act41side

Heh.

Indeed, you were never suited to be Dublinn's Singer.

You cling to what you see and believe. When the two could no longer be reconciled, you chose self-destruction rather than to give up on either.

But do you really imagine that everything has gone the way you think?

A letter, Your Grace.

You may enter.

Is it urgent?

N-No, ma'am.

But look at the seal. It corresponds to no emblem on record from the past fifty years...

Tara?

The Duke of Caster scrutinizes what the servant is holding.

On the edge of the envelope is an emblem excavated from the dusts of history.

The young have never seen it, while the old have forgotten it. Only those forced to keep an eye on history remember its source.

We are uncertain whether it is the mark of Tara... or of King Gaeil.

I never took you for a scholar of heraldry.

That was not my intention. I just—

It is enough that we know what it signifies.

'To the Duke of Caster.'

Open it and read it out aloud.

Not too quickly.

Yes, ma'am.

There is no greeting...

'Your previous letter was received.'

'The response was delayed as the time was not yet ripe. Now, it is.'

'From this day forth, martial law is hereby lifted in Na Saoirsí and the surrounding lands south of the Grey Hills...'

Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

Martial law to be lifted at midnight across all of Tara!

Publishing restrictions lifted! The art community rejoices! Read more on page two—

Finally. Now we can call this a proper tavern.

Hear, hear! With the curfew lifted, you can drink all through the night!

Besides, it's my birthday! Drinks are on the house!

R-Really?

You sure about this? There are enough people in the city to drink you out of house and home.

Worry about yourself. Look at you, rich boy, leaving your lamp on in the middle of the day!

Tch, I was just so busy I forgot.

It's been warm lately, so I've been renovating. Thought I'd take the day off. Guess I really have been too busy.

So how about another beer? I've got to get this fatigue out of my system.

Here you go.

On the other hand, I'm almost more afraid of <i>not</i> being tired. Being tired is how I know I'm still breathing—no, that's not quite it. How should I put this—

Living.

Yes, living.

You too, ma'am, here's one for you—

Oh, it's you, Emma.

I'm sorry. I've got to get going.

Off to do your time on the ag plate?

Yes.

No idea how you managed to smuggle all that food out last year, but I hear you've been paying it off with honest work over there. So no need to be shy now, have one on me.

Thank you...

To living.

To Tara.

To...

Emma holds the cup with one hand and puts the other in her pocket, clutching the necklace she reclaimed last winter.

The words said to her when it was returned come out of her mouth almost by instinct.

...To all our countrymen who gave their lives for Tara.

You're really leaving, Brigid?

Yeah, the burdenbeasts are callin' for me from their pastures.

Besides, still haven't been to this 'Rhodes Island' that Loughshinny wanted me to see. Want to come with?

Maybe if I have the chance.

It's just sad to think that you're the one who brought us to Na Saoirsí, but can't stay yourself.

It's not that I couldn't, I just chose not to. Like your own choice to stay.

Say hi to the wakemen for me, if they come back to the city.

Is that your intuition again?

It's not <i>always</i> right.

But I don't smell that burning stink anymore. Smells like fresh buds in spring, dew in the morning.

Hello, Brigadier.

You two know each other?

You could say that.

What are you doing here? I don't recall anything happening which the Redsteel Guard would need to be deployed for.

I'm on leave. I came to honor the memory of my comrades... scoundrels, to be sure, but they fought by my side.

If you're looking to take revenge for those who died during your exile, this is your chance. A brawl with a soldier on leave wouldn't be considered an attack on the military.

...It wasn't you who killed Selmon and the others. Not directly.

I'll remember what you did. That's enough for me.

I see...

What more can anyone ask for, than to be remembered?

'...Bealtaine, also known as the Festival of Fire, is scheduled to be revived in the coming days.'

'The fire-passing ritual will start in Oak Grove County.'

You're awfully quiet. Are you nervous?

No, it just strikes me that we managed to turn what you'd see in the books into reality.

On the last day of spring, we extinguish the fires in our homes, then come together to relight them at Bealtaine. In the smoke of the bonfire and drifting ash...

We welcome the coming of a new season, and of a new life.

Your Highness Loughshinny, the lighting ceremony will begin in a few minutes—

Alright, thank you.

Maybe I've waited too long for this. It feels no realer than a dream.

I wanted to sing, Nemos, but you've already sung for me back in Na Saoirsí... So this time, the flames in my hand will do the singing.

One more thing, Your Highness... about Her Highness Eblana—

Your Highness! It's time!

Sorry, Nemos. We can speak after the ritual.

The Draco steps forward.

A stone platform, sculpted in the style of the ruins, serves as her lectern. She lights the bonfire upon it, and turns around.

From the square below her, many faces gaze up with bated breath.

She takes a deep breath.

A thousand years ago, the Dracos of Victoria invaded Tara, creating the title of King Gaeil as an epithet of shame, robbing the nomadic Tarans of their freedom.

Six hundred years ago, the reigning King Gaeil had no choice but to allow the Victorians to remake the royal capital in their own image.

Two hundred years ago, the Aslans seized the crown of Victoria, but once again they trampled the dreams of the Tarans beneath their feet, such that even our language was almost lost to us.

Now, Tara stands on her own.

I recite this history of shame, not to fan the flames of hatred, but in defense of peace.

Sing what songs in Victorian suffice to praise the beauty you see.

Tell what tales in Taran will move the passions.

We remember so that we might provide the living the dignity of life, and the dead the promise of reunion.

Throughout the cold night...