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Lance knows he’s going to die.
It’s a freezing night in late winter. He’s in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but a knife and the clothes he is wearing. And it is a full moon.
He is going to die.
Lance curses himself while trying to make a fire and failing miserably. Everything he touches is brittle. Frozen.
I am going to die.
Lance doesn’t want to die.
Dying would make him look like a fool. His father would be so disappointed. But Lance wants nothing more than to make him proud. This cold old man, who is so hard to please. This man who put him here.
"Two nights and three days on your own. If you survive that, you are going to be a real man," he’d said, handing Lance the knife. "With this knife, you are going to kill something. I don’t care what, but you are going to spill blood with it. Don’t disappoint me, boy."
"I won’t," Lance had said.
Two nights and three days. It’s tradition among the old hunter families. Lance’s family is the oldest there is. Even their surname is Hunter. They have been chasing supernatural creatures for centuries. Their name is known across the world.
Lance’s family specialises in werewolves. He knows everything about them by now. He was woken in the middle of the night by his father and had to recite the facts he knew.
Werewolf. Shapeshifter. Silver doesn’t help much. Wolfsbane - monkhood - more. Can shift any time, but at full moon, they are the strongest.
“They are abominations,” Lance’s father used to snarl at dinner. “If it wasn’t for these stupid treaties the council agreed on, I would wipe them all out.”
The hunters had a code. They only hunted werewolves who killed someone innocent. Lance’s father wasn’t satisfied with this. “They all snap eventually anyway,” he told Lance. “They can’t help it. It’s their nature. You can never trust a wolf, son. Never.”
Never.
Lance shudders and looks around. The forest is silent. From time to time, an owl calls out or leaves rustle when something small moves through them.
The stars are bright above. A blanket of sparkling silver spots.
It’s so peaceful. A nice place to die, Lance thinks.
He’s so tired. He just wants to lay down and close his eyes. But … That is dangerous, he knows. From his training. God. He’s such a failure. He can’t do anything right … HIs father was right to call him pathetic.
Lance's eyes fall shut slowly. But they fall open again, when something bigger moves through the bushes nearby and a growl echoes in the darkness. Lance’s mouth goes dry. He grips his knife firmer, with numb fingers.
Something moves. Something approaches.
Lance’s breath falters, when a wolf appears between two dark trees, ears up and eyes glowing.
Fuck.
The wolf is huge. He growls again and shows sharp white fangs. Lance fights the fear away. He’s a hunter. He can do this. He will fight and kill the beast, finally proving himself to his father. He will …
The exhaustion reaches for him again and this time, it is violent. He shivers and slumps, the knife slipping from his fingers. No. No, he can’t … He has to … He can’t think.
The wolf makes a quiet noise and Lance hears him approaching, heavy steps on the snow. He stops caring. Just closes his eyes. The wolf smells him, his breath warm. So warm.
Lance waits for the fangs closing around his throat.
But they don’t come. Instead, the wolf suddenly lays down beside him, pressing his body against Lance’s. Huh. The wolf’s warmth spreads through Lance and after a moment of hesitation, he reaches out, to lay his hands into the fur. The wolf flinches but doesn’t move away. Lance doesn’t understand. But he also can’t find a coherent thought. So, he just closes his eyes and drifts off.
When Lance wakes up, he’s in a den and there’s a fire in front of him. He stares, dumbfoundead, at the flames, slowly realizing he's mercifully warm because he's wrapped in some kind of fuzzy fur blanket.
“You’re awake,” says a calm voice.
Lance flinches violently and looks up, seeing a young man sitting in front of the fire, a fur blanket over his bare shoulders. His eyes are blue like the sky outside. His hair is ruffled. He looks good. He smiles at Lance hesitantly. “You’re safe here. You can stay until your fingers aren’t blue anymore. You almost froze outside.”
“Uh. Thanks,” Lance carefully says.
The man only nods. His eyes suddenly flash yellow for a volatile moment and Lance gasps. “You’re the … Oh my … You’re …” He doesn't know what to say or feel. He thinks he should be scared. Wary. But he isn't.
“Yes,” the man says and chuckles quietly. “I’m the big bad wolf. And you’re a hunter, aren’t you? Sent out to kill something.” His voice gets a bit bitter at the end. His eyes darken. He throws a branch into the fire and clears his throat. “Hunters killed my whole pack. I’m the only one left. We didn’t do anything. We just … We lived our life.”
Lance’s throat tightens. “Hunters have a code …”
“Well. Not everyone acts according to it,” the man says, without looking at him. "But it wouldn't be right to answer hate with more hate. This way, it never ends." He shrugs and sighs.
Lance thinks about his father’s hateful words. Thinks about monster and abomination. Thinks about you can’t trust a wolf . Well. This wolf saved his life. “What’s your name?” He asks carefully.
The young man looks at him. “Fitz. Everyone just calls me Fitz. You?”
“Lance Hunter.”
Fitz nods. He looks back to the dancing flames. “If you want to, I can help you hunt something. You smell like you’re starving.”
“I am,” Lance admits, his stomach grumbling like on clue. He blushes, but Fitz only chuckles.
In front of Lance’s eyes, Fitz changes back into the wolf that warmed him at night. At daylight, he looks gorgeous, with his grey fur, the light brown splotches and black line between the eyes, that leads up to his forehead. The wolf looks at him, huffs, and leaves the den, happily rolling around in the snow before running away.
Lance looks after him and feels like his world is about to be shaken. This is just the beginning.