-
The Heroes of Montclair
The flowers hit Marcel’s shoulders like accusations.
Rose petals, early spring blooms someone had hoarded through winter. They scattered across his uniform, freshly issued and fell to the cobblestones where the crowd pressed close. Children waved ribbons. Women wept and called out names. The garrison band played martial hymns that echoed off the buildings lining the processional route.
Marcel kept his eyes forward and tried not to vomit. The old uniforms had been burnt, and Marcel found himself envious that the rags had gone to the pyre while he was stuck here.
“Smile, you fool,” Gaspard muttered beside him. “You’re a hero.”
Hero. The word tasted like copper.
They marched four abreast down the Avenue of Victories, one hundred and eleven men who’d held Montclair Fortress for two hundred and sixty-three days. Behind them came the roughly forty survivors from the civilian staff. Cooks, farriers, seamstresses. All of them hollow-eyed despite the new clothes, the fresh haircuts, the appearance of normalcy.
At the head of their column walked Thibault Beaumont.
Le Maçon, The Mason. He’d been sent to reinforce Montclair’s walls and had ended up commanding its defense when the Vatelet forces came. Now he walked with that same measured stride he’d used on the walls, in the courtyard, in the dark places below. His formal uniform fit perfectly. His white-touched beard, normally worn at its full length, was trimmed. His pale green eyes looked straight ahead.
His face showed nothing.
“The Heroes of Montclair!” the crowd chanted. “Amerel’s defenders! The unbreakable wall!”
Marcel’s stomach churned. He tasted bile and old meat.
Day forty. Early autumn.
“We’re eating well enough,” Gaspard had said, gnawing on a rat haunch. “Could be worse.”
The kitchens had stretched the grain stores with careful rationing. They’d hunted every rat, every pigeon, every sparrow that nested in the fortress walls. The horses had gone early—better to eat them than watch them starve.
Marcel had thought they might last until winter, if the relief force came soon.
The mason had thought differently.
“The Vatelet siege lines are permanent structures,” he’d said at the officers’ meeting, voice soft but carrying. “They’re not probing for weakness. They’re waiting for starvation. A relief force would need to break through positions they’ve had months to fortify.”
“So we hold until they come,” Captain Florent had said. “That’s the garrison’s purpose, Le Maçon.” The captain had meant to put the man in his place, remind him that he was a worker and not a soldier. Instead, a legend had been birthed. From that moment on, he was Le Maçon.
“We will hold.” Le Maçon had looked at each of them with those pale eyes. “But we must assume the relief force is delayed. We must assume winter. We must prepare accordingly.”
“We have four months of grain at current rations,” the quartermaster had said. “If we cut rations further, men will lose their strength.”
“Then we must supplement.”
The word had hung in the air. Supplement. Such a neutral word.
“The Vatelet forces control the countryside,” Le Maçon continued. “They have supplies. We will acquire them.” Captain Florent looked around, sizing up his chances of reclaiming the momentum the mason had taken, then offered no argument.
The procession turned onto the Royal Promenade. More flowers, more cheers. A girl no older than eight broke through the crowd and pressed a wreath into Marcel’s hands. He took it because refusing would cause questions.
The wreath smelled like spring. Like things growing. Like the opposite of rot.
He held it and kept marching.
Day ninety. Autumn.
The first raid had been almost clean.
They’d gone out in darkness, fifteen men through the sally port Beaumont had identified—a maintenance passage that emerged outside the siege lines, concealed by debris from the initial assault. Marcel had been terrified the whole way, certain they’d be discovered, slaughtered in the dark.
Beaumont had gone with them. Not leading, Lieutenant Varin in command, but present. Silent. Observing.
They’d found a Vatelet supply cache. Taken bread, dried meat, vegetables. Killed six guards; Le Maçon had taken one down with his hammer. Quick work, efficient. They’d been back before dawn with enough food for three days.
“We’ll rotate raiding parties,” Le Maçon had said the next evening. “Every four nights. Different routes. They’ll adapt, so we adapt faster.”
It had worked. For six weeks they’d supplemented the dwindling stores with captured supplies. Morale had improved. Men stopped looking quite so hollow.
Then winter came early and the Vatelet commanders pulled their supplies inside their fortified camps.
“We can’t reach their main stores,” Lieutenant Varin had reported. “Not without significant casualties. Maybe not at all.”
Le Maçon had been silent for a long moment. No one consulted Florent, nor did the Captain speak. He hadn’t said much about anything, by then.
“We’ll adapt,” said Le Maçon.
That was when the raids changed.
A nobleman Marcel didn’t recognize clasped his hand as they passed, pulled him close. “My son serves in the Third Regiment. Thank you for showing him what Amerelian courage looks like.”
Marcel managed something that might have been a smile. The nobleman released him, moved down the line to grasp other hands, spread other praises.
Courage. Another word that meant nothing now.
Ahead, Le Maçon walked steadily onward. If he heard the cheers, he gave no sign.
Day one hundred forty. Deep winter.
“They’re men, same as us,” Le Maçon had said. Florent had been killed by a Vatelet incursion last month. “They require food, warmth, rest. These requirements make them predictable.”
The raiding parties had started hunting sentries. Soldiers sent out on patrol. Anyone isolated from the main Vatelet forces. Quick strikes, drag the body back through the passages Le Maçon had mapped, disappear before anyone noticed.
No one had said it out loud at first. No one had directly ordered it. But the stores needed to be… supplemented. The bodies went to the kitchens. The kitchens served stew. Everyone was too hungry to ask questions.
Marcel had known, of course. They’d all known. But there was knowing and there was acknowledging, and the gap between them was wide enough to hide in.
Until the night he’d been on a raiding party and one of the Vatelet soldiers hadn’t died fast enough. Had looked up at him with terrified eyes and tried to speak through the blood and Marcel had…
He didn’t think about that part. Couldn’t. If he thought about it clearly, if he let himself remember the exact sequence of…
Gaspard’s elbow caught his ribs. “You’re lagging. Keep pace.”
Marcel fell back into step, not wanting to remember unable to restrain the need to pick at the memories.
Day one hundred seventy. The deepest part of winter.
The oath had been Varin’s idea.
They’d gathered in the old chapel, thirty-two men who’d been on the raids. The worst raids. The ones that came back with their packs full and their hands shaking.
“We swear never to speak of it,” Varin had said. “Not to each other. Not to anyone. What happened in Montclair stays in Montclair.”
One by one, they’d agreed. Gripped hands. Swore the oath.
Marcel had been about to suggest including Le Maçon when he’d realized: Le Maçon wasn’t there. Had never been invited. The idea of asking him to swear seemed… wrong, somehow. Like asking a hammer to promise not to strike.
Later, Marcel had seen Le Maçon in the courtyard, inspecting the walls by moonlight. That same measured pace. That same neutral expression. As if he were still preparing estimates for stonework rather than commanding men who’d become…
No. Don’t think it. Use the soft words. The comfortable words.
They’d done what was necessary. They’d survived.
The Royal Plaza opened before them. King Edmond waited on a raised platform, surrounded by advisors and clergy. The crowd had swelled here, thousands packed into the space. Their cheering was deafening.
Marcel’s hands were shaking. He gripped the wreath tighter, felt stems crack. But he stood at attention and said nothing.
Because they’d sworn. Because questions were better left unasked. Because survival was victory and victory required celebration and celebration required heroes who looked the part.
Day two hundred twelve. Early spring.
“They’re pulling back,” the lookout had reported. “Their siege lines are collapsing.”
For a moment, Marcel hadn’t believed it. Two hundred twelve days and suddenly the Vatelet forces were withdrawing?
Beaumont had climbed to the walls, studied the enemy positions with that same calm attention he gave everything. “A relief force approached from the east. They’re abandoning the siege rather than fight on two fronts.”
“We won.” Varin’s voice had cracked. “Scelu preserve us, we actually won.”
“We held,” Beaumont had corrected softly. “That was the objective.”
The relief force had arrived three days later. Fresh troops, supply wagons, surgeons and priests. They’d stared at the hollow-eyed survivors with something between respect and horror.
“You held for over two hundred days,” the relief commander had said, awed. “The longest siege defense in living memory. How did you survive?”
“We adapted,” Beaumont had said. “We utilized available resources.”
Available resources.
None of the relief had ever thought to question the charnel pit. Marcel thought he overheard one of theirs explaining that those Vatelet that had made it over the wall had needed to be burnt to prevent disease. None noticed the markings on the bones.
The king was presenting commendations now. Calling names. The soldiers stepped forward one by one to receive medals, scrolls, formal recognition. Le Maçon stood at the base of the platform, three paces from the king. Hands clasped. Face neutral. He looked like a man waiting for the next task.
“Lieutenant Gaspard Mercier, for exceptional courage in the defense of Montclair…”
Gaspard walked forward. Accepted his medal. Bowed to the king. His hands were steady. Marcel envied him that.
More names. More medals. The crowd cheered each one.
Then: “Colonel Thibault Beaumont, master of defensive works and commander of Montclair Garrison, famed already for his completion of La Salle des Étoiles et des Âges, for extraordinary leadership in preserving Amerelian sovereignty against overwhelming opposition…”
Le Maçon stepped onto the platform. Bowed precisely. Accepted the medal and scroll. “I am honored, Your Majesty. The garrison fulfilled its tactical objective. All credit belongs to the soldiers who maintained discipline throughout the engagement.”
Perfect words. Perfect delivery. No pride, no relief, no acknowledgment of what maintaining that discipline had cost.
The crowd erupted. The king embraced him. Le Maçon stood there and accepted it with the same neutral grace he’d used for everything else.
Marcel watched and felt something break inside him.
The ceremony ended. The garrison would be feted throughout the week—banquets, celebrations, honors. Marcel would smile and accept congratulations and never speak of the two hundred and sixty-three days that had earned them.
The crowd surged forward, wanting to touch the heroes, to hear their stories.
Marcel let himself be carried along, still clutching the wreath. Around him, his fellow survivors wore their medals and accepted their praise. Some seemed to believe it. Others, like him, just moved through the motions.
Ahead, Le Maçon was speaking with a group of nobles. His expression hadn’t changed. Still that same neutral attention. Still that same soft, measured voice.
Marcel wanted to scream. Wanted to grab the king, the nobles, all these cheering people and show them what valor looked like in practice. Show them what “utilizing available resources” meant. “Supplementing.” Show them the faces that still visited him in dreams, the sounds, the taste that wouldn’t wash out no matter how much wine he drank.
A little boy pushed through to Marcel, eyes wide with adoration. “Sir? Is it true you held the walls for almost a year? That you never gave up?”
Marcel looked down at him. Saw innocence. Saw belief in courage and honor and all the stories they would tell about Montclair.
“We held,” Marcel said quietly. “That’s true.”
“You’re so brave! When I grow up, I want to be just like you!”
Something cold settled in Marcel’s chest as he bit down the urge to shake the child, throttle him until no glimmer of hope was left that the lad would traverse the same path as he.
He managed to touch the boy’s head, say something appropriate, send him back to his mother. Then he walked away from the plaza, away from the celebration, still holding the wreath of spring flowers.
Behind him, the crowd cheered for their heroes.
Ahead, the sun was setting. Soon it would be dark.
Marcel had learned to hate the dark. But he’d learned to survive it, too. Learned what a man could do in darkness and still walk in daylight.
He just wished he didn’t have to wear a medal for it.
Somewhere in the plaza, Le Maçon was accepting congratulations with that same empty grace. Solving the social requirements with the same efficiency he’d applied to everything else.
Marcel wondered if Le Maçon dreamed. Wondered if anything haunted a man who felt nothing.
Then he went to find wine and tried very hard not to remember what “utilizing available resources” had actually meant.
The wreath fell from his hands somewhere along the way. He didn’t go back for it.
-
The Heroes of Montclair
The flowers hit Marcel’s shoulders like accusations.
Rose petals, early spring blooms someone had hoarded through winter. They scattered across his uniform, freshly issued and fell to the cobblestones where the crowd pressed close. Children waved ribbons. Women wept and called out names. The garrison band played martial hymns that echoed off the buildings lining the processional route.
Marcel kept his eyes forward and tried not to vomit. The old uniforms had been burnt, and Marcel found himself envious that the rags had gone to the pyre while he was stuck here.
“Smile, you fool,” Gaspard muttered beside him. “You’re a hero.”
Hero. The word tasted like copper.
They marched four abreast down the Avenue of Victories, one hundred and eleven men who’d held Montclair Fortress for two hundred and sixty-three days. Behind them came the roughly forty survivors from the civilian staff. Cooks, farriers, seamstresses. All of them hollow-eyed despite the new clothes, the fresh haircuts, the appearance of normalcy.
At the head of their column walked Thibault Beaumont.
Le Maçon, The Mason. He’d been sent to reinforce Montclair’s walls and had ended up commanding its defense when the Vatelet forces came. Now he walked with that same measured stride he’d used on the walls, in the courtyard, in the dark places below. His formal uniform fit perfectly. His white-touched beard, normally worn at its full length, was trimmed. His pale green eyes looked straight ahead.
His face showed nothing.
“The Heroes of Montclair!” the crowd chanted. “Amerel’s defenders! The unbreakable wall!”
Marcel’s stomach churned. He tasted bile and old meat.
Day forty. Early autumn.
“We’re eating well enough,” Gaspard had said, gnawing on a rat haunch. “Could be worse.”
The kitchens had stretched the grain stores with careful rationing. They’d hunted every rat, every pigeon, every sparrow that nested in the fortress walls. The horses had gone early—better to eat them than watch them starve.
Marcel had thought they might last until winter, if the relief force came soon.
The mason had thought differently.
“The Vatelet siege lines are permanent structures,” he’d said at the officers’ meeting, voice soft but carrying. “They’re not probing for weakness. They’re waiting for starvation. A relief force would need to break through positions they’ve had months to fortify.”
“So we hold until they come,” Captain Florent had said. “That’s the garrison’s purpose, Le Maçon.” The captain had meant to put the man in his place, remind him that he was a worker and not a soldier. Instead, a legend had been birthed. From that moment on, he was Le Maçon.
“We will hold.” Le Maçon had looked at each of them with those pale eyes. “But we must assume the relief force is delayed. We must assume winter. We must prepare accordingly.”
“We have four months of grain at current rations,” the quartermaster had said. “If we cut rations further, men will lose their strength.”
“Then we must supplement.”
The word had hung in the air. Supplement. Such a neutral word.
“The Vatelet forces control the countryside,” Le Maçon continued. “They have supplies. We will acquire them.” Captain Florent looked around, sizing up his chances of reclaiming the momentum the mason had taken, then offered no argument.
The procession turned onto the Royal Promenade. More flowers, more cheers. A girl no older than eight broke through the crowd and pressed a wreath into Marcel’s hands. He took it because refusing would cause questions.
The wreath smelled like spring. Like things growing. Like the opposite of rot.
He held it and kept marching.
Day ninety. Autumn.
The first raid had been almost clean.
They’d gone out in darkness, fifteen men through the sally port Beaumont had identified—a maintenance passage that emerged outside the siege lines, concealed by debris from the initial assault. Marcel had been terrified the whole way, certain they’d be discovered, slaughtered in the dark.
Beaumont had gone with them. Not leading, Lieutenant Varin in command, but present. Silent. Observing.
They’d found a Vatelet supply cache. Taken bread, dried meat, vegetables. Killed six guards; Le Maçon had taken one down with his hammer. Quick work, efficient. They’d been back before dawn with enough food for three days.
“We’ll rotate raiding parties,” Le Maçon had said the next evening. “Every four nights. Different routes. They’ll adapt, so we adapt faster.”
It had worked. For six weeks they’d supplemented the dwindling stores with captured supplies. Morale had improved. Men stopped looking quite so hollow.
Then winter came early and the Vatelet commanders pulled their supplies inside their fortified camps.
“We can’t reach their main stores,” Lieutenant Varin had reported. “Not without significant casualties. Maybe not at all.”
Le Maçon had been silent for a long moment. No one consulted Florent, nor did the Captain speak. He hadn’t said much about anything, by then.
“We’ll adapt,” said Le Maçon.
That was when the raids changed.
A nobleman Marcel didn’t recognize clasped his hand as they passed, pulled him close. “My son serves in the Third Regiment. Thank you for showing him what Amerelian courage looks like.”
Marcel managed something that might have been a smile. The nobleman released him, moved down the line to grasp other hands, spread other praises.
Courage. Another word that meant nothing now.
Ahead, Le Maçon walked steadily onward. If he heard the cheers, he gave no sign.
Day one hundred forty. Deep winter.
“They’re men, same as us,” Le Maçon had said. Florent had been killed by a Vatelet incursion last month. “They require food, warmth, rest. These requirements make them predictable.”
The raiding parties had started hunting sentries. Soldiers sent out on patrol. Anyone isolated from the main Vatelet forces. Quick strikes, drag the body back through the passages Le Maçon had mapped, disappear before anyone noticed.
No one had said it out loud at first. No one had directly ordered it. But the stores needed to be… supplemented. The bodies went to the kitchens. The kitchens served stew. Everyone was too hungry to ask questions.
Marcel had known, of course. They’d all known. But there was knowing and there was acknowledging, and the gap between them was wide enough to hide in.
Until the night he’d been on a raiding party and one of the Vatelet soldiers hadn’t died fast enough. Had looked up at him with terrified eyes and tried to speak through the blood and Marcel had…
He didn’t think about that part. Couldn’t. If he thought about it clearly, if he let himself remember the exact sequence of…
Gaspard’s elbow caught his ribs. “You’re lagging. Keep pace.”
Marcel fell back into step, not wanting to remember unable to restrain the need to pick at the memories.
Day one hundred seventy. The deepest part of winter.
The oath had been Varin’s idea.
They’d gathered in the old chapel, thirty-two men who’d been on the raids. The worst raids. The ones that came back with their packs full and their hands shaking.
“We swear never to speak of it,” Varin had said. “Not to each other. Not to anyone. What happened in Montclair stays in Montclair.”
One by one, they’d agreed. Gripped hands. Swore the oath.
Marcel had been about to suggest including Le Maçon when he’d realized: Le Maçon wasn’t there. Had never been invited. The idea of asking him to swear seemed… wrong, somehow. Like asking a hammer to promise not to strike.
Later, Marcel had seen Le Maçon in the courtyard, inspecting the walls by moonlight. That same measured pace. That same neutral expression. As if he were still preparing estimates for stonework rather than commanding men who’d become…
No. Don’t think it. Use the soft words. The comfortable words.
They’d done what was necessary. They’d survived.
The Royal Plaza opened before them. King Edmond waited on a raised platform, surrounded by advisors and clergy. The crowd had swelled here, thousands packed into the space. Their cheering was deafening.
Marcel’s hands were shaking. He gripped the wreath tighter, felt stems crack. But he stood at attention and said nothing.
Because they’d sworn. Because questions were better left unasked. Because survival was victory and victory required celebration and celebration required heroes who looked the part.
Day two hundred twelve. Early spring.
“They’re pulling back,” the lookout had reported. “Their siege lines are collapsing.”
For a moment, Marcel hadn’t believed it. Two hundred twelve days and suddenly the Vatelet forces were withdrawing?
Beaumont had climbed to the walls, studied the enemy positions with that same calm attention he gave everything. “A relief force approached from the east. They’re abandoning the siege rather than fight on two fronts.”
“We won.” Varin’s voice had cracked. “Scelu preserve us, we actually won.”
“We held,” Beaumont had corrected softly. “That was the objective.”
The relief force had arrived three days later. Fresh troops, supply wagons, surgeons and priests. They’d stared at the hollow-eyed survivors with something between respect and horror.
“You held for over two hundred days,” the relief commander had said, awed. “The longest siege defense in living memory. How did you survive?”
“We adapted,” Beaumont had said. “We utilized available resources.”
Available resources.
None of the relief had ever thought to question the charnel pit. Marcel thought he overheard one of theirs explaining that those Vatelet that had made it over the wall had needed to be burnt to prevent disease. None noticed the markings on the bones.
The king was presenting commendations now. Calling names. The soldiers stepped forward one by one to receive medals, scrolls, formal recognition. Le Maçon stood at the base of the platform, three paces from the king. Hands clasped. Face neutral. He looked like a man waiting for the next task.
“Lieutenant Gaspard Mercier, for exceptional courage in the defense of Montclair…”
Gaspard walked forward. Accepted his medal. Bowed to the king. His hands were steady. Marcel envied him that.
More names. More medals. The crowd cheered each one.
Then: “Colonel Thibault Beaumont, master of defensive works and commander of Montclair Garrison, famed already for his completion of La Salle des Étoiles et des Âges, for extraordinary leadership in preserving Amerelian sovereignty against overwhelming opposition…”
Le Maçon stepped onto the platform. Bowed precisely. Accepted the medal and scroll. “I am honored, Your Majesty. The garrison fulfilled its tactical objective. All credit belongs to the soldiers who maintained discipline throughout the engagement.”
Perfect words. Perfect delivery. No pride, no relief, no acknowledgment of what maintaining that discipline had cost.
The crowd erupted. The king embraced him. Le Maçon stood there and accepted it with the same neutral grace he’d used for everything else.
Marcel watched and felt something break inside him.
The ceremony ended. The garrison would be feted throughout the week—banquets, celebrations, honors. Marcel would smile and accept congratulations and never speak of the two hundred and sixty-three days that had earned them.
The crowd surged forward, wanting to touch the heroes, to hear their stories.
Marcel let himself be carried along, still clutching the wreath. Around him, his fellow survivors wore their medals and accepted their praise. Some seemed to believe it. Others, like him, just moved through the motions.
Ahead, Le Maçon was speaking with a group of nobles. His expression hadn’t changed. Still that same neutral attention. Still that same soft, measured voice.
Marcel wanted to scream. Wanted to grab the king, the nobles, all these cheering people and show them what valor looked like in practice. Show them what “utilizing available resources” meant. “Supplementing.” Show them the faces that still visited him in dreams, the sounds, the taste that wouldn’t wash out no matter how much wine he drank.
A little boy pushed through to Marcel, eyes wide with adoration. “Sir? Is it true you held the walls for almost a year? That you never gave up?”
Marcel looked down at him. Saw innocence. Saw belief in courage and honor and all the stories they would tell about Montclair.
“We held,” Marcel said quietly. “That’s true.”
“You’re so brave! When I grow up, I want to be just like you!”
Something cold settled in Marcel’s chest as he bit down the urge to shake the child, throttle him until no glimmer of hope was left that the lad would traverse the same path as he.
He managed to touch the boy’s head, say something appropriate, send him back to his mother. Then he walked away from the plaza, away from the celebration, still holding the wreath of spring flowers.
Behind him, the crowd cheered for their heroes.
Ahead, the sun was setting. Soon it would be dark.
Marcel had learned to hate the dark. But he’d learned to survive it, too. Learned what a man could do in darkness and still walk in daylight.
He just wished he didn’t have to wear a medal for it.
Somewhere in the plaza, Le Maçon was accepting congratulations with that same empty grace. Solving the social requirements with the same efficiency he’d applied to everything else.
Marcel wondered if Le Maçon dreamed. Wondered if anything haunted a man who felt nothing.
Then he went to find wine and tried very hard not to remember what “utilizing available resources” had actually meant.
The wreath fell from his hands somewhere along the way. He didn’t go back for it.
-
F Falconius moved this topic from WFR The Mason
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