Chapter Four
Consciousness returned once again to Galatai. He moaned in impotent anger at his situation, but his lamentation was cut short by the realization that his legs had been set. He marveled at the simple, but effective, splint that had been applied to his legs. He noticed with a start that he sat inside the bed of an evidently wealthy individual, one who dwelt in a castle.
His training finally manifesting, he chanced a look at his surroundings. He lay in a bed in the back of a large room. Upon the walls hung evidence of a varied individual; next to arms of war sat paintings of a serene forest. Beside trophies of war sat neat stacks of well worn books. He noticed with a start that a hand-crafted walking stick had been left alongside him. Warmth flooded him as he finally accepted that he was, at last, a guest rather than a prisoner. Not one to accept passivity after all he had been through, he reached for the walking stick.
"Ah, you're awake," an intimidating wolf marched evenly into the room, "how are you feeling?"
Galatai flinched involuntarily, but his days of performing weren't entirely lost upon him. Trying to think quickly, the military demeanor and even, cool voice bespoke an officer, or so he hoped. Assuming his best professional demeanor, he replied, "Nothing to worry about. I have an urgent message for King Sigmund of Aróese, and if you'll forgive me, I must give this to him as soon as possible."
The wolf smiled slightly as the fox seemed prepare to charge off on two broken legs to deliver his message. Impressed at the courage of the small fox, he moved to stop him, "Forgive us, but father is busy right now. I have just recently come from him, and he wished to see you comfortable. Do you find our quarters acceptable, Sir...?"
The fox flushed at the attention given to him. Flustered, he began, "I have never seen such grandeur! The exquisite art, the books, the..." he coughed and caught himself. He must not appear young and flighty before this wolf, "I thank you very much for your hospitality, but it isn't necessary to be so lavish. I am Galatai, or Gal, a member of the resistance against the dragons." He had heard Sigmund referred to father, so he followed his guess and finished, "You must be the king's son then, lavur. It is a pleasure to meet you."
The wolf let out a short, barking laugh, "You guess correctly, Gal. I'm glad that you find my quarters pleasing. As I said, the king is currently taking council, but I am here to provide anything you might want. You have but to ask, if you find anything lacking."
The fox's professional demeanor melted away. With a child's pleading eyes he looked at lavur, "Were there any other... survivors?"
The wolf appeared to fight, scarcely successfully, down a wave of revulsion, "I... I am sorry. We found no others."
Bitter tears stung Galatai's eyes, and threatened to shame him before a prince. Working quick to mask himself, he asked, "It was tradition, back in our homeland, to play a song for the dead. It may be frivolous, but did you find a carved wooden case?"
The wolf smiled sadly and retrieved the case from his mantle. He set it gently in the fox's paws, and gave a silent apology with his eyes. Gal knew then that lavur had known loss in equal measure.
Shaking hands grew still as he lovingly put together the components of the instrument. The pained demeanor that so often masked his feelings drew calm as eager lips sought familiar refuge upon finest silver. lavur walked across the room to kneel at the hearth and quietly tend the fire.
The dirge played for dead foxes was a newer composition, made soon after their subjugation by the dragons. An intangible, ethereal piece, it seemed to begin and end as a last breath is drawn, and then passes unbidden as life finally surrenders itself to repose eternal. The aeolian melody sat lightly upon the warm castle air, recalling all who heard to their own private encounters with Death. They remembered family, friends, countrymen torn from life. They remembered the pain of loss, the triumph of the dead, the unexpected laughter and joy of a memory of happier times. Not all were moved to tears. Many were moved to smile at the memory of better times and glorious battles won and lost.
As if to remind us that our lives must do the same, the melody finally drew to a close. Reluctantly, Galatai let the flute rest upon his lap. Neither fox nor wolf moved, neither one noticed the other. This song had always reminded Galatai of his parents, though he knew not why. The piece was very mutable at its core. The song had been written, rewritten, performed, and passed on in so many varying ways. It had been whistled, briefly, as a signal. It had been performed by soloist, quintet, choir, and once, even a small symphony. It was rumored to never have been intended for one instrument. It was meant to be a piece that any fox could play or sing.
The song's words, when sung, told the tale of the last king of the foxes, Vulpus. The elegy sang of how, as defeat loomed over him, he surrendered. But this is not all the foxes knew of Vulpus. It was said that, in his final hours, he had allowed many of his officials and trusted men to leave his castle via a secret passage. He knew that, as king, he would not be able to form a resistance without his own people being held hostage. Knowing that cruel Death awaited him, he stood proudly before his throne and challenged the Overlord of the dragons; they would fight no more, but resolve the conflict through a duel. If Vulpus triumphed, the dragons would cease all attacks upon his kingdom. If the dragons won, Vulpus' life was forfeit, and his people would be assimilated as slaves into the dragon's empire.
Accounts differ as to the final minutes of the reign of Vulpus. Some say that he fought and lost valiantly. Some say that he was run through as he paused to allow the enemy to recover. Still others say he was slain by treachery even as he was about to deliver the final blow. The Vulpine Dirge does not comment upon this, however. The dirge draws to a close as Vulpus takes his place before his throne, and ends with a prayer to Vulpus himself to watch over the fallen and the still living.