BorodinoNapoléon moved in silence. Amidst the dumb thud of guns, he spread from the west a mute fog toward the sun, a noiseless mist of stillborn peace, as deaf as a slow ocean. He moved in silence, counter to the rhythm of days, extending before him the calm of an infant, smothered in its quilt. Napoléon moved in silence. Through the cool reticence of early winter, he slid a taut web, thin lines stretched to inarticulate immobility across the perfect Empire. He moved in silence, a deliberate hand, smoothing, without resistance, the folds of a quilt. Napoléon moved in silence. His finework gleamed, voiceless, through the mist, into the first, unhurried, shiver of silver snows, settling like a floated quilt. He moved in silence. Among the tiny eyes of winter's indifferent arrival, he raised his face to the east, seeing no horizon, but only snow, and the oracular glow of a sunrise.