The Chronicle of the Worthy Son

Heedless, pt. 2

"So, the Resistance was formed?" Able asked as she seemed in danger of meandering off track.

"Y'ain't been listening, have you?" Fairweather grumbled. "The Resistance isn't a thing that was ever formed or built. There's Borealunders who will fight and die for our ways and our freedoms and the lot of us working together, call it what you want, evolves over time. They called us the 'Separatists' at this time. But the separation, if you want to call it that, from the Dag government never got enough momentum to work good. Did a lot of harm, though. Harm to the Dags, sure, but harm to our neighbors when they struck back. When they took over.

"But what hurt the most was the Borealunders who sided with them. Little lap dogs looking for table scraps and pats on the head, oh, and innocent about it as dogs too, that were the worst part! The old ones just wanted stability, but these youngins growing up enamored of Dagobari culture, their way of thinking and their ways of dressing and working..." She shook her head languidly.

Able's mouth opened, but instead of saying anything, he shook his head himself. Dagobari schools, provincial councils, debt relief systems...he was enamored himself. A terrible Larbant, really. "So how did the Separatists act?"

"Enough reminiscing, eh? Specifics!" Fairweather grinned before screwing her face up in thought. "Let's see. Peace Hillside resigned from council leadership. He couldn't go along with it any longer, and when that failed to give the remaining council any pause at all, we turned to sabotaging logging operations. Maybe we turned t'that too soon, Larbant, but try with that imagination of yours to comprehend the horror a Borealunder feels when the trees go missing, one after another, till there's nothing but stumps spanning a muddy clearing. Trees older than your parents, older than your grandparents, gone. One goes gone, there's a feeling of something missing, like when you've lost a baby tooth, but you know a new one is coming back. But this, like having your whole mouth punched out. It will never be the same."

"My friend Lark," Able attempted a sympathetic tone, "took me up to Kettlebrook. I saw some of what you're describing. Saw how it affected him."

"That Lark Miles?" she asked then chuckled at Able's affirming nod. "That one's half a Bander, but he practices Spirits, so he's more Bor'n most outta Fairbanks. Most of them are mixed-blood over there, but so are many over here. We're being bred out, but I never did nothing to help that, so I got little right to complain."

"You never had children?"

"Wanted to, off and on, but never found the time until it were too late. But it's all right. This land is me ancestors and offspring both."

"Oh." That sentence felt like the heart of something, so Able scribbled it down.

Fairweather lifted her mug again but came up empty. Instead of hailing Miller for more, though, she asked, "Where was I?"

Able looked back up to meet her cloudy gaze. "I think you were lamenting how instead of rallying your people to resist Dagobar, your actions only moved a subtle occupation into an overt one, which you were then blamed for?"

"...I think I like this Larbant." Fairweather turned to Miller. "Isn't that something. Why don't they make more Larbants like this one?"

"I've often asked myself the same thing," Able muttered wryly. "Not for any ideological reason, mind," he added when he saw them both looking at him. "But so many people just don't seem to pay any attention."

"Too much to pay attention to, me guess." Fairweather shifted and grunted in pain. "But yes, it were always us against ourselves, never Dagobar. Even when the Banders invaded, Dagobar kept the side loyal to them and it were our side—the Resistance if you like—that split further. Some joined the Dags, the whole "devil you know" philosophy. Some joined the Banders, thinking they might deal with us more fairly—fools.