Lumps of black blood were coughed up by an old man who lay resting in his bed, taking his final breaths inside his thatched hut. His grey beard was pricked with white and stained with blood stains. He was beyond saving now, that he knew. The dark blotches on his skin was a sure sign of death, terrible messengers of the black plague. The old man had seen the symptoms so many times before. More than he could count, and knew how impossible it was to get rid of them.

Was this perhaps a judgement for what he had done?

The bed under him was simple. A dozen sturdy wooden planks covered with straw and supported by two large logs. Ever since the day he lost the war, he had been living here all by himself. There was no one to help him build a bed. Nor to get food. Nor to build a house. He had done everything. Although the bed was hard and not very pleasant to lie on top, he had gotten used to the feeling. Like those Japanese folks who slept on futons.

The old man sighed. Regret was something he often felt, especially now when he stood at death's door. Would it be different if he had stopped pursue his dreams and instead married the girl he liked? Would he perhaps be living with a family, ploughing the field every day, playing with his grandchildren in the afternoons? What if he had all together skipped joining the army? What if he had been content with a normal life? Would he really lie here, infected with doom itself?

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"Well, there's no use in trying to change the past. I did what I did, and I fought for my country!" the old man threw away the blanket that covered his body. If he were to die, he would not do so in the bed by some trifling sickness. He, the great commander, Napoleon Bonaparte, would die outside, by the sword! He walked out unsteadily, coughing up black blood as he did.

A trail of black started from the thatched hut. Following it, one would come to a whistling plain of tundra. A corpse lay amidst the snow and dirt, a sword stuck inside his stomach, blood pouring out on the frosty crust. Wolves soon came and began their feast, tearing his flesh and drinking his blood as they filled their stomach.

However, for Napoleon, this life was merely the beginning. He just didn't know it yet!