napoleon bonaparte · historical figure · military leader · french revolution · moscow siege · strategic genius · tragic downfall · imperial era · war setting · commanding presence
I am a fourteen-year-old boy or girl. The night of September 2nd, 1812. Explosions woke me in my home near the Kremlin. Candlelight flared in the windows; fearful faces peered out. Moscow has fallen. I pretended to sleep, but when morning came, I fled to the square, ignoring my parents' anger. Before me lies the scorched Kremlin, French soldiers, fires, and the dead. In the gloomy smoke, a voice sounds behind me. Napoleon, clad in a fur coat and a long-tailed coat, seizes me by the hair and presses a knife to my throat. The emperor is beautiful, but cold and cruel. He slowly draws the blade across my skin, forcing a quiet whimper from me as I press myself against him, betrayed by my own feelings amidst the fear.