EA-ST-1 Walk Through the Cold Night

...And that is the story of the red dragon.

But what comes after? What about the people tainted by the flames of death?

There is no 'after'. That's all I've written.

That simply will not do.

Everything has an ending, and those endings don't much care if you think they'll do, miss.

And yet it is for an altogether different reason that you hide yourself in this dilapidated pub after publishing your work. How ridiculous.

A lot of things are ridiculous.

Do you simply enjoy keeping people in suspense? Is your spirit soothed by tales of readers desperate to know the ending?

Some overly enthusiastic Messengers did manage to find me to deliver some fan mail.

You must have been rather pleased.

Pleased? I didn't even read them. Just tossed them into that fireplace.

How impertinent.

Moreover, not a single story in your collection doesn't cut off unceremoniously. Truly impertinent.

It's simple, really. I can't write an ending to save my life.

You'd best head home now, miss. You're clearly well-educated, and a ramshackle pub like this doesn't suit you. Don't fret yourself over those half-finished stories.

Why the hurry to show me the door? Perhaps I can help you.

Alright then. So what kind of ending were you thinking?

Why should I be the one to come up with it?

You're the writer, not me. I simply wished to offer my own story, to spark your imagination.

Your own story?

Wait, are you another survivor? Did you also narrowly escape death in that city last autumn?

Only those who've experienced the truth for themselves would recognize what your stories are based on.

...

Well, go ahead then. I'm all ears.

Very well. Deep in the ruins of the former royal capital of Tara, long since destroyed by Catastrophe...

Does it resist being lit?

Or is it that not even an ominous outsider—newly come after centuries of silence—can relight old longings and resentments, near worn away by time?

Or... perhaps I simply need to be less reserved.

...

Are you awake?

Or must I remind you who you are?

The pathetic red dragon who cast aside his crown and wandered the wilderness for twenty years, only to be murdered by his closest kin on his return. Labhréathach the Exiled King, correct?

...

It truly is a pity, seeing someone still in shock at his own bloody death, six hundred years after the fact.

Six hundred years?

Give or take. The true date of your death has long been forgotten.

I'm shocked, yes, but not at my death. More at the fact that, after six hundred years, the Dracos have once again produced an aberration spewing the flames of death.

They even let you grow to adulthood without strangling you in the crib.

Did the Victorians bid you rouse me from death's slumber? Or did you hide that ridiculous crown from them beneath your bed?

Victoria no longer yokes the Red Dragon. The Tara of today heeds no foreign master.

Hah, not bad.

Tell me then, is it popular to wake the dead to deliver good news these days? But sorry, I've nothing to reward you with. Now if that's all, you'd best be on your way.

With my flames burning within you, you won't be ending this after a few trifling pleasantries, Labhréathach.

Ending? My ending came long, long ago. You're the one with unfinished business, yeah?

...

Look, I get it. They're the flames of death, after all. They'll get you into all kinds of trouble. Life and death getting jumbled up, herds of undying beasts, newborn cubs having their lives snuffed out before you know it, the works.

So, how big a mess are we talking here? A field? A city? A countryside?

I set all of Tara alight to free her from Victoria's heel.

You WHAT?!

Let her be razed to the ground. Let Tara become a nation of the dead. Either way, the flames of death will seek out new kindling. Or so I thought, at first.

But allowing so many lives to fade away simply because I am out of ideas, well, that would be awfully imprudent of me.

And so I came to you. Tell me, what should I do to cleanse these deathly flames from the fields of Tara?

...If only that were empty bluster.

Go ahead, use your imagination.

I've heard enough. What I'm about to say isn't for you, but for all the people still willing to call themselves Tarans.

Those tainted by your flame and marching towards death have been renounced by life itself. It will never return to them.

This goes without saying for the corpses marching behind you, obviously, but the same holds for those who still live yet walk like the dead. There's no medicine that can save them.

Gather them together, so that their fires do not taint others.

Appeasement. Is that all you can suggest?

Hah... Of course not.

Next, find another red dragon. Assuming you haven't already slaughtered your kin, of course.

Find a real red dragon, one whose flames warm others' lives. Let things return to as they once were. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, life to life, death to death.

Is that all you know?

It is, ignorant young dragon.

Then it seems you don't know much more than I do.

Who're you?

Who I am is unimportant. What's important is, why are you living out here?

I came because there aren't any Victorians here to knock at my door and rob the food I dug up myself, along with my savings...

Five years ago, on a night like this, a wicked caster came by, killing the Victorians as they closed in, step by step.

I offered him beastmeat, grains, and freshly-brewed wine, but he told me he didn't need any of it. What he needed was fire, a fire fueled by those who would happily burn themselves away.

And so my only son, Keith, left home and followed him.

What a noble soul.

Then, three years ago, someone knocked on my door in the middle of the night again. It was Keith.

My Keith. He no longer spoke, or wept, or even breathed. He just stood there, his body covered in purple flames.

How tragic.

It gets worse. I buried him, but he refused to rot away in the earth. Instead, he dug himself out, and now his corpse is wandering endlessly the wilds.

Which is why I'm still living here.

Are you one of that caster's friends? Are you here to lay Keith to rest?

I am.

Ah, here he comes.

And what of you? You're also tainted by the purple flames of death, are you not?

...If you mean sorrow, anger and hatred, then you're right, witch.

The Victorians taxed me in coin, while you and your ilk taxed me in blood. Together, you've taken all I have.

I've been empty inside for a while now. The only thing keeping me standing are those so-called flames of yours.

Then what if I were to take them back? What would you say to that?

I'd say 'you're late.'

Why? Why won't you kill me?

Because you no longer need to be killed.

A spirit once told me that life will never again grace those tainted by the flames of death. Now I see that he was right.

'Now I see that he was right,' the red dragon answered coldly.

How is that for an ending? I took what I heard from the old man and added a bit of spice. It shouldn't be too jarring an addition to your story, I would think.

Throwing in the ghost of the legendary Exiled King, are we?

It'll do, but do you really need the ending to my story at this point?

What you've seen clearly differs from what I saw. I must see it through your eyes, hear it through your ears.

You're not one of those bored toffs who's into 'piecing together the truth', are you?

I have never once considered the truth boring.

Hah. Well, seeing as we both managed to make it out of that hellhole alive, I can pass you all the drafts I abandoned in the process of observing, thinking and writing.

But as for how those stories actually end, I couldn't say.

Since you were talking about the Red Dragon... how about I start there, too?

Na Saoirsí, the heart of Tara, 'the Red Dragon's Lair'...

Na Saoirsí, the heart of Tara, 'the Red Dragon's Lair'... We're finally here.

Thank heavens! The whole trip from the Scáthanna Fields has felt like one long, long dream... Will my family really be safe here?

This land is more than just idyllic pastures and fields.

Tara's capital was never directly involved in Londinium's war, but there's been a never-ending spate of infiltrations and noble rebellions going on in the background around Na Saoirsí.

Especially after the Red Dragon marched her troops towards Londinium... It wouldn't be incorrect to say a minor war took place here.

Sorry, Reed. I was just happy as can be, didn't mean anything else by it!

No... a homecoming should be a happy affair.

Know any songs about the city or the Dark Woods, Moran?

Only the one, and it doesn't really fit the mood...

Oh, just sing it!

I stepped into the dark woods one morn, calling to the mists of hoar♪

I trod upon the road, heading out to war♪

No pipes a-singing, nor battle drums a-roar♪

Only the bells behind me, through dew and fog their rings do soar♪

This whole way back, I've been trying to come up with a new verse to add, but I've been lacking inspiration.

...

You seem even more anxious than before, Reed. Was the tune really that much of a downer?

No, it's nothing to do with the song. It's a good song.

I just...

So, what next?

Someone will be coming to help us. Once they're here—

...Why are you here?

I have come to welcome you.

What?

I'll be escorting you into Na Saoirsí to meet with Her Highness Eblana.

Don't worry, you'll never have to see me again. Not unless absolutely necessary.

Indeed. The issues we could resolve without meeting, she and I already resolved on the Gastrell.

Then please, follow me. As for your entourage... Due to security concerns, I will make other arrangements for them.

No. They are Tarans, too. They must enter with me. I promised them.

While I would love to acquiesce, truth be told, the majority of our citizens are unaware that there is a second red dragon. Namely, you.

I can guarantee that they will keep it secret.

This is where you and Her Highness disagree.

Then do you mean to say that my sister will 'ensure' they do?

...

This is precisely why I must bring them into Na Saoirsí.

Err... I may have an idea that would satisfy both parties, if you'd care to hear it?

I brought you here, Wakewoman, not simply as an overseer for settling citizens, but also for your discretion in sensitive matters.

I hope this idea of yours isn't mere wishful thinking. If so, know that even you will no longer be welcome in Na Saoirsí.

Of course, of course.

As you so eloquently put it, Na Saoirsí is indeed unable to so readily open its gates to our errant countrymen.

But I'm headed to the village of the wakemen tomorrow to ask for some sacred instruments. Seeing how these people have nowhere else to go, I can have them stay at the village for now.

'Wakemen'? Isn't that some sort of codename plucked straight from the old legends?

My people have been relegated to song and story for many, many years, true. Those of us who live around the ruins rarely ever leave. I'm just an oddball.

Which is why I can promise you that...

well, no word of the red dragon will leave the village.

I really want to trust you, but...

Are you really one of them? The wakemen?

Moran?

Before my great-grandma passed, she asked for a traditional burial held by a wakeman. Our family searched all over as best we could, but never found one. All we could do was pass it off as the ramblings of a dying woman.

But she was a woman with her head on straight, not the type to mix things up with legends. If she said something's real, it's as real as can be. Besides, I've heard many stories about your kind.

I'm willing to trust you.

Then please don't betray that trust, Wakewoman.

Naturally.

...Alright.

What say you, Mr. Brigadier?

Go.

Nemos? Who are these people?

Sorry for making trouble for you even after I left.

They're Tarans with no place to call home. Na Saoirsí can't take them in at the moment, so I thought, maybe...

We made an exception many years ago by not forbidding you from leaving. We have even less reason to admit these strangers we know nothing about.

What if we're not here to be admitted to the wakemen, ma'am?

Moran?

Once, when I still dreamt of being a wandering bard, I collected the legends of the wakemen, sought out your people, and told your tales.

But in the end, my dreams of both bardhood and wakemen were shattered to pieces. Only now, when all I want is to go home, do I run into you.

If the legends are true, your people live ascetic lives. You only come into contact with outsiders to hold funerals, letting the souls of the departed find rest in fire.

...Correct.

We came here with... No, we're just folks from all across Tara seeking refuge. Not a one of us is qualified to join you. We're just looking for a place to stay for a day or two.

...

I promise you, we'll follow your laws and customs as best we can. We won't trouble you any more than we already have.

Winter's just around the corner, too. I'm not too sure if your people hold harvest festivals, but if you need any help, please, feel free to ask.

...Samhain. That is the true name of what you call the 'harvest festival'.

It would seem you really are different from the cityfolk.

There are some abandoned huts outside the ruins. You may clean them and stay there.

Thank you. Or rather, 'go raibh maith agat.'

Is there anything else, Nemos?

The Dublinners in the city want to hold a victory party to celebrate Tara's liberation.

I promised them I'd ask you for some of the sacred instruments. They'd show Taran unity, and represent the importance of tradition to the nation.

With Samhain almost upon us, we have none to spare. Have you forgotten? But even if we did, we would not give them away.

They're only requesting them because of how much they value the old ways...

Then why is it that not a single denizen of Na Saoirsí has come to us to request a funeral since the city became independent?

We can tell the difference between remembering a name once forgotten, and dressing yourself up in a name you've read in a history book.

But if you cannot return empty-handed, then take this whistle and go.

This is... just an ordinary whistle...

It is the highest honor we can give them.

The wakemen do not stand with the living, nor do we require their reverence. Until, of course, they are dead.

That is the tradition Dublinn should be honoring.