[center][b]My Fair Lord[/b]
a Story of Steel, Steam and Silk by [name]JustLurking[/name]

[b]Act 1 of 3[/b][/center]

The Pride of Lyngvi’s powerful, steam-engine chugged and groaned as her crew guided her to berth.  She was a ship of war—her engine was not designed to run efficiently at low speeds.  Even so, the ship cut through the windy, midnight rain of Gleipnir’s docks easily.

The Pride of Lyngvi was one of the most recent additions to the Wolven fleet, and one of only a handful of steel-hulled ships in existence.  She represented the state-of-the-art in metallurgy, engineering and above all military design.  Everything about her was bleeding edge—indeed some aspects of her design were dangerously experimental.

But for all its fearsome, elegant design, the Pride of Lyngvi was not the flag ship of the fleet.  That honour was reserved for the Conqueror—an older, larger, vessel.  So it was that the Pride of Lyngvi’s (almost) unannounced arrival, in the dead of night, generated little in the way of interest among the general populous.

That lack of interest, however, was exactly what the ship’s most senior passenger was hoping for.  Given the current political situation His Imperial Majesty, The Emperor Conall Lyall was eager to keep his travel arrangements as quiet as possible.

The sailors and dock crew working in tandem soon had the ship tethered securely and a gangway erected.

The ruler of the Wolven Empire stepped out of the wheel room, onto the top deck of the ship and into the heavy rain and cold wind.

He was dressed in rich but austere clothes as befitted one of his station.  His suit was black as the night.  The high collared shirt he wore under his buttoned jacket was white, with only the lightest suggestion of, near-invisible, golden thread-work adorning the trims.  A gold chain and watch in his breast-pocket was a more prominent display of the Emperor’s wealth.  His boots were of a military design.

The Emperor himself was a grey wolf of around forty years with a well built body rippling with powerful muscles.  His hard green eyes were always fixed straight ahead—after all, the Emperor of half the Shattered Tears did not step out of the way of other fursons.  He strode towards the gangway, his goal, directly and with brisk steps, never showing a moment’s hesitation or indecision—such qualities were not to be found in either the Empire or His Imperial Majesty.

He was flanked by two fursons who walked exactly one step behind.

On his right was a tall, thin, bespectacled wolf in a navy-blue great-coat.  Almost half the Emperor’s age, he had a serious, studious look to him.  Even so, his hard jaw line and the thick, luxurious fur around his jowls, lent the young wolf an aura of cultured, refined determination.

His coat was made of heavy wool which was dyed a navy blue so dark it was almost black.  Gold rope work trimmed every seam.  It had a tall rigid collar which ended just below the jaw.  The coat was tailored so that it tightly adhered to the contours of his body when it was buttoned up.

He was holding a large umbrella over both himself and His Majesty.

Walking behind the Emperor on his left was a shorter figure shrouded in a heavily-hooded, black rain-cape.  It was impossible to make out the figure’s sex or species under the folds of the heavy garment.

The trio stepped onto the gangway and disembarked the ship.

Waiting for them, on the dock at the foot of the ramp, was a rather worried looking wolf in ermine robes.  He snapped to attention as he saw the Emperor approach.

“Your Majesty. Lord Lycaon.”  The ermine-clad wolf acknowledged both his sovereign and the tall wolf behind him, “Welcome to Gleipnir. We thank you for honouring us with your visit to your island.”

“Thank you Governor.” Emperor Conall replied simply.

The governor fidgeted visibly.  Obviously upset at meeting the ruler of the Empire in the dark of night without a ceremony, official welcome or honour guard.

“I’ve arranged transport to the Beach Palace,” He indicated a number of waiting carriages, “if it pleases Your Majesty.”

The leader of the wolven territories indicated that it did indeed meet with his approval with a simple: “It does.”

The four figures started towards the transport.

In the background, dock hands had wheeled over a steam powered winch and were busy unloading cargo from the Pride of Lyngvi’s hold.  The Emperor paid them no mind, their baggage would be transferred to the Beach Palace almost as swiftly as he would—indeed it would probably arrive in his chambers before he did.

The other members of the royal entourage—servants, butlers, valets, secretaries—began to disembark.  There were around twenty attendants all told—far fewer than the staff the Emperor normally travelled with.

The governor held the door open for the Emperor and his companions.  No invitation was issued for him to join them so he didn’t.

The driver cracked his whip and the horse-drawn conveyance set off.

The trio sat inside the carriage—the Emperor on one side and Lord Lycaon and the hooded figure on the opposite.

“Llou,” the Emperor said addressing Lord Lycaon, “are the preparations for our tour of the warships ready?”

Lord Lycaon nodded “I believe so Your Majesty. As planned the orders weren’t issued until very late in the day, but I believe they have been carried out. I’ll know for certain once we reach the Beach Palace. I’ve arranged for my correspondence to be sent there.”

“Hmm,” the Emperor made a thoughtful growl, “let me know immediately if there is any change of plan.”

Lycaon nodded again, smartly, in acknowledgement of his orders.

Throughout the conversation the hooded figure sat, looking out of the window at the dark streets as they passed by.  The figure’s bearing was one of extreme ennui and disinterest.

“Faolán!” The Emperor snapped, “You will not sulk the entire trip!”

The figure started and then threw back it’s hood to reveal a seventeen year-old wolven youth.

“Why did you have to drag me along?” Faolán protested, “Lycaon is the Keeper of the Engines not me!”

“You are my son and you are almost an adult,” the Emperor said between clenched teeth, “it is high time you learnt the etiquette involved with dealing with the lower classes. It is more involved than you think. Besides meeting the Crown Prince will gratify them.”

“Couldn’t we have done that in Lyngvi?” Faolán whined, “Gleipnir is such an unfashionable city. There’s no culture here at all.”

“Culture!? I know what you young lords mean when you say ‘culture’.” The Emperor spat, “Gleipnir is one of the last strongholds of traditionalism and respectability. It was good enough for our fathers and our grandfathers, and it is good enough for you! Besides we are here on business Faolán, not for your entertainment, do not forget that.”

Conversation in the carriage lapsed into an uncomfortable silence after that.  Outside the rain began to ease off.

[center][b]❖ ❖ ❖[/b][/center]

Nettle watched the stage with rapt attention.

His seat, the cheapest in the theatre, was at the very back of the stalls so he couldn’t see the action clearly or hear the actors’ singing well.  It didn’t help that, as a rabbit, he was a good head shorter than the other, wolven, patrons.

Still, he loved melodramas with a passion, so he followed the plot as best he could.

The play was winding up.  The hero, a handsome dog in military attire, was about to rescue his sweetheart, a beautiful bitch in a pale pink dress, from the clutches of the nefarious villain, a tod in a black cape and top hat. The plot was the same simplistic, patriotic, romance that they recycled every week.

Despite knowing that it was coming, Nettle always looked forward to the climatic scene in which the villain was defeated, the damsel was rescued, the heroes lived happily ever after and the world was set to rights. Nettle was almost squealing in delight as the last scenes played out on stage. When the actors took their bows, Nettle was on his feet clapping with heart-felt enthusiasm.

Then he had to fight his way through the press of wolves on his way out of the theatre.

Once out on the street he turned southwards and started to make his way ‘home’.  The pre-dawn air outside was brisk and chilling—especially after the heat of the packed theatre.

Nettle felt his exuberance melt away.  He was no longer in that fantasy world of good and evil, action and adventure.  He was, once again, back in reality and back on the cold streets of Gleipnir.

Nettle kicked a pebble up the empty, cobbled streets as he walked.  Had anyone been there to see him they would have seen a downcast, sixteen year-old, lop-eared buck with pure white fur, wearing a green silk blouse and white cotton trousers which tucked into his boots.

Not more than quarter of an hour after leaving the theatre, the disillusioned boy crossed the threshold of the restaurant that doubled as his ‘home’ in this foreign land.

Across the room, in the kitchen doorway, an old, portly, tan-furred rabbit in a stained apron stood glaring at him, arms crossed.

Nettle sighed and crossed the busy restaurant floor.

“You’re late.” The elder rabbit said.

“I’m on time uncle Ginger.” Nettle protested, “You said one o’clock and it’s one o’clock now.” He gestured at a time piece on the wall.

“Hurh.” Ginger grunted and chucked a towel at his nephew, who caught it deftly, “That clock’s slow. Don’t waste any more time, there are customers waiting.”

[center][b]❖ ❖ ❖[/b][/center]

Dawn was threatening as Prince Faolán walked into the bedroom of his apartments at the Beach Palace.

A bathroom and a walk-in wardrobe adjoined the bedroom.  Several bags containing his luggage, most of them open, were strewn about the room.

A wolf about the same age as Faolán entered from the wardrobe, “I’m sorry for the mess sir, we haven’t finished unpacking your luggage yet.” He spoke.

“That’s all right, Tristram.” Faolán assured his valet as he shrugged the cloak from his shoulders.

Tristram caught the garment as it slipped down his master’s arms.  He folded it neatly over his right arm while he brushed a few spots from the shirt Faolán had been wearing beneath it.  Satisfied that his master’s clothes were presentable, he took the cloak and hung it in the wardrobe.

“Let the unpacking be for tonight. I’m tired.” The Prince announced, “You can finish it in the morning.”

“Very good sir. Is there anything else?” Tristram asked.

“Yes, fetch me a glass of red. I’m thirsty.” Faolán said as he wearily sat down on the edge of his bed.

“Yes sir.”

Tristram was gone for only a moment so the larder must have already been unpacked.  He handed the glass to his master who drank it eagerly.

“Thank you Tristram.” Faolán looked out of the bedroom’s arched picture windows at the city beyond, “So this is Gleipnir. I wonder what there is to do for fun?”

“Ah, I have already made inquiries as to that sir.” Tristram said.

“I thought you might have.” Faolán smiled wickedly at his most trusted servant, “So tell me: what is there to do?”

“Well, there is a part of the city, they call it Rabbit Town…” Tristram began.

“A slum?” Faolán asked.

“Yes sir.” Tristram replied, “When I asked the palace staff about it most described it as a ‘colourful’ place.”

“Mmm, ‘colourful’.” Faolán scratched his chin, “I like the sound of that.”

“I thought you might sir.” Tristram said knowingly.

“Very well then. Tomorrow night: roughing it in Rabbit Town.” Faolán declared, “But for now I’m going to try and get some sleep before I have to get up again. Good night Tristram and thank you.”

“Good night sir.” Tristram bowed his head as he left the room.

[center][b]❖ ❖ ❖[/b][/center]

Later that morning—though not as much later as Faolán would have liked—His Imperial Highness Conall Lyall, accompanied by Crown Prince Faolán Lyall and Lord Llou Lycaon, Keeper of His Majesty’s Engines, visited the docks and make an inspection of the newest additions to the fleet.

Faolán managed to embarrass his sire twice during the tour once by forgetting the dock master’s name, and then again later on by zoning out during a particularly dull monologue by the captain of the Vengeance.  Intellectually Faolán understood the importance of the tour, it was just that he was exhausted from lack of sleep.

Assembled in the dock yards, in secret, were the cream of the Empire’s sea-going, technological marvels.  Seven of the world’s most powerful warships were currently at rest in Gleipnir’s docks.

The ships weren’t mere extravagances either—political unrest among the Tears meant it was very likely that these ships would soon be needed.

As Keeper of His Majesty’s Engines and head of the Imperial Engineers, it was Lord Lycaon’s duty to make sure that these highly-experimental steam vessels were in top operational form.

Just a generation previously Lycaon’s family had been peasants, but with technological change came social change.  Now, thanks to the social upheaval, Llou Lycaon was one of the most powerful figures (perhaps even the most powerful after the Emperor himself) in the Empire.  The new meritocracy had swept a visionary from the fields into the Emperor’s favour over the heads of the established aristocracy.

Of course, the aristocrats were jealous, scornful and more than a little worried by the Empire’s new, more-effective elite classes, but it was undeniable that the Empire was made stronger by the service of patriots like Llou Lycaon so they could take no action against them—at least no direct action.

Faolán and many of the younger lords, by contrast, welcomed the new meritocratic system—setting out to prove themselves worthy of the titles they had been born to by merit of their minds rather than their muscles, as their ancestors had.

This, of course, was fine in the eyes of their elders.  It was a another, different, less-obvious consequence of the new system that caused so much disapproval among the more traditional lords: The younger generation were inclined to think that members of the lower classes might be their equals.

It was a transgression against one of the most sacred tenets of the aristocracy, and to the elder lords there could be no greater heresy.

[center][b]❖ ❖ ❖[/b][/center]

It was evening when Faolán, Prince of aristocratic heretics, slipped silently from the Beach Palace, and made his way towards the rougher areas of Gleipnir.

He was wearing black trousers, a black waistcoat, a white, silk, high-collared, sleeveless-shirt and a handsome red silk cravat.  In an act of defiance against polite society he went out dining without a coat or a hat—an act which was certain to cause scandal if it was ever found out.

Faolán had only the vaguest of ideas where in the city Rabbit Town was, but he had no schedule to keep and was content to meander around until he found it.

The sun was setting and the lamp-lights were out.  The lamp-lights were pups employed by the city to go up and down the streets, in pairs, lighting the gas lamps every evening.  They were paid one silver penny every night for performing the duty.

Faolán stopped a giggling duo, as they walked from lamp to lamp, to ask for directions.  At first they warned him off going to Rabbit Town, but when he told them he had an appointment there—which was only half a lie since he fully intended to have supper when he arrived—they relented and pointed him in the right direction.

A short while later he was standing on the corner of Casking Street.  The text which read ‘City of Gleipnir’ on the white street sign had been obliterated and the legend: ‘Hlienes Nayltil’ had been written over it.

He scanned up and down the street.  Businesses of all descriptions littered the road, all of them busy and bustling.  There was hardly another wolf in sight, the small enclave was packed with rabbits.  Most ignored him—a few eyed him with suspicion.

Faolán smiled—enjoying the novelty—and started towards an establishment which billed itself as ‘Ginger’s Restaurant’ in both Wolven and, in what Faolán assumed was, Rabbit.

Ginger’s was quite a large establishment which opened to the street.  At the back of the restaurant there was a bar which was unattended, and beyond that was a door which led to the kitchen.  The room was lit by colourful paper lanterns that hung from every available joust and every free nook.  Round wooden tables littered the floor.

The building itself was made of wood and was two stories tall, but only the ground floor seemed to be open to customers.  The top floor presumably belonged to ‘Ginger’.

The place must have been doing good business because the tables were packed and rabbits bearing hot food and drink were flitting about constantly.  Most of the patrons were rabbits, although Faolán did spot one or two disreputable looking wolves.

He found a table that was free and sat down.

After a minute or so a white rabbit in a brown silk cowl-neck top came to take his order.

“What can I get for you?” The waiter asked with a smile.

Faolán couldn’t help smiling in return, “I’m not sure, I don’t know what you serve. Do you have soup?”

The rabbit smiled wider, “Yes, we do soup. Any particular type?”

“Is there any type that is particularly good?” Faolán jousted.

The rabbit considered for a moment, “Mmm, the chicken soup is quite good.”

“Then I’ll have a bowl of the chicken soup to start with.” Faolán said.

He watched the cute rabbit as he weaved in between tables on his way to the kitchen.  The rabbit quickly returned with the soup—there was probably a pot of it simmering in the back room.

“Here you go.” He said as he set it down.

“Thank you.” Faolán said.

“My pleasure…” The rabbit began, “…My Lordship.”

Faolán jumped, “Oh…I’m that obvious am I?” He said, a little hurt.

“The silk gives it away.” The rabbit explained, “That’s high quality silk you’re wearing. A wolf might not have noticed it, but every rabbit knows their silk. The rabbit-lands are the cradle of the silk routes you know.”

“But the silk you’re wearing has to be at least as good as mine.” Faolán protested.

“True.” The rabbit conceded, “But I’m a rabbit. We’d never charge a fellow rabbit full price. Not this far from home. It would be impolite. But you’re a wolf which means you’d have to be either a silk dealer or nobility to wear such expensive silks.” The rabbit paused and then shrugged, ”You just don’t come across as a dealer to me. Lucky guess.”

“Damn.” Faolán breathed, “I guess I’m rumbled.”

“Don’t worry about it too much. We get lots of nobility ‘roughing it’.” The rabbit reassured him, “It’s a lot more common than you think.”

Faolán looked at the rabbit, “What’s your name?” He asked.

The rabbit was a little taken aback at the question, but answered, “Nettle. Nettle son of Cinnamon.”

“Mmm. Nettle.” Faolán tried the name out, “That’s a very pretty name for such a smart, observant rabbit.”

Nettle was slightly unbalanced by the sudden change of direction the conversation had taken, “Umm, thanks.” He stammered.

He was about to say more but a voice, shouting across the room, cut him off.

“Nettle! Stop chatting with the customers and get back to work!”

Nettle cringed and looked towards the kitchen door where Ginger was standing.

“Uthowa! Uthowa!” Nettle shouted back in Rabbit, throwing his hands up in equal parts pacification and exasperation.

It seemed to work, Ginger ducked back into the kitchen.

“Slave driver.” Nettle muttered under his breath before turning to address Faolán once more, “Sorry, I have to get back to work. Enjoy your meal.”

Faolán tucked into his meal, which he found to be quite tasty.  Soon he was finished.  He hoped that it would be Nettle who came to collect his bowl and settle the bill.  He wasn’t disappointed.

“Did you enjoy your soup?” Nettle asked when he returned.

“Very much so.” Faolán replied.

They settled the bill quickly.

“Nettle, when do you get off?” Faolán asked.

Nettle glanced at the clock, “Not long, quarter of an hour from now.”

“Will you meet me then?” Faolán asked.

Nettle thought about it and then answered “Meet me around the back in twenty minutes, we can talk there.”

Then he ran off to take the orders of the other customers.

It took Faolán a while to find the ally that ran behind Casking Street, but he did so with five minutes to spare.  The ally wasn’t as well lit as the street was, and there were no signs of other life save for the rats.  The sun had long since set, and it was a clear, cloudless night.  The full moon dominated the night sky.

A well-tower—a steam engine which pumped as well as purified well water—was located near the rear of the restaurant. Chugging away to itself unceasingly, as it worked to fill the cistern at its base with droplets of clean, condensed water, drip by drip.

Faolán heard a door open behind him.  Nettle was silhouetted in the light from the kitchen.  His heart leapt into his throat.  Nettle closed the door and walked towards Faolán, his hands clasped in front.He looked as nervous as Faolán did.

“I never did get your name.” Nettle said.

“It’s Faolán.” Faolán said.

“Glad to meet you Faolán.” Nettle said warmly, “So how long have you been slumming around Hlienes Nayltil? I don’t recognise you so it can’t have been too long.”

“I just arrived in Gleipnir yesterday morning.” Faolán admitted, “How about you? What’s a pretty buck like you doing in a city like Gleipnir?”

Nettle grinned at the compliment, “Not much of a story, really. Gleipnir is a port city, and where you have ports you eventually get shanties like this.” His voice became distant and wistful as he reminisced, “Rabbits have always traded among the Tears. There were enough of us in the city that my uncle decided to open a restaurant here seven years ago. ‘A home from home for weary, homesick rabbits’ he calls it. My family came across with a trader to help him run it.”

“A family business then? Nice.” Faolán said leaning back against the rear wall of the restaurant.

“Most rabbit businesses are.” Nettle agreed, “There’s always work in Rabbit Town for rabbits, of course, but family is family.”

“I can see that.” Faolán agreed.

There was a moment of silence, where neither was quite certain what to say to the other.

“You see that well-tower?” Nettle asked out of the blue.

“Yes.”

“The city is supposed to keep that well running,” Nettle said, “but they don’t. My cousin is the one who keeps it going. That well provides the water for the entire town. Everybody knows my cousin is the one who keeps it going.”

“What are you trying to say Nettle?” Faolán asked.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that we’re thick as thieves, here in rabbit town.” Nettle made the appropriate gesture, “We’re all alone—tharn—in a strange land and we can’t rely on anyone but each other.”

“Surely it can’t be that bad.” Faolán protested, “I have to admit I’m not in love with the city, but there must be some things you enjoy. Living in Gleipnir can’t be all doom and gloom.”

“Well…” Nettle began.

“Well?” Faolán pressed.

“You’ll think it’s silly.” Nettle hung his head.

“Try me.” Faolán challenged the bashful rabbit.

“Melodramas.” Nettle said, “I like melodramas.” The insides of his ears went bright red.

“That’s nice.” Faolán smiled.  He reached across to gently stroke Nettle’s long, soft ears with two fingers.

“Y-you don’t think that’s silly?” Nettle stammered.

“No.” Faolán replied, “In fact, I was just wondering if you’d let me take you out to a melodrama?”

“Liar.” Nettle smiled bashfully, “We’re too late to catch the ten o’clock performance now. How about tomorrow? Say quarter to ten?”

“How about nine?” Faolán asked, “Then I can take you out for a meal beforehand.”

“I’d like that.” Nettle agreed.

“I’ll meet you here—beneath the tower.” Faolán said exuberantly.

“Until tomorrow, Faolán.” Nettle said in parting.

“Until then, Nettle.” Faolán reached to take Nettle’s hand but the rabbit had already slipped away.

[center][b]❖ ❖ ❖[/b][/center]

Nettle was confused and scared by his feelings for Faolán.  True, he had known Faolán for less than an half-an-hour, so they were mostly feelings about Faolán’s physique, but they still worried him.

So Nettle was doing what he always did when he was scared and confused—trying to find his cousin Lemon.  Often getting Lemon involved made matters worse, but despite being only a year older than Nettle he was much more out going and had a lot more life-experience.

Nettle entered the kitchen where he expected to find his cousin.  He found Lemon’s lower half protruding from underneath a gas oven.

“Lemon, cuz, I need your advice.” Nettle admitted, “You’ve got experience of this ‘boyfriend’ stuff right?”

A grunt in the affirmative came from under the oven.

“I’ve just met this wolf,” Nettle began, “and I think I like him. I mean really like him. And he’s asked me out on a date and I’ve said I’ll go, but I’m having second feelings. I’m not sure I should go.”

Lemon pushed himself out from under the kitchen appliance.

Like his cousin he was a lop-eared rabbit. His tan fur was covered in black grease. He wore a silk shirt which might have been white at some point a dozen stains and spills earlier. Over that he wore a pair of denim dungarees, onto which he had sewn numerous pockets which were stuffed to bursting with tools and rags and papers and other paraphernalia.  He held a spanner in one hand and a screwdriver in his maw.

“Why not?” He asked removing the screwdriver beforehand.

“Well, I barely know him,” Nettle ticked off the points on his fingers, “he’s a different species to me, he’s a different class, he’s male…”

They were interrupted by a sudden squealing, whistling noise from the oven.  Nettle—wisely—stepped back.

“Damn! I thought I fixed that.” Lemon cursed as he jumped back into the guts of the offending kitchenware.

Nettle waited patiently while Lemon tinkered with the innards of the oven.  Finally Lemon extracted himself again.

“I think you should go.” He announced.

“What?” Nettle often found himself resorting to the word in conversations with his cousin.

“Why not?” Lemon asked, “If nothing else it’ll be an adventure.”

“He’s a wolf!” Nettle protested.

“Mmm, they’re good.” Lemon assured him, “I speak from personal experience. Just make sure you always have a clear path to the door in case you have to make a break for it.”

“What?” Nettle asked incredulously.

“Experience!” Lemon reminded him, “Why don’t you tell me more about about your wolf?”

So Nettle did, and Lemon didn’t fail to notice the dreamy tone that crept into his cousin’s voice—he didn’t fail to mention it to Nettle either.

The two had quite a conversation.  Lemon answered all of Nettle’s questions about the actual mechanics of sex frankly and mostly accurately.  He also shared his tips for a successful date, which Nettle duly and wisely disregarded.  They arranged to meet before midnight so that Lemon knew his cousin was safe, and they further arranged that Lemon would make himself scarce after doing so, so that the couple could have some time to themselves in Nettle’s bed.

Finally Nettle ran out of questions.

That was Lemon’s cue to grab Nettle’s hand and drag him upstairs, “Come on we need to give you an enema!”

“What!?” Nettle squealed.

[center][b]❖ ❖ ❖[/b][/center]

It was almost half-eleven by the time Faolán returned to the Beach Palace.

He needed advice.  He was confused and scared about his reaction to Nettle.  In less than half an hour, the timid, intelligent, sweet rabbit had made a profound impression on him, and turned his world upside down.  Faolán chastised himself for being quickly and easily influenced—a serious pair of faults for a prince to have, certainly—but that did nothing to alter his feelings.

He couldn’t speak to his sire about this.  So instead stalked the corridors intent on finding the one wolf who’s advice he knew to be sound and trustworthy.

He found Llou Lycaon in his study.

The room was dark except for the large desk at the far end of the room.  A pair of candles sat on either side of the desk, spilling an oblong of flickering, dancing light across it.

The curtains were drawn in front of the tall arching windows.  There was no reason for the room to be as dark as it was. There were many lamps and candelabra about the room, but Llou Lycaon was quite a pernickety worker—he claimed that the bustle of the staff working in the background distracted him from his work—he often chased the staff out of his rooms when he was engaged in an important project.  Obviously, he had done so again tonight, and none of the household had dared return to light the lamps.

In any case, the lack of light didn’t seem to bother Llou.  He was hunched over the desk engrossed in work.

Faolán tapped on the door, “Are you free, Llou?” He asked, “I wanted to talk to you.”

Llou looked over his shoulder. His blue great-coat—the uniform and symbol of his office—was unbuttoned, the fur of his face was unkempt and matted, and there were bags beneath his eyes. He looked exhausted, but there was a sharpness in his eyes, which showed his mind was still awake even if his body was not.

“Of course, Your Highness.” Llou said with genuine friendship, “I’m always free to talk to you.”

Faolán crossed the large room.  Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, packed haphazardly with technical works—some leather bound tomes, others sheaves of paper—ran along the gloomy walls either side of the chamber.

“What are you working on?” Faolán asked as he pulled up a chair.

Llou’s work always fascinated him, not least because, as the most trusted of the Imperial Engineers, he was always given interesting things to work on.

“This.” Lycaon, held a small, gleaming, brass contraption in the palm of his hand.  It was roughly cube shaped, with its mechanisms exposed to the world. It was mounted on a square of dark-stained wood along with a bobbin of red thread.

“What is it?” Faolán asked intrigued.

“Let me show you.” Llou said as he wound the device.

The clock work device chattered and clicked to itself as it worked, pulling thread from the now-spinning bobbin.  Inside the main workings of the device arms flew back and fourth.  Faolán couldn’t make out the function of the minuscule machine until he saw a length of red ribbon being extruded from one side of the cube.

“It’s a weaving machine!” He said.

“Mmm.” Llou agreed, “It’s just a toy. Useless for any practical application. But imagine if we could marry the accuracy of a clock work construct like this to the power of a steam engine.”

Faolán nodded his interest.

“Steam engines are powerful, but very…” Llou searched for the right word, “abrupt. You can use them to move a ship, or a train, or to run a mine, or to plough a field, but they are no good at delicate operations. They are absolutely useless for weaving anything finer than cotton, and even that is unreliable.” He picked up speed as he continued, speaking more passionately now, “What we need is better machining, lighter, more accurate movements. That will allow us to weave with steam. To shape metal more efficiently.” His voice took a slightly darker tone, “Or bore a more accurate pistol.”

“Is it possible?” Faolán asked.

“Yes, I think so.” Llou said, “Certainly the foxes think so. They’re centring a lot of their research on it, and we can’t let the vulps beat us to the punch.”

“No, we can’t have that.” Faolán smiled.

Llou touched his hand to a bottle of wine which sat on his desk, “Would you care for a drink?”

“I would.” Faolán assented.

Llou poured two glasses.  There was a short silence as the pair drank from their glasses in the circle of dim candle-light.

“Llou, I want your advice.” Faolán said.

“I am always happy to give it.” The engineer answered.

“I met someone in town this evening…” Faolán began.

“You were slumming?” Llou asked wearily, “You know your sire does not approve of that.”.

“Someone I liked, I mean really liked, but I’m not sure if I should be associating with them.” Faolán admitted.

“Lower class?” Llou asked.

“And a rabbit.” Faolán admitted.

Llou’s eyebrows shot up.

“And a male.” Faolán finished.

Llou exhaled, “Well…” He began and trailed off.

“I really like them.” Faolán emphasised.

“Well, there’s nothing illegal about the relationship,” Llou said after a moment’s consideration, “but you realise that if you were caught it would be a major scandal, and it couldn’t last forever. You have the duty to marry a bitch and sire an heir once you become Emperor, if not before.”

“I know.” Faolán said sadly.

“You’re really smitten by this buck aren’t you?” Llou asked.

Faolán nodded shamefacedly.

“As I said, there is nothing actually illegal about the relationship. If you are discreet, and you understand that it must eventually come to an end, then I don’t see how anyone can stop you. You are the Crown Prince after all.” Llou said.

“Thank you, Llou.” Faolán said.

“Of course, it goes without saying that I advise you against this most strenuously.” Lycaon said with a sad smile, “But you are going to go ahead with it anyway aren’t you?”

“Yes, I think I am.” Faolán nodded.

[center][b]❖ ❖ ❖[/b][/center]

Nettle lay on his side, naked, behind a screen in the bedroom he shared with Lemon.  A thin, woven mat lay beneath him—protecting him from the wooden floor boards and splinters.  A cushion lay beneath his head.  The pure white fur of his side rose and fell in time with his breath

In his his hand he held a funnel attached to a length of pipe.  Beside him lay a chamber pot.  He was eyeing both suspiciously.

Lemon walked in the door carrying a bucket of water.

“Here we are cuz.” He spoke, “Hot water, fresh from the well. Best let it cool a bit—you don’t want to scald your insides.”

“Lemon are you certain you know about this ‘boyfriend’ stuff?” Nettle asked sceptically.

“Of course I do.” Lemon replied as he set the bucket down beside the screen, “Don’t you trust me?”

“Lemon, no one’s trusted you since the stew incident.”

“That was not my fault! And dad got the gelatin out of his fur eventually.” Lemon protested, “Besides, clean insides can only be a good thing when you two are getting it on, right?”

“Lemon!” Nettle said, scandalised.

“What?” Lemon asked, “That is the reason you’re going through with this, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes.” Nettle conceded, “But I don’t want you thinking about it.”

“Too late.” Lemon snorted, “Are you okay back there or do you need a hand?”

“I’m fine!” Nettle hastily reassured him, “You stay on your side of the screen!”

“As you wish cuz.” Lemon said agreeably. Nettle could almost hear the smirk plastered across his muzzle.

[center][b]❖ ❖ ❖[/b][/center]

A day later, at ten to nine, Faolán stood beneath the well-tower, in the ally behind Ginger’s Restaurant.

Dusk was threatening, but there was still plenty of light left in the sky.

Tonight, unlike last night, he was on his best behaviour with a coat, hat and a full shirt.  He wouldn’t embarrass Nettle by his daring dress or his outrageous manner.  Tonight he was going to be the perfect gentle-wolf.

He was resisting the urge to pace, knowing that it would make him look impatient.  He had his hands thrust into his pockets, because otherwise he would be wringing them and that would make him look nervous.

Faolán was, in fact, extremely anxious.

He had, as Crown Prince, had no trouble courting various suitors over the years, but they had all been with children of various courtiers and nobility—and on one occasion a cat princess.  They had all been to one extent or another been choreographed affairs with the etiquette of the situation well understood by both parties.  They were political dances rather than romantic ones.

This was the first time he would be courting as just plain Faolán, and to make matters worse it was also the first time he actually, really, cared about the outcome of the night.  He had—gently—fallen for soft, shy Nettle from almost the moment he set eyes on him, and because of that he dreaded seeing him again.

None of his previous companions had ever pointed out any of his flaws—one did not tell the Crown Prince such things—and Faolán found that he really had no idea if he was a good lover.  The realisation twisted his stomach in tight knots.

Still, he was determined to go ahead in the face of his fear and uncertainty.  He was the child of Conall Lyall, after all, and the Emperor of Steel had watched, like a hawk, for any signs of weakness in his son.  The Emperor had never had any trouble identifying any flaw in his progeny’s courage, wisdom, strength or resolve—and there had been many such flaws over the years.  From the moment he could walk Faolán had found himself living under the magnifying glass.

He didn’t realise it, but although he often felt the pressure of trying to meet his sire’s lofty expectations bearing down on his very soul, it was as a result of his life-long struggle that, even though he might dreaded it, Faolán Lyall was not afraid to meet the truth tonight.

He just hoped that the truth involved Nettle liking him.

The sound of a door, behind him, caused Faolán to wheel about.

Nettle stood in the ally facing him, hands clasped together demurely.  He was wearing his green silk blouse and a white cotton trousers. He had a wool scarf wrapped around his neck.

“Nettle.” Faolán gasped and then recovered himself, “You look lovely,” He crooked his arm in invitation, “would you give me the honour of your company?”

Nettle smiled as he put his arm in Faolán’s, “Gladly, good sir.”

“Then we’re off!” Faolán said as they set off arm in arm, “I’ve heard good things about a restaurant a few streets from here. We can get a meal there and still be in good time to catch the play.”

The restaurant Faolán took Nettle to was one which Tristram had recommended after spending the morning discreetly interrogating the Beach Palace staff on the matter.

It was in a good part of the city, but not too far from Rabbit Town.  It was slightly more up-market than Ginger’s, but not so much so that Faolán could expect to be recognised by another patron.  It served good food at a reasonable price—not that price mattered to Faolán.  It was also the kind of place that a wolf could take his rabbit boyfriend and not get stared at, which was important.

They were quickly seated and served, and as the meal progressed and the ice was broken Faolán found that he wasn’t as socially inept as he fear he might be.  He and Nettle quickly developed an easy repartee, and they were soon talking like old friends.

For almost an hour they talked about anything and everything—large or small—from their hopes and dreams to bad jokes they had heard recently.

They finished their meal, and Faolán settled the bill—Nettle conceded that the food had been quite good, although he was adamant that it was nowhere near as good as Ginger’s cooking.

They then proceeded to the theatre where they thoroughly enjoyed two hours of badly-acted, out-of-tune nonsense posing as drama.  Faolán, despite being a little outside his field of experience, soon got into the spirit of the occasion, and Nettle was delighted to have a companion to share his secret vice with.

As the night progressed the couple had let their guards down a trifle, and come to trust each other more.  Nettle in particular became much less shy and reserved around Faolán as he became less of a stranger to him, and gave him a running, passionate and animated critique of the performance as it progressed.

Finally the play had to come to an end, and so did the couple’s night out.

Faolán escorted Nettle back to Ginger’s, which, judging by the sounds which emanated from it was still doing good business.

They were met at the kitchen door, in the ally, by Lemon.

Lemon was reclined against the wall next to the door.  He was idly chewing on a kava-stick—a drug-laced stick of gum which was popular among both cats and rabbits.  He stopped when he saw the his cousin and his wolf approaching.

“Hello, cuz.” He greeted, “Did you have a good night?”

Nettle knew this was thinly veiled code for: ‘are you okay?’  He was fairly certain Faolán realised that too.  Lemon never seemed to make any attempt at subtlety—he seemed to regard it as a form of deceit.

Nettle gripped Faolán’s arm tighter in reassurance, “We had a lovely night. Faolán is so sweet.”

Lemon turned to address Faolán, “So you’re the wolf who’s stolen my cuz’s heart then?”

“Well, I don’t know about that…” Faolán began.

“Oh, but I do.” Nettle interrupted, examining Faolán critically.

Faolán straightened his back under Lemon’s gaze, uncertain what to make of the rabbit who seemed to be Nettle’s protector.  They stood in silence for a few moments while the rabbit appraised the wolf.

Then Lemon resumed chewing on his stick, “Well, you two have a good night,” He picked himself up and stretched, “I’m off to play stones with Lavender. He already owes me half his shop. I’m going to go see if I can’t win the other half. I’ll be back sometime in the morning.”

And with that he walked off, leaving Faolán knowing that he had just passed a test but unsure of exactly which one.

“He seems to care about you a lot.” Faolán remarked about the departing rabbit.

“He can be a tad overprotective some times, but I love him for it.” Nettle replied, “Come upstairs.” He tugged Faolán’s arm gently in the direction of the restaurant.

Faolán resisted, “Are you sure?” He asked, “It was a lovely night, but you’ve known me for less than a day. Don’t you think that we should wait a bit longer?”

Nettle was genuinely surprised by Faolán’s reluctance, “Don’t you like me?” He asked, hurt, “I like you…I thought we were… good.” He trailed off.

Faolán was surprised to recognise some of the same anxieties he had been feeling earlier that night in Nettle’s eyes.  He felt a pang of guilt for provoking those feelings in his snow-furred companion.  A small part of Faolán was actually flattered by Nettle’s reaction—he had harboured lingering doubts about his adequacy all night—now he saw Nettle was as afraid of his rejection as he was of his.

“No, no. We were good.” Faolán hastily reassured, “Better than good. It’s just I don’t want you to feel…I dunno… obligated…or anything. I…wouldn’t want you to think I was just after a night in your bed.”

Nettle looked at him through sincere eyes, “I didn’t think that. I… I’ve really fallen for you Faolán. I can’t see anything but…” Nettle cut himself off, “…I trust you. Please come upstairs.” He asked, not quite begging.

Faolán took Nettle’s cheek tenderly in the palm of one hand, and guided him into a kiss.  It started gently enough, but quickly became more passionate. Faolán wrapped his free arm around Nettle and pulled him close.

“Umgh!” Nettle groaned around Faolán’s muzzle, “Love…Love,” He disengaged himself from the kiss, “We should do this upstairs, love.” He explained slightly breathless.

“Upstairs.” Faolán agreed, slightly dazed on an endorphin high.

The two made their way upstairs to the room Nettle shared with his cousin, narrowly avoiding Ginger in the kitchen.

Nettle darted to the window and shuttered it, as he crossed the threshold of the room. He looked back over his shoulder at Faolán, who closed the door behind him softly and leaned, gently, back on it. They were alone now.

The only light in the room came, through the shutter’s slats, from the moon and the establishment across the road.

Nettle’s entire posture spoke of timid-but-welcome anticipation.  He pulled his blouse up over his head and threw it onto Lemon’s bed.

Faolán admired the toned torso of his slight lover.  His eyes roamed over Nettle’s form, from the balls of his shoulders, over his chest and nipples, down to his belly button (he was an innie).  The fur on his belly was as white as it was on the rest of his body, but it was shorter and softer looking.

In a trance, Faolán took off his coat and advanced on Nettle like a starved wolf.  He planted a kiss on the smaller male’s forehead without stooping, as he undid the belt of Nettle’s trousers.

Nettle stepped out of the cloth pooled at his feet and into the wolf’s embrace.  He wore no underwear so he was now completely naked.

Faolán held Nettle’s puff-tailed behind delicately and nuzzled between his long, heavy, lop ears, licking at them and breathing deeply.  He felt a tug at his neck. He looked down to see a mischievously grinning buck pulling at his cravat.

It took longer to get Faolán undressed—simply because he was wearing more layers—but eventually they were both naked and in Nettle’s bed.

There was some wrestling, touching, feeling, kissing, disagreements about position and a lot of panting.  The pair of hormone-driven teenagers explored each other passionately and in detail, beneath the slatted shafts of moonlight.

Eventually they ended up with Faolán on his back, with Nettle straddling him, the base of their erections touching.

“Do you have…” Faolán began to ask before Nettle cut him off by leaning in for a kiss. A kiss which Faolán was happy to provide.

He felt Nettle pressing something into his hand.  When he was free to look he saw that it was a small jar of light-blue-bordering-on-white cream.

He scooped a fingers worth from the jar and began rubbing it into Nettle.  As he did so, he felt the buck involuntarily tighten up around his fingers.  He realised that the size and experience difference meant that he would have to be very slow to start off with.

He spread a healthy helping of the lubricant on himself.

As one they moved to meet.  Nettle pressing back down onto Faolán’s length as the wolf raised his hips.  Faolán was gratified to find Nettle’s rose first time.

He pressed forward gently and slowly sank the tip of his erection into his lover.  Having got that out of the way, he lay back and let Nettle decide how fast he wanted to proceed, contenting himself with stroking his sweetheart’s soft white thighs. Nettle looked slightly pained at first, but he slowly adjusted to Faolán, and after a minute or two continued pushing down.

Despite being quite experienced for seventeen, Faolán came as the head of his maleness passed Nettle’s ring.  He actually felt quite embarrassed about his sudden lack of endurance.  Faolán wasn’t sure what it was but there was something about Nettle that made him boil with lust.

Fortunately, that same something prevented him from losing his hardness for even a moment, and Nettle showed little awareness of Faolán’s ‘accident’.  He decided that taking the edge off his passion was probably a good thing and decided to concentrate on lasting longer the second time.

As he came, Faolán had—despite his best intentions—raised his hips slightly, and he was now buried almost half way in Nettle.  Faolán felt a wave of guilt at the gasp he had heard and the grimace on Nettle’s sweet features.  His heart leapt into his throat.  In that moment, if he had seriously thought it would have pleased Nettle, he would have done the only honourable thing and committed ritual suicide to remove the cause of Nettle’s suffering.

Fortunately, Nettle’s pain was brief, and he seemed not to be deterred.  He continued pressing down, slowly—but slightly faster towards the end—until, finally, he sat with his ring resting on top of Faolán’s knot.

They stayed like that for a moment, then Nettle bent forward to plant a kiss on the tip of Faolán’s muzzle.

“Thank you.” He gasped. His voice carried so many different emotions—exhaustion, satisfaction and love, were just a few of them.

Faolán didn’t answer, but kissed him in return.

They started a slow, steady rhythm of short strokes, which gave way to faster, longer, more passionate strokes as Nettle grew more adventurous.

The lovers shared several orgasms over the course of the night, and—when they were finally exhausted—they shared each others embrace as they slept in the sweat-soaked sheets.

It was the bells of a clock tower striking four, which roused Faolán.

“Oh creator!” He exclaimed as he went from sleeping to wide awake in an instant.

He jumped out of bed and began scrabbling for his clothes, which, of course, woke Nettle.

“I thought you said you didn’t just want a night in my bed?” He asked.

Faolán froze, realising how he must look to his partner.  He turned to face the sweet rabbit, and felt suitably mortified when he saw the shame written in the buck’s features and the tears rolling down his cheeks.  He was sobbing silently.

“I’m sorry Nettle, I really am. But I have to go now.” He said lamely, “It’s four o’clock. I’m late. I’ll be missed.”

“Stay with me,” Nettle pleaded, “please.”

Faolán felt wretched for reducing Nettle to begging, especially since he couldn’t capitulate.

“I can’t,” He tried to explain, “Dawn will be soon. I’ll be missed. I have important things to attend to.”

“So I’m not important to you?” Nettle asked in an accusatory tone, visibly hurt, “Or was I only important to you last night?”

He broke down crying.

Faolán sat down on the bed and tried to wrap an arm around the crying buck.  Nettle shrugged him off.

“I loved you.” He sobbed, “I re-really did. I know I d-didn’t really know you. But I loved you.”

“Nettle,” Faolán said, “I do love you.”

“L-liar!” Nettle breathed, as his hurt began to turn to anger.

“I do. Honestly and truly, I do.” Faolán pecked the rabbit on his cheek, “But I have duties. I’m sorry. I should have told you I couldn’t spend the whole night with you. It’s just I wasn’t expecting to spend any of the night with you and then…we were busy.”

“You’re right, you should have mentioned that. What sort of duties? What sort are so important that you can just dump me after you made love to me last night?” Nettle asked.

“Really important ones.” Faolán assured him, trying to hedge the question.

“Like what!” Nettle almost shouted.

“Like Crown Prince!” Faolán snapped back—cornered and unable to avoid giving a direct answer any longer.

Nettle stared at him, gob smacked. There was an uncomfortable silence for a while. Then Nettle spoke again.

“Y-y-you’re Fao-Faolán Lyall?” He asked, “The Emperor’s son?”

“Yes.” Faolán admitted.

“Y-yo-you…” Nettle had begun to shake and stammer.

“Look I have to go Nettle. If I don’t get back to the Beach Palace soon they’ll realise that I’m gone and start searching for me.” Faolán explained, “I do love you Nettle. You are sweet and smart and kind and I really want to see you again. I understand if you don’t want to see me, but if you’ll let me I’ll move hell and high water to make sure we can be together.”

Faolán gathered up his clothes as he waited for Nettle to reply, but the young rabbit was too shocked to say anything.

In the end Faolán left discreetly, after promising Nettle that he would return later that day.

[center][b]❖ ❖ ❖[/b][/center]

Faolán paced back and forth in front of the picture window in the lobby of the royal apartments.  Tristram had long since given up suggesting that his master should relax, or sit down, or have a glass of something to calm his nerves, and was uneasily watching him from one corner of the room.

Faolán was determined to find a way to bring Nettle to the Beach Palace without incurring his sire’s disapproval or causing a scandal.  Unfortunately, determination alone was not sufficient.  He needed a plan, and after pacing for most of the morning he still didn’t have one.

Faolán was his sire’s son though.  The word impossible was not in his vocabulary.  He was certain that he would find a solution if only he considered the problem for long enough.

He was, of course, wrong—not all problems have a solution—but his current problem did indeed have an answer.  An answer that came crashing through the double doors, in the form of an extremely outraged Conall Lyall.

“Faolán.” He acknowledged his son in a voice that was more than half a growl.

“Sire.” Faolán said, instantly aware of, and cautious of the elder wolf’s mood.

“The foxes know! Damn their hides!” The Emperor cursed.

“They know? How?” Faolán asked.

“I’m moving the court to the Beach Palace.” Conall said ignoring his son’s questions, “We’ll say that it was always the purpose of our visit. We’ve only been here a few days. It won’t fool them, but they can’t call us liars to our face.”

He pointed a finger at Faolán—claw expressed—his whole arm shook with repressed rage and tension.

“You are not to mention the real reason for our visit. Not a hint about it. Not even a slip of the tongue.” He growled, “The inspection never happened, do you understand?”

“Of course.” Faolán said clam and levelly, “Not a word.”

“Good…” Some of the anger and tension drained from Conall—perhaps realising, in the face of his son’s stoic attitude, how angry he truly was, “I must go make arrangements.” He continued in a calmer voice which better suited his august position, “There is a spy among us Faolán, be careful of your speech.”

The Emperor turned and strode out of the anti-chamber.

Faolán waited until he was certain that the Emperor was out of ear shot, then he closed the door and turned to address his valet.

“Tristram, today I am blessed. The Creator, Wolf and Rabbit Gods are smiling on me.” There was something dangerous in his eyes.

“Sir?” Tristram, asked uncertainly.

“I have a job for you.”

