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The carriage jolts, your hand swinging abruptly to strike at the wall as you prevent the cushioned surface and your face from becoming intimately acquainted.

“Damned roads,” the plenipotentiary says. You give him a squint, but otherwise ignore the outburst from the pudgy man in a silk suit. Your hand resumes tapping at your knee, tracing the embroidered filigree, gold on red. Army, nominally.

Your other hand clasps, then re-clasps your walking stick. You stare out the window, where virgin forest hems in the pitted wooden road like verdant prison walls. Despite the pervasive smell of honeysuckle, which is intense enough to make your head hurt, you can’t help but feel as if the very atmosphere is attempting to suffocate you.

Your fingers drum the seat beside you, where your retainer rests with a box of papers on his knee. He’d kept it there every moment the three of you: him, the plenipotentiary, and Your Highness yourself, weren’t stretching your legs or sleeping in the tents. And it was bothering you. Didn’t his legs fall asleep?

The carriage rocks back and forth, and you splay a hand against the wall again.

“How much -”

“Only a few more hours, Your Highness,” the plenipotentiary says comfortingly.

“May I-” you cut the words short as your retainer holds out a sheet of parchment. You give him a sour look, irritated beyond any reason at the predictability which these two common men seemed to have detected in your bearing. A prince should not, you feel, be predictable. You snatch the paper.

To: His Highness Prince Anonymous, Duke of Islington, Captain of the Third Dragoon Guards, Knight of the Solid Pudding, Basket-Weaver-In-Chief, Inspector of the Round, &c.

Your Highness,

The bearer of this missive shall direct you and your retinue to Adriane Castle in Tenous at whatever pace Your Highness finds convenient. We anxiously await your arrival, and humbly request the forwarding of a herald on the day of your arrival by speedy horse in order to make adequate preparations for the feast which is to be held in your honor.

On the third day after your arrival, in accordance with the Treaty of Tenous signed the fifteenth of Half-Moon, which with the aid of God shall usher in a new era of peace and harmony between our peoples, the wedding ceremony shall be held. We humbly request Your Highness to err on the side of preparedness in his attire and materiel, and to forgive any errors in word or deed on our part which might provoke offense. Humanity to us is a strange and wondrous thing, and Your Highness is to provide us with the opportunity of expanding our understanding in every metric.

We gratefully appreciate the help of the good Plenipotentiary Solomon who has spent these weeks educating us as to the ways of our new allies, and trust that upon Your Highness’s arrival, Your Highness will find all is to Your Highness’s satisfaction. The manner of relief, being incompatible in such delicate matters as the Plenipotentiary Solomon has revealed, has been accounted for, and we pray that Your Highness shall not be discontent with our solution. The heretofore named Plenipotentiary Solomon has been sent to retrieve Your Highness in the hopes of easing the transition from Your Highness’s familiar surroundings with the fondest desires that Your Highness shall, with minimal discomfort, come to regard Adriane as Your Highness’s new home.

Our daughter, the Princess Hazel, is eager to meet Your Highness and thrilled at the prospect at your pending union.

Sincerely,

His Imperial Majesty Eponious Rex II

Honorable Defender of the Forest and Dale, Champion of the Woodland Tribes, Master of all Elevated Beasts, Progenitor of Saxophony, &c.

Your finger stabs at one line in particular which still troubles you.

“Solomon,” you say, “What is this bit? ‘The manner of relief, being delicate…’ what on earth is that about?”

“Ah,” The man wipes his brow with a handkerchief, for it is hot in the carriage. “I was under the impression that Your Highness had already been made aware.”

You fume inwardly at the man’s pomposity, but he had undeniably had the courage to volunteer to beard the lion in his lair by serving as plenipotentiary to a nation of beast-men. His odds of survival had been one to six, and you are slightly disappointed to sit across from him, as you had lost your bet against his life. Regardless, he had shown enough keen intellect to single-handedly maneuver a nation of beasts, in a matter of months, from vanquished foes to stalwart allies.

At least, you pray to God that he had done so. Otherwise your bride-to-be will be munching on your bones in a few hours, and your mind scuttles back from that abyss which had left you in a black study for so many of the past few days, glaring at the back of the bear-man’s head and contemplating the relish with which he sucked at the marrow of his raw meals. But Solomon is now deigning to explain.

“You see, it was mentioned offhand, in a conversation regarding biological distinctions between our two species,” the man bloviates, “In making a general remark about the ovulatory cycles of the females of their breed, I discovered that they, ah, that is…well, I mean to say that the females, of the species in particular that Your Highness -”

“Oh, do spit it out, Solomon!” you explode, decorum shattering after days of close proximity to this onerous autocrat.

“They go into heat, Your Highness,” Solomon says lamely.

“Like, ah…”

“Akin to a dog, Your Highness, that is correct.”

“And these accommodations?”

“I am afraid, Your Highness, that as for accommodations I am unaware. No one at Adriane informed me before I was sent to collect you. When I revealed to His Highness that we do not go through these cycles, that we are fertile on any given day and given to act upon the inclination, he was most chagrined to think that Your Highness might become frustrated on Her Highness’s – that is to say Your Highness’s fiance’s – seeming reluctance, which would be no more than the requirements of her bimonthly cycle.”

“Eh, Bimonthly?”

“Yes, that is to say, every two months.”

You rest your mouth against the pommel of your walking stick. Sex with your wife once every two months, if you cut out all the fluff. You suppose it could be worse. Being the third son – sixth by strict count, but third in the running for the throne after your eldest brother died in infancy and the two immediately before you died in the war against the best-men. Their bodies had never been found. It was sensible of your father, you reflect, to send the one he could spare. Your younger brother is only twelve, which rules out marriage by a few years. You, on the other hand, are overdue at twenty. This is the perfect opportunity to secure a solid union between your new allies and your kingdom. You wish that you could have had the princess sent to you rather than the other way around, but the animal king had been absolutely insistent that you come to him, as a bridge between the peoples you will live, a stranger in a strange land where only five years before, the gnawed bones of men from your own regiment had turned up by the side of a road.

You bite the top of your walking stick nervously, remembering the grisly sight of their patches, marked with their ensign, smeared with crusty gore when the aide-de-camp had held them up for your inspection. You pay for your bad habit as the carriage jolts again and you catch a solid one on your upper teeth.

“Damned roads!”

Your heels crunch in the gravel in front of Adriane castle, and you gawk at its nonexistence with a momentary abandonment of pomp. The castle is certainly the right shape – mostly – but the stone walls are slathered with patchwork stonemasonry, bossages thrusting like warts from the ramparts against which rest a crazed and spindly collection of ladders. The roof is a patchwork of wooden panels obviously in place as momentary support.

A fanfare trumpeted directly into your ear makes you jump, and you glance at the menagerie there cheering to welcome your arrival. There are best-men of all kinds, rabbits in frocks and foxes in coats, badgers waving handkerchiefs and lions and panthers in their hardened leather armor, stiffly saluting on either side of the pathway which leads to a dais just distant enough to be indistinct. There is a general clamor of acclaim all about, and your stomach wrenches itself once or twice with nerves.

Knowing what is expected of you, you right your ornate tricornered hat, give your gilded sword a quick jerk to verify it loose in its scabbard – a war habit which betrays your discomfiture – and stick your walking stick under one arm like a baton. Then you stride up the pathway between the cheering crowds to meet your imminent bride. A marine band begins playing your national anthem, so that when you step up onto the marble stairs – which, absurdly, are complete and fully polished while the castle behind them sits in anticipation of windows – you can barely hear the king as he speaks to you.

You bow regardless, sweeping the ornate hat from your head to press it to your breast. The king is a lion of grizzled appearance, clearly bone-weary from the long war which he lost following his brother’s initiation of it. That brother is dead, you were never sure whether it was a successful assassination on the part of your father or it truly was a simple accident, and it does not trouble you. The king’s mane is brushed and pinned with delicate attention to offset the youthful bouting scars which criss-cross his enormous muzzle. He wears the full regalia of his station, and smiles in what appears to be genuine pleasure at your arrival. To his left…

The princess is beautiful, in her way. She is staring at you with fixed attention; the two of you regarding each other for the very first time. She is wearing a gown, which does not suit her in the slightest. Her shoulders are nearly as wide as yours, and while women at home might claim to be big-boned, in this case you would happily apply the term. Princess Hazel is not overweight, but her collarbones are strongly emphasized and her arms toned with muscles and dimpled with small imperfections in the fur coverage implying a history of some violence. Her chest, similarly, fills out the dress in a manner the dressmaker has not accounted for, and the frills behind her stick up oddly as she curtsies to you in return of your bow as her father makes the needless introductions; doubtless her tail. She looks into your eyes directly, you know that on bare feet she will be as tall – if not taller – than you, if only by a finger. Neither of you close your eyes as you bow your heads, the intensity with which you are inspecting each other can bear no interruption, and if you did not feel as if you were about to fall over with the trembling of your legs you would find the similarity funny. Her short head-hair is coiffed and her eyes a luxurious gold and green; you know with an inward shudder that they would seem to glow in the dark. You had seen it, in more than one unfriendly context.

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” You say automatically, waiting for the princess to proffer a hand. That is, a paw. “And I intend to do all within my power to make ours a happy and profitable union.”

“I am gratified,” Hazel responds, extending a paw which you take and kiss. The short hairs on the back of her knuckles tickle your lips. “I trust that with the aid of gods old and new we shall be happy.”

“Excellent,” the King says in his grand rumble. “If you are so inclined, Prince Anonymous, let us show you the castle, and then allow you to settle in.”

With many backward glances, the workmen set off on their various tasks and the welcoming party disperses behind the three of you as, trailed by guards, you walk under the empty archway which will be the door of the castle.

“Obviously the castle is unfinished,” the king says, “but we have built temporary accommodations to serve in the meantime, since the old Hearth-place was burned down.” He coughs in embarrassment; one of the men responsible for that military demonstration at the end of the war has been given a knighthood back home. You carefully betray none of the pride which might have been expected of mention of that event among humans. “In time,” the king continues, “we shall complete construction. I will show you, as best I am able, how the floor plan is intended.”

Over the next hour, the king, who obviously relishes details of his new palace, paces half-cut marble floors, pointing out traced lines to represent future fireplaces, stuccos, walls and ornaments. You begin wondering how the taxes could be levied against beast-men who had just lost a war so resoundingly to pay for such a castle, then suspect that your own nation may have given a loan. Perhaps all part of the ‘take my son into your bloodline’ deal you are living through.

You peer through slit-windows high on rickety temporary stairways, observing the fields which surround the castle, terminating gradually into the surrounding wild forests which had made traversal so difficult during the war, for yourself and the enemy. You make appreciative comments about the artistry of cornices sitting in anticipation of mounting and listen to descriptions of arch-heights sounded with impressive articulation by this monomaniacal king.

“I’m afraid other pressing duties require my attention,” the king says at last, glancing at an officious-looking squirrel which has been attempting to gain his eye for some minutes. “My daughter, would you perhaps show our new guest – no, our new family member – the gardens? They are quite perfect in bloom, and would give the two of you an opportunity to get acquainted.”

The king stoops, remembering something. “And about what I said in my letter. All is prepared, we hope you will be pleased with your personal staff.” He gives you a wink and a nod, literally, and walks away, tail swaying from side to side.

“The gardens are this way, Your Highness.”

“Yes,” you say, following the lioness. “However, I think that as we are to be married shortly, I think we ought to use each others’ Christian names.”

“I would not be opposed,” she says with a smile. The two of you are passing by open windows, which stream sunlight and the increasingly heady scent of roses.

“In that case you may call me Anonymous, or Anon, for short.” You pronounce it ‘ah-non’, an old and unusual name without any particular meaning.

“My Christian name is Hazel, though that was not my name before.”

Your puzzled expression prompts her further.

“After the war was lost and we accepted your terms of surrender, my father declared that all the beasts of his house would take new names to ease the transition.”

“And what was your old name?”

“I do not think you would like it, it would be barbaric to your ears.”

You nod.

“I quite admire your uniform,” the princess goes on. The two of you step into the garden, where carefully meandering paths skirt massive beds of violets, chrysanthemums, roses and other flowers which you have no name for. Gardeners stoop over them, tending. The princess is inspecting the weave on your right arm.

“Thank you. I am a captain of the Third Dragoon Guards. This patch on my left arm is that of my unit, and on my right is that of my house. It marks me as a member of the royal family.”

Princess Hazel’s smile is forced. “We had no such customs during the war.”

“Well, I doubt the splendor of our uniforms made much of a difference. Far more impressive was the hardiness of your armor; it was extremely difficult to pierce. My brother has told me of experiments with laying thin, hard sheets of iron under the coats of our officers, but they are heavy and expensive. But I fear I bore you?”

“No, no.” Hazel’s smile has widened, and you struggle to associate the sight of more teeth with kindly pleasure rather than imminent death. “I was captain of my own unit, if your ranks could be translated into ours, the Tenth Forward Squadron. It was our task to infiltrate enemy -” a nervous glance your way, “territory.”

“Well, as dragoons it was our job to do anything which required doing, if you understand. I had the questionable pleasure of being sent hither and yon, defending then attacking and occasionally wondering where I’d be sent next.”

“I spent most of my time praying our supply lines would hold.” Hazel gives a wry chuckle.

“I suppose I must apologize for ensuring they didn’t.”

The both of you laugh at yourselves then, a mated pair so recently expected to run each other through if you encountered each other on a given day. The ice can never remain long frozen between two soldiers, even if – especially if – they fought on two opposing sides of a conflict. The day-to-day irritations and fears are so similar, yet flipped, as if each person occupies the opposite side of a mirror, and can speak to precisely the same experiences if only they are considered from the opposite direction.

You and Hazel discover that you were on several battlefields at nearly the same time, though it is never the case that you met, both of you agree stolidly that you have never seen each other before, and do your best to wilt the flowers in bloom with energetic accounts of the hardships and triumphs of your campaigns. You each do your best to avoid particulars – for each of you any town burned or division routed and slain would be a dart to the other’s sensibilities, but with the particularities removed your stories might have been from the same side, a war beginning over economic and religious grounds growing more desperate as each side lost men and materiel faster than anticipated, until the general disunity and independence of the Beast armies crumbled under the grand insect-like hive passions of the human army with its rock-solid commissariats and superb trust in their leadership.

At this point each of you is reflective, mulling over those last few months and weeks when the end had seemed always a moment away; when each party of a skirmish hesitated a fraction of a second to see if the other side would wave a white flag. You reflect with sadness that you had discovered in the camp of one of the later battles you fought a scrap of white cloth tied to a stick, stashed under a bedroll in anticipation of the camp’s inevitable surrender. They had had virtually no provisions, and had been all but out of gunpowder and shot, the last of it fired at your men.

Hazel had been captured and imprisoned for only seventeen days, caught by surprise (none more than the division which caught her and her twenty warrior-women) and barely assigned a bunk in the hasty prison camp within the borders of the Beast territory before word arrived of talks of peace from her father, inheritor of a doomed war effort forced to see it through, which ended in a general amnesty and economic incentives all around. And blood ties.

With the reminiscing caught up to the present day, Hazel gives a flush which barely shows through her fur and asks if you would like to visit your quarters. You acquiesce.

The suite of rooms assigned to you in the wooden chateau which seems from the outside designed more like an all-purpose business building with more than the usual allotment of windows. Inside, the imported rugs and finery makes up for the humdrum exterior, as does the marvelous view of the rich country beyond the edges of the immediate fields. Hazel shows you an office, with anteroom for visitors and clerical staff (they will be putting you to work, it would seem), a boudoir for dressing, with attached closet, bathroom, necessary and bedroom. Finally, Hazel introduces, with a slight grimace, your personal staff, with a wave of the hand.

“Doubtless you wish to rest after the long journey,” she says with irony. “I will see you at dinner.”

With a curtsy, which you return with a short bow, Hazel quits the room. You turn to the two women who form your personal staff. There is a mouse, who barely reaches your shoulder in height, with smooth gray fur, and a patched black-and-white rabbit with blue eyes. They came into the room while you were being given the tour, and wear identical uniforms which have the unusual feature of extremely short skirts – they end above the women’s knees, which is absolutely scandalous. Below the knee the two women have compensated for their lack of dress with long stockings which terminate at the ankle to secure over their feet in a complicated fashion. Like most beast-men, they do not wear shoes, as the pads of their feet are solid enough to make them unnecessary. The two stare at the wall behind you in silence, as good servants ought to.

“What are your names?” you ask.

“I am Britta, Your Highness,” the mouse answers.

“And I am Margarita, Your Highness.”

“Would you please have my bags sent for? I don’t expect the coachmen know where they should be sent.”

“Of course Your Highness. Britta can go. Would you like any servicing while you wait?”

“Pardon?”

“Any personal service? That is why we are here.”

You are thoroughly puzzled. It seemed everyone here was fond of speaking in roundabout fashion.

“No, I’m fine. I will wait for dinner.”

“Your Highness is tired.” Margarita lets out a sympathetic sigh. Or, some sort of sigh.

“Yes, please come back an hour before dinner to aid me for dress.”

The two petite animals leave the room, and you sink into a chair, placing your hat (which you have held under your arm) on a nearby table and unbutton your collar. You habitually knock your sword aside with your heel to ensure it does not foul your legs as you cross them, considering events thus-far.

After a few hours, during which time you lie on your comfortable bed and doze, neck-cloth pulled to a loose scarf and shirt unbuttoned, the two maids come back and help you change from your military costume into another even more ornamental one, with gemstones tucked into the hems. You have to chastise your assistants when they spend far too much time neatening your pants. Evidently they don’t have much of a concept for how they ought to lie and keep pressing them different ways with their hands.

Another thing the beast-men don’t quite understand is human personal hygiene. There is a washbasin in the corner well enough, but laid out on the boudoir are three different hairbrushes, all different in coarseness, but not a single comb. There is a wooden dowel as thick as your little finger which completely baffles you and on the floor a bristle-brush contraption which you eventually realize is for hastily cleaning paws. There are no cologne bottles, no scrub-stones, all the furniture is a touch too large and you are beginning to notice that there is animal hair everywhere.

But you must grow accustomed to such things. Perhaps, you think, your hosts will be good enough to humor your request for such trifles. At least you have brought your own tortoiseshell comb.

You are greeted by your future father-in-law and seated at his left hand, to your right is Hazel, who greets you with a smile and a nod, and across from you is the first in line for the throne, a sour-looking lion whom you do not attempt to jest with throughout the meal; he seems to either have had a miserable day or a rather miserable life.

The food is unusual; there is an almost total lack of greens to be had at this end of the table, and you look with some sadness at the distant plates of lettuce and kale which, vinegarized, might have graced your plate if you were free to sit with the less carnivorous beasts. The meat is tender and in many varieties, with your chief complaint being that it is invariably underdone. The duck you are served seems ready to get up off its tray and go in search of its head, while the cuts of beef spew a soup of blood which you struggle to avoid dipping your cuffs in as you slice at them. You also discover what the wooden dowel in your room is for: you see beast men and women up and down the table picking them from where more lie with the knives and forks and picking at their teeth with them.

Soon, you reflect, you will need to begin requesting more quality time for your food in the oven. In the meantime, as you select small slices off the very edges of your servings and wonder forlornly if the larder might sneak you some bread and butter after hours, your eyes wander over the stonework of the grand dining hall, where the table is placed. With almost a hundred members of court seated for the occasion, no alternative was seen but to assemble the table in the unfinished room of the castle it was made for, which meant that as massive candelabra set the air above them shimmering in the heat, you can glance upward and see patches of darkening sky far overhead.

“How are you finding your assistants?” the king gives you a friendly nudge. “Get to try them out yet?”

You smile blandly. “Yes, well, they do not have much experience with serving humans, it would appear.”

“Oh dear!” the king taps his knife on the table. “That won’t do at all! What about their performance was unsatisfactory?”

To your right, Hazel gives slight, disapproving sniff.

“Oh, it’s nothing, really.” You are ashamed to have made a faux pas; back home when gossip was slow it was par for the course to complain about the servants. Evidently that was not the case here, and you belatedly realize you have mindlessly criticized your hosts’ choice for your maidservants. “Just that my clothes seemed to puzzle them.”

“Ah,” the king says. “Well, they shall grow used to it in time. I have it on good authority that they know their work well.” Across from you, the crown prince nods sagely.

The rest of the talk is of business, and rather dull to anyone but those who participate. Discussions of duties and practical matters regarding the wedding, which you consider yourself fortunate in being not responsible to prepare.

After the lengthy dinner, during which a toast is given in your honor and you push aside your mounting intoxication to speak a few words as to your delight and hopes for happy diplomatic ties between these two nations so recently in arms against one another, you head back to your rooms with some difficulty. After a long and exceedingly dry journey, you have overdone yourself on the liquor. Or else the liquor is stronger here than at home. You puzzle over this as you stumble, resting on a footman, to your door and into the room beyond. Your maidservants are there to help you out of your dress, and you fall on the sheets with hardly a glance at them.

“Would you like a wake-up call, Your Highness?” Margarita asks. “We can make the beginning of your day most rewarding.”

“Or perhaps Your Highness is not quite ready to sleep at the moment?” Britta says.

You wave a limp hand. “No, I am quite ready to sleep, thank you. Wake me for breakfast.”

Some mystery has resurfaced in your mind after lubrication, and you paddle towards the logical conclusion like an unhurried pleasure swimmer. Personal servants…resolving the bimonthly cycle.

Bimonthly cycle.

Humans don’t have a bimonthly cycle.

Do rabbits? you wonder.

With the coy exactitude of a mechanical device, something slides into place within your mind and you bolt up straight, looking about in a panic. But the two maids have gone, and the lights are out.

“Look,” you say to the two of them as they sit on your couch. You woke from your doze with a pounding headache to find the two of them leaning over you with ravenous looks in their eyes. “Look, I think there’s been a sort of misunderstanding. I’m not some sort of wild animal who needs to be pimped out at all hours.”

Margarita and Britta look at each other. “But, Your Highness.”

“We don’t mean to contravene Your Highness.”

“But we were told to look after you.”

“I’m about to be married!”

“Yes, Your Highness, but would you not prefer to avoid the wait? Her Highness has completed her bimonthly ovulation not two weeks ago, she will not be ready until -”

“Just how many children do you think I need?”

“Well, it is not necessarily a matter of reproduction, Your Highness.”

You seek out Solomon.

“Solomon!” You say. “Chief Emissary!”

Now that you are here, Solomon’s role of Plenipotentiary has reverted to the highest ranking member of the royal family. His new title preserves his status while not diminishing your own.

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“What have you been telling these people, exactly? That I’m some sort of mad sex-fiend?”

“Excuse me, Your Highness?”

“I have been prodded about my libido from the moment I got here!”

“Well, Your Highness. It all probably stemmed from that understanding His Majesty – His Bestial Majesty, that is, Your Highness, not your father – comprehended from me during our last meeting. You see, Your Highness, the male libido of the Lion is in some manner beyond my personal comprehension linked to that of the lioness. As we men do not have this instinct, it was His Majesty’s comprehension that you might be in need of service far more often than any of his usual subjects.”

“And what am I to do about this, Solomon?”

“Well, Your Majesty, if you will pardon my saying so, I would recommend that you bear your situation stoically. Are they not to your liking? I must say that His Majesty has been most accommodating for myself, though I am lowly compared to Your Highness. His Majesty seems to have ideas about increasing the human population of the region by leaps and bounds, Your Highness. You will hear about it in the biweekly meetings – that is to say, Your Highness, on Mondays and Thursdays.”

“Don’t tell me you’re debasing yourself, Solomon?”

“Well, Your Highness, I would defer to more ecclesiastical minds than myself, but I do not recall any denouncement of intercourse with elevated beasts in the scripture. I seem to recall some instances recommending the action as a method of avoiding worse evils, such as self-abuse.” Solomon peers at you carefully.

Flabbergasted, you stomp off. You contemplate asking Hazel about this, but decide against it.

You have plenty of opportunity to do so, as the two of you spend most of your abridged courtship walking the surrounding fields and forests of the castle, trailed at a careful distance by the guards.

When you return to your chambers and set about answering missives from the various managers of your wedding as per your preference on colors, floral arrangements and entree selections, you cannot help but notice how elegantly Britta’s legs curve in their stockings; how the hole for Margarita’s poofy tail exposes a ring of short, intimate fur in the small of her back. The two of them are at your beck and call, and eager to be doing so, by all appearances. They carry your responses from your desk and bring you more, leaning over to straighten the piles and giving you peeks into the darkened recesses of their dresses, where it seems they wear very little in the way of intermediary clothing.

You find yourself musing as you bite the end of a quill pen at how Britta’s breasts are only half the size of Margarita’s, and wondering if this is a trait of all mice when you snap back to attention. These are sinful thoughts. You stare as Margarita sweeps the floor, bent so far over to collect the dust in the pan that her skirt hikes up and you can see her snow-white thighs.

You stand abruptly and begin walking to the chapel. You then double back and ask Margarita where it is. You still fail to find it, and become entangled in a meeting regarding the importance of establishing police outposts on the major roads between your kingdom and this one, foreseeing the possibility of tradesmen being waylaid along the route at present.

The remainder of the two-day reprieve before your wedding proceeds much the same. The ‘castle’ in its disassembled form bustles with activity, with flower bouquets to be assembled and garlands to be hung, ornamentation to be distributed, guests housed, food prepared. The miasma of baking, slow-roasting and stewing suffuses the building devoted to cookery and its environs, and you find yourself resisting the urge to wander in and demand a sample with as much difficulty as you refrain from reaching out to touch your maidservants when they stand so close to you that you can feel the heat radiating off their bodies.

Is it an insult to refuse them? A lack of willpower to accept them? When you ask them to draw you a bath they stand about looking sulky, as if awaiting an invitation into the washbasin. When you are awoken by them, their hands seem to hover in the air above you as if feeling for the perfect moment to touch. You dither, a tortured soul, and then it is your wedding day.

The grand hall of the castle, cleared of all debris and decorated fit for royalty, has a large crucifix erected at the head, presumably borrowed from the chapel, the location of which remains a mystery in your mind. You, dressed in white and gold (the epaulets haul down on your shoulders), stand at the head of the aisle formed by dozens of pews and further rows of chairs, all filled with dignitaries and notables, with very few human beings. The diversity of body types alone ought to leave you intrigued, but you are too busy tapping your hands together behind your back and rehearsing your lines in your mind to mark them.

Hazel comes up the aisle, escorted by her father. She is wearing a white gown with a train scattered with multicolored flower petals which you realize must have been sewn into it this very morning. Her dress fits her better this time, and more importantly she smiles back at you, which goes a long way towards putting your heart at ease.

The ceremony is as you expected, with the exception of the presence of a couple of old druidic priests standing nearby to officiate the marriage with a smear of ointment on your foreheads after the energetic Christian archbishop has given a cough and a nod. The archbishop is some form of elevated beast; a few of them had been educated as such in human seminaries before the outbreak of war, and those who did not abandon their countrymen outright and remain among the humans had to struggle in their own country to preach a religion which was touted by the opposing side and novel to their own. Many were murdered, others executed for dissension. The few who remained had (with some permissible smugness) donned their cassocks and burst forth to spread the message of Christ after the total failure of the Old Gods to see them to victory, bringing an abrupt heel-turn to the religion of the elevated beasts which evidently had still enough backwash to leave your forehead wet during your wedding ceremony. This archbishop is young for his station; obviously elevated to his post as the senior-most elevated beast priest to survive the war. You had heard some rumor of the beast-men requesting human bishops of the Church in order to preserve the sanctity of the episcopal levels, but it seems none have yet been procured, and so a mere middle-aged archbishop presides.

Hazel keeps her head lowered during much of the ceremony, eyes slightly lidded as she listens to the priest, then the pronouncements of the druids, who speak of union between moon and stars when the world was first spun out of a soup by the first beast. All nonsense, but with Hazel nodding along you look on solemnly.

Finally comes the part you were anticipating with the most dread and the greatest excitement. You lift Hazel’s veil and lean over, planting your lips on her wide muzzle. Her lips are hard and thin, but she kisses you back and wraps her arms around you. You place your arms around her shoulders and the two of you kiss amid the tumultuous applause of the crowd. You break apart and stare into Hazel’s eyes, which possess a sultry gleam you have never perceived in them before.

After the celebration and dinner are over, (you are served a slice of raw venison with great ceremony, Hazel having captured and slaughtered the animal herself, as is traditional), Hazel accompanies you to your room. Your maidservants are nowhere to be seen, thank Heaven, and the two of you sit down on opposing chairs, relieved to spare your aching feet.

“Allow me, dear husband,” Hazel says with a coy smile, “to congratulate you on your entry into the prestigious and long house of lion-kings.”

You give a small bow. “I am only pleased that you find me worthy of such distinction.”

Hazel rises and steps to the bedroom door. “I shall be ready for you in a few minutes.”

You sit up, flustered. With all this talk of bimonthly cycles you haven’t a clue what could be going on now, but you ready yourself regardless.

When Hazel calls and you enter, you see her lying on your bed without a stitch on. Her dress lies discarded over a chair, and only a small necklace remains. Her form is strong, without a touch of fat on it, and hard lines of muscle cord across her chest when she stretches with a sultry grin. She reaches out to you. “Come to me, my Anon.”

You pull off your clothes, hoping desperately that you do not disappoint her in appearance, and crawl into bed to lie on top of her. The two of you kiss again, this time with the passion reserved for closed doors and stairwells, lips parting to issue forth gasps before plunging back.

Your hands rove over her, and hers imitate yours; your fingers slide through soft fur on her belly and across the acclivities of her breasts capped with dark, bare areolae. She fingers the grooves of your ribs, playing with your hair, which by the way she does so seems to be something about you she finds fascinating. She has very little hair on her head, as is the way of lionesses, but you return her favor with a hand between her ears, which she rewards with a little bump of her head, asking for more. You rub your hand along her scalp, scratching at her neck and behind her ears, and find that she’s enclosed her legs behind you, gently, and has parted from you to give your face a lick.

At this point you can feel your manhood swollen to its full size and reach down, tracing the cleft between her legs with your fingers.

She gives a hurried exclamation and yanks at the bell-cord beside the bed.

“What?”

“Anon, I cannot, not for more than a month. You will not be able to enter me until then.” She places both hands on your arms and gives a small bow of her head. “I am sorry, I know this is a sacrifice on your part.”

“Well…”

“My father has arranged for your private release, as doubtless you have already experienced.”

“No, actually, I have not.”

This draws Hazel up short. “I’m sorry?”

“I felt it would be immoral to sleep with any woman but my wife, so I did not sleep with either of those maids.”

One of those maids in question enters; Britta, wearing a simple white chemise and rubbing her arms together behind her back. This throws out her chest, though in her case this does very little.

Hazel looks at you with a new fondness and respect. “I did not expect this of you, Anon. I appreciate the gesture, but I do not wish to make yourself miserable on my account. Simply because you are unable to hunt does not mean that I will not procure. We all have our roles to play, and though your intentions are noble, any insistence on our monogamy will lead to dissatisfaction, I am certain. In the book of Genesis of your scriptures, Abram is given a servant by his barren wife in order to enable them to have a child which she cannot produce. He lies with her and has a son, Ishmael, by her. This is considered right.

“Their case is not precisely our own, as I am not barren so that I know, but I am as good as barren for the moment, and thus…” she holds a hand out to Britta, who ducks her head to you both and steps to the edge of the bed, dropping the thin fabric she wears to the ground. Her belly fur is also fine, and her freed tail waves behind her like an independent being.

“I am proud to offer myself in this manner to Your Highnesses, and pray that I will be found of worth.” She gives another bow.

You look at Hazel. “You are satisfied with this?”

Hazel nods. “It is my sacred duty to keep my husband happy. If I cannot do this personally, I must delegate. All that I ask is that when my time comes, I shall have you to myself. We are a jealous species, and always it was in the old days that the lionesses would fight for the affections of their male, if they should ever need him at the same time. We have learned to cease this, but still I cannot help but desire you to myself when it is my time.” Hazel reaches for Britta, who slides into bed and crawls between the two of you, lying on Hazel’s lap so that her head rests between Hazel’s breasts.

You lean forward, looking down at the peculiar sight of two women lying beneath you at once.

Without any further dalliance, you allow Britta’s hand to guide you inside her, and you sink into the mouse as she lets out a ragged breath, quiet and unobtrusive. This is not about her, and she knows it. Hazel places a hand behind your neck and pulls your face in for another kiss, her tongue forcing itself between your teeth. You feel hers against your lips, vicious and sharp, efficient tools which could dismember either of the two with her in a mater of minutes. You feel a thrill of excitement, almost like a hunter standing over his prey. You have wedded this woman; this symbol of fearsome terror among your kin: she is yours, as you are hers, and you are protected both from her and by her in the nuptial ties so recently formed.

You drive into Britta, feeling the slick folds of her tighten around you. Your lower chest thuds against her with each thrust, and now Hazel is rubbing at your hair again, rumbling her deep purr as if it was her being petted or screwed. You decide to give Hazel something to enjoy, and slide down slightly to take her nipple in your mouth, nipping at it gently as your other hand swirls over its mate, pinching and suckling as Hazel squirms underneath, nearly bucking poor Britta off, as she faces an onslaught from two sides.

You decide you’re probably better off changing positions, lest the mouse be flattened, and switch onto your back, placing Britta on your lap and welcoming Hazel into your arms, her happiness evident in the way she claps paws onto your shoulders and begins nuzzling your neck, biting with the very tips of her teeth at your exposed, engorged arteries. A rush of adrenaline floods you as you break out in a cold sweat, the animal part of your brain terrified of the predator hungry for your blood. You take matters into your own hands by reaching out and snatching Hazel’s tail, giving it a playful tug, which makes her grumble dangerously. Britta hops up on your cock and begins bouncing while facing you, her eyelids half-closed as she rubs at herself, clutching with one hand at her breast while the other strokes her slit above where you enter.

You take a different tactic with Hazel, and begin rubbing at her back, groping at her butt before sliding one hand underneath her and tracing your fingers along her hot maidenhood, though in accordance with what she said before, it feels no wetter than before.

“Don’t,” she gasps.

You rub at the outside, fingers flat, and Hazel understands and guides you to place pressure on the upper portion, hand on top of yours as she licks at your chest and curls the sheets into her fist with the other.

You continue to play with Hazel until your hand gets tired, but abruptly she clutches at your arm with both of hers, seeming to wrap herself around your arm like she would around a pole, shuddering against you with a mewl. You scritch at the top of her head, and plant a kiss on her nose when she looks at you with a dreamy expression. She wrinkles her brow then, tittering. In revenge, she leans up and envelops half your face between her jaws, pricking at your cheeks as you stare down into her impressive gullet. She pulls away after a moment and pecks your nose back.

On top of you, Britta has slowed down and is staring at this bizarre courting display.

“Let’s finish up,” you say, glancing at the candles in their posts, beginning to gutter. You sit up, turning Britta around and splaying her legs apart. You push her tail out of your way and slip back inside her warmth, wrapping an arm around her waist and the other clasping her minute breast, thumbing at its pip as the mouse squeaks helplessly underneath. You feel Hazel lean up beside you, kissing at your neck as one paw fondles at your crotch from the side. She turns your face to her, and you flatten Britta to the bed with the force of your pounding. You feel your energy waning, at the same time you cannot seem to control the speed of your legs – you hump at Britta without thought, she buries her face in the blankets and bites down on them, as you can no longer hear her moaning. Hazel rubs at you, pushing her mouth against yours with hunger as she smells your approaching climax.

“Impregnate her, Anon,” she whispers. “Do it for me.”

You need no encouragement; you claw at Britta’s shoulders, yanking her up into a painful arc as you bury yourself in her pussy and flood her with your sperm, shuddering with the pent-up release of two weeks’ hard journey as Hazel croons in your ear.

You release Britta, who flops back onto the bed like a throw pillow.

“Now, sleep, I think.” You’re panting, sweat glistening off you. You can see the same sweat matting Hazel’s fur in certain spots, but the two of you lie down on the pillows together, arms wrapped around each other.

“Your Highness,” comes a whisper from the end of the bed, “May I sleep here? I do not know if I can walk.”

“Yes.”

Britta drags herself to face the pillows, though she does not presume to lie beside you on them. Instead, she resumes her position of intermediary, lying on your other side with her face to you, slipping a leg onto yours and snuggling against your side.

With a jealous growl, Hazel places one of her weighty legs over your other one, and places her great head against yours, both of you puffing with your exertions against each other until slowly, your breaths become quiet and you slip off into sleep, the candles snuffing one by one around you.

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