Post by callmedelta on Mar 23, 2024 18:34:06 GMT -5
It was dark outside, the new moon illuminating none of the pitch black darkness. Maurice crept down the stairs, moving entirely by memory. He’d lived in this house all fifteen years of his life. His bag was slung over his shoulder, carrying everything he’d need. A few changes of clothes, a bedroll, some long lasting preserves for the journey, and a drawing Maria had given him, the one personal item Maurice allowed himself in the bag. All he needed now was the rifle on the mantle, and the ammo that was kept nearby.
Creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeak.
The floorboards groaned, and Maurice cringed. The extra weight from his pack must have caused the old floorboards to creak. Either that or --
“Going somewhere, boy?”
The words were accompanied by the strike of a match and an oil lamp being lit. The face of Emmanuel came into view. Maurice’s father. He’d been waiting for Maurice as well. As his eyes adjusted to the light, Maurice could see the Ilucile laying on his father’s lap, cane leaning on the table right beside where the pouch of ammo sat.
“I said, are you going somewhere, boy? I don’t like repeating myself.” The voice was old, gravelly, despite his father only being a forty year old man. Emmanuel glared at his son, and for the first time he’d ever managed, Maurice gave him a glare back. Maurice hated how similar the two were, and he got the feeling from his father that it was mutual. Both had skin on the darker tan side, bordering on the black you might find down further south in Tafatu or the UST. It matched their pure black hair well, though now Emmanuel’s was starting to become salt and pepper from the specks of gray. Besides the lines of age, and the scars on his father’s leg from the accident, the only thing that separated the two was Maurice’s brown eyes, compared to his father’s blue. Maruice got them from his mother.
“I sai--”
“I heard you,” Maurice said, leaving off the ‘father’ that was usually added. Emmanuel caught onto it too. “I’m going to be a soldier.”
“Bullshit,” Emmanuel declared, and they both knew it. “If you wanted to be a soldier, you could have gone last month when the recruiters made their way through town. If you didn’t have the stomach for it then, you could wait until Lucian goes up to Carleau two days from now. You wouldn’t need to steal food from the cupboards and sneak out in the middle of the night. Don’t lie to me, boy.”
Maurice didn’t know why he tried to lie his way out of this, with all the obvious evidence against him. He didn’t know why he didn’t just walk up to his father and pry the gun out of his hands. Maurice was confident that, despite everything the man was, he wouldn’t shoot his own son. Strike him across the face with his cane or the butt of the rifle, maybe, but not shoot. No, Maurice was as much a bullheaded youth as his father was a stubborn old bastard.
“I’m going to be a soldier,” Maurice said. Before his father could retort, he continued. “Against both the Galrans and the Crown.” That line got a reaction out of his father. If anything was going to make his father shoot him, it would be that. “I fight for the real Franerre. I fight for the Contremaitre, for Antoine Claude.” He fought for a better life for his mother, his brothers and sister. And if it would mean a better life for Emmanuel, then so be it.
“Didn’t I teach you better than that, boy?” Emmanuel said. Maruice was sure it was the lamplight reflecting against his eyes, but he almost thought there was an actual gleam to them. “Didn’t I teach you the history of this great nation?”
“You did,” Maurice said, “You gave me the best education of anyone in the village on that matter. And that’s how I know what I’m doing is right.” Emmanuel was one of the teachers at the schoolhouse in the village, since he couldn’t work the fields after the accident with his leg. He didn’t really have any qualifications for the job besides a large library inherited from some rich member of the family, Maurice never really knew the specifics of the situation, but ultimately the PPD overseeing it had more cared about students being taught ‘correct’ rather than being taught right. Correct in this case meaning good little Catholic royalist sheep who would vote for the PPD against those scary, godless socialists in the SNF and support the Crown no matter what.
“I must not have taught you as well as I thought, boy,” Emmanuel said. Maurice gritted his teeth. He hated that word, ‘boy.’ How condescending his father was. Like he had all the answers in the world. “You know what the Royal Family did for this country. They built it from nothing, when this land was still controlled by the Lusatians. They gave us our freedom. And they’ve done a damn good job defending it.” Emmanuel’s tone was softer there, as they both thought of the Notch War. His father’s voice picked back up as he continued. “They did their best despite how we were stabbed in the back. They’re defending us against those Galrans, even now. When we wanted democracy, they gave it to us, setting up the National Chamber. Pah, look where it got us! As soon as the SNF got into power the government couldn’t do anything, leaving us open to where we are now. If it wasn’t for King Dante, may God rest his soul, we wouldn’t have had a government for the past six years.”
For a man who claimed to know so much, he knew so so very little. The village of Couryonne was in the foothills of western Franerre, so close to the big mining areas that some men left the village for a month at a time to work at the mines, sending their pay back for their families. Had Emmanuel not seen when some of those men came home hurt, when one came back as a corpse during the Strikes in ‘27? Had he not seen how Gerard had that vacant somewhere-else look when he came back from Tafatu?
Maurice was done with the argument. The two were butting heads for the sake of it. Neither of them would back off, and both Maurice and Emmanuel knew it. Maurice turned to leave. He had a long way to go to get out of Franerre’s east, but he only had to make it to Carleau. He could find members of the RPG there. As Maurice approached the door, he was surprised by the sound of wood and metal clattering against the floorboards. He turned around in time to see the pouch of ammo being tossed to where the rifle now sat on the floor. It was followed soon after by a bible -- Maurice almost thought it was the family Bible, but now that he thought about it, he recalled Emmanuel giving Gerard a Bible before he left for war, too.
“Here’s your share of the estate, prodigal son. If you’re going to spit in the face of our country, spit in my face, you may as well take it.”
Maurice couldn’t help but notice the phrasing. ‘Prodigal son,’ as opposed to ‘boy.’ Of course he’d quote scripture at Maurice, when Catholicism was just about the one thing they still had in common, besides their looks. “Does that mean I’ll be welcomed back, like the prodigal son? Will you bring out your best robes and kill the fattened calf?”
Emmanuel was silent. Maurice gathered the things, Bible included, and left.
Creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeak.
The floorboards groaned, and Maurice cringed. The extra weight from his pack must have caused the old floorboards to creak. Either that or --
“Going somewhere, boy?”
The words were accompanied by the strike of a match and an oil lamp being lit. The face of Emmanuel came into view. Maurice’s father. He’d been waiting for Maurice as well. As his eyes adjusted to the light, Maurice could see the Ilucile laying on his father’s lap, cane leaning on the table right beside where the pouch of ammo sat.
“I said, are you going somewhere, boy? I don’t like repeating myself.” The voice was old, gravelly, despite his father only being a forty year old man. Emmanuel glared at his son, and for the first time he’d ever managed, Maurice gave him a glare back. Maurice hated how similar the two were, and he got the feeling from his father that it was mutual. Both had skin on the darker tan side, bordering on the black you might find down further south in Tafatu or the UST. It matched their pure black hair well, though now Emmanuel’s was starting to become salt and pepper from the specks of gray. Besides the lines of age, and the scars on his father’s leg from the accident, the only thing that separated the two was Maurice’s brown eyes, compared to his father’s blue. Maruice got them from his mother.
“I sai--”
“I heard you,” Maurice said, leaving off the ‘father’ that was usually added. Emmanuel caught onto it too. “I’m going to be a soldier.”
“Bullshit,” Emmanuel declared, and they both knew it. “If you wanted to be a soldier, you could have gone last month when the recruiters made their way through town. If you didn’t have the stomach for it then, you could wait until Lucian goes up to Carleau two days from now. You wouldn’t need to steal food from the cupboards and sneak out in the middle of the night. Don’t lie to me, boy.”
Maurice didn’t know why he tried to lie his way out of this, with all the obvious evidence against him. He didn’t know why he didn’t just walk up to his father and pry the gun out of his hands. Maurice was confident that, despite everything the man was, he wouldn’t shoot his own son. Strike him across the face with his cane or the butt of the rifle, maybe, but not shoot. No, Maurice was as much a bullheaded youth as his father was a stubborn old bastard.
“I’m going to be a soldier,” Maurice said. Before his father could retort, he continued. “Against both the Galrans and the Crown.” That line got a reaction out of his father. If anything was going to make his father shoot him, it would be that. “I fight for the real Franerre. I fight for the Contremaitre, for Antoine Claude.” He fought for a better life for his mother, his brothers and sister. And if it would mean a better life for Emmanuel, then so be it.
“Didn’t I teach you better than that, boy?” Emmanuel said. Maruice was sure it was the lamplight reflecting against his eyes, but he almost thought there was an actual gleam to them. “Didn’t I teach you the history of this great nation?”
“You did,” Maurice said, “You gave me the best education of anyone in the village on that matter. And that’s how I know what I’m doing is right.” Emmanuel was one of the teachers at the schoolhouse in the village, since he couldn’t work the fields after the accident with his leg. He didn’t really have any qualifications for the job besides a large library inherited from some rich member of the family, Maurice never really knew the specifics of the situation, but ultimately the PPD overseeing it had more cared about students being taught ‘correct’ rather than being taught right. Correct in this case meaning good little Catholic royalist sheep who would vote for the PPD against those scary, godless socialists in the SNF and support the Crown no matter what.
“I must not have taught you as well as I thought, boy,” Emmanuel said. Maurice gritted his teeth. He hated that word, ‘boy.’ How condescending his father was. Like he had all the answers in the world. “You know what the Royal Family did for this country. They built it from nothing, when this land was still controlled by the Lusatians. They gave us our freedom. And they’ve done a damn good job defending it.” Emmanuel’s tone was softer there, as they both thought of the Notch War. His father’s voice picked back up as he continued. “They did their best despite how we were stabbed in the back. They’re defending us against those Galrans, even now. When we wanted democracy, they gave it to us, setting up the National Chamber. Pah, look where it got us! As soon as the SNF got into power the government couldn’t do anything, leaving us open to where we are now. If it wasn’t for King Dante, may God rest his soul, we wouldn’t have had a government for the past six years.”
For a man who claimed to know so much, he knew so so very little. The village of Couryonne was in the foothills of western Franerre, so close to the big mining areas that some men left the village for a month at a time to work at the mines, sending their pay back for their families. Had Emmanuel not seen when some of those men came home hurt, when one came back as a corpse during the Strikes in ‘27? Had he not seen how Gerard had that vacant somewhere-else look when he came back from Tafatu?
Maurice was done with the argument. The two were butting heads for the sake of it. Neither of them would back off, and both Maurice and Emmanuel knew it. Maurice turned to leave. He had a long way to go to get out of Franerre’s east, but he only had to make it to Carleau. He could find members of the RPG there. As Maurice approached the door, he was surprised by the sound of wood and metal clattering against the floorboards. He turned around in time to see the pouch of ammo being tossed to where the rifle now sat on the floor. It was followed soon after by a bible -- Maurice almost thought it was the family Bible, but now that he thought about it, he recalled Emmanuel giving Gerard a Bible before he left for war, too.
“Here’s your share of the estate, prodigal son. If you’re going to spit in the face of our country, spit in my face, you may as well take it.”
Maurice couldn’t help but notice the phrasing. ‘Prodigal son,’ as opposed to ‘boy.’ Of course he’d quote scripture at Maurice, when Catholicism was just about the one thing they still had in common, besides their looks. “Does that mean I’ll be welcomed back, like the prodigal son? Will you bring out your best robes and kill the fattened calf?”
Emmanuel was silent. Maurice gathered the things, Bible included, and left.