The Lost

My work here is done.

Take care, Your Highness.

I will.

'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.

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.

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.

...Even you should not speak of the dead so lightly. Do not justify it as a sacrifice.

The Victorians who killed you have been chased out!

The last Victorian bastard died... before my eyes...

Were you... one of the bystanders too?

...It was a war.

Victoria. Eblana wanted to take Tara back from the Aslans. This was the conclusion to that war.

...

No... that wasn't joy. It was the opposite—

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...

The purple fire spread through the herds?

How was the fire extinguished?

This is... the citadel in Na Saoirsí? That same corridor?

So what happened here?

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.

(Ancient Tengae) I suppose stubbornness and stupidity really are hereditary.