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Chapter Text

Blood-curdling screams rent the air, wreathed in whoops and howls and the roar of fire that devoured the village like a dragon. Lancelot lay beneath his father's heavy body, too frightened to move. He couldn't see, could barely breathe, could only listen to the sounds of slaughter echoing all around him. He buried his face in the grass and whimpered, shielded only by his father's protective embrace.

But his father wasn't moving, wasn't telling Lancelot to remain still. And there was something warm and wet seeping down into his trouser leg that he couldn't see. He bit back a terrified cry and waited for it to stop.

Eventually it did. Eventually the screams petered out and then it was the moans of the dying and the crackle of flames. And still Lancelot didn't move, because his father hadn't let him up yet. He waited, and waited. Then there was silence, and then the croak of gathering crows. His father felt cold.

Lancelot finally shifted and managed to crawl out from beneath him. Limp arms fell over the hole he'd left. His father's eyes were closed, and his back drenched in dark red.

"Father," he whispered hoarsely and reached out to push his shoulder. There was no response.

Lancelot scrambled backward on his hands and feet, only to bump into another body. And right next to it was another, and another. Every villager lay strewn across the blood-soaked ground. Every man, woman…and child.

Lancelot jumped to his feet and whipped his gaze around. "Mother! Mother!" He took a few steps, only to stop and turn again. A few tendrils of smoke still rose from the burned out husks of their homes. There wasn't a sound save for the creaking of broken wood and the crows as they reveled over their feast.

Something snapped—a beam collapsing—and Lancelot bolted for the tree line. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, his lungs burning from the exertion. He ran until the forest was a blur through watery eyes. Until he tripped and went sprawling in some mulch. There he lay, tears of anguish and desolation spilling down to soak the ground. He was alone. Everyone and everything he knew were gone. Eight years old, how was he supposed to fend for himself in this world? Why hadn't he died with them?

He lay there for a long time, his wracking sobs petering out to exhausted whimpers. And when he was quiet enough, he heard the shuffle of leaves. He bolted upright in fright and found himself facing a huge, lone wolf, its fur as white as the full moon, eyes blue as a mountain lake. Lancelot scooted back against a tree trunk and drew his knees up.

The wolf regarded him for a long moment, then slowly moved forward. He tensed and bit back another cry. Was this how he would die, then? Ripped to pieces by a wild animal?

The white wolf stopped two feet from him and canted its head in consideration. Lancelot shook uncontrollably as he held his legs tightly to his chest. The wolf stepped closer, leaning its head down. Lancelot squeezed his eyes shut. Then a warm tongue licked across his forehead and into his hair. He prized his eyes open and blinked up in amazement. Kind blue eyes gazed back down at him. The wolf turned and trotted away, then paused to look back. With a jerk of her head, it was almost like she was beckoning him to follow.

Lancelot slowly uncurled and got to his feet, not knowing what to make of this. But he was alone and afraid, and there was something about the wolf that radiated warmth and trust. So he followed.

She loped ahead several feet, then stopped to wait for him to catch up. Then she would repeat the process. The longer Lancelot trailed her, the more she slowed down until she had matched his pace and he was walking right alongside her. A part of him felt he should be afraid, but he wasn't. Fear was back in his village where the grass ran red with it.

They walked for a long time and Lancelot was getting tired. The white wolf leaned into him, letting him brace himself against her side. She was so big, he could have ridden her. Not that he wanted to. He must have been delirious with fever to be following a wild wolf like this. But he kept going, stumbling more frequently. The wolf slipped her head under his arm so she could support him more.

They came out into a clearing at the ledge of a mountain scarp where a pack of wolves were lounging. They all got to their feet at Lancelot's arrival, fur bristling. Steely eyes sharpened on him, and he tried not to fidget. The white wolf gurgled something in her throat. Another wolf gnashed its teeth. She yipped sharply. If Lancelot didn't know any better, he'd think they were arguing over him.

Finally, the wolf pack shifted slightly in what appeared to be backing down, and the white wolf turned to lick Lancelot's chin, then resumed leading him toward a cave in the side of the mountain. It was large and surprisingly warm inside. High-pitched yips rang across the stone—wolf cubs in their den. The mothers got to their feet guardedly as the white wolf guided Lancelot to a spot in the back.

He gingerly sat down, still not knowing what to make of all this, what he was doing here—what the wolves would do to him. But the white wolf plopped down around him and began cleaning the tear tracks from his face.

The events of the day abruptly caught up with him, and he felt utterly exhausted. So he lay down and curled up against his rescuer. He didn't know what tomorrow would bring, but for right now, he felt safe.

Lancelot woke the next morning to the white wolf licking his hair. He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The wolf gave him a moment, then rose to her feet and headed outside. She stopped at the cave opening to look back and cock her head at him. Lancelot stood up and followed.

The rest of the pack was outside and tearing into a doe just brought back from a fresh kill. The white wolf darted in to snag at a hind leg and tore a large chunk free, which she brought back over to Lancelot. His gorge rose and he covered his nose as the pungent odor hit his nostrils. The wolf nodded her head in offering.

"I can't eat that," he said.

One of the other wolves lifted its head and snarled something. The white wolf turned and bared her fangs in return. She then turned back to Lancelot and considered him for a long moment, then dropped the hunk of meat and beckoned for him to follow again.

She led him away from the pack and through the woods down to a stream. Lancelot was sharply reminded of how thirsty he was, and he dropped heavily to his knees on the bank to scoop several handfuls of water into his mouth. He then splashed his face and brushed wet strands of hair away from his forehead.

Looking down, he noticed the red stain on his trousers. Blood. His father's blood. Lancelot splashed water onto the pant leg and began to rub furiously. The color faded slightly but wouldn't wash out. Hot tears sprang to Lancelot's eyes and he broke down in gut-wrenching sobs. The white wolf came over and sat next to him, her large bulk leaning into his shoulder. He turned his face into her fur and cried his eyes out.

When he had exhausted himself, he lifted his head and wiped at his runny nose. "What am I going to do?" he asked aloud.

The wolf stood and moved down the bank a few feet where she then stood stock still, gaze focused intently on the water. Lancelot didn't make a sound, unsure what she was doing. Abruptly, she shot her head down with a snap of her jaws and splash of water, and came back up with a fish caught in her mouth. She turned around and brought it back to Lancelot, looking at him in question.

Lancelot pursed his mouth, fighting back more tears. He couldn't eat raw meat, whether it was game, foul, or fish.

But…his father had taught him how to gut and cook a fish. So Lancelot wiped his eyes and nose again and sat up straighter, looking around for something he could use as a tool. He found a thick branch and placed it against a tree trunk, then held it in place with his foot as he pulled with all his might. The branch broke, and he fell backward on his butt. But he had a sharp point.

He cut the fish open down the belly and pulled out the guts in one go. He then staked the fish on his stick, but after that he faltered. He needed fire to cook it. Despair threatened to choke him again, but he refused to give in. He gathered some kindling and then found two other sticks to rub together. It took a lot of effort and patience, but eventually he got a spark, and he pressed his face low to the ground to breathe softly on the ember until it took hold on the twigs. The white wolf sat across from him, watching.

When the fire was going, Lancelot picked up his stick with the skewered fish and held it over the flames, turning it repeatedly until it was cooked. His stomach was grumbling but he remembered to let it cool a little before he tried to eat it. The meat was a little tough, and it certainly lacked something to be desired without some herbs, but it was edible. Maybe he could do this. Maybe he could survive on his own.

But he wasn't alone. The white wolf kept him with her, let him sleep in the den with the rest of the pack. She comforted him when he woke from nightmares of blood and screams, let him cry his tears into her soft fur. She accompanied him down to the stream to catch fish and sat with him while he cooked it. She also took him on walks through the woods to forage for other food suitable for a human. It was like she possessed an intelligence far greater than any normal wild animal.

The rest of the pack began to accept Lancelot's presence among them. A few merely tolerated him. But the pups liked playing with him, and he enjoyed rolling around with them too.

One night, he woke to a void at his back and found the white wolf gone. He sat up and looked around. The whole den was empty. Lancelot felt a prickle across his skin and got to his feet, venturing to the mouth of the cave. A full moon hung high in the sky, casting a radiant white aura across the land and the wolf pack gathered at the cliff. The air tingled with something.

Lancelot crouched behind a rock and peeked out at the pack. They were gathered in a circle, adults and pups alike, heads thrown back to howl at the moon. Their high-pitched cries echoed in long, mournful choruses. Moonlight sparkling with stardust cascaded down and swirled around them. As Lancelot watched, those particles drifted over to his hiding place and washed over him. Magic seeped through his being, and gradually the howls morphed into something more—a song. It was haunting and beautiful and filled with power.

Then it abruptly stopped as the wolves all turned their gazes toward him. Lancelot stiffened. Their ears flicked back and forth in question, and one of them growled at him. Lancelot crept out, keeping his head low in submission.

"I'm sorry."

The wolves exchanged hushed murmurs.

"He is Pack," the white wolf spoke, her words ringing clearly in Lancelot's mind.

He snapped his head up, startled. He didn't realize he also hadn't spoken verbally.

The rest of the wolves continued to whisper amongst themselves, and Lancelot was bewildered that he could follow them.

Then the larger gray one cut them all off in a loud, resounding echo. "The Moon has shared her magic with the boy; he is Pack."

That put an end to the discussion. The white wolf trotted over to him and nudged his cheek with her nose, then turned to invite him into their circle. Lancelot cautiously moved forward to take a place among them as they resumed their song to the celestial queen of the night. The magic inside him swelled, and Lancelot threw his head back to howl along with them.

Chapter Text

Leaves and branches passed in a blur as Lancelot ran through the woods, keeping pace with the pack. His legs pumped beneath him as they pounded over the earth, vaulting over obstacles and winding around trees. His litter mates, now all grown just as he was, yipped and goaded each other on. Lancelot grinned and ran faster.

They burst out of the forest into a meadow and slowed to a lope before coming to a gradual stop at a lake. Lancelot plopped on the grass and lay back to look up at the waxing moon. The night air was crisp and cold, his breath puffing out in white clouds. Winter would be upon them soon. Some of his coverings needed mending—there was a hole in his deerskin trousers and the hems of his pelt shirt were fraying.

A distant howl echoed across the air, and the wolves rose in response. They were being called home, and so they took to running again, back through the forest and up to the mountainside where the pack dwelt. Lancelot was out of breath but invigorated.

The white wolf hopped down from her rock to greet him. "Did you win?" she asked.

He grinned. "It was a tie."

"It was not!" one of the other wolves yipped across the mental bond.

Naia shook her head in fond amusement. "You must be hungry, Cub." She nodded toward two fish she'd already caught for his supper.

Lancelot smiled affectionately and started a campfire to cook them over. Some of the wolves came over to lounge around it for warmth while Lancelot used his dagger made of a sharp slate rock to gut and skin the fish. After eating his fill, he snuggled up among the warmth of the pack and fell asleep under the watchful eye of the moon.

The next morning, none of them rose until the sun was one-third of the way on its journey across the sky. Lancelot set off in search of silk worms he could gather material from to spin thread. He needed to replenish his stores for the winter. Naia accompanied him.

They walked long and far, though that wasn't unusual. The woods were tranquil and their silence companionable. Until Lancelot stepped on a layer of mulch and hit something hard that clicked. In the next instant, iron jaws sprang up from beneath the bed of leaves and snapped around his leg, piercing flesh down to bone. He screamed and fell onto his side.

Naia darted over. "Cub!"

He lifted his head toward the offending object, his stomach lurching at the sight. The metal teeth were buried in his calf. He reached down to pull the contraption away, but it was clamped on tight, and he fell back with another cry of agony.

Naia paced and whimpered in distress, unable to help. Lancelot gave his leg a desperate tug, only to scream again as the iron scraped against muscle and bone. He squeezed his eyes shut and tears spilled down his cheeks. Naia licked them away, as she'd always done when he was a small child. But there was no comfort to be had this time, and no rescue from the jaws of death.

Seventeen-year-old Percival and his older cousin Mathias were out hunting when they heard screams resound through the woods. Exchanging tense looks, they went to investigate, only to find a young man caught in one of those heinous animal traps.

Percival cursed under his breath and immediately started forward to help, but a white wolf leaped out over the boy and took up a snarling position, hackles raised. Percival reeled back, while Mathias whipped up his crossbow. The injured man's eyes blew wide and he lunged for the wolf, only to jostle his trapped leg. He screamed and curled in on himself. The wolf snapped a frantic look at him, then back to the hunters with a warning growl.

"Don't shoot," Percival told his cousin.

"The wolf will kill the boy," Mathias hissed.

Percival considered the wolf's posturing. "She's just protecting him." He raised his hands non-threateningly. "We mean you no harm," he told the young man. "We just want to help. Call off your wolf."

The boy looked terrified and didn't say anything as he cast harried looks between them and the animal. The wolf slowly started to back up.

"See?" Percival said to Mathias. "Lower your weapon."

Mathias did so reluctantly.

Percival resumed approaching the young man, who recoiled from him before he remembered any movement would trigger more pain in his leg. "Easy," Percival said. "We won't hurt you. This isn't our trap." He flicked a look at the situation, his jaw tightening. "Barbaric things," he spat before softening his tone at the young man again. "My name is Percival. That's Mathias. We'll have you free soon."

The boy didn't offer his name in return, didn't say anything. Percival frowned at him.

"What is your name?" he asked.

Still nothing.

"Can you understand me?"

No reaction except the same fear.

Percival exhaled heavily. Alright, then. "Mathias, come help me."

His cousin continued to eye the wolf warily as he moved around behind the boy, who tensed up even further. Percival took hold of the iron jaws and began to pull. They were clamped tight, and he strained with all his might and a strenuous cry to prize them apart. The boy screamed as the metal teeth tore free of his flesh, and Mathias grabbed him under the arms to pull him away. Once his leg was clear, Percival let go of the trap, and it snapped back together with a raucous clang.

The young man whimpered and clutched at his bleeding leg. It was ravaged. Percival grimaced at the numerous blood trails oozing out from various jagged punctures.

"I don't know where you're from," he said aloud, "but you won't be walking home on that leg." He looked at Mathias. "We should get him back to the village."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea…" his cousin hedged.

"Why? We can't just leave him like this."

"We don't know anything about him," Mathias hissed.

"We know he needs help," Percival rejoined.

He picked up one of the boy's arms and cautiously watched the wolf for signs of aggression as he pulled it over his shoulder. His cousin nervously did the same. The wolf whined but didn't attack. Percival and Mathias hefted the young man up and turned toward home. He kept craning his neck to look desperately at the wolf, who was trailing behind, and Percival wondered at their curious bond.

When they reached the village, the wolf dropped back to stay in the woods. The boy grew distressed at that, but the wolf yipped, and he stopped fighting them. If Percival didn't know better, he'd say they were somehow able to communicate.

He could tell such suspicion unnerved his cousin, but Percival was determined to help this young man, so he steered them toward his home.

"Mother!" he called as they burst through the door.

She and his younger sister Pryde came hurrying over, alarmed when they saw what Percival had brought.

"He was caught in one of those iron traps," Percival explained as he half carried the boy over to his pallet to lie him down.

His mother followed, dropping down on the floor beside him and peeling the bloodied tatters of cloth away from his leg. "Pryde, get water and bandages." She turned to the young man. "What is your name?"

He just stared at her, wide eyed and chest heaving with anxiety.

"He doesn't speak," Percival said. He hesitated before adding, "There was a wolf with him. She stayed in the woods when we brought him here."

Pryloena frowned at that but went about the business of cleaning the wounds. The boy cried out and thrashed under her ministrations, and Percival and Mathias had to get in there and hold him down.

The door opened and Percival's father burst inside. "What's going on?" he asked.

Percival briefly filled his father in, and Albice joined them in holding the boy down as Pryloena throughly cleaned his leg. With three pairs of hands, Percival was able to move one arm and reached to grasp the young man's hand, squeezing hard in what he was trying to convey as encouragement.

The lad was drenched in sweat and utterly spent by the time the procedure was done. Pryloena had wiped most of the blood away, but fresh trickles were still leaking out of the wounds.

"Pryde," she said calmly. "Please go see if Thomas has any honey to spare."

Percival's sister nodded and hurried out.

Mathias stood. "I should get home." And he left hastily.

Percival's mother got up to get a cup of water, which she brought back and retook her seat on the floor, then tried to coax the boy into drinking. He wasn't lucid anymore and moaned as she plied him with the water.

"Where is he from?" Albice asked.

"He hasn't said anything since Mathias and I found him," Percival answered. "I don't know if he understands us, honestly."

"His leg is in bad shape," his mother commented. "He will have to stay off it for several weeks."

Albice looked uncomfortable, and Percival knew it was because the prospect of having to care for an injured person with winter coming soon was a source of stress; it was difficult enough keeping a family of four fed sometimes.

"He can have my bed," Percival readily volunteered.

His father was not an unkind man, and his expression softened at his son's generosity. He nodded.

Pryde returned. "I told Thomas why we needed the honey and he gave me a whole jar," she said, handing it over to her mother.

Pryloena slathered the honey on the wounds, then fetched some linen bandages to wrap the leg. The lad was practically unconscious by now, the trauma having exhausted him. Pryloena grabbed the blanket bunched up in the corner of the pallet and spread it over the young man.

"Well, looks like we will have a house guest for a while," she said.

"What about the wolf?" Pryde asked.

"What wolf?" their father said.

"There was a wolf with him in the woods," Percival repeated. "It hung back when we entered the village. I don't know if it's still out there, though based on what I saw between them, I'd guess she was."

His father's mouth turned down. "We'll need to be on watch."

"I don't think she intends us harm," Percival pressed. "She seemed to only care about him." He nodded to their guest.

"There's no need to cause alarm right now," his mother interjected. "Who knows, our guest might be more talkative in the morning. Percival, let's find you somewhere else to sleep."

Pryde bumped his shoulder. "I'll make room for you."

He smiled at her. He'd moved out of the loft sleeping space over a year ago when he grew too tall to not constantly bump his head on the ceiling. But he'd make do for now.

They went about their evening business as their patient slept away the hours. Albice went out to search the immediate vicinity for signs of the wolf but returned without having spotted her. It was certainly curious, but they wouldn't be getting any answers tonight. And Percival only hoped their guest didn't take a turn for the worse.

Chapter Text

Lancelot woke groggily, but the sounds he heard immediately alerted him to the fact that they didn't belong. Tensing up, he opened his eyes and darted his gaze around the strange home. A blanket was over him, and his leg was throbbing. He tried to sit up and bit his lip to keep from crying out and drawing attention. But someone noticed anyway.

An older woman brought a bowl of porridge over and offered him a warm smile. "Good morning. Are you hungry?"

He stared at her mistrustfully, but his stomach did rumble and the food smelled interesting. It triggered a sense memory of another life.

The woman continued to smile as she lowered herself down to his level on the floor. "I'm not sure whether you understand us, but we mean you no harm." She held out the bowl.

Lancelot tentatively took it. It smelled too tantalizing to resist, and he dipped his fingers into the mush to scoop it into his mouth. The woman's brows furrowed at that, and he realized there was a utensil in the bowl. He considered it for a long moment before simply resuming his way of eating.

The woman gave him that smile again and got up to return to her cooking.

The door opened and three more people came in from outside. One of them was the young man that had rescued Lancelot. He smiled at Lancelot and said good morning, then went to the older woman and presented her with a flower. She smiled and kissed his cheek. A young girl placed some eggs on the table.

The older man with them stood just inside the doorway and regarded Lancelot in a way that made him shrink back. The man's stern expression faltered.

"My name is Albice," he said to Lancelot. "This is my home and you're safe here. My wife, Pryloena, daughter Pryde, and my son Percival. You might remember them from yesterday."

Lancelot eyed them all nervously. He did remember in pain-filled snatches, and it was clear they hadn't harmed him during his insensate state. Still, he wanted Naia, but of course she wasn't here; she had to keep her distance from the human village.

"Why doesn't he understand words?" the girl asked as she cracked the eggs over an iron skillet.

"We don't know," the mother replied. "So we'll have to be patient with him and find other ways to communicate."

She came back over to Lancelot with a towel and sat on the floor. She took the now empty bowl from him and then wiped his hand clean. Lancelot let her.

"I'd like to check your leg now," she said, turning to fold the blanket up over his other leg.

He tensed as she reached for the bandages, but she kept her movements slow and careful as she peeled off the linen wraps.

"No sign of infection yet," she commented. "Honey works wonders that way."

Percival brought the jar of said honey over without her having to ask, and she spread more of the sticky substance over Lancelot's wounds. The contact made him flinch as the pain spiked, but then it eased again. Pryloena removed the used linen and retrieved some fresh ones to wrap his leg again. The family then gathered around the table for their breakfast.

"Word of our guest has spread," Albice said. "Some are concerned. We don't know anything about him."

"He's a boy," Pryloena responded. "Barely Percival's age by the looks of him. He hardly seems like some threat."

"So I told them," Albice said in a conciliatory tone.

"The threat is whoever's going around laying those despicable traps," Percival put in. "Anyone from the village who goes out there could get caught in one."

"Yes," his father agreed. "Some of the men will look into it."

Their conversation paused as they noticed Lancelot staring at them, and they offered a combination of small smiles and grimaces.

"It seems rude to talk about him as though he's not here," Pryde said. "Even if he doesn't understand us."

Lancelot swallowed hard before speaking, "I know your words." His voice was thin compared to theirs; he hadn't had need of it in years.

They all straightened in surprise, and Albice now eyed him shrewdly.

"Why have you not spoken before now?" he asked in a harder tone.

Lancelot's tongue felt thick in his mouth as he searched for an answer. "Afraid. Humans…" He gestured at the four of them. "Dangerous."

"We've done nothing but help you," Percival pointed out.

Lancelot nodded. "Sorry- thank you." He gave himself a sharp shake at the mixed up words. "Not used to…people."

Pryloena got up to come back over and sit next to him again, her brows furrowed. "What's your name?"

"Cub." He shook himself again and amended, "Lancelot." It had been so long, the name felt foreign to say.

"Have you been on your own, Lancelot?"

He shook his head. "I've been with Pack."

She frowned.

"You mean the wolf?" Percival asked.

Lancelot nodded.

"You live with wolves?" Pryde exclaimed.

He nodded again.

"For how long?" Pryloena asked.

Lancelot thought about it, then answered, "Eight winters."

The family looked stunned and a little alarmed.

"Naia saved me," he went on. "My village was destroyed, everyone slaughtered. I was the only one left. I would have died if she hadn't taken me in." He could tell they still found the tale disturbing, so he struggled for how to explain it. He gestured to Percival and Pryde while saying, "Me." Then to Pryloena. "Naia." His throat constricted. "I want to go back."

Pryloena shook herself out of her stupor and gave him a sympathetic look. "I'm afraid you won't be walking on that leg until it mends. The bone is likely fractured, which means you're stuck with us for a while."

Lancelot bit his lip in growing distress. These people did seem sincere in their desire to help him, but they didn't understand. "She needs to know I'm okay," he pressed.

Percival cleared his throat. "She let us bring you here, so I'm sure she knows."

Lancelot wasn't assuaged, but they were right: he was trapped here for the time being.

Percival was out chopping wood when he paused to stare at the tree line. On a whim, he set the axe down and ventured into the woods, searching for signs of the white wolf. He thought he heard some leaves crinkling, but if she was there, she was concealing herself well.

"Lancelot is all right," he ended up saying aloud. "We're taking good care of him."

He felt somewhat foolish for talking to air, let alone a wolf, but he thought it might make Lancelot feel better to know the message had been passed along.

Percival turned and went back to finish up his chores. He brought his pile of logs inside and set them by the fireplace, then went to sit on the floor next to the mysterious young man, who was stuck in bed in a strange place among people he hadn't been around in almost a decade. Percival couldn't imagine.

"What's it like living with wolves?" he asked curiously.

Lancelot's brows knitted together. "It's…different."

"I figured. For one thing, I bet you don't have a home with a roof."

"We have a den in a cave."

"Doesn't that get cold?"

"The pack keeps each other warm."

"And none of them have ever…viewed you as prey?"

Lancelot frowned. "No. I am Pack."

Percival shook his head, still in amazement of that. "Do you remember your life before that? Before the pack?"

Lancelot dropped his gaze at that. "Some."

"I can't imagine what you've been through. I couldn't bear the thought of losing my whole family like that."

Lancelot looked away, and Percival regretted the turn in conversation. He changed the subject then, moving on to describe what his life was like, how he did chores to help his parents, how they grew vegetables and tubers in the garden to feed their family, and how Percival would go hunting in the woods for game.

He frowned as a thought occurred to him. "What do you eat? Surely not raw meat like wolves do."

"No, I catch fish and cook them over a fire. Sometimes I'll cook a piece of leg from the pack's kill. And I forage for berries and nuts."

Percival found that fascinating, but instead of peppering Lancelot with prying questions, he continued to talk about himself, using that as a segue into asking about the comparison with Lancelot's way of life.

And they struck up a friendly conversation that lasted the next hour.

Being absorbed into Percival's family was strange, though it wasn't all that dissimilar from when the Pack had taken Lancelot in. He missed them with an aching in his heart, but he also found that he…didn't quite mind this current company. Pryloena would prattle on about anything and everything when she was working inside where Lancelot was constrained to the pallet. Percival and Pryde taught him a game to play to while away the time. Albice and Percival helped Lancelot up when he needed to relieve himself, and the pain in his leg with each effort only confirmed how serious his injury was. Despite their kindness, he was feeling like a trapped animal.

Then Albice came home one day, looking grim. "People are talking about a wolf stalking the edge of the village. They're organizing a hunt."

"They can't do that!" Lancelot exclaimed and tried to get up. But his leg couldn't support him and he fell onto his side with a cry.

"Hurting yourself won't help anything," Pryloena chided as she rushed over to help him settle.

"You have to understand why people are nervous," Albice told him. "And the wolf does have to eat."

"She won't attack the village," Percival said.

"You can't know that."

"She hasn't so far."

"And do you think you can convince the others of that?" Albice pointed out.

Percival's jaw ticked.

Lancelot knew what he had to do—he had to send Naia away.

"Take me to her," he pleaded. "I'll tell her she has to leave."

"You can't be on that leg," Pryloena reminded him.

"Please," he begged. "I can't let anyone hurt her."

"We could bring her in here," Percival suggested.

His parents gave him dubious looks at that.

"Bring a wolf into this house?" Albice challenged.

"Why not? Or do you not believe Lancelot that she won't hurt us if he asks her not to?"

"She won't," Lancelot said desperately. "Please. I'll convince her to go, so no one gets hurt."

Albice and Pryloena shared silent looks, but after a moment they both relented and nodded their agreement.

"I'll go out after dark to call for her," Percival said. "So no one will see."

"This is madness," Albice muttered, but he didn't object anymore.

Lancelot was restless with worry for the remainder of the day. After the sun set, Percival left the house to head into the woods, and the rest of his family waited anxiously for him to return. Finally, the door opened, and Naia slipped through. Albice grabbed Pryde to hold her back protectively, but Naia came straight to Lancelot.

He threw his arms around her and she licked his face.

"Are you all right?"

He nodded. "This family is taking care of me. But my leg is badly injured."

Naia turned to nose it, ears folding back in concern.

Lancelot let out a shuddering breath. "You have to leave, before the villagers come after you. They know you're out there."

Her ears flattened backward. "I will not abandon you," she said sharply.

"You're not," he told her, even though it wrenched his heart to say. "You're leaving me in good hands until I'm healed enough to rejoin the pack."

"Winter will be upon us soon," she pointed out.

Lancelot nodded, chest constricting as he cast a questioning look to the family. He then realized he and Naia had been communicating through magic and they hadn't been able to follow any of it. He cleared his throat and asked aloud, "Might I stay with you through the winter?"

"Of course," Pryloena replied.

Lancelot nodded his thanks and turned back to Naia. "Come back when the snow melts."

She whined, and he hugged her again, tears pricking his eyes. When he pulled back, she licked them away.

"You are my brave little cub."

Then with a heavy look, she turned to leave and slip away into the night.

Lancelot held his emotions in until he knew she was gone, and then he turned his face into his pillow to cry. He had never been completely cut off from the Pack before, and he felt as bereft as the day he'd lost his human family.

Pryde came over and sat on the floor next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I would cry too if my mother had to go away for a long time. But she'll be back."

Lancelot wiped at his eyes and rolled over to face her.

"It'll be all right," she said, and he found her sincere kindness and reassurance touching.

Chapter Text

Lancelot fell into a depressed state over the next several days. It wasn't just being separated from his pack; with his leg so badly wounded, he was confined to bed and could do little but lie around staring at a ceiling. He missed the sky, the stars, and the open air.

Pryloena approached him with some clothes one morning. "These are some spares. I'm sure yours could use a washing."

Lancelot's jaw tightened. He was hesitant to give over his garments and accept the replacements, as though doing so was some kind of permanent submission to return to the world of men. Which was silly, he knew, plus his trousers were bloodstained. After they'd been washed, he'd have them back.

So he consented, and Pryloena helped him out of his tattered leggings. Moving his leg still hurt a lot, making getting the clothes off and on an ordeal. She held up the trousers, which were actually in more dire condition than initially assessed.

Pryloena pursed her mouth at them. "Perhaps they are not salvageable."

Lancelot's heart gave a little flutter, but he nodded in agreement.

He pulled his shirt up over his head and handed that over next. It, at least, was intact. Lancelot could tell by the size of the spare shirt Pryloena gave him that it belonged to Percival. The fabric was big and flowy around Lancelot. It felt strange, and he immediately missed the scents of the Pack, which almost caused him to ask for the shirt back, but he didn't want to turn down Pryloena's continued kindnesses. So he held his tongue and silently hoped she'd return it soon.

Pryde brought in a basket of freshly picked herbs and came to sit next to Lancelot on the floor. "Will you help me sort them?" she asked.

Lancelot complied. It was nice of her to think to include him, give him something to do. He paused as a smell triggered another sense memory.

"Are you all right?" Pryde asked.

"This goes well with fish," he replied slowly.

"Yes," she answered, not understanding the significance.

Lancelot set the herb stem aside. "I remember now. My father always seasoned our catch with rosemary and something else." He smiled slightly to himself. "I'll have to look for some when I'm back to catching my own supper."

"Wouldn't you rather stay here?" Pryde asked. "With your own kind?"

"No," Lancelot said, affronted by the suggestion until he realized she hadn't meant for it to sound that way. "Your family has been kind to me," he amended quickly. "But many humans are not so generous. Besides, I am Pack; I belong with them."

Pryde shrugged and let it go.

When the washing was done and dry, Pryloena sat down to mend the frays in Lancelot's shirt.

"I can do that," he protested.

"I'm happy to," she responded, then canted her head in curiosity. "Did you make this?"

Lancelot nodded.

"That's impressive," she remarked. "I mean, it's not perfectly patched together, but it's functional and warm, and given no one really taught you…" She smiled sweetly at him. "There will be plenty of mending during the winter. Perhaps we can do it together."

Lancelot nodded slowly.

She finished the mending and returned his shirt to him, which Lancelot quickly changed back into. He'd have to keep borrowing the trousers for a while longer.

The days grew incrementally shorter and colder. Albice and his family shored up what food they could, and he and Percival often went out to hunt game, though Lancelot knew from living with the Pack that prey would be sparse in the winter months. His heart gave a pang as he wondered how his family was doing.

The next full moon came. Lancelot could sense it, could see the soft white aura through the window. His chest swelled with the desire to sing her song, to ride her magic over the many leagues and rejoin his family in spirit if not body. But he couldn't get outside, and he knew if he attempted to howl at the moon, it would unnerve his human hosts, and he didn't wish to do that, not when he was stuck here and at their mercy. He didn't want to make them regret their kindness.

So he lay on his pallet and strained his ears to catch an echo of his Pack. But they must have been too far away, because only silence resounded through his mind. He didn't manage to sleep at all that night, not until the moon retreated from the sky and he was left in the darkness of his destitution.

Pryloena kept her promise of providing mending work, which helped keep Lancelot busy and not so mired in his morose thoughts all the time. She even taught him some other ways to stitch and how to make them neater. He appreciated the lessons; they'd come in handy when it came time to fashion himself a new pair of trousers.

At some point, she finally determined the bone in his leg should have healed enough that it was time for him to start rebuilding his strength. Percival helped him, first with simple leg raises and flexing exercises, then with getting up and putting weight on it. It was painful, and Lancelot often wondered whether his leg would end up lame, if he'd never be able to return home because of it. But he doggedly kept at the exercises.

By the time he could support his own weight and walk without trouble, it was the dead of winter and the world was a realm of white. He considered braving the snow-laden terrain to return home, but he decided against the folly. His recent healing would be a waste if he got himself injured and stranded again, only this time in the snow where he would succumb to the elements. Naia would come back for him, he knew she would. He just had to be patient.

A blizzard came, the windows rattling beneath the wind as the fire in the hearth offered only meager warmth compared to the chill pervading the house. Pryde was sitting as close to the fireplace as she could, wrapped in a blanket and still shivering.

"Come here," Lancelot called, opening his blanket for her to snuggle in against him. "You too, Percival."

Percival shuffled over with his blanket and bundled in on Pryde's other side.

"This is how the Pack stays warm on nights like these," Lancelot said. "We share body heat."

Pryde's shivering gradually ceased, and they all lay down on the pallet together.

"I wish you wouldn't leave," Pryde murmured before she fell asleep.

Lancelot felt torn over that. He had come to care for these people, to call them friends. But how could he choose one family over the other?

"You could stay," Percival said softly over his sister's head. "If you wanted."

"I appreciate that," Lancelot replied in an equally quiet voice. "But my pack is my family. I love them."

Percival nodded thoughtfully and they fell silent.

Lancelot pursed his mouth, and after a few moments, he whispered, "Am I a bad person, for forgetting my human family?"

Percival frowned. "You were just a child when you lost them. It's natural for memories to fade."

"I suppose. I did love them," he emphasized. "When Naia first took me in, I cried myself to sleep for a long time. But now…I can't even remember their faces," he confessed.

"That doesn't mean you've forgotten how much they meant to you," Percival said kindly. "And you can love more than one family."

Lancelot didn't reply. He supposed that was true, too. And maybe Percival meant his own family and the Pack, or Lancelot's parents and the Pack.

Either way, conversation lulled, and they fell asleep to the raging storm.

The weeks passed, and a daily routine set in for them all. Lancelot helped with chores and hunting now that his leg was healed. He was a far superior tracker than Percival had ever seen.

"Having a wolf side comes in handy," he joked.

Lancelot's mouth quirked at that, and he attempted to teach Percival the skill. In turn, Percival taught him to use a crossbow, which he'd never come across before. They practiced each other's skills daily until they were equals. They killed a buck together, which would feed the whole village. Lancelot only asked to keep the hide, which Percival was happy to oblige. He helped Lancelot clean and tan it, and then his mother helped Lancelot sew a new pair of trousers.

The first thaw came, and Percival knew Lancelot would be leaving soon. Already he was frequently scanning the trees as though in search of his wolf.

When spring officially arrived, so did she. They were out tracking when she appeared, silent as a specter. Lancelot pulled up short before Percival had even noticed her, almost as though he'd sensed her or she'd called out in whatever wordless language they communicated in. Percival watched him turn and run to meet her, falling to his knees and pressing his forehead to hers. It was touching, in a way, even though it meant Percival would have to bid farewell to his new friend.

After the lengthy moment, Naia skirted around Lancelot to sniff his leg.

"I'm well," he assured her out loud.

They returned to the village so Lancelot could say goodbye to everyone. Percival's mother pursed her lips unhappily as she took Lancelot by the shoulders.

"I don't know if I can let you go in good conscience," she said.

"Thank you for everything," Lancelot replied. "But it's where I belong."

She fussily straightened his shirt and squeezed his arms. "Don't be a stranger."

He gave her a rueful look. "The Pack has moved south to avoid coming across any more of those traps."

That reminded Percival they never did find who had set them, and he silently vowed to renew the search.

"Well," Pryloena said. "If they come back this way, do visit us."

Lancelot nodded.

He moved on to shake Albice's hand, then enveloped Pryde in a hug. Lastly, he clasped Percival's forearm, his eyes conveying all the emotions and gratitude he didn't have words for. Percival returned the grasp.

Then Lancelot turned and jogged off with his wolf into the woods.

It was over a day's trek to the new den, but when they finally arrived, several of Lancelot's pack mates came barreling out to tackle him to the ground. He laughed and rolled, trying to escape the bombardment of tongues licking his face and hair. They had missed him as much as he'd missed them. Then came the inspection of the scars on his leg, but he assured them he was fully healed and he would not be slowing down in their races.

"Let's prove it!" one of them yipped.

"We've had a long journey," Naia interjected with matriarchal authority. "Later."

Lancelot didn't mind Naia's over protectiveness in this case; it had been a long journey and he was so happy to be home that he just wanted to curl up with his family.

Later that night, they took up their circle under the moon and sang her song, renewing the magical connection that flowed through each of them, uniting them as one. As Pack.

Chapter Text

Lancelot stayed close to the Pack that spring, choosing to remain in the den and help look after that year's pups. But by late summer, they had grown into rambunctious teenagers that the adults chased off for some peace and quiet during the day. Lancelot went with the young wolves to keep an eye on them.

It was on one such outing that the wolves caught a scent of human that wasn't Lancelot—and blood. They moved in to investigate and found a young man with dark skin staggering along through the forest, blood soaking down the sleeve of one arm. He looked to be barely keeping his feet, and sure enough, after a few more lumbering steps, he collapsed and stopped moving. The tip of a sword in a scabbard angled up into the air from his belt.

"We should go," one of the wolves said.

Lancelot hesitated, however. When he'd been hurt and alone in the woods, Percival had helped him, a complete stranger. This man could be dangerous, though, a brigand like the people who'd slaughtered Lancelot's village. Or…he could not be. Lancelot thought that if Percival were here, he would choose to help, and so Lancelot figured he should do the same.

"Return to the Pack," he instructed the wolves.

They exchanged a round of unhappy whines.

"You aren't coming?"

"Not yet."

"But—"

"Go," he said sternly.

The young wolves fidgeted in discomfort before they turned and slowly loped away. Once they were gone, Lancelot straightened and cautiously approached the young man on the ground. Of course, after reaching him, Lancelot found he hadn't thought this through very far. What was he to do now?

He picked up a stick and tentatively poked the man. The guy was out cold but still breathing. Lancelot knelt down and rolled him over onto his back, then proceeded to widen the hole in his sleeve where the blood was coming from. There was a nasty gash across his upper arm. Lancelot remembered what Pryloena had done for his wounds, but there wasn't a source of water nearby.

He searched the man's person for a waterskin and found one, so he used its contents to flush the wound. Bandages were a problem, though. Lancelot considered the problem, then decided to simply tear off the lower half of the sleeve since it was ripped anyway. He turned it inside out and then wrapped it around the gash, tying it tightly at the ends.

After that, Lancelot sat back and settled in to wait. He wondered if he should take the sword away, but he didn't want the man's first impression of him to be as a thief. Besides, at the first sign of aggression from him, Lancelot could simply outrun the threat. So Lancelot sat patiently and waited, studying the young man's features intently and watching for signs of waking.

When he did finally begin to stir, Lancelot remained still. He didn't want to startle the man.

He jolted awake and whipped his gaze around in confusion. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"My name is Lancelot. You're hurt. I tried to help."

The guy looked at his clumsily bandaged arm, then back at Lancelot. "Why?" he asked next, eyes narrowed.

"Why were you hurt? I don't know."

"No, why are you 'helping'?"

"I was badly injured not too long ago and a stranger stopped to help me. Saved my life," Lancelot replied openly.

The young man eyed him curiously for a moment. "My name is Elyan," he finally said. "And thank you."

He touched his injured arm and grimaced as he sat fully upright. Lancelot didn't say anything. Elyan shifted in apparent discomfort for several more moments before saying,

"I suppose I should be on my way."

Lancelot still didn't move as Elyan tried to stand, but the young man stumbled from dizziness and fell back to the ground.

"Or not," he muttered.

"You did lose a lot of blood," Lancelot explained. "I remember that made me feel weak for a bit."

A muscle in Elyan's jaw ticked, and he shifted his legs to a more comfortable position. Another few minutes of silence passed before he snipped, "Are you just going to sit there?"

"Yes. Until you're recovered."

Elyan let out a soft snort and reached for his waterskin on the ground. He emptied it in one gulp. Sighing in frustration, he threw the pouch back at the ground.

"I can look for a water source to refill that," Lancelot offered.

"Is there water nearby?" Elyan asked instead.

"No, but I know where some is."

Elyan appeared to consider it. "I suppose if I'm going to be taking a rest for a bit, I should make camp near a water source."

Lancelot finally got to his feet and offered Elyan a hand up. He again eyed Lancelot skeptically before taking his hand and stumbling upright again. Lancelot ducked in to support his weight, and together they hobbled their way through the woods to a running creek. Once there, Lancelot refilled Elyan's waterskin first, then set about making a campfire.

"I'm not used to kindness from strangers," Elyan remarked.

"I didn't expect it either when I received it," Lancelot replied. "That's why I thought I should do so unto someone else."

Elyan quirked an odd look at him. "I'm not aware of a village in these parts."

"There's not."

"So, you just live out in the woods alone?"

"Not alone." Lancelot didn't elaborate, but he remembered that polite manners meant reciprocation, so he asked, "What are you doing all the way out here?"

Elyan fidgeted. "I had a disagreement with some business partners." He pointed to his injured arm. "I escaped into the forest to lose them."

Lancelot frowned at that. "Will they pursue you?"

"I hope not."

Now Lancelot was shifting in uneasiness. He had no wish for his good will to result in trouble for him. But he had already said he would wait with Elyan, so he couldn't just up and abandon him. But he'd have to be on guard in case these "business partners" did happen upon them.

As Elyan sat and rested by the fire, Lancelot meandered around the immediate area, foraging for nuts and berries. He brought back a plentiful handful for his charge.

"Thanks," Elyan said, accepting the food. He sighed. "What I wouldn't give for a roast chicken."

Lancelot felt a new presence before he saw her, and the next moment, Naia came dashing toward him.

"Cub! I was worried," she exclaimed.

Elyan tensed and reached for his sword.

"Don't!" Lancelot urged, leaping to his feet. "She's a friend."

Elyan blinked at him dubiously while Naia's ears flattened back.

"I didn't think you'd be this reckless after what happened this winter."

"It's because of what happened I felt I should help him," Lancelot countered. "He's injured and I couldn't leave him like that."

"He seems fine now."

"I promised to stay."

Naia's displeasure rumbled low in her throat.

Elyan continued to grip the hilt of his sword and eye the large wolf warily.

"I'd ask you not to hurt my friend," Lancelot said aloud as he lowered himself to the ground again.

"It's a wolf," Elyan hissed.

"Her name is Naia and she won't hurt you."

Naia huffed loudly and plopped down on the ground.

Elyan narrowed his gaze but slowly removed his hand from his weapon.

The air remained tense with Naia's arrival, but it was clear she wasn't going anywhere. Evening came and they all bedded down for the night. Lancelot lay awake for a couple hours, gazing at the stars but also listening to the nocturnal sounds of the forest. Nothing hinted that Elyan's enemies were out there.

In the morning, Lancelot gathered more berries for breakfast, though it wasn't a large amount.

"Would you mind hunting some small game for us?" he asked Naia.

She cast a mistrustful look at Elyan before loping off. Elyan visibly relaxed with her absence.

"Should I check your wound?" Lancelot asked.

"It's fine," he replied, though it did appear to pain him.

"I'll be right back," Lancelot said and went off to search the surrounding area.

He spotted a bee around the berry bush and followed it back to the hive. He remembered the honey Pryloena had used to fight the infection in his leg. Taking extreme care with his movements, he inched close to the hive and managed to reach in to take just a little scoop of their honey.

He returned to Elyan and held out his hand with the sticky honey. "For your wound. It helps fight infection."

Elyan looked at him dubiously for a moment before reaching up to undo his bandage. He then scraped the honey from Lancelot's fingers and transferred it to his wound, rubbing it in himself.

"My father would use honey sometimes to treat burns he got working near the furnace," Elyan remarked.

Lancelot furrowed his brows. "Furnace?" he repeated.

"My father's a blacksmith."

"What is that?" Lancelot asked as he picked up the soiled bandage, folded it over, and rewrapped Elyan's arm.

Elyan was giving him that incredulous look again. "You don't know what a blacksmith is?"

Lancelot shook his head.

"Uh, well, he works with metals, melting them down and reshaping them into locks, weapons, horseshoes."

Lancelot could barely imagine those things. "Then, he is still alive?"

Elyan's expression shut down. "Yes. We had a falling out."

Lancelot leaned back and considered the young man. He didn't understand how one could have a "falling out" with family, but he could tell it was a touchy topic, so he didn't press.

Naia returned and dropped a hare in front of Lancelot, which he thanked her for.

"It's not roast chicken," he said aloud to Elyan. "But it's better than those meager berries."

He skinned the hare and put it on a spit to cook over the fire, then shared the meal with Elyan.

A few hours later, Elyan was ready to move on.

"I'll get going now," he said, helping to put out the fire. "Thanks for the help."

Lancelot nodded. "I wish you well."

With that, he headed off with Naia without a look back.

"I'm proud of your good heart," she said. "But I want you to be careful. The human world may contain kindness, but it is also treacherous."

Lancelot acknowledged the sage advice. But he'd also decided that when faced with the human world, Lancelot wanted to be one of those who brought kindness with him.

Chapter Text

Another winter passed and life continued as normal. Lancelot took to roaming on his own again. It was another ordinary day that spring, until it wasn't. Lancelot had been making his way through a shallow gully when several men leaped out from hiding to ambush him. They surrounded him quickly and charged in to seize him. Lancelot tried to wrench free and run, but there were too many. His arms were forced behind his back and his wrists lashed with rope. A hand fisted in the back of his hair and yanked his head back.

"Young and strong, good catch," one of the men remarked with a sneer.

Lancelot continued to struggle as he was manhandled along with them. He didn't know what they wanted with him or why; he hadn't done anything to provoke them.

Not that men needed provocation; Lancelot knew that too well.

He was dragged for several miles until they came to an old, dilapidated fortress. There were more men there in what appeared to be a permanent encampment. Lancelot was steered past them into one of the crumbling rooms. An iron grate covered a large hole in the floor. It was pulled back a few feet, and Lancelot's hands were suddenly freed before he was pushed into the pit. The drop wasn't that far, but he barely had time to tuck in his landing and hit the ground with a thud that reverberated the impact through his body. The iron grated as it was pulled back into place.

Lancelot surged to his feet; he wasn't alone in the pit. There were several other men down here, cloistered about and looking sullen. Some of them huddled together and exchanged whispers as they sized Lancelot up. He scrambled away from them until his back hit a stone wall. No one talked loudly enough to hear.

Lancelot hunched in on himself and tucked himself into as small a ball as he could manage as darkness fell. The sounds of carousing above went on for a few more hours before the dead of night brought silence. Some of the men in the pit dozed. Lancelot remained tensed and on guard.

The next morning, the grate slid away and one of the ruffians pointed to those who were to climb up, including Lancelot. He hesitated, but the other chosen men glumly made their way to the stick ladder, and Lancelot certainly didn't want to remain down here. If he thought he was being released, however, he was sorely mistaken.

The men's hands were all bound as they climbed out of the pit, and then they were all taken out to a platform and lined up like chattel. Then the bidding started. Lancelot could only stand there and cringe as men were sold to the highest bidder. When the auctioneer came to Lancelot and started poking him, he bared his teeth with a snarl. That got a rise of guffaws from the crowd.

"Caught this fellow in the woods," the auctioneer said. "Might be a wild man. Needs some breaking in, for anyone who likes a challenge."

The crowd exchanged some murmurs, but no one bid a price.

The auctioneer shrugged, and Lancelot was taken off the platform. Those who'd been sold were handed over to their buyers—and the idea of men buying other men was despicable in Lancelot's mind—and the rest were taken back to the pit.

"Guess you lot will have to earn your value," one of the guards said.

Lancelot didn't know what that meant, but later that evening, two of the men were removed from the pit and taken away. There were sounds of cheering and booing up above and raucous roars of an excited crowd. When it finally died down, only one of the men returned to the pit, bearing fresh bruises and cuts. The other one, Lancelot didn't see again.

The following morning, guards came to retrieve two men again. One of them pointed at Lancelot. He didn't make a move to climb out, fearful of being taken to market again.

"Move it, lout! Or it'll be worse for you."

Some of the other men in the pit started pushing Lancelot toward the ladder. He tried to resist, but they were pressing in around him, shoving him harder toward the rungs until he was forced to ascend them.

He and the other prisoner weren't taken to the platform, though; they were taken to an open area where almost the entire camp of barbarians had gathered. Lancelot and the other man were shoved into the center. Lancelot didn't know what was going on, but then the other prisoner lunged and delivered a sucker punch that knocked him to the ground. The crowd jeered.

Confused, Lancelot scrambled to his feet and backed away. The man circled him, hands pulled into ready fists. There was nowhere to go, and the crowd of slavers kept pushing Lancelot back toward the center for the fight. This was what they wanted, the two prisoners to fight each other. And for what? Entertainment?

The man attacked again and Lancelot skittered out of the way. The crowd booed, and several men moved in to keep Lancelot cornered as his opponent came at him again. The punch knocked him into the sea of arms, which pushed him right back. He collided with his opponent, who shoved him away. Lancelot gritted his teeth and finally started to fight back. The other man used his fists, but Lancelot used his whole body to ram him. He swiped his arms at his face to claw at his eyes. Lancelot's fighting was haphazard and feral, but it was keeping his opponent from pummeling him.

"Get on with it!" someone shouted.

Two knives were suddenly tossed into the ring. The other prisoner snatched the nearest one up without hesitation and came at Lancelot with full abandon. Lancelot darted out of the way, unbalanced by the change in dynamics. There was only one outcome for this—kill or be killed.

He scrabbled around to grab the other knife and then spun to meet his opponent head on. The other prisoner swiped his blade, and Lancelot jumped back. The man charged, and Lancelot ducked under his arm, twisting around and stabbing the man in the chest. The crowd let out exclamations of varying reactions.

Lancelot was frozen as he watched the light in the man's eyes go out. The body dropped, leaving a bloodied knife in Lancelot's hand. Yet before he could recover his wits enough to think of turning his weapon against his captors, he was grabbed and the knife wrenched from his grasp. Then he was dragged back to the pit and tossed in. Another pair were summoned to fight.

Lancelot crawled to the far wall and sat in a stupor. He'd killed plenty of prey before…but this was different. He didn't know how he was supposed to feel. He had no love of man, but being forced to kill for someone's else sport…it left a sour taste in his mouth.

After the second fight concluded and the winner brought back, food was tossed down. The prisoners scrambled to brawl over it. Lancelot didn't bother inserting himself, even though he belatedly realized it meant he'd go hungry.

He drew his knees up and curled in on himself. The Pack would be worried about him, would try to find him, he was sure. But there were so many armed men here; Lancelot worried his family would be hurt if they tried to get to him. And yet he wanted out of this place more than his agonized heart could bear.

One of the prisoners was eyeing him from across the way. After a few moments, he stood up and sauntered over. Lancelot stiffened and moved into a crouch.

The man stopped and held up his arms neutrally. "Thought you might be hungry," he said, offering part of his supper.

Lancelot continued to watch him warily as he inched closer to pass off the bread. Lancelot tentatively accepted it and took a bite. It was hard and stale.

The man moved forward, taking a seat on the ground with a couple of feet between them. He drew one leg up to rest an arm lazily over his knee. Flipping back his bouncy hair, he angled a curious look at Lancelot.

"Was that your first time killing a man?"

Lancelot chewed on another bite to buy some silence, then nodded slowly.

The man nodded to himself. "Looked like it. Where are you from?"

Lancelot didn't answer.

The man didn't seem to take offense and instead offered up his own name. "I'm Gwaine. I'm from here and there. Never stay one place long. Except here. I had the misfortune of running afoul with Jarl, the leader of this merry band of slavers."

Lancelot still didn't say anything as he nibbled on the bread.

Gwaine waited a little longer before shrugging and giving up trying to talk to him.

The next day, a large group was taken up to market, but Lancelot wasn't included.

"That means Jarl likes you for a fighter," Gwaine told him. "You'll have to kill more men in order to stay alive."

Lancelot's gut twisted at that. Even if he had no qualms about killing in self-defense, this wasn't that at all.

His next fight started as just a physical one, like before, but this time Lancelot's opponent was a hulking brute who easily pummeled him in the ring. Lancelot's scratching and biting didn't get him far against someone who could pick him up and bodily slam him to the ground.

Lancelot lay in the dirt, body singing with pain.

"So much for the wild man fighting like an animal," Jarl taunted.

The two prisoners were not made to fight to the death, and they were both returned to the pit. Lancelot limped off to his corner.

"He's an animal, alright," his opponent from the pit said loudly to his back. "Slinking off with his tail between his legs."

Lancelot didn't respond.

"What's the matter?" the man continued to goad. "Don't you talk? You haven't said a word since arriving."

He stalked over, and Lancelot cowered away from him.

"Just a yellow-bellied feral child," he sneered in derision. "Your first kill was just dumb luck, wasn't it? Next time you'll be gutted like the animal you are."

Lancelot held his tongue, bristling with fear, anger…and something that felt like shame. He didn't know why this man's words affected him so. This wasn't how Pack spoke to each other, even when they had disagreements.

"Knock it off," Gwaine said loudly.

The instigator drew his shoulders back as Gwaine crossed the pit, but after a tense staring moment, he backed down. Gwaine didn't say anything to Lancelot or approach him.

When they were fed that night, Lancelot tried to prove the man wrong, tried to get in and fight for his food like the wolf he was. But the men were eager to turn on him this time, and after several bruising kicks, he retreated empty-handed.

Gwaine waited until it was quiet and half the men had fallen asleep before he came over to share his supper again. Lancelot reluctantly accepted it.

Gwaine considered him for a long time, making Lancelot feel nervous.

"I'm not sure what you are," the man finally said quietly. "But I can tell you understand."

Lancelot eyed him carefully, then gave a small nod.

Gwaine leaned back casually against the wall. "You won't make it far if you don't know how to fight men like these," he went on, not pressing Lancelot about his silence. "I can teach you."

Lancelot's brows furrowed at the odd offer.

"What are you doing, Gwaine?" one of the other men snapped. "Just leave the runt alone."

"That make you feel like a man? Beating an untrained opponent? How about I tell Jarl you want to face me in a match?"

The other prisoner grumbled under his breath and shut up.

Lancelot didn't know what to make of this…but he accepted Gwaine's help. After all, he did need to adjust his fighting style if he was going to survive long enough to escape.

Lancelot picked up the moves quickly, and he wasn't called on for a fight for a few days, which gave him ample time to practice. Gwaine was taken to a match once, but he returned the victor. As Gwaine climbed back into the pit, Jarl boasted about his reigning champion.

Lancelot eyed his somewhat friend. How many men had he killed by now? And yet Gwaine retained a jaunty attitude and managed to extend kindness to his fellow prisoner. How did he do it? Did he just not have a care for other lives?

But, as Lancelot knew, it was kill or be killed. And when it came time for his next fight, Gwaine pulled him aside before he reached the ladder.

"Do you have anyone waiting for you back home?" he asked.

Lancelot nodded.

"Then fight for them."

And so Lancelot did; he fought with the ferocity his captors had expected from him, the ferocity he would channel were one of his pack mates in danger. And he won. It was a messy fight, and his hands and clothes had blood splatter, which his captors didn't bother letting him clean off. They didn't care. They relished the violence and barbarity. Just another example of how mankind was cruel and evil.

But Gwaine seemed to be another example of the exception, like Percival and his family. So Lancelot reminded himself he would also be the exception in a barbaric world.

Then came a day when Jarl called up his champion for a fight—and chose Lancelot as his opponent. Gwaine's expression was carefully schooled as he climbed out of the pit. Lancelot followed, mind and emotions reeling. He felt a strange mixture of horror and betrayal as he and Gwaine were pitted against each other in the ring. He knew Gwaine wasn't choosing this, and yet the hard look in his eyes frightened Lancelot.

There was no preamble brawl this time; they were both given knives right at the start.

"To the death," Jarl declared with malicious anticipation.

"Give it your all," Gwaine said to Lancelot.

But as Gwaine advanced, Lancelot couldn't bring himself to attack with abandon. He parried and avoided a few strikes while only delivering half-hearted ones in return. He tried to think of a way out, but just like before, it was kill or be killed. And Lancelot had to decide which one he was going to be.

Gwaine attacked again, though his moves seemed lighter than he was capable of. Perhaps he was just as reluctant to kill Lancelot. But how long would it last? The crowd was beginning to express their displeasure.

Then Lancelot heard a howl, drowned out by the boisterous throng, but it resounded clearly for him. His Pack had come for him.

Lancelot straightened out of his attack crouch and took a step back, dropping his arms to his sides. Gwaine frowned at him in confusion. Lancelot grinned back and then threw his head back with a howl of his own.

The men around him shifted uncertainly at his behavior. A few started heckling him, and then they descended into guffaws and taunts. Lancelot continued to grin. In the next moment, the Pack rushed into the ruins and attacked.

As the men were caught off guard, Lancelot turned his borrowed blade on the slavers. Gwaine was momentarily stunned but quickly recovered and joined the fight as the wolves tore through the barbarians along the edges. Screams rent the air, followed by the clang of steel as Gwaine exchanged his knife for another man's sword.

Lancelot saw one of the slavers load a crossbow and take aim at one of the wolves. He bolted into a run and vaulted over the melee to tackle him to the ground before he could shoot. Lancelot stabbed him through the heart, then leaped back to his feet. A choked grunt sounded behind him and he whirled, only to find Gwaine had run a man through who'd been about to do the same to Lancelot's back.

They were at the edge of the chaos now, and Gwaine grabbed Lancelot's arm and hauled him away from the ruins. They ran until the sounds of the battle went silent, and only then did Gwaine slow down and come to a stop. He started laughing in delirious delight.

"What a bloody stroke of luck," he crowed. "Never mind I've never seen a pack of wolves attack an encampment like that." He finally paused and turned to Lancelot with a quirked brow. "You knew they were coming."

Lancelot nodded and canted his head over his shoulder as the wolves finished catching up to them. "They are my pack," he said, the wolves taking up stances around him.

Gwaine's brows rose sharply. "So," he said, "you do speak."

"When I want to."

Gwaine smirked. "Wise." He then turned a guarded look to the wolves. "Thanks for the distraction."

"Thank you for your help in the pit," Lancelot said. "You did not have to do that."

Gwaine shrugged one shoulder. "Well then, I guess this is where we go our separate ways."

Lancelot nodded. "I wish you well."

"You too."

Lancelot started to leave, then stopped and turned back. "Oh, and my name is Lancelot."

Gwaine grinned. "Take care, Lancelot."

Chapter Text

The game trails moved north, and the Pack had to follow. Lancelot's thoughts turned to Percival and his family. Pryloena had told him to visit. So he set off toward the village. But as he got nearer, the hazy tendrils of smoke rising into the sky gave him pause. They were too large to be from chimneys. With a prickle of foreboding creeping up his spine, Lancelot cautiously went to investigate.

The acrid aroma of charred wood and detritus met him first, before he came to the edge of the tree line and looked out in horror at the scene of devastation. Half the homes had been gutted by fire, leaving blackened skeletons still oozing smoke. Debris was scattered everywhere—and so were bodies.

Lancelot's gorge rose as the sight and smell of blood brought him back to the day his own family and village had been slaughtered. The place was eerily quiet, devoid of life.

Heart pounding, Lancelot sprinted across the ground to Percival's house. The front room was still standing, but the place was empty. Lancelot spun and scanned the bodies strewn about outside. Their blood and mud marred faces blurred together, making it difficult to distinguish them. But then Lancelot spotted a young woman, face down, long blond hair spread around her. She was taller than Lancelot's memory of Pryde, but it had been a couple of years.

He walked toward her, legs leaden, stomach sick. He sank to his knees and pulled back her hair. Tears pricked at his eyes; it was Pryde. The sweet girl who had helped tend him in his time of need, had kept him company during the long winter. Lancelot touched her cold skin, irrationally willing her to just wake up.

A bellowing roar shattered the silence, and Lancelot leaped to his feet as a man came charging toward him, wielding a shovel above his head. Lancelot scrambled backward just as the man came to a skidding stop, wide eyes gaping at him. Lancelot froze. Percival was dirty and bedraggled but alive.

The wild rage in his eyes slowly seeped out, and he lowered the shovel. "Lancelot," he breathed in surprise.

"The Pack moved back this way," Lancelot replied, at a loss for what to say in the face of…this. He was immensely relieved to see his friend alive, though. His gaze shifted back to the girl on the ground. "It- it's not Pryde, is it?" he asked, grasping at hopeless threads.

Percival's red eyes welled with tears.

Lancelot's chest constricted. "Is there anyone else?"

Percival shook his head. "Just me. I was digging graves."

Lancelot looked around at the carnage again. So much senseless death. It made him want to turn and run and never look upon the world of men again. But he couldn't leave Percival, his friend.

After a prolonged minute of silence, Percival shifted his weight, then turned to go back the way he'd come. Lancelot followed. The pile of dirt in the field was from one mass grave. There were too many bodies to bury them all individually. Lancelot found another shovel and wordlessly stepped in to help. They dug a large grave for the villagers, but a separate one for Percival to lay his sister, mother, and father together.

Lancelot's arms were aching and his hands raw by the time they finished. Neither of them had taken a break. Percival sank to his knees at the edge of the grave and simply stayed there for a long time. Lancelot remained standing behind him until Percival was ready to get up. When he finally did, he looked utterly lost.

"It'll be dark soon," Lancelot spoke up. "Maybe we should leave here."

Percival roved his gaze over the shattered pieces of his life, then nodded numbly. He went around the looted homes, gathering up what supplies and food were left. He packed everything he could in a bag, and then the two of them walked away from the stench and call of death.

They didn't go far before they stopped to set camp before it got dark. Percival didn't eat anything, and Lancelot didn't bring it up. It seemed neither of them was hungry after that.

"You could come with me to the Pack," Lancelot offered.

Percival shook his head. "No. I need to find the men who did this." He clenched a fist in resolution. "I will avenge my family."

Lancelot didn't say anything to that. They both fell silent, with only the crackle of the fire and the nocturnal sounds of the forest in the backdrop.

The next morning, Percival wordlessly cleaned up the campsite and set off again. Lancelot didn't know if he had a direction in mind or if he was just going, but he fell into step alongside him.

"It's good to see you well," Percival spoke up, sounding more like himself. "I've thought of you often."

"I've never forgotten you and your family. Your kindness even moved me to pass it on when I encountered someone who needed help."

Percival gave a wan smile at that. "You don't have to accompany me, you know. I don't know where I'll be going."

Lancelot drew to a stop to face him. "I do, because you're my friend."

Percival looked at him with sad gratitude, and they resumed their trek.

Despite Lancelot's promise, he was nervous when Percival led him to another village. But it was his intended destination, so Lancelot kept close to him. Percival headed straight to some kind of workshop with many shapes of twisted iron and a hot stone pit.

"I'd like to buy a sword," Percival told the proprietor, a scruffy man covered in sweat and grime.

The man eyed him up and down. "You got coin?"

Percival's mouth tightened. "No, but I'll work it off."

The blacksmith considered him for a long moment. "All right."

"Thank you. Uh, I don't suppose some shelter can be included in that."

The man again scrutinized them both. "You can sleep in the barn."

"Thank you," Percival said again.

Although it was him who'd pledged himself to work for his trade-off, Lancelot assisted with the various manual labor the blacksmith assigned them. They kept him well stocked with firewood, cleaned his tools and workshop, cared for the horses that he boarded whilst making them shoes. Lancelot's first introduction to that looked like brutal torture of an animal, until Percival explained it was done to actually keep the horse safe while traveling.

In between their chores, the blacksmith allowed Percival to practice with some of his swords. At first, Lancelot just watched. But, after recalling his experience in the slavers' pit, he decided he wanted to learn to fight with man-made weapons, and he joined Percival in his drills. The blacksmith even threw them a few tips when he was in the mood.

Lancelot had no concept of money, nor how one valued a sword in exchange for work, though he and Percival had spent five days there already. He wasn't surprised when Naia called out to him through their mental connection, and he slipped away into the woods to speak with her.

"Why are you among men?" she asked tautly.

"You tracked me from Percival's village," Lancelot replied.

She bobbed her head in confirmation. "I'm sorry. I know you cared about them."

"Percival survived. I came here with him. And I can't leave him yet. Not after he lost everything."

Naia nodded in sage understanding. "We will keep a close watch, should you need us."

"Thank you."

More days passed. Lancelot and Percival honed their skills, going so far as to vigorously spar with each other. The blacksmith asked if they'd be adding a second sword to their order, but Lancelot declined. He didn't need to carry a blade, but it would be good to know how to use one in the event he ran afoul of men again.

Percival worked with sole-minded purpose, never questioning his tasks, never complaining. Gone was the jovial young man whom Lancelot had spent a whole winter with. And he wished there was something he could do, but he knew from experience there wasn't. The only thing he could offer was steadfast companionship, which was what he did.

Finally, Percival earned his sword, and they left the village.

"I'm grateful for all your help," Percival said, "but I'm going after those raiders now."

Lancelot frowned. It was the opening to a farewell, but he didn't feel comfortable abandoning his friend just yet. "I know," he replied, standing his ground.

Percival's mouth thinned. "I don't know how far this quest will take me. You should return home."

Lancelot nodded. "If it's all the same to you, I'll stick around a little longer."

They traveled to various villages where Percival asked for information on raiders attacking villages. Some claimed not to know anything; some seemed too afraid to speak with them. Others told them to leave, that they didn't want trouble. Percival grew frustrated.

They weren't welcome in many of the places they passed through, nor did they have any coin to purchase food, so they spent their nights around a campfire and did their own hunting. Sometimes when game was sparse, whatever wolf was assigned to tail Lancelot would go off and catch something, then leave it at the edge of their camp. They fell into a routine. One that was wearing thin on Percival.

Lancelot called out across the Pack's connection to the nearby wolf and said he wanted to speak with Naia. It took half a day for her to make her way to them.

Lancelot was sitting first watch when she arrived.

"Cub," she greeted, posture tense for some reason.

"There's something I want to discuss with you," he replied.

Naia's eyes turned sad. "You wish to leave the Pack and rejoin the world of men."

"What? No! Of course not!"

Percival slept soundly, undisturbed by their silent communication.

"I would understand," she went on. "You've been exposed to them more and more recently."

"And have been reminded of their cruelty every single time," Lancelot said staunchly. "But even among the worst, there has been goodness." He flicked his gaze to Percival. "He cannot move on until the ones responsible for murdering his family are punished. And I cannot in good conscience leave him until I know he'll be all right. I know his village is far behind us, but does anyone remember the scents from it? Can the Pack help us find them?"

Naia canted her head in consideration. "We will try."

Lancelot nodded gratefully, and Naia slipped away without Percival knowing she was ever there.

Lancelot didn't tell him about her visit, nor his idea. It was a long shot, and he didn't want to get his friend's hopes up. Especially when it seemed the smallest thing could snap them nowadays.

The next night when they made camp, Percival got frustrated trying to light the campfire, and he leaped to his feet and started kicking the pile of kindling, sending twigs flying. He chucked the flint into the woods. Lancelot didn't move or say anything, just waited until Percival tired himself out and then plopped on the ground, visibly wrecked.

Lancelot gathered up the kindling and rebuilt the cone tent. After getting a light from rubbing two sticks together, he proceeded to prepare their supper for cooking.

"I'm sorry," Percival spoke up after a while.

"I understand."

Percival looked over at him, eyes awash with grief. "So you do." He was silent for another moment before adding softly, "Thank you for staying."

Two days after that, the Pack showed up with news.

Percival looked at them in confusion and curiosity, seemingly not afraid.

"They've found the men who destroyed your village," Lancelot told him.

Percival blinked incredulously. "What? H-how?"

"They tracked their scent. They're ready to take us there."

Percival's expression shifted between stunned, nervous, and resolute. He gave a sharp nod, and the wolves led the way.

The raiders were currently encamped in the countryside. It was a large group of twenty men, far too many for Percival and Lancelot to handle alone. Percival faltered as he studied them from the cover of some foliage, torn between acknowledging it was a fool's errand and loath to give up when he'd come so far.

"We will fight with you," one of the wolves spoke up. A murmur of agreement rippled through the Pack.

Lancelot frowned. "It is not your battle. I cannot ask you to risk yourselves."

"Men like this took your family and home. We will avenge you both this day."

Lancelot was taken aback, but he turned to Percival. "The Pack will help."

Percival quirked a confused eyebrow at him, then at the wolves, but he still looked uncertain.

Lancelot picked up the crossbow from their hunting gear and notched an arrow into place.

Percival took a deep breath and nodded. He drew his sword, and they turned their sights onto the camp.

There was little cover to approach stealthily, and the element of surprise would be gone quickly.

"We should draw them to us," Lancelot said.

Percival shook his head. "That is the wise tactical approach, but I need them to know." With that, he stood up and walked straight out into the open.

Lancelot hung back and raised the crossbow.

Percival was soon noticed, and the carousing at the camp died down as the men stood, postures stiffening as this armed man came toward them.

"What's this?" one of them called out.

"I am Percival, son of Albice. And you will pay for slaughtering my village."

The men exchanged several guffaws, and Lancelot took that moment to shoot one of them in the chest. He fell dead, resulting in a stunned silence before chaos broke out. Percival raised his sword with a charging bellow, and the wolves broke cover to dart across the ground and attack.

Lancelot hastily loaded the next arrow and shot another man, then a third. When the arrows were all spent, he tossed the weapon aside and leaped up to join the battle. There were plenty of slain men that Lancelot was able to snatch up a sword from. The strident screech of steel and guttural snarls punctuated the air, along with dying screams. Percival, Lancelot, and the Pack cut down many men in their brief skirmish. Several others abandoned the battle and fled.

When all was said and done, the camp was littered with bodies, and they were victorious. Percival stood in the center of the carnage, breathing heavily. He then closed his eyes and fisted a hand over his chest.

"For you, Pryde."

"For Pryde," Lancelot murmured.

They left the raiders where they were; let them be scavenged as they had left their victims to be.

"None of your wolves were hurt, were they?" Percival asked.

"They're fine," Lancelot replied.

He nodded. "Good. Thank them for their help. I would not have emerged victorious on my own."

"Would you still have attacked them if you were?"

Percival's expression turned down. "I very well might have. If only to join my family."

Lancelot frowned in concern. "And now? What will you do?"

Percival shrugged. "I don't know. I suppose there are more evil men in the world. Perhaps I will make it my life's cause to protect the vulnerable from them."

"A worthy cause."

Percival turned to face him and held out his arm. Lancelot clasped it.

"Thank you, my friend. If this is the last time we are to meet, take care of yourself."

"And you," Lancelot replied.

Percival nodded and stepped back. With one last reluctant look, he turned to set off on his own.

Lancelot's heart gave a pang for him. He wished Percival could have stayed with them, become Pack.

But that wasn't the way it worked. He'd grown up in the world of men and that was where he was at home.

And Lancelot had his.

Chapter Text

Another year passed quietly, and Lancelot managed to avoid the world of men. Until one day when he was wandering through the woods, he heard a pack mate calling for help. Lancelot turned and immediately headed toward him. He found the wolf trapped in a metal cage and being carried away by a group of men toward a fortress in the distance.

Lancelot didn't hesitate to charge. He came up behind one of the hunters at the rear of the cage and stole his sword in one deft move, then cut him down before he could react. As he dropped, the cage's weight became unbalanced and crashed to the ground, bringing down the other men who'd been carrying it. The wolf yelped.

Several others who had not been bearing the cage drew their weapons and attacked. Lancelot remembered his practice with Percival and spun back and forth, parrying blows and riposting with thrusts of his own. He cast quick glances at the cage as he fought, scanning for a weak spot. When he found it, he waited for an opening to spin around and slice through the ropes securing the door shut. The wolf bolted free.

Lancelot fended off one more thug before breaking away from the melee and running after him. The wolf was limping, though, which slowed him down significantly. And the hunters were giving chase, angry shouts echoing behind them.

"Keep going!" Lancelot ordered as he turned to take cover behind a tree.

The wolf whined worriedly but continued its hobbled lope to safety. Lancelot waited for the hunters to catch up, then leaped out to intercept them. The clang of steel grated his ears as he fought relentlessly, determined to protect his pack mate. He wounded two more men and had only one left to contend with, when suddenly an invisible force slammed into him bodily and threw him through the air. He landed with a jarring thud that radiated pain through his bones and knocked the wind from his lungs.

Gasping for breath, he struggled to get up, only for that shapeless pressure to punch him in the chest again and pin him to the ground. Lancelot blinked dazedly as a woman with long blond hair came to stand over him. Her eyes glowed gold.

The hunters regrouped, and one came in to grab Lancelot's sword. Then the pressure abruptly released, and he sucked in a ragged breath as he was grabbed and hauled up onto his knees. The woman studied him intently, then lashed out a hand to seize him by the chin. Her fingers dug in with bruising force as her gaze bored into Lancelot's.

"Well, well, well," she said. "Isn't this curious." She released him, and he gave a futile struggle of protest against his captors. "Bring him," she ordered.

Lancelot's arms were bound behind his back and he was dragged to his feet and away. He was brought to the fortress the hunters had been taking the wolf to. In a crumbling courtyard, he was once again forced to his knees as the strange woman continued to regard him. Lancelot knew a predator when he saw one.

A man sauntered out to join them. "I thought you were bringing a magic wolf," he said, eyeing Lancelot with disdain.

"We had one," she replied. "Until this one intervened."

The man narrowed his gaze at Lancelot. "Then kill him."

"No," the woman declared. She stalked closer and cupped Lancelot's chin again, forcing his head back. "You have wolf magic," she said, sounding intrigued. "How is that?"

Lancelot gritted his teeth and glared back at her.

"What is your name?"

He finally wrenched his head free and spat a glob of saliva at her.

She reeled back, eyes flashing dangerously. "Fine. I don't need your cooperation. You will lead us to the rest of the pack."

Lancelot lifted his chin defiantly. He would never.

The woman smirked.

"And then you'll bind them to our will?" the man said.

She pursed her mouth into a simpering moue. "Yes. I will bind them to our will."

Lancelot stiffened. He had no idea if such a thing was possible, but she seemed assured of her plan. Lancelot steeled himself for what was to come, for he would never lead these people to his family.

The woman continued to smirk at him with a knowing look. Then she began to utter something in words Lancelot didn't understand, and her eyes glowed gold again. It sent a thrill of dread through him a split second before he felt a foreign magic invade his body. He choked on a startled gasp as it forced its way into his sternum and coiled around the Pack's magic nestled inside him. The Moon's song filled his head, resounding so loudly he couldn't hear anything else. Everything fell away: all thought, all reason. His blood sang with the call for home, and Lancelot drowned in it.

Percival sat in one corner of the camp, sharpening his sword. Men milled around him, exchanging insults and dirty humor. Percival didn't mingle with them much. He'd started out with such ideals to devote his life to. But reality was cruel and didn't leave much room for "honorable" men. He'd tried to become a knight, only to quickly learn that only the nobility could do that. He could sell his sword, but no one paid to protect the innocent—they paid for mercenaries to do whatever they were told. Percival hated it, but he needed to eat. And that was how he found himself working for Cenred as a sword for hire.

"Gear up!" someone called out.

Percival resignedly got to his feet and sheathed his blade. He and the rest of the men gathered in the courtyard for the summons where Cenred's sorceress, Morgause, was already instructing soldiers to have traps ready.

Percival furrowed his brow in confusion as he pushed his way forward, only to freeze when he spotted a familiar face. Lancelot was on his knees between Morgause and Cenred, arms bound behind him, his neck collared like an animal. And his eyes were glowing blue, his gaze empty.

"We need to capture more than half the pack," Morgause said. "He will lead us to them." She gave the leash she was holding a small tug. Lancelot didn't react.

Percival stood transfixed in horror. Cenred was going after Lancelot's wolf pack? And what had the witch done to him?

Percival couldn't go along with this, but how was he going to free his friend and escape when they were surrounded by dozens of armed men and one powerful sorceress?

When they finally set off, Percival had no choice but to follow. He tried to stay close to the lead and kept trying to catch glimpses of Lancelot. Two men were now holding the rope leashes and dragging him along. He stumbled unseeingly over the ground, almost tripping half the time. Morgause would frequently raise a hand for them to stop, and her eyes would glow gold as she did something. Lancelot would jerk ramrod straight, then crane his head a certain direction. Morgause then directed them to go that way.

Percival wracked his mind for what to do. But he could only bide his time and hope something presented itself.

He was relieved when the search didn't immediately bring them to the wolves, and they were forced to stop and make camp for the night. This was Percival's best chance, but he was still gravely outnumbered. He waited until half the men had nodded off, though there were still plenty on guard. Percival slipped off into the trees under the pretense of relieving himself, then doubled back and around toward where Lancelot was. He was in the center of camp, dropped on the ground and left to languish in his magical stupor. Every so often he'd turn his head toward something unseen and whimper. How was Percival going to free him? And if Lancelot wasn't even conscious while under this spell, would Percival even be able to escape with him?

A twig snapped in the darkness and Percival whirled, fists clenching in preparation to take out a threat. The other mercenary looked equally surprised to have come upon him but didn't give a shout or loudly ask what he was up to. For a suspended moment, they both eyed each other carefully.

"What are you doing?" Percival finally asked, keeping his voice low.

Gwaine shrugged blithely. "What are you doing?" he rejoined, speaking just as quietly.

Percival didn't answer.

Gwaine flicked a look past him toward Lancelot, and if Percival wasn't mistaken, there was a tightness in his jaw. "You don't like what they're doing," Gwaine commented.

Percival shifted his weight in apprehension. "I know him," he admitted. "He's a friend."

Gwaine's brows rose in surprise. "Same here."

Now it was Percival's turn to blink in amazement. "From when?"

"Kid got himself captured by a slaver over a year ago. We escaped together." Gwaine darted a look around before adding, "I was trying to figure out a way to get him out of this pickle."

Percival remained a bit skeptical, but he was also relieved to have an ally. Still, two against an army didn't improve their odds.

Then another figure stepped out of the darkness, and they both reached for their swords.

"Easy," Elyan said, hands raised. "I'm on your side."

"Oh?" Gwaine said dryly.

"I met him once before too. Lancelot, I think his name is. He helped me out for no reason. I owe him."

Percival eyed both his unlooked for allies warily, and they did the same to him and each other. But in the end, they decided not to question this turn of events, as they were united in a common goal—rescuing their friend.

It was still impossible to attempt a blatant theft of the prisoner, but with three sets of hands, it was easier to create a distraction. They spread out with torches, making their way around sleeping men and surreptitiously tucking some lit twigs into their bags. It wasn't long before the air was filled with smoke and men were jolted out of their sleep as their bags caught fire. Chaos erupted, with men running every which way, some to escape the growing flames, others with water to put them out.

Percival, Gwaine, and Elyan stormed the center of camp and grabbed Lancelot. They no doubt seemed like they were securing the prisoner at first, until they cut his bonds and took off into the woods with him. Lancelot was unresponsive, so Percival paused long enough to heft him over his shoulder to carry, and they ran.

Gwaine and Elyan led the way with their torches, and they didn't stop for a long while, not until they were sure there were no sounds of pursuit. Percival gently laid Lancelot on the ground. His eyes were still frozen open and glowing blue, casting an eerie aura through the darkness.

"Lancelot?" Percival squeezed his shoulder. "Can you hear me?"

He didn't get a reaction.

"Morgause will probably be able to track him like this," Gwaine pointed out.

"We need to break the spell," Elyan added.

They exchanged helpless looks; none of them knew anything about magic.

"His wolf pack might be able to," Percival said.

"I thought the goal was to not lead Morgause to them," Gwaine retorted.

"If they break the spell, she won't be able to." Percival looked down at Lancelot again, his heart constricting. "We have to try."

So he pulled Lancelot upright but didn't toss him over his shoulder again. Percival didn't know how Morgause's spell worked, but he prompted Lancelot into moving, and then they followed the cues of his subtle head tilts, hoping he was, in fact, leading them to the pack.

When the group of wolves burst through the trees ahead to intercept them, Percival's heart gave a startled jolt. The wolves bristled, ears flicking back as they whipped their gazes over them all. Percival spotted a patch of pure white among the mix.

"Naia!" he called.

The white wolf pushed her way toward the front.

"A sorceress is after the whole pack," Percival explained. "She cast a spell on Lancelot so he would lead her to you. Can you break it?"

Gwaine and Elyan shared dubious looks as the wolves exchanged some kind of silent communication. Then Naia snorted softly and turned to lead them onward. They followed, guiding Lancelot along with them, though he no longer needed prodding to follow the trail of magic exuding from the wolves.

They stopped at a place further away and in the open under the moon. Naia cocked her head toward the center, and Percival took that as a cue to place Lancelot there. Then he stepped back, and the wolves formed a circle around him. Their beginning howls sent shivers up Percival's spine, then the chorus chimed in, and the resulting haunting symphony was captivating. The wolves began to glow. Light from the moon cascaded down in silky ribbons that swirled around the pack, and then Lancelot. Finally, it eddied back up into the sky like floating stardust, and Lancelot's eyes grew dark.

He gasped as he came back to himself, doubling over in shock. The wolves moved in to surround him, several licking at his face. They pressed against him until his breathing slowed and he collected himself. When he looked up and noticed Percival, Gwaine, and Elyan, he blinked in confusion.

"What…what are you doing here?"

"We rescued you from Cenred and Morgause," Gwaine replied.

His eyes widened in horror and he swept his gaze around the wolves. "She wanted the Pack."

Naia pushed closer and nudged his cheek reassuringly.

"The spell she was using is broken," Elyan put in. "But we should move in case she can track it to this last known location it was emanating from."

Lancelot nodded and shakily got to his feet. Even though the wolves were still pressed close to him, Percival wedged his way over to offer Lancelot a supportive shoulder.

"Uh, there's a cave we can shelter in," Lancelot said, nodding to the wolves, who took off to lead the way again.

They all followed, and while the cave was a fair enough distance away, and a whole pack of magical wolves was on guard, none of the ex-mercenaries seemed willing to sleep for the rest of the night. They knew from experience how ruthless Cenred and his sorceress could be.

Lancelot sat leaning against the wall, two wolves curled around him for warmth. "How did all three of you happen to find me?" he asked quietly.

They shared uncomfortable looks at the question.

Lancelot furrowed his brow, then nodded in realization. "You're part of that…pack."

"Were," Percival quickly corrected.

Lancelot dropped his gaze to his lap. "That isn't the type of place I would have expected to find you," he murmured.

Percival's chest tightened with recrimination. "Things have been harder than I thought they would. There are few places for a man with no ties and no nobility to find work."

Lancelot's frown deepened. "And now you won't be able to go back."

Percival shrugged. "It's not like I was happy there. And after what they tried to do to you, I don't regret leaving. Things will just be…harder for a while again."

"We could travel together for a bit," Elyan suggested casually.

Percival perked up and nodded, inwardly pleased with that notion. From what he'd observed of Elyan and Gwaine, they weren't as thuggish as the other men in Cenred's company. And they'd turned against the brutish king to do the right thing; that counted for a lot.

Gwaine shrugged nonchalantly. "Sure, why not."

Percival turned back to Lancelot. "You'll be returning with the pack again, won't you?"

He nodded slowly, looking troubled. "Thank you for what you did," he said solemnly. "You saved not only my life, but that of my family."

"Just returning the favor," Elyan replied.

"It's what friends do," Gwaine added.

Lancelot kept nodding. "You are not Pack. But…you are my pack. Perhaps we will see each other again someday."

Percival smiled. "I certainly hope so."

"But under less dire circumstances," Gwaine put in. "Try not to make a habit of getting kidnapped."

Lancelot's lips twitched.

Dawn broke a short time later, and they parted ways. Lancelot disappeared back into the wilderness with his wolves, and the three mercenaries with their newly forged friendship set off in search of their own new place to make a home.