"What do you fight for?" she asked, icy eyes cutting through the haze and distraction.
"Your purpose, soldier. What is it you fight for?"
Her words cut as deeply as her gaze.
I don't know, you try to cry out. But your lips won't move, the words won't sound. This sequence had come and gone, played out before you. You hadn't stopped it then. You could not change it now.
"I have it, you know? A purpose. You might think my purpose is unworthy, that I am to blame for reducing the empire you love to ash. But it was never me."
No, you try to say. It was never you.
"Your empire was built on ashes. The ashes of my people, who cried until there were no more tears to quench the fires. Riding on the chariots of justice, you took our land, our lives, our future. And then you call us the enemy, we whose voices were ripped from our throats. Your empires wail, accuse us of sin and predation, and by what words can we fight back? When all ears are turned their way?
"So these became our voices," she said, the glint of a wick in her hands. "But all we want is a better day. Do you know? We here, every one of us. We fight for our tomorrow. We fight for our voices. We fight so you may prey upon us no longer."
She spun, jabbed an accusing finger against your chest. "So what do you fight for, soldier? Tell me."
The words were stuck in your throat.
"Tell me!" She demanded, practically yelling, and gave you a shake. "Tell me what you fight for," she said, and you realise tears were falling down her cheeks. But she knew your answer even before you deigned ask yourself, she knew the injustice, the truth.
That you fought for nothing. You fought for them. You ate up their crowing and their charm and their lies.
And that was the worst answer you could give her.