Connor—Another  Funeral (Present Day)

	Connor knelt in front of the rosewood altar and bent his head to pray, but the weight of his dead child distracted him.  She was his third child, by the official count, another daughter and another disappointment.  The child had lived nearly a month, twice as long as both her sisters, but Fithir hadn't bothered to give her a name.  Like the others she had been born sick and it had been too painful to think of her as a real person.  He stroked her muzzle and tried to feel more than a vague regret for her death.  She was the first of his children who looked just like him, with the same dark red fur and narrow muzzle.  If the child had lived, she would have been a beautiful vixen.  But he was too tired to care anymore.
	When the bells of the church began to ring, signaling the start of his daughter’s funeral, he rose and went over to the coffin that sat to one side of the altar.  A bowl of rare incense burned at one end of the table.  It was to keep evil spirits from stealing the soul of the dead, even though nobody really believed in that anymore.  At the other end stood three wooden fox statues, each holding a shallow bowl of rice wine. He smeared some across his daughter’s forehead, and across his own, because it was what he was supposed to do.  While the cathedral filled up behind him, he laid his daughter in the coffin and kissed her on the cheek.
	When he was finished, Archbishop Marcan came out from behind the altar and put a hand on his shoulder.
	“I did warn you what would happen.  Will you believe me now?” said Marcan
	The Archbishop was an enormously fat fox, a full foot taller than Connor.  Marcan's yellow and red robes were strained around the middle and as he walked he leaned on the heavy, gilded cane he carried..  The gold rings on his fingers dug into Connor’s flesh, and there was a strong smell of wine on his breath.
	“I suppose I have to,” said Connor.
	“Your piety is pleasing to God,” he said, and he gave Connor’s shoulder a vicious squeeze “But it is not enough.  Have you given any further thought to my suggestions, Cearnach?  You know it's the only way you can put right what you have done.”
	“I know, and I assure you that there is nothing in the world I want more than to set things right.  But I’m not convinced that another war would be at all wise.  The last time we fought Blackpool, we lost,” said Connor.
	The city had almost been destroyed and it was only because so many had died on both sides that there had been anything left to rebuild.  But Queen Sabia was older now, and if they fought a second time, she might decide she had nothing left to lose.
	“You must have faith.  We have God on our side, and if our faith is strong enough then nothing can stand in our way.  They’ve torn down their churches in Blackpool and we must make them pay for their blasphemy.”
	Marcan had moved around to face him, and in the course of the lecture had backed him up against the altar.  There was a worrying, glazed look in his eyes and Connor broke free of his grasp as soon as it was polite to do so.
	“We don’t have any money that can be set aside to pay for a war.  The city has just finished paying for the repairs we had to make after the last one,” he said.  
	Marcan’s ears flattened, and he jabbed a claw into Connor’s chest.
	“This is for God, Cearnach.  Don't let worldly concerns keep you in your sin,” he said.
	Connor bared his teeth and the priest snatched his finger away and took two steps back.  Connor brushed the dribble off the front of his shirt, and wiped his hands on a bit  of gaudy drapery.
	“We both have things to take care of, now.  I will be happy to talk to you later, but I am not in the mood at the moment.  Come see me after the funeral,” he said.  
	He pushed his way past Marcan and scanned the aisles of the church until he saw his wife walk through the western door.  Fithir was stooped with exhaustion and her tail dragged along the ground, but she smiled when she saw him.  He walked over to take her arm and led her to her seat at the front of the church.
	“Couldn’t you have gotten someone else to do the service?” she said.
	“It's his church,” said Connor.
	“It's your city,” said Fithir.
	From his perch behind the altar Marcan droned his way through a series of dull prayers.  Connor twisted the rings on his fingers and worried.  If his soul was the only one at stake he wouldn't even consider going up against Blackpool again.  But if what Marcan said was true, if he failed to absolve himself, he would be damning Ciara too.  He couldn't do that to her and live with himself.
	When the prayers were over Marcan dribbled holy oil over the coffin and used part of it to smother the bowls of incense.  At his signal, two soldiers dressed in red and white uniforms came to the front of the church and lifted the coffin onto their shoulders.  The church stirred while they made their way to the cemetery doors and waited for Marcan to unbar it.  As the doors swung open Connor got up and held out a hand to help Fithir to her feet.  She took it but he was the one who felt better for the support.  She kissed his neck, which wasn't part of the ritual, and twined her fingers around his so he could walk.
	The trip through the Queen's garden to the family cemetery was made in silence.  There was nothing anyone could say that would help either of them.  In half an hour the child would be buried and forgotten.  No-one had the time to mourn a nameless child.
	Before they reached the burial site, Fithir pulled him a little off to one side, and put her mouth to his ear.
	“What hold does he have over you?  He's been hovering over your shoulder since he got here,” she said.
	“It's nothing important.  Minor affairs of state,” he said.  
	Fithir's ears went back, and she tightened her grip on his wrist.
	“Don't tell me it's 'nothing important'.  You're going to war for him, and I want to know why,” she said.
	He drooped his ears and looked back over his shoulder at the rest of the funeral procession.  Everyone behind them had stopped so they would not walk ahead of their king.  Fithir ignored them, and move so she was blocking his view of them.
	“This isn't the place.  Please?  I'll tell you when I can, just... not now,” he said.
	“I know you have a daughter with that little blonde vixen who used to hang around here.  Marcan came and told me after you confessed it to him.  I think he wanted me to divorce you,” she said.
	He wriggled in her grip and tried to think of something to say that came near the truth without actually touching it.  But she cocked her ears further back and he gave up.
	“I just want to do something for her, this once.  She left thinking I didn't want her, and I'd do anything to make it up to her,” he said.
	“Then take a moment and think.  If she were here, what do you think she would want?” she said.
	“You don't understand,” he said “Neither would she.  It doesn't matter what anyone wants.  I have to do what's right.”
	“You will,” she said.
	She kissed him on the side of the muzzle and steered him back into the procession.  He followed after her, feeling numbed to the core.