The Siege of Portland in the Year of Our Lord 2025

nsacpi

nsacpi

Expects Yuge Games
My Dearest Clara,

I trust this missive finds you in better spirits than we, for the siege continues without relief. The city lies shrouded in smoke and confusion, and though the enemy is less an army than a restless multitude, still the conflict bears all the wearying marks of a campaign. The men grow disheartened, not by the foe alone, but by the fare. Day after day they are issued nothing but sacks of gluten-free granola. I swear to you, dearest, a soldier’s courage may hold beneath shot and shout, but it falters before another bowl of dry oats without butter or bread.

The officers strive to maintain order, though the cause for which we are arrayed is ever obscured, shifting like a banner in the wind. President Trump, our commander in chief, issues proclamations that echo as thunder, yet leave us uncertain whether we defend liberty, law, or but his vanity. The men murmur that they march against their own countrymen, and that Portland is less a battlefield than a quarrel in the family brought to blows.

Still, I take comfort in the thought of you. Each evening I recall your voice, as if it were a hymn carried over the din of drums. Hold fast, Clara, as I endeavor to hold fast here, though my heart longs more for your gentle company than for any glory this strange campaign might bestow.

I remain, with enduring affection,
Your devoted husband,
Capt. Nicholas Sacpi
 
My Beloved Clara,

It is with a heavy heart I must report a grave breakdown in discipline amongst the ranks. Not many nights past, the men chanced upon a small Vietnamese establishment, humble in appearance yet rich in fragrance and savor. Within its walls were served wondrous dishes — bánh mì of crisp bread and savory meats, steaming bowls of phở whose broth seemed to restore the soul itself. At first, relations with the proprietor were cordial, for he greeted the men with kindness and dignity, and the soldiers, weary of their diet of gluten-free granola, received his offerings with gratitude.

Alas, hunger and temptation soon overcame restraint. What began as honest commerce ended in disarray, the men pressing in greater numbers, clamoring without coin, until at last they laid hands upon his wares with scant regard for honor. Thus was his shop relieved of its treasures, not by hostile shot but by the baser appetites of our own company. Though some would excuse this excess as the natural consequence of weeks subsisting on dry oats and seeds, yet I cannot but lament it as a stain upon our cause.

There is bitter irony, dear Clara, in that the very dishes the men despoiled are fruits of a previous war — one fought in a distant land, whose sorrows drove many Vietnamese to seek new life upon our shores. They came with grief but also with gifts, enriching Portland and indeed all the nation with their industry, their culture, and, most tangibly, their cuisine. That such a legacy should be dishonored by soldiers who ought to guard the nation’s dignity pains me deeply.

Pray for us, Clara, that order may yet be restored, and that our service may not end as a reproach upon the flag we swore to uphold. In these troubled days I draw what comfort I can from thoughts of your steadfast heart, and I long for the day when no cause shall keep us apart.

I remain, ever yours,
Capt. Nicholas Sacpi
 
Dearest Nicholas,

Your letter has stirred a righteous indignation within me, and I find myself profoundly dismayed by the conduct of our soldiers. That they would stoop to pilfering from a Vietnamese establishment—however fragrant its offerings—bespeaks a deplorable lapse in discipline. While I concede that weeks of subsisting on meager rations may test a man’s restraint, there is no excuse for such lawlessness. Our men are to be exemplars of American virtue, not brigands looting foreign wares like common ruffians.

Yet, Nicholas, I must confess my greater concern lies with the presence of these Vietnamese proprietors in our midst. Their “humble” shops, as you describe, are but a foothold—a subtle encroachment upon our nation’s character. You speak of their cuisine as a gift, their industry as an enrichment, but I see a deeper peril. These immigrants, borne of a war we fought on their soil, have crossed our borders to plant their alien customs in Portland and beyond. Their bánh mì and phở may delight the palate, but they represent a culture that is not ours, a legacy that dilutes the true American spirit. We cannot allow our nation to be reshaped by those who, by rights, ought to have remained in their own lands.

Your sympathy for their plight is noble but misguided. The hardships of their past do not entitle them to claim a stake in our future. Our cause is to preserve America for Americans—those who share our values, our heritage, and our vision of a sovereign nation untainted by foreign influence. The soldiers’ indiscretion, though regrettable, pales in comparison to the broader threat of unchecked immigration. We must stand firm, ensuring our borders remain inviolate and our communities free from such intrusions.

I implore you, Captain, to restore order among the ranks and to guard against the seductive allure of these foreign temptations. Our flag demands loyalty, not sentimentality. I pray for your strength in this righteous struggle and for the day when America is reclaimed for its true sons and daughters. Until then, my heart remains steadfastly yours, unwavering in our shared commitment to the cause.

Faithfully,
Clara
 
My Dearest Clara,


Your letter reached me in the gray of morning, and though your words were stern, I felt the warmth of your devotion between each line. It eases my heart to know your spirit is ever with me, even when we differ in our judgments.


I take no offense at your indignation toward the men, for their conduct at the Vietnamese establishment was indeed regrettable. Discipline must be the marrow of an army, else it becomes but a mob. Yet I must remind you, my love, that hunger has ways of bending the stoutest resolve, and many a soldier who would stand unmoved before musket fire will falter before the scent of broth and fresh bread after weeks of dry granola. I mourn their lapse, but I cannot wholly condemn them.


As for the proprietor and his countrymen, I cannot share your apprehension. True, they came here in consequence of a war not fought on our soil. Yet I have seen with my own eyes how their labor, their customs, and yes, their cuisine, have brightened this city. I believe our nation has long been strengthened, not weakened, by those who seek refuge and then plant new roots in American ground. If our flag is to mean aught, it must shelter not only those born beneath it, but those who, in faith and sacrifice, adopt it as their own.


Do not think me unmindful of your fears, dearest. I know your concern springs from love of country as well as of me. But I would have us guard against hardness of heart, for that too can corrode the soul of a nation. The measure of America is not how tightly we shut our gates, but how nobly we extend our promise.


Take courage, Clara. These trials, like all others, will pass. When I return to you, I pray we shall sit at our own table once more — and whether it be with stew of your making or some foreign dish carried here from afar, we shall give thanks not for the meal alone, but for the blessing of sharing it together.


Your ever devoted,
Nicholas
 
My Dearest Nicholas,


Your words, as ever, are written with gentleness of heart, and I cannot but feel your love even when you stand in opposition to me. Yet I must be plain: your lenience toward these foreigners troubles me more than the soldiers’ indiscipline ever could.


You write that America’s promise is strengthened by those who arrive upon our shores, bearing customs alien to our own. But I fear, my beloved, that such thinking is the very seed of decline. A nation cannot be all things to all peoples. Our flag is not a garment to be stretched until it loses its shape, but a sacred standard under which those born of our soil must be preserved in their birthright. Compassion has its place, but when it blinds us to the dangers of unchecked arrivals, it ceases to be virtue and becomes folly.


I do not deny that their soups may be fragrant, their breads delightful. But beneath such temptations lies a subtler conquest — a creeping remaking of our towns, our tables, our very sense of who we are. You see enrichment; I see erosion. And I cannot stand idly by while what is uniquely ours is leached away, spoonful by spoonful, until America is but a shadow of itself.


You urge me to guard against hardness of heart. I tell you, my love, it is precisely a firmness of heart we must now possess. For if we surrender it, if we open every gate in the name of charity, we risk leaving our children a country unrecognizable, a patchwork where once there was unity.


Know that my resolve does not diminish my devotion to you. I pray for your safety each night and for the swift end of this campaign. Yet I pray too that when you return, you shall see the peril I see — that love of country sometimes demands not softness, but vigilance.


Ever yours, in affection and in conviction,
Clara
 
My Dearest Clara,


I write to you once more from this unsettled post, where each day resembles the last, and the men grow weary of chasing shadows. We are charged with rooting out the band called antifa, yet for all our marching through alleys and squares, we grasp at little more than rumor and smoke. The foe proves as elusive as mist at dawn — everywhere spoken of, yet nowhere to be seized. The soldiers, deprived of action worthy of their valor, grow restless, their spirits gnawed by boredom more than by battle.


In the midst of such futility, Providence has granted a small mercy. The men have discovered a Salvadoran eatery, modest in its setting yet rich in comfort. There they encountered pupusas — warm cakes of maize filled with meat, cheese, and beans. To see the soldiers, who but a week ago sulked over bowls of granola, now brightened by this simple fare, was to witness a revival of their spirits. Some jest that the stuffing of one pupusa has done more for their morale than a dozen of the President’s proclamations.


Nor is it food alone that has lightened their mood. A number of local young women of Latin descent have taken kindly to the men, and in the evenings they have gathered in the courtyards, teaching them the steps of dances they call salsa and bachata. Imagine, Clara, our rough soldiers, boots clumsy upon the cobblestones, yet laughing as they strive to follow the quick turns and graceful motions. It is a curious sight, and though no drill manual prescribes such movements, the exercise has restored more discipline and cheer than many a stern order from the officers.


I confess, Clara, that in such encounters I see no peril but only fellowship. It is true, as you have written, that we must guard our nation’s character; yet I find myself pondering whether that character is not best preserved by showing grace to those who, though born in distant lands, now labor and rejoice among us. If their bread can strengthen the weary soldier, and their music lift him from despair, do they not in some sense already belong?


But enough of disputation. Know above all that my heart remains bound to you. Though this campaign stretches in weary length, I endure it with the thought that each passing day brings me closer to the moment I may sit again at our own hearth, at peace, with you.

Your devoted husband,
Capt. Nicholas Sacpi
 
My Dearest Nicholas,


Your letter has again stirred my soul, though not with comfort. While I rejoice that you are yet in health, I cannot but be troubled by the accounts you send. You speak of your men eating foreign breads and partaking in strange merriments, and my heart grows heavy with foreboding.


That they should turn from granola to those Salvadoran cakes, I might forgive, for a soldier’s stomach is not easily pacified. But these dances you describe — salsa and bachata, you call them — I find them most alarming. Such displays are not innocent diversions, Nicholas, but snares for the flesh. They entice with rhythm and laughter, yet underneath lies a corruption that will undo the discipline and virtue of your company. Once men give themselves to such gyrations, they grow unfit for the solemn duties of arms. The very beat of those dances seems fashioned to stir the blood and to mimic the unchaste excitements of the bedchamber; their rhythm is but a schooling in promiscuity.


I fear the influence of these local women, who cloak temptation in the guise of fellowship. Mark me well, my beloved: no good can come from soldiers allowing their bodies to be led in such motions, nor their spirits to be lulled by foreign melodies. These corruptions are more dangerous than any enemy you hunt, for they attack not the body, but the soul.


You say that America grows stronger by such influences; I say it grows weaker. Our men ought to find their solace not in alien customs, but in the steadfast memory of home, and the prayers of their wives who wait for them. Hold fast, Nicholas, to that which is pure and true. Do not let your heart be softened toward what will only lead astray.


I remain, as ever, devoted to you, though resolute in my convictions. May God keep you from temptation and preserve you for the day of your return.


Faithfully yours,
Clara
 
My Dearest Clara,


Be not alarmed, my love, by my mention of the dances. I hold myself ever constant to you, and none of these diversions shall lead my heart astray. Yet, since you so roundly condemn them, permit me to explain their nature, that you may judge more fairly.


The dance called bachata is simple, almost rustic in its motion. One steps three paces to the left — small, measured, no greater than the span of a boot — and then taps the foot upon the fourth count. Then three paces to the right, ending once more with a tap. The body sways gently, as a tree moved by a soft wind, and the pattern repeats. There is no wild leaping, no riotous stamping, but only this steady to-and-fro, accompanied by the strum of guitars. Indeed, the men jest that it is more a walking in rhythm than a true dance at all.


I tell you this not to entice, but to reassure: it is harmless exercise, and has lifted the spirits of men who, before, lay sullen in their tents. If their hearts are lightened and their discipline restored by such simple measures, I cannot but regard it as a blessing.


Still, know that my own steps, whether to the left or to the right, ever lead me back to you. When I return, it shall be not with foreign rhythms in my head, but with your name on my lips and your image in my heart.


Your devoted husband,
Capt. Nicholas Sacpi
 
My Dearest Nicholas,


Your last letter, though meant to soothe, has roused more questions in my breast than it has quieted. You write so blithely of this bachata — three steps to the left, three to the right, a gentle sway as of trees in the wind. But you do not tell me with whom you tread these steps, nor how near you draw to her in the measure.


I must know, Nicholas — do the men dance alone, or do they clasp these women in their arms as the music bids? Are they but inches apart, faces turned toward one another, hearts near enough to hear their beating? For if such be the manner, then I say it is no innocent pastime, but a dangerous intimacy cloaked in merriment. You may call it rustic or simple, yet I cannot banish from my thoughts the picture of soldiers pressed close to strangers, swaying together beneath foreign tunes.


I do not doubt your love for me, my husband, but I will not make light of temptations that have shipwrecked many a man’s virtue. Tell me plainly, Nicholas: who are these partners, and how closely do you hold them? My peace depends upon your candor.


I remain ever yours, yet watchful,
Clara
 
My Dearest Clara,


Since you demand the truth in plain words, I can no longer soften nor sidestep, but must confess the matter as it stands. Yes, the dance of which I wrote — the bachata — is not performed alone. It is a dance of partners, man and woman, and the steps, though simple, are set face to face. The hand rests lightly upon the other’s arm or shoulder; sometimes, if the partners are bold, upon the small of the back. The sway brings them near, though not in an embrace as lovers might know, yet closer than soldiers’ wives would choose.


I will not deny that the music lends a certain warmth, nor that the women smile as they guide the men. But I swear to you, Clara, that for me it has been no more than an amusement, a diversion to lift spirits in this season of tedium and gloom. I hold no woman in my arms but you in my heart. Each step, however near to another in the dance, is taken only to pass the time, not to trespass upon the vows I made before God and before you.


The truth is this: the men, long starved of comfort, find in such moments a reminder that life holds joy even amidst the smoke of unrest. Were you here, it would be your hand I would take, your eyes I would meet, your step I would match. Absent that blessing, I have moved as lightly as I could, and thought of you at every turn.


I pray you will forgive me, not for betrayal — for in that I am guiltless — but for concealing at first what I now lay bare. May my candor restore the trust my earlier reticence unsettled.


Ever and only yours,
Capt. Nicholas Sacpi
 
My Beloved Nicholas,


Your words wound me more sorely than any bullet of the enemy could pierce your flesh. For though you protest innocence, you speak of steps and sways, of hands resting upon women not your wife, of music that quickens the heart and stirs the blood. Do you not see that such things are but snares of the Tempter? Our forefathers, stern and godly, knew well the peril of unchecked merriment, the way a jig or a reel might rouse the flesh and lead souls from the narrow path. If they shunned even harmless pleasures, shall we now welcome dances born of foreign lands, steeped in rhythms that awaken passions best left sleeping?


You say you thought of me with every turn, yet even that confession chills me, for I would not have my image entwined with such carnal motions. The Puritans built this nation on restraint, on the suspicion of the body and its unholy appetites. It was not laughter and swaying hips that brought us through the wilderness, but prayer, fasting, and sobriety of conduct.


I fear for the men under your command. What discipline remains if they learn to take joy in such sensual practices? Will not the boundary between soldierly duty and fleshly indulgence soon collapse? And when it does, who shall answer for the ruin of their souls?


I beg you, Nicholas, abandon this so-called bachata. Let your steps be upon the straight and narrow way, not the crooked paths of lascivious delight. Better the monotony of granola than the sweet poison of temptation served with music and dance.


With stern affection,
Your wife,
Clara
 
My Dearest Clara,


Your last letter reached me with the sternness of a winter wind, and I read it with both trepidation and devotion. Your counsel is as always rooted in virtue, and I would not lightly dismiss it. Yet I must speak the truth of what transpires here, lest secrecy breed suspicion greater than any imagined sin.


Among those who have taught the men their steps, there is one of particular note — a young woman of noble bearing and rare wit, whom they call Maria. She is of Ecuadorian descent, and there is a grace to her that has earned her the title of “Princess” in the jocular talk of the men. I do not deny that I have spent time in her company, learning the steps of the bachata under her patient guidance. Her hand rests upon mine as she instructs, and her laughter rings clear in the evening air.


Take heed, Clara, I write this not to inflame jealousy but to be open with you. My heart has never strayed, and it remains fixed upon you. Yet the nearness, the ease with which she moves among us, is such that I cannot pretend the scene is without stirrings of the spirit, nor without a strange fascination. You have always demanded honesty, and so I lay this bare.


Pray, think kindly of me, my love, as I continue to lead the men with care, guide them from temptation, and yet endure the strange delights of this camp. I long for the day when all such distractions are behind me, and I may return to you, my sole and sovereign companion, with no need for apologies save those of absence and delay.


Your devoted husband,
Capt. Nicholas Sacpi
 
Captain Sacpi,


Your letter has frozen my heart as surely as a northern gale. You write of this Maria with a levity most unseemly, speaking of her hand upon yours, of her laughter ringing in your ears, as though such intimacies were of no consequence. Do you not comprehend the shame such words carry? Have you forgotten the vows we swore, before God and man, that no other should stand so near to you in either body or spirit?


You claim to tell me these things in the name of honesty. I say rather that you sought to savor the pleasure twice — once in the doing, and once more in the telling. You thought to reassure me by dressing your confession in fair phrases, yet what I hear is not devotion but betrayal.


Mark me, Nicholas: there is no jest in my tone. To speak of another woman as “Princess” while your lawful wife sits alone, keeping the hearth and bearing the loneliness of your absence, is cruelty masked as candor. Discipline among your men is your charge; discipline of your own heart is your sacred duty. Fail in either, and you cease to be worthy of the command entrusted to you.


I will not rail, nor will I weep. My silence henceforth shall carry more weight than your protestations. Consider carefully where your loyalty lies — with fleeting rhythms in a foreign tavern, or with the covenant sealed before Heaven.


Clara
 
Clara,


Your words fall upon me like ice, and I cannot deny that I deserve their chill. For I have not been immune to the charms of Maria, the so-called Princess of Ecuador. It is true: her nearness has stirred in me feelings I ought to have banished, and her presence lingers even when I return to my tent. She has taught me more than the steps of the bachata — she has placed in my hands the warm pan de yuca, its softness breaking upon the tongue, and set before me bowls of ceviche alive with the sharpness of lime and the brine of the sea.


These things — the music, the food, the fragrance of unfamiliar spices — they pierce the monotony of our barren fare and awaken in the men, and in me, a remembrance that life holds sweetness still. Yet what comfort to admit this, when the very words may cut you deeper than silence ever could?


I remain torn between duty and desire, between the stern covenant of our vows and the intoxicating ease of her company. I write this not to wound you, Clara, but because falsehood would be a worse treachery than truth, however bitter.


Know this: I have not forsaken you. The bond of husband and wife remains unbroken, though tested sorely in this wilderness of unrest and temptation. I pray the Lord grant me strength to master my wandering spirit, and that you, in your righteous severity, might find some thread of mercy yet for your faltering husband.


Yours, though troubled,
Capt. Nicholas Sacpi
 
Nicholas, Son of Sacpi,


You speak of temptations, of bread and of dances, as though such trifles were cause enough to forget the covenant sworn before Almighty God. Do you not remember Israel in the wilderness? When manna was given, they lusted still after the leeks and the flesh-pots of Egypt, and in their murmuring they provoked the Lord to wrath. You are no different, hungering after foreign delicacies while scorning the plain sustenance set before you.


Have you not read how the prophets thundered against Israel when she played the harlot with strange gods? As they bowed to idols of wood and stone, so you now bow your spirit to rhythms and feasts not your own. You call this woman “Princess,” yet she is but a snare. Her laughter is the whisper of Delilah, her delicacies the banquet of Babylon. And you — you who were to be a captain among men — you have let your heart be led astray as surely as Samson shorn of his locks.


The Lord is not mocked, Nicholas. A covenant once broken calls down judgment, not only upon the man but upon his house. Take heed lest you be counted among those who, for a morsel of meat, sold their birthright and brought ruin upon their posterity.


Repent, therefore, and turn from this path before the fire falls. Cast aside the bread of yucca, the bowls of ceviche, and the lascivious sway of the bachata, lest they consume both body and soul. Return to the God of our fathers — austere, jealous, and unyielding — and to the wife whom He joined to you in holy vow.


I remain not as a comfort but as a witness, ready to testify against you should you persist in covenant-breaking.


Clara
 
Hey Clara,


Your words come down heavy, like stone tablets hurled from the mountain. But I can’t walk that narrow, thorny path anymore. I’ve carried the weight of discipline, of law, of covenants made in fear, and I tell you now — it’s a straightjacket that binds the soul and chokes the breath of life itself.


Out here, among the fires and the restless men, I’ve touched something freer. Maria moves like a river, and when the music rises, I remember that the body is not only a vessel of sin but also of joy. When I taste the tang of her ceviche, when the yuca bread breaks warm in my hands, it’s like communion of another kind — not of wrath and judgment, but of earth and sea, of people sharing what they love.


The old ways tell us to fear the flesh, to chain desire, to bow before stern altars of duty. But Clara, the world is wider than that. There is color, rhythm, spice, and tenderness waiting beyond the iron gates of Puritan suspicion. I can’t help but feel that God, if He is love, would rather see us dance than tremble.


Don’t think me faithless. My heart has not abandoned you, but it has begun to breathe a freer air. I want to live in harmony, not in fear; in song, not in silence. If that makes me a heretic in your eyes, then so be it. I choose the open sky over the prison of stone walls.


Peace and love,
Nicholas
 
Nicholas,


Your latest letter is the bitterest blow of all. You cloak your words in talk of “freedom” and “love,” but I know well the spirit from which they spring. It is not freedom you seek, but license. It is not love you follow, but the false gospel of the Left — that same chorus of radicals who despise our country, mock our traditions, and would gladly tear down everything our fathers bled to build.


You write of ceviche and dancing as though such things were revelations. But I hear only the slogans of the counterculture, the same weak poison that has been seeping into our schools, our churches, our homes. Nicholas, you sound not like my husband, the captain sworn to order and discipline, but like one of them — the “flower children” who spat on soldiers, the anarchists who march beneath Antifa’s banners. Have you forgotten which side you’re on?


I have borne loneliness. I have borne the cold silence of your absence. But I cannot bear the thought that the man I married has defected, body and spirit, into the camp of those who despise America. You speak of “open skies,” but I see only surrender — to temptation, to weakness, to the false prophets of the Left.


If you mean to go that way, know this: you go without me. I will not stand beside a man who trades the Stars and Stripes for tie-dye banners and foreign feasts. I will not be the wife of a deserter, nor the partner of a traitor in spirit.


Choose, Nicholas. Choose swiftly. For the road you now tread leads not to harmony, but to ruin — and to the loss of the woman who once vowed to walk beside you.


Clara
 
Clara,


This will be my last letter as the man you once called husband. For I have laid down the trappings of command and turned my back on the false order of discipline that bound me. No longer will I chase shadows in the service of a cause that seeks only to silence and oppress. I have defected, Clara. I have joined the resistance. I march now with those whom your kind derides as “Antifa,” though in truth we are simply people who refuse to kneel before tyranny.


I will not cloak this choice in hesitation: Maria walks beside me. She is no longer just a teacher of dances, but my companion in this struggle. Together we stand in the streets, hand in hand, facing the tear gas, the jeers, the heavy boots that once were mine to command. Where you see chaos, I see the birth of a freer world. Where you see foreignness, I see fellowship.


You warned me of ruin. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps the road I walk is perilous, uncertain, littered with broken glass and sleepless nights. But for the first time, Clara, I feel alive. I feel that my steps carry me toward something greater than myself.


If you can only see betrayal in this, then let it be so. But know that I chose truth over fear, love over silence, freedom over chains. And when the songs rise over Portland’s streets, when the banners unfurl against the floodlights, Maria and I will be there — dancing still, unashamed.


Farewell, Clara.
Nicholas
 
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