She set this all up, knowing you would never allow the entire city to die with her!
Nemos
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!
Noble Red Dragon
Why would she take such a risk for a festival that she never cared about?
Nemos
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!
Nemos
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!
Noble Red Dragon
It's neither. Tara already belongs to her, and she was very much lucid. She...
Noble Red Dragon
She—
Noble Red Dragon
...
Noble Red Dragon
Nemos, is her body still there?
Nemos
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.
Nemos
Her body is—
The sound of burning drowns out her answer.
Noble Red Dragon
Whatever she's trying to do, Na Saoirsí is not fully gone. The fire-returning ceremony can still go on... it must go on.
Nemos
I'm well aware.
Nemos
I'll inform the citizens that the wicked red dragon they worshipped is dead.
Noble Red Dragon
What about Brigid?
Nemos
I've asked her to leave the city and find the wakemen.
Noble Red Dragon
And how are you going to tell people that Eblana is dead?
Nemos
With a coffin. That seems appropriate.
Nemos
Even coffins are in short supply, but she is not some nameless nobody. She deserves one.
Noble Red Dragon
...
Nemos
Is something wrong?
Noble Red Dragon
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.
Noble Red Dragon
Go, Nemos. I will buy you some time.
Nemos
You mean from the dark mist?
Noble Red Dragon
Yes. If it wants to be a part of the Samhain festivities, I will keep it at bay.
Noble Red Dragon
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.'
Mysterious Woman
How do you feel about that line?
Mysterious Woman
Now, the ending of the dragon and her reflection is clear enough.
The writer stands up with a start.
Writer
Who are you and what do you want?
Mysterious Woman
All I want is to finish the story that you would not.
Mysterious Woman
Didn't you say I was the type who liked to piece together the truth? We've gotten so very close to it.
Writer
This is enough. I'm leaving—
Mysterious Woman
If you won't tell the ending yourself, I suppose it falls on me.
<i>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.</i>
<i>When the fire subsided, the dragon was gone, and the people were anxious, for they could not find their dragon.</i>
<i>The reflection wanted to explain, find a way to bring the dragon back. Without the dragon, though, she could no longer leave the mirror.</i>
Mysterious Woman
What do you think?
Writer
...
Mysterious Woman
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.
Writer
Okay. I don't care who you are, or why you're here, but that's no way to tell a story.
Writer
You haven't given it an ending. All you did was extend an ending-less story.
Writer
But I have to know—did you... really see a red dragon kill another?
Mysterious Woman
In the same sense that you saw the hero drag a giant metal skeleton to the square. A creative liberty, nothing more.
Writer
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?
Mysterious Woman
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.
Writer
I need... time.
Writer
But if it can be connected... then maybe...
Mysterious Woman
Connected?
Mysterious Woman
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.
Writer
Just maybe...
Mysterious Woman
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.
Writer
You may have indeed solved a problem for me.
Writer
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.
Mysterious Woman
How lovely for you.
Mysterious Woman
Now, are you ready to start telling the third story?
Writer
Of course... of course.
Writer
But I'll need your help.
Writer
You will need to pick up the narrative whenever I get stuck.
Writer
This is my story, but it's also yours.
Writer
It has always been yours.
Mysterious Woman
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.
