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


Chapter 6

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."