Author's Note: Did not expect to have this chapter ready already, it kinda just happened.
Enjoy this early present from your Archon, as sleep claims me...
The tablet vibrates within the marshal's hand, his eyes examining the screen in response.
Private Contes: Took you long enough.
Noël's finger taps on the screen at various points.
Général Winter: Kept vous waiting, huh?
The next hum follows swiftly.
Private Contes: Hilarious. And so you're aware, I'm not a wolf.
The marshal's face assumes, at first, a look of confusion. But it rapidly fades and evolves into a worried demeanor as the realisation at what is meant by this occurs to him. Somehow, Le Soldat knew what he had said to Edouard, just Edouard, in this tent. While he attempts to mentally figure out how he could know such a thing, what to respond with, and how to prevent future surveillance into what should be a completely private setting, the tablet emits another reverberation.
Private Contes: Before you ask, no, your tablet is not bugged and Edouard is not a spy. But yes, I know what you said. As for how? I have my "méthodes". Are you available to meet right now?
Noël is suddenly thrust onto his back foot with those last seven words, he is now in someone else's domain.
Général Winter: Oui. I hope you have a location préparé.
Private Contes: You hurt my feelings, I thought you'd see me as smarter than that? Go into the forest, alone and facing directly west. Walk 4,224 paces, I will be waiting. And when I say walk, I mean walk. If I spot anyone else, I won't be there, so unless you want to waste half an hour of your time, and mine, be alone.
Général Winter: Making a vieux man walk in the woods all by himself? You should be ashamed, didn't your mère teach you any manières?
Noël begins preparing for the walk, putting on a grey overcoat, a pair of weathered and tainted white leather gloves, and dons his signature bicorne, a throwback to a time older than even himself, but a welcome one nonetheless for many of his comrades. Edouard enters the tent, having left to fetch reports from a quartermaster on the artillery, and as he observes Noël and his clothing, the tablet vibrates once more.
"Maréchal, why are you dressed, are we to head somewhere?"
He grabs the tablet and reads the message.
Private Contes: Don't push it
That's strange, he isn't sure what had caused such a reaction. Le Soldat had always been happy to banter with the marshal, hell he was the one who began such a trend, with Noël originally sticking to formality in messages. He raises his head and faces the jackal.
"Correction, I am to head somewhere. Alone. Stay here and maintenez down the fort. I'll be back soon."
The jackal, clearly confused, closes the distance.
"Maréchal, is this to do with Le Soldat? If so, I implorer you to not do so. If something were to happen to you, this entier armée, non, this entier mouvement would fracture. I mean, just look at what happened between Montcalm and Beric just a half heure ago. The pride of the ALM were at each other's throats like sanguinaire sauvages. This is far too dang-"
Edouard quickly stops talking, the raised hand of the marshal commanding him to do as such.
"Edouard, nothing will happen to moi. You told me to not lose faith in the cause, now I ask you to not lose faith in moi."
He places a hand on the jackal's shoulder and gives a firm squeeze, the comforting gesture partially easing him.
"Very well, but if you are wrong then I-"
"You'll what? Réprimander mon cadavre?"
The genial smile on the fox's muzzle prevents Edouard from protesting any more, resigned to simply nodding and getting back to his work. As the marshal prepares to exit the tent, he turns back to the jackal.
"Au revoir, Edouard."
And with that he makes his leave, the chill of the night air blowing on his ash fur. He pulls out a compass and heads west. To everyone in the camp who asks where he is going, they are told that it is to "relieve himself", in order to ensure they won't follow him. He hopes that he would also be walking back into this camp later.
An obscure figure, hidden by the shade and the leaves, stalks the treetops of the forest. He strides between the great wooden towers like a spectre, doing so without a noise, even the breeze is thundering in comparison to him. Then, his eyes adjust their view to the fox treading the brush below. A single thought comes to the mind of this phantom.
There you are
His eyes break their watch on the fox below and scan farther afield, looking for any signs of followers. He brings an apparatus to his eyes and quickly activates their night vision and then, after a minute of searching, switches to thermal and continues to look for any blobs of heat that aren't from mother nature. While doing so, he pulls out a device from a pocket on his belt and turns it on, waiting for a third dot to appear, it doesn't. Satisfied, he puts the handheld device and apparatus away and moves westward, moving right above the fox and without him being any the wiser.
Noël brings his left wrist into view, reading the hands on the watch.
About twenty-sept minutes, almost there. This had better be the real deal.
As he raises his head he stops dead in his tracks, for a figure stands a few feet in front of him. However, this figure is certainly not what he was expecting, being a few inches shorter than him. He couldn't really make out any details due to the trees blocking much of whatever light the Moon could provide. But before he could say anything, the figure speaks.
"You are alone, good. It's a rare thing to find someone who can be trusted to do as asked in a situation as risky as this."
Once more Noël is surprised, for the voice emanating from the figure is not the voice of an experienced and dedicated fighter, instead reminding him of many youths in his army.
"I see, you're probably shocked. After all, I'm not exactly what you were expecting, I assume."
Noël quickly snapped back to the situation at hand, it seems he has gone on a train of thought for too long.
"I cannot deny that fact. So, you are Le Soldat?"
"Indeed, I am."
The figure steps forth, shedding more light onto his frame, revealing ochre fur, azure irises, and something else, something that sends Noël for a spin unlike anything else this night has. His mind races through many thoughts with great speed.
Non. Certainement not. Is he not one of them? But who else could have-
The marshal's thoughts are abruptly cut off by the boy before him, behind him two tails, each ending in a white tip, sway side to side rather gracefully.
"Oh, and not only am I not a wolf, I have two, not one."
He is as a mute.
"Do they disturb you? My apologies if that's the case, can't really do anything about that, sadly."
Noël decisively shakes his head to show his disagreement with the statement and then speaks.
"You are Monsieur Tails, of the Freedom Fighters of Acorn."
Though it isn't a question, the boy quickly answers.
"Yes, I was. Though you can call me Miles Prower."
Suddenly all the minor odd things add up at once to Noël, right down to the name he had used to communicate in their messages; Private Contes, Private Tales. And then, the reason for his anger at his last message unveils itself bare to his mind. He feels like smacking himself in the face for not figuring it out sooner, though in his defence it would take a good amount of deducing to come to this conclusion.
"But you are a guerrier of the Acorns, you have amis who are membres of the famille royale, and Acorn supports the Mercian monarchie. Why have you been aider us? I do not comprendre this…"
The boy walks over to a fallen log and sits on it.
"It's a long story, Marshal, and I promise you, I'll be sure to tell you it. But right now, all you need to know is that things changed, I had a difference of opinion in a lot of things, important things, and I left. I saw a cause that I could truly get behind here in Mercia as well as the chance to finally do things my way, without fear of alienating anybody, to prove I was right. And now that you're about to win this war, I think I can safely say I was. And now, I want to join you, as I always have."
"Monsieur Prower, why didn't you joindre us earlier?"
The boy looks away from the marshal, giving no answer.
"Fine, I won't interroger you on that matter any further. But I have other questions. I know how the Freedom Fighters do not encourager the killing of their ennemis even in the direst of circumstances, do you understand that such an idea does not existe in our armée?"
The ochre fox stands up with speed that astonishes the marshal and faces him.
"Understand? No, I fully agree with such a stance. As I said, I had a difference of opinion with them on a lot stuff, how we-"
He stops himself for a split second.
"They, conducted themselves in battle was certainly one of them. And before you say anything regarding my age, you may see me as just a boy, but know this Marshal, I've been fighting my entire life. I was born the day that Robotnik plunged my world into war and I had killed more mobians when I was eight than you have in all your near five decades. I know what it's like to take a life, and I'm prepared to do that for the people of Mercia."
Noël is, although somewhat shocked, rather impressed with the answer given. Not just in its content, but in its delivery, for it is imbued with a great fervor, but not the usual eagerness of youth, rather it seems like the solid and firm intensity that he would've thought only age could bring about. Clearly, he was wrong. He assesses the two-tailed teen, one hand on his waist and the other stroking his muzzle in contemplation.
"Very well Monsieur Prower, I am convinced of your dévouement to our cause."
He extends a hand out, with the boy grasping and shaking it firmly in response.
"Thank you Marshal, it's an honour to fight for this."
Noël pulls out his compass and is about to open it but the boy speaks before he can.
"East is that way."
His finger pointing to the direction. Noël gives a simple nod of acknowledgement, stowing his compass away, and the two begin the walk back.
"Monsieur Prower, how did you succéder in sneaking up on moi like that? I couldn't hear a sound beyond the blowing wind and the craquer of branches from my own walking."
"Let's just say when remaining undetected is the key to eating your next meal, you learn quick."
"Have you been hunting and fourrage in this forêt?"
"No, I haven't."
The marshal is not completely sure what the boy means by that, at least he hopes he isn't, for the first thing to come to mind is a rather unpleasant thought.
"When can we expecter to coordinate with the rest of your peuple?"
"There are no others. Everything was done by me. As difficult as that is to keep up, that's part of why I was able to remain hidden from both you and the royalists. Best way to keep a secret is to be the only one who knows it. The most involved I got with anyone was you and the proxies I used to acquire some of my more ambitious shipments, whether through purchasing or taking. If you're wondering about funds, beyond the fact that I can, and have been, siphoning funds discretely from the monarchy, I also had a substantial, if neglected, fortune before my departure from Northamer due to patents on many inventions of mine. Though I must admit I've burned through much of it helping you guys."
"Well if you ever desire remboursement I can see to it, if you've got records accounting for all your dépenses, mon garçon."
The boy shook his head but gave a smile, appreciating the gesture.
"No offense, but I think you'll probably be bankrupt once this war is over, without my expenses to worry about on top of it all."
The two share a brief moment of laughter.
"Well then, Monsieur Prower, what rôle in this armée did you have in mind?"
"Nothing in particular. If you want to brand me a grunt, slap a helmet on my head, and throw a rifle into my arms, that's fine by me."
"That would be a waste, non?"
"You'd be surprised at what I can do with whatever I'm given, even if you've already heard about me. The True Blue may get all the headlines but I was often at his side, and that in itself is a feat all on its own."
"Speaking of your amis, do they know that you are here? That you've been helping us?"
The boy looks down, meekly uttering the following word.
"No..."
"Are they looking for vous?"
"It's a safe assumption."
"And if they find you now that you are coming into the open? Will there be problèmes?"
A tense silence befalls, until the boy answers.
"Not of that kind."
"Then of what kind? I do not like being ignorant of something this important."
"The personal kind. The main issue is more how I left, there's a lot of unsaid things between us, they'll want answers, but it's not like I carried out some betrayal."
"There a girl you left behind, mon garçon?"
"You could say so, in a sense..."
They continued walking, getting closer to the camp.
"I š'excuser for what I said, about your mère."
"Don't, you couldn't know, precisely because I didn't want you to. I just wasn't thinking straight when I sent that."
As they make their way through the forest, the marshal suddenly snaps his fingers, catching the attention of the boy.
"What?"
"I've figuré it out."
"This 'it' being?"
"Your rôle, you will be mon adjudant, mon garçon."
At hearing this, the boy immediately stops walking and turns to face the marshal.
"An adjutant? You're gonna have me handling paperwork and bureaucracy when I could be fighting?"
"It's an essentiel tâche, Monsieur Prower."
Anger grows on the face of the ochre fox as he prepares to say something, but the grey renard quickly interrupts him.
"Are you going to insulter your officier supérieur?"
He quickly opens his mouth but the words are caught by his better senses, slowly shutting his mouth and resuming his walk to the camp.
"You learn quickly, mon garçon."
"Geez, thanks da-"
He quickly closes his mouth. He tries to forget it, but now it is too late, he'd been forced to remember his mother earlier, and now he remembers his father as well. Something is building up in his chest and throat, but before it can grow further, his focus shifts to his right, to the source of a firm, warm, and calming grip on his shoulder, that source being the marshal. Somehow inside, things feel alright, and whatever was welling up in him now dissipates. He wants to tell the marshal thank you, for sparing him from it, but he couldn't find the strength to do so. A common occurrence in his life it seems.
The two foxes soon reach the outskirts of the camp and once they are on the relatively clear dirt ground, they stop and turn to each other.
"Bienvenue à bord, Monsieur Prower."