Arknights story · When Elegies Are Ashes
EA-6 The Lost
After the funeral, the Exiled King once again appears before Loughshinny, inviting her to witness the secret within the palace ruins for herself. Loughshinny comes face to face with Tara's past, and the story of the Exiled King himself.
2 scenes, 292 lines
1. Before Operation
165 linesSo you won't go to the city, even to perform a fire-returning ceremony?
What you've described is highly unusual. We cannot simply take your word that the residents are no longer among the living.
Besides, the fire-returning ceremony is just that—a ceremony. Do not expect it to be anything more than that.
...Very well, then. You may return, wakewoman. Thank you for your help.
You intend to go back to Na Saoirsí, even without us?
Moran and the others have settled in well, and I've done what Nemos entrusted to me, so...
My work here is done.
Take care, Your Highness.
I will.
The red dragon sets out in the direction from whence she came. Everything that happened yesterday seems but a distant shadow now.
But also a tiny spark of flame.
'Return the fire'...
Have you made up your mind to go to your death?
The stranger?
Good timing, sir. May we talk? If you will help me—
Did your red dragon history lessons ever teach you about a poor wretch by the name of Labhréathach?
Excuse me?
I'll take that as a 'no'.
After returning to the palace for the first time in years, he never even had the chance to see his brother before the guards took him away and plunged a sword through his chest.
I know the story.
Then why are you so eager to follow in his footsteps, and have history remember you as a fool?
Leave. You've seen your sister, and you're still alive. In that, you've already achieved more than he ever did.
The story of Labhréathach and Ailill is not the story of me and Eblana.
...Fine. Let's say I was willing to hear you out. What did you want to talk about?
The city's fire-returning ceremony.
I just wanted to find someone to help with the preparations, but you seem to know a lot about the history and tales of Tara. So I was thinking you might be able to help.
History? Tales?
We can talk on the way. Come.
But that's not the way to the Dark Woods—
Just follow me. It worked out for you in the woods, didn't it?
...The ruins of the palace?
I've been here before. It's dangerous. The Originium-rich environment is—
You said you wanted history and tales. What better place in Tara than this *ancient Tengae expletive* palace?
The what palace?
Ah, never mind.
I appreciate your help in the woods, but I have important business to attend to. I don't have time to—
And what's this 'important business'? Dying for nothing?
Sure, you're different from your sister. That dragon's flames may be cursed, but her personality is as typical as they come. Arrogant, leaving no room for any other voice. You may be better, but—
I'm different from my sister, but she's not who you say she is.
But however different you may be, conflict is in the nature of the red dragons. Even if you were merely dragged into it.
And there is only ever one outcome. Only one may emerge alive.
...
One of you will die, sooner or later. So what's the hurry?
Have patience, young dragon. We're almost there.
We come here for this altar.
Altar? You mean that thing in the middle? Isn't that... the furnace?
'The furnace which fused together the weapons of every Taran soldier, and overturned the fate of the dynasty'... The furnace from which fallen soldiers were reborn.
That's what you call it today, isn't it? Far more important than just another 'altar', to be sure.
But an altar is an altar, even if it's a little bigger than the others. It was based on the ceremonial stone circle used to coronate the King Gaeil, and the palace was built around it.
Whenever an old red dragon died, this is where the fire was returned to them.
The fire... returned?
What you saw back at those wood-brains' camp. Gotta give them credit: they managed to remember all that, even centuries later.
Fire-returning wasn't just about a bonfire back in the day, though.
By the time of the old hag Máighréad, it was enough for the siblings of the heir to the title of King Gaeil to put their hands into the fire and get a few blisters.
Go back even further, though, and those siblings would have been burned alive together. Or so they say. There's no hard evidence.
...
Now you've gone even paler.
He flicks his hand, and a speck of purple fire flies forth from his sleeve, joining the same purple fire in the altar.
The flames breathe quietly, like an infant in its mother's embrace.
Your flame is purple too?
No, wait, you're a Draco...? Could you be—
Awfully slow, aren't you? Well, it's too late to run. Put your hand in.
What?!
You want Na Saoirsí to return its fire, didn't you? Put your hand in.
The red dragon falls silent, then stretches out her hand to touch the flame in the furnace. As expected, it is not warm, but to her surprise it does not feel cold either.
Now, I brought you here to see something—
The tragedy of Tara, the ill-repute of the red dragons... It is simply the cruel cycle of fate repeating itself, again and again.
Like your sister, I was an aberration that breathed the flames of death. It is not my intention to disrespect the dead, nor could I even if I wanted to, but I wanted to show you...
The fate of those who die upon this land.
Is this where we should begin? Understandable. Of all recent events, it is the most significant.
Your sister was right. Those who have touched the flames of death are beyond help. Yet the fire should not have spread so readily.
What hatred did it take for the Dracos to once again sire an ill-omened aberration, the first in six hundred years?
Ah, and him.
If you ask me, he slept in far too late. Could hardly drag himself out of bed by sunset. Of course he became the sacrifice.
...Even you should not speak of the dead so lightly. Do not justify it as a sacrifice.
You can only say that because you've seen too little. Those feelings will pass soon enough, once you're used to it—
See, here comes another sacrifice.
The Victorians who killed you have been chased out!
The last Victorian bastard died... before my eyes...
In a sense, your sister's dream did become reality. The Tarans have risen, and the Victorians have fallen. Simple. Direct. 'Satisfying'.
Were you... one of the bystanders too?
Don't get caught up on that, child. You know what I am.
This, I don't recognize. Explain.
...It was a war.
There are always wars. Be specific. Who did she incinerate, and what land did she set her sights on?
Victoria. Eblana wanted to take Tara back from the Aslans. This was the conclusion to that war.
The Aslans? Those conceited bastards? But is she not facing a Sarkaz?
...
Never mind. The lions were the ones who stole Victoria. That's all I need to know.
I don't need you to tell me what this is, just as I can tell the expression beneath the mask.
The satisfaction and joy that only appear on a red dragon's visage in the face of certain death.
No... that wasn't joy. It was the opposite—
The opposite? Maybe you were simply gravely injured and started hallucinating on the brink of death.
But as I said, this's simply repeating the past. Cities may ride on wheels now, and the master of the realm has changed hands, but what's inside never changes.
What is this? Your home? Where did you learn to point your blades at each other? Who's this man?
The Earl of Warwick. Our foster father.
Eblana said he helped Tarans see hope, a hope they could see but never reach. That all he ever did was drive thirsty travelers mad with mirages.
In his hand he held a delicate thread. On one end were the Tarans who had rediscovered their name, on the other lay the oppressors who had trodden upon them for so long.
...That thread was my sister and I.
Looking back... perhaps he was the first to be afflicted by the purple flame.
...Hah.
Not only do you sympathize with your sister, but you also know her well. No wonder you're so loath to kill her.
But I have no intention of becoming like her, nor will I simply allow myself to be killed.
These events, this history you had me recall. What are you trying to tell me?
That the history of Tara is nothing but the continuous accumulation and recombination of ruins of the past. What you have seen, I have too. Nothing new can be found within.
What I see are not ruins, but... the source of the flames.
The flames in Na Saoirsí are indeed my sister's fire, but they are also the great sorrow behind the bloodshed, left with nowhere to go.
It was the war... no, the pain, the oppression, the things taken from them, which began long before the war. That's what lit the fire in their hearts.
My sister shaped their sorrow into hatred, which scorched the fields of Tara and drove out the Victorians.
However, without vengeance to cloak the sorrow, that same fire has come back to burn them, burning away everything they have, until they are nothing but the walking dead.
A fine summary, child. But do you really think that returning the fire would solve all the city's problems?
It's the only path before me.
True. But how do you tread it?
Come. We've seen your story. Now see mine.
(Ancient Tengae) Don't cry now. It's just a cloudbeast.
(Ancient Tengae) But I raised Greyclaw from when she was a baby...
(Ancient Tengae) They say your fire is different, Daidí. You do not heal the living, but instead bring the dead back to life...
(Ancient Tengae) They don't come back. It's just an empty shell.
(Ancient Tengae) Even if it's just an empty shell... Please, Daidí, I just want to hear Greyclaw's voice again...
And so the impulsive red dragon let his daughter's plea get the better of his judgment.
After a few months, strange things began to happen, not just to the cloudbeast, but to all the beasts of the pasture.
Burdenbeasts no longer ate grass. Cystybeasts no longer gave milk. The old refused to die, the young refused to live, and bare skeletons devoid of flesh began to roam the pastures.
As the purple fire spread through the herds, the red dragon was forced to leave the pasture with his people. He made the same mistake many times throughout his brief existence.
The purple fire spread through the herds?
What about it? Your own dear sister dared to burn people with that same fire. Now THAT'S crazy.
How was the fire extinguished?
You'll find out soon enough.
This is... the citadel in Na Saoirsí? That same corridor?
No. But your mistake is understandable.
We simply took a large step back in time. This is how the palace you currently stand in looked six hundred years ago.
It's incredible how stonemasons centuries hence managed to perfectly recreate it in this 'Na Saoirsí' of yours.
So what happened here?
Here... hah...
Labhréathach the fool had made too many mistakes, the likes of which you have already seen. He grew weak, and felt his end coming.
On the eve of Samhain, he came to see the brother he had not seen for twenty years, bearing the finest gifts his nomadic life would allow.
He even convinced the druids of the city, who oversaw the festival's ceremonies, to take him to his brother.
Touched by his familial love, they led him into the city. But he failed to realize when his guide's silhouette, voice, and demeanor changed, not until it was too late.
He was taken to this very corridor, and—
...
I doubt that Ailill, who gave the order to assassinate his brother, was on that balcony on the other side of the door. For my eyes were wide open until the very end, but I never saw his fire through the gaps.
Where did it all go wrong?
Was he angry that the priests continued to treat me as royalty? Did he consider me leaving without a word twenty years earlier a betrayal?
Or was it someone else who wanted me dead, and he simply had no choice?
I'll never know.
Within this brief, swift act of violence, there was only one thing that I had long known, that I had never doubted—
A red dragon never forgives. The hatred of the dragons is even longer than the history of Tara.
But there is more I want to tell you.
After I died, Ailill ordered my coffin dragged through the city, for all to see the end that befell me.
And so purple fire raged through every pasture I had stayed at with my clan. Life turned its back on all who touched it; only death remained.
Seven days later, the priests returned my fire to me at a clearing outside the Dark Woods. And only when the fire they returned to me was extinguished did the purple flames in the pastures begin to subside.
It was only then that the last vestige of my consciousness that remained in the flames after death faded into darkness.
All living things that touched the flames, people or beasts, were turned to ash.
Your sister spoke true. The flames will continue to spread as long as she lives.
...
But she is a typical red dragon. She is not so noble as to give up her life to save those who have yet to survive. If she is inviting you back, then it is certainly a trap.
Run. Call for help. Yell. Find someone who is her equal to extinguish the endlessly spreading flames. That is the only way.
But what if she has already decided that I'm the only one worthy to dance with her?
What if I can't abandon the lives in the city to their fates, as long as there is any chance of saving them?
So you'll return the fire to someone who's still alive?
Yes.
And what if that doesn't work?
...
Regardless, I'm going back, no matter what.
Silence, and then Loughshinny hears a sigh.
(Ancient Tengae) I suppose stubbornness and stupidity really are hereditary.
2. After Operation
127 linesThis is far enough. We're already at the wakemen camp.
Your sister roused me from my slumber. You could always return me to it with your own flames, if you want.
...
Reed!
A golden-haired Perro leaps off the back of a burdenbeast and rushes toward the red dragon.
The burdenbeast is dragging an improvised cart with numerous long wooden boxes stacked upon it.
—Brigid?
What are you doing here? Are those—
...Coffins?!
...
Yeah, coffins. Nemos said to bring 'em to the wakemen. Are they still in the ruins?
Say, is there someone with you? I can smell that same burning stink, and I could swear I heard you talking just now—
Hmph.
No, I'm alone.
These are...
Dead folks.
The type who'd pull their own arms out of their sockets to bite at their imaginary enemies if you grabbed their hand. Along with the poor wretches they tore to pieces.
And Theo. Nemos found him in the end. He...
...
It's almost like this was the natural order of things. The bonfires will be burnin' brightest when night falls on Samhain...
The red dragon looks towards Na Saoirsí, and sees a faint shadow in the distance, painting the silhouette of purple flames.
We'll be out of coffins if this keeps up.
I hope Brigid made it out of the city. And that the mist in the woods is thin enough for her to follow the trail...
Blast it, Culann left a few unused weapons in his house. I can't let anyone see them.
And this fuel... explosives? Her Highness Loughshinny might find a use for them.
No, what's the point when every servant in the citadel has already been afflicted by the purple flames? Besides, the greedy red dragon has already sent them away.
Almost as if... she's preparing for a showdown with Her Highness.
Or... setting a trap?
Who's there?!
Rory? What are you doing here?
You're... Nemos.
Yes, I'm going through Culann's effects. If this isn't urgent, could I ask you to—
Traitor.
Have you gone mad?!
Oh, silly me. Of course you have. We all have.
Traitor—
I... I still can't bring myself to kill them. Even if they might as well be dead already.
Ha. Hahahah...
I'd better drag this fellow back home. Could do without the unwanted attention.
Phew...
Nemos?
D-Don't mind me, I'll be on my way.
What's that in your hand?
Oh, nothing. Now, if you'll excuse me—
That necklace. It was a gift from Niels to Emma.
I-I gave her bread! That's way more valuable than jewelry in times like these! She gave it to me!
Did she now? A necklace she never takes off?
I-It's none of your business!
Nemos? You stayed behind? I thought all the Dublinners left the city!
...
Don't tell me you're one of those living statues now, who refuse to move or talk?
I might be soon. Why did you bring them up?
Samhain begins tonight. So I went through the houses of the missing people, and found plenty of good stuff for the party tonight!
...Samhain? Party?
About Culann—well, he was already on his last legs by then, and I didn't really...
Let's not talk about that! Look at all this stuff! It'll be a night to remember!
The woman shows Nemos her bag, revealing a bottle of curded cystymilk, a few long-since-sprouted potatoes, and several bare bones.
Just wait for me, Nemos, Culann... we'll have a fantastic Samhain...
Only when the woman has already disappeared around a corner does Nemos remember who she is: a villager who once lived on the outskirts of Na Saoirsí.
Two years ago, the Victorians took her father away while investigating Dublinn. The autumn harvest had just ended, and she had been preparing to celebrate the harvest festival.
What Loughshinny hears about the situation in the city exceeds her wildest imagination.
I must go back. Now.
Wait for me. I'll come with once I've delivered these folks to the wakemen.
Are you sure about this, Brigid?
It's dangerous in the city. If I fail... there may be no survivors.
True, but I still gotta go.
Why?
Because it wasn't like this before.
The cityfolk never had much to spare, but they always had a cup of water for me when I delivered their letters.
They didn't see me as one of their own, but didn't walk away with a sneer when I told them nomad legends either. They listened.
And they definitely didn't bite, claw, and punch at people like they do these days. Like the walking dead straight from a story.
Who will the nomads deliver letters for, if the city dies for real?
Moran?
...
The second shipment of bodies has arrived from Na Saoirsí. I must make the preparations.
At this rate, it won't be long until the third, fourth, or more.
Are we really going to ignore it?
As I've told you many times, the wakemen do not take sides. It is not our decision to make.
Are the Na Saoirsíans not Tarans too? Why are we standing on the side watching, when the Taran capital is marching towards destruction?
I know you came back with the red dragon. You fear she will meet the same fate as Labhréathach.
But we were the ones to send Labhréathach to his doom.
You...
We are descended from the priests that once officiated the ceremonies of Tara's royal palace.
Our ancestors, moved by Labhréathach's plea, welcomed him back into the palace when Ailill's stance was ambivalent.
...
The flames of death that spread through the plains of Tara were only extinguished seven days after his death, when our ancestors finally returned his fire to him.
They then left the palace of their own accord, going into self-exile on Labhréathach's former pastures, so as to never forget the lesson. And thus, the wakemen were born.
...I'm sorry.
But Reed isn't Labhréathach, and history is not a cycle that repeats itself endlessly.
If it were, Reed would have already died in that citadel.
Even her tyrant of a sister was the one to free Tara from Victorian rule.
Fates are often alike, but always differ where it matters most.
'Fates are often alike, but always differ where it matters most.'
...
What a wonderful tagline for the cover of the book. Surely this one is destined for the best-seller charts.
Assuming, of course, that you are ever able to finish the story.
I've never intended to profit off it.
Oh, you will. If not in money, then in fame.
The basis of the story, where it happened... There are more than enough reasons this isn't my story to tell.
Besides, what happens next?
That's what I wanted to ask. Did Loughshinny go back?
From this point on, what I've seen, what I believe, and what I've said all contradict one another. Which is why I've lost sight of the ending.
Feel free to take up the challenge, if you're up to it. Give this dance between the dragon and her reflection whatever ending you please.
Oh? Is it all the same if I tell it myself?
Of course, ma'am. As you will it—
The writer raises his mug, which is almost empty now, and toasts the woman before him.
Once again, he swallows the bitter brew, half-expecting the sweet aftertaste that he knows will never come.
Did I spook you? You got so polite all of a sudden. It makes me feel impertinent for even pressing the question.
No. But I must make it abundantly clear that everything we have discussed until now is no more than idle chatter. You understand, don't you?
The woman sits straight and does not say a word. The writer can only attempt to guess whether she is still smiling through the shadows.
Well? What are you waiting for? I've nearly finished my drink.
I've fallen into the same conundrum as you.
If this is as far as both your references and your imagination go, how could I possibly put the red dragon's ultimate fate to paper?
I've already said all I'm able to. I refuse to give this story an entirely fictional end, one that not even I could believe in. Even if the alternative is that there is no ending.
If you don't have an answer either, then no need to waste your time here. Leave while it's still early.
Is this because you do not remember, do not understand, or is it because you wish you never knew, never understood?
—What?
What are you getting at?
You've never 'lost sight of the ending.' It would be more appropriate to say that your eyes have become clouded by too many 'creative liberties'. Shall I recount them for you?
Treasures leading people into the darkness.
Culann dragging the statue to the square by himself.
And virtually everything related to the dark mist in the woods: from the rejection of Brigid, to the food carts returning to the city on their own, to Loughshinny becoming lost in the woods, to The Brigadier and Eblana's meeting in the city.
If these 'creative liberties' have created the contradictions in your mind, then it is my responsibility to set them on a path towards the ending.
Shall I supplement the story with my own observations?
...
I'll take that as a yes.
Perhaps they will lead you to a conclusion you can be satisfied with.