“Who‘s buried there?” Marc asked.

“Why don’t you go and find out?” Bertrand asked in a way to imply it was an order. “Go on. I’ll catch up.”

Marc lacked the experience to pick up the slight tremble in the man’s voice. He skipped off towards the marker, noticing that the others nearby were nearly almost completely buried. Had the summer heat not beaten back the vegetation, he would have likely tripped on a few along the way.

When he faced the stone’s face he noted that it must have been here for a while. The name Marcellin Champagnat was legible, but lichens had grown to fill in the lettering. Nature was reclaiming this land, and given enough time no one would know this place ever existed. 

“Marcellin Champagnat,” Marc said loud enough for his approaching mentor to hear.

“You didn’t bring me here for a history lesson,” Marc said and hit his tongue before adding that his governess handled that aspect of his education. 

“You’ll be getting an education,” Bertrand said before slapping the back of Marc’s head. “Just not the subject you are expecting.”

Marc followed his mentor further past the church to a clearing. It was on a hill, and there were stones protruding from the ground at regular intervals. Despite being nearly burried by time, there was enough left to identify them as  tombstones. Nearer to the woodline there was one gravestone that stood tall.

“Who was buried there?” Marc asked.

“No matter,” Bertrand said. “I have something to show you downstream. Get your jacket, sunlight will not bless us for much longer.”

Marc did and they left as soon as Bertrand killed the fire. The left the horse tied up nearby and ventured by his count downstream for six-hundred-and-forty-three paces.

They stopped by what appeared to be a ruined church, the circular window and elongated top was the only part that remained identifiable. The rest was rubble strewn about and buried by years of accumulated vegetation. 

“A place lost in time,” Bertrand said. “A time when Spain was under siege from across the sea.”

Marc knew of it, and the struggle it had taken to retake those lands. It always struck as fantastical, because to him their greatest foes had always been the Spanish and the English. I can’t imagine any worse than those two.

“I’ve seen fire ravage homes and forests,” Bertrand said. “If the Pope told me it was alive, I would believe him entirely without question.”

These were things that Marc had never seen personally. However he had seen a field swallowed up by flame. When he stopped to consider what had been said, Marc agreed, there was something to fire that mimicked life. If it was classified as such was a matter left to the clergy and men of knowledge.

“I agree—” Marc said. 

“No matter,” Bertrand said. “I have something to show you downstream. Get your jacket, sunlight will not bless us for much longer.”

“It’s not that hard,” Bertrand said. “You need to keep the embers burning red, and for that it needs to breathe.”

“Breathe?” Marc asked, curious.

Bertrand shrugged, because he did not have the words to explain himself. After several moments of appearing caught up in his thoughts, Bertran cracked a smile. 

“Something my father would say,” Bertand replied. “Never occurred to me to ask him why.”

That temporarily soothed Marc’s ego, and that had only been possible because his mentor had the humility to admit their limits.

It took the better part of an hour in front of the fire for their clothes to dry. Marc suspected he would catch hell from the Countess for smelling like wood smoke, but it was better than the algae-rich water from that stream.

Both remained quiet throughout, Marc did so because he was nursing a bruised ego. The pain from his skinned fists served to remind him that he had a lot to learn about controlling his emotions.

Bertrand on the other hand appeared content to stare into the fire, stoking it expertly to keep the flames burning high. Marc paid attention to every move the man made, as though trying to deduce the reasons for those actions.

When Bertrand noticed his student looking intently at what he was doing, he broke the silence.

Those words had a powerful effect on Marc. The boy was emotional and lacked patience, but he recognised the authority of that command. He stopped dead in his tracks, his shoulders dropped and his arms hung loosely, all the while he was panting hard like a horse driven hard.

That lasted for all of a minute, as Marc’s mind consolidated everything, he turned around slowly with tears streaking through his eyes and collapsed into Bertrand’s arms.

“I hate that man,” Marc managed to say though sobs muffled by Bertrand’s shoulder.

“I know,” Bertrand said in a near whisper.

“If only you knew,” Bertand said in that same calm voice. 

As Marc continued to take the war to his instructors, the latter manoeuvred out the way at the last possible second. With a tree behind him, Marc first made contact with the trunk of an ancient tree. 

The sound of the impact was muted, flesh against wood did not carry as well as a gauntlet would. Still the pain did not dissuade the boy, blinded by the maelstrom of emotions within, he continued to pummelled the trunk until there were visible traces of crimson.

“ENOUGH,” Bertrand ordered.

“I HATE YOU!” Marc screeched, his voice cracking from the strain.

“You don’t mean—” Bertrand said. 

“YOU LIED TO ME,” Marc countered, his face red and distorted from all the range.

“I followed orders,” Bertrand replied calmly. 

Marc was too young to understand the discipline of a soldier and the solemn vow they took to follow orders. There was no way for this boy to comprehend how breaking their word took more courage than a general with an army at their back. 

“YOU TOOK THE EASY WAY OUT,” Marc yelled.

“If only you knew,” Bertand said in that same calm voice.

Anger boiled over like broth left on the flame for too long. Marc clenched his jaw to the point of his teeth straining while veins bulged from his neck. Without thought of consequence he turned in a snap and came out swinging.

Bertrand backed away with ease. He  anticipated this was not the likely outcome by giving him a glimpse of the truth. 

Marc connected with thin air, found his target and moved in for another shot. Every time he did so, Bertrand would back away and dodge, choosing to let the boy burn himself out rather than confront.

“I HATE YOU!” Marc screeched, his voice cracking from the strain.

The facial features on Bertrand’s face remained the same. He had seen battle, experienced first-hand the carnage that went with running a man through with a blade or blowing a hole through their chest with a musket. A boy who needed to be reminded of his manners held no sway.