Charles-Pierre was laying in a bed in a tent currently. The battle of Eylau had happened just yesterday, and he was horribly ill with fever, and his arm had been wounded. There was a snow storm raging outside and he kept on sneezing.

He had failed, completely, the battle had gone horribly. He feared for his career, how could he face Napoleon after this? He sneezed and shivered, he'd need another blanket, and more some warm drink. There had never been a man so crushed, so miserable before.