19): Men of Honor, a star fox fanfic

A/N: Just so y'all know, I've made no secret of what I plan to do in Destroy Malevolence, so there are absolutely no spoilers to be warned of in this story. I've made sure of it. Just a little something I worked on throughout Memorial Day, but failed to post in time because OCD about grammar and spelling errors. If you see any, shout 'em out, and I'll fix 'em.

Just so we're clear, this is both an AU of Destroy Malevolence, and that you don't—let me repeat that: you don't—need to read it to understand this story. Although if you do, that'd be great, but for now, enjoy this one here.

Beta-read by Rogercat
Beta-read by Jayfeattheris Awesome

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

Men of Honor

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

Men of Honor—Thomas Bergersen—(YouTube, Spotify, Amazon, CDBaby, iTunes, Google Play, SoundCloud)

Heart—Thomas Bergersen—(YouTube, Spotify, Amazon, CDBaby, iTunes, Google Play)

"And they who for their country die shall fill an honored grave, for glory lights the soldier's tomb and beauty weeps the brave."

This was the perfect day to visit, thought Marcus.

There were few clouds in the sky, none large, all white. The sun shone brightly and warmly, the Red Star a mere point of light in comparison, and a breeze blew through the air, stirring the oak trees planted in Keiko Memorial Park, their towering bodies guarding the graves clustered about them. A relatively small chapel lay beyond, in the park's center, for those who wished to pray or simply meditate on the fallen's sacrifice.

Best of all there was no one else here. Just him.

Marcus climbed off his motorbike and entered the cemetery. Gravel crunched beneath his boots, the only alien sound to an otherwise peaceful place, but he didn't notice. Eventually he left the main thoroughfare, where visitors would roam about, and now walked among the graves themselves, taking care not to step on those patches of ground where underneath lay the departed. Several bore signs of having been visited recently—flowers, wreaths, flags, and other trinkets. He supposed the wardens allowed the latter for the mourners' sake; he hadn't seen it anywhere else.

As it was a memorial park, and not an ordinary cemetery, Marcus couldn't see the names unless he knelt down, but he didn't want to. The tall, white pyramidal-capped monuments were enough for him. Each one had a granite-grey cross engraven upon it, with a star marked underneath it. These were symbols of remembrance, military protocol for the deceased.

Not that anyone was actually buried here. Out of all of the six hundred thousand columnar monuments in this park, only an hundredth—no, a thousandth—had bodies underneath each gravestone. The rest were all markers. This was what happened when a war was fought in space; there were no bodies to be recovered at all. In those rare cases where a body was recovered—floating aimlessly in the cold Void, flash-frozen, radiation-scarred, if at all whole—it was unrecognizable down to the DNA. A special stele would be in front of the chapel to commemorate such recovered, nameless, warriors.

He paused at one monument, touching the polished surface, watching his reflection gaze back. Upon it were two crossed swords, and an anchor beneath them.

Also staring back were two names:

James "Fox" McCloud, Jr. -18 BLW—10 ALW

Krystal McCloud -11 BLW?—10 ALW

Marcus traced his father's name, feeling the carven letters through his padded hands. The stone carver had done an excellent job on it—not too sharp yet not too smooth. The Cornerian Army had not wasted effort in adorning this headstone with the familiar winged fox, though, because despite its counterintuitiveness, this was specified in James Jr.'s will. This was a place of rest for all who fought and died for Corneria's banner, not just for a mercenary group whose name now lay among the stars.

Marcus also knew why his long-dead father would not want the Star Fox logo over his gravestone—after all of his years of acclaim as one the few honorable mercenary groups (dare it be called clan?) in the Lylat, James Jr. would want to rest in peace. No admirers to haunt him, no hero-worshipping children to disturb he and his wife's rest. Only his son.

Fitting, then, that Marcus wanted to be alone. Even with his incognito life—he refused to revive Star Fox, no matter that the Dominion had granted special dispensation to survivors of the deceased—he didn't want to be overshadowed with other mourners. Even if there were others about he wanted nothing to do with them. Grief shared was grief halved, yes, but there was no point in continued sorrow; the dead had moved on, and no amount of tears would change it.

Besides, he knew the descendents and veterans (few as there were) of everyone about him would also want to be alone. Alone from the Dominion's politics, from the swirl of ordinary, everyday life. To have some peace and quiet with the departed, to glimpse a bit of their solitude in the afterlife. Marcus did not begrudge them any of it. And they would likewise. It was less of a day of mourning than it was a day of remembrance, of solace.

He knelt down to where a smaller, raised grey stone butted against the monument, plated with brass. Also engraven were their names. There was a small hole in the ground behind it, hidden by its raised edge. Smart designer who planned it, he thought idly. To hide something unsightly from the eyes of visitors. But even unsightly things had a place. Marcus took out a hooked stick, one of fine steel, and anchored it in that hole. Over its hook he then laid a simple wreath, one of Zonessan lily flowers, which just touched the top smaller headstone.

He then took out scissors and cut two flowers from the wreath, laying them in front each name, before standing again.

A distant child's laugh made him look up. There, forty-two steles over, and two further up, a family of—of all the anthropoi—hyenas were gathered around another similar one. From what he could see, they being so far away, it was a mother and her two children, visiting their father, and grandfather, respectively. After watching them for a moment—watching the mother kiss the stone as her sons (or daughters?) played tag—he turned away and headed out. His time was spent here.

Leaving the plot of land where the McCloud monument lay, he turned right on the thoroughfare and went for the chapel. Oaks occasionally cast their shade over the graveled path, other, lesser paths spider-webbing away to the rest of the park showing up in intervals. Sometimes a bench or two appeared, clean and free of fallen leaves.

Upon the light breeze was the scent of freshly-mowed grass, the kind he'd smell at his relatives' place, where they had taken in their grandnephew. Somewhere a warden was keeping the grounds trimmed—or perhaps had done it the day before in preparation for today. Also floating on the air were flowers, like the ones he'd lain. He could pick out many different smells—Zonessan lilies, Cerinian hyacinths, roses, orchids, chrysanthemums, and others that were too faint to differentiate. All in loving remembrance.

He remembered his first visit here, when he was old enough to comprehend the sacrifice his parents had made, eight or nine he believed if memory served him. Then it was his grand-aunt and -uncle who brought him here, along with their children, his first-cousins-once-removed, and their children, his second-cousins. He had felt extremely lonely then, surrounded by all of these people, visiting the graves of his parents who had left no brothers or sisters to survive them—just him. It wasn't sorrow, or grief. He had been too young to feel that, and the war had been long since concluded for any new sadness to spring. It might have been different if his mother's relatives had adopted him, for at least then the divide wouldn't be so great, but they were lightyears away and only his father's side of the family was closer.

Ultimately, he was separated from his grand-aunt and -uncle's family and extended family by a difference in generation. Logically, it shouldn't matter, what was the old saying? "the family is the friends you chose," or something like that. He had indeed chosen his adoptive family, had played with his second-cousins, joked around with them, pranked them, teased them—and had the same done to him. There was nothing he lacked. But… he felt out of place—he had been an only child when he became orphaned, and subsequently adopted. No one to share a mutual… feeling, one could call it, if there was a name. Loneliness and isolation could only convey so much before those words became inadequate.

Perhaps that was why, when he had finally long since moved out, had his own place and could reasonably support himself, Marcus continued to visit his parents. At least he couldn't be blamed for not being a dutiful son. He imagined he could hear his mother at times whispering encouragement to him, his father smiling just behind her, telling him that she was proud of how he had grown. Even if that imagining were a fanciful notion, it was a comforting one nonetheless.

Reaching the chapel, he paused to look around before entering. Even though it felt like he had seen it a thousand times or more, there was something about the sacred architecture that demanded closer inspection.

The gravel gave way to a paved pavilion of red and white stone tiles. In the center of this rose the grey stele commemorating those whose bodies were recovered but were too burned or otherwise destroyed to put a name to. It was a solid piece of polished marble, inscribed only with the words, "To those who rest among the stars". Surrounding the pavilion were hedges, divided at intervals for paths like the one he'd just come off of. No flowers, too messy to clean when the petals dropped. The oaks growing over them were enough as it is, as were the columns open to the sky.

In pride of place was the chapel.

To the untrained eye it looked like a cathedral but Marcus knew that true cathedrals were massive constructs, with towers and spires pointing up to the heavens, and hundreds of multicolored windows gleaming out from sandy-toned limestone walls. This one only had one large tower, and that would be where the bell was. It never rung except on certain days of the Cornerian week, when it was time to worship. He wasn't religiously minded—Marcus hardly knew of anyone his age who was, though the Dominion had steadily been working to erase that—but even Marcus occasionally paid a visit to Keiko's own cathedral. The only exception to this was when he visited the cemetery—then, he always paid a visit.

Shaped like a cross, as per tradition, the front entrance was at the "foot" of the building; and, as it was on a day like this, both oaken doors, black with age, were wide open. There were two other double-doors, one on either "arm", and reachable by way of two smaller paved walkaways, but he never used them. It just didn't seem proper.

Turning, he looked back, saw the hyena family coming his way, then continued forward. There was no point in being accosted by them here. In the chapel, maybe.

Entering the narthex, a small room lined with framed pictures featuring common prayers and quotations, he chose to enter through the right of the three "doors" that let into the main nave. The light breeze and warm sun of the outside were sealed away, leaving behind a kind of stillness, a peace and contentedness of mind. He took a deep breath, letting the place fill him, then continued forward. He didn't go through the central aisle, too open, even in here, but rather chose to go through a side one instead.

The rows of pews, interrupted every now and then by pillared arches, passed him serenely by. He knew how many were there, had counted each one: twenty-two pews total, eleven rows on either side. Should one feel so inclined one could sit down and pray from there, books and kneelers provided. True, it wasn't comfortable after a while, but comfort was beside the point. For, after all the departed had done, one would at least begrudge them some of their time, no matter how uncomfortable it was.

Finally reaching the crossing, the part where the "cross" of the chapel was connected, he paused to reverence the chancel area, then continued on. He would return to pay his respects to the dead, but for now he wanted to visit the Memorial Wall. For all of the chapel's size—it was small, but outside appearances belied that—its true bulk lay behind the chapel proper, namely the Memorial Wall, or walls rather, since over six hundred thousand names were recorded here. As the cathedral was to a real chapel, so was the Memorial Wall to this chapel.

Entering through doubledoors in the ambulatory—that is, a special passageway found only in the cathedrals—Marcus entered a much larger chamber that absolutely dwarfed the chapel. Shaped as a massive drum, topped by a gigantic dome, this was the centerpiece of the memorial park. Sixty meters in diameter, and fifty-five tall, this was the where the walls recording the names of the fallen lay. Marcus turned to his left, that being one the quickest ways in, and went on. Passing someone—he didn't quite catch what they were, only that they had a tail—he made a beeline for row number two, cardinal-point west.

Twenty such "walls" were here, five to a cardinal direction, divided so people could walk among them, curved to fit the room's dimensions comfortably. Each wall was made of a black marble from Benomu, polished to prevent damage, and inscribed with thousands of names, front and back. Also here were small tables recording the history of the war from beginning to end, from the great starships that dueled in nebulæ corridors to all of the planets lost and won. Marcus had already learned all this in school so these he passed by. Apart from visiting his parents' monument, there was also something else he did whenever visiting.

He let his hand trail over the names, feeling the etched marble rub at him. Hundreds of memories were engraven here, not just his. All of those recorded on this wall had served together, had fought together, watched one another die (or knew they had died, so great was the Void). Here would be where Star Fox lay. They, and everyone here, were not just names on a piece of rock but reminders of freedom.

Being so used to this place he didn't need the unit names, army divisions, or fleet-phalanxes to guide him, and he took his good time. Today was a special day, he had nowhere else to be, no one to wait for him. They were all here, and they waited for him. But when he did, finally, reach them, he stopped moving.

James "Fox" McCloud, Jr., and Krystal McCloud were two that jumped out to him immediately, but there were others. Their actual group name was prohibited by McCloud Jr.'s will, but the unit name they had served in—Blue Wing—was visible, etched over them. Not many Wings went up and down a single wall, most only occupied only a mere quarter of their allotted section, but Blue Wing was the largest, mostly because it had been hit the hardest and countless others were merging into it throughout the war.

Marcus could see Gawain "Falco" Lombardi, Peppy Harlan, and Faraday Phoenix below and around his parents' names, though they had never died together. His parents that he was certain of, but what of Falco? Peppy? Both had been his dad's closest friends in life, as his grand-uncle had told him, and often, whenever he asked, but did they, at least, die together? Or were they alone? Marcus pondered these thoughts as he let his hand trace each name:

Catalina Monroe

Ellezibeth Katsumi

Miyu Wakahisa

Timothy Johnson

Fay Yukimura

Hugh Beringar

Dash Bowman

And others of Star Fox. One or two were missing, the spots where they would go left empty. Their birthdates were recorded, all unique and disparate—deathdates were uniform. At least the Cornerian Army had grouped them together, in their own special section separate from the rest, but in accordance with the will had declined to label them.

He wondered if any of their children—or grandchildren—came to visit as he did. Then again they might not be able to make it to the memorial, separated by a vast gulf that was the Void. A few times, certainly, but he hadn't seen them. But he was certain they held their own form of vigil, regardless. Marcus was fortunate to live in the city where his parents' memory was interred, and they were not. Not everyone could make a pilgrimage.

Not everyone was like him, hungering for something that he wasn't sure existed.

After a time of standing there, slightly longer than when he stood over his parents' memorial, he turned away to look at other names.

Nathan Pepper

Saru Bowman

Thomas Harrion

Wolf O'Donnel

Leon Powalski

Panther Caroso

More like them. None of the Dominion's losses were recorded here, none but Cornerian—Lylatian really. They were no longer counted as planets, just another stellar system in the hegemony. But all listed here came from this planet, their home. There were other memorial parks, every single city had one, the largest being in the capital—over fifty million, he had heard—but none were as special as this one. James Jr.'s surviving family had requested that he be recorded here, and since his will had also asked to be remembered with his team, they too were here. Why Star Wolf was here he would never know.

He passed one of the tables detailing the history of the conflict, the very one, in fact, where his parents had lost their lives in. It was said to be the final battle to end the war, though that didn't come about until the Dominion had forced the other side, through attrition, to sue for peace. Enough ships had survived to give a partial recounting of the battle, and some of these showed the Great Fox. Her destruction, and subsequent loss, went unrecorded.

Marcus moved on, examining others. He didn't come across the person who was here before him, perhaps they had moved on, or were in the chapel to pray. Either way, it didn't bother him. He was sure they had come here for their own reasons, and wouldn't want conversation. A few times he had had discussions with one or two folk before, though he was careful about who he was, but that was all, really.

The doors opened.

Marcus turned, ear cocked.

Hushed whispers came to him, young and energetic, but respectful. The family had come, then. He decided not to go greet them, not wishing to startle them. However if one of children went to him he would oblige and talk for a bit. He had no time to lose anyhow. If there was a time for converse, then it was now.

The family came around the corner, from the eastern cardinal-point, and the two kids stopped; Marcus had migrated to the center of the room, where the largest monument recording the Dominion's triumph over the enemy was, a statue featuring both anthropos and alien planting the flag of unity. That one was an old one, a stylized starship superimposed over a vergina sun. It had a name, but he couldn't remember it.

"Hello," the mother said, smiling. He offered a smile back, though it was out of politeness than anything. "This your first visit for today?"

"Oh, um, yes," he answered. "I make the trip every year," he added. "Since I was little."

"You must have someone you're proud of here," she answered. "Your father? Mother?"

"Both, actually."

"Oh, what a shame. And you say you've been visiting since you're little?"

He nodded. "I was only a year old when they died. It was my grand-aunt and -uncle who took me in."

"At least you're taken care of, then," she said. "I lost my father to the war. Jonathan Daisuke, Fourth Regiment, Army. My sons," she gestured to them clustered about her skirts, looking at him in awe, "hold their grandfather as a hero, don't you, boys?"

"Mister," one piped up. "Who did you lose?"

Marcus felt his throat get stuck. For many years he had carefully avoided mentioning he was of the McCloud family, not wanting to be felt sorry for or have their own marker be disturbed. Then again, was it really worth it? Everyone remembered here had participated in a few select battles, and the one the McClouds had died in was also here. Surely one had put two and two together by now even if the long forgotten name Star Fox was not graved here.

Surely it wouldn't be of harm to mention it now, would it?

For a moment he fought to get the words straight in his head, as they watched him expectantly, then braced himself. "I—I lost a legend," he said, "one I had hardly ever known, so I shouldn't complain, but… but—"

"I understand if you don't want to tell," she interrupted gently. "It's always hard. My father's brother can never come here with company. He blames himself for not being there to protect his little brother, but alas, it was his back that prevented him from serving. You can't speak of it without him breaking down. I understand."

"No, no, it's not that, it's just—I've lived with it too long," he explained. "My parents belonged to Star Fox—were Star Fox. I am their son."

Both hyena cubs' eyes went wide, and one squeaked: "You mean you're—?"

"Yes." He nodded.

"I see," their mother simply said. "Living with a legend over you is hard—"

"No, it wasn't that," he interrupted. "I just didn't want anyone to bother my parents. I can handle fame, even borrowed fame not mine, but not respecting my parents' wishes? No. That was why I did it. It was in my father's will not to have the logo inscribed anywhere here." He waved his hand about. "I respected him by not bandying it about. And—" here he looked sheepish, remarkable for a vulpes. "—I'm not cut out for my parents' life. I'm happy here."

"A wise decision," the mother answered, smiling again. "Would I trouble you to leave my sons here? They won't be a bother, won't you boys?" Here she fixed a stern look on them. Marcus held back a chuckle, knowing that a female hyena's height, and thus parental authority, was considerable.

"Yes mommy," both mumbled. One shyly looked at Marcus, and he quickly composed himself. "Can you tell us some stories about Star Fox?" the cub asked.

"Uh…" he began, but seeing the mother nodding, he gained confidence, "sure, why not? Just don't wear my voice down, all right?"

"Yay!" both shouted—and both adults shushed them. "Sorry," they hastily amended.

The mother hyena smiled again at Marcus, and for the first time in a long while he felt the beginnings of a genuine smile, and reciprocated. Then as he pulled up a seat in the shadow of the monument, and the boys huddled about him, the mother departed into the cut rings of etched walls, searching for her father's name among the thousands.

He spent a long while in there, telling stories he had heard from his grand-uncle and -aunt to the children. Overhead the great dome of the Memorial Wall held silent vigil over all, shadows indicating the passage of time across the blue-and-black marbled floor.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

When he finally came out, the sun was already setting, the entire left portion—his right—aflame with glory as windows caught the light and focused it upon the floor. It was very late. He should be getting home before night fell; tomorrow was going to be an early day.

The mother—whose name he learned was Chihiro—had stayed there for longer than he had thought, for when he finally registered her presence, the first instances of the sun were shining through the dome windows. He had just finished recounting about how his father, before he had met his mother, had run off some spice-pirates over the Katinan skies before the Army had come to finish them off, when she politely cleared her throat.

Over the children's protests he told them that he was too tired to continue, but could perhaps tell another some other time, and the children at last gave up. Grumbling and moaning—quietly, of course—they got up, stretching sore limbs, and obediently followed their mother out. Before she had departed, he managed to get her address, promising the littles that he would visit (with a glance at the mother to confirm, and she nodded—this meant a phone-call sometime soon), and then saw them out, feeling happier than he had ever felt in a long time.

When the last echoes of the children's voices had finally faded, he too set out for the front entrance, eschewing the sidedoors.

"You're good with children."

Marcus literally jumped, startled—his orange fur (no blue, unfortunately) went up on end, overinflating him to ridiculous proportions. He looked around for the speaker, rattled, then heard giggling behind him.

"You look so funny all fluffed out like that."

Finally locating the voice he whirled about, and promptly deflated.

An odd woman—vulpes, female—was standing before, still giggling, her hands over her mouth in a vain attempt to stop it. Her eyes were brown, somehow glowing brightly in reflected light; but the rest of her was a fantastic (yet alluring) combination of orange and blue; a simple blue dress complemented it. Her brush was somewhat short, but was colored as the rest of her, with a spot of white on the end. It was currently swishing back and forth madly in amusement in counterpoint to her giggling. She was strangely familiar… where did he see her?

Marcus held his peace as he slowly let his fur settle down. It was an odd evolutionary callback to the old days when his species—or, at least, the original morphs—used this trait to intimidate their enemies and rivals. Now it was an annoyance, and an amusement to others, like this—girl—woman in front of him. When his fur finally did settle down, he took a deep breath, and exhaled, looking at her.

"I'm sorry," she said, lowering her hands, "But you looked so funny when I startled you. It was an accident." She had an unusual accent, one that he found was pleasant to listen to.

"Aye," he replied stiffly, not quite believing.

She pouted at that. "Humph—" she placed her hands on her hips "—you seemed to have a good time with those kids back there, I was listening, laughing and joking as if you're one yourself. Now you look all thunder. Was it because I had frightened you?"

Wait, what?

"Now look here—" he began but she cut him off, giggling again.

"Oh, don't deny it, you were frightened! I could see it in you. You looked ready to beat up baddies."

"More like beat 'em up with the funnies."

"Oh, don't be a sourpuss." She stuck out her tongue at him, a bright and healthy pink one too. "You looked quite fierce."

"Thank you for soothing my male ego," he answered, feeling the makings of yet another grin working onto him. "I feel so much better now."

She had no answer to that, mostly because she was shaking with laughter. The chapel rang with her voice, bell-like and pure. Somehow the reverent silence wasn't broken by it but rather added to it, leavening solemnity with joy. To his surprise Marcus joined in too, adding his masculine guffawing to her femininity—and, somehow, that release made him feel all the more better.

When they had stopped enough to recover, the echoes dying away, he looked up from where he had collapsed, catching his breath. "So," he asked, "what was it you were asking about?" He tried to place where he had seen before, but when exactly escaped him.

She took longer to regain her voice, all splayed out on the marble floor like a child. Some pious folk would've called it sacrilegious, a skirted woman lying about as if a lazy bum in a holy place. When she could speak, she rolled over to face him, propped up on an arm. "You are good with children," she said again. "You kept those two back there awed. They hardly made any noise, unless you invited them to. Hyenas are not known for keeping silent."

"Ah, well." He waved a hand dismissively. "I had help."

"So I heard. So you are Fox McCloud's son?"

"James, Jr.," he corrected her. "Not "Fox". That was a nickname given to him by his friend Bill from the Academy when ol' papa couldn't keep his hands off Bill's food."

"Fine," she dismissed it. "I never thought Fox had a son. Oh, I'm Marca Irmtraud."

"Marcus. They had a quiet wedding, he and mom—Krystal, the Cerinian—attended to only by Star Fox and select family." Marcus grinned. "I wish I could've seen the look on dad's face when Macleòd confronted him beforehand."

"Oh, really? I never heard that story."

"Aye, mostly because dad had made the mistake of not marrying mom until they found out I was coming along. I heard ol' Theran nearly tore his tail out over it."

Marca was silent after this. Then she asked, "Doesn't this bother you that you're telling me, a stranger, some of your family's more… I don't know… intimate secrets?"

He shrugged. "You asked, and I got carried away. I've been… been locked in my own prison."

"Yes," she echoed, "I heard. A terrible, but necessary, shame. You did all of that for parents you barely knew, yet you did what you could for them. That's love."

"Yes," he agreed. They stayed silent for a few seconds, letting the peace and darkness of the place wash over them; then Marcus abruptly remembered something. "Excuse me, but I really need to be going," he said, getting up and offering a hand to her.

"No worries, Marcus." She took his proffered hand like a lady and rose gracefully. "Does it strike you strange that we share somewhat the same name?"

"Uh, no, it never occurred to me."

"Oh, well, my name is your name's feminine form."

"The more you know," he commented. Ah, now I know where I saw her—I passed her inside the room back there. That explained how she knew everything about him, eavesdropping, the sly fox.

"Likewise," she winked, "hearing Fox McCloud nearly getting his tail pulled out. That something you don't hear the biographers say."

He laughed—another genuine laugh. "Damn right." Then he grew quiet. Unconsciously he forgot to let go of her hand. "You know," he mused, "I should think of writing down my family history—oh, not all of it—Star Fox, and all of their adventures. The golden age of mercenary work is long gone, that much changed with the war and the coming of interstellar flight, but at least I can memorialize it, just as—" he gestured to the chapel crossing all about them, "—every veteran is here."

"I think that is a wonderful idea!" she exclaimed. "Oooh, can I help? I seem to have a habit of prying things out of you."

He hid a smile. "I'll think about it."

It was dark when they left the chapel—he had insisted at least praying a little prayer of thanks before leaving, and she hadn't minded. The lamps were all lit, illuminating the pavilion before the chapel, all of the paths leading away, and the monuments themselves—an entire forest of golden light. Even better, the fireflies were out, lending nature's glory to the blaze. Only the chapel itself was dark, but soft lights were appearing behind them as they descended the steps into the pavilion, the chapel atrium.

"You never told me," Marcus said slowly. "Who did you lose?"

"Same as you," she answered cheerfully. "Father, mother, in the war. Wilbert and Sabine Irmtraud." She pronounced the "w" of her father's name as a "v".

"You're not married?" Despite having never managed this before, he unconsciously lifted one eyebrow.

"No reason to," she said; then looked at him slyly. "Just what're you thinking?"

"Oh, um, nothing much, um—" he coughed. "—that it's hot out here?"

"You liar." Again that tinkling laugh of hers.

"I suppose I am," he mumbled.

Elbowing him, she laughed again, then calmed down. "I was seven when they died. In the final battle of the war too—not the one your parents were in, I'm afraid, no, the final battle, where we finally forced them to sue for peace."

"Do you know how they died?"

"No. And it's best if I don't. All I know is they died for our freedom. But," and here she sighed. "Sometimes I wish they had lived. It's all right, I had my aunt and uncle to take care of me, but, I just wish they had…"

"I know…" he said quietly. There was nothing else to be said.

Inside his head, though, Marcus was adding up the years in his head, and subtracting his age from hers. The battle had ended in 13 ALW, three years after his parents had died, about twenty years ago. He was in his twenties, naturally, so she must be… in her late twenties. Good Father!

Then again, it didn't matter. Physically, she looked younger than him, though that could just because of whatever activities she did (he unfortunately was stuck at a desk job), and seemed to act younger than she was too. Oh, hell, what was he waiting for? He'd been alone for long enough—he'd taken the first steps with a pair of hyena cubs, and their encouraging mother, and now this girl—no, woman—had emboldened him to take bigger steps out of his self-imposed shell.

They had reached the end of the thoroughfare and were now at the parking lot. Since he had parked closer to the entrance, he gallantly escorted her out to her car, a small red MG car, its top pulled up. Hmm, nice and stylish, he thought as he opened her door. Very old-fashioned.

"Oooh, such a gentleman," she purred, before coming around. Marcus smiled.

Before she slipped into it he was struck by a mad idea. "Doyouwannagotdinner?"

"Excuse me?" she asked, laughter dancing in her voice. "Sounded like a spukama got your tongue."

Unraveling his tongue, Marcus asked, "Do you—do you want to go out for dinner, sometime?"

"Hmmmm…" She tapped the wheel, thinking. Then, "You're a sweet boy, I wouldn't mind at all. Thinking about starting that historo-biographical book on Star Fox, or something else?"

"Why not both?" he suggested.

Marca Irmtraud flashed a smile at him. "I would like that very much," she answered. Marcus smiled at her, and closed the door. With a roar the car started up, and her window rolled down. "When shall it be?" she asked.

"I'll think of something."

"Good. I'm looking forward to your call—oh! I forgot." Quickly she bent over and fiddled around with some paper in the passenger seat. When she straightened up, she handed him a slip bearing her number. "Glad to meet you, Marcus," she said as he wrote his own down and tore it off to give in turn.

"Likewise, Marca," he answered. "See you soon."

"Hopefully not too soon, if you catch my meaning…"

With another muted roar the MG pulled out, window rolling up, and Marca sped away. Marcus watched as she vanished, heading for the haze of lights on the horizon that was Keiko. Yes, he felt very much better than ever before. He had two dates to plan out—a visit to the hyena family for another round of stories (he suspected the boys would love to help him out on his "historo-biographical" book), and then… Ahh…

Turning he went for his own vehicle. Starting it up, he was already thinking about adding a seat behind and buying a new helmet shaped specially for vixens. Putting his own on, he rolled out and roared home. Behind him the Keiko Memorial Park glowed in the night, a field of memories, no longer sad, but happy.

From somewhere beyond the veil of stars, Krystal smiled, her head resting on her Fox, who equally looked proud.

Proud, of their son. Just as he was proud of them.

"Who kept the faith and fought the fight: The glory is theirs, the duty ours."

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

A/N: The chapel is based off the chapel of Saint Joseph's Villa in Richmond, with all features minus the ambulatory for any of you who've visited the place.