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NAPOLEON
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Napoleon Bonaparte lay dying.
The damp air of St. Helena pressed on his chest like a great weight, heavy with the scent of rotting wood and stale medicine. The wind rattled the window panes, carrying with it the distant roar of the Atlantic—a cruel, endless sea that had stolen him from France. He could not see it, but he knew it was there, whispering like a ghost.
His body betrayed him. His limbs were weak, his skin thin as paper, his breath shallow. His mind, once a storm of strategy and ambition, faded into the fog of sickness. And yet, in these final moments, he still saw it—France, golden and eternal, stretching before him as it had been in the days of his triumphs.
Memories drifted through his failing mind. The rolling hills of Austerlitz, gleaming under a winter sun. The great squares of Paris, filled with cheers. The crash of cannon at Borodino. The Imperial Guard standing tall amid the smoke of battle.
Then—Waterloo.
The rain. The mud. The steady thunder of British muskets. The screams of his men, his loyal men, falling into the earth.
He had failed them.
The faces of the dead haunted him, those who had stood by him to the last. Drouot, hit by a cannonball. Ney, defiant even in death. Cambronne, refusing surrender.
His body stiffened as pain gripped him. He had no more time. The world darkened, and with his last breath, he whispered:
"La France… l'armée… tête d'armée… Joséphine…"
The candle beside his bed flickered.
His eyes closed.
Everything stopped.
Then—light.
Not the dim glow of dying flames. Not the shadows of death. True light. Warm, golden, endless. The scent of fresh earth filled his lungs, clean and rich, carrying a hint of salt—like the coast of Normandy. A breeze curled around him, soft and alive, rustling unseen leaves.
His chest rose. His heart beat.
And he breathed—not in agony, not in weakness, but strong and full, as he had in his youth.
Napoleon's eyes snapped open.
Blue sky stretched above him. His fingers curled into damp grass. He could hear water, the distant rush of a river. The air was thick with the scent of pine and sea.
Something was wrong.
He sat up. No fever. No weakness. No sickness. His body felt whole, untouched by the decay of St. Helena. The weight of his uniform was upon him, the familiar pull of his medals, his epaulettes, his boots fitting snugly against his calves.
For a long moment, he simply breathed, adjusting to the impossible reality. Had he awoken in France? Had he been spared? Was this some dream of the dying mind?
A sound.
A groan. The clatter of metal. A voice cursing in French.
Napoleon turned.
They were everywhere.
Men—his men—stirring in the grass. Blue-coated soldiers, their shakos tilted, their muskets still clutched in white-knuckled grips. Imperial Guard, Grenadiers, Voltigeurs, Chasseurs, Dragoons—an army of ghosts given flesh.
The battlefield of Waterloo had risen.
His heart pounded as he scanned the faces. He knew them. God help him, he knew them.
Marshal Michel Ney, the bravest of the brave, was there, rubbing his temples, his red hair wild in the sunlight. The last time Napoleon had seen him, he had been standing before a firing squad.
General Pierre Cambronne, whose defiance had become legend, sat nearby, staring at his own hands in disbelief.
There was Drouot, his steady, quiet aide, who had fallen to British artillery. There was Laval, whose cavalry had been shattered on the muddy fields. Mouton, Friant, Guyot—all names Napoleon had thought lost forever.
His men.
His officers.
His army.
More and more of them were stirring—twenty-five thousand men rising from the earth, murmuring in confusion, touching their uniforms, feeling their healed bodies.
They were no longer dead.
The murmurs grew, rippling through the ranks like a wave. Confusion turned to recognition, then to discipline. As if instinct itself commanded them, the soldiers began to stand, straightening their backs, forming into loose ranks. The Imperial Guard adjusted their shakos, the Grenadiers tightened their grips on their muskets.
Napoleon rose to his feet.
For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, a voice—hoarse, but unwavering.
"Empereur?"
Napoleon turned.
The man who had spoken was Ney. His gaze was searching, his expression caught between disbelief and the fierce loyalty that had defined him in life. No hesitation. No doubt.
The others watched, waiting. Twenty-five thousand men.
Napoleon felt it then—the weight of the moment, the fire in his blood. This was no illusion. This was no dream.
His fingers brushed against the hilt of his sword. Solid. Real.
He looked at his men, at his officers. He saw their faces, their faith. They had followed him in life. They had followed him in death. And now—
Now, they would follow him again.
His voice rang clear, carrying across the strange new land, across this battlefield that was not Waterloo.
"Rassemblement!"
Rally to me.
A heartbeat of silence—then a thunder of boots.
The soldiers of France moved as one, falling into ranks, their muskets gleaming, their banners rising, their voices swelling in a single cry that shook the very sky.
"Vive l'Empereur!"
Napoleon stood tall, his shadow stretching long in the golden light.
This was not France.
This was not Waterloo.
But it did not matter.
The Emperor had returned.
Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont
Capitaine, Voltigeurs of the Young Guard
Johnny Beaumont and the Afterlife That Wasn't
Dying sucks.
Johnny Beaumont had spent most of his life avoiding things that could get him killed—bayonets, cannons, British cavalry, angry husbands—but Waterloo had finally done him in. One moment, he was dodging bullets and making a bet with a fellow officer that he'd survive the day; the next, some red-coated bastard had swung a cavalry saber straight into his ribs.
Unfair. Absolutely unfair.
At first, he thought maybe he'd make it. Then he saw way too much blood. Then he saw the sky spinning. Then he saw Napoleon looking very, very disappointed in the distance. That was the worst part.
Then—nothing.
Then—everything.
Johnny woke up expecting Heaven (unlikely) or Hell (highly likely), but instead, he got grass. Warm, slightly damp, and currently sticking to his face.
He groaned. "Merde... if this is the afterlife, it's got terrible hospitality."
The air smelled fresh. Not the usual gunpowder-and-sweat aroma of a battlefield, but actual fresh air—grass, trees, maybe a hint of salt? Definitely not Waterloo.
He blinked at the bright blue sky above him.
"Alright," he muttered, lifting a hand and patting his own chest. No blood. No hole where a British saber had been. "That's weird."
He sat up.
And that's when he saw them.
Thousands of French soldiers. Some lying down, groaning, rubbing their heads like they had the worst hangover of their lives. Others blinking in confusion, checking their uniforms, their muskets, their boots. And in the middle of it all, standing tall with that familiar hands-behind-the-back pose, was Napoleon Bonaparte.
Johnny stared.
He squinted.
Nope. Still there.
"Alright," he said aloud. "Either I've gone mad, or the Emperor is standing over there looking confused. And I don't know which one is worse."
A soldier next to him—a grizzled old Grenadier with a mustache the size of a small animal—gave him a look. "You see him too?"
"Oh good," Johnny said, dusting off his coat. "For a second, I thought I was losing my mind."
Then he frowned. Wait. His coat.
It was clean. No dirt, no blood, no tears from the battle. His hands—not shaking, not weak. He felt... fantastic. Like he had just woken up after a night in the best Parisian brothel, minus the guilt and empty coin purse.
Okay. Something very strange was happening.
Before he could say anything else, Napoleon spoke.
"Rassemblement!"
Rally to me.
And just like that, twenty-five thousand men started snapping into line like it was just another Tuesday.
Johnny let out a slow whistle. "Alright. Either this is the afterlife, or we just woke up in a very weird, very green part of England."
The Grenadier frowned. "You think this is England?"
Johnny shrugged. "It smells too clean to be Belgium, and if it were Hell, there'd be more British people."
The Grenadier nodded in approval.
Then, as Johnny stood and looked at the rolling hills, the endless trees, and the strange sky that didn't quite feel like home, a realization settled in.
They weren't in France.
They weren't in Belgium.
And they sure as hell weren't in England.
His grin widened. "Well. Looks like we're about to make history all over again."
And with that, he dusted off his hat, adjusted his uniform, and fell into line—because wherever Napoleon was going, it was bound to be interesting.
The Emperor Speaks, So Johnny Tried Not to Laugh
When Napoleon Bonaparte gives a speech, listen.
Not because forced to (though, let's be honest, disobeying him was never a good idea), but because the man had a way of pulling the soul straight out of your chest and setting it on fire with nothing but words.
Captain Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont had seen it before. Austerlitz, Jena, Wagram, Moscow—every battle, every march, every damn moment of war, Napoleon spoke, and the men followed him as if he were the very voice of destiny.
Now, in this strange new land, surrounded by twenty-five thousand resurrected Frenchmen, the Emperor stood tall once more. The sunlight caught the gleaming buttons of his coat, his stance as impossibly regal as ever, his eyes—sharp, unreadable, taking in his army as if measuring the weight of fate itself.
Johnny, standing among the officers, crossed his arms. Here it comes. The speech of the ages.
And then—Napoleon spoke.
"Soldats de France!"
Good start. Strong. Classic.
"Fate has cast us down before. On the fields of Waterloo, we fell—not from lack of courage, not from lack of strength, but because the world feared us. And so, it conspired against us!"
Johnny resisted the urge to smirk. That's one way to put it. If anyone asked him, they lost because the Prussians showed up at the worst possible time, and the mud swallowed half their cavalry. But sure, let's blame fate.
"But the hand of destiny is not finished with us!" Napoleon's voice cut through the air, sharp as a saber. "Look around you! Feel the breath in your lungs, the strength in your arms. You are not dead, mes amis—you are alive! And you are stronger than ever!"
A murmur rippled through the ranks. Soldiers flexed their fingers, tightened their grips on their muskets. Some glanced at their own bodies, as if realizing for the first time that their wounds—the wounds that had killed them—were gone.
Johnny rolled his shoulders. Damn. He wasn't wrong.
"The world tried to bury us. But we are not men who stay buried. We rise! We fight! And now, we have been given a gift—a second chance! A new land! A new conquest!"
There it is. Conquering time.
"What is this place? It does not matter! What matters is that we are here! That we have been restored! That we are French! And where the French march, the world bends!"
Johnny heard the shift in the ranks, the boots pressing firmer into the ground, the muskets held a little tighter. He knew that feeling. That undeniable fire Napoleon could set in a man's chest.
"Do not think of Waterloo. Do not think of the past. Think only of what is before you!"
Napoleon paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough for the weight of his words to settle. Then, voice lower, heavier with meaning, he said:
"Each of you has been given something no man has ever had—a second life. And I ask you: will you waste it? Will you squander it in doubt and hesitation?"
The soldiers stiffened. Johnny felt the energy around him shift, like a storm rolling in, ready to break loose.
"No!" Napoleon's voice rang like a cannon shot. "You are the greatest army ever to walk the earth! You are the sons of France! The eagles of destiny! And destiny, mes frères, bows only to the strong!"
For a moment, the world held its breath. Even the wind, rustling through the strange trees of this unknown land, seemed to pause in anticipation.
Then—a roar.
"Vive l'Empereur!"
Johnny felt it—that old fire, that old hunger. It spread through the army like a wildfire, a great cry of defiance, of rebirth, of purpose.
It was madness.
It was glory.
Johnny let out a slow breath, shaking his head as a grin tugged at his lips. Damn him, the old bastard still had it.
This wasn't just an army anymore. This wasn't just a collection of lost souls given a second chance.
This was the Grande Armée, or what remains of it.
And God help whoever lived here.