Title: My Fair Lord: a Story of Steel, Steam and Silk: Act Three
Part: 3 of 3
Keywords: furry, mm, steam punk, culture clash, violence
Universe: Shattered Tears
Author: just_lurking
Summary: Faolán and Nettle struggle for their freedom, love and their very lives against those who would do anything to keep them apart.

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.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“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.”

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“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.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“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.


