level_act41side_07_beg

How far is County Hillock?

Far.

My sister must have known...

Only The Elocutionist and his band of idiots would consider this plan flawless.

Then why are you still following me?

Oh, believe me, if it were up to me I'd be taking a nap in camp right about now.

Why didn't my sister stop me?

I don't know. Maybe she has high hopes for you.

No, that's impossible. She's never looked at me like that. When I agreed to be her shadow, she...

Please, Harmonie... tell her I don't want to do this.

That you don't want to go to County Hillock?

Mhm. And if she's in a good mood, could you also tell her that, from now on, I'll—

No, never mind.

Fine, can't hurt to pass it along, I suppose. Although it's not easy avoiding The Elocutionist's eyes and ears.

Thank you. You should go...

...before she gets bored.

Harmonie did not return until after they arrived at County Hillock. She knew what that meant.

That night, when cannons roared and crystals bloomed, she lay on the streets of County Hillock, blood draining from her abdomen.

She had not been afraid then. Instead, she felt relieved that she would die like any other person.

But then she saw those purple flames, on a tower not too far away.

That was when she felt afraid.

Afraid that the flames would overlook her and turn her into another puppet like those on the street.

Afraid that the flames would find her and bring her back, forcing her to remain a shadow.

She gazed into the fire, trying to find some hint of her future in it, but saw nothing but apathy.

That which she feared most had finally happened.

The dead dragon lies on the ground.

Behind the living dragon, the wayward wakewoman suddenly understands it all.

She deceived you.

No, she didn't deceive anyone.

She set this all up, knowing you would never allow the entire city to die with her!

She baited you into piercing her vessel, freeing her from her bonds and allowing the purple fire to spread, burning us all to ashes on the eve of Samhain!

Why would she take such a risk for a festival that she never cared about?

I'm affected by the purple flames too. I can feel the flames of death burning in my chest, colder than ever. So cold I'm growing number by the minute!

It doesn't matter whether she's seeking dominion over all of Tara, or if she's simply gone mad and wants the city to die with her!

It's neither. Tara already belongs to her, and she was very much lucid. She...

She—

Nemos, is her body still there?

I'll go check.

The wayward wakewoman's brow is furrowed. Perhaps she has never felt such malice in all her life, and as such has never harbored such resolve.

Her body is—

The sound of burning drowns out her answer.

Whatever she's trying to do, Na Saoirsí is not fully gone. The fire-returning ceremony can still go on... it <i>must</i> go on.

I'm well aware.

I'll inform the citizens that the wicked red dragon they worshipped is dead.

What about Brigid?

I've asked her to leave the city and find the wakemen.

And how are you going to tell people that Eblana is dead?

With a coffin. That seems appropriate.

Even coffins are in short supply, but she is not some nameless nobody. She deserves one.

Is something wrong?

No. I'm simply realizing how ugly the path she walked is, a path that even now waves at me invitingly... And it's an invitation I have no choice but to accept.

Go, Nemos. I will buy you some time.

You mean from the dark mist?

Yes. If it wants to be a part of the Samhain festivities, I will keep it at bay.

I can hardly wait to ask the mist how to return the Red Dragon's flame to darkness.

'I can hardly wait to ask the mist how to return the Red Dragon's flame to darkness.'

How do you feel about that line?

Now, the ending of the dragon and her reflection is clear enough.

The writer stands up with a start.

Who are you and what do you want?

All I want is to finish the story that you would not.

Didn't you say I was the type who liked to piece together the truth? We've gotten so very close to it.

This is enough. I'm leaving—

If you won't tell the ending yourself, I suppose it falls on me.

<i>Suddenly, someone opened their eyes, causing a surprised reflection to let go of her hand. The dragon fell into the fire burning bright, and the reflection hid back in the mirror.</i>

<i>When the fire subsided, the dragon was gone, and the people were anxious, for they could not find their dragon.</i>

<i>The reflection wanted to explain, find a way to bring the dragon back. Without the dragon, though, she could no longer leave the mirror.</i>

What do you think?

You've been glancing over there at the newspapers. But not everything reported is a fact.

The writer looks towards the door.

He tries to imagine himself running out of the tavern, but it is such a preposterous proposition that he almost laughs out loud.

If not everything reported is a fact, then he finally knows who this woman is, and why she is here.

He also knows that there is no escape.

But there is something else he realizes.

Perhaps this is his chance to truly find the ending he had hoped for.

No matter who she is, as long as the story continues, they are equals.

He feels his spirit return.

Okay. I don't care who you are, or why you're here, but that's no way to tell a story.

You haven't given it an ending. All you did was extend an ending-less story.

But I have to know—did you... really see a red dragon kill another?

In the same sense that you saw the hero drag a giant metal skeleton to the square. A creative liberty, nothing more.

Then take responsibility for it. So the dragon in the mirror accidentally caused her other self to burn to death in the fire. What next? What did the people do? What about the dragon in the mirror?

What about you? Don't you have any ideas of your own?

For the first time in a long while, the writer takes out a fountain pen from his pocket, then grabs one of the playing cards on the table. He tries to write something, but the tip of the pen has dried out from disuse.

I need... time.

But if it can be connected... then maybe...

Connected?

Let me guess. You're talking about the last story that you published?

The writer's pen scratches hard against the card. Finally, some ink oozes out of the tip.

He is suddenly reminded of the words of Seamus Williams—'May death connect us with all legends.'

Seamus Williams is dead. But he himself might—if he may be so impertinent—have a chance to be connected with the legends he wrote.

He tries to scribble the poem on the card, but the pen leaves only broken, illegible ink trails.

Just maybe...

Yes?

The writer sits back on the chair, his back even straighter than before.

He suddenly feels an urge, the same one he felt after hearing a Seamus Williams poem for the first time.

The same feeling that had taken him down this wretched path, which seizes his chest and makes him want to sing, to yell—

To create.

You may have indeed solved a problem for me.

As I said, what I've seen, what I believe, and what I've said all contradict one another. Thanks to you, though, they are finally beginning to converge.

How lovely for you.

Now, are you ready to start telling the third story?

Of course... of course.

But I'll need your help.

You will need to pick up the narrative whenever I get stuck.

This is my story, but it's also yours.

It has always been yours.

With pleasure.

The writer's breathing is rapid, his face red. His fountain pen still refuses to write, so he throws it on the table.

Yes. Of course.

Has he not seen enough of those things already?

So what?

He is a writer. He will soon find the ending of his story.