There's No Such Thing
by Kinto Mythostian


We had it all planned out. Afterwards, we were going to run away together, find a country where no one knew us and no one would pursue us. We would use the money to settle there and make a home, and live the rest of our lives.

Now as the cobblestones rattle beneath our wheels, I can't imagine how we were ever so naïve. That awful phrase rouses itself to cycle through my mind: "There's no such thing..."

It is the first time we've been alone together since our arrest. This is not the reunion I imagined; the rabbit seated across from me is withdrawn and subdued, not at all the Fennel I know. She has not spoken a word, has not even acknowledged me. Turned away from me, she stares out the narrow barred window set into the door at the rear of the closed wagon, her brown eyes dull and unfocused, the spark that always flickered within tamped. Her hands, shackled as mine are, rest primly in the lap of her dress. Only her ears still are lively, raised above her head, swiveling and twitching constantly, as ever listening to sounds I can't even imagine.

Neither of us will meet each other's gaze. There is so much I need to say to her, and yet I find myself struck dumb by shame. I stare at the ceiling; I can't bear to look down. 

Between us, stacked on the floor of the wagon, rest two empty coffins.

It is also the last time we'll be alone together.

It is our last day alive. Everything is 'the last' for us.

The endless possibilities of the life we had dreamt of together have been reduced to a single narrow path, a short and definite future that terminates with us leaving no earthly trace beyond what can be encompassed by these two small boxes.

I lower my gaze to look at her again. It's so strange to see her in a dress. For as long as I have known her, Fennel has only ever worn breeches; so few people ever bother to pay attention to rabbits that her deception was never detected. We had been acquaintances for some time already before I learned the truth, and it was a surprise to realize that I didn't find it repellant at all; quite the opposite, in fact. It was exhilarating, and the feelings she aroused within me were ones I had never felt for any male; ones I had come to assume I was incapable of. Our capture, taken as we were in a moment of intimacy, put a scandalous end to our Sapphic secret. 

It feels so wrong that she has been denied the dignity to die as she lived, an extra cruelty heaped on the ignominy of our impending execution. Nevertheless, I find myself awestruck by how the severely plain, grey, feminine dress makes her beauty stand out more than ever.

Her eye flickers in my direction and catches me staring. I quickly look away. Then, shamefully, I look back. Fennel's eyes meet mine; her soft lapine face remains impassive. 

I know every inch of her soft chestnut brown body that is now hidden beneath the coarse floor-length textile, have explored every intimate crevice, from the luxuriously soft fuzz between her toes to the utmost tips of her sensitive ears, kissed and caressed them all, nibbled and teased with my feline fangs and sandpaper tongue and been rewarded with the sweetest laughter and gentlest sighs. The tense silence between us now is profoundly uncomfortable. 

I clear my throat quietly. Her ears focus on me. "You..." I want to say something to reassure her, to let her know that that beauty is still what I see when I look at her, a treasured secret that no one else will ever know, "...You look good," I finish lamely.

Fennel chuckles once. "You always say that."

"I mean it."

Her ears flush faintly pink, "Thank you."

I smile slightly in return.

"Though I don't know how you can wear these things day in and day out," she rolls her shoulders in discomfort, "It itches everywhere, and this collar is so tight I can't breathe-" she stops abruptly.

Both of us glance downwards. The silence returns.

Fennel resumes staring blankly out the back of the wagon; I stare at her.

I can't go on like this, like everything is normal; I need her to know. "Fennel..."

She doesn't say anything, but one ear swivels back towards me.

"I... I know it won't do any good now, and I'm sure you must hate me-" 

She turns to me, her eyes widening, "Elizabeth..."

"-and you have every right to," I hasten to add, "but... I'm sorry. I never meant for this."

Fennel opens and closes her mouth wordlessly, before speaking, "Elizabeth... Do you... do you blame /yourself/?"

My brow creases. "Well... yes."

She stares at me, dumbfounded. I stare back.

The wagon hits a pothole, jolting sharply. Caught off guard, I am thrown from the bench where I sit and land awkwardly against the stacked caskets.

In a flash she is on the floor across from me, reaching out with her shackled hands to offer aid. I am unhurt, but the touch of her hand against my cheek, the touch I have been missing for so long, the touch I will never feel again, is too much to bear. Reflexively I nuzzle against her hands, rubbing them with my chin. She is looking at me now, her brown eyes suddenly as warm and tender as ever. This is the Fennel I know. Tears well in the corners of my own eyes, running down my cheeks.

"Fennel, oh, Fennel... I'm scared."

Her own eyes totally dry, Fennel softly brushes my tears away, speaking "I know. Shh. Don't cry. Please don't cry, Elizabeth. You- /We/ need to be strong. I hate to see you cry."

For her, I blink back the tears and swallow down the sob building in the back of my throat. 

I should climb back into my seat, but I refuse to let go of her hands, both of us crouching awkwardly on the floor, linked above the crude caskets. Right now, I need the reassurance of her touch.

"Fennel... Fennel, I don't want to die."

"I know. I know. I don't either," she whispers soothingly.

"It's all my fault... You... Because of me..."

"Shhh. Shh. Don't worry about me. I'll be all right, Elizabeth."

"No. No." I shake my head forcefully; right now, things feel as far from 'all right' as possible. "How can you be so calm?"

Fennel shrugs ruefully. "I'm a rabbit. Dying is what we're for."

The casualness of her attitude shocks me. "Fennel! That's-that's not true."

"It is. There's just something in our nature. You know what they say." Her eyes are becoming glassy, unfocused again, staring right through me into space, "There's no such thing-"

"Don't-" I cut her off. I can't bear to hear her say those words.

"Everyone says it, why shouldn't I?" The tone of her voice never changes, and yet her words sting like a scorpion. "They said it when my mother died before her thirtieth summer, leaving me to take care of a dozen siblings. They said it when my sister was murdered and her guts cut out in an alley. They said it when my youngest brother and his friend were run down by a dray in the street."

"Stop-" my voice quavers. I know what is coming. A parroted echo of the insidious belief that there is something inherent in lapine nature, a predilection towards incautiousness that precludes any sense of self-preservation. I used to believe it, too, to my shame. Everyone says it, put forth unthinkingly as both absolute truth and moral idiom. I never once questioned it until I met Fennel.

Fennel's voice continues, flat and emotionless. "The dray didn't even stop. No one cared. Everyone knows there are always more rabbits. And they'll say it today, when they nail me inside this damn box," she nods sharply towards the rough pine, "They say it, and it's true: 'There's no such thing as an old rabbit.'"

"Fennel, please! You know I hate it when you talk like that!" 

The desperation in my voice rouses her; her expression softens and once more she is looking into my eyes and not through them. She sighs. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth, but that's the way things are. I wouldn't expect you to understand. It's different for you. Lynx live forever, practically. Everybody pays attention to you. People move out of your way when you walk by. Nobody shoves you, or calls you vermin, or takes advantage-" her breath catches in her throat, and for a moment she seems to shrink inward. Her hands in mine, I can feel her shiver right down to her fingertips. 

"Oh, Fennel..." I know from experience just how much a dress can hide.

She recovers herself quickly, "What I'm saying is... You matter. Rabbits don't. Death is just a fact of life for us." 

I stay silent, letting my friend get it all out.

She takes a deep breath, "For a while, you made me believe it was possible. That it didn't have to be that way. That I could defy nature. That I-that we could escape the cycle, together. Because of you, I knew hope. I stopped looking for death around every corner. You taught me what it was to live and to dream, to look to the future with joy instead of dread. And for that-I will always be grateful to you. No, I could never hate you, Elizabeth."

She pulls my hands to her own chin and nuzzles them tenderly.

"But there's no escaping what I am. Not even you can change that. I knew what would happen if I was caught. But I did it anyway because I thought, 'What would it matter?'" For the first time I hear her voice threatening to crack, "And I dragged you down with me. It would be better for you if you had never even met me. I could never be a lynx. But because of me you're just another rabbit in a snare." She casts her gaze down shamefully, staring into the knotted whorls of pine.

"Fennel," I squeeze her hands gently.

She does not look at me, but her ears swivel towards me and stay still; she is listening.

"No. I made my own choices. I never should have gotten you involved. It was my idea, my plan. John was my husband. I'm the one who knew his habits, his duty schedule," the fur along the ridge of my spine raises just thinking about him, "And he deserved what he got."

Her head inclines upward slightly.

"If I had never met you, I would still be there, dying a little more each day trapped in that hateful place. You rescued me. You made me /want/ to live."

I can see her eyes now, shyly looking up at me.

"You /do/ matter. You matter to me. You have never been 'just another rabbit.' And if no one else can see that, the flaw is with them and not you."

Fennel is looking me full in the face once more.

"Don't you ever believe that you dragged me down. Not now. Not ever. I am precisely where I was always meant to be. Here, with you." I clasp her hands tightly in mine, her soft rabbit fur gentle against my feline pads, "Fennel... I lo-"

"Shh!" she hisses. Her ears perk fully erect. "We're here."

Even I can hear the hubbub of the crowd milling outside now, but this is important. "Fennel- please, I need you to know. Before- before we d-"

"Elizabeth," Her attention is focused entirely on me, my hands held tightly in hers, ears forward, her eyes gazing directly into mine, their depths perfectly mirroring my own unvoiced feelings. "I know." She is now, as ever, the most beautiful person I have ever seen. I feel blessed just to know her. I could live a hundred lifetimes with her and it would never be long enough.

The bolts click as the wagon door is unlocked. The door swings open, flooding the interior with the weak silver light of morning. Fennel pulls her hands away from mine and rises from the floor to sit bolt upright in her seat; reluctantly I do the same. 

The caskets are unloaded first, scraping noisily against the floor as they are manhandled by a pair of guards who ignore us entirely. Then, Fennel and I are ordered to our feet and directed out after them onto the flagstones of the market square.

Even at this early hour the plaza is swarming with activity. A crowd begins to gather to ogle us, kept back by the guards forming a tight perimeter. A few individuals lob their mocking jeers at us; Fennel appears unfazed, accustomed as she is to derision, and I do my best to emulate her lead despite the harsh verbal barbs stinging.  

Looming over everything rises the gaunt wooden skeleton of the gallows. At the first sight of it my knees feel weak and I almost collapse, the reality of what is going to happen pressing down on me like a load of stone on the shoulders of a lame ox. A sharp prod in the small of my back forces me forward, and together Fennel and I take our last steps on solid ground.

Two figures are standing at the bottom of the steps, waiting for us. The first is the magistrate, a grey-muzzled and sour-faced roebuck with a commanding set of antlers; he is known for his vanity, rumored to save his old sheds and wear them even when not in season. The other is a canine, his exact species and breed impossible to discern by design; all distinguishing features - his muzzle, his ears, even his tail - are obscured by black cloth: the royal executioner.

The magistrate clears his throat and looks us up and down. "What a charming pair of young /ladies/ you make. It is a tragedy you have made such wasteful use of your lives."

Neither Fennel nor I react.

His expression becomes even sourer, apparently disappointed in his failure to get a rise from us. He turns to face me directly. "Elizabeth Briars, a moment if you please. In recognition of your husband's loyal service, I have been authorized to offer you clemency, under condition."

My ears perk, my eyes widen, and my mind races. I have dwelled on nothing but my execution for days. The sudden prospect of averting that fate is invigorating. Freedom. Life. Me and Fennel, together, and- "What about Fennel?" I ask warily.

"The rabbit?" he sneers, pointedly ignoring her standing right beside me, "The offer is for you. She will be executed as scheduled. You will be released, on the condition that you publicly recant your transgressions and denounce her as the one who seduced you into joining her heinous crimes."

"But that's not true!" I can't help blurting out.

"It can be. All you must do to make it so is say it."

I look to Fennel and she looks back at me. "You're free," she says quietly; her ears wilt marginally. It dawns on me that she expects me to accept. She has never not been abandoned and discarded by everyone. 

Death doesn't frighten Fennel. But the prospect of life without her is terrifying to me.

I turn back to the magistrate. "She goes free, too. Both of us or neither of us."

"Elizabeth! Don't-!" Fennel cries out.

"That," the magistrate's words clipped, "is not an option. A member of the king's guard is dead. It is scandalous enough that his own wife - a lynx! - did the deed. Someone /must/ be punished for it. There is no need for you both to die. She is obviously the one to blame. Everyone knows how rabbits are."

"No. Both or neither. You have my answer." I don't dare look at Fennel, maintaining solid eye contact with the roebuck in front of me.

His mouth is pinched into a perfectly horizontal line, simmering with barely contained anger. He seethes, "Very well. May God have mercy on you." He pivots sharply on his hooves and starts clopping up the stairs, followed closely by the executioner. 

"Elizabeth, what are you doing?" 

"I'm not throwing you under the dray and running away, Fennel."

"Elizabeth..." 

A guard prods us each in the back and we begin our ascent. I focus on Fennel climbing in front of me, not allowing myself to concentrate any further than the next step. Her tail twitches as she moves, a charming tuft of cotton I have admired many times before in far more favorable circumstances. Her perfect brown paws, now snugly buttoned within a pair of utilitarian black shoes, click softly against the wood. I would give anything to see them just once more.

Far too soon, we reach the top. A single noose hangs patiently from the gibbet.

"That one first," the magistrate barks harshly, pointing at Fennel. One of the guards grabs her by the arm.

"No-!" I cry out reflexively. 

The magistrate gives me a cutting glare, but it is the look from Fennel that silences me, a gentle expression that says simply: It's all right. Fennel allows herself to be led forward and posed on the trapdoor, spine straight, legs together.

The hooded canine executioner checks the secureness of her shackles. "Stand still," he orders and she nods obediently. She does not move at all as he lowers the noose over her ears, places it around her neck, and draws it snug, the knot resting heavily on her shoulder, the slack draped down her back. 

"Thank you," Fennel solemnly nods to him.

The magistrate steps forward to the edge of the platform. Addressing the crowd that has gathered to watch our macabre spectacle, his voice booms across the marketplace, "Fennel Fieldstone, you have been found by duly appointed authority to be guilty of the crimes of highway robbery; of murder of John Briars, member of the king's guard; and," for a moment, the magistrate's hateful eyes flicker towards me, "of unlawful carnal knowledge. For your crimes against your king and against God you have been sentenced on this day to be hanged by the neck until dead." He turns to address her in a more moderate tone, "If you have any final words, you may speak them now." 

Fennel appears to consider this, one ear cocked slightly. After a moment, she turns to face me, her fur bunching against the springe encircling her neck. "We almost made it."

I nod, my voice trembling, "Yeah. Yeah, we did." 

"I... I don't regret anything, really."

My lips twitch into a tiny smile. I shake my head and whisper, "Me neither."

She bites her lower lip, thinking hard, her nose twitching. She opens her mouth to speak, and then closes it. She starts to turn away. Then, abruptly, she launches herself towards me in an explosive burst of lapine energy, the slack rope trailing behind her. Before I am even aware of what she intends her muzzle is pressed to mine, and without thinking I find myself returning her kiss, our lips locked in a moment of unchecked passion, my rough tongue against her buckteeth, her wiggling nose tickling my whiskers, the scent and taste of her flooding my senses. She is soft and warm, her pounding heart matching the impassioned rhythm of my own, alive together in this moment, the rest of the world a cold and insignificant fog. Her shackled hands grope for mine, seeking out my touch, our fingers interlaced and holding fast. This is the Fennel I have missed most of all, have longed for during our imprisonment, vibrant, bold, and unshy, devoted to me and I to her, a connection pure and true.

Quickly, far too quickly, the guards grab us both by the arms and tear us apart, dragging her forcefully back to stand on the creaking trapdoor. There is a single tear shimmering on her cheek, but in her eyes I recognize that her tear is not for herself, but for me.

I marvel at Fennel, standing proud and unafraid even within the noose's embrace, wearing her gaol-issued dress like the duchess's own ball gown. She is beautiful, noble, and lionhearted. It is how I have always seen her, how she deserves to be remembered. She gives me a shy half-smile, the last I will ever see of her, and turns away. Her glistening gaze is fixed straight ahead, stoically staring into the mass of pewter clouds above the heads of the watching, scornful crowd. Her adorable cottontail gives one last nervous twitch. She inhales deeply and releases it in a resigned sigh. Her final words are addressed to the waiting executioner, her voice devoid of emotion: "All right, let's get this over with." Only her ears indicate any modicum of apprehension, swiveling constantly, ever on alert to the end.

The executioner acknowledges her with a single approving nod and with no further ceremony throws the lever.

I can't bear to watch. I turn away, my eyes shut; Fennel would not want me to see.

A click. A bang. A sharp crack. A cry of approval from the crowd. And then, silence, save only for a faint humming sound.

I open my eyes.

All I see is a rope, stretched taut and thrumming like a plucked fiddle string, anchored to the gibbet above and disappearing out of sight through the yawning trapdoor below. Fennel is gone.

A voice calls up from somewhere below the gallows stage, "The coney's snuffed it, master!"

The executioner calls back, "Good, get her down and set up for the next one."

I barely even register the significance that I am the 'next one.' An instant is all it took and Fennel is dead and I am alone. The act was so quick, and so simple, completely out of proportion to the magnitude of what has been lost. The world should have stopped.

I watch in a daze as the tension leaves the rope and the executioner hauls it back up, the neatly-tied noose empty once more. The trapdoor is pushed close from somewhere down below and the latch clicks closed.

"Ready, sir," the executioner says to the magistrate. 

The roebuck smiles cruelly and nods, his antlers wavering suspiciously. 

As Fennel did, I allow myself to be led forward and posed, not resisting as I draw near to the noose where she died only moments ago, where death awaits myself. I struggle to keep my expression devoid of emotion, though I feel like weeping until I am dry. The trapdoor groans as it takes my weight. Down below and to my right there's a rhythmic pounding; I look and see the executioner's assistant hammering Fennel's coffin shut. On the lid rest her shackles and her shoes; items deemed more valuable than her. The second coffin sits beside, the lid still open.

The executioner approaches and checks my shackles. Then, to my surprise, he addresses me, "Would you like a hood, ma'am?"

I look at him dumbly.

"Y'know? To cover your face? We would've offered her one, but y'know, she was just a rabbit, and those damn ears..."

I shake my head. I don't want to be-don't /deserve/ to be treated any differently than Fennel.

"Suit yourself. Just stay still and I promise it'll all be over quickly."

I nod in acknowledgment. 

Satisfied that I have no intention of making his job any harder, he lowers the noose over my head; I can see the chestnut brown furs embedded in every turn of the rope. Did she even have time to feel pain? Will I?

The hooded canine draws the snare snug against my throat, right beneath my jaw. He sets the knot on my shoulder, the weight of it heavier than I expected. He carefully arranges the slack to trail down my back. I swallow nervously and feel my throat bulge against the coarse twisted hemp. It reminds me of its presence with every pulse of my racing heart. This is it. This is how I die.

I glance down at the crowd and immediately regret it, the disdain radiating from them palpable. None of them care about me. This pageantry has only one purpose, and I am now simply a prop for this awful stage show. Does anyone here even see me as a person? Is this how it was for Fennel to live as a rabbit, seen by everyone as another interchangeable warm body, unheeded and unmourned? As dear as she was to me, I fear I never truly understood her, could never walk in her paw prints until now.

I feel the tears coming again; Fennel told me not to cry. As I sniff them back an unexpected fragrance caresses my nostrils, one I thought I would never smell again. I inhale deeper and realize that the rope is saturated with her scent, cinched fatally tight as it was in the scent glands right under her chin. The familiar aroma is a comforting presence, bringing to mind the many nights we spent together nuzzled close, taking me far away from here. It is as though she is anointing me with her own scent one final time, claiming me as hers forever.  

The magistrate's voice booms once more across the marketplace, and yet I can hardly hear him. His words have no power to injure me. Fennel and I are together. I can sense her, an echo of her here in this space between life and death, the touch of her hand in mine, the taste of her kiss lingering on my lips. I strive to be as strong and calm as she and to see the world through her eyes. She stood here brave and fearless; for her memory I can be the same. I stand up straight, hold my chin high. I am exactly where I am meant to be.

The market is silent. The magistrate clears his throat loudly. "Anything, Mrs. Briars?" 

My ear cocks slightly. I realize they are waiting for my final words. I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with her lingering scent, feeling her presence within me, standing here precisely as she did, about to die precisely as she did. I speak, loud and clear, "I loved Fennel. I want everyone to know that. And if our love is a crime, then I would rather be just another rabbit in a snare than a lion on a golden throne." I exhale, my limbs shaking, completely spent by my declaration. 

I look down below for a final time at the two wooden boxes, one already sealed shut, the other open, waiting. I whisper, "We should have grown old together."

"With her?" The executioner scoffs. "There's no such thing as an old rabbit."

He throws the lever.








First draft finished June 22, 2018. Editing completed June 27, 2018.