The brush trembles in my hand. Not because I'm tired, though I am. Not because the bristles are worn, though they are. It trembles because I know that no matter how long I work this canvas, no matter how much pigment I bleed into it, I will never catch her.
Matta.
I have painted warriors before. They were all difficult, but they shared one gift: they sat still. Even if their bodies had fallen or their legends had blurred, their stillness was something I could hold. Matta never gave me that. She was a streak, a comet, a song hummed too fast for memory to keep. And yet here I am, trying to trap her in oil and shadow like she's mine to keep. The bristles drag across the surface. Silver. White. Lightning distilled into lines too fragile to hold her.
You'd laugh at me, Matta. You'd tell me this is a fool's errand. You'd tell me I should run with you instead of trying to pin you down like a butterfly. But you know I was never built for running. My world has always been measured in brushstrokes, not heartbeats.
The canvas swallows my words, but I keep speaking anyway. I have no one else to tell.
I remember the last time I saw you. You weren't even a shape at first - just a blur, a ripple of atmosphere, a faint scream of thunder splitting the clouds. And then you were gone, before I could even blink. But that streak carved itself into me. The lines bled, broke, fell short. How do you draw velocity? How do you capture the absence left behind by speed?
I told myself it didn't matter. You were too fast for me, and I was too slow for you. We'd never meet again. But I drew you anyway, because I needed proof. Evidence of a legend that should not be forgotten to time.
The years have been cruel. The trials you ran through. The wounds you left in the earth that children now play in like trenches turned playgrounds. I could never keep up, but I watched. I always watched. You stitched yourself into the fabric of our lives, a reminder that salvation could arrive before the scream finished leaving your throat.
And now I sit here, brush in hand, trying to pull you from memory. Trying to convince myself I'm not painting a ghost. My hand shakes again. I steady it, press bristles into canvas, drag shadow beneath your eyes. That's where I always return - your eyes. I never saw them up close. But I've imagined them a thousand times. Not the eyes of someone free. No, your freedom had a price. They were the eyes of someone who carried too much, who knew rest was a finish line you'd never cross.
You're gone. Gone. How could you be gone when you're still moving? Death can't catch you. Time can't hold you. Even silence stumbles in your wake. And yet... I know. I know the truth of it.
The Tear. That impossible wound, that absence pretending to be something. It should have ended everything, but it didn't. Not because we defeated it. Not because Blook's mad prophecies came true. But because of you.
I can see it in my mind's eye: you, circling it. A silver rabbit wrapped in lightning, running faster than causality itself. Every step pressing reality tighter, every orbit a cage. You made velocity into chains, orbit into prison walls. The Tear is frozen not by stillness, but by your refusal to stop moving. And in that, you trapped yourself.
I close my eyes. My breath shudders. How do I paint that? How do I paint eternity in motion? How do I honor sacrifice that never ends, a finish line that never arrives?
I mix white into the silver, drag it across your ears. They glow in the light slanting through the window. For a heartbeat, I almost believe they twitch, that you'll turn to me and laugh. But you don't. The paint stays paint. The portrait stays still.
Do you see us out there? Do you remember me & Fenris, Neru and Shen, Nilah & Icarus, Kael & Bella, the children who chased your shadow across the ruins? Do you think of us when you run? Or have you outrun even memory itself?
I want to believe you do. I want to believe you carry us with you, tucked into your heartbeat like stowaways. But maybe not. Maybe that's my job. Maybe remembering is the only thing I can do for you.
I dip the brush again. Each stroke feels heavier now. Silver arcs across the canvas like lightning trapped in oil. This isn't you - not truly - but it's the closest I'll ever come.
Sacrifice. That's what you gave us. Not the loud kind, not fire and glory. The quiet kind. The eternal kind. You didn't fall in battle. You didn't vanish into nothing. You chose to run, forever, because the universe needed you to. Because none of us could. Because you loved us enough to give up the one thing you ever wanted: rest.
And so you run. Around and around, faster than thought, faster than time. An orbit of mercy. A circle that cannot break.
My brush slows. I lean closer, breathing your face into being. Silver streaks catch the light, your fur shimmering as though alive. Eyes dark, heavy, but burning with speed. This is you, as I remember you, as I imagine you, as I need you to be.
There... finished.
But it isn't finished, not really. How could it be? How do you finish a portrait of someone who will never stop moving? I sign your name in the corner, slowly, deliberately. Then I step back.
And I say the words I never wanted to say, the words that scrape raw against my throat.
You didn't die. You didn't lose. You didn't vanish. You chose. You chose to run forever, circling the Tear, keeping it locked in place with nothing but your will and your speed. You're still out there, Matta. Running where no one can follow, running where eternity itself watches.
My hand presses against the canvas. For a moment, I swear it's warm. For a moment, I swear I feel the hum of motion. But then it's gone.
You're gone but not gone. Never gone. And as long as this portrait remains, as long as I remember, the world will know: the fastest being alive became the circle itself. Eternal. Guarding us. Running still.
The brush falls from my hand. I don't pick it up. I don't need to. Your portrait is done. The sacrifice is sealed. Matta runs. And everyone will remember. For now, another brush will suffice.