#if the politics in this are incoherent sorry it's pure stream of consciousness hahahaha

[sybaritick]

The invasion of her riverside polity by the weasels and stoats had come with at least two weeks' warning as the mustelids advanced down snowmelt streams that had widened over dozens of miles into the broad, deep river she recognized. But there was little they could do, even with that time; armed only with crudely-made shortbows (not enough for all of them) and knives (better suited to the kitchen than self-defense). None of these weapons saw use, anyway. They resisted so little the capture was nearly bloodless save two guards and the baroness who had refused to be captured alive and managed to make good on the promise; the baron alone was taken as a hostage.

She was raised with the standard that rabbits should be slender and quiet and quick, none of which she has ever met even in childhood. But by the weasels that remain to keep order she is constantly singled out for jealousy-inducing special treatment; she luxuriates in being the one who is always afforded extra food or leniency or the clothes and jewelry of the invaders that fancy themselves their new masters, the vole-pelt cloak and the heavy wool skirt with its gleaming brass buttons and promises to keep her warm through the coming winter.

She watches a stoat guard's claws sliced to the quick for the crime of groping her, and remembers how it had been ignored when he targeted several of the others.

They take three, four a week from the city that they mean to eat. Criminals, always. If there are not enough criminals, they will arrest more. But she is a symbol of edibility valued more in life than death, she gathers. Something looked upon to stir the appetite. A shopkeep piles a half-serving more of the caramelized, brown-sugar-glazed carrots on her plate than she paid for. She eats them all.

When she stands again, it's a relief from the way the buttons of her skirt had pressed too tight against her belly.

After the first frost in the late evenings the resistors chatter in one of the bakeries that remained open through it all. How many more are there of us than them, you see, if we all attacked at once-- they'll only send for more and they'll kill us all-- they're spread too thin, there are no reinforcements left to send-- now is the time, before the winter-- and she listens, and nods, and says little.

She recognizes that perhaps the treatment she can garner is an opportunity that might help her kind.

She considers the way her kind will return to seeing her once the invaders are chased off over the horizon.