Open The Trenches Completed Sins of the Fatherland

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Aran could see the struggle in the Colonel as he grappled with that question. It was not an easy one by any stretch. The answer, in the end, did not surprise him. It was clear that this man's allegiances had transferred, at least in part, to his new country, and his sense of duty demanded obedience to its Empress, however reluctant he might be.

"I have wondered şometimes if I could go to fight in Miklar," Aran Mateu admitted. "I have fantaşized of şweeping in with an army at my back and liberating it from the Alkamari. But if the cost was to şimply trade Alkamar as a master for the Imperium, well... I do not know if that would be better, or worse. From what I hear, the Imperium does not oppress its Westisle şitizens, does not deny them their culture and language. Perhaps that would be better for my people, a distant and abşent master, not a close and cruel one."

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

"One can do worse than the Imperium." the fox said, puffing on his pipe as they got onto the main road, walking past laborers heading to or from work, kits playing hoops and ball, linens being put up on clotheslines, and a ratess sitting plucking a mandolin on the stoop of a derelict house.
"The Imperium certainly does not have a vested interest in punishing the Miklarians. We are made up of many beasts the world over, damaged orphans from a hundred nations. Serve Her, and you are as Imperial as any native-born."
The todd briefly removed his pipe to cough and spit some phlegm out onto the ground. He wiped his mouth on one of the kerchiefs. "The inane opinions of vulpine and native-born supremacists are not common. Why would they be, in a nation that since Her founding has consisted of many species, and beasts from many places? No, Miklar could certainly do worse than join the Imperium. In fact, to see them as comrades, it might even help our citizens forgive them obeying Alkamar... hm. In time."

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Aran Mateu glanced at the Colonel as they walked down the road, heading for his family's shop. He could see it near the end of this row, brightly painted in vibrant yellow. That was a Miklarian color; the yellow star-thistle, which grew so prolifically over the Oldein Mountains, was held close as an emblem of old Miklar, even many of the treacherous thanes still keeping it in their crests. His mother had tested twelve different shades before settling on this one, the one closest to that distant flower's hue.

"Şir," he inquired, his voice quiet and reflective, "what would it take for şomeone like me to join the army? Would a Miklarian-born even be acşepted?"

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

"Hm." The Colonel looked over the humble little shop, painted in its pleasing Miklarian yellow, and felt his heart twinge.
How many of the soldiers who'd met his blade or died under his command came from places like this, from families that loved them and waited with baited breath for their return, only to have their hearts broken and sweet memories tainted? How many irreplaceable bonds have been severed, how many irreplaceable beasts lost, in the wars of the Imperium and its many enemies?
He thought, too, of the natives of Pricklee Point he kept "in line." Good, brave, hardy people whose crime he punished them for was only daring to desite that thing all creatures crave... to taste the sweet nectar of freedom, to live how they wish to and use their land how they please.
He wondered what could be in store for this lad if he did not join the Imperial Army and risk life and limb for far more abstract concepts like duty, glory, honor, loyalty and dignity.
Perhaps a tailor like his parents, with a long life ahead of him so long as fate was kind and the strife of Bully Harbor spared him.
Or he could join the Imperial Army, defend his new home and the interests of Her rulers (good and bad), learn discipline and hone his skill in combat and self-defense.
And if Aran was not cut down too soon, perhaps he really could further help challenge Imperial perceptions of Miklar, as well as better come to appreciate the new home of he and his family.
Perhaps the Colonel could even enter him into the training that'd lead to him becoming an officer, a much safer position, as "safe" as the military could be.
The Colonel wondered if he was convincing himself to lead another kit to an early grave. He swallowed and said "Yes, a Miklarian would be accepted. You would be treated with less trust, and thus be expected to prove yourself more than your native-born comrades... but you would learn much, and in time, perhaps, you could more than challenge their perceptions; but..." he nodded to the store whilst clearing the ash from his bone pipe. "Do you not have aspirations here? Would you not prefer remaining among your loved ones? There is more than one way to prove yourself." The fox tapped the pipe lightly to the side of his head. "Think on this."

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Aran Mateu hesitated, caught by his question. His mind flashed to his mother and father, his lho and mar, and the home they had built there. They loved him dearly, they made sure he was fed and clothed, allowed him to wear his Miklarian styles and kept them in good repair, even when it caused him and them both trouble. When he was sick, his mother made him herring broth - not quite as good as what she'd made in Miklar, but still a comfort food that made him feel sheltered. He knew that they had a good life, that his father had built a good career here, a business with many wealthy clients who paid him well and even showed him a degree of respect. It was a good life...

But it isn't the life I was born to.

Aran Mateu shaped the words carefully in his mouth, finding them one by one and pulling them together. "I love my parents," he admitted. "I know they will be proud of me if I ştay here, become a tailor like my father. They want for me to be şafe above all else. That is why they come here from Miklar, because they foreşee the thanes betray us. They give me a good life here. I know I chould be thankful and şimply obey their wishes, but..."

He shook his head as he admitted to what troubled him. "I feel like a coward if I do not fight," he confessed. "If I let the Alkamari rule our land and no one fights back, then it is my fault. I know I cannot go by myşelf to fight, but I know as well that the Imperium will go to war with them again şooner rather than later. When that happens, I want to be there. I want to be fighting to free Miklar and take it back from Alkamar. If giving it to the Imperium is the price to pay, then I chall pay it."

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

The fox looked over the young one who was so certain on what he wanted, or thought he wanted, at least; Jere knew Aran's mind might change once he was made to part from his family for training, or when he saw combat for the first time... by then, however, it would be too late.
The Imperial Army was not like the Navy, full of rakings and scrapings who could drop in and out of service seemingly whenever it pleased them.
When you made an oath to the Army, you stayed. To leave before your service was up was oft considered an act of cowardice that could very well lead to imprisonment, or worse.
The easiest way out of the Imperial Army once you were in it was on a hospital bed or in a coffin.
Aran may come to see such grim truths some day if he did indeed sign up his name for the land forces of the Empress.
For now, the lad had a fire in him, dreams of freeing his enslaved people and his enslaved homeland from the Alkamarians who once laid waste to Bully Harbor and killed many of Jere's own loved ones. He could not blame him.
"Know, son, that you will not find a war quite as fulfilling as you hope." the old fox said. "And that such things take far more than you will ever get back. It is also difficult to leave the Army once your oath is given, very difficult. You will be expected to stay as long as required. If you still truly wish to do this, I can do what I can to get you a position as a junior officer, if you would have it."

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Aran Mateu looked up at the Colonel, those dark eyes of his growing wide. He was quiet for a moment before he stated, "If I may, şir. I..." He hesitated before stating, "It is not like most beasts to know the difference between an Alkamarian and Miklarian. Most I meet have never heard of our existence. I... I was wondering how it is, that a beast like you chould know şo much about us."

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

The Colonel set his green eyes on the marten. "I was an agent for a time, serving the Ministry of Misanthropy. I fought during the Winter War. There is an important rule in war- know thy enemy. And for a time, pup, Alkamarians and Miklarians were my enemies."
He gestured to the entryway of the tailor shop with a paw. "Lead the way, pup."

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Aran Mateu looked up sharply, his suspicions confirmed outright. De do bem MAUL. He wondered if this fox knew the fear his kind inspired in the Miklarians. He wondered if the Colonel had participated in it.

Aran Mateu nonetheless pushed open the door to his parents' shop. It was beautifully appointed, the result of many years of hard work. Beautiful dresses of chiffon and silk, in styles ranging from the conventional to the innovative, lined cubbies and shelves set along the left wall, while male's fashion in a similar range occupied the right. Two martens, both with dark eyes like their son's, but dressed in fashion appropriate to working-class Vulpinsulans, a neat shirt, vest and trousers for Mr. Jan Vidal, a comely teal dress for his wife, were minding the shop, cataloging the bolts of fabric and cutting a large square of silk meant to be shirred to size.

As their son and the fox walked in, the pair looked up, and Mr. Jan Vidal approached. His broad smile vanished as he saw the wounds on his son's face, the swollen and split flesh, and small remnants of blood he hadn't quite manage to clean. "Due clam!" he exclaimed, running forward as his wife hurried to join them. "Lherce cle vio us ques?"

"Mar," Aran Mateu assured him as his mother poked over his face carefully. "Brar do granh. Tenis cle do co anh cais." He gestured to the fox beside him, switching to Vulpinsulan. "This kind şir rescued me. This is Colonel Jere."

The elder Jan Vidal stepped forward and gasped the Colonel's paws with two, tears in the corner of his eyes as he shook it. "Tank you şir, şo kindly!" he exclaimed. "I owe you gřatitude debt!" It was clear by his father's accent that, despite Aran Mateu's political leanings, he had acclimated to the Vulpinsula far more than he'd realized. The man looked quickly over the Colonel's jacket and hastened to offer, "Please, şir, I am fixing your coat! It is tanks for you."

His wife looked up, adding, "And I will make you tea and benques lhans," referring to the crisp, puffy sweetbreads ubiquitous across eastern Miklar. "Please," she invited, "you aře ouř guest."

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

The old fox looked pleasedly over the little shop, its pretty clothes, its neat, organized chaos, his brush tail wagging slightly.
As he walked to the center of the room, he took a deep breath, taking in the scent of the dresses, shirts and trousers, the bolts of silk, flax and cotton, the sturdy wood.
It was reassuring, being in such a peaceful place.
The Colonel's muzzle twitched, the ghost of the slightest smile, seeing the care of the lad's parents. He tucked his bicorne hat under his arm and bowed to them. "A privilege, gentlefolk." he rumbled humbly.
His smile then quickly faded, as his thoughts drifted.
Jere had done much harm in his efforts to defend the Imperium. M.A.U.L. was not an organization for good people. They targeted civilians and supply chains just as readily as they did soldiers, anything to bring the Coalition to heel. He hurt plenty of Miklarians, many not unlike Mr. and Md. Jan Vidal.
A part of the todd felt foul being in this place, this sanctuary, a murderous intruder blown in like an evil wind to take their son to danger.
The rest of him was glad to see the Jan Vidals here anyway, and to have the opportunity to know Miklarians in peacetime rather than solely in war.
To welcome them to the world and style of living he defended so lustily.
"You owe me no debt, brother. Aran is a good lad...repairs, however, I will gladly take and pay you for. Thank you."
The tall fox removed the medals carefully from his chest, and then slipped out of the green jacket to the darker green shirt beneath.
He folded the jacket and gave it to Aran's father, and actually smiled at the offer from Aran's mother.
"And I will gladly accept that. Thank you, madam. Long has it been since I've found myself a guest in such charming company. You honor the Colonel Jere."

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

"It is ouř ğouř... ouř ğoř... ouř ğon-eř," Md. Jan Vidal overpronounced at last as she navigated a set of phonemes not in her native tongue, blushing a little at her fumble. Trying to save some face, she busted away to the kitchen in the back of the shop while her husband carefully placed the injured coat on a tailor's mannequin and began to adjust the segmented pieces to size with a few turns of the screws.

Aran Mateu, for his part, moved quickly to a small table at the side of the shop, one with a white lace tablecloth folded into a long strip across the middle and a box of Alton Bay cigars atop it, and moved it into the center of the room, in a place of primacy. He took one of the chairs that sat beside it, providing a space for a supportive friend or a unwittingly recruited spouse to relax during a fitting, and moved it to be positioned with its back to one of the walls, giving the Colonel a space to sit with line of sight to both sets of doors while also observing the repairs to his coat. "Please," the younger Miklarian invited, "şit. I will go help lho clam in the kitchen." He hurried away, seemingly eager to be of use.

The elder Mr. Jan Vidal chuckled as he combed the fabric of the jacket with a small hare-bristle brush, carefully moving with the threading as he refreshed its luster. "So many medals," he commented. "You must be anh deplim jinsoive - gřeat ğeřo of nation."

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

"Thank you, pup."
The Colonel sat, feeling more important in that shop than at any point in his career while in the company of noblefolk or high-ranking officials.
He selected a cigar from the box, snipped the tip with a utility knife, and lit it, puffing gratefully as he relaxed in the comfortable chair and watched an artisan at work.
The fox's medals he tucked in a belt pouch at his side.
"Hm." he grunted, taking a moment to blow a white smoke ring and tap a bit of ash out. "Some do think so, sir. I am less certain. I wear them because I have earned them, and so I do not forget those comrades who were lost whilst I earned those... glittery things. I would much rather have them."
The old fox cast a glance over the marten, blew another cloud of smoke. "But thank you, sir, nonetheless. I take it you and your charming family have come to these shores seeking a better life. Might I ask- have you found it?"

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Mr. Jan Vidal chuckled at the question. It seemed to be a common mannerism to him, almost his default; there was a joviality to the man not to be found in his more serious son. "Yes yes şir!" he confirmed enthusiastically. "De Vulpine Impeřium is veřy good to us. De beasts ğere are true benclãosenrmão - ah, gentlebeasts, şir. Şo kind to my family, şo generous. De Impeřium taked us in when we can go'ed nowheře else. I only wich..." He stopped, then waved his paw, embarrassed. "Do bas pons tra brenhs, is no ting. Wheře you are fřom, good şir? You are vulpinşuli?"

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

The Colonel tipped his head and took another pull on the cigar, curious about what the jovial marten intended to say but pleasantly surprised at his appreciation.
"Yes." the fox said in a puff of smoke. "But not originally. I hail from a place called Mesmeros, an island nation far to the west of here. We are..." he shrugged, turned his paw a bit in a humble gesture. "...not so different. You and I. Mesmeri and..." he hesitated, but only a moment, to assure himself this was truth rather than merely an attempt at kindness. It sounded strange to even himself, uncomfortable... but the truth was like that sometimes "... and Miklari." he said with a slight wince in his tone and a sigh.
He pointed to the clothes, the shirts, the dresses. "My cousin, Notalma, she made such things. Beautiful things, with flax and fish-skin, sea-stone and pearl. Her craft... never received the recognition it deserved."

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Mr. Jan Vidal chuckled sympathetically at the elder's recollection as, having found a fabric to match the damaged section of the Colonel's coat, he began pinning and folding it around the damage, measuring out the fabric needed. "Making beautiful tings is de highest job afteř wařřioř in Miklař. Is de šame in Alkamař, but dey make basprãous... Eřm, no use? Tings of no use foř beauty. Miklaři, ouř ařt is many uşes."

"Useful, Mar," Aran Mateu corrected his father softly as he came in, carrying a full tea service. He set it on the opposite side of the small table, busying himself with pouring the tea. He glanced to the Colonel, hovering his paw over a small pitcher and sugar bowl and raising his brows for cues as to whether he would like cream and sugar, and followed the Colonel's gestures and expressions accordingly. "You must miss Mesmeros greatly," he commented, finishing up the cup of tea and setting the cup and saucer before the Colonel. "Have you any family here?"

Mr. Jan Vidal chuckled from where he was cutting the bolt of fabric to length, leaving the segment he'd pinned to the coat. "Handşome offişeřs can find family eaşy! Unifořms like dis, benve ria plem dunr benflais us anh bunh vil."

Whatever he'd said made Aran Mateu blush a bit through his ears. "Mar," he softly reminded his father of the propriety of the moment. He looked to the Colonel apologetically. "It was a compliment," he loosely translated.

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

The Colonel thanked the lad and took a careful sip from the tea, letting it soothe his throat in between the puffs on the cigar. It was a fine beverage, but only further added to his growing... spiritual disagreement.
A veteran of M.A.U.L., welcome in the home of Miklarians.
For all his talk of Imperial welcome and acceptance, he was still finding it hard to shed his old prejudices, not feel the old twinge in his heart or twitch in his swordpaw. He felt like a monster among these people, a black specter, deceptive, wicked, unsuspect, with a dagger at paw, and a monster he knew he was. Had to be, or so he believed.
"I do miss Her, sometimes," the fox said, his voice taking on a hard edge as he rose from his seat and looked momentarily into the flushed youth's black eyes, speaking evenly.
"All my kin yet reside in Mesmeros in some way or another, excepting my niece. She is with my battallion at Pricklee Pointe. Perhaps you will join her there, if indeed you wish to prove yourself to your new home. Go to the Her Majesty's Army Recruitment Office of Bully Harbor and sign yourself on, and I will see you again soon. Mr. Jan Vidal," The Colonel said, turning to him now with a dip of his head, "Thank you. Continue your support of our fine military and you and your family's continued entrenchment in this glorious Imperium. You may send the repaired jacket to my office at the Ministry of War, and I will pay you handsomely for your work."
The fox drew a pawful of gilders from an inner pocket and placed them on the table. "This is for postage."
Colonel Jere then took up his cane, stuck the cigar in his teeth, returned the hat to his head, and made for the exit.
He paused at the door, and smoke poured from his jaws as he issued a final word.
"Oh, and may Her Empress' blessings tumble down upon you like a golden fog."
He strode back out into the street, relieved. They were much too kind. Bloody Miklarians.

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

The Jan Vidal family stood in stunned silence for a moment as the Colonel made a very gracious yet quite abrupt exit. Mr. Jan Vidal looked to his son quizzically, switching back to their native tongue. "What was that about? Did we offend him?"

"I don't know, father," Aran Mateu admitted. "Maybe he had an appointment. Vulpinsulans can be strange beasts sometimes."

"I suppose you are right," Mr. Jan Vidal allowed, returning to his work as his wife brought in a tray full of steaming, fresh benques lhans. She blinked in surprise to see their guard gone already.

"Oh, he left?"

"Yes, mother."

"Already?"

"Yes, mother."

"Oh."

Md. Jan Vidal stood by, disconcerted, as her son approached and took three of the sweetbreads, carefully holding them between his claws. They puffy and crisp, layers of dough surrounding a core of sweet cheese and sliced apple with cinnamon. Aran Mateu took a careful bite, mindful of the temperature. The apple was succulent, the cinnamon providing a perfect counter note to the cheese. He carried his haul back over to the table, setting them on a plate before pouring a cup of tea for himself. He'd missed his lunch, after all, and now found himself ravenous.

Mr. Jan Vidal critically examined the repairs to the coat, currently pinned in place. "It will have a seam," he noted. "Perhaps I should use some gold cord to conceal it. I can run the piping along the rest of the edges too. It might not be regulation, but soon everyone in the army will be wearing it that way."

"I'm sure they will, father." Aran was quiet as he ate, considering the Colonel's words, ones that had flown over his father's head in his rapid exit. The Colonel had warned him against enlisting, yes, but he'd still left that invitation out there. Aran Mateu considered his future if he stayed where he was: taking orders from rich beasts all day, bowing and bobbing his head like a meek little servant. The thought made the fur on the back of his neck bristle. He was a descendant of warriors, ones who had fought for a free Miklar. What would they say if they could see him now?

"Mother, father," he stated slowly, waiting as they turned their eyes on him. "I think there's something that I need to tell you."