Connor—The Church at Midnight.

	At the midnight bell, Connor knelt on the floor of the old cathedral and waited for Marcan to stop yawning.  The pain of his wounds had kept him from sleeping, so he’d chased the fat priest out of bed for someone to talk to.  Connor didn’t particularly enjoy Marcan’s company.  Outside of well-structured services, Marcan was irritating and repetitive, and he drank too much.  But Connor didn't have anybody else but Fithir, and he never had the heart to wake her.
	Still blinking the sleep from his eyes, Marcan picked up a small silver bowl and poured a measure of holy oil into it from an etched glass phial.  He stirred the oil with a forefinger, the stuck the finger in his mouth to taste it.  Connor winced at this slight sacrilege, just like he did every time.  Satisfied, Marcan smeared some oil on his forehead, and dabbed two stripes of it on either side of Connor’s muzzle.  Then Marcan set the bowl on the high dias, and folded his hands in prayer.  Connor bowed his head and mumbled along with the familiar words, but he couldn’t keep his thoughts from straying.  Every time he shut his eyes, he saw the arrow strike Ciara in the back.
	“It’s my fault she got shot,” he said.
	“It is because of your sin that she is the way she is.  Children born in wickedness cannot help but be wicked themselves.  But it isn’t your fault that she got hurt,” said Marcan.
	“Ciara isn’t wicked.  My daughter is a better person than I am.  She’s trying to help everyone, and all I’m doing is making a mess,” said Connor.
	He wiped the holy oil off with his sleeve, and ignored Marcan's disapproving glare.
	“The wicked are often deceptive.  You would be wise not to trouble yourself with her again.  She will drag you down to the Pit with her,” said Marcan.
	“But I love her,” said Connor.  
	“It's only natural that you’d think so.  When a pale imitation of love is all you have, you have to make the best of it,” said Marcan.
	He got up and lit a white candle on the dias.  With the candle he lit a stick of the incense that was used for purifying the cathedral after every service. The smoke it produced was thick and oily and it always gave Connor a headache.  Marcan waved the stick in three counterclockwise circles around his head and dropped it on the floor.
	“Maybe that's the only kind of love anyone ever has,” said Connor.
	Connor took a pull of whiskey from the flask he'd taken to carrying in his pocket, drinking it quickly, like it was water.  It burned all the way down his throat and he wasn’t sure whether he would be able to keep it down.  Some small part of him hope that he wouldn’t.  He was sickened by what he had done, and decorating the marble floor with a pool of vomit was a clearer expression of his feelings than he would be able to put into words.
	“I’m not sure whether I want absolution anymore.  I’ve been seeking it for so long that there doesn’t seem to be any point anymore, and I’d rather suffer forever than forsake my daughter,” he said.
	“Words spoken in a house of God can have power, and I refuse to believe that you really mean that,” said Marcan.
	“Then why have my prayers always gone unanswered?  Why don’t I feel anything when I kneel before the alter.  I’ve tried so hard, and gotten nothing,” said Connor.
	He took another drink, draining the bottle, and felt his knees go weak again.  Anger welled up in him.  He was furious at himself for allowing himself to be blinded for so long.
He threw the empty flask across the room.  It flew in a shallow arc over the benches and hit the middle of the stained-glass window over the altar.  The window shattered, spraying glass across three rows of seats.  A cold wind blew in, bringing the smell of rain with it.  The night was dark and moonless, but Connor knew that the sky was filled with thin, fast-moving clouds, blowing in from the north.  He sank down on his knees again, and hid his face in his hands.
	“What am I supposed to do?  Do I really have to choose between my child and my God?” he said.
	Marcan put a hand on the top of his head, and there was an unexpected kindness in the fat priest’s touch.
	“All you need is faith, and the courage to take the course you must.  Neither God, nor I, will steer you wrong,” he said.
	“I know,” said Connor, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe.