act22side

'I cast my heart into my rhymes,'

'That you, in the dim coming times,'

'May know how my heart went with them... after the red-rose-bordered hem.'

I knew they wouldn't come looking for anyone under a pile of Catastrophe rubble.

We have that thick mist this morning to thank. Wouldn't have made it out so easily otherwise.

Ah, careful. We don't have any protective equipment. There's a risk of infection here, if we get hurt.

You too, Moran. Originium-rich environments are—especially dangerous to Infected.

Noted. I'll watch out.

Is Caireann... asleep?

I think she's just fallen asleep, yes, it wasn't fainting. Her breathing's very calm, I can tell. Sleep will ease her pain, if only by a little.

But I still worry she might not make it, if we don't stop to take care of her injuries soon.

Mm.

Are... any of you disappointed?

Why would we be? Didn't you say so yourself? We've got to fight with Dublinn forces because they don't want a second 'Leader.'

But they've got grander goals. They won't keep making chase.

We're used to a life of running at this point. We can bear with it.

What about after, though? You still haven't told us what you're thinking for then.

I don't have a very good idea yet. I'm sorry.

Right. There might be fewer Originium crystals, deeper into the ruins. I want to take a look, and see if we can hide ourselves anywhere for the moment.

It's about time we all stopped for some rest.

But aren't there people over that way?

They seem like normal folk, but we should steer clear anyhow. You said yourself, it's strange there's people in a place like this. We need to be careful...

No need.

...You seem so afraid. What's the matter?

I'm fine. Please, don't worry about me.

(She's come here before...? Is she nearby?)

Hey. The one over there's walking kind of strange, isn't she?

Don't look.

Oh, lord—she's—

She probably died—some time ago.

Her body's—just being controlled by Arts. Like the Dublinn soldiers we saw before.

Why would they control a civilian?

I'm not sure yet.

—Come with me. I'll handle these dead.

It's very dim here. Follow the stone steps—watch out for any shards of raw crystal as you go down... Moran, are you sure you're okay carrying Caireann on your back?

I'm fine. As long as your flame's lit, I can see where I'm going.

Okay. We'll head in as deep as we can. Try not to be too loud.

It's...

King Gaeil's castle?

When the topic of that overthrown dynasty arises, some think of the piles upon piles of armor from fallen soldiers, while others claim its golden crown still hides beneath elaborate mechanisms, deep within the ancient forest.

Some see the towering walls of modern Victoria as a foil to the castle's vastness, paralleling the boundless inland sea of Clariside with the virtuous prosperity of the age of heroes, while at the same time lamenting its passing decay under the shadow of Victoria.

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.