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—Wait, 'again'?

It may be presumptuous, but I tried writing a new verse to the song.

Because I don't want our brave loved ones... to just leave us, to never to see us again, to be eternally lost in the mist, just like we are.

Again through the dark woods—parting the mists of hoar♪

Our gallants dearly departed, my heart so sad and sore♪

And so in my dreams I go, lighting bonfires in the woods♪

Not to reunite, but to light the path you trod with fog and dew♪

...Not to reunite, but to... light the path you trod...?

A tear trickles from Emma's eyes, streaking across her sallow face.

Return it... Return your flames, and the blessing of the Red Dragon.

Return the flames...?

If I... return this blessing... this fire back to her, will it light up their path?

Return it, and the wandering departed will also return to the flames and rest in peace.

No, I don't want that, I just... want to see him again...

If you die as you are, you will only ever brush past each other in the fog, again and again.

Then... what should I do?

Live on.

He chose to walk into the mist so you wouldn't need to be lost within it as well.

Return the fire to light his path. And then let the years pass, let life begin anew, and when your hair is white and he learns his wish was fulfilled...

Only then will you meet again.

The woman buries her face in her hands as she kneels on the ground, tears streaming down her fingers.

Moran hands her a candle. The candle flame turns purple the moment she takes it between sobs.

The wakemen and refugees slowly sing their way through the city, like a tiny stream left behind after a night of rain.

It is by no means a clear stream, nor a turbulent one. It is a miserable, muddy trickle flowing down centuries of painful history, carrying dust and blood, and about to run dry.

But it is this murky bitterness that reveals the city's true self in the gloomy night.

Nights of falling asleep gripping old photos, mornings awakened by phantom pain from amputated limbs.

Now-empty houses fell to ruin, while those fortunate enough to return home were greeted only by orphaned dolls scattered across dusty floors.

The doors... are opening?

They are.

People flood into the streets like a burst dam, pouring into the square.

Some leave their homes with candles in hand, while many more follow Emma's lead and take one from the wakewoman.

The flames still burn purple, but seem to have softened, and bear a bit of warmth.

Finally, finally...

Place the Red Dragon's coffin at the statue's base, Nemos.

It seems Na Saoirsí will witness a grand fire-returning ceremony tonight.

You should be the first, Nemos.

Me? But this is <i>her</i> funeral, so... are you sure?

It is more than just hers, is it not?

The wakewoman looks around, trying to pinpoint the shadow of a stranger.

But even if the ghost wasn't trying to hide from her, she has no way of hearing the long overdue words of forgiveness from his mouth.

Now we're even, wood-brains.

Nemos takes a candle from the wakewoman, and bows before the burning coffin beneath the dragon statue.

...Rest in peace.

She deliberately neglects to mention the name of the departed. She places the candle before the coffin, no longer able to stop her tears from crashing into the flames.

Violet fire instantly rises up into the sky, spreading from the coffin to the entire statue.

The entire sculpture is set ablaze.

The crowd place their candles down beside the statue, and return the purple flames to the one who granted them their hue.

Some are silent, and some call the Red Dragon's name, but many more chant the most precious things they had lost in the war...

Tears fall like rain.

The suppressed, the promised, the twisted, the incited... Tears wash away the flickering, hollow pageantry, revealing only the sorrow of lives crushed to bits.

Crude, sharp, turbid, and stuck in their throats, only now does their sorrow manage to cry out.

The rain of tears converges into the stream of songs, pooling around the statue as the raging blaze evaporates it all, until even the citadel behind the square is engulfed in flames.

As I said, this... is my answer.

The mist does not reply, but after a long time Loughshinny hears a deep sigh.

...You made this choice yourself.

The dark mist dissipates like awakening from a dream, and Loughshinny sees real black clouds above her.

She heads towards the square.

She goes to return fire to the dead.

She walks the whole way from the city gates to the square. Every living resident is gathered before the burning statue.

The soaring purple flames have already taken over one side of the citadel. No one is able to approach, so Loughshinny gets all the space she could want.

...It should work from here too.

Eblana... May Tara never need your flames again.

A small blossom of fire flies from Loughshinny's palm. She does not know if this conforms to funerary tradition—it is simply an act of instinct.

The bright yellow flower flutters into the purple blaze. Loughshinny stands quietly, as the other fire returners have done.

But the fire does not die out.

The purple fire still lights up half the sky until everyone has returned their flames, though the Originium lamps on their waists remain an ice-cold violet.

Loughshinny finally realizes that at some point the giant dragon, still aflame, has stopped right before her.

She meets its eyes.

Eblana's eyes.

Still not giving up, Eblana?

Very well then. I'll play along with you...

One last time.

Loughshinny's spear tip flares up as the giant dragon flaps its wings and charges towards her.

Your Highness, The Singer has just sent word that The Elocutionist and the rest have taken Loughshinny. They are on their way to County Hillock.

I see.

He only sent news after our troops left and 'The Leader' had already set out for County Hillock. He seemed to want to avoid offending The Elocutionist and his group, but also to avoid accusations of concealing information.

What should we do with him?

Dublinn has never needed him to be our eyes. No one is counting on him for this.

My utmost apologies. I take full responsibility. I assumed they were heading towards County Hillock on orders, and never imagined they'd dare to take Loughshinny.

But they haven't gotten far, so we can still catch up if we set off now—

Your Highness, I bring news from your sister. She hopes you can curb The Elocutionist and his men from acting rashly, and bring her back.

She said that herself?

That's right.

I'll mobilize the troops at once—

Hold on.

Your Highness, we should stop them as soon as possible.

Also: 'I don't want to go to County Hillock'. Straight from the dragon's mouth.

If that is truly her desire, then she ought to realize it with her own hands.

It would be no difficult task with her flames. Has she not already sentenced quite a few to death in the name of The Leader?

Tell her this: if that is what she wants, she can do it herself—

No, there's no need for even that.

Your Highness, if I may be so bold, she <i>is</i> your—

My sister?

The giant dragon flaps its steel wings, stirring up a flaming vortex, but Loughshinny does not waver.

She stabs her spear firmly in its eye socket.

Still unable to commit to killing me, Loughshinny?

Gradually, the dragon's voice overlaps with Eblana's, and eventually even its body becomes hers.

The scenery around them changes swiftly, just like that night in the ruins with Labhréathach.

I just... don't know.

What exactly do you want?