Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 165: "Major, you lit a fire that made fascists bleed."

The valley was silence in the morning, wrapped in soft fog that clung to the pine branches.

Moreau woke early, dressed in silence, and began folding the few belongings he had gathered during his time in exile.

A shirt, well-worn but clean.

A flask, dented from travel.

A small carved wooden figure of a standing man a gift from Tomas.

He rolled them in a cloth and fastened the bundle with a strip of twine.

Carmen waited near the edge of the clearing.

She held a satchel made from flour sacks, stitched with steady hands.

Inside bread, dried meat, an apple, and two boiled eggs.

"For the road," she said softly.

Moreau took it with a nod, slinging it over one shoulder.

"I don’t have the words," he said. "You kept me alive. You hid me. You never asked for anything."

Carmen shrugged. "You gave us something too. We needed to believe that someone still stood. Even if it was only for a while."

Moreau looked away.

Elias approached, pulling on a heavy coat. "There’s a path through the forest. We marked it with blue twine. Follow it until you hit the river. Stay to the western bank. Keep walking."

"And the embassy?"

"Twenty kilometers past that. You’ll meet a contact in a shed by the old toll house. She’ll take you the rest of the way. Don’t speak. Don’t run. Don’t look back."

Moreau nodded.

Carmen glanced at the tent he had slept in. "What should we tell them?"

Moreau paused, lips tight. "Tell them I left quietly."

Elias chuckled. "You’re not the quiet type."

"Then lie," Moreau replied.

He turned one last time.

A child stood near the path Tomas, clutching a stick carved like a rifle.

"Will you fight again?" Tomas asked.

Moreau looked at him, then crouched carefully, ribs still stiff.

"Maybe," he said. "Maybe not. But I’ll remember you. That’s a kind of fight too."

The boy nodded. "I’ll remember you too."

The forest was wet from a recent storm, and every step sank slightly into the soft earth.

After two hours, Moreau reached the river.

The girl was there, just as promised barely sixteen, lean, silent.

She pointed west with her chin.

"Don’t talk," she said.

They crossed the river on moss-covered stones.

When Moreau slipped slightly, she caught his arm without a word.

They hiked through brambles, ducked beneath fallen logs, and bypassed two roads guarded by sentries.

At dusk, they reached the outer wall of a town, nestled under a hillside.

The embassy was an old Spanish villa, now reinforced with sandbags, barbed wire, and silence.

French tricolor barely moved.

It looked more like a place waiting for a storm than one surviving it.

At the side gate, two guards recognized him immediately.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t salute.

One pressed a hand briefly to his heart, then opened the door.

Inside the courtyard, yellow light fell on a single figure leaning beneath a lamp.

"Took you long enough," the man said.

Moreau froze.

Renaud.

He was leaner, the beard longer, his left forearm wrapped in white cloth.

But the eyes were the same.

And they were smiling.

Neither man spoke for a long second.

Then Moreau stepped forward, and they embraced, fierce and breathless.

Renaud clapped him on the back so hard it stung.

"You look like a dying poet," Renaud said, laughing hoarsely.

"You smell worse than the Alborán sewers," Moreau shot back.

"Thought you were dead."

"I tried."

They stood apart, still holding each other’s arms.

"I watched the tower fall on you," Renaud said quietly. "I told everyone it crushed you. And maybe it did."

Moreau nodded. "For a while."

Their smiles faded.

"Clara?" Moreau asked.

Renaud looked away. "No word. Some say she got out with the medics. Others say she never made it past the western trench."

"She deserved better."

"So did we."

Before they could say more, a young lieutenant appeared.

"Major Moreau, the ambassador is expecting you."

Renaud smirked. "Good luck. He’s cranky."

Moreau followed the officer down long halls lined with cracked portraits and faded maps.

At the end, a heavy oak door waited.

Inside, Ambassador to Spain, sat behind a cluttered desk.

He did not rise.

"Major Moreau," he said, barely looking up.

"You look like hell."

"I’ve been through worse."

Ambassador nodded. "So we’ve read."

Moreau remained standing. "If this is about a report, it will take me days."

"It’s not," Ambassador said. novelbuddy.cσ๓

He opened a file and pushed it across the table.

"Orders. From General Beauchamp. You are to return to French soil under military escort. Immediately."

Moreau didn’t touch the folder.

"I’m not finished here."

"You are."

"I decide that."

Ambassador looked up now, eyes steady. "You don’t. This isn’t optional. If you attempt to remain, we will detain you."

Moreau’s hands curled into fists.

"By whose authority?"

"The Republic of France. And yes, we will enforce it."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Ambassador continued, voice low. "You did more than anyone asked. You held ground no one else could. You became more myth than man. Spain buried you. And in doing so, gave France a symbol."

"So now I get a statue and a leash."

"You get to live," Ambassador said. "Most of your men didn’t. And they didn’t die so you could bleed out in a forest or get shot in a forgotten street."

Moreau turned toward the window, jaw clenched.

Outside, clouds moved slowly across sky.

"Beauchamp wanted to come himself," Ambassador added.

"But he thought it better this way. Quiet. Dignified."

Moreau exhaled slowly. "And Renaud?"

"He goes with you."

"Anyone else?"

Ambassador hesitated. "Not that we know of."

Moreau reached for the file.

Opened it.

Closed it again.

"So that’s it. I become a ghost in a different country."

Ambassador stood now. "Major, you lit a fire that made fascists bleed. That fire has done its work. Now let it rest."

Moreau said nothing.

"You became the symbol we needed. But symbols don’t choose when they stop. Men do. Go home. While you still have that choice."

In the corridor, Renaud waited, tossing a coin against the wall.

"Well?" he asked as Moreau emerged.

"We’re going home."

"That good or bad?"

"Undecided."

They walked together into the embassy courtyard.

A black car waited at the gate.

No flag.

No escort.

Moreau paused beside it.

Looked back once.

The building behind him stood silent.

No crowd.

No fanfare.

Renaud climbed in beside him. "They think we’re done."

Moreau stared ahead.

"Maybe for now."

Renaud nodded. "But not forever."

"No," Moreau said. "Not forever."