act41side

Was that another trick of the shadows? This isn't the right way. I'm going in circles.

I can't see the sky. How long has it been...? How far do I still have to go?

Well, I'm in the Dark Woods, at least. The mist and noise Brigid was talking about didn't keep me out.

Tricky fae, shadows pointing the wrong way, fowlbeasts that trip you with branches... That's all more or less the same as when I was bringing Moran and the others back.

The trees are too tall, and the leaves too thick. They block out the sky, making the life here different from outside.

...This is the right path. I'm at the heart of the Dark Woods now.

The scenery seems different from before. Where did the red and gold of autumn go?

Why does it look like this?

The black mist?!

So the woods are rejecting me after all?

Loughshinny grabs her weapon tightly. If Nemos was right, and Dublinn never returned after leaving the city, then they were most likely swallowed by the mist.

But it shows no sign of aggression. It simply lingers.

Does it... reject me?

No, it's closer to indifference... disappointment?

Why?

There is no answer except the rustling of leaves.

Loughshinny shakes her head and cautiously goes around the mist, choosing a path that looks like it has a light at the end. The mist remains indifferent to her passage.

The fae that delight in leading travelers astray are nowhere to be seen.

Another dead end...

No time to waste here. I'm sorry, but I'll have to burn a way through—

You're overthinking it.

Who's there?!

Take a guess.

You... how could it be?

You're that gentleman from the city... I wanted to ask you something, but you—

Indeed, hardly the most amicable of partings. Since then, I've been following and watching you for a while now. Consider it my way of reflecting on myself.

I'll admit you're not quite what I thought. But this is no time for small talk.

Do not burn the trees. It should be enough to illuminate them with your fire. See for yourself what they really are.

'What they really are'...?

The leaves are razor sharp. The brambles are hard, and the branches have a metallic gleam... what is this?

That's not important. What's important is that your fire can't burn through it.

Now follow me.

Hurry, before the black mist changes its mind!

We can talk later, but if that thing is in a bad mood, there won't be anything left to bury when it's done with you.

Isn't that a dead end?

Why do you put so much faith in what you see?

Just listen and move!

This is... the path I took when we came to Na Saoirsí!

So this is where those trails lead?

If you don't mind me asking, are you and the forest fae—

Don't be ridiculous. I have nothing to do with them.

The woods, though... Centuries have passed, but it's hardly changed at all, other than the black mist.

Ruins the view, really.

We'll be out of the Dark Woods soon. Now could you—

Tsk, tsk, this is really...

What's happening?

Look behind you.

Reed!

Reed! We're here!

The refugees appear on the well-lit edge of the woods.

What happened in the city? It's like the black mist got angry the moment you entered it, cutting it off from the outside. It's been days since anyone went into the Dark Woods.

A few people were hunting on the outskirts when they heard sounds from within, and saw what looked like fire.

Whenever something similar happened before, the wakemen told us not to approach the woods.

This time, though, we recognized your fire. We could hardly ignore it.

You shouldn't have come. It's dangerous here—

Then you shouldn't have either, not on your own. We all learned our lesson about letting you go off alone after waiting for you in the marshes outside Londinium.

We trust you. So please, trust us back.

...Thank you.

You're welcome. Let's go back to camp.

Mhm.

Sir, would you—

Who are you talking to? Is there someone else with you?

The red dragon turns around, but her uninvited companion has already vanished without a trace, like the dew under the morning sun.

Thank you for providing refuge for these people.

Nemos entrusted them to us. We simply did our part.

On behalf of the wakemen, I promise that we will not reveal your existence to anyone unaware. And you have seen with your own eyes that your people are safe. Now it is time for you to leave.

What do you mean? Is she not welcome here?

Neither are your people, Moran.

Whenever two red dragons meet, endless conflict awaits. If you insist on involving yourselves in it, then we can no longer offer you sanctuary.

How could you?

This is how we have always been. The wakemen neither start nor end conflicts.

The disputes of the living are not our concern. We watch over only the souls of the departed.

If you are truly the noble and compassionate leader Moran imagines you to be, you will not drag these innocents into your battle, red dragon.

This isn't a battle between two red dragons. I came to seek your help on behalf of the people of Na Saoirsí—

Every battle has its reasons.

It's not an excuse. Reed wouldn't do that.

Excuse or not, the disputes of the living are none of our concern... A hard-learned lesson whose bitter fruits we continue to taste to this day.

Now leave.

What if I'm here to ask you to hold a funeral?

A funeral?

In <i>that</i> case, the wakemen will welcome you. But for that, and only that.

Now tell me the name of the departed, their deeds in life, and... present the remains.

His name was... Culann. He was a blacksmith.

Culann?!

How did he die?

The purple flames of death took both his life and his will. Not even my flames can help him now.

Then why is it that not a single denizen of Na Saoirsí has come to us to request a funeral since the city became independent?

So...

So it transpires that the first Na Saoirsían to be mourned since the end of the war was not taken by war at all.

So I weave the straw into a ring like this?

Yes. Then adorn it with these flowers, and the wreath is complete.

I remember when the farmers put a wreath on your head, praying for a good harvest next year.

...Mhm.

Feels like old times. I miss that.

Are you not happy here?

I rather enjoy it myself, but the others might find it stifling.

The life of a wakeman is almost like a self-punishment, after all. What's the word for it again? 'Asceticism'?

No alcohol, no overeating, no fancy foods—can't even laugh too loud. They wake up before sunrise and sleep after midnight, and everything in between is some ritual or other.

At least they don't expect the same from us, but there's no avoiding them when we have to help out on the farms and stuff.

I've practically forgotten how to laugh—hah.