Liberi Reader

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.

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.

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.

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.