A/N: Thank you GuestM Live and Buckhunter for reviewing!

Chapter 4

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.