

"Perhaps," Napoleon replied, "perhaps not. But then again, you said it yourself Jérôme. Our only chance of finding a proper place of rest is south of wherever we are. There are bound to be much more warmer patches of land around these parts. I'd like to send some scouts around the perimeter to establish some sense of where we are. They will be suspicious though. We need to draft plans for a map."

"Would you call your best cartographer? We need a word with him." asked Napoleon. Jérôme interrupted him, holding up one hand. "You are Emperor, brother. Your wish is my command."

"Good. I want him to ride with the scouts in the next set of days. He is to draft a map for us. We keep it secret among ourselves at first. We shall deliver the news at the right time should the fruits of our labor yield results entirely at our favor."

"You mean, your favor, brother. I'm not yet convinced of your explanation." Jérôme countered, clearly irritated that Napoleon had once again assumed his closure towards the matter.

"Maybe meeting this Englishman Berthier speaks of can deliver us our desired confirmation." Napoleon quipped, still standing with his own hypothesis.

"If we truly have been transported, where would we be?" Jérôme asked. "What of our family? Our Royal House of Bonaparte? Will Joseph and Louis be alright?"

"I assure you. They will be fine. They are monarchs on their own right, Jérôme, and so are you. As I am the Emperor of the French, you are the destined King of Westphalia."

"What of the Empress then? My nephew? Your son? By the gods of heaven and earth, you have not forgotten your son Napoleon!" exclaimed the younger man, afraid that his brother has truly lost every inch of his being. And he's only three!

"Jérôme, calm yourself!" Napoleon retorted, currently flustered at such a conclusion. "You mustn't assume!"

Jérôme eventually calmed. "So, do you still remember him?"

"Of course I do! I held him at my arms before I had left for Russia, for this," he gestured around the tent, "I kissed and hugged him goodbye. I told him that I would come home, or, he would grow to replace his father as Emperor. My darling Marie Louise would be Queen Regent, Empress of the French, until my son comes of age."

"I still care for them Jérôme. They are my family. You are all family. We are all family."

The younger brother seemed to have relaxed. Such emotions, such nuisances he must see to, at the face of utter despair and annihilation by the Universe's cruel odds. Must the suffering not end?

"We should go," Napoleon said dryly, "we have a guest to attend to."

Jérôme tensed a little bit at the mention of the prisoner. This supposed Englishman in Russian lands. Or something similar. The wintry tundra can be called the 'Lands of Always Winter' for all he cared.

"What happens to the Bonapartes, brother? What becomes of us if we are here, in a snowy hell with nothing but ice and frost to occupy the eyes for miles."

"A future, Jérôme. The Bonapartes, in France or not, will still have a future to look for," the Emperor stalled, "and something tells me that our little chat with the prisoner can be enlightening."

All Jérôme could do was nod. He wasn't sure of what to do either.