Arknights story · When Elegies Are Ashes
EA-7 One Who Burns the Lamp
Eblana falls, but the purple fire in the city burns even fiercer. Loughshinny, Nemos, and Brigid each take their own action... Here ends the second story.
2 scenes, 240 lines
1. Before Operation
117 linesHow 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 must 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.
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.
When the fire subsided, the dragon was gone, and the people were anxious, for they could not find their dragon.
The reflection wanted to explain, find a way to bring the dragon back. Without the dragon, though, she could no longer leave the mirror.
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.
2. After Operation
123 linesThere was a mother who once ruled a kingdom until her crown and her family were taken by her foes.
The mother had a powerful daughter, who then made a pact with the dark mist in the dark woods to drive out their foes. The daughter reclaimed the kingdom for her mother, returning the promised peace to the dark mist.
The mother was to host a grand coronation for her daughter, but the daughter died mysteriously right before the event.
Tremendous woe and then rage engulfed the mother. Her zeal to avenge her daughter was so fierce that the entire kingdom was scorched by her vengeful fire.
Until that fury disturbed the dark mist, who had just returned to its resting peace.
The dark mist demanded that the mother cease, or she would be dragged into the darkness. But in her grief, the mother remained convinced that the dark mist was the one who had taken her daughter. A desperate battle was then inevitable. The mother determined to risk her life.
Nemos, Reed...
At the city gates, the nomad looks back at the citadel in the distance one last time.
She resists the urge to turn tail and flee at the acrid burning smell. She knows what it signifies.
She knows she should do as Nemos said, and leave the city to seek the wakemen as quickly as possible, regardless of whether Loughshinny is successful.
But despite the urgency in Nemos's voice, she did not sound like she believed things would take a turn for the better, nor did she believe that Brigid could convince the wakemen to come.
Brigid could smell the same burning smell coming from Nemos. It reminded her of the obsessions that only the dead could have.
Who are you waiting for? Death? Are you just waiting for it to pat you on the back so you can have a nice little race together?
...Who is that?
Oh. I forgot you could hear me.
I can hear you. I can even sense your presence... but I can't see you.
Leave the city, outsider.
You're an outsider too, by the sound of it.
Naturally. Consider it advice from one outsider to another.
Live, Brigid. Nothing is more important than being alive. This city will be dead by sunrise tomorrow.
Listen to Nemos. Find her kinsmen, run as far as you can, and never look back.
Back?!
Hah! Stubbornness and stupidity really are hereditary!
You're going to come back after she tried so hard to get you out of here?
So you also think it was just an excuse to keep me safe?
What else could it be? You really think you can sway those wood-brains? Maybe if you waited for spring, one of their brains would sprout and they might come with you to the Dark Woods!
I don't like the way you talk, invisible brother.
What did you call me? Brother?
You have burnt stench, but other than that, you remind me of the nomads. No clue how you're related to us, but it feels right.
Haha... hahahahaha!
Let's make a bet then, Brigid.
A bet?
On whether you'll be back tonight, before Na Saoirsí is burned to the ground. I say it's impossible.
That's not what you really want to bet on.
Oh yeah? Then tell me, what I'm really thinking?
You just want to prove that you're right, that nothing is more important than being alive. You think I'll choose survival in the end.
But whatever. You're on.
Well, what are you waiting for then?
It just doesn't feel fair. If you win, I'll live the rest of my life in regret. But if I win, it doesn't really matter to a bystander like you.
So how about this? If I win, you go back to where you came from.
...
And where do you think I should go back to?
No idea, but not here. This isn't your home.
You sound like you've been betrayed by the cityfolk here before, but you still can't bring yourself to hurt them.
You act like you want to see them reap what they sowed, but didn't sound happy at all when you talked about the city burning to the ground.
Honestly, you're the most struggling person I ever met, and—
Enough!
...
Very well. If you win, I'll return to where I belong.
But just coming back here to die won't cut it.
What else do you need me to do then?
Deliver a message to those wood-brains outside the city. Tell them...
(Ancient Tengae) 'It's been six hundred years. Nobody's blaming you anymore. Go do your jobs.'
Oh, and one more thing. (Ancient Tengae) 'I *Ancient Tengae expletive* you stupid wood-brains!'
Uh... What?
Pass that on to those fools verbatim, especially the filthier bits. Did you get all that? Need me to repeat myself?
N-No, the elders sometimes speak that language, so I understand it, more or less...
Then go.
...
What are you waiting for?
Was all of that just so you could tell me this?
...Just get moving already!
The golden-haired nomad takes a deep breath and runs away from the city.
Her ancestor whose figure she never saw stands in place, unmoving.
That stubbornness and stupidity...
...really are hereditary.
Nemos turns to leave, while Loughshinny looks towards the Dark Woods.
The sun has set beneath the horizon. Curfew is about to begin.
In the distance, she sees the dark mist spreading from the forest towards Na Saoirsí, thicker than ever.
*pant*... *pant*...
Made it in time...
She raises her spear toward the mist outside, lighting a bright yellow spark in the city of purple.
As though receiving some kind of message, the mist slowly rises until it is level with the flame at the tip of her spear.
Yes, come here, where it's warm and bright, where there's still life... yes, over here.
What? You want to pretend I don't exist again?
I won't let you.
This light will never go out, not until true darkness falls.
Attracted by the flame in her hand, yet unable to approach, the mist begins to flow through the streets.
Soon, it returns. But this time, her flame can neither draw or repel it.
There is a cacophony within the mist. She feels as though everything has gone dark all of a sudden—
The dark mist has come.
Is this your answer?
Yes, this is my answer.
It is incomplete. It needs time.
Time is your enemy, not your friend.
We'll see about that.
The deathly fires have not yet completely transformed the people into the walking dead. They're still alive. There is still time to return the flames.
And you're not going anywhere until Nemos awakens them.
Ridiculous.
Ridiculous? Maybe.
Maybe my strength, my wisdom, and my Arts are all so insignificant to you that it seems ridiculous.
But I have my resolve.
Nemos drags the coffin through the corridor.
The red dragon's remains do not burn. They simply lie there quietly.
This is how death should be. But Nemos seems to hear an ethereal voice laughing in her ear.
Without hesitation, the wayward wakewoman lifts the limp body and tosses it into the coffin.
This coffin, red dragon, is your final resting place...
It's where those like you belong.
So where are you now? Are you still watching us from somewhere, with that twisted smile of yours?
But this vessel, at least, is beyond your reach. Otherwise, you'd have burned me to ash by now.
And this spear, which never left your side... How many times have you breathed your flames from it, and how many others like Culann have been your victims?
You don't even know the answer, do you?
With great effort, Nemos lifts the spear and thrusts it into the coffin.
Flames from its tip engulf the coffin in an instant, spreading along the rope connecting it to Nemos and merging with the purple fire on her.
A deathly cold runs through Nemos's body, but she could hardly feel temperature at this point.
You're mine now.
I'll finish what Culann started.
Let's go, to those lowly, despicable places that suffered from the war you stole victory in.
You will be seen by all. Your death will be seen by all.
They will know that you are dead. That the proud, imperious red dragon is dead. 'Here lies Eblana Dublinn, in this coffin covered in freezing flames.'
But... what will they do then?
I pray that your death will wake them up, of course, as Loughshinny hoped.
That they'll know that the era you represented is over. That Na Saoirsí will escape this calamity. That Tara need not celebrate its rebirth with the death of a city.
But... heh...
Your fire must have gotten to my head, dragon.
Why is that I suddenly feel like the other ending... where it all ends in destruction... isn't so bad?
Someone else may have killed you, but...
This is my revenge.
The coffin remains silent, and Nemos no longer speaks.
Silent, delirious, and determined, she drags the burning coffin down the stairs, making a point to let it hit each step on the way down.
It sounds like the withered mockery of the dead.