act41side

Where did you leave off...? Ah yes, on the eve of Samhain, while the sun still hung in the sky.

Samhain nights bind life with death. This is no mere superstition. Or perhaps you could say it has long transcended superstition.

Taran legends speak of countless great deeds and tragedies occurring on this very night, and such tales often put the date front and center.

So long as innumerable legends coincide on that day, and so long as the Tarans still remember, if only vaguely, to celebrate the harvest and light up fires on that day, it will never be a simple change of season.

It itself is the perfect footnote to add to any myth.

...Oh, and another thing. I don't suppose you'd mind if I gave the characters more fitting names, yes?

The sun is leaning westward.

Have we yet to figure out how to go about this final confrontation?

Loughshinny, why are you hiding in your room at dinnertime again?

Is Dad angry?

No, but he will be soon.

I'll be down soon—

What's that on your desk?

Nothing!

The young red dragon tries to block her sister's line of sight with her body, but her effort is in vain.

A small paper box sits on her desk, carefully lined with cotton. Inside lies a tiny fowlbeast—already dead but still harboring a faint lingering warmth.

It seems to have broken its leg while alive. An unsuccessful splint fashioned from stiff paper now lies in pieces around it, accompanied by a few grains of wheat.

This is the fowlbeast that sang at my window every morning. I don't know what happened to it, but... I wanted to save it, and...

I beg of you, Sister—Tell Dad I'm only feeling ill. I'll be on time for dinner tomorrow... I'll bury it in the courtyard tonight.

So you're giving up?

It's already dead.

Is that so?

Purple flames slip past the fowlbeast's feathers into its already cold body.

The two watch as it slowly stands up, its broken leg stiffly propping itself up on the cotton.

Alright. Would you like it to fly, or to sing a song for you?

N-No! This isn't right! Not like this!

Then why didn't you use your own flames on it while it was still alive?

Your fowlbeast could have lived a much longer life. You do realize you aren't limited to how the mediocre masses do things, don't you?

But Mum told me to swallow my flames, hide them away, and never let them be seen...

And who would see them in your own room?

The young dragon looks away to avoid her sister's eyes, but finds her gaze landing on the fowlbeast standing on its cotton bed instead.

Purple fire burns in its eyes, and even the way it tilts its head is the spitting image of her sister.

Or do we perhaps still harbor unrealistic fantasies for how this could end?

Sister, you're covered in blood... were you injured?!

Most of it isn't mine. The Duke's spy bled profusely.

I'll replace your bandages.

Where is the Earl of Warwick?

He has... work to do.

Yes, so he says. And as always, you take him at his word.

He even allowed the spy to discuss poetry with you while he 'works'.

I thought I'd been keeping mum about our origins, as well as anything related to the Earl's vision...

Everyone in this manor knows you never say a word more than necessary. That has never been something the Earl would bother to check.

That's right. Had we let the spy escape, the Earl would still inevitably find a way to silence him in the dark, and we'd simply find ourselves bound by yet another chain called caution.

I'm sorry, I—

There's no need for you to apologize. Apologies have never changed a thing.

Once packed with guests, the long-empty parlor's acoustics now amplify the sound of the bandages being ripped apart, making the atmosphere even heavier.

Those poems by that Seamus Williams you've been so into... If you can remember them, why not recite a line or two for me?

The noble red dragon racks her brains for a verse that would not rouse her sister's rage. Perhaps something related to Tara, brave warriors, or even ancient legends—

But all she can recall are verses that stand aloof from worldly affairs.

'The land is but a strange romance, the cause of its end lost to chance ill.'

'I am but a wandering bard, well-versed in lore from songs in the woods...'

She sneaks a peek at her sister's face and sees no change, so she plucks up her courage and continues to recite more lines.

Only when she finishes both the entire poem and the new bandage with a delicate knot does she realize that her sister has already fallen asleep, encircled by meter and rhyme.

Or perhaps...?

Sister.

Ah, Loughshinny. You've kept me waiting.

What of your new friends? The wayward wakewoman, or perhaps that lively nomad?

With your presence, any obstacles preventing you from bringing them along should have easily been reduced to naught.

They're in the city, but this is a moment to be shared by us alone.

Indeed.

It's cold out here on the balcony, so let us continue this in the corridor.

A replica of where Labhréathach died, in Na Saoirsí... Why must you cling onto our inglorious history and repeat it?

I see you've gained a deeper understanding of the word Tara.

But if history does not repeat itself, then how can we speak of breaking the cycle?

It can be very difficult to tell us apart by appearance.

But the moment either of us speaks, it becomes as clear as night and day.

Eblana only ever steers the conversation toward her own interests, while Loughshinny is ever the polite one.

She'd get to the bottom of this and find an ending—

Don't interrupt me, sir. I'm talking about the characters in the story.

I'm sorry, Eblana.

No, I'm quite glad. You finally accepted my invitation.

To dance?

Yes. To dance.

I'll dance with you to the end, together. However...

Please tell me first. The last time we met, you said you couldn't afford to wait any longer... What exactly is going on?

With that same smile of hers, the older sister stands at the end of the corridor, while the younger clutches her hands together and hides in the shadow of a wall lamp, hoping the other party won't notice her heart wavering.

Poor thing. She could have concluded this farewell so much sooner.

You've become... frail.

The flames of death must have their limits. Spreading them so far would certainly drag you down as fire after fire blooms, just like Labhréathach back then... Am I right?

I see. While that ghost's fire might resemble mine, his temperament is closer to yours. It seems he's helped you quite a lot.

At first he only wanted to watch all of Tara burn.

He was simply trying to keep it together...

Just like you.

The noble red dragon finally steps out of the shadows, walking forward to support her sister who seems on the verge of being unable to stand... just like before.

Is that so?

At last you resemble your younger self, when you knew nothing of flames or fate. The you who tried to shield me.

It has been a truly long time, Loughshinny.

I remember. It was when Mrs. Murphy next door passed away. You didn't like her, but fancied the beautiful bouquet of flowers in her coffin...

So you used your flames to change her body's position.

I saw scorch marks on the flowers and thought you'd be scolded, so I told our parents I was the one who did it. I even fabricated a story of how I opened and closed the coffin...

And so you were scolded instead.

How could poor Mum and Dad—who couldn't even hide the flames in that family in time—possibly have noticed the faint scorch marks on some flowers?

...Indeed.

Is that why you've always been cowering?

Would <i>you</i> blame every decision you've made in life on one unfortunate childhood experience?

...Hah.

So tell me, Sister. Tell me there's still time.

I'll accompany you out of the citadel and into the square. Have the people return their flames to you.

I'll walk through Tara's fields with you, and gather the dead you've intentionally or unintentionally awoken with your Arts, sending them all to a peaceful rest.

I'll recite poems to you while you're weak, until you fall asleep and wake up again.