act41side

They weren't even scouts. Just a band of poor traders, already trampled over by some army or other.

He wanted to save them, but in the end, could only save one boy. A Victorian child. He didn't know what to do.

Be it out of desperation or vanity, he decided to cut their heads off, and tell his people they were scouts.

That way he'd become a hero, the most prestigious person in town. He thought he could use that status for good.

Raising the boy would become an act of mercy by the benevolent hero.

You lied to us?!

Even this poor liar knew that he was still a blacksmith, and thought he should learn his trade after the war.

But you lot...

What about you?

You—You're not Culann! You're a fake, pretending to be him!

*cough*...

Yeah, you're not Culann! He's our hero, the man of steel who even a whole Victorian squad couldn't handle! Who the bloody hell are you?!

Hah...

After dragging the statue all the way here from my workshop...

How much longer... do you expect me to live?

Fresh blood gushes from Culann's mouth and nose as if he has just uttered his last words.

He bears an almost kind and expectant gaze as he looks at his compatriots surrounding him. Hoping their faces will reveal an expression other than hate.

But he feels as if his eyes meet only a sea of purple flames. The faces behind the fire are difficult to discern, as if they are the restless dead he met in those ruins outside long, long ago.

He looks into the distance.

*cough* *cough*!

In a corner at the edge of the square he sees a tiny figure.

He did not have time to look for Theo's corpse, but now it stares at him blankly, purple flames clearly visible around it.

Theo? You too?!

*cough*...

This was... all for naught...

Culann stumbles to his feet, and picks up his hammer to swing.

The crowd stares at him with dread, fearing that the hammer will fall on their heads, but they do not back down.

Culann uses the last of his strength...

And with the utmost ferocity, he strikes the dragon's head.

As if sounding a death knell.

The hero's body collapses before the giant dragon, stunning the crowd as if they've lost something.

Loughshinny's voice finally spreads as her fire burns like a sunset set aflame, but she fails to attract any attention.

At that very moment, the statue suddenly bursts into purple flames along with Culann lying quietly before it, sending the crowd reflexively into retreat.

Within the fire, Culann begins to pick himself up, while the giant statue extends its wings as if to fly away.

When Culann gets fully to his feet, the dragon statue flaps its huge wings, lifts off, and lands on the empty pedestal in the center of the square prepared just for it—

The crowd watches in complete silence, though whether out of shock or reverence is unclear.

From the citadel come the faintly discernible sounds of footsteps, slow and late.

Truly a shame that I missed the only hero left in this city.

Well then, people of Na Saoirsí. Your hero has sacrificed his life for this statue.

Nightfall approaches, so if you still follow the Red Dragon's will...

Then you will obey curfew and head home.

'Culann uses the last of his strength, and with the utmost ferocity he strikes the dragon's head, as if sounding a death knell.'

You're quite the fan of Culann, I see. A tragic ending, but your embellishments made it beautiful.

You flatter me.

I only ever met the blacksmith a few times. He was the first victim of the city's chaos, if you don't count Theo.

Actually, I'm rather curious about something. The Dublinners who walked into the darkness, did they also bear the 'purple flames' you mentioned?

I'm sorry, but I couldn't say.

Based on your story so far, I do not believe they would have. Corruption, smuggling, abuse of authority... They had many plans for the future.

If you've thought about it that much, you could probably come up with your own ending by now.

But that was not the only incident to occur in the city. You said so yourself: he was but the first victim.

Though, if you insist on ending this here...

<i>The red dragon was certain those infected by the flames of death could not be saved.</i>

<i>And so, she declared to her people that the land would become death's domain, and they would become her followers, accompanying her on a journey towards death.</i>

<i>The corpse-like masses no longer had the strength to either consent or refuse. That night, flames rose high into the sky, illuminating the fields, and since then, no one has ever seen the red dragon or her followers again.</i>

Ugh...

What is it?

Nothing. You can go now.

There is obviously <i>something</i>.

'Since then, no one's ever seen the red dragon'? Really?

The author glances towards the tavern wall, covered in newspapers no one has touched. Today's paper is there too, with a photo of The Leader gracing the headlines. It declares she is currently in Oak Grove for some ceremony or other.

Also, 'accompanying her on a journey towards death'... When did that happen?

Stories are free to go where they please.

Free, sure. But that doesn't mean we get to twist the tale beyond recognition and laugh it off.

Whyever not?

Because you and I, we're Tarans. Our stories will reflect us, no matter how distorted they become.

Oh? You still regard yourself as a Taran?

I've been a Taran since the very first time I read a line penned by Seamus Williams.

Why else would I have abandoned the warm armchairs of Castshire County's literature salon and run all the way to Tara and become a—

'You still regard yourself as a Taran?'

An extremely ominous thought flashes through the writer's mind, but he immediately rejects it.

He looks at the newspapers again. The papers report only facts, even if they are edited.

I'll just go ahead and ask. Who sent you?

I'm here under no one's orders. As you put it, I'm simply an interested reader who wishes to help you 'piece together the truth.'

Can you prove it?

Now there's a conundrum. It'd be simple enough to prove someone <i>did</i> send me, but the opposite? How do I prove someone's nonexistence?

The author takes another gulp of beer, despondently gripping his head. He knows it is too late to run.

But he can still turn things around. He just has to be clever about it...

I mulled it over, and you're right, it's just a story. I suppose I was a tad nervous. Apologies.

You do have quite a few unfinished tales as well.

Perhaps we can join them together, and find an ending true to both Na Saoirsí as it was, and the Tara in your heart.

So if you're ready, then for the next story, how about we talk about the dance in the mirror?

The... dance in the mirror? What?

No, this was not a matter of cleverness.

As long as he is prudent and lets the shadow of the story cast by firelight rise and warp, he will definitely be fine.