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A LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT

"Do you ever get the feeling that we wolves have become anachronistic?" Lord Solomon Sykes-Ryland asked Luther Stone on a sunny August morning in 1914.

They were sitting at a little garden table in front of a little French café across the street from Hyde Park, from which a decent view of the various carriages or pedestrians out on parade in the park was possible. It was always such during the Season, when a day's activities in the fashionable set invariably began with a drive or walk in the park, but given the aura of intensity and anticipation which presently hung about the city, today Hyde Park was even more busy than usual; the young men in army uniforms and with slicked-back manes and the young ladies with their silk parasols and neatly-brushed tails had in their movements a sense of heightened vitality, as if these routines might soon be disrupted.

Neither of the two wolves watching this scene wore military uniforms, although they were both young, in their twenties, and gave with the erect carriage of their bodies and their classic lupine good looks the impression both would look very fine in one. Luther, the taller, white-furred elder of the pair, was reading that morning's edition of the Winchester Gazette, while grey-furred Lord Solomon sipped a cup of tea and nibbled absent-mindedly on a croissant.

At hearing his lover's words the white wolf's ears perked, although his eyes remained on the newspaper. "How so exactly?"

Lord Solomon swallowed a bite of croissant. "I mean that the world has moved on from us. We don't fit in quite so much with the flow of modern life as well as others do; we are not really suited to it."

"Perhaps," Luther acknowledged. He flicked his ears, looking up from the Gazette. "Sorry; it's dreary reading, this."

The other wolf frowned. "Is it as bad as we thought?"

"The editor here has Sir Edward Grey quoted as saying last night, 'the lamps are going out all over Europe; we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime,'" Luther read aloud. He reached out and took up his own cup of tea. "If that's not pessimistic I don't know what is."

It was in dire times the two wolves sat reflecting on current events. Within the last twenty-four hours it had been announced that France and Germany were going to war with each other. Given that Britain had ties of allegiance with the former, it seemed increasingly likely that she could not avoid likewise joining the conflict, especially if Germany refused to respect Belgium's neutrality. The reason that all of London seemed to be simmering with tension on this August Monday was that Sir Edward Grey, the foreign secretary, Prince Lichnowsky, the German ambassador, and other notable diplomats were presently working out whether or not British neutrality in the European conflict was still possible. The future of an Empire hung in the balance.

Lord Solomon flicked an ear dismissively. "I cannot imagine it will be so bad as to inspire that kind of melodrama. Probably in a history book somewhere you can find a quote by some forgotten cabinet official making odious prophecies about the war in 1870, and lo! It lasted but a few months."

"...and yet even that was all 'twas needed to topple one empire and birth another," his lover reflected quietly. He folded the newspaper. "Nevermind that though. I don't know what's accomplished by us all moping about like prisoners waiting to be sentenced. What was this again about wolves being out of date?"

A warm summer breeze was blowing through the plaza, stirring up the scents of passing foxes and dingos with that of beer from a nearby pub. "Well," Lord Solomon began- he paused. "Did I tell you I saw Father again yesterday?"

Luther replied that he had not.

"Well I did, and he was up to his old tricks, saying that if it doesn't come to war I ought to stand for parliament in the next election." He laughed, the broad lupine muzzle open showing very white fangs. "Can't have an Earl's heir apparent gallivanting about like a playboy, apparently. And here I always thought part of the charm of being an aristocrat was that everyone expected one to be useless!"

"You certainly do well at living up to the stereotype," Luther said wryly. He had finished his tea, and now leaned back comfortably into the wicker chair. "At any rate I cannot really picture you as an MP. At least not unless as a backbencher who spends most of the time sketching deprecating caricatures of the opposition, or making witty epigrams about the speakers."

The younger wolf laughed. "Probably. To be honest I should be bored to death in a parliamentary career; forced to engage in revolting election campaigning, in which one's only reward is to be subjected to long dull debates about taxes and trade and tariffs. No, I told Father to ask one of my brothers, though I daresay I cannot imagine any of them would enjoy it more so than I. We wolves are not made for such things."

"I don't think I could be a politician either," Luther reflected, "but not because of the work itself as how it's conducted. Seems so beastly to attack a man in a campaign advertisement, when he can't defend himself to one's face, and besides which, I would not want any career that kept me penned up indoors most of the time."

As he said the words his eyes were watching the road, busy as ever with the flow of taxis and private cars and carriages; the constant anxious motion of the city made it difficult for him to forget that in a few hours his country might be at war. But Lord Solomon was nodding vigorously, brushing croissant crumbs from the front of his pale blue waistcoat. "Just so. See, yesterday after Father gave me the usual lecture - you know, the general line of paternalism, 'our duty is to lead,' and so on - I got to thinking about it, and all I can conclude is that we wolves just aren't suited to modern life - or, that is to say, modern careers."

Nearby a lorry's engine rumbled loudly. "I suppose outdoor or manual occupations may be said to be on the decline," the white wolf reflected. "But it has been that way for some time."

"It has," agreed Lord Solomon. "And that is why you and I are always so restless. It is not that we have some sort of inner deficiency, or that we are too particular in our tastes; it's that our species is out of harmonisation with our century."

Luther was frowning again, and looking away at the park. "I fear it is not likely to get any better."

"Wolves are not made to sit in offices, tapping at typewriters or scribbling in copybooks," Lord Solomon continued on his theme. Of the two he was the more talkative, the one who, when the pair were out dining with friends, or at their club, generally did most to carry the conversation. "Neither are we designed to work in factories, or in mines, or in shipyards. We have got the spirit of Odysseus in our hearts. We ought to be fighting noble wars, or exploring new lands, or going off on quests to find..." for a moment he drummed his claws across the table-top, grasping for a personal holy grail. "Sometimes I think I ought to have become an archaeologist. Certainly there must be some ancient general or pharaoh somewhere the riches of whose tomb have not yet been plundered. A buried pyramid, perhaps! Or Noah's ark, if the Ottomans don't find it first."

The older wolf listened to these musings with a respectful, even-tempted mien, ears ever alert, a sad, affectionate kind of smile spreading across his muzzle. As long as he and Lord Solomon had known each other, from the time when as pups they had befriended each other at Eton, always the grey wolf had been inclined to tipping at windmills, forever gushing with enthusiasm for some new quest the which he considered it his life's work to undertake. When he was not planning an Amazonian expedition he was scheming about scaling Everest or building a real-life version of Captain Nemo's Nautilus. That had all been very well during boyhood, but now that he had, some months ago, finished his degree at Oxford, the question of he ought to do with his life loomed ever more pressing, as if demanding an answer. "You could always go back to university," Luther suggested. He flicked an ear, frowning again. "I know what you're getting at, though. At the school-" - Luther was an athletics instructor at a boys' school - "I tell the students that the skills they learn will be useful to them in the future, but I wonder sometimes how much truth there is to it. I can't deny that outdoor careers; occupations in nature, in the wild, away from cities, may be on the decline. What that says about us..."

"It says that we'll be atavisms, sooner or later," Lord Solomon declared merrily. "I suspect in decades to come you will hear people accusing wolves of the same things Lloyd George says about us aristocrats - they will say we are antiquated, no longer useful, a branch of homo canis doomed to extinction. Like one of those ancient canid ancestors the Darwinists reference, whose bones are dug up in Ethiopia."

Luther briefly allowed his eyes to drift upwards to follow a butterfly that was fluttering about a basket of nasturtiums hung from the eves of the café's entrance. "Perhaps-" he hesitated, ears folded back slightly. "Perhaps you're right. I admit I feel frightfully uncertain as late."

"You too?" inquired Lord Solomon, although by his perky ears and broad grin it was clear that he did not share his lover's agitation; in truth in trying on the role of relic he found he rather liked it. There can in all times be found a certain strain of young people for whom the prospect of imminent destruction inspires not anxiety but excitement, even catastrophe being preferable to inertia. Lord Solomon Sykes-Ryland was one of these.

"I cannot say exactly why," continued Luther, "but the past few weeks I have had a dreadful sense of an impending disaster so horrible as to be incomparable with anything we've previously comprehended. Hearing of the Austrian archduke being shot; reading every day in the newspapers about the continuing collapse of relations on the Continent; I can't get it out of my head that something terrible is about to happen." Looking up again at Lord Solomon, his ears splayed. "Probably I sound a fool, and maybe it shall all come to nothing. But the premonition is there nonetheless."

Lord Solomon considered this. They had been sitting long enough that he was beginning to get restless; his tail twitched absently against the back of the wicker chair. "Is it that you think we will lose the war? Or that something will happen to us personally?" There was always the possibility that someone hostile might discover their relationship, but in his general careless way this was not something to which Lord Solomon gave much thought.

"No, I have no idea whether we will win or lose the war, if indeed we do go into it. But just the same I've had this nagging fear that some sort of change is coming, and that whatever it brings, it will not be well for us." There was a vague sense of embarrassment in Luther's voice, as if afraid he seemed irrational. "Perhaps it is as you say; the world is moving from the age of the wolf to the age of the...I don't know, dog or jackal or fox. Or perhaps I fear that whatever is coming will take you from me."

"Little chance of that," Lord Solomon reassured him, tail lightly tapping the wicker. "If we are to become obsolete better do it together."

Luther laughed. "It's funny isn't it, one would think that a couple like us would be concerned most with keeping our eccentricities secret from the world and yet instead it's other things that plague us."

The other wolf smirked. "And in the end love was the easiest storm to weather, quoth Shakespeare."

"Nonsense," Luther laughed again in spite of himself, and for a moment forgot to be worried. "He said no such thing."

"Perhaps not, but he ought to have," Lord Solomon retorted merrily. "Anyway, at the bottom of this I see only one question really worth considering. The fate of the world; the balance of war and peace, all of that is out of our hands. Nothing you or I can do about it. What we ought to consider is merely this: if we accept that we bear the dual challenge of being lupines in a world fast outgrowing wolves, and-" he glanced around to assure no one else was eavesdropping, "homosexuals besides, then where are we to find a place for ourselves, together, in a world in which we are increasingly conspicuous?"

For a moment Luther did not answer. He knew Lord Solomon did not really approve of his job at the school; he considered it too conventional, too ordinary, and moreover did not allow for them to live together, it being school policy that teachers reside on the campus. When Luther had first taken up the position he had overruled his lover's protests only by pointing out that he, unlike Solomon, did not have a wealthy family upon which to depend for sustenance. But the physical separation it required of them, during the school terms at least, had remained a source of conflict just the same. "What would you suggest?" he asked finally, not smiling. The younger wolf's answer, he knew from experience, would invariably change each time this question was asked.

Lord Solomon's tail wagged again. "I'm of half a mind we ought to elope to Paris and be bohemians. We could find a little flat in Montmartre, make friends of some gypsies and anarchists and starving novelists and whatever other such people live there, and with them lie about, drinking absinthe and smoking hashish and talking about love and beauty and high ideals."

Luther laughed, half in amusement and half with that tolerant, good-natured affection some people have for dreamers. "You forget France has just gone to war."

"No matter," the grey wolf flicked an ear. "In truth though I thought perhaps we ought to go out to one of the colonies. Australia or New Zealand, say. I rather fancy being a rancher, and probably somewhere out there is a mountain no one else has climbed; or some distant bush country not yet explored." His tail wagged harder as he warmed to this theme. "Out there, far from big cities, we wolves can thrive again. And there will be fewer prying eyes," and he winked at the other wolf, "to interfere with one's love affairs."

Luther considered this suggestion with an even mix of interest and scepticism, although when he glanced up again and saw Lord Solomon's eager, boyish, open-muzzled grin and wagging tail, a burst of love swelled up within him, reminding him how he so loved the young man across from him, a hopeless, impractical Don Quixote though he might be. "That might well be possible," he said, finally. "I had not really considered leaving home but...perhaps the role of immigrant will come naturally to us. Providing of course that it does not come to war." The unacknowledged reality of what war would mean for them hung heavily in the air.

Just the same, it left no effect on Lord Solomon. "Very well then," his tail thumped the wicker, "so it's settled. I shall start reading up on Australia. Does the sound of a pet kangaroo strike your fancy?"

It was clear, Luther realised, that he had just seized upon this idea with the full frenzy of his habitual passions. "Entertaining no doubt." He glanced away towards the road, which was as ever filled with anxious drivers and chattering pedestrians. "Ghastly this waiting, though." Mention of the war had brought back all his anxieties, all the colossal questions the which rested upon the day's outcome, bubbling up again within him, dispersing his lover's fantasises.

"Let's get out of here, then," Lord Solomon suggested. His ears were straight up again with that alertness they always seemed to achieve when he'd just seized to a new scheme. "I know one thing that never fails to make you forget your worries."

"What? Oh," Luther smirked in spite of himself, "not now, this isn't the time," he said, but as he saw the foxlike grin spread down Lord Solomon's muzzle he already knew he'd lose this argument.

"When isn't the time?" the younger wolf laughed. "Hasn't some Greek philosopher somewhere said that there are two passions to be exalted above all others? There's love, and there's war. If you can't make one, make the other."

"Goodness, Solly," Luther's ears splayed as he glanced around again, "not so loud."

Lord Solomon flicked his ears in his usual careless way. "No one cares." He followed Luther's gaze around the café and out into the street. "Too busy worrying about the end of the world, probably. Or lusting after a chance to put Germany back in her place." He shrugged, raising his eyebrows. "Let's be going, shall we?"

For the briefest of seconds Luther considered protesting again, but then unexpectedly a grin spread down his muzzle too, and his tail wagged. Why not. Who knew what this day or tomorrow might bring; they were both of them young and wild with love and lust for life and each other. Better to take advantage of what time they had, while it was there. "Let's," he agreed, standing up, grabbing his jacket from where it was hung about the back of his chair. As Lord Solomon likewise stood Luther had to force himself not to notice the slightly obvious bulge in the white fabric of the front of the grey wolf's trousers.

"After all," Lord Solomon continued, smirking, lowering his voice as they stepped onto the sidewalk, "I can't put Germany back in her place, but I can put you back in yours."

Three quarters of an hour later found the two wolves within Lord Solomon's bedroom in Lochmaben House, Mayfair, which was the London residence of his father, the Earl of Lochmaben. At this time of day only the household servants were home, some of whom already knew about their young heir's unusual tastes anyway, so slipping away to Lord Solomon's private chambers had not posed any difficulty. They had come in panting, neither being particularly fond of very warm summer weather, so when the door had closed behind them, and they were alone in the privacy of the chamber, Luther went to the washbasin at Lord Solomon's dressing table, in which was some water, and doused his muzzle in it. When he turned around again he saw the other wolf had sprawled loosely back across the bed, still dressed, and was now staring him down with an alluring expression.

"The one problem with being the lover of an aristocrat," Luther remarked wryly as he crawled onto the bed, "is that he will always expect you to undress him for you." He lifted his head as Lord Solomon slipped an arm around it, his own arm slipping over the younger wolf's back as they naturally slid into an embrace. As their bodies pressed together he could feel the familiar stirrings in his groin which seemed unavoidable when another man's body was held so close to one as Lord Solomon's was to him.

His lover laughed, his tail thwapping the bed in an even thump-thump. "That is hardly a 'problem,' and you know it. After all, tis much more fun to let another man undress one than to undress oneself." Though they now each had their arms about each other, their muzzles laid over each other's shoulders or pressed into neck ruffs, neither moved; it had always been the opinion of both that lovemaking was not something one rushed into. In reflection it might well be felt that the beginning, when they did nothing but hold and lightly stroke or kiss each other, was the best part, in which time seemed to slip away, and both could merely surrender themselves to the satisfying bliss of their togetherness.

For Luther these moments were the happiest, for lying there, his nose pressed into his lover's neck, breathing in the familiarly-unique scent of him, feeling Lord Solomon's paw softly scratching up and down his back, from collarbone downwards to the base of his tail, the claws teasing through the fur to draw little tingling sensations out of him, he felt at peace in a way he never really did in any other situation anymore. Here, the atmosphere of the bedroom - the silver and grey wallpaper, which featured scenes from one of Dumas's novels, the plaster ceiling with its intricate geometric sculpturing, the pale green carpets and Georgian furniture, and the big bed with its lush grey-green blanketry - seemed a world of its own, a stage in which the fourth wall was never broken, and in which he and Lord Solomon played the principal, and only, rôles. A shiver of gladness ran through him, inspiring him to pull the younger wolf ever closer, and to press his fangs lightly against his neck in the softest of nibbles.

In such times talk always seemed unnecessary; far better to show the other how one felt than to waste words on description. Even through Luther's waistcoat and shirt - he had already laid his jacket over the back of a chair - Lord Solomon's teasing fingers made him shiver; massages and backscratching were a particular favourite of his. Just the same he held his fangs against his lover's neck, simultaneously sliding a hand down Solomon's back, then pressing his fingers in about the waist of the other wolf's trousers, flexing the fingers to work his claws within the waistband. Gradually he slid his hand in, feeling the heat of Lord Solomon's body close beneath his underclothes. His hand curled round, fingers squeezing the firm but pliable rump beneath them.

By now neither were unaware of the growing protrusions in the front of their trousers. Releasing Lord Solomon's neck, Luther's head turned up, and the two wolves' muzzles met. Luther's tongue slipped past his fangs and into his lover's muzzle, his eyes closed, and he savoured the taste and feeling as their tongues danced.

When, after a few moments of soft, affectionate kissing, they broke away, Lord Solomon reached down and started undoing the buttons of Luther's trousers. The feeling of his claws tracing against Luther's imprisoned shaft made the older wolf pant, but likewise inspired him to momentarily withdraw his hand from within Lord Solomon's trousers, where his fingers had been massaging Solomon's behind, and instead slid the hand down between them, to begin unbuttoning the other wolf's trousers. Briefly both edged themselves apart, to make the process easier.

When the buttoning was undone Luther watched as Lord Solomon pulled apart the front of his trousers, revealing the sizable swelling in his underclothes. Of the two Luther was the better gifted in this area; whether because of being a year older, or being the taller of the two, or merely by fluke of nature, he had a particularly girthy shaft, the sight of which, when they had first made love together, had made Lord Solomon gulp and shiver in a mix of anticipation and trepidation. Now his hand wrapped around that same bulge, fingers teasing over its trapped surface, as Luther panted, and watched attentively. Presently they both sat up and began pulling off their trousers.

Never in their coupling had the two ever assigned one another permanent roles. Theirs was not so much a division of active and passive lover; rather in their lovemaking they switched back and forth fluidly, often multiple times on the same occasion. This unvoiced agreement was such that as they reached out to start undoing one another's waistcoat buttons, their trousers having now been discarded over the edge of the bed, the mood between them was always one of equality, rather than one leading and the other following.

Waistcoats followed trousers over the edge of the bed, soon joined by shirts. Now mostly undressed, the two wolves fell together back upon the bed, arms thrown around one another, as they again shared a tender kiss. Luther's tail wriggled happily against the bed, a motion Lord Solomon sometimes teased him about, saying it was puppyish, but which the white wolf could not help; wagging came so naturally in these circumstances, when his heart felt so glad. It was easy now to feel Solomon's excitement pressed against his own, a throbbing pressure that sent a delicious quiver through the wolf. There was always something incredibly thrilling about feeling another man's cock against one's own; perhaps the taboo factor, the notion of forbidden fruit, played a part, but Luther loved the shear intimacy of it, the closeness of two hard shafts throbbing together. As they kissed he ground his hips forward, making sure Lord Solomon felt the intensity of their connection, and was rewarded with a thrust in return from his lover. This was followed by the younger wolf's hand slipping again down to his groin, gripping Luther through the fabric, fingers firm against the hot rigidity within.

"Time to get these off too," Lord Solomon growled lowly, hooking his fingers over the waistband. Rolling over on his back, Luther arched himself upwards to allow his lover to slip the undergarments down, away from his sac, and slide them down. He kicked them away as his tail rustled against the bed, grinning in the blissful contentment that was being naked together with another handsome young wolf. Lord Solomon wasted no time in getting himself equally nude, and then his muzzle dipped down, he gripped Luther's hot, sticky erection, and slid it into his mouth.

Rather than leaning back to fully relax Luther held himself up on his elbows to watch, panting again as Lord Solomon rolled a hand up and down the lower part of his shaft, it being too long and thick to entirely swallow. As his muzzle went up and down his tongue swirled around the head, teasing out sensations in that most sensitive part, making little tremors of intensity radiate throughout Luther's body. They had done this often enough that Solomon was more than a little talented; he knew how to wrap his tongue about Luther's prick in just the right way, how to jerk and twist the base, the growing knot, in the manner which most made the older wolf shiver, huff, and pant. A motion of love, a motion of lust; however defined it made Luther feel lusty, in love, and wanting to show it.

With these emotions flowing through him he tapped Lord Solomon on the shoulder, and when the younger wolf looked up, suggested, "Let's share." So saying he pushed himself up, crawled downwards on the bed until his muzzle was very near Solomon's groin, his own shaft again poking at Solomon's face. With a playful grin he reached and pulled his lover's cock to his mouth, kissed the tip, and put his muzzle over it. A sensation of tender wet warmness over his own shaft showed that Solomon had spared little time in returning the favour.

Perhaps because of the sense of equality that existed between them this particular act was one of their personal favourites, in which both could mutually give and receive affection and pleasure from the other simultaneously. Luther could achieve a little more depth than could Lord Solomon, so as they lay next to each other he softly pulled at the other wolf's shaft, gradually sliding it deeper and deeper into his muzzle and throat, whilst enjoying the shivering sensations running up from his own erection as Solomon continued to tease it. This was not the grand finale of their coupling, though; that he knew already. With a slight smirk, as much as one could manage with a wolf's prick in his muzzle, he slid a hand over Lord Solomon's hip, over the curve of his posterior, working the fingers into the cleft of his lover's rear. He could feel Solomon tensing slightly, muzzle tightening ever so much over Luther's cock, as two of the latter's claws pressed gently against his hole.

Luther felt warm, tender furless skin, and the sweaty dampness warm days and erotic encounters so naturally inspire. His shaft was still throbbing, leaking droplets onto Lord Solomon's tongue, ever a distraction, as much as was the rigid erection his own tongue was now wrapped about, but nonetheless he continued to tease his fingertips about the other wolf's hole, hinting with the tender pressing that this was only the beginning. He could tell, as he traced a claw in circular motions around his lover's entrance, that this playful caress was having an effect; Lord Solomon seemed to be growing ever more tense, back arching slightly, less focused on attending to Luther's shaft as he had been before. So Luther pressed his fingertips deeper, harder...

After a few more moments of this Lord Solomon rolled away. "I," he panted, licking his lips, ears folded back, "I want you."

Luther grinned a toothy lupine grin. "Tail up, then." Momentarily sitting up on the bed, he watched his lover briefly slip off the bed, then return armed to further slicken up Luther's shaft. A flickering memory flashed across his mind, recalling those early, inexperienced days, when as teenagers at Eton they had prepared themselves only with saliva. Then Lord Solomon flopped over onto his chest, arms folded, rump arched upwards as his bushy grey tail, blacktipped at the end, bent upwards over his back, giving Luther what he considered one of the best views a man could see.

Lord Solomon, Luther had always believed, had a lovely rear; once in their Oxford days he had teasingly taken out the little Brownie camera he owned and taken a few photos of it - a risky measure if anyone had seen them - so here he paused briefly, taking in as so many times before the lush grey fur, which turned more creamy the farther below Solomon's tail one looked; the attractive symmetry of the two mounds, the alluring cleft between them, below it the dangling sack, creamy-furred, heavy and full, and within the cleft the centre of his attention, that tempting opening his fingers had so recently been caressing. To be a homosexual, he reflected, was in some ways to be a lover of symmetry; one wishes to that one's lover and oneself might reflect each other, a little. To see beauty not only in the differences but in the sameness.

The other wolf, however, apparently felt too impassioned to wait, as he soon glanced over his shoulder, ears forward again, eyes questioning, a lustful, needy grin upon his muzzle. "Don't just look at it, man!" As if to put emphasis on the words he shook his rump from side to side, temptingly.

Luther snorted. "I intend to do far more than that, you silly pup." His shaft was still throbbing; wet, slick and ready to be shoved deep. His appreciation for Lord Solomon's attractiveness was such though that first he bent low, placing a tender kiss upon his lover's hole, with a forceful press of his tongue. That subtle appreciation shown, he straightened up, took his cock in his hand to align it with Solomon's entrance, and began to push firmly inward. As he did so he released his shaft and gripped his wolf on both sides, holding him securely as he drove himself in.

When, a decade before, they had first become lovers, this moment had been a slow one of adjustment, considering how generously large Luther's shaft was, but now after years of making love to one another Lord Solomon's rear had become loose enough that hilting within him was not for Luther a very difficult act. Just the same he paused briefly upon reaching this point, panting lightly in that satisfied gratification that having one's shaft buried in another male always inspired, his pricked ears catching the sound of his lover's own panting. The scent of lupine arousal radiated outwards from them now; no doubt the housemaids, when later they changed the bedding, would not be able to miss it. No matter. "You alright, old boy?" Luther asked softly. When bedding another male it was his custom to always assure himself that the other was prepared, before he began really getting into the passion of thrusting.

"Damn yes," Lord Solomon panted, whimpering. "Don't hold back." As if to further emphasise this he clenched his hole about Luther's shaft, making the older wolf groan involuntarily.

Reassurance given. No reason now to hesitate. Pulling back, Luther shoved himself inward again, ears catching the pleasant smack of his groin against Lord Solomon's rump. Even loosened though he was, the other wolf's rear felt wonderful about his shaft, its warm, firm closeness seeming to fit Luther as if designed just for him. Confident Solomon would speak up if he was too rough, he began working into a steady rhythm of thrusts, holding his wolf's sides firmly to keep him in place as his shaft glided in and out of that welcoming passage. Never a very quiet lover, Lord Solomon was already making a varied assortment of whimpers and little quivering yelps, his head lolling back, eyes closed, as he let the sensations and the passion of their coupling take over. Luther, who whether giving or receiving was always more inclined to take control, watched his lover's reaction with a smooth satisfied smile, enjoying the sight of Lord Solomon's ears folding back, appreciating his arched tail, every yelp a confirmation of Solomon's open willingness to take him.

That was one beautiful thing about lovemaking, Luther thought; it gave one the opportunity to give oneself to one's lover, in a sense. Letting the man one loved take control, putting oneself into his hands to do with as pleased, to bring both to heights of pleasure...it was a lovely thing to watch, seeing how each of Luther's thrusts made the younger wolf gasp, whine, shiver, push back, and pant harder. Luther's rhythm was precise, every thrust equally deep, his concentration intense as he found he too was drifting further away, into the feeling. He could have reached below to find Lord Solomon's own hard shaft and stroke it, but did not, knowing his lover preferred to do this himself; "no distractions, not even for me," he had once told Luther. And so the white wolf focused solely on driving himself in and out, ever aware of Solomon's whimpering moans.

For a time neither wolf spoke, both focused entirely on savouring the elation of the moment, Luther absorbed in the delicious friction of his shaft pounding into Lord Solomon; the latter loving the caress of that same prick deep within him. From the first time they had done this together both had taken naturally to this level of male-male intimacy; for one male to wish to mount another, or be mounted by him, seemed to them the most natural thing in the world. Now Luther gripped Lord Solomon's waist within an even greater degree of intensity, pulling them together forcefully as he thrusted harder, deeper, mindful now that his knot had swollen, and was knocking at his lover's entrance. Solomon was certainly aware of this, but he didn't look back, or ask of Luther to be knotted; he merely kept his eyes closed, whimpered and yelped, and awaited the culmination he knew was coming.

Both of them had a belief that to mate with another male without knotting him was a wasted opportunity. Accordingly as Luther sped up even further he had only one goal in mind now; to make the tie that would connect them perfectly. Whether tied or not he knew his climax was coming, he could feel it building, present on the boundaries of his conscious, rippling closer every instant left. He was panting hard now, every inhale bringing the scent of male wolf in the throes of passion. It was coming now, that pinnacle, unstoppable and unavoidable, so he pulled Lord Solomon's rump into his groin, pressed himself firmly into that welcoming depth, and felt the familiar yet never disappointing delight of his knot slipping within.

Luther had once argued, when at Oxford he had overheard a Labrador classmate advancing the suggestion that all wolves howled during sex - the Labrador had apparently come to this epiphany by bedding a shewolf - that this was merely a legend, the which had little evidence to support it. In truth however he could never help but howl, even if in a low, breathy, drained kind of way, in those delicious moments when he had just knotted Lord Solomon, or, inversely on other occasions, when the other wolf had just knotted him. Intermixed with his howl came the sounds of Lord Solomon's yelps, whimpers, and moans, nearly unavoidable when one has just taken a large knot. For some long, uncertain seconds Luther's eyes closed, all conscious thought draining away, as he surrendered to the ecstasy of the moment.

Some moments later they lay together on the bed, Lord Solomon's back pressed snugly up against Luther's chest, as the white wolf held him close.

Their panting had lessened now, both of them left not so much tired or burnt out as satisfied, gently relaxing in their satiation. "Did you...?" Luther asked. He could not tell if the scents his nose was picking up were from himself only or both of them.

"I did." Lord Solomon's voice was soft and happy; his tail thrusted softly against Luther's hip. "I shall have to bathe before we go out again."

"No matter, I'm glad you did," Luther whispered, giving his lover a soft lick on the cheek. His knot, ever sensitive, was still buried within Lord Solomon; probably it would be another quarter hour or more before they could separate, but he felt no need to rush. These moments, lying together with his arms about the wolf he loved, ought be treasured. His muzzle was resting on Lord Solomon's shoulder, where he could easily nuzzle the other wolf. As they cuddled his tail contentedly tapped the blankets.

Now as they held each other, as the sensations of their coupling ebbed, Luther's mind drifted back to the morning's conversation, to the events of the day, and the consequences upon which those depended. Not now, he thought; this was not the time to mull over the uncertainties of fate, here, in this moment, he ought to be free of all fears and worries, able to forget, as Lord Solomon seemingly always did, that there was a world outside of their bedroom. Yet just the same he found himself itching to get a glimpse of a newspaper, or to stand outside Westminster and ask of passers-by if a resolution had been reached. He almost despised himself for allowing that nagging curiosity to penetrate into this intimate moment, but it was there nonetheless, his old inability to avoid letting the trials of the world affect him. But just the same, he thought, perhaps there was a lesson in that, a warning to treasure this moment all the more, to appreciate every minute he and Lord Solomon were together. Love, affection, whole-hearted dedication bubbled up within him, and he clutched the younger wolf to him closely, as if at any moment they might be separated. Then, oddly, Lord Solomon turned his head and looked up at him, relaxed, ears folded back, but alert as though he too had been thinking.

"I was thinking," remarked the grey wolf with a kind of wry little smile, "it is a queer thing perhaps, but I think that if someone were to say to me that my life had been entirely worthless, I should feel he had paid me a compliment."

It was so far from anything Luther might have expected him to say that at first he frowned, flicked an ear to the side in curiosity, and tilted his head thoughtfully. "Why ever would you say that, Solly?"

Lord Solomon gazed up at him lovingly. "I was thinking about us being wolves, again. In an age when the world is outgrowing us. And I thought: maybe we lupines don't need to have a purpose for existing. We can just be."

Luther laughed, felt another burst of love, and kissed him. "Sometimes I think you ought to become a philosopher."

That inspired an enthused wag from Lord Solomon, and a chuckle. "A brilliant idea, I don't know why I didn't think of it before! All I'd need do is talk a great deal of nonsense and people will say I'm a right genius."

"That will come naturally enough no doubt," Luther said, and relaxed back against the covers. It was perhaps, he reflected, best that people like himself, inclined towards worrying over destiny's ambiguities, should fall in love with free-spirited idealists of the kind Lord Solomon was. The best kind of paramours are the kind who when brought together create balance.

It was when balance was broken that one should worry.

In the evening the two wolves again went out into London.

They had dined at Lord Solomon's club, after which, having filled themselves with good food and a fine bottle of Burgundy, they wandered down to the Thames, and along it walked in the direction of Westminster.

It was then late enough that the sun had gone, and instead lamplight cast shadows upon the pavement, and reflected across the water of the river in a fashion that reminded Luther of one of Van Gogh's paintings. Despite the hour there were many people about in the streets, carriages, cars, and taxis yet buzzed by; the city had not really gone to rest. A looming question lay unanswered.

"The Prime Minister," Luther had explained as they stood near Waterloo Bridge, "has given Germany until midnight to get out of Belgium. If the Germans refuse...well, then we will be at war."

"We shall know soon enough then," Lord Solomon had replied neutrally, and they'd walked on, wondering whether away in the Commons, and in the Admiralty, the men at the helm of the Empire were any closer to avoiding the crisis. There was an uneasy tension in the air, such that even optimistic Lord Solomon was quieter than usual, and walked with less tail wag in his step.

Shortly after midnight an official came out to address the crowd that had gathered outside Westminster and confirmed that war had been declared on Germany.

Now they returned to gaze upon the river. In his stoic way Luther held his head high, forbid his tail to slink between his legs, nor his ears to splay, but inwardly his heart cried; this tragedy confirmed, somehow, the sense of forbidding he had felt so often as late. There would be a call to arms; all young men of their generation would be expected to fight for King and country. To avoid doing so was so out of the question it did not even occur to him; from the moment the declaration of war had been announced he'd known that in the morning he would be going to enlist, but just the same a sickening sense of dread settled over him, such that he glanced at Lord Solomon with an almost vaguely protective expression, as if worried the younger wolf would soon be taken from him.

For at time the pair paused by the river, watching the lights flicker over its uneven surface, and then Lord Solomon said warmly, "Well, at least now this provides a solution to my musings."

His voice was so oddly confident, almost merry, that Luther glanced up, head cocked to the side, in confusion. "However so?"

"Wolves have always been good at fighting," the grey wolf declared. He did not, Luther finally comprehended, seem to have taken the news hard at all. "In mediaeval times it was the wolf lords who Kings called on to go on Crusades, or to put down rebellions, or to be admirals of armadas, was it not? So again in these modern years. I questioned whether wolves no longer had a purpose, but now one has been provided for us."

Good God, Luther thought, he has taken this as a sign. "So you will be joining up too, then."

"But of course! We shall sign up together!" Suddenly Lord Solomon turned and grabbed his shoulder, stepping up closer to Luther than they usually dared in public, so that their muzzles were mere inches apart. In the lamplight their shadows mixed and became one. "Don't you see? This is how we can be together, always!"

Luther's ears splayed, then his eyes narrowed. "By enlisting together?" But then he began to understand.

Lord Solomon's tail wagged vigorously. In the twilight the white fangs in his smile seemed to glow. "Precisely! If we join together, we can serve together. Have you not read of how long ago in Greece there were armies of lovers, who fought side by side? Who fights better than he who fights alongside the man he loves? We shall be as a band of brothers; that, I do know with certainty, Shakespeare has said."

His confidence was such that in spite of himself Luther relaxed, considering. Difficult perhaps to accomplish, but with the right strings pulled, the right contacts made - and with Lord Solomon's noble birth, he certainly had them - it might be arranged that they be allowed to serve together, within the same regiment. "Whatever else happens..." he reflected aloud, "we would at least be together..."

"That's it," cried his lover. "I shall not lose you to that beastly school any longer; we will not have to get by on seeing each other occasionally. Whatever comes; heat of sun, autumn's rain and chill, or a hail of bullets, we will face it together. I shall march into battle braver and more confidentially with you at my side, and when it is all over and we have delivered France and Belgium from the clutches of the Hun, we can go off to Australia together, as war heroes to a well-deserved retirement."

On second thought, supposed Luther, I ought not be surprised it is you, who have always idolised heroes of chivalry, who so keenly embraces the rôle of noble warrior. Same old Solly, fearless idealist to the end. But just the same some part of him grasped on his lover's enthusiasm, as a shipwrecked sailor does on wreckage, as if within it to find a sense of security in what to him seemed a rapidly collapsing reality. Lord Solomon was right, they could join together, and within the rôle of brothers-in-arms they would find a way to be together always. In life, perhaps in death. "And if we die at it?"

Lord Solomon laughed, clapping Luther on the back. "Don't be silly, don't you know that the people who go into battle worrying about that are always the first to die? I shan't think of it, myself." His voice sobered, tail no longer wagging, and he looked Luther directly in the eyes. The reflection of the lamplight glowed in his eyes. "But if it does come to that, well, I can think of no greater honour, no more preferable finis, than to die by your side. It would be a splendid way to die."

It was pure honesty, words spoken from the heart, unadulterated confidence in a love that could survive anything, and with it Luther felt simultaneously an unexpected twang of hope, intermixed with love for this wolf. He laid a hand on Lord Solomon's shoulder, and they gazed at each other fondly. They were still there by the street side, next to the Thames, in public but for all they knew the city might have been deserted save for the two of them. They had eyes only for each other.

"So we shall enlist, then," Luther resolved. "We shall do our duty, and we shall stay together, whatever the consequence..." he smiled down at Lord Solomon, "through the gates of hell, if it comes to that."

"...if it comes to that," agreed the grey wolf. "There is after all, no where I would not follow you." He gestured at the river. "See that lamplight? I was reflecting that Sir Edward Grey has it all wrong."

Luther frowned, not following. "How so?"

"He said the lamps were going out all over Europe, and that they would not be lit again in our lifetime, yes?"

Again Luther nodded. "Yes, he was quoted in the newspaper. Not really so inaccurate, given how many countries are being drawn into this war."

"But he was wrong, Luther," Lord Solomon glanced around briefly, then seeing that there was no one watching them, he turned and put both of his hands at Luther's sides, looking up into the white wolf's eyes. There was a puppyish confidence in the perky carriage of his ears, in the bright-eyed excitement of his expression. "He said the lamps were going out, but I know of at least one light that cannot go out, that will never go out - our love."

Luther's countenance must have suggested some hint of amusement, because the younger wolf quickly followed this up with, "You may laugh, or say that like Don Quixote I've become overly sentimental by reading too many novels. But, sentimental, maudlin, romantic that I may be...it's true, just the same."

And he was right, Luther reflected. There were some connections that were meant to last for all time, in light of which separation, fear, tragedy and death paled, diminished in severity, for they changed nothing. Before him Lord Solomon's eyes were burning like fire, shining with love and life, with light that only death, and perhaps not even that, could put out. As his throat choked, heart and mind overwhelmed with a tangle of competing emotions - love, hope, fear, confidence - Luther bent and kissed Lord Solomon, softly, on the mouth.

For a few moments the two wolves stood together, shoulders pressed against one another, gazing upon the shadowy, reflecting river. "We are the light that never goes out," whispered Luther, as if in affirmation. Far above them a clear moon was rising, the greatest lamp of all, and it shown down over the lovers, over all of London, upon the joyful and the mournful, upon the darkness and the light.