EA-8 At the End of the Night

Nemos drags the coffin out of the citadel.

Not a single soul is in the square with the statue. Curfew has begun, but she drags the red dragon's coffin over as the draconic flames burn within her own body.

Wherever she goes, the darkness retreats. Once she moves on, it re-occupies the space.

She lifts her head to meet the statue's eyes. The violet flames dancing within its pupils do not answer.

She recalls the songs she sung for the dead with the wakemen all those years ago. Those from the city would also join in, if only for the first few lines.

She casually sings another song that pops into her mind.

The wayward wakewoman sings with a hoarse voice, dragging the burning coffin towards every inhabited part of the city she's familiar with.

She stops at every house, making sure that the purple flames reflect in their windows, that the elegy is heard inside.

The more she sings, the more intimately the flames envelop her body, overwhelming her sluggish senses and making every step feel like torturous labor.

But it also lets her hear even the smallest snippets of speech from every window.

There is neither light nor any voice behind this window.

Nemos walks toward the last street she has yet to visit.

She has been through practically the entire city, and heard the simmering restlessness behind every door, but none of them have opened.

The wayward wakewoman gradually loses her grasp on her senses as her voice grows weaker. She has sung every song she knows, even the blasphemous 'Tim Finn's Wake,' from start to finish.

She has only one song left. She did not want to sing it, but now she has no other choice.

Emma stands on her front porch, staggering, as if ready to collapse at any moment into a pile of kindling, to burn in despair and return to dust.

Emma's feeble but angry voice echoes down the empty streets.

WHO?!

Who?

Who...

The echoes linger.

Nemos turns around to look. The streets are still empty, but she knows where the echoes are coming from.

Behind every closed door is a pair of bloodshot eyes hidden away, just like the ones on Emma's face.

Nemos turns again to look towards the towering citadel where nothing remains within.

Nemos turns away in despair.

She stops singing her songs, and merely hauls the coffin step by step towards the square.

Wishful thinking...

She did not gift those flames, she merely started the fire... Everything the Red Dragon promised will be lost because of you...

Loughshinny retreats, step by step, until there's no room for her to move any further—only then does a fierce flame burst from her spear tip, melting the coldly lit vegetation.

What arrogance...

The red dragon speaks no more, and the flames of life burn brightly atop her spear.

She steps forward with her back straight, no longer dodging the ice-cold branches, but allowing them to lace her body with bloodied scratches.

The juxtaposition of the giant statue with the two tiny figures makes them seem like ghosts.

But somehow, Nemos can also feel the presence of others besides Emma. In fact, they seem to have crowded the square, as if the whole city is here.

They are all watching and listening, lit up by the strange purple glow from their Originium lamps.

No, it is more than a glow... Their bodies are burning purple.

Nemos knows they haven't changed a bit. They are still waiting for her to utter a name they can curse and then destroy. Or maybe they will even destroy themselves.

Loughshinny? No one would believe there were actually two red dragons.

Who else, then? Who else could possibly kill the dragon who seemed to toy with life and death?

Before she can stop herself, she has a thought: Why not just say it was the dark mist, or the Victorians?

'Revenge', indeed. Let these lunatics dash into the mist and die in the Red Dragon's name.

Let them fulfill their desire for vengeance, and let this violet city die. It was born in disgrace, let it die in madness.

Yes, die, let everyone who stayed perish, just like those who left and went into the dark mist—

Nemos turns to look at the colossal dragon skeleton sculpture, and recalls that recent evening, awash with confusion and sorrow.

What was he thinking, the man who dragged this statue into the square? What song was he singing in his heart?

Was it the song they taught Theo when they rescued him, what feels like centuries ago?

At this moment, the last bit of her sanity snatches the answer from the fiery clutches of her rage.

The answer that had been fluttering around since the very beginning of the story, the answer to the Red Dragon, to the sisters, to the mirror and reflection, and to the flames of life and death.

The woman before Nemos stares at her blankly, as if she did not hear her words.

Straining her entire being, Nemos yells at the whole city.

The city falls silent as purple flames flicker, leaving only the dark mist lingering restlessly at the gates, as if waiting for its hesitant prey to step into its domain.

The onslaught of questions from the residents sends Nemos's head spinning.

Bloodshot eyes that did not shut from news of the death, instead ask her questions.

Grinding teeth that did not relax from news of the death, instead ask her questions.

Clenched fists that did not open from news of the death, instead ask her questions.

Silence, tension, confusion.

Their revenge was rejected, overruled by the Red Dragon, so where should their sorrow go now?

Emma seems lost to madness, until a soft voice sings the same tune, but with different lyrics.

The night-blind laborer is led by a wakewoman as they slowly walk into the square.

Again through the dark woods—parting the mists of hoar♪

Our gallants dearly departed, my heart so sad and sore♪

And so in my dreams I go, lighting bonfires in the woods♪

Not to reunite, but to light the path you trod with fog and dew♪

A tear trickles from Emma's eyes, streaking across her sallow face.

The woman buries her face in her hands as she kneels on the ground, tears streaming down her fingers.

Moran hands her a candle. The candle flame turns purple the moment she takes it between sobs.

The wakemen and refugees slowly sing their way through the city, like a tiny stream left behind after a night of rain.

It is by no means a clear stream, nor a turbulent one. It is a miserable, muddy trickle flowing down centuries of painful history, carrying dust and blood, and about to run dry.

But it is this murky bitterness that reveals the city's true self in the gloomy night.

Nights of falling asleep gripping old photos, mornings awakened by phantom pain from amputated limbs.

Now-empty houses fell to ruin, while those fortunate enough to return home were greeted only by orphaned dolls scattered across dusty floors.

People flood into the streets like a burst dam, pouring into the square.

Some leave their homes with candles in hand, while many more follow Emma's lead and take one from the wakewoman.

The flames still burn purple, but seem to have softened, and bear a bit of warmth.

The wakewoman looks around, trying to pinpoint the shadow of a stranger.

But even if the ghost wasn't trying to hide from her, she has no way of hearing the long overdue words of forgiveness from his mouth.

Nemos takes a candle from the wakewoman, and bows before the burning coffin beneath the dragon statue.

She deliberately neglects to mention the name of the departed. She places the candle before the coffin, no longer able to stop her tears from crashing into the flames.

Violet fire instantly rises up into the sky, spreading from the coffin to the entire statue.

The entire sculpture is set ablaze.

The crowd place their candles down beside the statue, and return the purple flames to the one who granted them their hue.

Some are silent, and some call the Red Dragon's name, but many more chant the most precious things they had lost in the war...

Tears fall like rain.

The suppressed, the promised, the twisted, the incited... Tears wash away the flickering, hollow pageantry, revealing only the sorrow of lives crushed to bits.

Crude, sharp, turbid, and stuck in their throats, only now does their sorrow manage to cry out.

The rain of tears converges into the stream of songs, pooling around the statue as the raging blaze evaporates it all, until even the citadel behind the square is engulfed in flames.

The mist does not reply, but after a long time Loughshinny hears a deep sigh.

...You made this choice yourself.

The dark mist dissipates like awakening from a dream, and Loughshinny sees real black clouds above her.

She heads towards the square.

She goes to return fire to the dead.

She walks the whole way from the city gates to the square. Every living resident is gathered before the burning statue.

The soaring purple flames have already taken over one side of the citadel. No one is able to approach, so Loughshinny gets all the space she could want.

A small blossom of fire flies from Loughshinny's palm. She does not know if this conforms to funerary tradition—it is simply an act of instinct.

The bright yellow flower flutters into the purple blaze. Loughshinny stands quietly, as the other fire returners have done.

But the fire does not die out.

The purple fire still lights up half the sky until everyone has returned their flames, though the Originium lamps on their waists remain an ice-cold violet.

Loughshinny finally realizes that at some point the giant dragon, still aflame, has stopped right before her.

She meets its eyes.

Eblana's eyes.

Loughshinny's spear tip flares up as the giant dragon flaps its wings and charges towards her.

The giant dragon flaps its steel wings, stirring up a flaming vortex, but Loughshinny does not waver.

She stabs her spear firmly in its eye socket.

Gradually, the dragon's voice overlaps with Eblana's, and eventually even its body becomes hers.

The scenery around them changes swiftly, just like that night in the ruins with Labhréathach.

Eblana backs away as the giant steel-forged dragon follows suit.

Is it escaping? Or trying to hide?

Loughshinny subconsciously eases her fire, but in the next moment, bites down on her lip and abruptly increases her strength, pushing Eblana forward.

Eblana retreats again and again, the smile on her face fainter than ever.

The sensation in Loughshinny's arms of piercing through steel gradually lessens, until it feels as smooth as a stroke through a body, then as hollow as running a spear through flame—

Until an immense force like the final flash of a dying light erupts from her speartip, pulling Loughshinny towards the other side.

Ice-cold flames wrap around her body, and she suddenly realizes that she now stands at the entrance of the citadel, on Red Dragon Square, right in the middle of the fire-returning rite.

Or perhaps, the dragon skeleton she is currently entangled with merely returned to its original position, and took the chance to pull her—with her firm grip on her spear—into the core of the funeral flames.

Light shoots out from Loughshinny's spear, brighter than ever.

In a flash, she feels a burning sensation as painful as her internal organs rupturing repeatedly. The flames of life burst and fade in the center of death, again and again until her weapon can no longer stand her overloaded Arts and bursts aflame as well.

The dragon's bones crash and collide with each other, like thousands of mouths singing their separate elegies.

The flames slowly grow warmer as Eblana's figure gradually fades.

Loughshinny's lips quiver, itching to say words of farewell. In her heart, she scans every book she has read, yet is unable to recall an appropriate line.

Before she dissipates, Eblana slowly cradles Loughshinny in an embrace.

The mourners in the square are completely oblivious to what is occurring within the flames.

All they see is a fire growing taller and stronger, now covering the pedestal, the coffin, the dragon sculpture, the citadel, yet continuing to ascend.

The flames distort the dragon's figure. They can no longer tell whether it is flapping its wings in flight, in a death match with some unseen foe, or crying out in anguish with its head run through.

Everyone is silent, trying to identify its posture in the firelight, but all is in vain—

Until Brigid cries out in surprise.

The fire changed color.

A strong wind rising up from the ground turns the sky-searing purple flames into a maelstrom, and at the bottom where the coffin lies arises a small but scorching sun.

The entire deep purple vortex seems to light up, emitting a shining yellow from the bottom to the top.

Everyone near the bonfire backs away—the flames suddenly bear warmth, nearly burning them.

The rising heat dissipates, evaporating even the stream of sorrow.

Perhaps a miracle is about to occur. This is the only thought on anyone's mind.

Eblana is undeniably dead. She cannot answer.

Loughshinny tries to recall their hug. Expectations met, a pinch of warmth, and cold calculation. What were the proportions of each in that embrace?

Or maybe, all those things were inseparable to Eblana.

The flaming vortex exhales and dissipates.

The Red Dragon, the one who led the Tarans through the long night, steps forth from the statue's center towards the entirety of Na Saoirsí.

Her expression is blurred by flame, yet her figure is as solid as the ever-persistent life on the land.

One step, then another.

Her feet step over the coffin still burning in purple embers. There is no body within, only the familiar flame-spewing spear of The Leader.

The crowd holds their breath, and the square falls silent, as if they stand outside a hospital's delivery room, or perhaps a cemetery after the last shovel of soil has been heaped into a grave.

Only dancing flames remain, without rest.

I can forgive everything else you've done to me, Eblana, but not this parting gift... Never.

From past to present, your name will sink into oblivion, alongside the countless names who built Tara.

The only Red Dragon of Tara will be Loughshinny Dublinn.

While the crowd is still mulling over her words, one of the residents suddenly cries out in pain.

The sense of guilt that had crept up on Nemos after the purple flames vanished leaves her unable to reply. She only nods slightly.

Then, she feels a sudden chill on her face.

It was a drop of water. Nemos lifts her head and looks to the distant night sky.

More look up as the damp raindrops pelt their faces, gently washing their tears away.

It is raining.

On Samhain's eve the rain falls, heavier and heavier, but the crowd still remains in the square. They wish to thank the Red Dragon for returning their lives, for separating life from death.

But the dragon tells everyone she will remain here until everyone returns home to rest.

So the people gradually disperse, and eventually even the wakemen and refugees bid goodbye to the dragon. They worry that some of the dead, who have not returned their fire yet, will gather around the ruins, although that worry is unfounded.

By the time the sun rises, no longer will there be any wandering dead on Taran soil.

Amidst sobs, Nemos bids goodbye to the dragon as well. The next day, she will wake up early to collect bricks from all over town to make a new door for Culann's workshop.

The huge square empties out, leaving only a red dragon and a nomad.

The two of them slowly make their way towards the citadel.

The downpour continues, and the fire on the sculpture is nearly extinguished. Only a faint flame of indistinct color flickers in the dragon's eye sockets.

They suddenly hear a voice from behind.

Looking at the flickering flame in the dragon's eyes, Labhréathach recalls a time centuries past. When Ailill was still a lad with a cracking voice, while his own beard had just started to sprout.

Máighréad, 'the Exquisite', was promoting everything Victorian in the royal capital, and ultimately even banned a favorite custom for Taran commoners: placing bets.

That day, Labhréathach had exploded in an argument with his mother, with an unprecedented level of rage.

Afterwards, his mother ordered him to fast and reflect, but Ailill sneaked into his brother's bedroom with a big piece of steak for him.

The brothers blew out every light in the room and merrily gorged themselves, even licking their fingers clean. 'Enough stubbornness. Soon everyone in the capital will be a Victorian.' Ailill said.

Labhréathach stroked his still-soft beard, and merely shook his head. He asked: Then why not make a bet with me? Once Mother's gone, not a soul will willingly continue pretending they're Victorian.

'Fine.' Ailill replied.

The older brother burst into laughter. 'What's on the table, then? What'd make a good wager? Why not the crown? If you win, I'll never set foot in the palace for the rest of my life.'

'No. I'll wager anything but that.'

Ailill had refused. It was I who insisted on having it my way, half as a joke, and half hungry for a gamble. I nearly put him in tears, didn't I?

Yes, yes. Because Ailill was always the type to give in. He'd definitely agree.

And so, in the end, he said: 'Alright. If you go, then never come back.'

Afterwards, I ended up leaving the palace, wandering for years as Ailill spent that time unhappy in the capital.

I heard that after losing half his men in the court, Ailill was controlled by not even Victorians, but Taran nobles speaking with Victorian accents.

The Exiled King's face twists from pain, but nevertheless he extends his arm bit by bit towards the eye of the skeleton.

Can phantoms also feel pain? Can they shed tears of anguish? Or is it merely the rain dripping through him as his body fades to nothingness?

He can no longer tell.

Loughshinny snaps around, but there is no sign of anyone else in the square.

Only the purple fire in the red dragon's eyes. It flares up a split second, before the rain extinguishes it completely.