act22side

The saber swipes past her hand, cleaving the torch into two. The lit end falls into the mud, and goes out softly in a puff of smoke.

Hah... okay, not bad. Now he's gonna have trouble with his blade.

Here, I'll hold onto you.

Phew... Hey, how much longer can you hold that, you think? Don't push yourself.

Don't make me laugh. So you can resist a little. What else?

...Selmon, leave me be.

I hear a few more coming this way. You hear that too, don't you?

...I do.

Tarans...?

Us? That's right.

But I took these rags from someone dead. I'm not with your group...

Best leave, Tarans. Go somewhere safe.

...I never said—I wanted to make an enemy of her.

I want to correct—the mistakes she made. Nothing more.

You seek moralistic perfection in the face of war?

Then be the coward and hypocrite you are. Find yourself coerced again like in Hillock, betrayed again like in Peninsula.

The blade tears the night wind asunder. The sharp clang of metal and the interrogative of the officer lunge as one at Reed.

But she doesn't listen. She can hear wails far sharper in the winds.

She knows there are defenseless Tarans shedding blood in this conflict, falling, right this moment.

She could call out the names of each and every one of those wailing. It was but a few hours ago—when she'd heard their voices sing the folksong of home.

...She simply—cannot hear these cries.

Have you ever asked yourself—who the Tarans you're saving are?

Fire...?

You guys... Watch out for Reed's Originium Arts!

Eh?

She's very powerful right now.

But these flames... don't seem like her own.

A Draco's flames are beautiful, wouldn't you agree?

...They do not exceed what I anticipated, Harmonie.

Still, we do have a poor soul right here stupefied by the show.

It's too bad, really. You don't know me yet. Just like you never got to properly know your friend next to you there.

But thanks are due, I will say, for you putting up such a diligent fight against this Victorian's squad. His Arts are dilute enough not to impact our giving chase now.

...It's like County Hillock again. The more valiant you are, the sorrier I feel for you.

The battle here is over, so you're free to go now. Dublinn won't lay a finger on you... They could even escort you, if you'd like.

...I'll pass.

W-What's she saying? Bagpipe, do you know her? Are we fighting her or not?

No... Let's go.

We need to fetch Reed.

—You're very kind to her.

Of course I would've silenced her. If it wasn't for the Taran next to her.

Still, if she can make our Draco realize she has nowhere to belong but Dublinn, then that's all the better.

Your forces seem to have assembled towards my end now.

Indeed. The poor child's fleeing northwest under our pursuit.

Heh. Much further, and she'll be in the heart of Duke Wellington's domain.

Once she's there, everything she does will be under Dublinn's thumb.

So the priority right now is... shall we say, <i>dealing</i> with everyone who knows too much.

In the unlikely event you live to send intel back, it won't be much more than what your death itself would've told them.

Selmon, slow down... I'm having trouble keeping up. Where are we?

Must've run about two hundred meters into the woods, from the camp. Hah. Gave that soldier a good drubbing, now none of them are hounding us.

Oof... We're safe here. I'll treat my injuries first, then I'll head back and tell everyone to come this way and meet up with you.

People with Fionn's naff skills shouldn't be sticking around so long on the battlefield. Ought to be fighters like me.

Tch. You're miles better at fighting than he is, too.

...Selmon, there's a huge din behind us. What happened?

All I can see is... a faint glow.

Hah, rotten shame you don't get to see proper. It's the fire from Reed's Arts, no doubt about it.

Is it a fine sight?

Mhm.

But, well, I've known all along she was capable of that.

...Was night always this cold, out in the wilds...?

Suppose you're willing to light your fire. Will that make it a little warmer... a little brighter?

I don't know why you're disappointed in Dublinn, or why they're disappointed in you. The Tarans want to survive. They should survive. It's the simplest logic. How can any of it be a lie?

Before you leave the group, I need to talk to you about the whole—'going to Dublinn' thing. You'd know the way, right?

Moran, we'll head forward a little more. It'll be safer that way. Don't be afraid. It's all muddy here. If those soldiers retreat, they won't be coming this way.

Besides, the sun should be almost up.

Their step finally slows. Moran no longer staggers trying to keep up.

Selmon, are we somewhere safe now?

I'm not afraid of bad news... Tell me.

They walk forward. Amongst the howl of the wind, distant explosions, and the cries, Moran tries her hardest to discern the sound of Selmon.

There should've been some forewarning, in that moment. Selmon should've stopped in her tracks, said something. At the very least, a scornful cackle at the fate of the Tarans.

But what Moran feels is simple; a step made, and the hand in hers falls, all of a sudden.

And she stoops, and cannot tell if what she feels is thick blood or wet mud.