A/N: A fun new AU to play with here. Eight chapters in total. XD

Chapter 1

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.