This is meant to be a sister fic to my other ACIII fanfiction, Bound To The Burden, and tells the same story from the perspective of the homesteaders. I originally meant for them to be one, but that ended up being too convoluted so I separated it into two individual parts.

As a general rule of thumb, Myriam did not like wolves. The were clever and aggressive, hard to outsmart and harder still to catch. When she trapped rabbits, wolves ate them. When she trapped foxes, wolves ate them. When she hunted wolves, she would occasionally be lucky enough to shoot one of them before the rest scuttled off into the underbrush, and it would always seem like there was another to replace it before the year was out.

Most of the time, she was the only one in the Homestead that had to deal with them directly. They preferred the northeast corner of the land, where she hunted the most often, and were wary enough of humans that they left the village itself alone. While Myriam was occasionally contracted by Warren and Prudence to protect their livestock, the fact remained: Myriam disliked wolves the most out of everyone in the community, which of course meant that she was the one now stuck creeping through the forest after dark looking for the reportedly monstrous animal that had been terrorizing the southern road through the town. Corrine had been nervously persistent when she'd asked Myriam to kill the thing, and Ellen had promised to pay well for its skin, and Myriam had started her hunt mid-afternoon with a mind to catch the wolf before sundown.

She was now fairly certain it was getting close to midnight.

Grinding her teeth, Myriam glared murderously at the ground before her, as if she might somehow intimidate it into giving up the wolf's secrets. She would never say it out loud, but her pride was beginning to smart; she was a hunter, and a damned good one, and one wolf had managed to evade her the entire day without anything more than a stray trail that she had since lost over some sheer rocks. She was tired, she was hungry and she wanted that wolf dead. It was becoming personal.

"Myriam!"

Myriam jumped, but didn't raise her rifle; there were not many voices she recognized before she even understood the words they spoke, but her husband had one of those voices. Another day, Myriam might have been irritated at him for interrupting her, but tonight his voice inspired a small swell of relief. Norris was good at making her feel less frustrated, not that she'd ever admit it, and right now she was very, very frustrated.

Straightening from her tracker's crouch, the huntress set the butt of her rifle on the ground and turned towards the sound of Norris making his way through the forest with all the natural grace of a wounded bull. It was only when she caught sight of him, however, that she noticed his fearful haste and––was that blood on his clothes?

All thoughts of the wolf were put aside as she hurried to meet Norris halfway, and the closer she got, the more clearly she could see his shortness of breath and cautious, darting eyes.

"Norris!" Myriam exclaimed. "What's wrong?"

"I… I was looking for you," he said, blinking as if he was having difficulty gathering his thoughts. "You said you'd be back soon, and I got worried, so I came looking––" Something snapped in the shadows, and Norris jumped and edged closer to his wife.

"Why is there blood on your clothes?" Myriam demanded.

"I was looking for you, and Corrine told me you'd be here, and then… Dieu, this wolf came out of nowhere, and it was huge, and…" He trailed off, apparently having said all he could think to say.

The wolf. The one she was hunting. Myriam immediately began to paw at Norris' shirt to find the source of the bleeding. The wolf could wait until she knew that Norris was alright.

"Where did it get you?" she asked, frowning.

"Arm, I think."

Myriam quickly located the wound and examined it, ignoring her husband's surprised hiss of pain. It was a shallow bite that had taken more skin than flesh, and she sent up a quick prayer of thanks before letting the arm fall.

"You're alright," she said. She had been in the wilds enough to know that, at least. "Go to Doctor White and get it looked at. Where did you see the wolf?"

"Over there," Norris said, gesturing towards the road. He seemed to be less nervous now that someone with a gun was nearby. "Wait, where are you going?"

Myriam didn't even pause in her steps as she tossed one last glance over her shoulder, "I'm going to go kill it."

Norris said something in French that sounded half-relieved, half-fearful, but he knew better than to try and stop her.

Myriam knew her husband well. He would have taken the road to find her, so she was fairly certain she could find where the wolf had attacked him. It was nighttime, yes, but it was also a full moon, which gave her enough light to navigate her way to the scene of the crime. Emerging from the forest onto the open path, Myriam scanned one direction after the other to try and spot––there. Broken underbrush. A few strides brought her to where someone large and loud and miner-shaped had charged into the forest, while the shallower impressions of a more four-legged beast hovered indecisively at the edge, which then decided that pursuit was not particularly interesting and wandered off. South, farther up the road.

Myriam craned her neck to examine the outcroppings above her, where the road twisted and ascended steeply into the rocky formations of the Davenport border. Prints and trails would not help her, not if she wanted to find the wolf tonight; Myriam needed to remember what she knew of past wolf hunts. They liked vantage points, didn't they? Then she would need to go to the high crags where a wolf could look down on things. She seemed to remember a particularly wide and grassy one not far from where the mountain split and let the road through. That was where she would look first.

She saw signs of the wolf's presence almost immediately. Rabbit fur glittered in the moonlight and shivered in a brisk wind, while a nearby log bore the telltale marks of a large canine.

Myriam dropped into an instinctive crouch just as she heard a rustling of grass.

Taking up a position behind the marked log, Myriam raised her rifle warily and peered at what the cold light of the moon could show her. There was a pine tree, and beneath the boughs of that pine tree came movement. That was her wolf. Myriam's grip tightened around her weapon. She didn't need her eyes to know which side of the tree it was on. It was already dead, even if it didn't know it yet.

Dragging her tongue along her teeth with a barely contained grin, Myriam leveled her rifle. The pine boughs shifted again. One more moment, and…

The wolf snarled suddenly and tensed, drawing out a soft curse from his pursuer. It was retreating, slipping away from the tree and far away. Dammit! She uncoiled from her hiding place just in time to see the flickering form and raised her rifle to her shoulder. She couldn't afford to miss.

"Kanen'tó:kon!"

Myriam wheeled, baring her rifle at the source of the sound: a figure, distinctly human and hunched not ten paces away. How in Hell had someone managed to sneak up on her? Wait… no.

Not just someone.

"Connor?!"

He swayed on his feet, as if that small act of whispering… whatever the hell he had whispered had taken every last bit of energy he had. Even as she was registering his darkened clothes and half-doubled stance, the man was falling, sinking to his knees and then to the ground.

Myriam rushed forward and dropped her rifle to dig into the material of Connor's coat and haul him over. She needed to see his face––God, why were her hands so slick all of a sudden? Gulping, Myriam realized that Connor was not just covered in blood, but that every bit of him below the chest was absolutely drenched in it. The clothing itself had been ripped open over his stomach and abdomen, exposing––sweet Jesus.

"Norris!" Myriam screamed. "Norris! Someone! I need help!"

Her scream seemed to stir Connor from unconsciousness, and he began to shift under her hands and bleed anew.

"Connor, no, stop!" The huntress immediately rose on her knees, working on instinct to put the full weight of her body and strength into her hands, and put those hands onto Connor's shoulders to keep him down. Oh God, all the blood…

He was mumbling now, and his eyelids fluttered halfway open while his lips did little more than make dim words that fell on Myriam's ears as meaningless sound. His gaze landed on her, just for an instant, and for a heartbeat there was... recognition?

And then that recognition was swallowed up by a sudden swell of utter anguish, and Connor became still and his eyes drifted closed.

"No, no, Connor, don't. Hey, keep looking at me. Connor? Can you hear me? Open your eyes, Connor!"

"Myriam?" It was Norris, struggling to sprint up the road.

"Norris! Thank God! It's Connor!"

"What?" the Frenchman gaped, breathing heavily. A moment later his eyes fell on the huntress, and then on the man she was holding down. "Quoi? What happened?"

"I don't know! I was hunting and he was bleeding… oh God, Norris, he's hurt. I don't know… there's a hole in him! You have to get White!"

"L…" The Mohawk moaned and began to struggle with a sudden vigor, almost dislodging Myriam before she could regain her stance. His eyes were open, but they were no longer on Myriam––they had settled, now blazing with white-hot fury, onto Norris.

His next snarl was crystal clear. "Charles Lee."

"Norris, get the doctor! Now!"

Norris needed no further prompting, taking off down the road as if the Devil himself were snapping at his heels.

At this, Connor arched beneath her and let out a scream; while most was a language she could not comprehend, one thing was comprehensible: Charles Lee, the same thing he had called Norris. The action made a space between them, space that Connor managed to get his foot into and kick Myriam firmly in the stomach. She landed more than five feet away, but recovered quickly.

Connor was thrashing on the ground, eyes fixed on Myriam with the same bitter agony that she had seen before. He was still shouting, but now his hands were moving as she tried to return to his side and keep him from bleeding out––and he was reaching for the holster at his hip.

His movements were sluggish enough for Myriam to avoid his gunshot and pin his arm to the ground. This seemed to defeat him in more than just body; Connor's head dropped back to the earth, and though he continued to try and escape her grasp, his motions were weakening.

"Myriam!" Thank every last one of the Lord's angels. She could hear Norris sprinting back up the hill, and wondered in the back of her mind how someone who worked in a mine all day could run like he did.

"Over here!" She shouted.

More people were coming, people that were calling out her name but that she couldn't afford to respond to yet. Her priority was Connor, who was rapidly going still. His mutterings softened, now completely unintelligible, and she turned to watch Norris draw nearer.

Lyle White was right on his heels.

"He's gone mad!" she cried.

"Move!" the doctor commanded, pushing Myriam away the second he was in arm's reach. More were appearing now; Dave, Diana, Godfrey and Terry, Lance, all came charging up the path to see what had happened.

The doctor cursed. "He's in shock. Get a wagon! Diana, run to the clinic and get the catgut!"

Diana and Lance dashed off while the doctor set to peeling back layers of shredded, blood-soaked clothing. Another curse.

"Doctor?" Myriam breathed.

The man didn't answer, just continued looking frantically over Connor's wounds with an unbroken string of cursing.

"Doctor!" Big Dave shouted.

"I don't know!" the doctor shouted back. "I can't see a thing in this damned light except that if I don't get him down that hill now, he is going to bleed to death right here!"

Something seemed to shake Connor, and he began to struggle once more, slowly at first, but with rapidly increasing vigor.

"Damn!" the doctor growled as he nearly lost his grip. "He's burning a fever! It's––"

Connor shouted something incomprehensible and almost threw the doctor off of him. They could already hear the creaking of wheels. It must have been Lance; the man had no horse to tack or drive, only his hand-cart, but it would have to be enough. Myriam was suddenly thankful to the wolf for picking a den so close to their town.

"I've got the wagon!" Lance shouted, coming into view.

Connor let loose a roar and convulsed, heaving Myriam and White off.

"Restrain him!" the doctor commanded.

Dave was the first to obey, moving to wrap his fists into the material of Connor's clothes, but his target was not so easily stilled; whatever had overtaken him, he was going to fight them tooth and nail.

"Stop his struggling!" Lyle White shouted. "He'll kill himself!"

They descended as one: Big Dave, Myriam, Norris, Terry, Godfrey and White. They grasped, but their hands were hesitant and half-hearted; this wasn't a redcoat or bandit or some two-bit thief, this was Connor. Connor who had given them years of unwavering friendship and courage, and the same Connor that was rapidly turning their clothing black with a well of blood that seemed to have no end.

Big Dave had managed to wrap around the Mohawk's chest and pin his arms, which quickly turned into mistake; Connor, still thrashing and screaming, brought his knees up, planted his feet on Godfrey's chest and kicked the knot of people apart. All of them were sent reeling. Dave, however, remained firmly attached to their friend, and both he and Connor were sent to the ground.

There was a moment of confusion as the lot of them regained their feet, but the need to catch and immobilize was soon banished with Dave's frantic "Doctor! He ain't moving!"

Once again the doctor materialized at Connor's side, face twisted with frustration.

"Goddamnit, let him go!" White yanked a cloth out of his pocket-something far too small to be called a proper bandage-and pressed it into Connor's abdomen. "He's in shock again. Hell, got no right to be this strong. Diana! Where are you?"

They were rewarded with a small and distant shout, but the source was surely another half-minute away, at least. The doctor cursed again and ripped off his jacket to bind Connor's wound. The younger man's eyes were half-closed and unseeing, and blood had begun to swell inside his mouth.

Diana was panting heavily when she returned to them, but in her hand was not only a bundle of catgut, needles and beeswax, but a lantern as well.

"Good girl," the doctor said. He hadn't even thought about a lantern. "Gut over here. Hold the lantern up, Diana. Dave, Godfrey, keep his arms and legs down."

Connor's legs were secured and the doctor was given enough light to snatch up the kit's scissors and cut through the blood-soaked cloth of Connor's jacket, exposing the wound that lay beneath.

A collective gasp went through the group as the light fell onto the massive hole in Connor's side, but neither Diana nor White paid them any mind; the doctor was already working, threading the needle and setting about to quick, desperate stitches. They weren't anywhere near his best, probably incapable of holding out for more than a week, but they weren't intended to hold out for a week––all the doctor needed was for them to hold for the trip to the clinic.

The wound itself was wide and gaping, jaggedly ripped and––was that wood? No, there was no time to dwell on it now; the stitches were in place, however crudely, and there was no more time to be spent in the open.

"Get him onto the wagon!" the doctor commanded, wrapping an arm under Connor's shoulders. The rest of them moved in to help, and there was no resistance this time.

Connor was mumbling something as they organized themselves to take him down the road, his words a confused mix of English and Mohawk. His eyes were open and he was looking at those closest to him, but there was no familiarity in his eyes. The hope and openness they all knew him by was nowhere to be found; it was impossible to say for sure what exactly was wrong, but the man in the cart was hardly recognizable as Connor. His face was so contorted by rage and pain that, had they not known otherwise, it was as if the man in the cart was a complete stranger.

Big Dave volunteered to haul the cart down the hill, while White and Diana hovered close enough to make sure that Connor wouldn't die on the way down. Without the opportunity to help, the rest of them trailed behind the scene in shocked silence.