level_act41side_st03

<i>Just before the mother engaged the dark mist, the wakeman of the woods came to remind her that she had yet to do that which was most important: hold a proper funeral for her daughter.</i>

<i>The mother had intended to fight the dark mist to the death, but tears began to stream down her face when the wakeman sang their ancient song, and she chose to follow tradition and hold a wake for her daughter.</i>

<i>All through the night she cried at the purple bonfire representing her daughter's soul. The downpour of tears quenched the fire burning through the city, nearly extinguishing even the purple funeral fire.</i>

<i>When the wakeman once again asked the mother if she would still fight the dark mist to the death, she gazed upon the smoldering bonfire with tears on her face, saying,</i>

<i>'I cannot abandon my kingdom's people.'</i>

<i>As she said those words, the feeble purple flame suddenly turned bright yellow. Her daughter rose from death and walked out of the flames, and mother and daughter embraced each other.</i>

So ends the story. Not in fragments, but a true...

...ending.

Congratulations. We've pieced together the truth.

And what a happy ending!

This is all thanks to you! Come, let us toast, then I'll write this all down and publish it for—

Well, publishing it may be a, uh, a challenge. But now that it's complete—

The funeral, the bonfire, the resurrection... you saw everything.

I never expected you to find the courage to return to Na Saoirsí.

Singer.

And it was a lovely ending, wasn't it? Eblana departed with the dead, never to return.

As for you, Your Highness Loughshinny, I dedicate this story to you. Whether to publish it, seal it away, or have it fade into obscurity along with the remnants of Dublinn like me—is all up to you.

How wonderful.

I almost regret allowing you to belittle yourself with a title like The Singer.

You—

Wait, what?!

You're not Loughshinny. Y-You're—Eblana?!

The once 'Singer' swings his arm furiously, spilling his drink on the table.

You're dead! You can't be alive! You were killed, twice! Once by spear, and once by fire—you shouldn't be here!

Or am <i>I</i> dead? Ha, haha... this isn't funny. You're dead, Red Dragon! Go back to where you belong!

I see. That's it. It was all a lie. You never died. You killed Loughshinny instead. It was all a trick, an illusion—

If so, what becomes of your story?

My... story?

Have you calmed down?

You shouldn't be alive... no...

Has death ever been an eternal sleep for me? What I could do with life, I can do with death.

As a reward for completing the story, 'Writer', let me tell you one thing: All that matters is fire.

...The purple fire.

The purple fire from your story. It may seem ethereal, but it is no fiction.

It is true that, over the long course of the war, I shared too much of my flame with others and became weak, feeble.

But fire spreads. Fire consumes. Fire grows.

After the battle with the Nachzehrer on the Gastrell, I needed to take back the flames I had given away, which had been growing on the plains, in the ruins, in the hearts of the people.

You wanted it repaid... with interest.

Taxation is the most basic authority of a monarch.

Mundane kings collect blood taxes to nurture their armies, to fight over land and people that will last mere centuries at most.

<i>I</i> collect blood taxes to pave a road between life and death with the Red Dragon's flame, so that all those caught in between will look up to me.

The ravings of a madwoman...

No doubt it sounds that way to you, for you cannot fathom what happens when enough death to consume a nation is returned to its master.

A thousand years of anger, sorrow, and hatred converged on me all at once. Did you think they would let my flesh and spirit fade away so easily?

A slave to hatred. What a fitting end for you—

Have you already forgotten what I said in your story?

Everyone—and everything—that thought they could mold me just happened to take on a form I was able to wield with ease.

Were I truly their slave, you'd have been ash the moment I saw you.

...You lunatic!

That's why you allowed Wellington to station his troops in the Dark Woods, to blockade the city, even continued the curfew... You never intended to spare Na Saoirsí!

Why thank you for finally being willing to shed light on the unpleasant truth of the dark mist and Wellington.

Does the Battle of Silverrock Bluffs, which you witnessed from the deck of the Gastrell, still haunt you in your alcohol-fueled dreams?

It's never left you, has it? Why else would you be so obsessed with depicting the mist dangling above people's heads, yet so loathe to define it?

The curfew was justified at first. There were still Victorian spies in Na Saoirsí at the time indeed.

The Duke of Wellington stepped up the blockade when Loughshinny entered the city, because he wanted to smother any possibility of news leaking about the two red dragons.

And the food that disappeared and came back on its own...

The Brigadier was more than just your most trusted lieutenant—he was also captain of Wellington's Redsteel Guard. When he went to ask for supplies, Wellington acquiesced.

Wellington simply became disappointed in Loughshinny when she left Na Saoirsí to seek the wakemen, that's all.

You should thank her, really. You'd never have escaped the woods if Wellington hadn't relaxed the blockade out of disappointment.

As for the victory party you were so afraid to describe...

Don't tell me you've really glorified it into a fairy tale in your memories?

Of course not...

What happened to the Dublinners who weren't willing to give up their power, the ones you took away on a pretext?

They were 'swallowed by the dark mist,' as you put it. Quite literally.

But Loughshinny still managed to make up her mind and killed you, and Wellington didn't follow your ridiculous orders!

Suppose I believe that your aberrant purple fire left you a vessel. What do you plan to do with it? Lead an army of the dead to retake Tara?

I won't help you. No living soul will. You and your dead friends can go straight to hell!

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...

We shall retain a warm flame.

As such, I, Loughshinny Dublinn, the last descendent of the Taran Dracos...

'I shall light this fire symbolizing new life. May it guide the way for all, whether living or departed.'

'Enclosed you will find templates for nomadic city immigration forms.'

Signed... 'The Kingdom of Tara'.

This is... This is treason.

The King of Tara has long been one of the titles of the Victorian emperor. Nothing in this letter denies it.

To avoid conflict, the Red Dragon has even indefinitely delayed the 'coronation' so many are looking forward to.

But in reality...

In reality, the indecisive claimant, the corrupt oligarchs, the blockading army, and the flames of dissent... all these issues have been put to rest.

For the first time in centuries, they proudly tell a new legend of a King Gaeil.

In the short term, the unrest has indeed been contained within Wellington's domain. With time, however, it can become a greater threat than any insurrection.

Tara must not be allowed to secede from Victoria.

As long as Wellington doesn't take his entire territory away on a nomadic city, the other dukes and I will continue negotiating with him.

Yes, ma'am. I'll draft some long terms plans regarding that.

Phew... It's finally over...

Well done. Well done indeed.

Thank you.

So what was it you wanted to say about Eblana before the ceremony?

We never found her body. If she somehow survived, I worry that someday...

Someday a completely different story will be told about the resurrection of the Red Dragon.

What story? That it was no miracle, but the assassination of one dragon by another?

Worse than that.

I see. You're afraid that Eblana will return and paint the whole thing as a conspiracy I orchestrated.

Our position is not unassailable.

We both know that her body disappeared earlier that night, after you killed her the first time. What I dragged through the streets wasn't her body, but an empty coffin.

I know.

I also know that it was I who used the last spark of fire she left in her spear to ignite the coffin.

It was I who left the city to parlay with Wellington, laying out our plans in exchange for him delaying military action while they played out.

It was I who walked into the fire the people had returned to Eblana, I who quenched and replaced the fire of death with the fire of life, and I who walked out of the fire in the end.

We've known all this since that day on the balcony of Na Saoirsí's citadel.

Eblana had left us a puzzle with no solution. The only way out was a miracle.

A miracle we scripted and directed.

If anything, the true miracle was the wakemen returning to the city.

If Eblana hadn't awakened the Exiled King, if Brigid hadn't delivered that message centuries overdue, if Moran hadn't persuaded them...

With just the two of us, that miracle could never have occurred.

So, what is there to fear at this point?

Eblana has cut off any path leading away from the throne. All I can do is devote the rest of my days to Tara.

And patiently await my judgment in some unknowable future.

Nemos was dragging an empty coffin?! Loughshinny was planning to 'resurrect the dragon' the moment she first killed you?

You're lying! You—

I know! It was Wellington! He found a conscience and lifted the blockade on his own!

You just won't give up, will you?

The Iron Duke? With a conscience? Hilarious.

You promised him that only good could come of your scheming!

All I promised him on the Gastrell was that I could change the direction of Tara, so long as Loughshinny was willing to return.

The Red Dragon who breathes flames of death, the spectre force with its dead soldiers, Dublinn with its blood-stained hands... everything was fated to sink into darkness while the Tarans united under the banner of the one and only Red Dragon.

Of course, His Grace was unaware that everyone in Na Saoirsí was meant to die for the plan, but I knew.

A city of doomed souls in exchange for Tara's lasting stability. Only good could come of it, no?

A shame that the duke isn't fond of Loughshinny. Things could have gone even more smoothly otherwise.

Sophistry! You lied to Wellington! Your plan was anything but harmless! And the people of Na Saoirsí <i>did</i> live!

To everyone's surprise.

In exchange for their lives, Loughshinny reached for the scepter of power that she detested so much. She chose to write a saga, a novel, a miracle that should have been beneath her noble dignity.

It was something only she could do... something that wouldn't have been possible even a few years ago. Would <i>you</i> have placed a miracle on the scales from the start?

What if Loughshinny had failed?!

Then you wouldn't be sitting here enjoying your drink.

I'm sure you've heard stories about what the Iron Duke does to whatever he considers an obstacle.

Every story begins with an inspiration. Memories rush into the writer's mind like seawater at high tide.

He struggles to break free, only to find himself powerless against the oncoming tide.

Argh—ugh! *cough* *cough*...

Red Dragon...

You knew! You knew from the beginning!

Y-You almost destroyed Na Saoirsí! You've made a mockery of all Tara!

Now, now, I must object to that. I simply fulfilled a promise. Is being true to one's word no longer a virtue?

Even you yourself admitted that this was a 'happy ending'.

No—never! This isn't how the story ends—

This isn't how my story's supposed to go!

The writer sees a sliver of white. He falls to his knees and crawls along the ground, trying to collect the scattered sheets of paper that had flown loose.

One, two, three... He clutches them in his hand along with his pen.

No, no, no—

What would you like to write? Let me help you.

No—

NOOOO!

The writer's shoulders tremble hysterically. Panicked, he begins to back off, until his back hits the rickety wall of the tavern.

Grabbing his pen like a spear, he begins to stab at the paper.

Muttering under his breath, he only manages to cover them with scattered ink blots. Soon, even his muttering loses coherence.

Gah... brr... argh... ugh! Ugh!

The commotion causes the drunken barkeep to come out from behind the counter and grab him by the collar.

Wha'cha babblin' about?

Argh! Eh... ugh!

Realizing that he can no longer form words, the writer looks desperately towards the woman watching him with disinterest.

He points at the woman's hands, then at his own mouth. The meaning was clear.

You've lost your words.

Perhaps you hit your head from excitement, or had a minor stroke.

Or perhaps it's because you just saw something you believed in so firmly, for so long, shatter to pieces.

The very thing that inspired you to join Dublinn, caused you to stay at the victory party, made you turn back to Na Saoirsí halfway...

But it's time to wake up.

With a trembling hand, the writer tries to write on his palm, but leaves only crooked, disjointed lines.

You wrote a story for Tara. A complete story, not a collection of fragments. It's a good one. I like it.

And I like it even more now that it belongs only to me, not to you.

Slán go fóill, 'Singer'. No, 'Writer'.

Slán go fóill, the last Dublinner.

I look forward to the stories you'll tell me when death reunites us.

With one last glance at The Writer, the woman tosses a few coins onto the table, and walks out of the tavern.

A memory comes back to The Writer.

It was the same look Eblana gave him that night, a year and a half ago, when he decided to delay his report after The Leader's shadow had already departed, in hopes of staying in both sides' good graces.

What should I call you, then?

Whatever you're thinking, I am only Necrass here.

Unless you, too, find a signed sheet of paper to hold no power whatsoever.

Operator Necrass.

If you find the title necessary, Erudite.

For my part, I'm more curious about your lack of reaction upon hearing the whole story.

I read the report on Na Saoirsí.;I've already heard the story.

Ah. A lapse on my part, I see.

First a private letter from Na Saoirsí, then fragments through official channels... Loughshinny is getting better at this.

Then I presume she's told you all about me, which is why you were willing to sit down with me by yourself, and hear out this patchwork tale of allusions and insinuations.

No, she has yet to 'find your body.';She's unaware you're in a position to tell stories.

That makes your courage all the more admirable.

And I mustn't neglect to give credit to Loughshinny where it's due. She's more than just a qualified dance partner now—she's ready to take the lead. I do hope she enjoys herself.

Sounds like you like your new powers.;Sounds like you like your new toy.

Of course I do. The powers of the dead aren't necessarily greater than those of the living, but they are more lasting, and harder to check.

But you'll soon grow bored of them.

Like everything else you've ever had.

Followers, martyrs, dominion, status...

Life is short, but death is long, Erudite.

There are still so many interesting people in the mortal realm. That alone is reason enough for me to await them in death.

So you gave Reed your old toys?

A cutting question, Erudite. But I'll allow it.

And not only because your accusation is astute, if prejudiced. But also because you are one of the interesting people I mentioned.

What are you intending?;What makes me interesting?

Must everything be done for a purpose?

I am inseparable from death. Is it not the natural order of things that those like me should be drawn to Rhodes Island?

I was drawn, so I came. This place is always covered in the scent of death, after all—especially around you, my dear Erudite.

I don't understand.

You will, someday.

When the tides erupt and the night of death descends, you will be grateful for my presence, so long as I do not mock your predicament.

As for right now?

I am simply the shadow of Tara's leader.

Just Necrass, nothing more.