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The rising heat dissipates, evaporating even the stream of sorrow.

Perhaps a miracle is about to occur. This is the only thought on anyone's mind.

A miracle, one I have no choice but to accept for Tara...

Is this the parting gift you prepared for me, Sister?

Eblana is undeniably dead. She cannot answer.

Loughshinny tries to recall their hug. Expectations met, a pinch of warmth, and cold calculation. What were the proportions of each in that embrace?

Or maybe, all those things were inseparable to Eblana.

You were right, Eblana.

If this was your ultimate goal, if you insist on laying this bloodstained crown atop my head, then, yes.

Slán abhaile.

Until death, we shan't meet again.

The flaming vortex exhales and dissipates.

The Red Dragon, the one who led the Tarans through the long night, steps forth from the statue's center towards the entirety of Na Saoirsí.

Her expression is blurred by flame, yet her figure is as solid as the ever-persistent life on the land.

One step, then another.

Her feet step over the coffin still burning in purple embers. There is no body within, only the familiar flame-spewing spear of The Leader.

The crowd holds their breath, and the square falls silent, as if they stand outside a hospital's delivery room, or perhaps a cemetery after the last shovel of soil has been heaped into a grave.

Only dancing flames remain, without rest.

I can forgive everything else you've done to me, Eblana, but not this parting gift... Never.

From past to present, your name will sink into oblivion, alongside the countless names who built Tara.

The only Red Dragon of Tara will be Loughshinny Dublinn.

I have returned.

The Red Dragon who led you in the fight against Victoria, in the fight for independence and freedom—

Loughshinny Dublinn... is back from the abyss of death.

I died to quench the flames upon you all, but the rain of tears you shed for me extinguished that fire, allowing me to return from the abyss.

This time, though, I will not drive you to your deaths.

Our grand undertaking is complete. Never again will there be cause for countless Tarans to offer up their lives and leave us only ruins and wailing.

I pray with all my heart that every Taran will be able to curb their own flame—flames that came from slavery, from oppression, from humiliation, from sorrow that never died out, not for thousands of years.

I neither need nor expect you to forget. I only hope that you can do as our ancestors did, and let those flames become your lamp.

A lamp that first warms yourself, and then...

...illuminates the path for us all. So we can truly laugh, sing, and live in our homeland.

A bright yet gentle light.

While the crowd is still mulling over her words, one of the residents suddenly cries out in pain.

Agh! Why is the burn on my hand suddenly hurting?

Wait, the colors of all your lamps...

Even my own changed colors!

These are the lights the Red Dragon hopes you will carry to warm yourselves.

Purple fire belongs only to the dead, yet we unwittingly let our own flames be dyed its color through overwhelming death and loss.

But we mistook that fire for a blessing, and allowed ourselves to be dragged towards the abyss...

If the Red Dragon hadn't killed herself tonight, and we hadn't managed to return her flames, we could all have been dead by now, turned into walking corpses.

To extinguish the flames of death in ourselves... You said that's why she killed herself?

The sense of guilt that had crept up on Nemos after the purple flames vanished leaves her unable to reply. She only nods slightly.

Then, she feels a sudden chill on her face.

It was a drop of water. Nemos lifts her head and looks to the distant night sky.

More look up as the damp raindrops pelt their faces, gently washing their tears away.

It is raining.

On Samhain's eve the rain falls, heavier and heavier, but the crowd still remains in the square. They wish to thank the Red Dragon for returning their lives, for separating life from death.

But the dragon tells everyone she will remain here until everyone returns home to rest.

So the people gradually disperse, and eventually even the wakemen and refugees bid goodbye to the dragon. They worry that some of the dead, who have not returned their fire yet, will gather around the ruins, although that worry is unfounded.

By the time the sun rises, no longer will there be any wandering dead on Taran soil.

Amidst sobs, Nemos bids goodbye to the dragon as well. The next day, she will wake up early to collect bricks from all over town to make a new door for Culann's workshop.

The huge square empties out, leaving only a red dragon and a nomad.

Where are you off to next, Brigid?

...Not sure there's anywhere <i>to</i> go, really. All I've ever done is pass on messages or report oncoming Catastrophes.

I think they will replace my job though... What are they called again? 'Catastrophe Messengers'?

There've been less and less of us nomads anyhow, so I guess I'm glad someone'll carry on the work, at least.

You should try contacting Rhodes Island.

Hm? What's that?

A pharmaceutical company. They're good people. You'll have to look for their headquarters—it's a landship.

I'll write them a letter tomorrow, and I was hoping you could deliver it for me. I think you'll like the place.

But for tonight... You ought to rest inside the fort. We can't have you sleeping in a tent with all this rain.

Let's head to the citadel gates first.

The two of them slowly make their way towards the citadel.

The downpour continues, and the fire on the sculpture is nearly extinguished. Only a faint flame of indistinct color flickers in the dragon's eye sockets.

They suddenly hear a voice from behind.

Stubbornness and stupidity really are hereditary, I'm telling you.

How can someone forget their own bet?

Is there someone still in the square?

It's that invisible brother of mine. He made a bet with me.

Invisible?

Don't turn around, Loughshinny.

He's a wee bit awkward, that one. No fan of being seen, I'm sure.

Hah.

Looking at the flickering flame in the dragon's eyes, Labhréathach recalls a time centuries past. When Ailill was still a lad with a cracking voice, while his own beard had just started to sprout.

Máighréad, 'the Exquisite', was promoting everything Victorian in the royal capital, and ultimately even banned a favorite custom for Taran commoners: placing bets.

That day, Labhréathach had exploded in an argument with his mother, with an unprecedented level of rage.

Afterwards, his mother ordered him to fast and reflect, but Ailill sneaked into his brother's bedroom with a big piece of steak for him.

The brothers blew out every light in the room and merrily gorged themselves, even licking their fingers clean. 'Enough stubbornness. Soon everyone in the capital will be a Victorian.' Ailill said.

Labhréathach stroked his still-soft beard, and merely shook his head. He asked: Then why not make a bet with me? Once Mother's gone, not a soul will willingly continue pretending they're Victorian.

'Fine.' Ailill replied.

The older brother burst into laughter. 'What's on the table, then? What'd make a good wager? Why not the crown? If you win, I'll never set foot in the palace for the rest of my life.'

'No. I'll wager anything but that.'

<i>Ailill had refused.</i> It was I who insisted on having it my way, half as a joke, and half hungry for a gamble. I nearly put him in tears, didn't I?

Yes, yes. Because Ailill was always the type to give in. He'd definitely agree.

And so, in the end, he said: 'Alright. If you go, then never come back.'

Afterwards, I ended up leaving the palace, wandering for years as Ailill spent that time unhappy in the capital.

I heard that after losing half his men in the court, Ailill was controlled by not even Victorians, but Taran nobles speaking with Victorian accents.

You lost, Labhréathach.

No matter how homesick you are, you've spent far too long on this family visit.

Not to mention you're just a pathetic shadow cast by firelight. Man, you have your own road to walk. No more breaking promises.

Right, just like that, take out that purple fire from the stab wound on your chest—

Ugh, argh...

Agh—And now, return it to the dragon who walked the same path you did...

The Exiled King's face twists from pain, but nevertheless he extends his arm bit by bit towards the eye of the skeleton.

*cough* *cough*, argh...

Let's see, Ailill. Is this your blade's...

Can phantoms also feel pain? Can they shed tears of anguish? Or is it merely the rain dripping through him as his body fades to nothingness?

He can no longer tell.

...Or perhaps the flame of your good descendant here—

Labhréathach!