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

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

Conall Lyall stood, hands clasped behind his back, before one of the many picture windows in the royal apartments.  It faced north, towards the city, and away from the sea.  The Emperor liked the symbolism.

The city was the work of wolves, a sign of the empire’s strength, and an achievement they could take pride in.  The sea, on the other hand, was where all their troubles came from.  Everything that wasn’t wolf—everything that was foreign, everything that threatened the empire—came from beyond the shores.

So the Emperor stood, with his back to his enemies, surveying one of his oldest cities.

He was happy.  He had found the foxen elements in his court, and dealt with them.  His only regret was that it was too late to mend the damage done, but overall he was happy with the outcome.

The thought of being able to rub the foxen president’s nose—damn that upstart vixen!—in the news of the capture and execution of two of her spies, was quite pleasant to the Emperor.

Of course, he didn’t let his pleasure show.  The Emperor of Iron did not let any emotion, positive or negative, cross his features—ever.  He simply stood, observing the view before him as dispassionately, and detached as he was able to.

So when his son, Crown Prince Faolán, came crashing into the room, anger written plainly across his face, he was a bit surprised.

“Sire, why has my valet been murdered!?” Faolán said without preamble, “And where is Prince Nettle!?”

“You will watch your tone with me, Faolán.” The Emperor growled, he disliked seeing his son and heir’s emotions so plainly visible.

“Where is Prince Nettle?” Faolán hissed between bared teeth.

The Emperor put on his best disinterested-but-very-disappointed-in-you look in response to his son’s act of defiance.  “Prince Nettle apparently was not.” He said.

Faolán flinched back.  “What?” He asked, fear replacing his anger.

“There is no Prince Nettle I checked with the Rabbit Ambassador myself.” The Emperor expounded, “He was an imposter, who snuck in during the confusion of the move.  We still haven’t determined his true identity.  He is to be interrogated, and then executed.  Your valet was his accomplice.  He provided the forged papers.”

Faolán was silent for a moment, “No.  He didn’t.”

“Faolán, denial is not a useful state of mind.  I have the report f…” The Emperor began.

“I know that he didn’t.” Faolán interrupted, “Because I was the one who ordered the forged papers.  Tristram merely carried those orders out.”

The Emperor’s face went blanker than usual, and Faolán could tell that he was struggling to hide his surprise.

“Why?” Was all the Emperor asked.

Faolán stood up straight, and delivered a dispassionate explanation of his actions, “Because Nettle is my boyfriend, and I needed to invent a cover story so that I could be with him without causing a scandal.  I wish you had consulted me, Tristram was entirely blameless.”

On hearing the word ‘boyfriend’, the Emperor had staggered back from his son.  The reaction filled Faolán with sudden fear—this was the most emotion he had ever seen from his sire.

“B-boyfriend?” The Emperor breathed disbelievingly once Faolán has said his piece, “Your boyfriend?”

“Yes.” Faolán confirmed, “For the good of the Empire, I kept our relationship discreet.”

“For the good of the Empire?” The Emperor began to turn pale, “You are Crown Prince.  My only heir.” His voice turned “For the good of the Empire you are supposed to settle down with a bitch, and sire heirs to the throne! Not bucks! Bitches!”

“I am aware of my duty.” Faolán defended, “I’m quite prepared to marry, and sire an heir.  Nettle would be my…mistress is the wrong word…consort, I suppose.  Other Emperor’s have had lovers as well as wives, why shouldn’t I?”

“Faolán!” The Emperor snapped, “I forbid you to see that buck ever again!”

“Sire!” Faolán protested.

“Not a word Faolán!” The Emperor growled, “Not one word.” He turned and stalked out of the room.

Faolán gazed after him, feeling shocked to his core.

[center][b]❖ ❖ ❖[/b][/center]

Nettle hurt.

Being clubbed unconscious could do that to a furson.  That was on top of the effects of the hang over he had from the two parties that he had attended earlier that day.  The muscle pains he had as a result of being sprawled for an indefinite period of time on a cold stone floor were just the icing on the cake as far as Nettle was concerned.

It was being dumped on the floor that irritated Nettle the most.  The cell had a perfectly serviceable (although not terribly comfy-looking) bunk, but his captors hadn’t been bothered enough to carry him even that far in.

Intellectually Nettle knew that his irritation was a defence mechanism.  A way of distracting himself from the situation he found himself in.  He wasn’t particularly brave.  If he allowed himself to think about the situation he found himself in he knew he would break down from fear.

Not that there was much to take his mind off his situation.  His cell contained nothing apart from the bunk, a barred window, a solidly built door and, of course, himself.  The cell was reasonably pleasant as far as prisons went.  The walls, floor and ceiling were made of dry, grey stone, and the window let in a small amount of light.  There was no glass in the frame, only iron bars, and the night breeze was chilling.

When he had woken, not more than five minutes earlier, the first thing he had tried was the door.  It was a mistake to describe it as a wooden door.  Although the vast majority of the structure was wood, it was the cast iron frame that gave it its strength—the wood was just to fill the gaps between the cold metal fingers.

Of course, there was no handle on the inside.  Nettle had tried flinging himself against it once.  The door had budged not an inch, but the pain that shot up and down his body convinced him not to try again.

He wasn’t certain that anyone had even heard, let alone, cared about his miserable escape attempt.  In a way he would have been grateful if a guard had yelled at him to shut up.  His captor’s disinterest made him felt very, very isolated and alone—as no doubt it was intended to.

Nettle flopped, face down, on the bunk and started to cry.

[center][b]❖ ❖ ❖[/b][/center]

Faolán forced himself to sit down.

As promised, the guards in the gaol had—citing orders from his sire explicitly forbidding him entry—refused to let him visit his imprisoned lover.

He was agitated to say the least.  The events of the last six hours hadn’t sunk in yet.  He knew Tristram was dead, but he still expected his faithful confidant and friend to enter the room any moment—perhaps bearing a glass of water or with a message from Lyngvi.

He absolutely refused to renter the bedroom.  Despite the palace staff’s best efforts, Tristram’s blood still stained the carpet and furnishings.  There were two dozen or so of the orderlies.  All armed to the teeth with buckets, mops, cloths, sponges.  All battling in vain with the dried in circulatory fluid.

Faolán had managed to rescue Tristram’s body—both parts of it.  Tristram had been charged with treason against the throne, and traitors in the Wolven Empire didn’t get honourable burials.  Fortunately, Faolán had been able to issue a posthumous pardon for his servant before his remains had been disposed of.

It had been an easy decision to have Tristram’s remains shipped back to his family in the rural areas of Lyngvi, instead of burying him on Gleipnir.  While he doubted the body would arrive before it had begun to decompose, he thought that Tristram’s parents would appreciate having something to lay to rest in their son’s grave, even if they were unable to hold a wake for him.

The wording of the accompanying letter was a much more difficult decision for Faolán.  It was the third letter he had penned that night.

The first was for Nettle’s family informing them of his imprisonment.  Faolán had deliberately written it in a matter-of-fact manner—letting them know the facts without any bias or attempt to cushion the truth.  It had been a short letter—he knew very few facts about Nettle’s situation.  He’d told the messenger to tell Nettle’s family to expect him within the next hour.

The second had been a quick note to Llou, asking him to meet him in Rabbit Town in an hour.  This had been even shorter that the first letter—barely two sentences in length.

It was the letter to Tristram’s parents he couldn’t get right.  He knew that there was no way to soften the news of their son’s demise—dead was dead after all—but nothing he wrote seemed to do justice to Tristram’s loyalty, courage, devotion or friendship.  In the end, lack of time forced him to scribble down a page of prose that he felt came close to expressing his feelings for his former valet, and if it didn’t he hoped that Tristram’s parents would forgive him.

Faolán stood up from the writing desk, gave the letter to a waiting attendant, and set off for Rabbit Town—he was already late.

[center][b]❖ ❖ ❖[/b][/center]

“Where have you been?” An irate Lemon said as Faolán crossed the threshold of ‘Ginger’s’.

“Don’t address the crown prince in that tone of voice!” Llou snapped.

Llou was sitting at one of the tables with Lemon, Ginger and Cinnamon.  All four wore expressions which spoke of fear and uncertainty in varying degrees.

“That’s the loup who got my cousin locked up!” Lemon was leaning half way across the table, in Llou’s face, “I’ll address him any way I please!” He rounded on Faolán as he sat down, “So go on then! Where were you?”

“Trying to sort this out.” Faolán said, calmly.  Letting Lemon’s anger break against his stoicism.

Lemon ground his teeth in frustration, “And?”

“I can’t.” Faolán admitted.

“Your sire won’t let Nettle go free.” Llou said, “He thinks your relationship is a danger to the Empire, and he’s right.  If Nettle every leaves that cell again it will be to go to his execution.”

Cinnamon turned several shades whiter, “Execution?”, he echoed under his breath.

“He can’t do this!” Faolán’s calm façade shattered, laying bare all of the emotional turmoil beneath.

“He can.” Llou stated coldly, “He can order the execution of anyone for any reason, or none at all.  But Nettle came with his own death sentence pre-written.  He was arrested for espionage.  Your sire now knows that’s not the case, but he’s the only one who knows that.  If he decides to kill Nettle he could do so without scandal or comment.”

“What can we do?” Faolán asked weakly, he felt powerless as he had never felt before.

“Nothing.” Llou said, “Do you remember I told you that you would have to be prepared for your relationship to come to an end?  This isn’t what I had in mind when I said that, but it’s that time now Faolán.”

“How can you say that!” Lemon beat Faolán to the exclamation.

“It’s the truth.” Llou said simply, “The Emperor knows all about this meeting Faolán.  Right now his spies are watching this building, and there are soldiers less than two streets away, waiting for any sign of trouble.”

“You told him…” Faolán said, defeated and betrayed.

“Of course.” Llou said, a hint of remorse in his voice, “It was my duty to.  He sent me to discourage you from trying anything stupid.  There is only one key to that cell, Faolán,” He took a key from his pocket and laid it on the table, “and your sire has entrusted me with it’s safe keeping.”

Faolán made a grab for the key, but he wasn’t quick enough to reach it before Llou’s paw slammed down on it.

“I don’t need it to get Nettle out of the cell anyway.” Faolán said defiantly, “What’s stopping me from blowing the door off it’s hinges?”

“You can’t do that.” Llou said simply.

“Why not?” Faolán barked.

“Because,” Lemon interjected, “Even if he survived the explosion, the collapsing ceiling would finish him off.  Honestly, that plan could only work in one of Nettle’s stupid melodramas.”

“Oh.” Faolán said dejectedly.

Llou picked up the key and placed it back in his pocket.

“I’m going back to the palace now.” He said as he stood up, “I’ll be waiting for you when you return to resume your duties.”

He turned and left.

Faolán buried his muzzle in his paws, “There’s nothing we can do.”

“Nothing?” Cinnamon asked disbelievingly.

Ginger wrapped a beefy arm around his brother consolingly.

“Well…not quite, nothing.” Lemon said brightly, “It looks like Lord Lycaon left something behind.”

He pointed at a semi-congealed lump of porridge on the table that was left over from breakfast.  A semi-congealed lump which had a perfect impression of the key that had been slammed into it.

Instantly four faces were hovering over the crusty leftover—scarcely able to believe their luck.  Faolán hardly dared to breath near it, for fear of upsetting the impression.

“Can you make a key from that?” Faolán asked.

“Yeah.” Nettle said, examining the gloop closely, “I think so.”

“Good.” Faolán said, “If you can make up a key then I can get Nettle out, tonight.  We’ll still need somewhere to run to afterwards though.”

“We will handle that.” Cinnamon said, “If you rescue my boy, we will hide you.”

“We’re just lucky Lycaon slipped up like that.” Lemon said thoughtfully, “There really would be nothing we could do if it weren’t for that mistake.”

“That wasn’t a mistake,” Faolán said, tears wetting the corners of his eyes, “Llou doesn’t make mistakes.  They were watching us and they were watching him.  They didn’t trust him.”

“If what you say is true, they were right not to.” Ginger said.

“Perhaps,” Faolán agreed, “but I’m sorry I doubted him.  I’m sorry I ever doubted you Llou.  You’re a true friend.”

[center][b]❖ ❖ ❖[/b][/center]

The moon had long since risen, and its light had been flowing into the cell for hours, but Nettle was unable to sleep.

He had been imprisoned for almost a day now.  He had spent most of the morning sleeping away the tedious hours, and regaining his strength, so he no longer felt tired.

The complete lack of any outside stimulus or distraction made ignoring his situation increasingly difficult.

The uncertainty fed Nettle’s over active and overly romantic imagination.  In his mind’s eye he saw himself in this prison forever—or worse—only in it for a few hours whilst his gallows were constructed outside.  He lingered on increasingly gruesome and horrific scenarios, each worse than the last, torturing himself more efficiently and effectively than any warden could ever hope to.

Unable to escape into sleep, and unable to distract himself, Nettle lay on his bunk, clutching himself in a foetal position, shivering in the cool moonlight.

He started as he heard the door bolt being drawn.

A second later the heavy door to his cell began to swing slowly open—groaning and protesting as it did so.  Nettle pressed himself flat against the wall.  His eyes were horror-filled globes—fixed on the source of his impending doom.  His legs worked uselessly against the bunk, trying to push him back through the wall.  His heart beat raced, and his jaw was slack.  There wasn’t a single thought in his head now—only sheer mortal terror.

The door swung fully open to reveal a Wolven figure in a black cloak.  Nettle whimpered when he saw him, and flinched back into a corner of the cell, where he attempted to roll himself in the smallest, least conspicuous ball he could.

“Nettle…” The figure spoke softly as it cautiously approached.

Nettle couldn’t bring himself to look up when he recognised the voice for fear that his ears were playing tricks on him.

“Faolán?” He whispered as his lover’s gloved paw tenderly cupped his chin from behind—fingers gently tracing his jaw line, caressing his muzzle and softly stroking his fears away.

Nettle started sobbing silently as Faolán pet him.  “It’s really you Faolán?” He asked as the tears ran, “I didn’t…”

“Hush.  It’s me.” Faolán murmured in one of the distraught rabbit’s silken ears, as he lifted him to his feet, “I’m here.  You’re fine.  Everything is going to be fine now.”

Nettle turned around in Faolán’s embrace, desiring to see the face of the lover he thought he would never be with again.

His wolf was wrapped in a heavy black cloak and hood.  Underneath he wore a course white cotton work shirt—a far cry from the silk shirts he normally wore—and a durable-looking pair of black trousers.  He was shod in standard-issue, knee-high, military boots.  Three pistols tucked into his belt finished off Faolán’s new look, and it was a new look.

Gone was the youthful, careless, rebellious, image-concious prince.  In his place stood a rouge, a swashbuckler who was willing to risk everything for Nettle, a man who was willing to forgo luxury in favour of practicalities, a strategist who thought about the situations he found himself in, who considered consequences of his actions.  Yet Nettle knew that this wasn’t really a new Faolán, this wasn’t a different wolf to the one he had made love to yesterday.  Those characteristics had always been a part of the prince, even if he had never used them before.

His courage bolstered a bit by Faolán’s cajoling, reassurances, welcome embrace, tender caresses and new no-nonsense attitude, Nettle stepped back out of the shadowy corner.

Faolán was shocked when he saw the bruise, although he did a good job of keeping Nettle from noticing his surprise.  A big black circle covered the left side of his boy’s face.  It shone grotesquely, in the silver moonlight, through his love’s short white facial fur.

A profound sadness gripped Faolán—he did this.  He had killed Tristram.  He had put Nettle through this ordeal.  Everything that had happened to the fursons he loved had been entirely his fault.  In that moment, confronted by Nettle’s injuries, he swore that he never let harm come to his sweetheart so long as he breathed.

“Come on.” He kissed Nettle swiftly on the nose, “We’re not safe here.”

He draped a heavy black cloak, similar to the one he was wearing, over Nettle’s shoulders.  Taking Nettle’s paw in his own, he walked softly, but purposefully, to the door.  Nettle wrapped himself around the offered arm, and hugged Faolán tightly as his beloved led him to freedom.

A volley of shot rang out as Faolán approached the door.  He jumped back, pressing himself and Nettle against the heavy stone walls of the cell.

A strangled cry drifted down the echoing corridors, “Hold your fire!”

It took Nettle a moment to place the voice.  It was the Emperor’s.  Timidly Nettle leaned over Faolán, trying to look into the corridor beyond the doorway.  Faolán shoved him back, and placed his hand flat on the rabbit’s chest—telling him without words that he shouldn’t lean forward again.  In the momentary glimpse Nettle got of the corridor he saw that it was an ‘L’ shaped junction, with his cell right at the heel.  The Emperor and his men were further up the corridor which the cell was on.  The corridor facing the cell appeared to lead to the front gate and freedom.

Nettle had assumed that he was deep inside the prison, rather than a few feet from the exit.  Rationally he realised that it made no difference how deep inside his cell was.  Either would have been just as inescapable, but somehow he had expected differently.

Faolán pressed one of his pistols into Nettle’s hands.

“That’s one of my practice pistols.” He explained, “It’s double barrelled, so you get two shots.  After that you have to reload.  Don’t use it unless you have to.”

Faolán readied his pistols, and risked a quick glance down the corridor.

“They’re about ten metres up the corridor,” he told Nettle, “Eight rifled soldiers and my Sire.  We have to cross their firing range to get out.”

“Can’t we slip past them while they’re reloading?” Nettle asked.

“They’re trained infantry, no more than half will fire at any one time.” Faolán shook his head, “That means that while half of them are reloading, the other half have already loaded.  Most likely they will fire in pairs.”

Nettle whimpered something, that was meant to be a protest, but was unintelligible.

“There are no two ways about it.” Faolán said as levelly as he could, “We’ve got to shoot our way through.  We’ve got three pistols, that’s six shots.  When I say go, run.  I’ll cover us.  Just leave the shooting to me, and run.  All right?”

Nettle nodded.

The sound of boots marching echoed up the corridor.  Faolán pointed his gun towards the advancing soldiers, grimaced, and shot blindly down the corridor.  The marching stopped at once.

“Faolán!” The Emperor called, “Why are you doing this? Stop this now.”

“Why am I doing this? You killed Tristram!” Faolán shouted back, “And you want to kill Nettle!”

“Faolán, think of your duties.” The Emperor said reasonably, “Surrender now.  For the good of the Empire.”

“Give me Nettle and I will.” Faolán yelled back.

“I can’t do that.  You know I can’t.” The Emperor replied.

Faolán ‘hrumph’-ed to himself, “Well, at least let him go.  He’s innocent.” He shouted.

“I can’t do that either.” The Emperor said.

“But he’s done nothing!” Faolán protested.

“Faolán…son, please.” The Emperor pleaded, “Throw down your weapons and surrender.  I don’t want to have to shoot you.”

Faolán turned to address Nettle, “When I say go…”

The sound of the soldiers advancing picked up again.

“Go!” Faolán shoved Nettle through the door.

Nettle pumped his feet as hard as he could, looking straight ahead at his goal, his heart racing as it had never done before in his life.  He was aware of his lover running along side him, interposed between him and the soldiers.  He heard two pistol shots, and then he saw Faolán overtake him.

Ahead, there were two guards.  Faolán ran harder.  His arm was held out, ramrod straight, in front of him—all his muscles taught—the pistol in his paw, clenched in an iron grip.  He gazed down his arm, past the sights, directly at the foremost guard.

Hitting a target with a pistol is difficult.  Hitting a target with a pistol at a distance is even more difficult.  Hitting a target with a pistol, at a distance, while running is almost impossible.

Faolán didn’t worry about that.  Indeed he didn’t worry about anything.  His mind was absent of thought.  He was running on survival instincts he wasn’t aware he had.  His blood coursed with adrenalin.  Thinking would only slow him down.  It was a do or die situation, and Faolán had never been one for dying.  He didn’t think about the odds.  He didn’t worry that he wouldn’t make the shot.  He was totally balanced inside.

He pulled the trigger.

His fourth and final shot, hit the soldier in the chest, dead centre, killing him instantly.  Which was fortunate, because if he had missed the second soldier wouldn’t have been stunned by Faolán’s incredible good luck, and he would have seen Faolán adjusting his grip on his now useless firearm.  He wouldn’t have dropped his guard long enough for Faolán to break his muzzle with the heavy lump of metal, and he wouldn’t have crumpled to the floor leaving the exit clear.

Faolán gripped Nettle’s paw and pulled him along into the dark streets—making the best of the head start they had over their pursuers.

[center][b]❖ ❖ ❖[/b][/center]

“Where are we?” Faolán asked as he Nettle and Lemon ascended the dusty staircase.

After a couple of hours of dodging in and out of dark alleys and shadowy streets, they had finally lost the Emperor and his men.  Conall’s desire to keep the situation under wraps worked in their favour as he was unable to call out a real search party to find them.

Faolán and Nettle were then able to rendezvous with Lemon at the appointed place.  From there Lemon had taken them some place ‘safe’, but he had neglected to say where that was.

“Near the docks.” Lemon answered, “The owner of this house is a friend of the family.  It’s best for everyone if you don’t know who.  He’s very graciously agreed to let you hide in the attic while he’s ‘away on business’.  His job requires him to make odd journeys so it won’t look suspicious if he isn’t here.”

“How long do we have to hide in the attic?” Nettle asked.

“Until the heat dies down enough, and we can find a way to smuggle you out.”, Lemon said, “A day at least, perhaps longer.”

He reach the attic door.  It resisted his attempts opened it initially, but soon gave way, a cloud of dust billowing out as it did so.

“Here we are…” Lemon spluttered, wiping his eyes, “your new home, for the next couple of days, anyway.”

Faolán and Nettle examined the room critically.  It was filled with odd boxes, musty smells, dirty cobwebs and the occasional sound of rats scraping.

The roof tiles were loose, so much so that Faolán could peer between them down into the street below.  They could probably keep the rain out—provided the wind didn’t pick it up, and it fell perfectly vertically—but they would do nothing to stop drafts.  He poked at one of the tiles experimentally.  It popped out of place.  Thankfully, it fell into Faolán’s surprised hands, rather onto the cobbles below.

“Don’t do that.” Lemon chastised, between clenched teeth.

Faolán sheepishly placed the tile on a near by box.

“Now remember, don’t leave this room for any reason.  Don’t light any lights.  Don’t make any noise.” Lemon ran through the itinerary, fretfully, “Whoever comes to collect you will have a key so don’t answer the door for anyone, and for God’s sake stay safe.”

“We will cuz.” Nettle, hugged his cousin tightly.

“I know you will.” He said, tears in his eyes.  He held up the bag he had been carrying, “There’s some food and stuff in the bag.  Good luck.”

Lemon dropped the bag on the floor, turned and left, closing the door behind him.

“Who did that to your eye?” Faolán asked, tracing a finger gently around the bruise.  The question had been gnawing on his mind for hours now.

“I don’t know.” Nettle shrugged, “I don’t think I was awake for it.”

“Bastards.” Faolán cursed softly, but vehemently.

“So what now?” Nettle whispered.

“I guess we settle in.” Faolán said, “I can see why Lemon said not to light any fires.  With that roof we’d bee seen for sure from the ground.”

“I’m not even sure you can call it a roof, there are so many gaps.” Nettle smiled.

Faolán hugged his, free-once-again, boy to him.  “It’s going to be cold in here with no fire.  We should find the least draughty corner, and get out the blankets.  Take a look at the floor, there’s not a lot of dust settled over here, but it’s really thick over there.  I think that’s going to be the warmest spot.”

Nettle ‘mmm’-ed in agreement, “Let’s set up.”

They got out the blankets, and huddled together under them in a nook made by the crates and boxes.  Faolán took the opportunity to check and reload his pistols—using a generous amount of powder and wadding them tightly.  Nettle took advantage of his closeness to nibble on his ear playfully.

“There we go.” The be-nibbled Faolánsaid, as he set the pistols down on a box within easy reach, “We’re as safe as we’re going to get.”

“Good,” Nettle paused chewing on his lover briefly, “Now we can get onto more important things.”

“There are more important than being able to defend ourselves?” Faolán asked incredulous.

“Much more important.” Nettle said as he slid around to sit in Faolán’s lap.  “Let’s face it, there is nowhere left to run.  If we have to use those things then we’re as good as dead.  It doesn’t matter if they’re loaded or not.  But I don’t want to die without making love to you at least one more time.  That is important.” He punctuated his sentence by passionately locking lips with Faolán.

For his part Faolán had a hard time refuting Nettle’s reasoning.  He slid his arms down Nettle’s silk clad back, and down into his trousers—coming to rest on his buttocks, and pressing the rabbit to him.  With one hand he pulled on Nettle’s belt, whilst the other played with his short, fluffy tail.

Nettle broke the kiss to come up for air, and so that he could return the favour.  Once he had Faolán’s trousers around his knees, he dove back into the kiss.

Faolán lifted the eager rabbit, and positioned his lover on top of himself.  He cupped his boy’s balls as he felt the rabbit begin to move down on his shaft.  He left his fingers drift upwards, from Nettle’s balls to his sheath, as Nettle pushed down.  The cock of his lapin lover slowly drifted down Faolán’s fingers—leaving a trail of pre-cum in its wake—until it rested in the palm of his hand.  Faolán gently closed his fingers around his lover’s tool, and stoked him tenderly.

Their eventual orgasm was all the better because it was also an affirmation of their life.  They had escaped Faolán’s sire, they we’re in love, and there was no force in the world that was going to separate them.  They were alive and together, and they intended to keep it that way.

[center][b]❖ ❖ ❖[/b][/center]

Nettle was drowsing, half-awake, half-asleep, when he heard it.  The front door opened and closed.  There was someone in the house.  He snapped wide awake instantly, as if he had been doused with cold water.

He turned to the sleeping wolf at his side, “Faolán, Faolán!” He hissed urgently, shaking the slumbering lupine.

“Ugh? What?” Faolán asked.

“There’s someone downstairs.” Nettle explained.

Faolán woke up immediately.  He tossed off the blankets, and reached for the pistols.

“Stand against the wall, beside the door.  Same deal as last time.  When I say go you go.” He said, handing a pistol to Nettle.

Faolán stood in front of the door, pistol raised ready to shoot anyone who came through.

“Fao…” Nettle protested, seeing what Faolán planned.

“No arguments.” Faolán said.

“What about the supplies?” Nettle asked, gesturing to the bag.

“They’d only slow us down.” Faolán replied.

The footsteps were on the landing now.

Faolán adjusted his grip, and swallowed nervously.

The handle turned.

The blood beat louder in his ears.

The door opened, and Lemon stepped into the room.

“Oh thank the Wolf God!” Faolán said, dropping his arms to his sides.

“Are you two ready to leave?” He asked, his usual cocky smile plastered across his muzzle.

“Absolutely.” Faolán agreed.

[center][b]❖ ❖ ❖[/b][/center]

“Sorry, it took so long.” Lemon apologised once they were at street level again.

“We thought you were someone else” Nettle admitted, he and Faolán were dressed in their black cloaks again, “After three days with no word we thought they had caught you.”

“We had a harder time than we thought throwing the Imperial Guard off our scent.” Lemon said, “They’re professionals, unlike the Gleipnir Watch, and they really, really, want you two recaptured.”

“Well let’s not hang around and give them the chance.” Faolán said.

“Right.” Lemon agreed.  “This way, down to the docks.  Captain Rose has agreed to take you back to our home village.  You’ll be safe there.”

The three figures ran down the hill to the dock, and berth three.

Captain Rose was waiting for them at the quay side, he didn’t look too happy.

He appraised Faolán, “So this is the Prince you want me to smuggle out.” He concluded finally.

“Yep.” Lemon answered succinctly.

“I don’t take passengers.” He said gruffly, “This is a working ship.  There’s no space for slackers.”

“We’ve been over this,” Lemon said, “our family would consider it a great favour, if y…”

“There’s no need to start talking about favours.” Nettle interjected, “You know I’m a damn good worker, at least.”

“I’m not work shy.” Faolán drew himself up, “I’ll do what ever jobs you want me to, no complaints, until we reach Anisth village.”

“Good.” Captain Rose nodded.  “In that case, come on.  We’re ready to cast off.  We were waiting for you two to turn up.  I don’t want to hang around for any longer than we have to.  Not with all the guards on the streets.”

Faolán followed Captain Rose up the gangway, but Nettle hesitated.

“Go on.” Lemon urged, “What are you waiting for?”

“Cuz.” Nettle cried, hugging Lemon fiercely “Thank you for everything.  I’m going to miss you.”

“Not for long.” Lemon had an impish grin on his face.

“Not for long, what do you mean?” Nettle asked.

“We’re coming back.” Lemon said, “Five months.  Expect us then.  Me and Ginger, and your Mom and Dad.  We’re closing up the restaurant and coming home.”

“Oh!” Tears welled in Nettle’s eyes, he was speechless.

“We can’t go now,” Lemon said, “There’s too much scrutiny.  It was difficult enough getting here tonight.  Now go, don’t keep Captain Rose waiting.”

Lemon shoved Nettle towards the steam paddler.  Nettle ascended the gangplank at a run, waving to his cousin until he entered the ship.

He caught up with Captain Rose and Faolán, on the deck over hanging the aft paddle wheel.

“There you are, what kept you?” Captain Rose asked.

“I had to say good bye to my cousin.” Nettle explained as he snuggled into Faolán’s arm.

Captain Rose turned, and brought a hand to the side of his face.

“Cast off!” He shouted.

The gangway was withdrawn, the moorings where cast off, and the ship’s engines rumbled to life.  The ship began to move—slowly at first but gaining speed.  Dawn was breaking over Gleipnir—casting thin fingers of fiery red and gold light between the buildings, and silhouetting the city.

“Good bye, dear Empire.” Faolán said to the departing land.

“Don’t be sad.” Nettle said, “You’ll like the Rabbit lands.”

“I know I will, but the Empire was my life.” Faolán replied, “Good bye old life.” He said as the land drifted away.

“It’s a new day Faolán,” Nettle insisted, “and there’s a new life, waiting for us.”

“Yes.” Faolán nodded, “A new life…Hello new life.”

“Hello.” Nettle echoed in agreement, as Gleipnir became a line on the horizon.

“Well,” Captain Rose said, “I’d better show you your duties, an’ where you’ll be bunking.”

“Before that,” Faolán said, “I was wondering if you could do us both one last favour?”

“Go on.” Captain Rose said grudgingly.

“I understand that as a captain you are able to conduct marriages.” Faolán said.

Nettle leaned into Faolán, and the wolf slipped his arm around his lapin lover’s shoulders.  Behind them Gleipnir became a dot, and the sun rose ever higher.

