Open The Trenches Completed Sins of the Fatherland

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Aran Mateu felt a sharp pain as the fox's fist clocked him across the snout. He didn't notice the spray of blood as it left his nose, only the stain it left across Calaisee's shoulder, the crimson showing up as a wet splash on the dark cloak. The rest of her gang, foxes all, chuckled as their ringleader brought another fist around and struck the pine marten again, this time from the other side. They had him cornered against the wall of the alley, a thin, shadowy passage bifurcating a seemingly endless line of three-story businesses and row homes. He'd been stupid to take the shortcut; it had looked empty when he'd glanced down it, and the next cross street was another two minutes' walk. He'd been laden down with a bolt of cheap, rough cotton for fitting and measuring, a fitter's kit full to bursting with measuring tapes, pins, and fabric swatches, and a small tin with a lunch his mother had packed, one he hadn't yet found time to eat. Now one of those loathsome foxes was eating the savory pastries his mother had made for him that morning, each stuffed with stewed tomato and slices of fresh cod, watching as Calaisee beat him while his father's tailoring supplies lay strewn across the alley.

"We told ya," Cal mocked Aran Mateu as he doubled over, a paw to his snout to try to stem the flow of blood, "ya ain' welcome 'ere, you or your filthy Kahrrie folks neither. Reg'lar tids are bad enough, don' need ya filthin' the place up more." She dropped the word 'tids', a racist slang term for mustelids, with the same casualness as one might speak of a passing rain cloud, which somehow made the term sting more. Most beasts had to put in effort to be hateful to his face, overriding the cultural tendency toward polite silence as regarded his heritage. Cal and her foxes felt no such reticence.

One of the other foxes laughed spitefully as Cal drove a fist into Aran Mateu's stomach, making the dark-furred marten double over in pain. "Show 'im what for, Cal!" he egged her on, pumping his own fists and shadow-boxing enthusiastically.

Aran Mateu squeezed his dark eyes shut, concealing the evidence of his heritage. Miklarian pine martens' eyes were dark brown to the point of black, the difference between iris, pupil, and sclera barely even discernable. 'Demon eyes', the Alkamarians had once termed the trait, using it to characterize the Miklarian pine martens (and stoats, who shared the same trait) as savages who needed to be conquered 'for their own elevation'. In Miklar, Aran Mateu had seen his eyes as a point of pride, a way to separate himself from the lighter-eyed Alkamarian weasels and ferrets, and a marker of his heritage. It wasn't until his family got to Bully Harbor that he'd realized a cruel truth: to the Vulpinsulans, the dark eyes were an Alkamarian trait. Having largely fought Miklarian troops in their wars while Alkamarian officers stayed safely in the back lines, they'd come to conflate the Miklarians and Alkamarians entirely. His entire culture was erased even here, indignity heaped upon his exile.

He spat out a gob of blood that had backed up his nose, running down into his throat. "I'm not Alkamari," he protested. "I'm Miklari. It is different."

The nest blow struck him from above, sweeping down and sending him to the floor of the alley. "Oh, I'm sorry," Cal mocked him from above as her gang cruelly laughed, "I couldn't hear that, Kahrrie. You'll have to speak louder."

Aran Mateu started to pick himself up, dismayed to see the dust of the alley coating his fine crimson Miklarian-style shirt and trousers, both button-up-the-sides in design. His mother had begged him to try Vulpinsulan-style clothes like she and his father wore, telling him it would make it easier for him to fit in. He'd refused; even if he dressed like the Vulpinsulans, it wouldn't change a thing. Their cruelty wouldn't be satisfied by him pretending to be like them. "I said-" Aran Mateu's words were cut off by a kick to the gut, one that left him curled up in a ball, gasping for breath. He could feel his ganive and tipal, the knife and thick stick with which he'd once trained, as two hard lumps inside of his coat... but no, he recalled. If he pulled those in a fistfight, the Fogeys wouldn't see self-defense, they'd see a violent Alkamarian youth and arrest him accordingly, probably while Cal and her gang looked on and continued to mock him. Besides, he'd promised his mother not to use them, not again anyway.

Above him, Cal turned away, speaking to one of her cohort. "Maybe we haven't been persuasive enough," she declared. "We should make it clear to this Kahrrie scum what 'appens t' filth on our turf." Aran Mateu heard a rattle, and he peeked open his eyes to see that Cal was undoing the awkward knot with which she'd bound together two ends of a long chain to serve as her belt. It wasn't a thick chain, but the links were still long and sturdy enough to make for a vicious whip, perhaps even a fatal one.

I'm going to die, Aran Mateu realized in a moment of grim dismay. I'm never going to see Miklar again. He shut his eyes tight, praying that his death would at least be quick.

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

Sometimes, when the Colonel was in Bully Harbor, he liked to remind himself what so many of his comrades had fought and died for.
He wore his usual crisp green military jacket, beneath his old, heavy, stone-gray traveler's cloak to protect it from the elements.
He wore a monocle over his right eye, and walked with a cane with a whale-ivory pommel.
Today, he also wore his black and green-rimmed colonel's bicorne, with an emblem of the Imperial fox skull and crossbones adorning it.
He made quite the sight, touring alone from one troubled neighborhood to the next.
Those who recognized him, or who noted the scars on the grizzled vulpine's face, the confidence in his step and steely green gaze, or the sabre at his belt, knew well enough to stay away if they sought trouble.
Those who didn't know better, who tried fighting or robbing the strange old army officer, he dealt with accordingly, leaving them alive but broken in his path. That was his way. He'd believe it the Imperial way, but if anything, his paw was often kinder.
A pipe clutched in his teeth and a smoke trail following him, Colonel Jere had just rounded a corner when he came upon the sight before them, his keen ears and nose having noted the violence whilst on his usual path through the Trenches.
He'd intended to pay respects to a spot where, during the Winter War that so haunted him, twelve army privates had fallen defending a food store from Coalition invaders.
Instead, it seemed, he now had to play the stern schoolmarm, staying bloodied paws before another young Imperial met an untimely and avoidable death in a system of such things.
He wore strange clothes, however, this marten, under all that blood, and besides the unsavory insult of "tid", which Jere had heard spoken by vulpine supremacists before and had dealt with accordingly and not gently, seeing such behavior as a betrayal of the values of the Imperium, he also heard "kharrie."
An Alkamarian, then.
No, he realized, coming closer, to catch sight of the young marten's eyes. He'd seen plenty such eyes before, in Imperial intelligence reports and in the heat of battle. A Miklarian.
How interesting.
The tall old fox, his fur a tableau of reds, white and black interlaced with scars, threw off his cloak to reveal his military uniform in its full glory, chestful of medals and ribbons and shined bone buttons on full display. Also on full display, his well-polished sabre, in a style that, to the discerning eye, was in itself distinctly un-Imperial; but faced with everything else he wore, few noticed.
"Stay your paw, pup." he commanded, flashing a display of yellowed teeth as he tapped his pipe out onto the ground with a clawed forefinger. "And make haste in explaining just what is happening here."
He looked about at the fox gang with distaste and disappointment, like a father surveying a pack of poorly-acting kits he'd hoped better for, before his green gaze returned to the bloodied marten. He nodded stiffly to him in recognition, speaking in his rich, rough voice.
"You, young sir. A Miklarian, yes? I recognize your eyes and clothes. You are no Alkamarian."

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Aran Mateu's eyes shot open at an unexpected sound in the alley: a grown todd's voice, booming with a commanding tone. The sound of it was enough to make Cal hesitate, the chain belt clenched in her paw. The pine marten could see why; even setting aside his stature, the todd was an impressive beast. He'd apparently decided to wear full military regalia for a walk about the Harbor, which... Actually, Aran Mateu could see some sense in that. Bully Harbor was a rough place, and a display of martial aptitude, such as his openly carried sabre and the numerous medals adorning his chest, gave quite the threat to any who might eye the metal covetously. More than that, though, the people of Bully Harbor seemed to have this strange reverence for anyone who served in their Imperial Army, one that didn't extend to the much-maligned sailors of their navy. He supposed that it was probably because so few beasts chose the former over the latter; plus, scarcity bred affection, while familiarity bred contempt. It was different in Miklar, where military service was considered a national duty; even his folks, who had fought for Miklarian independence, considered it a form of duty, not a marker of prestige. A beast walking about in military uniform was, frankly, less remarkable than those without.

The true surprise was when the todd recognized Aran Mateu as Miklarian. His eyes widened at that, and he gingerly sat up, still keeping an eye on the other foxes lest they decide to quickly finish the job. He had no idea who this fox could be, but that he recognized his Miklarian clothes, a traditional style not work by Alkamarians nor the Miklarian troops in their service, as well as his eyes, indicated that he was far more culturally versed than most Imperial troops, or their officers for that matter. Perhaps he was an old Imperial intelligence officer, the ones who, in Aran Mateu's grandfather's time, used to sweep into villages, pick out a few beasts, accuse them of being Miklarian Resistance, and then drag them away into the night, never to be seen again. Even today, 'bem MAUL' were spoken of with a hushed tone of terror and hatred, knowing that another invasion would see a return to those awful days.

Cal and her gang seemed to shrink toward each other, huddling for mutual protection. "'Oo does 'e think 'e is, talkin' t' us like 'at?" Cal snapped, albeit quietly.

"I dunno Cal," the fox who had been encouraging her just a moment ago expressed, his face pensive. "Lookit them medals - them's real gold, I'd say."

"Big deal," the one who was still eating Aran Mateu's lunch scoffed. "M' da's got real gold innis teeth, it ain' that special. 'Sides, 'at coat pro'bly ain' even real. M' uncle's in the army, an' 'is coat don' look nuffin like 'at."

"Yer uncle ain' a hofficer, ya dunce," another todd scoffed at him. "Hofficers get th' fancy coats."

"Oh. ...So, do we jump 'im?"

"Shuddap ya fools," Cal snapped. "Look, if the h'officer wants t' deal with the kharrie 'imself, I say we lettim. Ain' no skin off mah teeth."

"But teeth don' have skin," one of the brighter of the gang pointed out.

"Shuddap." A slap reinforced that command. "Oi," she called to the taller fox. "We don' wan' trouble none. 'E's all yours, give 'im what for if yer in the mood."

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

The Colonel's lips crooked into a slight, ugly sneer.
Wasting no time and moving quick for an oldbeast with a cane and a limp to his right leg, the crossfox ignored the gang for their victim, walking right up to the Miklaran and seizing him by his collar.
One might take it as a violent motion, but instead of striking him, the Colonel pulled the lad up to his feet and out of the dirt, his medals jingling with the motion.
The old todd whipped a lavender-smelling kerchief with a fanciful flower pattern on it from a jacket pocket, and began thwapping the cloth across the front of the marten's clothes, dusting him off.
Then, putting the kerchief away, he took out a new one, this one smelling faintly of honey with honeycomb art decorating it, and held it out to the Miklaran with a soft commanding growl.
"Clean the blood from your face, boy. That doesn't befit a son of Miklar. When you are done, you will have my back. Do you understand?"

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Aran Mateu winced as the fox hauled him to his footpaws, bracing himself for either a beating or a knife in the gut. To his complete bafflement, the officer instead dusted him off with a floral-smelling square of fabric, then gave him a second one, smelling sweet as honey, to dry the blood off his face. The marten's mind churned, trying to understand what exactly was happening. He rushed to obey the fox's order, hurriedly and thoroughly scrubbing his face clean, then returning it to the fox. "Yes şir," he confirmed, a little of his accent showing in the act.

He turned and, standing beside the fox, reached into his pocket and pulled out his ganive, a sturdy knife with a blade that curved to a sharp point, and the tipal, a thick stick with a hefty iron ring set above the grip to help catch and deflect blows. He slid one footpaw back, bending his knees into the ready stance he'd learned as a young kit back in Miklar, when he and every kit born in the Oldein Mountain communities dreamed of rising up one day to free the fatherland. "At your command, şir."

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

The Colonel gave a cursory glance over the marten's form, and nodded, pleased. "Good lad."
Turning to face the clump of young foxes, he slid into a looser battle stance to consider his injured leg, his red, black and white brush swishing.
The old fox then lifted his whale ivory cane, and hefted it in his paw like a club.
"You will disperse, pups." he ordered them, his green eyes narrowed and monocle shining, and his scarred face set in a determined scowl. "Or I will mete out the consequences I deem appropriate for your betrayal of Imperial values."

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Cal and her gang seemed to shrink together, grouping up for protection. "Cal, why's 'e comin' after us?" one whined.

"Yeah," another agreed. "'E's a soldier, en't 'e? 'Ey're supposed t' kill kharries."

"I am not Alkamari!" Aran Mateu shouted, baring his teeth at them as he shifted his stance, prepared to move. "You ştop calling me that! I am Miklari. You chould know, I tell you enough times!"

Cal's eyes widened as she assessed the pair together, then she suddenly grinned. "I get it!" she exclaimed. "'Is folks are tailors, en't 'ey? They made a costume fer some ol' drunk an' paid 'I'm t' watch 'eir kit. No real soldier would protec' a kharrie."

"I dunno Cal," one of the foxes said dubiously. "'E still looks like 'e means bizness."

"'E ain' who ya shoul' be scared a'," she snapped, shoving him forward. "C'mon, lads, ya ain' whimpier 'an a old man an' a kharrie, are ya?"

Less emboldened than shamed into action, the foxes reached and pulled knives from their belts, ones that, in a real war, would have made an enemy die laughing at their insignificant size, but for a fledgling street gang were at least respectable. Aran Mateu tightened his grip on his tipal, eyeing his unexpected ally to see how he would respond.

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

The Colonel didn't laugh, merely creased his brow at the dimwitted gangers and their insignificant weapons.
"Heh. Be glad my sabre remains in its sheathe."
The fox shifted his stance slightly, and instead of the advance of a fighter, began walking casually, as if intending to simply walk right through the group of foxes and back onto the main street.
Then, when they were in the reach of his cane, Jere suddenly tensed, bent his knees slightly, and swung out with the cane in a controlled arc for the nearest ganger's face.

 

[Duchess Dusk Rainblade]

The foxes didn't know how to handle his casual advance. A rush, perhaps, they might have responded to, but walking? That left them flummoxed. So flummoxed, in fact, that for a full second after the cane collided with the first todd's face, the rest stood dumbfounded, struggling to process what had just happened.

When their wits finally caught up to them, they moved, three of them coming for the Colonel. Aran Mateu moved quickly to intercept one, his tipal catching the knife. Quickly the marten ran his ganive across the base of the assailant's paw, causing it to spasm and drop the knife. It wasn't a permanently disabling or disfiguring wound, at least not if they were smart and ran to Pyrostoat Memorial Hospital right away. Still, the sight of blood on his blade made him feel queasy, not because of any aversion, but because he knew it signified a broken promise to his mother. He brought his tipal across the beast's wrist for good measure, then turned his attention to guarding the Colonel's back.

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

As the todd fell, the Colonel's cane whipped from its first victim to deflect a blow from another todd's knife.
Sidestepping him, the older fox kicked out at the attacker's legs, before bringing the cane out again for another's jaw.
He was glad the marten was as capable as he'd hoped. Any Miklaran with the courage to wear the clothes of his people in Bully Harbor ought to have known how to defend himself.
The fox wondered why this marten hadn't been doing so earlier. Fear of law enforcement was a good enough reason, but it hurt the Colonel's wounded old heart knowing there were likely other reasons to, reasons born of innocence that the young often held onto as long as they could.
He'd been young once. He'd had family around. He'd had friends. More to believe in than he did now, more than simply a belief in the Imperium and in the instincts of soldiers. He knew. He remembered.
Blood splashed on the cuff of his uniform, and the Colonel heaved a sigh as he dodged another blow.

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

The foxes were beginning to realize that they were outclassed, a thought that terrified them just enough that they foolhardily drove themselves harder. They seemed convinced that their superior numbers would win out if they could only get a lucky blow. As one rolled on the ground clutching at his face where blood ran from a nasty strike to his snout, and another knelt, clutching his paw in pain, it was clear that the fight was turning against them.

Calaisee, fortunately, was smart enough to see it. Having hung back, she could supervise and see just how bad the situation was for her and her crew. Eyes wide, she backed away, then turn and ran, sprinting down the alley.

"Cal!" one of her crew, his voice laced with fear, called after her. Realizing he'd been abandoned, he dropped his knife, putting his paws up in the air. "Alrigh', I yield!" he yelped. His two upright associates, each bleeding from their own beatings, dropped their own weapons, putting up at least a paw each, the others going to cover their wounds.

Aran Mateu's chest heaved, the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He wanted to keep fighting, to strike at his enemy until they no longer moved-

No, he reminded himself. The first rule of combat was to respect one's opponent. An enemy, on the ground or on the field, was a worthy adversary for having fought, and should be treated as such. Aran Mateu straightened up, then winced as he felt a sharp pain at his side. Slipping his tipal into his pocket, he prodded gingerly at the wound. When had he been stabbed? It didn't feel life-threatening, but then, he hadn't felt it at all in the heat of battle.

He glanced to his rescuer, gauging to see how he'd handle the surrender. Vulpinsulans could be a very strange lot in combat, and this one seemed especially strange, albeit in some ways that had benefitted the marten so far.

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

The Colonel lowered his cane. It tapped audibly against the stone as he returned its end to the ground and leaned against it.
His limbs burned, his joints and unhealed injuries ached. He gritted his teeth through the pain.
Do not touch the medicine. Not in front of them.
He clenched his paw to his chest. It began to shake, and he took a deep breath and focused on stilling it.
"Go." Jere told the young foxes. He sounded hoarse, but there was a bite in the old dog fox's tone. "Best you do not bother us again."

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

The foxes hardly seemed to need told twice. Two of them ran, while the rest at least got their compatriots off the ground and helped them to hobble away, all clutching their injuries.

As soon as they were gone, Aran Mateu dared to breathe and regretted it as pain lanced up his side. He looked down, confirming the location of the slash, and carefully probing it. It wasn't deep at all, a cut across the ribcage that fortunately hadn't stabbed past into his lungs. Still, his precious Miklarian shirt was cut, and worse, there was a clear bloodstain growing. If his mother saw it like this, she'd know he'd been out fighting.

"Şir," he stated, trying to distract himself from the pain, "thank you for coming to help me. I... I don't underştand why," he admitted, "but I am grateful." He gave as much of a bow as he could manage without aggravating the wound.

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

The Colonel watched the young foxes leave, and then released a deep exhale of air. The paw clutched to his chest began shaking.
"Hm." he grunted quietly in response to the marten, swallowed, turned to face Aran with a collected look to his face he was actively fighting to keep. "Mustelid, Miklaran... these are just words. If you wish to be an honorable citizen of the Imperium, you are welcome here."
Jere exhaled through his nose, his green eyes weary, and swept his gaze over the Miklaran. The tall todd stiffened upon noticing the wound.
"You are wounded." he said, and shook his paw to help still it.
Taking his jacket, the Colonel tore a length of the green cloth from its edges, and began winding it tightly about the marten's chest, over his injury. "There." he said, when he was done.
His paw slipped into a pocket of his jacket, and a frown creased his rugged features. "Excuse me, son." he said.
He turned away, took a sip of something and coughed, put the something away again.
He wiped his mouth with one of the fanciful kerchiefs, a look of shame briefly passing over his long, pointed face before being swiftly dismissed. "Hgh." he grumbled, and extended a large paw. "I am Colonel Harvon Marcellus Jere of the XVIII Battalion of Pricklee Point, in service to the Empress Amélie and the Vulpine Imperium."

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Aran Mateu's eyes widened as the Colonel tore his jacket, using it to bandage the marten's wound. Well, now he had very little in the way of choice. He'd have to repair the jacket, to make up for the damage done. His parents would surely lose their minds, though, when they'd found out he'd fought back.

A part of him stewed over the Colonel's words regarding his heritage and present situation. It slightly stung that the fox could so readily dismiss his being Miklarian as 'just words'; to him, Miklar was something deeper, not just a place, but a culture and heritage that his parents had fought for, and which, when he was a kit, he'd believed that he would fight for as well. He still wished he could do so, and privately resented his parents for robbing him of that opportunity. As for being a Vulpinsulan citizen, well... Citizen was a Vulpinsulan word, not a Miklarian one. Alkamarians had subjects, beasts to be ruled, but Miklarians had bemchosteãonhchanu, a word that roughly translated to 'defenders'. That his parents had given up that defense shamed him to no end.

As for being Vulpinsulan, well... Aran Mateu had yet to figure out what exactly that meant. His parents claimed that they were Vulpinsulan now, but they folded when he pressed them as to what had changed to make them Vulpinsulan. Living here for a decade of his life hadn't made him feel it yet, after all.

He took a breath before returning the introduction. "I am Aran Mateu Jan Vidal." He offered a paw, then realized it still had blood on it. "My apologies, şir." He retrieved a handkerchief of his own - really just a spare scrap of fabric from his father's shop - and wiped it off before offering it again. "Thank you for your reşcue of me," he stated. "Had you not arrived, I am şertain they would have murdered me." He hesitated before admitting, "I have no way to repay your kindness, but perhaps I can take you to my parents' chop to repair your coat and garments." He gestured limply to the scattered and soiled cloth and tools spread about the alley. "I'm afraid what I have here is in no chape for the purpose."

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

"Hm." Jere said. "I've never had much opportunity to speak with Miklarans in peacetime."
The Colonel seemed distant for a moment, hard memories taking forefront in his mind, shining in his eyes.
Then he gave a nod, and took out his pipe. "Repairing my jacket and providing an old fox some company would be repayment enough." he said, packing the pipe and lighting it with a match.
The Colonel inhaled deeply, and released the white smoke slowly from his mouth as he spoke.
"I'm happy to have done what I could for you, lad. My regret is that such incidents happen at all. It is not the Imperium that I fight for. That my loved ones have died for."
He dropped the match in a puddle, where it fizzed out.

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Aran Mateu moved around the alley, gathering up his family's fallen possessions. He listened as the old fox mused, suspicion growing in his mind that he was right. This fox was certainly a veteran of one of the wars, though he hadn't spoken any Alkamarian or Miklarian yet. That didn't preclude him from being a military intelligence officer, just didn't confirm it either.

At the old fox's lament, Aran Mateu spoke without thinking, the words coming out of his mouth as he tried to dust off the roll of rough sizing fabric. "What Imperium did you fight for then?" He winced as he heard the words, which seemed far too petulant for his intent. "I'm şorry," he apologized. "My meaning was, what goal drove you to war?"

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

The fox gave Aran a hard look, exhaling smoke from his nose before speaking.
He decided he would answer both questions.
The first one the marten asked had a bite to it that seemed to have briefly surprised both of them.
The Colonel figured that one deserved an answer to.
"I fought for the Imperium that welcomed me to Her shores when my own homeland would not have me. I was driven from my old home, a long time ago.
The goal that drove me to war was the defense of my new home, when the dogs of the Coalition descended upon Bully Harbor seeking to tear this land to its foundations and drown the streets in blood."
He'd given the answer so plainly and vividly it was clear it was something he dwelled on often. Ghosts of people and memories that still haunted him.
The fox cleared his throat and spat onto the street. "I have killed many Miklarans. I suppose they thought they fought for their home, I buried them here for mine."
He took a long moment of cold silence, and then with a flick of his splotchy brush and another look toward Aran, one of pity, he said "But I do not hate the beasts of Miklar. Only the ones who brought them here with naked blades. You are here under different circumstances... and undeserving of any blame."

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Aran Mateu listened quietly to the Colonel's reasoning, weighing it carefully. He supposed he should feel grateful that the Imperium had taken him and his parents in after the Miklarian Dons and Thanes had betrayed their own movement for political expediency. Given the history between the Imperium and Alkamar, it would have been reasonable for them to expect to be rejected outright. In that regard, he supposed he ought to feel something more than apathy and resentment toward the Imperium and its leadership.

The recounting of the Winter War, as it had become known on both sides of the Sea of Calamities, stirred Aran Mateu's interest and, surprisingly, a sense of guilt. He felt some obligation to explain why the Alkamarians and their Miklarian troops had come to attack this city, but to be honest, he barely understood it himself. He'd heard a dozen explanations for it, the same explanations given as for why there would inevitably be a next war. Some had said that war was simply the Miklarian way, a path to proving one's worth before arriving at the Hellgates, whereupon the true battle would begin. The less theologically inclined stated instead that, developing in a land with such a harsh climate, scarcity bred conflict, which over time became tradition. Others said that it was simple self-preservation: the riches of Alkamar were only accessible through the rough Miklarian terrain, so any invasion would inevitably be fought primarily in Miklar. Preventing such an invasion, with all of the humiliations and depredations that came with occupation, necessitated a preemptive strike to disable one's enemy.

In the end, none of the explanations was sufficient to solve what truly bothered Aran Mateu: that the vast majority of his people willingly fought for the Alkamarians. He couldn't reconcile that willing act of mass treachery with what he remembered of his homeland. It poked at a concept he didn't want to consider: that maybe his people felt no desire for independence anymore.

He didn't speak at first, instead starting to walk, moving slowly and waiting for the fox to keep up before falling into step with him. The marten finally figured out the shape of the question that had been bothering him. "If the Imperium were to invade your homeland," he inquired quietly, "would you go fight in the attack?"

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

The old todd thought on this awhile, his cane clicking against the cobblestones as they walked, and he thought of an answer.
It was a hard question, one he'd asked himself before but had never had any decent answer for.
The Colonel had family still in Mesmeros, had visited them in the 1740s after the horrors of the Winter War had left him drained and just wanting to... "go home."
His sister, then a minor politician and army officer, had told him directly that he was welcome to stay, that she could even try and get him his old job back, find him a villa in the countryside where he could live luxuriously among his family's vineyards when he wasn't training the next generation of Mesmerene warriors. And when he'd die, he'd be burned on a pyre so his ashes could mix with the earth of his ancestors.
Jere had humbly refused, and after an extended break from the Imperium in which he was surrounded by people like him and food and customs he'd long missed, felt compelled to return to the foggy and troubled streets of Bully Harbor.
So he did, and joined the Imperial Army.
Few knew this, but the Colonel had a niece and a small company of Mesmerene mercenaries he'd requested special permission to allow as part of his battalion. His niece led the company, and he his niece. They had a strained relationship, but one that was developing.
Some days, Jere'd swear Reia was even warming up to him. It brought him great pride and joy to drill her and fight alongside her, his latest link to his homeland of origin, one last tie to a home he now barely knew.
When he fled that prison for a ship to Bully Harbor, he'd told himself he'd be back.
Now he'd been a part of the Vulpine Imperium for most of his life. Nearly forty years! Was Mesmeros even his homeland anymore? When was the last time he'd gazed upon the clear waters of the Mirror Sea, eaten laska fish and brown rice, participated in the Ecclesia, prayed to the sun?
No, he was an Imperial now. He quaffed Bully Harbor vintage, ate mystery pie, went to the Opera, and drilled Imperial troops whilst dressed in an Imperial uniform and bearing an Imperial colonel's insignia on his breast.
He was Colonel Harvon Marcellus Jere, not Colonel Gellus Taïrr.
The Colonel heaved a heavy sigh, keeping his slitted eyes on the path ahead of them. "I would fulfill my duties as a Colonel of the Vulpine Imperium and as a loyal subject of Her Empress. So yes," he said. "I would."