Why We Fight
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He sees her, and cannot help but think that she's beautiful.
Even if she has an air of hopelessness about her, as though she's tired of fighting, can't fight, won't fight, shouldn't, mustn't. As though she's given up long ago.
She's still beautiful.
The picture is almost frighteningly clear, and flawless in its angle. Alec imagines that he can feel the sadness and despair portrayed by the image washing over him in waves, drowning him, wrapping around him like bed sheets.
The wall behind her is a dull, flat beige, devoid of any life and colour, but a bright, golden light shines behind her frozen form like a spotlight, seemingly high-lighting the area behind her.
Alec shuts his eyes and runs a hand through his shaggy black hair.
The woman in the image looks like his sister.
He wants to turn around, walk out without looking back, just leave this place, he doesn't even know what made him come here, Alec has more important things he should be working on, like trying to save the world from his own best friend-turned-to-the-dark-side, protecting his home, fighting for his family, saving his people from mindless servitude or complete extinction. There's so little time, not enough people, it'll never be enough and his mother thinks he's too young to fight. He's just so tired; he knows he can't keep this up for much longer. What's the point, why doesn't he just give up? His brother in all but blood has turned on him and there's nothing he can do to save the world. Why does he even bother? Why does he even hope?
Alec wishes the picture wouldn't be there when he opens his eyes.
But it is.
Still hanging on the museum wall.
Why is he even in a museum? He should be out fighting. He doesn't need to be here.
Come on, he urges his legs. Move. You have places to be, things to do, people to get rid of, lives to save…
He rocks back and forth on his heels like a seesaw, simply staring at the picture.
She's frozen in mid-air, and the picture has been taken just so—it appears as though a massive force has flung her back. Her tulip-petal pink dress swirls around her legs in flares and twists, the only real spot of colour in the picture.
Her inky black hair floats around her face, obscuring most of her features. Only her mouth is open, lips parted in a silent scream.
Alec shudders, feeling as though someone has tipped ice down his back.
Her smooth, porcelain skin glows in the light, brightened by the highlighted area behind her.
There's a couch positioned underneath her, the piece of furniture is oddly out of place, the bright floral pattern appearing far too cheerful.
A lamp shines dully in the left corner of the picture.
She still looks like his sister, Alec thinks. And it's awful- because he can practically see the disappointed despair that the woman in the picture is portraying, and feel the dreaded acceptance that the girl in the picture exudes.
He really wishes that the stupid thing didn't look like his sibling, who is currently out there fighting—something else his mother doesn't approve of, but something he really ought to be doing.
Alec knows he should get going, knows he should just leave already, hadn't he spent enough time in this place?
But he doesn't.
And then suddenly it comes to him, in a rush of colours and swirls like the world's most colorful tornado, and it's almost as if someone has flicked on the light switch inside of his brain and he finally understands—
He knows why he fights.
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