Battle, they said, was what totomas were all about. She sat, craned her neck back and looked up into the sunny sky. The wind blew the rising lilac to and fro. It had not taken her long to realize their voices were the wind. And after many months, the lilac did not change. It did not grow thorns or teeth. It stayed as it was. And as their voices grew icy, mocking, she rose. She faced them head on, no less a warrior, as her voice shot out, hot and furious.
"You do not define me. I am who I say I am, and I care not for bloodshed and battle. I may or may not be a totoma of your ideals but I am my own kin, my own totoma. If you quake, mad at the need to have more power than to define yourself, then I feel nothing for you but sorrow. You will never be happy and I will continue to define myself."
From then on, they did not mock her. A few muttered, vindictive and bitter, but they bore no power over her. And Define, she watched the lilacs and rose above battle.
"You do not define me. I am who I say I am, and I care not for bloodshed and battle. I may or may not be a totoma of your ideals but I am my own kin, my own totoma. If you quake, mad at the need to have more power than to define yourself, then I feel nothing for you but sorrow. You will never be happy and I will continue to define myself."
From then on, they did not mock her. A few muttered, vindictive and bitter, but they bore no power over her. And Define, she watched the lilacs and rose above battle.
