A/N: This is a response to 'I am Death. Get outta my space's' request for a Hurt!Bash and a hunting trip gone wrong. It will probably be two or three chapters, as I couldn't think of a way to end it on this one. Bash is fourteen years old, and Francis is thirteen. Hope you enjoy it! On that note, if any of you have more requests, I'd be happy to consider them! Also, sorry in advance for the rather horrible cliffhanger at the end of this chapter.

Warning: there are a couple of references to violence and gore, in case any of you have squeamish stomachs.

"Take me with you," Francis begged of his brother, for perhaps the hundredth time in the last few minutes, watching Bash intently as he mounted his horse and took his spear from his waiting squire.

They were in the royal stables, the three of them alone but for the horses and Bash's hound, who choked on his lead every so often, eager for a hunt, as no one would think of coming down here when preparations needed to be made for their visitor's arrival.

It was perhaps the most important visit that the French Court had in the last century, and no one was going to risk being in the wrong place at the wrong time, as Bash had predicted when he came up with a plot to sneak off hunting. The royal stable hands were outside by the gardens, waiting for their visitors to arrive so that they might escort their horses to the stables, and no one would be doing that for at least an hour.

Bash's squire, Adrien, was glancing between the two of them nervously, perhaps wondering if he should alert someone of this newest predicament and keep the Dauphin at the castle, where he was supposed to be.

Of course, doing so would leave the King's other son alone in the King's Forest, hunting any number of dangerous animals by himself, and if he left them alone, he had no doubt they would embark on this foolish hunting trip without any escort whatsoever, the blame for which would be placed solely at Adrien's feet for abandoning them.

And Francis was counting on the squire's wish to preserve his neck, should anything happen to the two of them and he be blamed for it when it was discovered he was not with them, being greater than his sense of duty to report on them.

He needn't have worried.

The squire let out another sigh, finishing the last touches on Bash's saddle before stepping back, giving a respectful nod to the Dauphin, and waiting for his master to come to a decision.

Bash sighed. "Francis, you know your mother would kill me if anything happened to you," he tried, but Francis just shook his head stubbornly.

"She won't notice," Francis insisted. "The Pope is here for a visit, and you know how she is about organizing for foreign dignitaries. And this is the Pope." He was well aware that his mother also expected him to be in attendance when the Pope arrived, as she no doubt wished to show off her prized son to the man who had arranged her marriage to the King in the first place, but he figured that Bash didn't know this, and he was not about to bring it up. He was hoping that, in all of her excitement for the Pope's arrival, his mother would hardly notice his absence, and certainly wouldn't berate him for it and risk anyone overhearing that she'd scolded her Golden Boy.

Francis got away with all sorts of bad behavior when there were royal visitors at Court, and he took full advantage of that. So, he supposed, did Bash, though he was slightly more careful. But not today, it would seem.

His brother didn't pay attention to Court matters, after all.

"Francis-" Bash tried again, though he was weakening, glancing toward the end of the stables as though he couldn't wait to be on his way and would easily stop arguing with Francis if it meant that he could go. It was already midafternoon, and the Pope and his entourage would be arriving within the hour.

Francis knew that Bash hated being present at the Court when introductions were being made, finding his presence there rather useless with him often being ignored or set aside in favor of all of Catherine's children, or, when he was mentioned, flippantly introduced at the King's bastard and then having to endure the upturned lips of whatever Duke or King was staring down at him.

Francis hated being present himself simply because Court introductions were long and terribly boring, with arduous speeches and uninteresting guests, and he'd get to know whoever was visiting well enough in the weeks afterward, before they returned to wherever they came from.

"Come on, Bash," Francis pleaded, and then his twinkled mischievously. "I already have my bow. I won't tell anyone if you don't."

Bash snorted, glancing at the little wooden bow and quiver full of arrows that Francis had brought along with him. "Fine. But don't take your own horse, so the stable boys don't notice it's gone and go and alert anyone. And...for heaven's sake, Francis, make sure we don't get caught."

Francis grinned, running to the nearest horse in the stable, who also belonged to Bash, and had been a gift to his brother on his eighth birthday, when Francis had received an ugly doublet, and standing expectantly outside the stall, waiting for Bash's squire.

The squire let out a long sigh that betrayed his feelings on the matter, but walked forward anyway, intent on not offending his master and therefore losing his position, as it wasn't the best one to begin with, serving the King's bastard, who had no real title, nor anything to bestow upon his squire when the man left his service.

Still, he was not going to argue with the Dauphin of France.

Francis loved hunting, even if King Henry did not take to it with the same fascination as his sons, because it was something that, when he was given permission, he could leave the confines of the castle for without a full entourage or his parents, but mostly because it was one of the few activities that Bash was allowed to do that Francis could also participate in, if he was careful.

On any other day, he might have even been given permission to go with Bash, though the King would doubtless insist that they take more than Bash's squire for protection.

He was glad that Bash's squire was a relative silent man, five years older than Bash and just as willing to get into mischief as either of them, though less willing to get caught for it, for Bash and Francis might get away with a sharp reprimand, but he could very well lose his position. Still, he seemed easy enough to persuade into going along with whatever they did, even if he sometimes seemed annoyed by their risk taking.

As it was, he had no doubt that he would get in trouble for this later, as, after the Pope left, his mother would be furious, but Francis thought that it was worth it.

Especially when Bash finally used his spear.

That was something that Francis was looking forward to, as Bash had received the thing as a gift for his fourteenth birthday, not so very long ago, and Francis had yet to see him use it.

Bash was silent on the ride to the King's Forest, and Francis was content to simply ride beside him and feel the wind in his hair, and wonder if this was what it was like to be a King's son but not his heir, free to do whatever he might wish.

The squire rode behind them, obviously struggling to keep up with the breakneck pace that Bash was leading them at, and, several times, Francis could hear him muttering something unsavory under his breath, though Francis could not make out the words.

They made it to the King's Forest, situated by itself in an area far from any towns or outlying villages, in about an hour's time, and Francis reflected, by the time they entered the woods, that the Pope was no doubt greeting the King and Queen, and someone had probably figured out he was missing by now.

He pushed that thought from his mind in the next instant, leading his horse behind Bash's and following him down the King's Path. Bash knew almost every good hunting area in this forest, so Francis left where they were going up to his brother.

They rode for some time, and Francis was beginning to get a bit bored, though this was still more passing entertainment than being forced to meet the Pope, indeed, even being outside was better, when finally they encountered some prey.

Birds, however, were not something that either Bash or Francis found inspiring enough to return home victorious, though it had been somewhat exciting to chase after them when Bash's hound spooked them, and so they kept going after successful downing the creatures, Bash tying the pigeons to a string over his horse's saddle.

The deer was a real treat, when they discovered the buck several hours later, though taking it down was a bit of difficulty, and required three of Francis' arrows as well as Bash's spear before they effectively managed to chase him down.

Dragging it back to the castle in victory to eat at supper, or perhaps to hang on Bash's wall, however exciting the prospect sounded, would be even more difficult, and, as Francis and Bash argued over the best way to do so, Bash's squire was given the grim job of being lookout while tying down the deer.

It was some time before the boys finally came to the decision that they should throw the products of their hunt over Francis' horse, though Francis was not entirely sure that his pony would be able to carry the weight back to the castle, and Francis would ride with Bash back.

"Where'd Sasha go?" Bash demanded then, glancing around with an almost worried look, and Francis noticed for the first time that Bash's hound, after taking off and scaring the pigeons, had not returned to them.

The squire glanced around nervously, though he seemed nervous for a far different reason. "Perhaps she went home. Maybe we should turn back-"

The sound of a pained howl from somewhere in front of them made him trail off abruptly, and then the squire's mouth dropped open in shock as he stared beyond Bash and Francis.

Francis was almost afraid to turn around, judging by the look on the squire's face that whatever was behind him was terrifying.

Although he had never encountered one, he had heard of bears in these parts, and, though that would certainly have been an exciting creature to hunt, he doubted that only he and Bash were capable of bringing one down themselves.

When he did turn around, it was not to the sight of a bear, but the sight which did greet him was not much kinder.

It was not, in all truth, the wolf that Francis noticed first, though he was faintly aware of its presence, like an unwanted relative one pretends not to acknowledge at a feast, but still Francis stiffened, staring down at the sight in front of the beast.

They had found Sasha. Or rather, what was left of her.

Francis had heard once that wolves were rabid, wild creatures, eating whatever they could find, sometimes while it still lived. He had not thought they would be capable of eating dogs, despite hearing so once or twice from the King's hunting companions when they did not think he was about, for he had always thought the two rather alike, but, seeing the wolf tear into Sasha's hide now, he could see the differences clearly.

Where Sasha had once had a beautiful coat and was roughly as high as Francis' knees, the wolf was almost as tall as Bash's horse, rather than Francis' pony, and its coat was mangy, fur missing in odd places and covered in grease where it was not.

He felt oddly detached from this whole thing, even as Francis reached for his bow, despite the squire's rapid headshakes, no doubt worried that the wolf would take that as a threat and attack them.

Bash, beside him on his horse, did not move, and Francis notched his first arrow and lifted the bow. Bash was staring in a mixture of shock and horror at what was left of his beloved hound, and Francis knew he would feel bad for his brother...later.

The wolf, for it's part, calmly ignored his audience, perhaps not even realizing they were there, intent on his meal. And then he lifted his head, though still he ignored Bash and Francis, and a bit of what had once been Sasha lifted with it, between large, yellowed teeth, and Francis could no longer pretend that he was detached from all of this.

Francis, at the sight of what had once been Bash's favored hound, leaned over the side of his horse and dry-heaved into the grass, forgetting about his bow and arrow altogether, ignoring the frightened looks that Bash and his squire shot him at the sudden movement. He was hard-pressed not to scream, after all, so he supposed they should be thanking him for not doing so, as he doubted the wolf would appreciate it even more than they did.

The wolf, who had been until now calmly making a meal of the dead animal on the ground, had glanced up at Francis' movement and at the sound accompanying it, suddenly seeming to realize that his observers were not friendly.

Francis froze, not even bothering to sit up straight and hoping that the horse he rode would not mistake the sudden stiffening of his limbs as a sign to move.

Though he would have dearly liked to, Francis had a feeling such a movement would only be counterproductive, as the wolf seemed ready to pounce at the slightest provocation.

"My lords, perhaps we should withdraw," the squire tried, but neither boy was listening to him at this point, their excitement in having cornered such a great beast and having even the slightest chance of avenging poor Sasha tempering any rational thoughts of leaving before it retaliated.

"Hand me my spear," Bash ordered the squire then, and, after a moment's hesitation, he did so.

The wolf let out a low growl as the pointed weapon fell into Bash's hands, and took a careful step back, only to find itself backed against a tree.

If animals could frown, Francis supposed that the wolf had done so at the realization that he was boxed in, with the only direction to go for an escape straight toward them, but Francis was no more reassured by that than the wolf seemed to be.

And then Bash threw his spear.

Francis could remember long hours of watching Bash practice with the thing in the training grounds behind the castle, where he wouldn't have a chance of harming anyone and where he had spent the majority of his days recently, perfecting his skill.

Catherine, in the few times she had caught Bash practicing with the weapon when she came to collect Francis from his vigilance, had remarked that, at this point, he was "well on the road to becoming as uncivilized as his mother," which Francis supposed was as close to a compliment on Bash's aim as he was like to receive from her. She had, after all, seemed almost impressed the last time she had seen Bash's practice, though Catherine de Medici would never have admitted such a thing out loud.

All of those hours perfecting his aim, however, did not serve Bash well today. The spear landed just shy of the wolf's front paws, slamming into the dirt in front of the creature, but sticking up on its end, and, if Bash had sought to spear the ground, he had certainly succeeded.

Francis belatedly wondered if that had indeed been his intent, in an attempt to merely scare the creature off, but, if it was, it had not been well-thought out, for, though Francis still had his bow and arrows, and Bash his hunting knife, they were both simultaneously too close and too far from the wolf to be of much use. Francis, though he was perfectly willing to try, had never shot at such close range before, and Bash had never been good at throwing knives.

The wolf shied back at the sight of the impending spear, but when it only crashed into the ground in front of the creature, the wolf raised its head and sniffed at the thing as if it found the spear to be another treat.

The spear snapped between the wolf's teeth, as though it weighed nothing and were not made of solid metal, but of straw.

Francis did scream, then.

The wolf's head jerked up at the sound, black eyes narrowing on Francis before its hackles rose, and the remains of Bash's spear were thrown aside without a second thought in lieu of this much greater prize.

He could not have said what thoughts filled his mind later, but, in that moment, Francis froze, staring down at the hideous creature as it lunged forward, and then he was scrambling for his bow, stringing the arrow once more and shooting it without really aiming, knowing that it would likely do very little at such close range, but having to do something.

Bash's horse scrambled out of the way, Francis' brother ducking at the sight of the oncoming arrow, and his squire let out a startled cry at the sight of it, though his frightened horse was already moving in the opposite direction.

Francis heard a muffled cry from the wolf, though he noted with dismay that the arrow had failed to down the creature completely, for, though it had lodged in the wolf's left side, the animal still rushed at them. Or rather, at Francis, as it seemed that he was the only one the wolf seemed to deem a threat.

He acted instinctively then, kicking his horse to get her to move out of the way, and she scrambled up on her hind legs, seeming to see the beast for the first time, before throwing Francis off.

He slammed into the forest floor, felt the back of his head slam against a tree branch, blood instantly beginning to ooze from the open wound, and then he could see the wolf, it's wild eyes staring down at Francis as it prowled closer.

Everything seemed to blur in that moment.

"Francis!" he heard Bash shout. He vaguely understood that strong arms were grabbing him tightly, and then shoving him again into the dirt, but Francis was barely able to let out an indignant, and perhaps partially fearful, cry before his mouth was full of the dirt beneath him.

He felt a pair of arms wrap around him, pulling him up, forced himself not to resist, and then Bash's squire was hissing fearfully, "Are you all right, Dauphin?"

Francis barely managed to nod, before spinning back, for, if it had not been the squire who pushed him to safety, thus putting himself in harm's way, then it must have been... "Bash!"

The sight that greeted him made Francis' blood freeze, despite the hotness of the day, and, without a thought to his own safety, he attempted to lunge forward, only for the squire to tighten his hold around Francis and keep him back.

Bash had thrown himself in front of the raging wolf in an attempt to save Francis, his hunting knife held up as his only protection, and the wolf had responded in kind, tackling Bash to the ground and...and suddenly Francis could not see his brother, beneath all of that mangy fur.

He struggled out of the squire's grip, reaching frantically for one of his arrows, which had fallen from their quiver on his back to the ground in the chaos, and reflected that he was far quicker to jump to Bash's defense than Francis had been trying to save himself.

From beneath the wolf, Bash let out a scream full of pain, and Francis lifted the arrow in his fist, about to throw it, in a last resort as he could not waste time now searching for his bow.

He never had the chance.

The spear, brown and rusted and certainly not Bash's, much thicker, slammed into the wolf's side, beside the arrow already there and yet somehow barely seeming to effect the creature, this spear eliciting a pained howl from the creature before it fell to the ground, legs giving out beneath the wolf. It let out another whimper before going still for good, and Francis sighed with relief.

From beneath the collapsed beast, Bash managed to push himself up into a sitting position, shoving the wolf's carcass off of him.

Bash was breathing heavily, and Francis couldn't remember a time when he had looked so scared. He then glanced down at his leg, refusing to meet Francis' eyes, and let out a hiss of breath that sounded rather pained, as if he had only now noticed that he was injured.

Blood gushed from the wound, just above his knee, staining Bash's trousers and soaking into the dirt beneath them.

However, Francis did not have long to think on this, before he turned his attention to their rescuers.

They were not, as Francis had hoped, guards from the palace, come to find them and bring them home, for even that, though it promised his mother and father's retribution for sneaking off as they had, would have been better than this.

"Well, and what 'ave we here? Little lordlings from the palace?" an unpleasant voice called from the edge of the clearing, and Francis carefully lifted his head higher yet to meet the man's eyes, still rather terrified that the rabid wolf was going to bite it off.

He flinched at the sight of their rescuers, having not expected anyone of their like in this woods.

The King's Forest was not the same forest in which pagans were rumored to conduct their rituals, but a bit further away, and filled with animals who hardly feared being hunted, as it was not a sport King Henry particularly enjoyed, the Forest being so far from the castle. They were free to roam about in this place, and therefore rather easy prey.

But it was named the King's Forest for a reason; it was entirely at the King's disposal for his hunting, and for any commoner to wander into these woods was against the law, and punishable by a rather hefty fine and time in the palace dungeons. There were other woods from which the commoners were expected to hunt for their meals, so that they did not scare away any of a royal party's prey, and, for the most part, they did so without complaint.

These men were clearly commoners, and, more than that, scruffy and ill-dressed and without any horses, the man who had addressed them wearing a brand on his bare arm which marked him as a thief.

Francis swallowed hard, glancing at Bash to see what he was supposed to say in response, as Bash always seemed to know how to talk to the commoners and get them to leave them be in relative peace, only to find his brother lying on the ground, curled into a ball and clutching his leg. His face was very pale, and Francis feared that he might pass out before they could get him back to the palace.

His leg, which was covered in blood.

Francis swallowed hard, and attempted to throw off the squire's hands to go to his brother, but Bash's squire had a death grip on him, as if he feared letting go of Francis would see them both killed.

Bash let out a cry then, and the criminals' eyes were all drawn to him. However, rather than staring at his wounded leg, as Francis now was, they were studying the insignia on his jacket, seeming to find it much more interesting. The jacket that Francis had cast off hours earlier, too hot to wear it, and which Bash had grudgingly taken to keep it from falling off Francis' pony.

The symbol of the Dauphin of France was embroidered into the shoulder.

"Well, well," the same man who had spoken before now drawled. "More than just little lordlings, I would say, isn't that right, Your Highness?"

Francis blinked then, confused, for he'd never heard anyone address Bash as 'Your Highness' before.

Bash straightened then, almost imperceptibly but, now that Francis had noticed he was wounded, he couldn't fail to notice the look of fear that crossed Bash's face at those words.

Francis couldn't understand why, though; surely, if these men found out who they were, they would let them go on their way, or even escort them back to the palace, and the King would be more likely to dismiss the fact that they had been in the King's Forest at all when he learned that they had saved his sons' lives.

Bash struggled to his feet then, stepping gingerly on his injured leg and trying valiantly not to let the pain of the motion show. He shot Francis a look that clearly conveyed that he should keep quiet, and Francis, surrounded as he was by men branded as thieves and murderers, no matter how convinced he was that they would not try to harm they boys further, stayed silent in the squire's arms, and ignored the way the squire was pinching them painfully, as if to drive Bash's thoughts home.

The criminals' attentions were only for Bash now, and Bash seemed contented by it. "Yes," he gritted out painfully, "and I thank you for rescuing us." He sounded suddenly much older than his fourteen years, but the criminals seemed to find this amusing, several of them chuckling while their leader withheld a smirk.

"Rescuing you?" the leader asked. "Who said anything about rescuing you?" He glanced at the wolf's carcass. "Ah, from that, I suppose. Yes, well you're very welcome, Your Highness."

Bash frowned then, and this time, when he looked at Francis, he was entirely unable to hide the terror in his eyes. But, when he turned back to their 'rescuers,' his face had hardened, and he reminded Francis suddenly of Henry. "If you harm a hair on my head, or my father's beloved bastard, he'll see that you're drawn and quartered for it."

Francis' eyes widened. Father's bastard? Him? What would possess Bash to say something like that?

But before he had a chance to voice his confusion, which would no doubt have ended badly, the squire was pinching him hard again, that same signal to keep quiet and, though he disliked being told what to do by a lowly squire, he kept silent, anyway, trusting that Bash had some reason for impersonating him.

Impersonating the Dauphin of France was punishable by death.

The criminals all snorted at this, and then their leader murmured, "Yes, Dauphin, we're counting on it."

When Francis glanced up again, still unused to hearing Bash called the Dauphin, rather than himself, it was just in time to see Bash reach down to clutch at his injured leg, and abruptly fall to the ground, unconscious.