level_act41side_04_beg

Hundreds, thousands of years ago, the Tarans' ancestors did the same as their descendants do now, lighting bonfire after bonfire in the barrens between autumn and winter.

They would sleep beside the red dragon, their red-hot dreams buffeted by sand and wind until raw, but even so it was enough to keep everyone warm.

They would wake up to a still-burning bonfire, because the red dragon does not sleep.

With a moment's rest, the red dragon could find respite from fatigue and pain by breathing in the dreams of homeland, liquor, and freedom rising slowly from the flames and into the sky.

Today, Samhain approaches. The people fuel the flames with wood torn from nearby ruins, and have entirely forgotten the ancient leisure time that seemed to last forever.

Put your hand in the fire.

Look at the color of the flames on my hip. I'm a Taran, I tell you, one blessed by the Red Dragon.

You think a spy couldn't fake the color of a lamp? Get on with it!

May...

May the Red Dragon be merciful!

Oh... it... doesn't even hurt too bad.

Really?

Look. You can barely make out the burn marks on my hand.

So you're not a Victorian spy. But do you know of anyone else who hasn't undergone the trial yet?

You. Yes, you! Have you burned your hand over there yet?

Say something, will you? Enough fiddling with that broken knot of yours! Come with me!

I'll take you there! Just put down the knot—

You—You hit me?!

My knot... you dared...

Fine, keep your bloody knot. Just come with me to see if you're not a Victorian spy!

The quiet resident stands up without a word, and heads towards the bonfire with shaky steps.

The square has already descended into complete chaos.

Though half of it stems from suspicion and hatred—not to mention frustration at having revealed no spies yet—the other half comes from the looks of despair and the deathly silence.

Until a faint sound of something dragged across the ground rumbles in the distance.

The sound grows louder and louder, until it drowns out all the clamor and chaos.

Everyone hears the sound of something massive slowly being dragged closer to them.

In a flash, every other sound fades, leaving only the shaking of steel and gears in its wake.

Hidden in the humid mist is the gigantic silhouette of an ice-cold statue.

Forged by a hero, and still considered incomplete by the townsfolk, the statue of the red dragon's ancestor is presented to Tara. It arrives in the raging light of the dying sun, yet even so nearly manages to shroud the sky.

The dragon statue... came to life?

No, that's—Culann?!

Culann, are you here to help us find the Victorians too?

He has to prove he isn't one first!

Over here, Culann! Listen, the fire won't hurt you as long as you're no Victorian—

Are you deaf?! Get over here already!

Hold on, he...

He dragged this giant statue all on his own?!

They finally notice the iron chains wrapped around his arms, one, two, three times around, and that the statue's weight was resting on those wide yet mortal shoulders.

The hero does not respond to his name and continues forward. The statue grinds down on him till it draws blood. His flesh is nearly rent asunder, his bones cry out in sorrow, and yet he presses on.

The young hero walks ahead of the statue, unafraid of the disparity between his small stature and the gigantic structure. He takes one step, then another, each heavy and certain, towards an open space in the crowd.

He parks the statue in the square's empty center, and struggles to turn around before facing everyone before him.

The steel skeleton bears an icy elegance, wings frozen in motion craving for flight, in place as if it were meant to be there since the beginning.

Stop, my brothers and sisters.

Before we kill any more of our own.

For a moment, no one dares to respond.

Hate and doubt both remain, as well as the pain that keeps everyone from advancing towards him like an army of walking corpses.

The man before them is a hero. He protected Na Saoirsí. He dragged both blessing and curse all the way here, and the statue behind him laces his every word with an awe-inspiring weight.

Kill our own? Who?

You are burning hands with fire now, but what if your spy isn't found?

He really dragged the statue here...

What should we do? Should we... interrupt him?

Did our food not return to us? Is the war not over?

Say there really was a spy. Why must the entire city gather here? Why must we hurt each other, just to find one lowly spy?

Let him... finish.

I'll say it again. The war is over.

When it had just ended, my thoughts were simple. I'd wait for a smith better than myself to arrive, then learn a thing or two from them so I could repair what I had made myself.

But...

No smiths came, and I learned no skills. I even took what you lot needed to live, and forged it into the statue.

That was wrong of me. Na Saoirsí is short of everything. Even an empty bowl is better put to catching rainwater than being cast into a shiny statue that does nothing but grow.

And the food. I was so worried yesterday. So afraid that famine would put us past the point of no return. Maybe it was the Red Dragon's mercy, or maybe one of the ag plates had a good harvest, but the fact is, our food is back.

And as long as we're alive, we can make it through this. Am I wrong?

But Theo... is no longer alive.

You still feeling pity for that Victorian bastard?!

Yes. I am. When I heard of his death, I began to hate everyone in this city, myself included.

You know better than any of us what the Victorians have done!

I know that with the last of their strength, they leaned over and begged me to take him away.

I hate you all. I even feel like taking revenge on any of you who sat back and watched him die.

But revenge needs a reason, doesn't it? What's our revenge for, then?

To rob them just like they robbed us back then!

And how do you suppose Na Saoirsí could manage to take even a single grain from the Victorians, when we've already melted our axes into this statue?

We have to let those bastards feel the pain we went through.

Yeah, just like how I want to make you lot feel what it's like to die alone in an alley!

Our brothers, our sisters died so we could live. Why must we now throw our lives away just to make others suffer?

Do you want us to love them, then?! To love those who stole our crops, killed our kin?

No, of course not. No one needs to love their enemy.

All I want is for you to love the living... to love yourselves.

But I don't even need you to do that, I just have one question for you all.

Tomorrow, once Samhain is over. Once the shadow of war finally leaves us... what will you do?

I wanted to finish this statue and carve my name on it. But now? I want to find a better smith to teach me to fix up a prosthetic leg.

I don't know what's up with the fancy speech all of a sudden, Culann. But I don't care what happens tomorrow, or about the war. I just want the Victorians dead.

So if you're speaking for them, I want you dead too.

Fine.

Culann swings the sledgehammer he used to forge the statue towards the dragon's head.

However, he exhausts himself both in making and moving it, so with a moment's hesitation, the hammer does not come crashing down.

The crowd even assumes it to be some sort of ritual, and for a moment does not react to his plan.

Only when they realize Culann intends to destroy the statue do even the most dreary of the living dead collectively howl and dash in his direction, surrounding him.

Don't be foolish, Culann!

Nemos's cry is drowned out by the crowd's yells, but Culann's voice remains clear for all to hear.

Loughshinny thinks of rushing over to him, but the angry crowd blocks her path. She bites her lip and tries to open a path through the sea of people with both her flames and voice, shouting to attract their attention.

Unfortunately, they act as if they have already lost their senses.

Maybe they truly have. Who can say?

I'm going to destroy this statue, in order to return the lives it took from you.

Destroy it?! How dare you!

I remember what each and every bone was forged from. I'll turn its spine back into axeheads and blades, its ribs back into bowls, its skull into tables and chairs. And give them all back to you.

Traitor! How could a hero like you betray us like this?!

If being unwilling to take someone else's livelihood makes me a traitor, then I was never a hero, but a traitor all along.

Excuses!

Excuses?

I'll tell you who Culann really is. He is no hero. He is a liar who hungered for fame.

He claimed to have killed a squad of Victorian scouts in the Dark Woods. But it was not in the woods that he met those Victorians, but somewhere further away...

They weren't even scouts. Just a band of poor traders, already trampled over by some army or other.

He wanted to save them, but in the end, could only save one boy. A Victorian child. He didn't know what to do.

Be it out of desperation or vanity, he decided to cut their heads off, and tell his people they were scouts.

That way he'd become a hero, the most prestigious person in town. He thought he could use that status for good.

Raising the boy would become an act of mercy by the benevolent hero.

You lied to us?!

Even this poor liar knew that he was still a blacksmith, and thought he should learn his trade after the war.

But you lot...

What about you?

You—You're not Culann! You're a fake, pretending to be him!

*cough*...

Yeah, you're not Culann! He's our hero, the man of steel who even a whole Victorian squad couldn't handle! Who the bloody hell are you?!

Hah...

After dragging the statue all the way here from my workshop...

How much longer... do you expect me to live?

Fresh blood gushes from Culann's mouth and nose as if he has just uttered his last words.

He bears an almost kind and expectant gaze as he looks at his compatriots surrounding him. Hoping their faces will reveal an expression other than hate.

But he feels as if his eyes meet only a sea of purple flames. The faces behind the fire are difficult to discern, as if they are the restless dead he met in those ruins outside long, long ago.

He looks into the distance.

*cough* *cough*!

In a corner at the edge of the square he sees a tiny figure.

He did not have time to look for Theo's corpse, but now it stares at him blankly, purple flames clearly visible around it.

Theo? You too?!

*cough*...

This was... all for naught...

Culann stumbles to his feet, and picks up his hammer to swing.

The crowd stares at him with dread, fearing that the hammer will fall on their heads, but they do not back down.

Culann uses the last of his strength...

And with the utmost ferocity, he strikes the dragon's head.

As if sounding a death knell.

The hero's body collapses before the giant dragon, stunning the crowd as if they've lost something.

Loughshinny's voice finally spreads as her fire burns like a sunset set aflame, but she fails to attract any attention.

At that very moment, the statue suddenly bursts into purple flames along with Culann lying quietly before it, sending the crowd reflexively into retreat.

Within the fire, Culann begins to pick himself up, while the giant statue extends its wings as if to fly away.

When Culann gets fully to his feet, the dragon statue flaps its huge wings, lifts off, and lands on the empty pedestal in the center of the square prepared just for it—

The crowd watches in complete silence, though whether out of shock or reverence is unclear.

From the citadel come the faintly discernible sounds of footsteps, slow and late.

Truly a shame that I missed the only hero left in this city.

Well then, people of Na Saoirsí. Your hero has sacrificed his life for this statue.

Nightfall approaches, so if you still follow the Red Dragon's will...

Then you will obey curfew and head home.

'Culann uses the last of his strength, and with the utmost ferocity he strikes the dragon's head, as if sounding a death knell.'

You're quite the fan of Culann, I see. A tragic ending, but your embellishments made it beautiful.

You flatter me.

I only ever met the blacksmith a few times. He was the first victim of the city's chaos, if you don't count Theo.

Actually, I'm rather curious about something. The Dublinners who walked into the darkness, did they also bear the 'purple flames' you mentioned?

I'm sorry, but I couldn't say.

Based on your story so far, I do not believe they would have. Corruption, smuggling, abuse of authority... They had many plans for the future.

If you've thought about it that much, you could probably come up with your own ending by now.

But that was not the only incident to occur in the city. You said so yourself: he was but the first victim.

Though, if you insist on ending this here...

<i>The red dragon was certain those infected by the flames of death could not be saved.</i>

<i>And so, she declared to her people that the land would become death's domain, and they would become her followers, accompanying her on a journey towards death.</i>

<i>The corpse-like masses no longer had the strength to either consent or refuse. That night, flames rose high into the sky, illuminating the fields, and since then, no one has ever seen the red dragon or her followers again.</i>

Ugh...

What is it?

Nothing. You can go now.

There is obviously <i>something</i>.

'Since then, no one's ever seen the red dragon'? Really?

The author glances towards the tavern wall, covered in newspapers no one has touched. Today's paper is there too, with a photo of The Leader gracing the headlines. It declares she is currently in Oak Grove for some ceremony or other.

Also, 'accompanying her on a journey towards death'... When did that happen?

Stories are free to go where they please.

Free, sure. But that doesn't mean we get to twist the tale beyond recognition and laugh it off.

Whyever not?

Because you and I, we're Tarans. Our stories will reflect us, no matter how distorted they become.

Oh? You still regard yourself as a Taran?

I've been a Taran since the very first time I read a line penned by Seamus Williams.

Why else would I have abandoned the warm armchairs of Castshire County's literature salon and run all the way to Tara and become a—

'You still regard yourself as a Taran?'

An extremely ominous thought flashes through the writer's mind, but he immediately rejects it.

He looks at the newspapers again. The papers report only facts, even if they are edited.

I'll just go ahead and ask. Who sent you?

I'm here under no one's orders. As you put it, I'm simply an interested reader who wishes to help you 'piece together the truth.'

Can you prove it?

Now there's a conundrum. It'd be simple enough to prove someone <i>did</i> send me, but the opposite? How do I prove someone's nonexistence?

The author takes another gulp of beer, despondently gripping his head. He knows it is too late to run.

But he can still turn things around. He just has to be clever about it...

I mulled it over, and you're right, it's just a story. I suppose I was a tad nervous. Apologies.

You do have quite a few unfinished tales as well.

Perhaps we can join them together, and find an ending true to both Na Saoirsí as it was, and the Tara in your heart.

So if you're ready, then for the next story, how about we talk about the dance in the mirror?

The... dance in the mirror? What?

No, this was not a matter of cleverness.

As long as he is prudent and lets the shadow of the story cast by firelight rise and warp, he will definitely be fine.