act41side

'in the warm flames.'

As she finishes, a flame is thrown into the kindling surrounding the coffin, igniting the firewood.

The crowd gathers around the bonfire, following the instructions of the wakemen.

Witness that the departed has found peace in flames. He shall no longer wander the mortal realm.

Place your candle as close to the fire as possible, or throw it in directly. Return the fire to the departed.

If you have anything to say to the departed, say it aloud to the flame. Be it praise or reproach, they are the memories that will console the departed at journey's end.

Once you have returned the fire, please remain to keep watch over his soul, until the fire has gone out.

Let us begin.

Slán leat. May you find rest, stranger—

deceiver and hero.

Moran bends down and places her candle by the fire. The licking flames swallow it in an instant, almost burning her hand.

Do you want to come closer to the fire, Reed?

If there's anyone here who doesn't deserve to pay respects to Culann, it would be me.

You couldn't have saved him.

Moran?

There was no place for him in the Red Dragon's Lair from the moment he made the choice to truly become a hero.

You should return the fire to him.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Let the dead rest with our memories, as life goes on.

Return the fire...

Let the dead rest with our memories... as life goes on?

While Loughshinny is lost in thought, the others continue to return their fire and then sit down some distance from the bonfire, until she is the only one left with a candle in her hand.

She walks forward in silence, and tosses the candle into the blazing bonfire.

The dead are gone.

All their ambition, obsession, realization and desperation turn to fading smoke and silent ash in the flames.

So you won't go to the city, even to perform a fire-returning ceremony?

What you've described is highly unusual. We cannot simply take your word that the residents are no longer among the living.

Besides, the fire-returning ceremony is just that—a ceremony. Do not expect it to be anything more than that.

...Very well, then. You may return, wakewoman. Thank you for your help.

You intend to go back to Na Saoirsí, even without us?

Moran and the others have settled in well, and I've done what Nemos entrusted to me, so...

My work here is done.

Take care, Your Highness.

I will.

The red dragon sets out in the direction from whence she came. Everything that happened yesterday seems but a distant shadow now.

But also a tiny spark of flame.

'Return the fire'...

Have you made up your mind to go to your death?

The stranger?

Good timing, sir. May we talk? If you will help me—

Did your red dragon history lessons ever teach you about a poor wretch by the name of Labhréathach?

Excuse me?

I'll take that as a 'no'.

After returning to the palace for the first time in years, he never even had the chance to see his brother before the guards took him away and plunged a sword through his chest.

I know the story.

Then why are you so eager to follow in his footsteps, and have history remember you as a fool?

Leave. You've seen your sister, and you're still alive. In that, you've already achieved more than he ever did.

The story of Labhréathach and Ailill is not the story of me and Eblana.

...Fine. Let's say I was willing to hear you out. What did you want to talk about?

The city's fire-returning ceremony.

I just wanted to find someone to help with the preparations, but you seem to know a lot about the history and tales of Tara. So I was thinking you might be able to help.

History? Tales?

We can talk on the way. Come.

But that's not the way to the Dark Woods—

Just follow me. It worked out for you in the woods, didn't it?

...The ruins of the palace?

I've been here before. It's dangerous. The Originium-rich environment is—

You said you wanted history and tales. What better place in Tara than this *ancient Tengae expletive* palace?

The <i>what</i> palace?

Ah, never mind.

I appreciate your help in the woods, but I have important business to attend to. I don't have time to—

And what's this 'important business'? Dying for nothing?

Sure, you're different from your sister. That dragon's flames may be cursed, but her personality is as typical as they come. Arrogant, leaving no room for any other voice. You may be better, but—

I'm different from my sister, but she's not who you say she is.

But however different you may be, conflict is in the nature of the red dragons. Even if you were merely dragged into it.

And there is only ever one outcome. Only one may emerge alive.

One of you will die, sooner or later. So what's the hurry?

Have patience, young dragon. We're almost there.

We come here for this altar.

Altar? You mean that thing in the middle? Isn't that... the furnace?

'The furnace which fused together the weapons of every Taran soldier, and overturned the fate of the dynasty'... The furnace from which fallen soldiers were reborn.

That's what you call it today, isn't it? Far more important than just another 'altar', to be sure.

But an altar is an altar, even if it's a little bigger than the others. It was based on the ceremonial stone circle used to coronate the King Gaeil, and the palace was built around it.

Whenever an old red dragon died, this is where the fire was returned to them.

The fire... returned?

What you saw back at those wood-brains' camp. Gotta give them credit: they managed to remember all that, even centuries later.

Fire-returning wasn't just about a bonfire back in the day, though.

By the time of the old hag Máighréad, it was enough for the siblings of the heir to the title of King Gaeil to put their hands into the fire and get a few blisters.

Go back even further, though, and those siblings would have been burned alive together. Or so they say. There's no hard evidence.

Now you've gone even paler.

He flicks his hand, and a speck of purple fire flies forth from his sleeve, joining the same purple fire in the altar.

The flames breathe quietly, like an infant in its mother's embrace.

Your flame is purple too?

No, wait, you're a Draco...? Could you be—

Awfully slow, aren't you? Well, it's too late to run. Put your hand in.

What?!

You want Na Saoirsí to return its fire, didn't you? Put your hand in.

The red dragon falls silent, then stretches out her hand to touch the flame in the furnace. As expected, it is not warm, but to her surprise it does not feel cold either.

Now, I brought you here to see something—

The tragedy of Tara, the ill-repute of the red dragons... It is simply the cruel cycle of fate repeating itself, again and again.

Like your sister, I was an aberration that breathed the flames of death. It is not my intention to disrespect the dead, nor could I even if I wanted to, but I wanted to show you...

The fate of those who die upon this land.

Is this where we should begin? Understandable. Of all recent events, it is the most significant.

Your sister was right. Those who have touched the flames of death are beyond help. Yet the fire should not have spread so readily.

What hatred did it take for the Dracos to once again sire an ill-omened aberration, the first in six hundred years?

Ah, and him.

If you ask me, he slept in far too late. Could hardly drag himself out of bed by sunset. Of course he became the sacrifice.

...Even you should not speak of the dead so lightly. Do not justify it as a sacrifice.

You can only say that because you've seen too little. Those feelings will pass soon enough, once you're used to it—

See, here comes another sacrifice.

The Victorians who killed you have been chased out!