FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

ON OUR LAST DATE

By Colin Leighton

Most people remembered the events of May 1913 because it was the last time all Europe's heads of state met in the same place before the Great War. In that sense it represented for them one last example of the peace and prosperity and pride of the pre-war years, and the world they had belonged to. For all the shifting alliances and rivalries and petty squabbles, no one really believed a colossal conflict could arise; was not western civilisation beyond such foolishness? For one spectacular moment of grace, all the people of Europe put aside their differences, extended the paw of friendship, and revelled in the joy of life and love.

For myself the week has significance of a different, but still connected, variety.

It is perhaps misleading to title this tale "On Our Last Date," for the week in May was not the last time Walter and I saw each other; that would have been over a year later, in early June of 1914. We never did see each other again after the events at Sarajevo; such a meeting would have been impossible for a pair of princes, much less for those of lower social stature. Rather I say that May 1913 was our last date because it was the last time we were together for an extended length of time, the last time we had time alone to ourselves, and the last time when the realities and conflicted affairs of our respective countries were forgotten in the joy of being together.

The event which brought us together was the marriage of the German Kaiser's only daughter to the Duke of Brunswick. It was by all accounts a celebration extended to all of Europe; not since the unification of Germany in 1871 had so many heads of state appeared in the same place at one time. Walter von Shköder, my lover, was then thirty-four years old, and as he was the nephew of the King of Saxony, he had an obvious place on the invite list to the wedding. Not only did he hold the rank of Lieutenant Commander in the Imperial Germany Navy, but he was a staunch and vocal supporter of Germany's sovereign naval build-up, actions which had alarmed the rest of Europe for the past decade.

As for myself, you need only know that I was a British Earl's son; I had begun my career in the Foreign Office, from there advanced to being the under-secretary for the Secretary of War for State, and by the time of the German princess's wedding I sat on the Privy Counsel as an adviser to the King himself.

These details may seem trivial, but much like the intricate rivalries and complex relations of Europe's inexorably intertwined states, one must have context to vilify those responsible for such a horrendous predicament as was the Great War.

Perhaps those who vilified us were, to an extent, correct. But even we, villains of history, have a story.

This is ours.

The memories flow back as if waking from a dream.

I had hopes of meeting with Walter before any of the ceremonies began, but our moments together were brief and far between, and it was not until after the wedding we really got to talk. All over the palace were many hundreds of powerful, important, and wealthy people; in such a place it can be hard to find just one wolf. But I know by now that wolf's scent, and when I see him, back to me, I know instantly who he is. Glossy dark-grey fur with black streaking down the back of his neck, which, I know from experience, continues down his back. His tail begins to wag as we approach each other.

"Guten tag, Herr Freidrich."

His English is better than my German, and he switches for my convenience after the gentle unspoken rubbing. "I trust you slept well," he asks, smiling just enough to show a glint of fang. This is a common joke between us, how he insists on pronouncing my name, Frederick, in the German style, just as I pronounce his without the v-sound for "w" which is used in Germany. We hover near a hors d'oeuvres table, able to meet each other's eyes and speak with them, but cruelly prevented from the embrace, the whispered "I love you," and the kisses which in a more private setting would be unavoidable. As it was there are people all about us, Austrian ambassadors and Russian generals and French senators and British Duchesses and newspaper correspondents from America, and none of them can know what we are. Both of us know the risk; I saw first hand the trials of Oscar Wilde, and he was a spectator of the Eulenberg scandal. So instead we merely shake paws, like acquaintances meeting again after several years apart, and fall in together, mingling with the crowd.

He is wearing his naval uniform, and although from a diplomatic standpoint I find his navy infuriating, I have to admit he looks simply ravishing in the uniform. Light from the chandeliers reflects off the buttons, and off his fur too, as he's rubbed some kind of brilliantine into the fur of his head. Blue eyes flow over my own scarlet waistcoat and black tailcoat and up to my tall jackal ears. I know if we were alone his paws would be on them; he loves playing with my ears. But again we must wait.

I look at him again. He's not quite as slender as he was when we first met, but he's only grown more attractive with age. His shoulders are broad and he carries them high, with a little arrogance in the stance; the proud bush of his tail is carried elegantly, as befits the royalty he is. My eyes drift to the rest of his lower half. He wears his trousers tighter than is standard for officers of his rank, such as they define his ass perfectly, a sight my eyes take guiltless pleasure from, but most of all the best sight is the broad, noble muzzle; the erect, alert ears, and his loving blue eyes. The body can remain professional and unattached, under the guise of our apparent distance from each other, but the eyes never lie. I fight off the urge to blush like a chambermaid who entered at an inconvenient moment, and hope no one is studying us too closely.

It is difficult, not to be able to talk freely. We leave the hors d'oeuvres table and, having collected two glasses of a fine 1896 vintage Champagne, wander through the crowd, greeting people we meet. For lovers, our conversation is strangely stunted. I ask about his wife and children - yes, he is married, and I do believe he loves his wife, if in a platonic sense. Please, reader, do not damn Walter for this. For those of our time who found themselves afflicted with the love that dare not speak its name often found no other way to escape discovery than to marry. You may point out that our wives deserved love too, but remember as well that the wives of the men in hiding were never made to bear the ritual of assault which for some women in those days of arranged marriages were inescapable. We were, if lacking in physical romance, at least kind. Walter does genuinely love his children, and he shows me a photograph he carries, two young male wolves, and one girl; I share one of my daughter. There is talk of our careers: we are both on the rise, popular, well-liked, and with hope of further promotion. I am less enthused here than he; I have another idea which may have negative consequences for my career. "I heard," I say, "that my government is intending to send a new governor for the colony in British East Africa. I thought I might apply."

He's quick to catch on; Germany's East African colony is right next to ours. "Ours has not got new leadership for some time," he says, which I interpret as meaning that he doesn't know of any positions opening up for him. Without even needing me to explain, he's realised that I'm scheming of how, if we both were to go away to Africa, we might, at the expense of our careers, be closer to each other, and find more time together. I know he will be reluctant to give up his naval career, and his wife may not relish the idea of living in Africa. But for us, for our love - he might consider it.

And he does. I can see his mind working, by the tilt of his ears, the way his muzzle points downward. Behind us a Russian lynx, a duchess perhaps, is elaborating in apparently genuine surprise about a recent labour strike in Petersburg "And they actually believed it was our fault they didn't have anything to eat!"

"As if that was your fault!" a French vixen replies sympathetically. "But really, one cannot expect peasants to understand anything."

I tune out the two women and concentrate on my wolf. "I've been thinking I might take a trip out there next year," I say. "I'd like to see the wild country there before it's all settled."

"Summer is an excellent season for travelling," he says, which means, in answer to my own coded inquiry, that he thinks he may be able to get away the coming summer as well; perhaps we can arrange a trip together. I can sense his excitement over the prospect by the change in his scent, and its all I can do not to lean forward and kiss him shamelessly on the muzzle. But I don't, which is good as very soon afterwards the Czar and Grand Duchess of Russia come by with their entourage, and Walter is required to politely wish the royal couple well.

When he has extracted himself from the Russians we look at each other, sigh, and give up. The need to talk in something other than code is too strong. Despite that our superiors might have need of us at any given moment, we look for a chance to slip away - and this is how, a few minutes later, we have gone off into one of the side-halls and slipped into a small alcove, not entirely hidden, but not exposed either. We both glance round the corner, one last assurance of our safety, then one of my arms goes round his shoulder, and my other paw touches his muzzle, and he puts his paws on my waist, and we pull ourselves together roughly and press our muzzles inward. Walter's almost desperate, like a drunk whose mouth has for too long been dry, and he kisses me again and again, as though he can't get enough. I melt into it; I can tell he's finally allowing his emotions to show. My wolf does not wear his feelings openly; people of his station rarely can, but I know our separation wears on him just as much as on me, and now that we can finally let out the pent-up love, he's starved for it. We hold each other like our lives depend on it, and indeed, in such moments it is agonising to think that we will again be parted; that because of some unfathomable difference in our souls, we are denied the togetherness taken for granted by other people. If I donate too much thought to it -

But no, now for the moment we ignore the future, in all contexts. We hold each other, and as we sate each other, the kisses become less desperate, and tenderer. I know he likes to French kiss me, so I open my muzzle a bit and allow his long wolf tongue to slip past my fangs and intertwine with my own. His mouth tastes like champagne, but it's still him, and I dare to close my eyes, trusting him to watch for possible intrusions. His paw is moving up my side, past my shoulder, up my neck, to grip one of my ears. I flick it downward, into his grasp. His pawpads are gentle as they rub, and I tilt my head into the caressing. We canids, particularly large-eared species like jackals, are favoured in some diplomatic circles because our large ears allow for better listening than those of other species. Already earlier I heard a French weasel, the ambassador to Austria's secretary, telling a Russian archduke he mistrusted my government's, Britain's, honesty when it came to sticking with our alliance with France; no doubt the weasel thought himself whispering too lowly to be heard. My superiors will be very interested in this, and afterwards attempt will be made to strengthen France's faith in us. But ears are not only handy for eavesdropping, and the tender caressing only leaves me more at Walter's mercy than before.

His paws are not the only ones moving, however, as I slide one paw, the one not still holding his face to mine, down his back to massage the area around the base of his tail, and to the sides of it. I can feel the firmness under my pads; my wolf does not carry extra weight, nor does his uniform strain under the paunch so characteristic of many diplomats of our day. He is as lean and lithe as a young racehorse, muscular, without any extra padding. Of course I think him perfect. My fingers dig into the fur at the base of his tail, scratching, and his tail raises and thumps against his legs. Perhaps, if we were not so close to danger, he would whine or moan into my muzzle. But we are silent, save for our panting. The alcove has some sort of large palm-like plant in it, and a small portrait of a Prussian prince five centuries dead. I ignore the prince's arrogant stare and imagine instead that the palm is proof we are not really in a palace of Berlin but far away, in Africa or Argentina or America, free to live and love as we please. The fantasy, and the majesty of the moment, I don't believe even Walter can resist; he is no longer keeping watch.

Our love, I think now, was a strange parallel of the time in which we lived. Walter and I balanced on a precipice, always at the mercy of discovery and scandal, such as would destroy not only us but our families, and those who worked for us, but even history itself; would the German Admiral Tirpitz, whose brainchild had been the naval race, have been so successful without Walter's backing and support? The precipice was always present, daring us to brave the fall, and yet neither could we go back; to live without love is to not live at all.

Likewise, all of Europe was balancing on an identical precipice, growing nearer and nearer to war, bluffing and bluffing and believing always that diplomacy and civility would call the bluff. All of those at the wedding celebration knew this, and yet at the same time they were all of them deceived. Fourteen months later practically every nation represented here would be at war, and the revelry and goodwill of this occasion would be forgotten. But like Walter and I, throwing heed to the wind in the wild rhapsody of love, the monarchs and nobility and statesmen of Europe ignored reality and lived as though tomorrow would never come.

All the while the precipice loomed larger.

Walter and I kiss for an indefinable length of time before at last, sated, if briefly, our muzzles pull briefly apart, nosetip-to-nosetip. His paw is still on my ears; mine still grips his tail. "So," he says, with a gentle relaxed sort of smile. "Africa it is? I think I am dressed too warmly."

I glance at his thick wolf fur, and grin. "It will shed out. But yes, Africa. I thought of America, or Argentina, but in Africa at least we might retain some degree of our careers."

He nods, and oh, how his voice, the German accent unmistakable, makes my fur tingle with anticipation. "You moreso than I. The colonial division has never managed our African colonies very well. I suppose I might suggest some expansion of our operations there but really there is not much than can be done." He pauses, thinking. "If only the His majesty-" - here he means Kaiser Wilhelm, not King George - "had not chosen Lichnowsky..."

Prince Lichnowsky is the German Ambassador to Britain, appointed just last year to a position I had hoped might go to Walter. The Ambassador is actually a competent man, which is less than I can say for many of Germany's leaders (Walter would disagree with this assessment of his countrymen, and point out what he believes to be flaws of Britain's leadership), and at any rate because the Kaiser himself selected Lichnowsky there is very little chance Walter will be able to replace him soon. This is how it comes to be that Africa represents for us our last chance to escape our separation.

"True," I say, scratching his tail, "but I do believe nonetheless that we ought to go out this summer or next. If we see the country ourselves, and the situation there....you are a respected man, if you go yourself to Africa and see what improvement might be made to the colony's management, you can then propose a rectification thereof to the Reichstag or the colonial department, or...." I forget which area of his government manages German East Africa; colonial dealings do not fall under my area of expertise.

"I will make arrangements," Walter says, and I smile, and imagine him not in the naval uniform but in safari clothes. He sighs, thoughtful. "It is hard to imagine a place where we might be together, or find time alone to ourselves, without fear of being discovered."

I know what he means, I have long longed for such a reality. It is bad enough that our love is forbidden because of our sex, but really even if one of us was a woman our lot would not be improved much, given the current distrust between our two counties. Society is not kind to those who show too much friendliness to the enemy; many political careers have been spoiled for such reason. Even Walter and I ourselves do not trust or admire each other's government or dignitaries; indeed, this is why we never talk in detail of our careers to each other. It does not matter that he is a German and I am British; it only matters that we love each other. But other people would see it differently.

"I want that too," I say, and I nuzzle into his neck. I can feel the hardness in the front of his trousers pressing into my leg, and my own matching it, and I wonder if we might slip away and find a hotel room with discreet owners. There are many such places in Berlin, but regrettably our status in society makes hiding more difficult than it would be if we were merely labourers. Later of course we will go to a hotel room, same as we always do when I am in Berlin, but there are other ceremonies and meetings either or both of us are expected to be at before the evening is up. The time is not yet ripe for us to slip away. And so we wait.

Walter is grinning at me, in the way he does when I know his mind is really working. "Just you wait, jackal," he says impishly, glancing around the corner. No one is close by; we blend back into the safety of the alcove. I look at him again, and I know what he's thinking. It is reckless, terribly so, and later I am certain to regret it. But I do not stop him; I just spread my legs a little, and undo the buttons at the front of my trousers. Walter and I kiss briefly, then he kneels in front of me, and reaches up to push the flaps of my trouser front aside, reaching down into my undergarments for the hard length he knows he'll find there.

To be entirely honest, this is not the first time we have done this. In fact, the night of our first meeting, which was at a political conference much like this one, if on lesser scale, we ended hidden behind the desk of an embassy official, cramped but enjoying ourselves. Here at least we have space, even if the chances of discovery are heightened. I begin to pant as he pulls out my shaft, tongue lolling from the side of my muzzle as I feel warm breath upon the smooth red skin. His paw pushes down my undergarments further, so he can cradle my sac in his paw, and for a moment he doesn't move, just kneels, breathing over my member, and rolling my orbs casually around in his fingers. Tempting me, taunting me. "I do not have all night, Herr wolf," I growl lowly, glancing over my shoulder. He ought to know better, I ought to know better, but the risk almost makes our exchange more enchanting.

My wolf just grins, and using his paw to place my shaft at the correct angle, takes the entire length into his muzzle, without any more tempting or preliminary licking.

I let out a long relaxed sigh of satisfaction as wet warmth settles in around my flesh. My paw rests on Walter's cheek, feeling how it is stretched, full of me. My wolf is evidently not done teasing, as he does nothing, just holds me in his muzzle, closed so only my knot is visible. My tail swishes lazily. I think I release a drop into his muzzle. Then he apparently decides enough is enough, because he wraps his tongue around my length and pulls at it, raising his head and sliding back down. The sensation is heavenly; I clench my teeth to keep from whining. I am unsuccessful; a low whimper escapes my muzzle. Walter's precision is perfect, rise and fall, pull and release, his tongue tender as a mother with her infant. Its careful massage draws me up up up, until I feel I cannot hold out any longer, then releases, and begins again. He knows just when to stop, right before I cannot go back, and again and again he takes me to that high, then just barely turns back. Little drops and squirts are seeping from my member, which he licks up gladly, and by the scent I can smell faintly emanating from his own being, he is likely staining his own undergarments as well. In my mind I can envision us together and entirely undressed, such as I can see his own magnificent body laid out before me like a fine painting to admire, but for now I must settle for the sight of his head bowed below me, and the scents rising. I stifle another low moan.

All at once Walter's ears prick, and though he does not move from where he kneels, nor remove his muzzle from around my hardness, I sense instinctively that he has heard something, and at the same time my own perceptive jackal ears catch the sound: footsteps, and voices. We pause, freezing. Can we escape? There is no time. Just around the edge of the alcove we can hear them, hear their lowered voices - French voices - and scent them too. I know the scent of one, a bear, because Walter has talked of him before - one of the Socialist representatives in the Reichstag; specifically, one of Walter's political enemies. The bear, Hoffman, dislikes Walter, as do many of the social democrat representatives, because Walter is an aristocrat, and because of his nationalist leanings and support of the Kaiser. For him to discover us would be disastrous. I do not know the other man, a leopard, but guessing by the accent I presume he is a Frenchman, probably one of the French socialists; otherwise Hoffman, who like most German politicians mistrusts the French, would not be speaking to a Frenchman. Their voices are hushed, lamenting about indecision and rivalries in the Reichstag.

Neither Walter or I dare move. His muzzle is still closed tight round my shaft, the tongue's grip yet to release. It is all I can do not to whine, such is the delightful pressure all around my tenderness. I close my eyes, trying to ignore the pleasure, trying to think of anything else, but to do so is impossible when my shaft is held in such rapturous warm wetness. My eyes meet his, and I read the command in them: be silent. Easy for him to say.

Hoffman's accented French is dreadful to hear, but I gather the French leopard is concerned about prolonging peace, and is willing to give up his own government's secrets to do so; he is now doing just that. Probably Hoffman is now selecting him as a possible friend in the French government; good for Germany, not so good for France. The leopard may not really be a traitor; he merely wants peace at any cost. But Hoffman, and I am sure Walter as well, see only a chance to know France's movements before it makes them.

I cannot blame them. If I overheard a German or Austrian dignitary discussing their leader's activities or intentions I would think nothing of giving up the information to my superiors so that it might be used to Britain's advantage. It is the way of modern politics; there is no other way.

But now I cannot really think of politics, only of how, if the marvellous warmth does not end, I will end up spilling myself in his muzzle, and will be unable to avoid letting out a moan. It grows even worse when Hoffman says something particularly crucial and Walter's muzzle closes, momentarily, even tighter round my shaft. For one horrendous second I think I am lost. Then it subsides, and I dare to breath, and after another two or three torturous minutes, voices call in the distance; the leopard silences Hoffman, and the odious pair make a speedy retreat.

I dare to let out a low whine, and then Walter, grinning up at me, tail wagging again, opens his muzzle further and swallows my shaft, taking in my knot, so his nose presses into my fur, and the wondrous caressing returns. I close my eyes, whisper "damn German wolves," and then my body's resolve crumbles and I fill his muzzle.

Walter is so incredible debonair and gentlemanly that he manages to look elegant and aristocratic even when his muzzle is full of a jackal's spurting shaft. He does not so much as blink as I release, just swallows everything offered, keeping his tongue wrapped round my swollen knot, pulling downward, as if to squeeze every last drop out of me. I crack an eye open, mouth the words "I love you," in German, and allow myself to relax as the final gushes flow down his throat. We remain like that for a minute or two, before he finally removes his muzzle, licking a few drops from the tip of my member, and standing. His tongue is in my muzzle as fast I can open it, and I taste myself and him all in one. We French-kiss for a moment, with my wet shaft hanging open and unattended, before I reach down and tuck myself back into my underpants, and button my trousers. Walter reaches for the alcove shelf, below the Prussian prince's portrait, where his half-empty champagne glass rests. I watch while he drinks the rest of it. Saving the drink was intentional; it is crucial that Walter not talk to anyone until he has cleansed his mouth of my scent, for if anyone caught a whiff of his breath they might guess what he had been doing, and who with. We are prepared though, and I do not worry.

After his drink we kiss again, and then he gives me a smirk. Words are not necessary for me to know what he's thinking. He's shown his love for me, assisted me to reaching a state of satiation, and now it is my turn to do so for him. Still smirking, he turns around and reaches back to undo the strap holding his pants above his tail. His careful fingers push the seat of his pants downward, so I can see the white silk of his undergarments. I kneel behind him

My wolf has braced his paws against the alcove wall, while I, kneeling, face his hind end. For my returning of the favour I could do the same for him as he did for me, but there's something else he'd like even better, and he knows I will enjoy providing the service just as much as he will enjoy receiving it. I hook a finger under the edge of his undergarments and pull down, down. They slide smoothly over the perfectly-groomed fur, exposing his ass, until I release them below his crotch. His tail swishes teasingly back and forth in front of me, then swings to the side, and stays there.

Just as he didn't waist time getting to the good part, I shove my muzzle up between his cheeks. Since we really are playing with fire by getting intimate here, its best to get right to the point. I can see how the rounded tilt of his ass slopes down to meet together in a cleft, and above that, a large hairless circle of skin: my tongue's destination. As my nose drinks up the scent of him, so stronger here than elsewhere on his body, more concentrated and uninhibited, my tongue touches the base of his sac and draws slowly upwards, through the cleft, to finish over his hole in a swipe that leaves a glistening trace of my saliva on his skin. He shivers as my organ touches his most sensitive area, and he braces himself against the wall and arches his hind end upwards, presenting to me, in place of the various delicacies offered by the Kaiser's chefs, a rarer, tastier kind of hors d'oeuvre. I kiss him softly there, nuzzling against his ass, poking and probing my nosetip gentle against his hole, giving gentle little licks over the flexing wrinkled skin. His scent is divine; I shall remember it long after I have returned to England. I can never understand how some people favour unnatural scents over those a person possesses naturally. Very certainly I am leaving traces of his scent on my muzzle, but I cannot think of that now. I think only of the skin of his hole, soft as silk, gently relaxing under my kisses, and of his scent filling my nostrils, and the taste of him on my tongue. My ears prick forward to listen to his panting, and the modest little whines, so rare to hear, and more valuable for it.

I grow bolder with my licks as he relaxes, and lay sloppier kisses under his tail, turning my head to the side to get a better angle, or merely up and down, lick after lick over and around that soft welcoming hole. My wolf has lost all his tension; his body is mine to do with as I please, and I make the most of my enjoyment of him. Once when we had the unheard of wonder of four entire days alone together I managed to postpone his release for over two hours during the entirety of which I did nothing but kiss and lick and taste his hole. If I could I would drag his release out now as well, but instead I thrust my tongue into him, as deeply as my long jackal organ will allow, till its roots are stretched, and as his muscles close over my tongue and I feel the hot clenching warmth all around it I make love to him with it.

Inside he is hot, hot, hot. Not only that but the taste of him, and the scent - I swear I can taste his scent - is rich and spicy and incredibly musky, overwhelming my senses. His muscles have tightened around my tongue, and I don't pull it out, just thrust it back and forth, deeper and deeper, rubbing where I know brings him the greatest pleasure. A part of me wants to take it slow, to make this moment last an hour, but I don't; I rub and lick without hesitation, my eyes closed, all my focus on the action of one part of my body. My paws slip around his front, at the very top of his legs, and pull him even closer to me. My tongue is stretched seemingly deeper than ever before. The taste of him is addicting, more addicting than cigars or opium or absinthe, and its so him, so personal, so characteristic of this wolf I love. I can hear the occasional moan hissing from between his fangs, and now again I feel the muscles of his legs growing rigid; he's getting close. He'll be releasing into his undergarments, which opens the risk of people scenting that he's came to climax, but in our moment of ecstasy neither of us thinks to care about it. Let him stain his clothes; let him fill his undergarments. It is yet further proof of our affection for each other.

My tongue rubs and strokes his passage again and again, focused on the tenderest parts. His tail drapes loosely over my head, as he no longer has the concentration to keep it lifted. I don't care; I keep up my administrations. I want to make this last longer, I want my tongue to remain inside him, but I sense how close he is, how much he needs this release, and I press my tongue hard against where I know will cause greatest effect.

I hear him mutter a low curse in his own language as his body shudders.

The stroking continues as he fills his undergarments. His muscles have clenched down harder on my tongue, but I don't stop, not until the tension has started to fade, and his panting has slowed. Somewhat reluctantly I pull my tongue from him, and smack my lips, savouring the taste. I stand as he pulls up the seat of his pants. I can scent his release; he's going to have to go off to one of the lavatories and clean up. But for the moment we do not worry about that; embrace and kiss and hold each other, sated both, but still euphorically mad with the delight of being together.

We have now been for some time absent from the gathering.

There is not much talk between us as we leave the alcove, empty champagne glasses in our paws. Really this episode between us is only to tide us over until we can get to our hotel room. There will be much time later for heart to heart talking, for lying cuddling together on the bed, for bathing together in the hotel's large bathtub, for more extensive lovemaking. We have that to look forward to. But for the moment, at least in that little alcove within the Kaiser's palace in Berlin, we found a preview of what will befall us later. Our whispered exchange of "I love you" is merely an affirmation of what we have already established. "So, to Africa," Walter says as we leave the hall, lifting the empty glass. "If you should get there first, wait for me?" he smiles and we disperse.

Together we slip back into the crowd, and resume our mingling. At times we are separated; I am here on diplomatic ends anyway, and his responsibilities are never far away either. But even when apart, I need only lift my nose, and perhaps above the myriad of scents, I might catch that of a particular German wolf, and I smile to myself. Later, when the ball had began, we could not dance with each other, but still there he was on the dancefloor, and as I partnered with various duchesses and princesses and ambassador's wives, I could look across the floor and see him, and in my mind I would see myself dancing with him. He was ever an excellent dancer. I have never the likes since, and I do not hope to again.

It seems to me now that that evening was, both for Walter and I and for the world we belonged to, a setting sun, our own personal twilight. The sun was setting on our world; a year later it would leave us, and when, four years later, it rose again, it would shine out over a different world, one in which, for Walter and I and the other people at the princess's wedding, there was no place. Remembered by history as careless, greedy, prejudiced warmongers, we and our world and its values were rejected by the young generation of the twenties, and as our extinction was realised, we faded from the scene and disappeared into obituaries, the pages of history books, and the memory of the silver screen. As I have said, perhaps we deserved our fate; perhaps it was one of our own making, and our world was one doomed to end. But that is all supposition anyway. We lived and loved and hoped just the same as did any other generation, and I believe still that we did the best we could with what time we were given.

I have devoted enough time in defence of myself, and of my world. Now you ask what happened with Walter and I.

Needless to say neither of us ever made it to Africa. When I last saw him, less than two months before the outbreak of war, we both knew in our hearts our dream was impossible. We were both too closely watched, for in those days suspicion was everywhere - not of our love, but of treason - and moreover, we had dug ourselves in too deeply to our careers and our societies that to extract ourselves would have been impossible. I remember my wolf was very excited, for he had just been given command of a large warship, SMS Pommern. Neither of us said what we already suspected, that war between our countries was imminent. I suppose we thought it fortunate that since I was not in the military we might never have to face the possibility of killing each other. We had only a few moments together, not enough privacy even to kiss, and that was all. When the time came for our parting we shook paws, and wished each other well, promising we'd see each other again in a few months. I went back to England, and Walter went away to Hamburg to take command of his leviathan.

I never saw him again, and two years later his ship was sunk at the Battle of Jutland. I made no inquires about what had became of the crew. Somehow, I knew, I had already known, long before I read in the newspapers that the British ships present made no attempt to pick up any German survivors.

When I learned the specific details of the sinking later I supposed it was not the least bit ironic that Walter's own sabre-rattling proved to be his undoing. Because the Deutschland-class battleships carried immense stores of ammo to feed their bristling array of naval batteries; it was only a matter of time before Pommern's fatal flaw became apparent. A lucky torpedo strike from a lowly British destroyer ignited one of the ammo stores, its explosion ripping the ship in two. There were simply no survivors to pick up.

Afterwards I stood by the window of my office and looked away, not at the bomb-damaged streets and buildings of the wartime city, but in the direction of Africa, and all that it had represented for us. I lingered for a moment in visioning of what might have been. Then, resigned, I returned to my work, releasing myself, for the final time, into the indifferent hands of fate.

_ Walter,_

_ Walter,_

_ Walter._

_ I kept my promise,_

_ I waited for you._

_ I am waiting for you still._

FINIS