My mother had such soft hands, dainty and graceful as they moved. Pulling and threading cords of fabric, she looked like an angel, her expression naturally sorrowful, thoughtful and beautiful like a caged bird. In my memory of her she was humming my favorite bed time melody, a soft progression of soothing tones, motherly in nature without words. Without meaning. Now that I look back on it, my mother always seemed to do things that I didn’t understand. She was more secretive and mysterious than I used to realize. Seems like that trait we share in common and now that I’m able to identify those traits in myself, I remember where I learned them. My mother only wanted the best for her family but Touma and I were less than eager to play the parts we were assigned at birth. I would be a shrine maiden and remain in our little village to take care of the grounds gifted to our family by the Kami. My brother was to become a hunter like our father to help feed our small village of maybe 20 something others.That was the plan anyway.
 It wasn’t soon after my 17th summer when the Imperials came to our village. They imposed new, strange rules and standards that the adults didn’t want to comply with at first. They announced that they were in charge now.. and our hesitance was punished. A young man was pulled from our neighbors home and beaten within an Ilm of his life before the gathered frightened families. It was in that moment when my family first experienced the deep profound fear of loss and death. That boy could have been anyone.. That boy could have been murdered before our very eyes and all my mother could do was weep quietly in her sleeve while my father rubbed her back. My little brother hid behind his leg and I.. I could only see red.
 That day, was a day of many firsts. I learned that in many ways, yes, I was like my mother in most ways. Most aside from THIS. This burning hatred that boiled around my soul and burrowed into my core. I remember gritting my teeth until I was certain they would crack and break like glass.My small fists were curled so tight that my knuckles were white. I knew that someone had to do SOMETHING. I couldn’t be that soft, sorrowful thing my mother was. For the family and for my people, I would fight. I would fight. …I did fight. Now I only hear my mother’s lyrical humming distantly in nightmares and only see my father’s face in my daydreams. I am so sorry. I tried.
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