act22side

All have envisioned this ancient castle as a sorrowful tombstone to Tara, the ghost of resentment.

But it merely sits silent, on top of the hill, baring this place's heart as it was before the palace stood.

Overgrown with weeds, covered in vines.

How old is all this? Five hundred years? A thousand?

Shh... Don't wake Caireann up.

Sorry... I'm just a little shocked. No, bowled over, really.

Tell you the truth. We put on productions of different King Gaeil stories each year, we know we're descendants of the Kingdom of Tara, we know that's why we're called Tarans...

But no one used to believe it could all actually be true.

There was even a legend of a forge, which fused together the weapons of every Taran soldier, and overturned the fate of the dynasty...

A long, long time ago... I met a man from the city who was searching all over for a traveling bard.

He said to me, though many legends were made up by later generations, there must still be the traces of history left in those stories.

Reed, you must know plenty about that, don't you?

Are you not fond of this place? You've been quiet ever since we came in here.

Maybe.

When I was very young, I'd often read about the legends of Tara, until I drifted to sleep.

Be it the Victorian Royal Family's scribes, or those who wish to preserve Taran culture, they always write that it is the Draco's nature to fight.

Legends say that the first Draco to lead the Gaeils boiled dry the waters of the river to travel south, to flee his clan that slaughtered each other over the throne, and settle the lands that came to be Tara.

And legends say the Victoria's Red Dragon, the one who slayed the last nomadic Draco leader, gave his firstborn the title of King Gaeil while he still burbled in the cradle.

And legends say the Draco of Tara was thereupon imprisoned in the palace, and though the 'Exile King' cast away his crown and traveled the wilderness for twenty years, upon his return and audience with the regent, his closest family, still he was murdered.

Tara's history is full of—stories like these. The Draco's palaces, teeming with conspiracy and bloodshed.

I never longed for, or dreamed of this place. I'm... scared of it.

I'm scared that—one day, I'll have to fight my sister.

At least... I don't see any crystal clusters from the Catastrophe in here.

It should be safe to rest here.

Good, then. Here, Moran. Let me set Caireann down for you.

Let her sleep here, out of the wind.

There's cover here, and the walls are sturdy. We could light a fire at night, and no one outside would notice us.

Wait, why's Reed—

Let her take a look by herself.

'I lay down now my soldier's honor here, so that in time the soil of Tara need no longer be soaked in carmine blood, and Draco cross no swords with Draco kin.'

'Be that unless a day comes, whereupon Red Dragon's flame should lead all those that fell, our fighters from the forge to be reborn.'

Reed hears a faint stir.

She pulls back the hand about to touch the rusted equipment before her.

It's... alive?

It's the sort of thing anyone could activate... Why do you find it so strange someone relit it?

Mm. She's been through here. It's not strange.

Through a gap, she sees a purple flame.

This was the palace of old. She was sure to come... and sure to mock it with laughter, no? That this... is all the legendary monarch—left us with.

Her flames burn here. That's why so many of the deceased here cannot rest in peace.

They were simply—vagabonds who lost their way, and died of thirst too close. Awakened by the flames of death, for no reason at all.

No... stay away.

You're scared of that flame, too, aren't you?

I can see how you want to put it out.

Yes. It will bring pain to too many people.

But if you truly intend on it, then I won't let you pass.

She lit the fire of Dublinn. You know the flame you reignite could never be the same.

She's done so many terrible things, told so many beautiful lies, but it was all necessary. She summoned thousands of Tarans to follow her lead, be they saints or criminals, nobles or thieves.

You could never do it.

No... I can.

I don't believe—that those sacrifices were all necessary, and I will never believe—that only her way will save the Tarans.

But she's been the Leader since the start, since so long ago, since that great fire in Oak Grove.

She thinks back to the battered, wounded girl who laid there on the street. Reed wanted to pull her up, get her away, but was so afraid that by a reach of the hand, she too would become naught but ashes.

And there, her elder sister walked up to the girl's side.

And asked. Do you want to live?

The sewers are right beside you. Climb down there, and those disgusting nobles will never catch you again.

Mandragora. From there she escaped, and to there, in the end, she returned.

While you—never did reach your hand to anyone. Never pulled anyone up.

Mm. If I'd reached out to her, then perhaps, things would have been different.

To be truly saved, she should have learned—that there was so much more open to her... so much more—than the power of the malefactor, like the arsonist of that day.

Yet the fact is, you're so afraid, you even fear your own power, unable to do anything but let others control it.

That's why... they're all disappointed in you. Why you've disappointed even your sister.

...No. You're wrong. You speak of nothing but the past.

I am here now. I have held others' hands in mine.

I cannot say it was me that pulled them to their feet, but if they want to walk forward, then my fire will clear the path for them. Even if they lead me with them as they go.

If... If she could see all this, I know she wouldn't be disappointed.

You... found your companions by mere chance.

In front of them, you act like the capable fighter, the orator who brings all under your banner... You pretend to have your own power.

But in reality, you are simply mimicking her.

You are nothing, can be nothing, but her shadow. She sees any method through to its extreme, while in the face of her, you are far too hesitant and weak.

The officers that set light to the Taran districts spring to her mind. They were boisterous in ridiculing the Tarans for their arrogance, for their protesting against injustice in Oak Grove even though they could barely read and write.

She knows. This is the very thing her sister told their teacher, that this was bound to happen.

The Victorians lit the flame of hatred by their own hands. This great fire will burn, until all is reduced to nothing.

Don't blink, her sister told her. Witness clearly for yourself how our lives are destroyed again and again.

Amidst the sea of charred corpses, the Draco who controls the fires of death lifts her hand to cast.

A purple, ice-cold blaze immediately consumes the flames that had scorched the dead.

That deathly blaze never was a true life-taker. She simply permits they climb from the ashes, to take revenge against those who destroyed their homeland.

...I have no regrets.

I had always once thought she was in the right.

'We will throw ourselves into the fire, give even our own lives as fuel, to build the Tarans' ideal nation in the end...'

So I always spoke, by her side.

But once the fuel has burned away... will there be anyone left in her nation?

I've hesitated, rethought, run away...

I do not regret it.

My flight took me here. I've met people, seen things, she's never seen. The things I want to say cannot be what she does.

So I will not be afraid of the thought of her again.

I will never... be trapped within my own shadow!

But as you recognized this palace, were you not fearing?

I imagine you'd never be able to tell your 'companions' where you are bound, but the answer has long been readied in your heart.

If you won't become me, then how will you find your own place within Dublinn's dreams?

—Loughshinny... what do you want?

And in Reed's mind are the dead who walk to them in the great fire.

...Stop.

Battered, bruised, scarred beyond recognition, yet with their thirst burning bright in their eyes.

Their revenge against the Victorian officers fulfilled, now walking to those who lit their flames.

Walk no longer...

You are owed... your rest!

—By the time she reacts, those closest to her have fallen before her, the vacant sockets of their eyes all focused on her.

In the fierce flash of her firelight, the deathly flames are extinguished.

...I'm sorry, Sister. I'm sorry...

I—did not mean to ruin your Arts...