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"And how is the deposed Emperor?"
"Well enough, I assume."
The two men stood by a window, striking near-identical poses, hands clasped behind their respective backs. At first glance, it was the only thing they had in common: The younger one was tall, his hair already starting to recede from his forehead, dressed impeccably in full uniform; the older of rather average height, once-red hair greying but firmly standing its ground, his attire civilian, as usual outside of a parade: a sky-blue coat over light-grey breeches and a white scarf, the frills on his silk shirt his only concession to his position but barely visible under waistcoat and coat.
The younger man's brown eyes were mellow as they took in the bustle of the street below, while the other's blue ones never lost their piercing quality.
If one bothered to look more closely, though, and if one had the skills necessary to see, it was evident that the two shared more than that. They were both men of Ice: One by choice of affiliation of the magic he was born with. The other with no magic of his own, but a close tie to his home country, the country he ruled: far away now yet never fully out of his mind – a country that loved its Emperor, in which the land itself would rise up to fight for him. Would, and had, and had prevailed.
More recently, it had been the Ice Master who had defeated the same enemy, and on a battlefield mostly limited to common, down-to-earth fighting without any magic involved – in spite of the Masters and Mages scattered through the armies on both sides.
"You do not know?" The Emperor turned away from the window, looking at the other man's unmoving profile in some surprise.
Field Marshal the Duke of Wellington, recent victor of the Battle of La Belle Alliance, never took his eyes off the scene he was watching. He might have been, strictly speaking, far enough beyond the other man in station to be required to pay full attention to the Emperor of Russia, the most powerful ruler in Europe. At this moment, however, he was the most powerful man in Paris, and he knew it.
"I have had no occasion to visit," he said. "I expect I would have been told if it were otherwise." His French, though accented, was effortless.
Alexander of Russia studied him with an amused expression. "Seeing the man you defeated up close is not sufficient occasion?" He spoke the language perfectly – as he should, since like all Russian noblemen, he had grown up never speaking another at home.
Wellington favoured him with a brief look. "I am a busy man, Emperor, and gloating does not get any work done."
"Nor is it amusing?" the Emperor asked. "Be that as it may – I am of a mind to visit with him one of these days."
He got a nod, barely more than a hint of an inclination of the Field Marshal's head. "You do not need my permission to do so."
*
He had put off the visit for as long as he could until he realised that he was starting to make up excuses.
Go or don't go, he told himself. But stop telling yourself you'll go later, or tomorrow, or the day after.
Time was running short anyway. The treaty was almost ready to be signed, and his time in Paris could not last much beyond that, no matter how much he enjoyed the city, the balls and the company. The little Spanish lady was most delightful. The jealous glances her husband tried to hide amused him.
It wasn't the thought of his wife that deterred him from developing an interest in anything more while in Paris, however. His thoughts, when he allowed them to drift, would invariably return to a man he had once called his friend, then his enemy.
Of course he went.
He went feeling certain that all eyes were on him, somehow aware of the real reason for this visit, even though of course he knew that in fact, if anyone suspected anything it was that he was going to do what Wellington had no time for: to gloat over the defeated enemy who had once thought that he could waltz into his country and take it.
They had put Bonaparte under house arrest, guarded closely, as much to protect his life from any would-be assassins as to keep him from making off and seizing power for a third time.
The guards by the door, Alexander noted, had been chosen with care. He might not have been a mage himself, but ever since the day he was crowned and the land he ruled had accepted him as its sovereign, he had been able to see it for what it was – and the men there were, to the last, Masters with one hand on their swords and one on their power.
It wouldn't make them immune to the Charms of Napoleon Bonaparte, but it would allow them to see when he was using his own gifts. Being forewarned went a good way towards not being caught up by them.
They started to move forward as he approached, ready to stop an unauthorised visitor from entering. Recognition dawned on their faces only seconds later.
"I will see the prisoner," the Emperor announced before either of them could speak. "Now, if he isn't… busy."
A moment's hesitation, followed by a nod. One did not simply deny entrance to a man of Alexander's position without a very good reason. "He is alone." The guard's French was heavily accented to the point of being barely understandable. After another small pause, as if trying to figure out how to properly address an Emperor, he added: "Milord."
He nodded, taking the stairs to the entrance door two at a time. The building was large, but asking directions from a man barely proficient in his language would be tedious business at best, and entirely useless at worst. There was no reason the men guarding the door should be informed of the whereabouts of the prisoner inside the building unless he actually tried to approach that door. "I'll find him," he said before he disappeared inside, forestalling the need to decline should either of them offer their help. An audience was the last thing he needed.
The door clanged shut behind him.
Alexander looked around the entrance hall. Spacious and covered in decorative tile under carpets, it told much about the nature of Napoleon's prison. This was not a place that would deny him comfort, other than the comfort of leaving it at will. He could see recent additions that remained hidden to the common observer, as well. Small creatures were hovering in the corners, creatures of fire and air, watching and ready to alert their Masters if the prisoner entered the room without leave. Thin strips of both types of magic were woven around the doors leading into the entrance hall from two corridors. Twisting around curiously, he could see a peculiar weave of Water following the frame of the main door, nestled in between the fire strands so precisely that one would never have thought the two Elements might have any dislike of each other at all.
He had expected that once within the same walls, it would be easy for him to find his way. Once, what felt like a lifetime ago, he had requested protection for the man he had later had to fight, through his ties to the land itself. The mark on him lingered, even now. It had surely played a part in allowing him to reach safe ground unscathed, back when the very real attack of the Russian winter should have been targeted first and foremost at the leader of the invading army.
Closing his eyes, Alexander felt for the tie that still bound them, unacknowledged for years, weakened by neglect, stretched thin and taut by the distance, but still there.
It took only a heartbeat to find it and make it tell him what he needed to know: the way to take to find what he was looking for.
With confident steps, he exited the entrance hall to the left, ignoring the hisses of Salamanders and the agitated flutter of Sylphs.
There was no more magic deeper in the house, apart from the traces left behind by gifted servants as they could be found in most buildings that had passed a certain age.
Up a flight of stairs he went, and down a hallway. The carpets swallowed the sound of his boots as he approached the room he was directed to.
He stopped for a moment with one hand on the door knob, surprised at the calmness of his pulse, the lack of excitement in his mind. He would have expected to feel something more, knowing that in another moment he would once again face the man who had once been able to ask and receive anything from him.
The knob turned easily in his hand, and he pushed open the door just far enough to slip inside. He didn't knock. He had never had the need to knock on Napoleon's door, and he wasn't going to start now.
A servant looked up, startled at the unexpected visitor. She had been clearing a small table set between a luxurious sofa and two armchairs – only one of which was currently occupied.
It was facing away from the door through which he had entered, the high upholstered back denying him any view of the man inside it. He could feel him there, though. Had the servant's reaction not given him away, he might have stood for a while, waiting, pretending that the tie between them was still more than a residue he couldn't get rid of.
Napoleon, with no real magic of his own and without the kind of connection that gave Alexander his extra edge in things not entirely natural according to the definition of most of the world, would not feel it the way he did.
His entrance had been announced, if not by words then at least by conclusive action, and there was nothing to it but to admit his presence.
Taking off his hat with one hand and setting it on top of a low commode by the door, he noticed the hint of a tremor in his fingers.
"Leave us."
The words were directed at the servant, the commanding tone so routine for him that it lost nothing of its power even though he felt like his voice would catch in his throat any moment. The calm he had felt only moments ago, with a heavy oak door between them and plenty of time to back out with none the wiser, had vanished. He almost thought the other man would be able to hear his heartbeat all the way across the room now.
A glance towards the armchair, and the servant apparently got confirmation of the new order. She bowed, turned and, carrying what she had collected on a tray, left through a smaller entrance.
Silence hung heavily after the sound of the door falling shut had faded. Neither of them spoke, though Napoleon surely had to know who his unexpected visitor was. He couldn't have forgotten his voice.
Alexander stood motionless, forcing himself not to fidget. He should say something, he knew, anything, really. Preferably something smart, superior, something that the other man would remember during the long exile he was about to go into. Something that drove home that there was nothing to be gained from turning on a man who had been your ally, your friend, and more than that.
"I heard you were in Paris," Bonaparte's voice broke the silence before his visitor could put any of his thoughts into action. "I didn't think you would come here."
"Do you wish I hadn't?" Neither of them had moved. Both were talking to the empty air in front of them, unable to face each other from where they were situated in the room. Unwilling to change this.
Silence. Then: "Why did you?"
Why had he? "It seemed like a good idea." With a jerk, he broke from the posture he had held so far, turning towards the door. He heard the other man get to his feet, slower than he remembered. He must be getting old faster than his English enemy, Alexander mused. Of the same age as Napoleon, Wellington had the air of a man much younger than his years, just as Alexander did. Cold preserves, they said.
He hadn't been about to leave, though the reaction he had gotten suggested that his former friend thought that he had. With a flick of his hand, he threw the latch, barring the door against any more unexpected company.
"So this is how it shall be?" Napoleon's voice sounded strong as ever, harsher than he remembered, and with a trace of bitterness.
The man had no reason to be bitter. He had tried to conquer and been bested, not once but twice. The second time had been stupid. Both times, the defeat had been well deserved.
He turned, uncertain of what he would find, unwilling to face the hate he would surely find in the other man's eyes yet knowing that he had lost his chance to avoid it.
The absence of what he expected came almost like a blow.
Napoleon Bonaparte's eyes were resting on him, piercing, studying him as if trying to look into him and read his thoughts – a feat that he knew for a fact the man was incapable of.
He stood proudly erect, his uniform shining as if newly polished, undefeated even in his defeat. This was a great man, born to do great deeds, and all it would take to be part of those was to swear allegiance to him, now. He wanted to. Down, deep inside his heart, he wanted nothing more than to renew the pledge they had once sworn to each other, to turn back time and make it take a different route. To do things right this time around.
Alexander shook himself, breaking the spell as he recognised it. "You don't need the Charm and the Glamour on me," he said. His voice sounded rough. "You never have, never will."
Nothing happened for a long moment as they stood facing each other. The magnificence created by the talent Bonaparte had been gifted with faded slightly to the Russian's eyes as he placed what he was seeing, picking apart the illusion from the reality underneath. "For the sake of the old times, drop it."
"For the sake of old times, eh?"
There was more than a bit of scorn in those words, but the Glamour went down, leaving behind a man looking no less proud, but tired and worn, with lines in his face that made him look aged beyond his years. There was no ice to preserve Napoleon Bonaparte.
Some of those lines, Alexander thought, looked like they had been dug by pain, not age.
"Are you well?" he asked, stupidly. It didn't take a genius or a physician to see that he was not.
"I am dying." Said in the same tone as if he had declared what he would have for breakfast.
Alexander swallowed hard. "All men will die, surely," he said neutrally, observing the other closely. It took an exercise of willpower to stay where he was. What he wanted to do was to close the distance between them and to take the other man in his arms as he might once have done. Another lifetime, he reminded himself. Too much has happened since.
A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Napoleon's mouth. "Not like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this." He stepped around the small table, moving so jerkily at first that Alexander wondered if the Corsican had felt as transfixed by his presence as it had been the other way around.
Lowering himself onto the sofa, Napoleon patted the green velvety fabric next to him with one hand. "Come. Sit with me for a while." His smile, while remaining lopsided, deepened a little. "For the sake of the old times."
"That is hardly prudent," Alexander pointed out, in spite of the fact that he was already moving forward. "Your servants..."
"Will not come in unless called," Napoleon cut him off. "And you barred the other door quite effectively."
That he had indeed, and he was beginning to question his motives in doing so.
He sat gingerly on the edge of the sofa, carefully keeping a distance between them. He wasn't quite sure where things were going right now, but he knew for certain that if he as much as brushed against the other man, they were going to go places he had every intention to stay away from.
Some things, once abandoned, should not be renewed.
The silence that followed needed to be filled, and Alexander knew that it was his turn to do so.
"Are they treating you well?" Not the most ingenuous thing to say, given the circumstances.
Napoleon turned his head to look at him, surprise and contempt warring in his eyes, though there was something else behind those two as well. "They are being very civil," he allowed. "I am granted every amenity a man in my position could desire – short of freedom of movement outside the building, of course."
The man felt his imprisonment, that much was unmistakable. He had heard it told that after Napoleon's escape from Elba, Marshal Ney had promised to bring him back to Paris in an iron cage. It was a golden cage they had locked him into now, but a cage nevertheless, and he didn't forget that for a moment.
"They have picked a nice little island for me to banish me to," Napoleon continued. "But of course you know that already."
Of course he did. He inclined his head to acknowledge it.
"I never wanted things to come to this."
Where had that come from? And what did he mean by it anyway? The war, the last battle he had lost, the broken pledge between them? What was it that the man who had wanted to rule Europe regretted the most?
"I should have died on the battlefield." He hadn't even looked at the Russian, probably hadn't seen his nod before, or his confusion. "Do you think things could have been different, Sasha? I mean… before?"
You didn't have to betray me, Alexander thought harshly, almost wishing that Napoleon could read his mind. He couldn't possibly tell him out loud how much he would have liked that. The use of the old familiar name tugged painfully on his heart – as did the forlorn look that had fallen over the older man's face.
Without thinking, he reached out, brushing a strand of hair that should have been cut a while ago back from the other man's face.
The contact sent a jolt through him, renewing feelings he had thought long lost.
No. He wouldn't lie to himself. He had known they weren't – why else would he have been so careful to avoid this very situation just a moment ago? "We cannot change the past, Ljonja." There was no Russian equivalent for Napoleon, and so he had used the last syllables of the name to fashion a pet name fit for use according to the traditions of his home country for his friend – back when they had still been friends, and more. Before bad decisions had been made and they had faced each other on opposite sides of a war. "However much we would like to."
He shifted, moving until his back hit the backrest.
"Would you?" There was disbelief in Napoleon's voice, almost drowning out the hopeful note beneath.
Reaching out again, Alexander laid his hand on his friend's arm lightly – an invitation that could still be declined easily. "You have no idea how much."
Even after years of being parted, in spite of all that had happened in the meantime, the weight against his side was as familiar as it had ever been, as Napoleon allowed himself to lean into him, resting his head against the younger man's shoulder.
Alexander met the motion, moving just a little to let them fit together just so. A man's hair felt different from a woman's, and Napoleon's against his cheek was eerily familiar. How often had they sat like this, in the safety of one or the other's private rooms, after all servants had been banished for the night? Their positions reversed, depending on the day and the mood, but always with that sense of unity in which words were not needed between them. Then, not a few of those nights had ended in an entirely different kind of activity, leaving them both spent but ready to face the hardships of ruling their respective empires again.
"Are you sure your servants won't come in?" Alexander asked. His arm had snaked around the older man's shoulders, and his hand was idly stroking a spot on the Corsican's arm.
"Not unless called," Napoleon repeated. "Though hearing strange sounds might bring them rushing in out of fear I'm being murdered."
Alexander laughed at that. "No strange sounds, then." He didn't regret that, he told himself. He really didn't. He had had no intention of renewing that part of their acquaintance.
Maybe, if he repeated it to himself often enough, he would believe it as well.
He felt the shift of Napoleon's body against his as the other man repositioned himself slightly, and Alexander matched the movement without relinquishing his hold, unwilling to give up any bit of contact between them.
Then, for the first time in over three years, their eyes met with neither distance nor betrayal and hurt forming an obstacle between them. Alexander felt himself drowning in the depths of those grey eyes. It was true – Napoleon had never needed a Glamour to inspire feelings in him. Their lips were close enough that it would take only a slight dip of his head for them to touch.
*
They broke apart reluctantly, unwilling to sacrifice their re-discovered closeness.
Napoleon was the first to speak. "The servants…"
Alexander's lips twitched. "No strange sounds that might draw them."
"Then you need to leave." Napoleon's voice was rough, tinged with regret of a different kind now. "If you don't…"
They stood by mutual, unspoken consent. The room felt colder to Alexander now, the interruption of their physical contact coming with a distinct feeling of loss. He hesitated.
"Go," his friend repeated. "If you don't, you will undo everything you have worked for since you arrived in Paris."
It was true, of course. Few men would have been understanding of the things they had shared in the past. That servant door had no latch. Being caught in an act that could mean a death sentence for a lesser man would surely damage even the Emperor's reputation beyond salvaging the treaty he was working towards. He wanted to say that he didn't care, but he knew that he couldn't.
Napoleon was already moving away from him, increasing the distance, and with it their safety. He probably had little left to lose himself.
"I will treasure this memory," he promised. "I will take it into exile with me and make it my shield against anything that may happen."
"I will…" Alexander began, about to make a pledge that he was going to find ways to visit St. Helena.
A shake of the other man's head. "No," he said. "Don't even try. Knowing this will be enough for me. It must be for you. I cannot endanger you again."
He nodded, moving to the door and fumbling with the latch, unwilling to leave and yet knowing that Napoleon was right. They couldn't allow this to continue, not here, while one of them was a prisoner and the other needed to keep his reputation intact.
"Sasha."
Alexander turned, a smile already creeping back onto his lips, knowing what he would see.
Napoleon Bonaparte stood across the room, proudly erect, looking ten years younger and as powerful as ever, a splendid figure only missing the white horse to be perfect. It was the Glamour only, without the Charm that would catch up people's emotions and make them want to follow that great man.
Still smiling, Alexander gave the man he would always think of as his lover a graceful bow before he left himself out. Napoleon wanted the sight of him at the height of his glory to be the way he remembered last seeing him?
Then it would be.