Witness

4 - Separation

The problem really started when more than just the polizí showed up that day. Astera has always had a blood and soil problem. That was what my father called it: blood and soil. He was hardly the one to coin the phrase, not when they chanted it in the streets. It used to send chills down my spine when I heard it. The animal roar of marches intended to put fear into the hearts of every Lathraí who heard it. Only some groups were looking for a fight. Most didn't dare go into our districts, because nothing stops a bigot quite like being outnumbered by the targets of their slander.

By midsummer, when they tried making a proper move, I had no fear left. I had months of brutal clashes under my belt. Clubbing and columns of gas, the reek of capsaicin, hunger and thirst. That was true of everyone on the barricades, Lathraí or Ieró alike. The longer they ignored peaceful protest, the more they brutalized it, the harder we became.

Marko and Isidoros hardly came to the protests anymore. The conflict had burned them out, beaten them down. I was grateful for their absence, mostly because I hated seeing them collapse with bloody faces or choke on the very punishment of the tainted air itself.

Agathe fought to keep her paper going. You could find it on any street corner, wedged into the little racks hidden behind the regular ones. The polizí would burn them whenever they saw them, but Agathe worked like a fiend to make certain she was never out of print.

"Our blood, our soil!" The chant echoed through the streets as they came, dozens of Ieró First. I wouldn't call them a movement, just one of many groups who wanted us gone. My parents had always said to ignore them, to let the insults roll off like water, since they were coming from people without souls. It wasn't right to hit them, wasn't smart. They'd just look more sympathetic to everyone else.

Agathe clutched the barricade beside me. "Karsa, I know what you're thinking," she said cautiously.

I looked down at my bruised and bloody knuckles. Markos had taught me a lot about fighting since everything started and I'd learned as I went what worked best. "That I'm going to punch out the first one who gets in arm's reach?"

"There are more of us than there are of them. Let numbers scare them off."

"And if they don't scare off?" I taped up my hands like a boxer's, just to support my wrists. "If they start something, I'm going to finish it."

She looked over at me, evaluating how serious I was. "Karsa, you have things to live for. These guys are seriously bad news."

I turned to her, anger boiling up in me like a geyser as the chant drew closer and closer. "Then they'll get a taste of their own medicine. I'm tired of staring at an existential threat and showing my throat for them to tear out."

"Our blood, our soil!"

They were almost to us. I think around a hundred showed up that day, but we had four times their number between our supply chain and the camp behind the barricades. I drummed on the barricades with my fist, impatient for their approach. Tension wound in me like a wire spring, tighter and tighter.

I saw prybars meant to rip apart our defenses, clubs for beating, and firearms at the back. My world came into absolute focus, every breath steady and even despite the hammering of my heart. "Agathe, get to the back."

She looked over at me and shook her head, spectacles sliding down her nose. "I'm not leaving."

"Someone has to watch and write and tell the truth." I pointed to a fire escape on a nearby building. "That will have a view that's safe. Just get behind the crates in case they shoot."

Agathe glared. "And what am I supposed to tell your family? That they have no daughters left?"

Mention of my family stung like salt in my wounds. "Agathe, go!" My voice bit like a vicious dog, leaving no room for more argument. "I will not forgive you otherwise."