“‘For the land will cry fallow without the efforts of the many,’” he said, after a moment.

Opaka, tending to the kavaroot that had been stewing all afternoon, nodded as she watched her son lay two ceramic spoons down at the table. “Yes, that is the prophecy, Fasil. I’m pleased that you know your verse.”

“Mother, the land is crying fallow now.”

She began to say something but then stopped, realizing that she had no appropriate response. She moved to the far wall and used a long stick to prop open the window situated just below the peak of the high ceiling. She grunted with the exertion of the task; she had often wondered why whoever built this cottage would have put the only functionally opening window in such an inaccessible position. She supposed it was for security reasons, but that didn’t explain why the glassed-in window was fashioned much more like a heavy door than a window.

“Much of Bajor goes unplanted these days, it’s true,” she told her son. “But it isn’t as though the entire world is in famine. Most of us have enough.”

“How can the efforts of the many serve to sustain Bajor, when so many of the D’jarras have become obsolete? Only a handful of pilots are allowed to fly, and most can’t afford their own ships. Soldiers and police ceased to exist when the Militia was dissolved. Writers and artists have been all but outlawed. Scientists and engineers are deprived of the opportunity to work, unless it’s directly in the service of our occupiers. Fishermen and farmers still thrive where the land and waterways have not been poisoned by mining, but even then, Bajor’s bounty is forcibly given up to feed Cardassia Prime.”

It was an argument he’d made before, one she’d sidestepped as best she could. It was not for a vedek to concern herself with politics, only to tend to the faithful and serve the Prophets. But Fasil, it seemed, was determined to discuss the matter.

Sulan turned and regarded her son with a glimmer of wonder. Had she thought him a boy, only a short time ago? He was no mere extension of his parents. He was his own individual, and was fast becoming an outspoken adult.

“Mother,” Fasil went on, “I heard you speaking to Gar about your concerns the other day, and I know he agreed to speak to the kai for you. But either Gar missed your point entirely, or he just used your faith in order to placate you. You did not tell Gar that you wanted the kai to denounce the D’jarras; you told him only that you wished to speak upon the matter, to have a reasonable discussion. I believe that Gar is trying to distract you.”

“To what purpose?”

Fasil shook his head, and Opaka stared at him. Her training and her faith labeled his words blasphemous, but she knew Fasil, too. Knew his heart. Knew that his mind was one of the keenest she’d ever encountered.

“Don’t you remember what Kai Dava once said? He said, ‘It is in the time of struggle that we must become as one.’”

Sulan was familiar with the verse, though it had been written long ago. It seemed to reference the ancient era before Bajor had become a united world, when its many nations had finally begun to lay down the arms they had raised against one another. She had not considered that those words could apply to their present circumstances. She nodded slowly, and sat down at the table. There was truth in what he said, but there were many truths. He did not yet understand the complexities of such things.

“Fasil, I know that you are no longer a child,” she said softly. “And you are so like your father. He would be proud of you. But Kai Arin’s beliefs are not without—”

“My father would still be alive if it weren’t for the D’jarras.”

“Cardassians killed your father when they attacked the city, Fasil. Not Bajorans.”

“I blame them both,” Fasil said stubbornly. “The doctor who refused to treat him because of his caste—”

“It was out of respect that a doctor of the laity refused to treat a prylar.”

“And it cost my father his life.”

Sulan did not want to continue this line of conversation. She rose from the table and went back to the kavaat the woodstove, trying her best to chase memories from her mind. She could not block them out, not entirely. The recollection of when she had first learned of the attack on what was left of Korto, and the following realization that Opaka Bekar had gone into the city that morning…Her husband had decided to sell a small piece of heirloom jewelry, determined to make that year’s Gratitude Festival a memorable one, with a proper feast. But he had chosen the wrong day to travel.

“Mother, you know that most Bajorans have abandoned their D’jarras anyway, out of practicality. What other choice have they had? If they are going to ignore the D’jarras, many of them feel that they might as well ignore the other teachings of the Prophets as well. Now that the Tears of the Prophets have all been destroyed, or lost, or stolen by the Cardassians—for we all know who have really taken them—many people are beginning to believe the Prophets have abandoned them. They need a religious authority to sanction what they’ve been forced to do, or else they will forget their faith entirely.”

“The Prophets have not abandoned Bajor,” Opaka said firmly. “We don’t need the Tears of the Prophets to assure us that They are still there. We can hear the voices of the Prophets coming from our own hearts, if we take the time to listen.”

“And what does your heart tell you of what is happening to Bajor?” Fasil asked. “What willhappen, if we cannot come together?”

There was an answer, but she’d struggled so long to deny it, to adhere to what her own spiritual leaders had so strongly advocated. To embrace it as truth, she had to ignore a lifetime of teaching.

She’d had dreams. Since she was a girl, she’d had dreams about things. Fire and death. Struggle and rebirth. People she knew but didn’t recognize. Her Orb experiences had been powerful, riddled with symbols and imagery that she barely understood, but the themes were clear and persistent.

Always embrace the truth. Always speak your heart.

“I don’t need to be convinced that the Prophets speak to us,” Fasil continued. “And perhaps the D’Jarras were once the best way for us to live together. But things are different now. You’re right, the Cardassians were responsible for Father’s death. They are a violent people. They’ve taken Bajor from us—and we’ve let them do it, clinging to a system that doesn’t allow us to come together and stop them.”

Sulan studied him, feeling slightly breathless. “Where did you learn to be so opinionated?” She wrapped a piece of coarse linen around the handle of the kettle and removed it from the fire. “Certainly not from me.”

“From none other,” Fasil replied, smiling. “I know that I come from stubborn stock, and for this I am grateful.”

Opaka used a long-handled pestle to mash the kava,turning the clear broth into a thickened stew. “Fasil,” she mused. “I see that you are becoming an adult…But the way you speak makes it seem as though it has already happened.”

Fasil seemed to deflate slightly at her mild response, reminding her that he was still a child in some ways. “I don’t mean to defy you, Mother.”

“I know that. You have always been a good son.” She sighed, smiled at him. “In truth, my heart tells me that you are right. The kai, what there is of the Vedek Assembly—they only wish to maintain the integrity of the faith, but this is no longer the Bajor of our forebears. Your assessment of the D’jarras is what I believe.”

It was a relief to speak it aloud, and she was suddenly hungry. A funny reaction to deciding that one’s spiritual betters were wrong, but there it was. She brought the kettle to the table, dishing out small portions of the chalky soup.

Fasil hesitated before raising his arms in thanks to the Prophets for his meal. “If you believe it—then that is what you must teach.”