All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts.

-Shakespeare

...

...

In a bedroom, a pink-haired girl slept.

And as she slept, she had a dream.

She saw herself moving through horde of men, and she realized it was a magnificent army. The men cheered her on, and waved their wands and muskets through the air. Their equipment was new and their voices were strong.

"Long live Louise! Long live the Queen of Tristain!"

And she raised her hand in acknowledgement. This was it, the glory she had desired. There were jeers, no cries of "Zero." Louise had finally achieved the recognition and admiration that she always wanted.

She moved through the crowd, and the men continued their chants and praises. But as she continued to walk, she realized that there was something wrong with those chants.

These men were afraid. They weren't afraid of her, but of something else nearby. While their chants were bold, their bodies were trembling and nervous eyes flitted about. She could not tell what they were afraid of, and she continued to keep moving, through the men as they brandished their weapons.

The chants began to grow weaker as she moved through the soldiers, and by the time she had passed through them completely, they had completely stopped. She looked around past those soldiers, and realized that she was on a plain.

There was another army at the other end of the plain. It was much smaller compared to the one she had passed through, and they did not chant at all. They stood erect in a stony attention, their weapons in the proper positions, without a trace of the emotion one associates with battle. But even as they did absolutely nothing at all, she realized. It was this army that her men, even as loud as they were and as many numbers they possessed, were totally terrified of.

A black horse and his rider now moved to the front of the other army. He stopped when he emerged, and looked at Valliere. And it was only when he removed a peculiar pointed hat that she recognized him.

It was her partner, dressed in a splendid dark blue military uniform. He waved his hat through the air and then his men roared, with a noise that made the chanting of her larger army look puny and insignificant by comparison.

"Long Live the Emperor! Long Live the Emperor!"

Her army should have chanted in response to drown out the sounds of the opposing army. But they did nothing, and Louise watched herself do nothing. As her partner's army continued chanting, the sound of thunder appeared, drowning over even those yells. Rain then slowly trickled down, first sprinkling then turning into a giant torrent which drenched both sides. There was nothing but the sound of the weather for some seconds, and then the two armies with great cries, charged at each other.

Louise did not move. Neither did Napoleon. Both stood looking at each other, as if the armies moving to clash with each other simply did not exist. And when their armies met and blood began to flow, she finally understood.

This was Armageddon. The final battle of the world, and the one that would determine whether good or evil would triumph. But which side was good, and which was evil?

...

In a carriage to Tristania, a purple-haired princess slept.

And as she slept, she had a dream.

She saw herself in a tranquil field. Clear blue skies lapsed over a pleasant green field, while a few small clouds lazily drifted through the sky. Surrounding the plains was a great forest, with oaken trees towering up to heights she did not believe they could achieve.

She knew that she travelled a long way to see this land, where there was no sound but the wind blowing over the grass. And as she looked up at the endless sky, she realized that this was the dream which she hoped for. A peaceful land, with no conflict and an eternal quietness. This was the world which she hoped that her reign as Princess and then Queen would be able to create.

She heard a sound, and then turned around. Wales was standing at one end of the field. His blonde hair was waving in the wind, and he was not wearing the uniform of a soldier anymore. All he had on was some simple peasant clothes. But he did not seem to be perturbed by this in the slightest. On the contrary, he gave off a gentle and brilliant smile, the same smile which had caused her to fall in love with him all those years ago.

She was about to move forward, but then heard another noise and turned around. On the other end of the field was the Germanian Emperor. A great, well-built man with an expertly trimmed beard, his clothes were made of the finest furs and were adorned with splendid jewels. His face was slightly wrinkled as should be expected of a man in his forties, but the eyes gave off a strange expression of happiness. While he also smiled, the total expression served to make it look like he was leering as opposed to the gentle expression that Wales was wearing. It was only when seeing them together that Henrietta realized that the Emperor physically looked about as different from Wales as one could imagine.

Neither one spoke, nor did they move. They simply stood there, and Henrietta realized that they were waiting for her to move in their direction. And she could only move in one way. It was at the moment when she was supposed to enjoy her greatest triumph that she was confronted with arguably the most difficult decision. Who would remain supreme? The Princess of Tristain or the young girl?

As she hesitated, she realized that what were once a small few clouds had steadily grown in number. While they had not turned dark into threatening storm clouds, they would do so soon. Only through making a choice, and the right one, would she be able to avert their formation and prevent the rain from spoiling these gentle grasslands of peace.

And with the clouds looming over, Henrietta took a single step.

...

In a farmhouse, a black-haired maid slept.

And as she slept, she had a dream.

Tristania was burning. And Siesta was helping it burn.

She was not alone. There was a great mob with her, armed with pitchforks, torches, and anything she could get their hands on. Siesta herself carried nothing, but she envied those whom were holding a weapon, and desired to obtain one.

The group was throwing rocks past a high metal gate, and was using their weapons to bash at the gate. There were two men on the other side of the gate, holding halberds at the ready to fend off the mob attacking the lock, the hinges, whatever they could find. But the guards did not even attempt to hide the fact that they were terrified, and their fear encouraged the mob to keep attacking the gate.

The metal bars finally gave out, and the mob stormed through. The guards did not even possess a semblance of a chance, as they were descended upon and literally ripped apart to shreds. Siesta kept moving forward, and it was then that she saw what this mob was after.

It was a great palace, with high arches and pillars indicating the status of the man whom lived in there. But as the horde descended upon it, a single carriage emerged from the front entrance.

"There he is! Grab the bastard!"

Upon hearing the cry, the carriage swiveled around and headed towards another gate. However, it abruptly stopped upon seeing that there was another horde in front of that gate, and the lost time spent hesitating proved fatal. The crowd moved on the carriage, it was overturned; a single man fell out of it, with the wig he wore toppling off his hand and being trampled to dust. He was dressed in what looked like fine silk pajamas, which easily were designed for his great and comfortable girth.

"No…please, mercy!"

His cries meant nothing to the crowd. And Siesta watched with horror as she picked up a knife and was the first one to slash him across the face to the roars of the mob. As the maid watched the noblemen being butchered, and his head impaled on a pike, she began to wonder if she was even actually looking at herself.

...

In a distant castle, a blue-haired King slept.

And as he slept, he had a dream.

The mere fact that he was dreaming was strange. How could he, he who had felt no emotions after killing his brother so many years ago, dream? He could not recall ever possessing a dream before. Despite that, here he was, seeing himself falling.

For King Joseph Gaul found himself falling down a great black pit. There was nothing else but he and the sensation of falling. But as he plummeted down, something - some things – were rushing past him. They were numbers, words, and they rushed past him and up towards something even as he continued to fall.

He twisted himself around and looked at what they were rushing to, only to see nothing more than blackness. When he thought about it, were the numbers even moving at all, or was he falling? No, it was both, though he had no way of knowing how.

As he continued to fall, the numbers abruptly disappeared. Now there were replaced by people. Some he recognized from the past, like his brother. Some he knew from the present, like the recent familiar he had summoned. And some he did not recognize at all, though he hypothesized there were people he would meet in the future. There was only one constant with all of these different people.

They were all dead. Some had peaceful, serene expressions, while others gaped in horror or bled horrifically from various parts of their bodies. But there were no exceptions to what he saw as he continued to fall. Every single one of them was dead somehow, yet all of them seemed to recognize at Joseph. Some laughed at him, some raged at him, but not a single person smiled at him.

Finally, he realized that the bottom of the pit was near, and that soon he would impact. The stream of bodies flying up began to slow down, but right before he struck the ground, there was one last body that flew up, the only corpse he saw that smiled.

His own.

...

Under a tree, an Emperor slept.

And as he slept, he had a dream.

He was on a beach, looking at the waves. He had never been one to understand the ocean, but even he could see how small and pathetic these tiny waves were. There was no sense of grandeur about them as they made little inroads upon the sand, only to vanish while barely making a dent.

He turned around, and saw a little bungalow. It was a small gray house, the type owned by a mediocre merchant whom wanted a small retreat not for the purposes of relaxation, but just to brag to his friends that he owned a bungalow. A small French flag waved in front of the house, but the lack of wind meant that it just sadly drooped in front of the house.

Turning his back on the bungalow, he took a walk on the beach. But just a short time later, he stopped, as he noticed that he was back where he started. There was only one conclusion. He was on a small pathetic island, alone and unrecognized, with nowhere to live in but a miserable cottage.

He realized it then at last. This was the exile which he was to have been sentenced after his defeat by the Sixth Coalition. But he was no longer on Earth. Had he been defeated and sentenced to the same fate on Helgekinia? He did not know how he had come here, or where he would go next. But even if he was to be sentenced to such a dreary and depressing place, he would return. No matter what the obstacles and consequences were, the nature of the ruler was to take everything, all as a means of showing his own greatness off to the entire world.

So he removed his shirt, and jumped into the water. If he had no other means of doing it, then he would use his own body. He would swim back to Tristain, France, whatever world or land he was in. And eventually he would return to a country from which he could start his plans once again. That was all that mattered to him. Obtaining absolute power, absolute authority, this was and could be the only wish he possessed. And so somehow Napoleon both swam and watched himself swim on, to a destination whose location he did not know and at great risk. As he knew he was going "somewhere", it did not matter.

...

And so, these people dreamed on the last night of peace. They were commoners and nobles, magicians and the skill-less alike. But in sleep, they were all equal, and all possessed things they wished for and did not wish for, even if they did not necessarily dream of those desires on this night. Even if Napoleon had been summoned to a completely different world, humans still existed in this place, and so they all would push forward to fulfill their wish.

But no matter what world one will go to, no matter how far one will reach, there will never be a world where the desires of all humans are fulfilled, and which will lead to struggle as some humans inevitably obtain their desires at the expense of others. And so the various actors of the play in this ancient land moved down the inevitable road of conflict and war.

...

END OF PART I