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Arthur Titus Corley was arrested on multiple charges that Saturday afternoon, based upon Fletcher swearing out a complaint against him. As a minor, the wolf needed some sort of help or corroboration from "a parent or guardian." Just in case my own word wasn't enough, I called Thad Whitlock immediately; he was able to help reinforce the basis for the charges, based on what Fletcher had sworn to in his application for being put into foster care in the first place. I couldn't begin to explain how it all worked, but the various reports and paperwork that were already in place appeared to support enough charge to have the cat held for 48 hours. Thad used various contacts to find investigators who would try to find a judge to issue a warrant to search the cat's house for further evidence. I had enough trouble trying to follow the cop shows on TV, so I wasn't exactly sure what was going on, and in any case, my attention was elsewhere.

The paramedics on the ambulance made sure that Corley wasn't too badly injured before the police took him away. It was four-to-one against my own insistence that I was okay (six, if you count the medicos), so they had a look at me too. The scratches on my arm and face were unpleasant but required no stitches and, they said, probably wouldn't scar me; my tarsal pads were a wee bit worse for the wear, and they were also seen to. Whatever had taken the place of iodine and hydrogen peroxide these days produced only a bit of a sting, and the lads were very good about bandaging my arm and my pads. The Archdeacon apologized to me privately for giving any weight to Deacon Thomas' complaint, and he asked that I talk to him again soon "to make things right." In the meantime, my four protectors bundled me into the Cadillac and carried me home. This time, it was Fletcher who was holding on to me, as I was still shaking from the confrontation.

We were asked about the meeting, and Fletcher and I gave a good accounting. None of us could be sure exactly what would happen, but the worst outcomes had been avoided. Archdeacon Valenti was impressed with Fletcher in his own right, and he'd heard enough of the story of Othertime to be horrified by it. With the equally horrifying discovery that his own private secretary was the cause of it, the word "livid" was too mild for his response. Corley was laity, not clergy, but even if someone were to bring up the false connection to "the church creating pedophiles," the notion of scandal wasn't even a concern. For the Archdeacon, the mildest retribution he had thought of would have involved bringing back instruments of torture considered too cruel to use even during the Inquisition.

Discretion held the rest of the early evening. Fletcher and Mrs. Whitson saw to preparing the ziti bake and popping it into the oven, then joined me, Leif, and Wyatt in a few rounds of Liar's Dice before we all dug in for a perfectly good repast. It had barely gone seven before the others took their leave into the warm summer evening. What I truly wanted with Fletcher was not yet possible between us: A stroll, paw in paw, through a beautiful parkland, somewhere semi-rural, climbing a hill together, watching the sunset from under yon spreading chestnut tree, cuddled in each other's embrace. We did cuddle, and quite intimately, but it was mostly for the physical comfort offsetting the fearful yet determined conversation we had, regarding what we would have to face in the coming weeks and months.

Before sleep, we rose to put on our shorts and t-shirts, as we usually did. As I reached for my clothing, I turned to the prie-dieu in the corner of the room, then back to Fletcher. "Saint Francis of Assisi gave himself entirely to the church in a sudden conversion to faith. There in the town square, standing before the bishop, whom he hoped would take him into the church, he took off all of his clothes, every stitch he had, and returned them to his father. He literally became naked in order to take on the life that he wanted."

I knelt there, stripped to the fur, and let myself feel the deepest prayer of gratitude that I could offer. I felt my young wolf stand behind me, his forepaws to my shoulders, his kiss to the back of my head, and knew for the first time how prayer is answered. A trinity of phrases blossomed in my mind and became the homily that I would deliver in the morning. Fletcher's warmth against me was all the proof that I would need of what faith could bring about.

Sunday morning broke gently. Mrs. Whitson brought tea and a quiet word that, so far as she could tell, the news had yet to break about Corley. A quick consultation between us confirmed that we would do well not to stir the pot. Nothing was said about it at the service, although those who witnessed what happened later might have looked back upon my homily -- my brief speech about_openness of the mind, readiness of the heart, steadfastness of the spirit_ -- and realized what I was talking about. Others would look back and realize that it was also the last time that Thomas Tucker performed as a deacon in our church; he left without anyone's urging and without rancor on any side. His resignation from his particular post was formal, polite, and mentioned only the most tangential comments regarding a "differing opinion of the articles of faith." I let him know that I would gladly write a letter of recommendation to any other priest who might want to know how efficiently he dispatched his duties as deacon. He has yet to take me up on it.

Sunday evening dinner was not spoiled in the slightest by news from Thad that a search warrant for Corley's house would be executed the next morning. I think Mrs. Whitson was in no way surprised by Fletcher's even-tempered response to the news; we had told her of our discussions, and the young wolf said that he would be glad for it to be over, but that, with the help of his family, he'd get through it. The firefox hugged us both and said how proud she was to be part of our family. We made sure she knew that we loved her no less.

Nothing could stop a news story as sensational as that one, and by Monday evening, it all came pouring out, in pitiless detail. The police had found a large basement which held what could only have been described as a dungeon, in both the sexual and the original sense of the word. Along with comparatively simple fetish and sexual torture gear (most of it in sizes too small for anyone of adult stature), devices the names of which I had never heard were found in abundance. A huge quantity of video had been confiscated as well; I had to learn later what it meant to have five four-terabyte hard drives filled to capacity. They also found another young male, perhaps nine or ten years old, naked, terrified, almost without the ability to speak. I consulted with everyone, including Thad Whitlock, who appreciated my and Fletcher's offers to help but suggested we not seem to be interfering with the investigation at this point. He said he'd put a flea in the right ear (not literally, of course) and keep up with whatever would happen to the yowen.

For whatever help he thought it might give to him in court, Corley readily gave up the names of adult males with whom he had trafficked. Axel McCombs was arrested and charged with several crimes. Fletcher had been right: His biological sire had sold him. In exchange for the young wolf, Corley ordered, and had delivered to Axel's home, a wall-sized state-of-the-art television and sound system. He still had the receipt in his files, so we could see the exact price paid for three and a half years of my lover's life. I begged God's mercy for my sense that I would never be able to forgive Axel McCombs for what he did, even as I realized that had it not been for that wretched waste of fur and bone, I would not have found the greatest love of the rest of my life. I wondered if I'd ever reconcile that.

There is a terrible truism that yowens can be cruel. Part of developing the ability to "perform adulting," as Fletcher and I had come jokingly to call it, is learning how to stop shoving one's muzzle where it doesn't belong. As I'd told my young wolf often, it's a good thing to be curious; avoiding crossing boundaries is the tricky bit. Let it not be said that today's yowens can't put two and two together. It didn't take long for them to realize that the "rescued wolf" of half a year ago was none other than Fletcher. It was during those first several days that I discovered a few things.

First, I found that Fletcher's three friends were truly good friends; they stuck with him throughout the school days, escorting him by bicycle to and from school, and they gently kept the crowds away. On that Tuesday afternoon, they did go into the gym, but not to shoot hoops. All three shared their curiosity along with their wish not to hurt their mutual friend. Like Fletcher, they were "adult" about it, and the young wolf did describe some of what had happened to him, mostly about being imprisoned, wakened at all hours, not allowed to speak unless asked to, and so on. Xavier expressed a certain awe over Fletcher's being able to hug anyone after being treated so horribly, and my pup proudly gave credit to me for caring enough to help him break through that barrier. Will again apologized for his sire's inappropriate comment, particularly now that he knew even more of the story. It was a little awkward at first, but the four eventually got to shooting hoops again, and it became very clear to Fletcher (and to me) that he had chosen his friends well.

Second, I discovered that the principal of the middle school was a rat to be reckoned with, and not necessarily in a positive way. I was more or less summarily sent for on the Wednesday, to meet with her and discuss Fletcher's "disruptive influence" on her school. Perhaps I was guilty of being over-protective, but I arrived with Mrs. Whitson (who was, after all, Fletcher's second guardian) and Thad Whitlock (who was, after all, concerned with any aspect of Fletcher's situation as it might affect the adoption process). The rigidly-postured Miss Atturbury was not intimidated by the three of us, and I must confess to some disappointment at that. To her credit, however, she was not entirely closed-minded about the subject. Ultimately, several factors convinced her to back down from her complaint, not the least of which being Thad's observation that it would set an extremely dangerous precedent for the entire school district if a student were barred from school due to something that was entirely out of his control. I stepped in to ask if Fletcher had done anything to exacerbate the situation, and Miss Atturbury admitted that he in fact was doing his best not to respond to it at all. She managed enough grace to say that I had apparently been doing a good job of raising him. I thanked her and refrained from mentioning that most of it was the wolf's own doing. I was extremely proud of him, and I think that showed through without my hammering the point home.

The third thing that I found was that the workings of the modern world were indeed reflected in the microcosm of school. It took only three days for the media news cycle to tire of the story and begin its search for something that would be considered more sensational. By the following Monday, most of the school had also found the novelty worn off. The pity of this is that I doubted that any justice could be had in a world that was more interested in the shock of a new atrocity than in the work needed to prevent another like it from occurring again.

Other discoveries were more personal. My Thursday day off was changed by needing to get up with Fletcher to get him to school. He was perfectly willing and able to take care of himself, but what sort of sire (or lover) would I be if I simply let him have to fend for himself? Besides, it was a way to get a last hug and kiss before he left for his day. I faced mine feeling more lonely than before, as I had grown very accustomed to the hugs and hellos I'd get through the day from Fletcher, especially on those Thursdays where, if the mood struck, we might take a bit of time for some sweetly swift activities together. I blush even to think about such things, but I remember a comment from a certain movie where "God" said, "That was another mistake of mine: Shame. I don't know why I thought sapients needed shame." I still was working on why one should be ashamed of sharing love so joyfully. Even the Archdeacon was momentarily flummoxed by Fletcher's question. I did make it a point to ensure that my lovely wolf was part of my explorations into the question.

When I walked to the pulpit on the Sunday morning after the news broke, the assembly stood as they ordinarily would, but they were confused that I had not offered the traditional benediction to begin the service. I stood in front of the pulpit and bade them to sit back down.

"My friends, we are here to celebrate mass, but there is a specter hanging over us that we must first dismiss." I looked toward the curtains at the robing room and nodded. Slowly, Fletcher emerged and joined me, as I put a forepaw on his shoulder.

"I know you must all have questions," he said, his voice more steady than either of us might have credited. "Graham and I would like to ask a favor of you. This is not the time. You're all here for another reason, and what happened to me shouldn't be given more weight than that." He looked down, then back up again. "I can't say that I'm Anglican, or any other religion, not yet anyway. I can't really take part in this ceremony because I don't fully understand yet. There's one thing that I do understand: This is God's house, and you've come to see Him. We can talk later. Right now... I hope I'm saying this right. Please let my sire share God with you here. In his morning office, he spoke with God about peace being unto you." He managed a smile. "I don't understand it all yet, but I know what love is about now. I know that you're here to celebrate love. So please... feel love."

The flock sat in stunned silence until a young German shepherd stood and said clearly, "I love you, Fletcher." Will's dam and sire seemed embarrassed by their pup's expression until Carter, the ocelot, stood from a little distance away and echoed, "I love you too, Fletcher." Not to be outdone, Xavier got to his hindpaws and called out, "I love you, Fletcher."

"I love you guys," my pup smiled, as murmurings and shuffling slowly brought the crowd to its hindpaws, as I smiled at them and spread my arms wide.

"God is love," I said, and to this several_amens_ and affirmations joined in with the applause that was meant for Fletcher's brave heart. Blushing, my pup walked back behind the curtain, and I turned to my flock and said, "Blessed be to God -- Father, Son, and Holy Spirit."

When came the response of, "And blessed be His kingdom, now and forever," it held the most sincere note I'd ever heard in that church before. We continued to commune with God, together, throughout the service.

* * * * * * * * * *

To my way of thinking, it was Fletcher who was the most stable through the whole ordeal. That first week, after everything came to light, it was a question as to which of us was supporting the other. We both cried, he for having to relive some of that horror, I for the pain that it caused him. Even through the tears and the trembling, Fletcher never ended a night without his own form of prayer. For him, it was about being grateful that the past might be in his thoughts but that he never had to have it actually happen to him ever again. It was about being grateful for all that he had and all that he would become. It was about knowing that he had done his best that day, and that he would rest and be ready to do his best tomorrow. It was about pledging love, to his friends, to his extended family, to me, and to himself. At the risk of bringing up the idea of shame again, I was almost ashamed that I could not have said a better evening office myself, nor could I think of a better prayer.

Our biggest fear was of what a trial would do to Fletcher. We talked about it often during those first few weeks. I knew enough about defense attorneys, who must by law pursue the defense of their clients to the best of their abilities, to know that they could be vicious if they thought that they had to be. Some few may actually have relished it, and I could only hope that God would have mercy on their souls... although perhaps not_too_ much mercy. We asked Thad Whitlock to come over one evening to talk to us about the reality of a trial versus what we might have seen on television and in movies. His descriptions were quite vivid enough, but also reassuring in that he would be there to make sure that the defense attorney didn't put so much as a claw over the line.

It was early October when that would-be nightmare vanished. Led by Axel McCombs, so many of those implicated by Corley's own betrayal subsequently betrayed him in exchange for lesser punishments. Many of those who had paid Corley money for sexual favors from his young victims were fined much as might anyone who engaged a prostitute, but with treble fines and (often) community service for the added severity of the act involving minors and, in more cases than I like to think, battery. These males gladly talked about all they'd seen and heard, and although hearsay wasn't evidence, it led detectives to others who were involved. The final tally was 73 males from whom Corley had taken money over the years, going back nearly a decade before Fletcher. My young wolf wasn't the only purchase made either, but his was the easiest to prove; others were smart enough to have taken cash and, in the case of all those prior to Fletcher, had left the state with little means by which to trace them. As for Axel, he lost everything, including his beloved TV, his few assets, and his freedom; even with his turning state's evidence, he was sentenced to twenty years, with the possibility of parole rescinded due to multiple convictions being served concurrently.

Understandably, Fletcher didn't want anything from Axel's meager holdings, but he gave -- through me, as guardian -- Wyatt and Leif the keys to the house that the bank ultimately would repossess, in order to go through it for anything that could be sold, donated, or otherwise used by those who wouldn't have to know where it came from. Ultimately, the few thousand in cash from items sold went into trust for my wolf's care and personal use. What our friends found that surprised them a little was a scrapbook hidden away in the back of a closet that was otherwise empty. Clearly, Axel had done his best to rid the house of anything that would remind him either of Dana or Fletcher, but he had missed the album of photos of the pup growing up. Also included were pictures of himself and his dam. She was a beautiful wolf, and I could only hope that she would be proud of how her pup had survived. Together, the yowen and I chose a photo of the two of them, he being perhaps nine at the time it was taken; we would have it enlarged, framed, and hung in his room... at least until such time that it would raise no eyebrows that it was on a wall in our room. We made a simple color copy of one picture for him to put into his locker at school, and he would be able to show it or not, as he chose.

November 7th didn't sneak up on any of us. It would happen on a Tuesday, so we had one celebration on the Saturday before, inviting all of his friends to a gathering in one of the rooms in the rec hall. Some parents also attended, some to give me a more proper welcome to parenthood (it was likely to take as much as another six or nine months before it was official, but the foster guardianship was firmly in place until then), and some simply to help us all ride herd on young teens who were enjoying way too much sugar. All in all, they were a well-behaved bunch, and both the gym itself and the yard outside, with its fallen leaves and cool temperatures, provided lots of space to run off the calories. (I quickly discovered that I wasn't the only parent who harbored that old fear of watching our waistlines. We ate large samples of Mrs. Whitson's cake anyway; as we reasoned it, she'd have been insulted otherwise, and who among us would dare_that?_)

On the Tuesday evening itself, we had a much smaller party, just for family (and an early ending for the school night). Wyatt and Leif presented Fletcher with a fascinating board game called_Settlers of Catan._ The four of us played, with Mrs. Whitson kibitzing with our young wolf into a near-winning game, fresh out of the box. There were subtleties to the game that I wasn't able to get on first playing, but I promised as many re-matches as anyone might wish, because it was fun. I also said that, next time, the firefox was on_my_ side.

That night, Fletcher and I celebrated his birthday in many ways. Some of those are private, although you might have an educated guess. They are also secret from the world. What was so very important about that night, however, was the promise that we made each other. More than a betrothal, less than a marriage, it was a renewal of all that we loved about each other and all of the myriad reasons we had to help us get through the next few years, until the age of his consent, and then the age of his majority, and the point when we could tell the world that we, two adults, wanted to marry.

Strangely, it was the young wolf who gave us the warning. "We might feel differently, those years from now. I don't think we will, Graham, but I don't want us ever to feel trapped, or that we moved too fast, or something like that." He paused long enough to touch my cheek tenderly and, looking into his eyes, I had the feeling of seeing a part of his heart that I'd not known before. "When I was little, I didn't understand something that my dam said. A few times, I overheard it when she was talking to someone else, a friend maybe. She even said it to me, a couple of times. 'I married too young,' she said. I didn't understand then. Now..."

He kissed me warmly. "That's the reason I want to be sure. I think I'm sure, I really do, and I feel that we really will be together. I want that. I just want..."

"You want to be true to your dam." I nodded. "There's a lot of world out there, Fletcher. You might even find someone close to your own age that you could be with without breaking any rules at all. You may want to explore your heart, mind, and body with another, or perhaps several others. You may want to explore what love is like, sexually and otherwise, with others. I encourage that, champion that, because it will lead you more and more to who you truly are, and that is who I love -- you. And I will always be here for you to talk to, to help if you wish, and never ever try to talk you out of something just for my own selfish wants." I smiled softly at him. "I might need a little help with that one, so I'm going to ask for it directly."

Fletcher frowned at me a little. I kissed him once more, then looked skyward. "Dana McCombs, I hope you can hear me. I want you to meet Elizabeth Sturbridge. She is in my heart much the same way that you are in Fletcher's. I ask that you both help me give the very best love to Fletcher that I possibly can, and I pledge to you both that I will never hurt him intentionally, and if some accident happens that causes him hurt, I will do everything necessary to heal him. This I swear, not on a bible, and not on my own heart..." I placed my palm flat to the young wolf's chest "...but upon his heart, upon his love, which I cherish even more than my own life. I swear it."

"We believe you," he whispered, then kissed me. "I mean, I believe you."

"I think you were right the first time."

* * * * * * * * * *

And here, my personal story pauses. I must set my pen aside (metaphorically speaking) for a time, to let myself reflect and appreciate all that has happened. I have written this chronicle which, if someone cared to prosecute it, would probably constitute a confession to various crimes. This story tells of the perpetrators and the victims, and none wishes to pursue any legal action outside those laws which deal with adoption first and, in time, matrimony. It pains me to think that some random stranger could demand that we be held accountable for our "crimes," as if they were the sole arbiter of what was right and wrong in someone else's lives. There are some out there who feel that they have the right to judge what they cannot, what they will not, understand.

Happily, these words are a work of fiction... or at least that's what I would claim in any court in the land. There is no proof even of impropriety, and although eyebrows would be raised, and tongues like tails would wag, there are few cases where someone has been imprisoned for suspicion, especially long after the event. These pages must hide a little longer still, I think, even from he about whom this is written. (I'll bet you thought I couldn't write so fancy, didn't you? I'm told that I'm full of surprises.)

I continue to hope that there will be a day when this story can be told in its entirety, so that we could share all of the love that we've felt even from that first moment on the bus, when a lost soul found another lost soul, and the two bonded and loved, and shared everything, forever and forever, amen. Because that's what this story is about: Love. Just love. Nothing complicated, nothing illegal, nothing immoral, nothing shameful, nothing degrading. Precisely the opposite.

One day, we'll share our story. It may be after we're both gone from this world and into another world where love is understood for what it is. Or it may be in this world, if we're lucky enough to find hearts large enough to embrace it. Whichever way, I'm being told that it's time we went to bed. It's an invitation I'll never tire of accepting. Goodnight then, gentle reader, whoever and whenever you may be. We love you too, or we'd not have been able to tell this tale. We know that you believe in love, or you'd not have been able to read it.

It's good to know that there's love in the world. It's what saved us both. Believe, gentle reader.

Believe...