Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

So, here’s the thing.

Lance is perfectly capable of being on a stealth mission, alright? He’s a goddamn master when it comes to sneaking around. A little thieving and espionage? He’s among the best of the best. There’s a reason his reputation is what it is, and there’s a reason there are wanted posters around town with his face on them— well, his masked face, anyway.

But he usually likes a little danger to keep himself on task. Nothing like a little challenge to get the blood pumping and up the stakes. The thrill of getting caught? He lives for it. Keeps him steady and sure. Keeps him focused.

He knows the importance of this mission. He’s just not really sure if it can be called a mission. It’s more like… bird watching.

You know, if the birds were an entire parade of nobles, servant, and hounds tramping around a forest with little regard for their surroundings.

“I’ll bet you twenty gold pieces that I can knock that nobleman’s hat right off his head.” He’s already pulling his bow off his shoulder.

From a lower branch a little ways around the trunk, he hears the soft scoff. “I know better than to take that bet.” A pause, and then a curious. “But which one?”

“That one,” he says, grinning as he uses his bow to point. “Clear across the company. The hat with the ridiculously wide brim and obnoxiously bright feathers. Can’t miss it.”

“What sort of bird even has feathers that big?”

Lance shrugs, bow dropping as his other hand reaches for his quiver, fingertips sliding along the fletching of his arrows. “Who knows. A griffin? A great eagle? One of those land birds from the south? Either way, the dyes alone could have fed a family for a month.”

“The feathers themselves could have fed the family for six months.”

“I don’t think he deserves that hat. Do you, Hunk?”

He’s already notching an arrow when Hunk hisses a warning, “Lance. No arrows.”

He sighs, arms dropping as he whines a soft, “But Huuuunk. I’m so bored.”

“We’re not supposed to do anything. Just wait and watch. We agreed specifically not to engage. Don’t blow our cover.”

“I wouldn’t, Hunk. You know how good I am. I could pin that man’s hat to a tree and time it so he’d think it was one of the other noblemen. We can even make a game of it. Who do you want me to frame for it?”

“Laaaance.” That is a tone he’s far too familiar with. Not the stern one. Not the exasperated one. But one that is wholly Hunk. The worried one, where his nerves start to get the best of him and his stomach starts to roll.

And despite his boredom, he doesn’t like worrying his best friend. So he sighs and concedes, slipping his arrow back into his quiver. “Fine, but just know that it wouldn’t give our position away. They have no awareness of anything. I swear not a single one of them has looked up this whole time.”

“Probably because someone would have to be stupid to attack a royal procession.”

“I wasn’t going to attack them,” he mutters, hooking his bow back over his shoulder and crossing his arms over his chest. He leans against the tree trunk, idly swinging his feet. “I was just trying to have a little fun.”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t try to have fun when half the royal guard is out here.”

Lance huffs, but holds his tongue. Not that he really needs to. He doubts they’d be heard even if they were shouting at one another. The royal hunting party is just that loud.

All the noblemen are mounted, dressed in clothes that are meant to be hunting attire, but are far too rich to be tromping around in the mud. Their horses’ saddles are adorned with family crests and the leather dyed to match. Their footmen and servants stamp around the underbrush, carrying their goods and weapons. Guards are interwoven in the bunch, wearing armor that clanks and rattles.

The huntsmen lead the way, and at least they’re putting in effort to be stealthy and soundless, but at this point, it doesn’t matter.

Not with the hounds baying. The horses making all sorts of anxious and annoyed sounds. The servants blathering. The noblemen bragging.

Oh, and don’t forget the bugle-men who announced the arrival and the start of the hunt.

Lance hasn’t seen a single animal show feather or tail since the hunting party arrived, and he doubts they’ll find anything no matter how long they stay.

They’re giving it their best— or worst— shot though. All spread out in a wide sweeping arc as they move forward, canvasing the forest for anything worthwhile.

They’re so wrapped up in their own idiocy that they haven’t even noticed Hunk and Lance trailing them from the start. Now don’t get him wrong. He and Hunk? They’re good at stuff like this. They make a living off of stuff like this. But here? They barely have to try.

They’ve just been shuffling behind trees, hiding in the underbrush, and climbing up into the higher branches. The hunting party doesn’t move quickly either, allowing him and Hunk to find a good spot to watch from afar and just kick it back for a while.

It’s easy.

It’s boring.

And Lance finds himself losing focus.

He sighs— again— and pulls the spyglass from his pocket. It’s an old thing. Metal worn and glass scratched. But it’s well oiled and well taken care of— one of his most prized possessions— and it slides open without a sound.

He peers through it, doing another sweep of the royal company. From one end to the other. From the huntsmen, to the hounds, to the servants and banner men, to the guards, to the mounted nobles and knights.

Despite this being a royal hunting party— supposedly to acquire meat for the feast tomorrow, a ball held in honor of the new king, the anniversary of his crowning and Zarkon’s defeat— he has yet to actually see the king.

Not that he really knows who he’s looking for.

He’s heard of the king, of course. The lost lost prince who was long thought dead and came back to defeat his uncle, end his tyranny, and take back his birth right. Everyone’s heard the stories about the Warrior King. The True Dragonheart. The Bloody Red Wolf. Fierce on a battlefield. Wild as his ancestors. With a mane of dark hair and fierce eyes. Handsome, they say, though Lance has yet to confirm this for himself.

They don’t get much royalty out in the woods, and he wasn’t exactly at the heart of the war.

That, and the king almost never shows himself. Stays locked away in that castle of his, calling the shots from a throne he never lets anyone see. Lance still hears whispers of his beauty, rugged and sharp and fierce, but everyone he’s confronted about it has never actually seen the king.

He hates it. The whole mystery surrounded him. The whole dark and brooding thing. The whole lost prince thing. It builds up his reputation, as some handsome savior, and undermines the fact that he’s done nothing since his crowning. Nothing for the people, and nothing for the kingdom. As far as Lance is concerned, he’s no better than his uncle. No matter how pretty he might be.

Still, he had been looking forward to finally getting a good look at him. But it turns out the king will once again disappoint him.

Because while Lance has no idea what the king looks like, he’s certain the king isn’t here. He may not know the guy’s face, but he knows a king when he sees one. They’re hard to miss. With all that pomp and circumstance. All the rich fabrics and glittering jewels. Even a warrior king would command respect and attention.

And as Lance looks, he sees no one who fits the bill of King. Snooty noblemen, sure. Knights, of course. Royal guard, check. But no king.

He does, however, spy a horse with golden reigns and an empty saddle.

“Couldn’t be assed to hunt himself, but he sends out his horse,” Lance mutters dryly. “Amazing.”

The horse’s reigns are tied to another, led by a mounted knight— none other than Sir Shirogane. Head of the royal guard. Hero of the war. The Champion. With a cut jaw line and handsome features. Sitting poised, tall, and proud in his gleaming armor. Not blathering like other nobles. Eye on the hunt.

Now that’s a man Lance would call king.

And, you know, the fact that he once saved Lance’s life, helped his family, actually cares about the people, and is sort of Lance’s hero… that helps, too.

Shiro rides with the king’s horse at the center of the company, and as much as Lance would love to relish an opportunity to actually see the Champion in action, he swings the spyglass away. They’re not here to gawk and stare, even if that’s all they seem to be doing. No matter which way you cut it, they are on a mission. Even if it’s a boring one.

See, their hideout and center of operations is in these woods. They own these woods— unofficially, anyway. This is their home and their base. The huntsmen usually don’t come here, preferring to take their hunts to the northern woods, where the mountains rise and the bigger game live. But with a company this large, the flatter, bigger western forest is a better place.

For the fanfare of it all. Not for the actual hunt. Though Lance has been informed it’s more about the presentation than the actual meat.

Anyway, point is, he and Hunk are here to keep an eye on things. To make sure that the party doesn’t stray too close to their hideout. They’ve got men waiting in the wings for signals, ready to cause distractions that will steer the royal company elsewhere if needed.

After all, they’re supposed to be hunting game. Not the infamous Blue Lion and his pride.

So he sweeps his gaze lazily along the outer perimeter of the hunting party. Along the front arc where the huntsmen creep forward. Along the sides where the guards and soldiers take up the wings. Along the back where the servants trudge, and some of the lazier guards who don’t seem to be paying much attention, and a cloaked figure who seems to be—

“Well, well, well,” Lance hums, swinging his spyglass back to the figure. “What do we have here…”

A man, by the look of him. Wearing a cloak that was plain and ordinary enough that Lance might have mistaken him for a commoner, save for the embroidery he spies along the hem and the glittering broach pinning the front. His clothes are simple, but finely made. Ordinary, but of rich materials. His boots are smattered with mud.

It’s the strangest combination Lance has seen all day, and it piques his interest.

That, and his strange behavior.

It’s clear that he’s lingering. Crouching down to touch the dirt and fiddle with the undergrowth. It’s not uncommon behavior during a hunt, but Lance knows enough about tracking to know that this man isn’t tracking. His eyes aren’t on the ground. His head is tilted up, eyeing the rest of the party while he idly— thoughtfully— runs his fingers through the brush.

He’s… waiting.

Waiting as the procession moves past him at their lazy pace.

And when he stands, he moves slowly, still letting them pass. He moves to the side, checking out another spot. And he keeps it up, slowly but surely shifting toward the edge of the spread out hunting party. He talks to no one. Keeps his head down. And while they do look at him, they look away just as quickly when he gives them a sharp stare.

As Lance watches, he lingers at a tree. His back is to their hiding spot, and while Lance can’t get a good look at his face, he sees the way his nails bite into the bark of the tree— the way he looks around— the way he waits until the last of the party moves past him—

Before turning sharply and darting away into the woods.

“Hunk,” he says, already moving. He snaps the spyglass closed and slides it into its spot on his belt. “Stay here, I’m going to check something out.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait,” Hunk hisses, reaching out to snag Lance’s shirt as he starts to climb down the tree. “What’re you doing?”

“Checking something out, like I said—“

“Ooooh, no. No, no, no. Lance, there’s a thing in your eyes. I know that look. That’s not a good look.”

He tilts his head, offering his most innocent smile as he bats his eyelashes. “Why, Hunk. Whatever do you mean?”

“Lance.”

“Buddy, I’ll be careful, I promise, okay? I just saw someone break off from the group, and I wanna see what he’s up to.”

Hunk levels him a flat look. “He’s probably just going to take a piss, Lance. People do that in the woods. We do that.”

“No, man. This was different. He looked suspicious.” He shakes his head, continuing his climb down the tree.

Hunk, bless his soul, does his damnedest to hold on, going so far as to crouch on his branch and stretch Lance’s shirt. Until he finally jumps down and the cloth slips from Hunk’s grip. “Some people are shy about peeing!” He whispers, glancing around to make sure no one noticed Lance’s movement.

They don’t. He’s good at this, and they’re idiots.

“Hunk, just… relax, okay? I’m just going to go check it out. If he’s just pissing, I’ll come right back.”

Hunk’s eyes narrow, lips pursing as one brow raises. “No antics?”

He puts a hand over his heart, holding the other one up. “No antics, I swear,” he says as solemnly as he can.

Finally, Hunk sighs. “Fine, but hurry up, and be careful. I’ll keep an eye on the main party, but if they move too far forward, I’m going to relocate.”

“No problem, buddy. I’ll find you.”

Hunk still looks worried, but he lets him go. Resigned, exasperated, but fond beneath it all. Despite his nerves, he knows that Hunk trusts him.

So with a quick glance back at the hunting party, Lance slinks off into the woods. He keeps low, knowing exactly how to move as silent as possible in the underbrush, keeping behind bushes and the shadows of tree trunks. He stays downwind of the hounds, picking his way quickly but carefully.

And he heads in the direction he had seen that man go.

Out of habit, he reaches to the bunching of fabric at his neck, pulling it up until it rests snug across his nose and cheeks, hiding most of his face before pulling his hood up to shadow the rest. His bow slips from his shoulder, finding its way easily into his hand. Arrows still in their quiver, but at the ready all the same. The fingers of his free hand twitch, eager to draw one.

Finding the man proves more difficult than Lance had imagined. In fact, he had anticipated just finding him bumbling around the woods, not bothering to be stealthy about it once he left sight of the hunting party. But that doesn’t seem to be the case. Which also rules out Hunk’s pissing theory.

He does manage to find the trail though, once he sets to looking for one. He’ll admit, the man is good. Lance can tell from his tracks that he’s moving silently and keeping low. Much like Lance himself. He’s also moving quickly, already out of sight in the time it took Lance to get down from his perch and find the trail.

Curious.

Definitely curious.

The man wasn’t dressed as a knight, and his clothes were far too fine to be a servant, but he doesn’t move like a nobleman. He has to be a huntsman. A personal one, perhaps? That would explain why he was at the back of the group and not the front. He could have snuck off, trying to find a beast for his master to brag about later when the rest of them find nothing.

It takes a lot longer to find him than Lance had counted on, and he’s good at tracking. The man managed to get some distance. He knows Hunk will be alright without him, but he just hopes he won’t worry too much.

As Lance catches sight of him, he slips behind a tree, crouching low in the shadows as he peers around the trunk.

The man waits at the edge of a clearing, in a very similar position. But instead of a bow, he holds a knife in his hand, blade pointed downward, parallel to his forearm. He still can’t get a good look at him. Just his cloak and his hood. But it’s clear that he’s watching the clearing.

Lance’s eyes follow— and he inhales sharply.

A boar. A large one at that. Nearly three times his size, with a wiry scruff around its neck, trailing down its back. Tusks long and wicked. Snout surprisingly narrow. Shoulders hunched higher than its haunches.

Not just a boar then. A northern boar. A ridgeback. Far more vicious, larger, and temperamental than their smaller counterparts. The meat is far more tender, too, but it takes at least a party of five to take one down. That, and a whole lot of luck.

It shouldn’t be this far down the foothills, and what’s even more daunting is the fact that it’s alone. They’re never alone. They travel in mated pairs and family units.

The huntsman starts to creep forward with nothing more than a fucking knife, and Lance watches in horror.

He’s insane, and he’s about to get himself killed.

Lance’s fingers twitch, silently drawing an arrow out of his quiver and notching it against his bow. He presses his back to the trunk, head turned to peer around the tree. Eyes flickering between the man and the boar.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

1) Get the guy's attention, whispering harshly, calling out his folly and idiocy

2) Take action, shoot an arrow, pin his cloak to a tree so he can't move, cocky introduction

3) Shoot into the forest, scaring the boar away, stay hidden but remove the danger

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The wind shifts, a breeze rolling through the trees. The boar lifts its head, thick nose twitching, snuffling, snorting. Tusks glinting wickedly in the afternoon sun. Lance holds his breath, eyes snapping back to the huntsman— who seems to have frozen. Good. But then the boar exhales a huff, turning and making its way into the trees, back to where they’re hiding. As soon as it moves, the huntsman is moving, too, creeping forward on soft but quick steps—

“Oh, fuck it,” Lance mutters, sending a silent apology to Hunk as he steps out from behind the tree. His bow swings up automatically, drawing the string back, eyes locking onto his target. He doesn’t take the time to think about it. He never does. He trusts his aim and his body. And with that trust, he never misses.

This is no exception.

The moment his fingers release the arrow, he knows it’ll find its mark.

The soft twang of the string’s release is swiftly following by the satisfying thud of the arrow sinking into the trunk of a tree— pinning the man’s cloak firmly in place.

The fabric threatens to tear as the man’s step follows through, but instead it catches, pulling his momentum back.

Lance smirks, already darting back behind the tree as the man spins around.

He waits… breath held…

“Who’s there?” Comes the voice— hissed, low, and demanding. It’s also deep, rugged, heated. A shiver works its way down Lance’s spine. Oh. Oh, now that’s interesting. He really wants to get a look at what sort of face matches a voice like that. “I know you’re there. Show yourself.”

He could simply slink back into the forest. He could hide and control this situation from afar. He could distract the boar and anonymously save this man’s life, and he’d never see head nor tail of Lance himself.

But, really… who is Lance to deny a voice like that?

“I’d keep it down if I were you,” he says lowly, voice like honey, rich and smooth. He steps around the tree, leaning a shoulder against it, bow in one hand, hung limply at his side, and the other hand on his hip. Beneath this mask, his lips curl, confident and amused. Hunk has told him his smile— and smirk— doesn’t need to be seen to be heard. “Don’t want to alert the boar of our presence, do you?”

The huntsman spins to face him, cloak billowing as he drops into a defensive crouch. He holds his dagger in front of him, with Lance’s arrow clutched in his other hand.

He’s…

Wow.

Lance had been hoping the face would match the voice, and he isn’t disappointed. A sharp jawline and high cheekbones. Pale, smooth skin and thick brows pulled together as dark eyes narrow. Dark hair frames his face, falling haphazard and wild beneath his hood. A dusting of dark stubble decorates his jaw. A scar cuts up from neck to cheek.

He’s rugged. He’s wild. He’s handsome as hell.

And his lips purse into a scowl as he lifts his chin a fraction, biting out a sharp, “Who’re you?”

Lance’s smirk widens beneath his mask, pressed tight against the fabric as he straightens. One arm held to the side, he crosses his bow in front of him, falling into a dramatic and deep bow. And from that bow, he tilts his head up, eyes glinting through his lashes as he purrs, “The Blue Lion, at your service.”

A second passes.

Then two.

Lance holds his pose, and the man blinks. His eyes narrow. His nose wrinkles as his brows furrow. “Should I… Should I recognize that name? I’ve never heard of you.”

Lance eye twitches, heart sinking in his chest. Though his smile shifts to an irritated frown, he tries to keep his voice light hearted as he straightens. Tall and proud, idly dusting off his leather vest. He can’t deny that he puffs out his chest a little, straightening his hooded tunic. Hoping that if he puts himself on display a little, lets his man get a good look, then he’d recognize him from the tales they tell of him in taverns.

After all, how many hooded, masked, charming bowmen galavant around this forest? Especially one with blue fletched arrows?

Here’s a hint: it’s only him. Only the Blue Lion.

And yet not a single flicker of recognition graces the man’s— admittedly beautiful— face.

He sighs and forces a smile. “No matter. I’ll also answer to my hero, if you feel so inclined.” He tries once more for the charm, but he can’t deny the bite in his voice.

The man blinks owlishly, and the scowl seems to melt away. His defensive position slackens as he straightens a little, staring at Lance blankly.

And for a brief moment, Lance thinks that this is it. This is the moment where it’ll sink in, and the man will recognize him. He’ll be impressed and awed, and perhaps even swoon if Lance is lucky—

But then his expression twists into something incredulous. “You shot at me.”

It’s angry, sharp, and offended, and it throws Lance off his game enough for him to drop the charm— drop the smile— to twist his head and cross his arms over his chest. Something prickles beneath his skin, heated and restless. This is not how he wanted this to go.

“I didn’t shoot at you. I shot at your cloak,” he scoffs, lip curling.

“My cloak is part of me.”

“It is not. It’s your clothes. I wasn’t going to hurt you.”

“But you could have. You shot at me.”

“I’ll forgive you because you seem to be misinformed, but let me clue you in.”

He stomps up to the man, closing the distance between them in long, strong strides. The huntsman straightens, goes stiff, but he doesn’t back down. Even when Lance gets right up in his face, he holds his ground. They’re the same height, and he meets Lance’s glare unflinchingly, eyes blazing with indignant fire.

Lance hates to admit how much he enjoys that look.

“I. Never. Miss,” he says, punctuating each word by the jab of a finger against the man’s chest. He swats Lance’s hand away and shoves him back with surprising strength. Lance stumbles a few steps before catching himself, lifting his chin. “And I saved you, so a little bit of gratitude would be appreciated.”

It’s the man’s turn to scoff, rolling his eyes as tosses Lance’s arrow to the ground. “You didn’t save me. You distracted me. I know what I’m doing.”

Lance cocks an eyebrow, head lazily lolling to one side as he leans his weight to one hip. “Do you? Because from this angle, it looks like you were about to do something incredibly stupid.”

The look the man gives him is sharp, the intensity behind his eyes near overwhelming. The mere presence of him is a weight on Lance’s chest. He can see why the others who glanced at him looked away quickly after being subjected to that glare.

But Lance isn’t one to back down. He digs his heels in and meets that scowl with one of his own.

The huntsman looks away first. “You don’t know me or what I’m capable of.” He turns, stepping over Lance’s arrow but deliberately close to it— which calms Lance’s irritation a tick. At least this guy— even though he gets his point across— won’t stoop so low as to break his arrow. They’re expensive and difficult to make.

That earns him a few points in his favor.

Not that he has many. Currently his good points only include: his looks, his voice, that fire in his eyes, and his respect to the craftsmanship of arrow.

Not enough points to keep Lance from speaking his mind. “I know you’re being an idiot.”

The man doesn’t even look at him, merely stomps away to another tree, resting a hand on the trunk. He crouches down, half hidden from the retreating boar that can still be seen— though it’s much further away and getting further by the second. “Just leave me alone.”

Lance sees his movement before it happens. Sees the way his hand tenses against the bark. Sees the way the balls of his feet dig in. Sees the shift in his weight— brief stillness— a snake coiled and ready to spring forward—

“Oh, no you don’t.” Lance darts forward, bending low to scoop up his arrow and sliding into a crouch next to him. His arm comes down, slamming his arrow into the earth just overtop the man’s cloak, pinning it to the ground just as he makes to stand—

He grunts as he’s jerked back, the sound of tearing fabric loud in the silence.

He falls back into a crouch, turning to glare at Lance— who meets it head on. Fingers still fisted around the arrow’s shaft, holding it firmly in place.

“What are you doing?” The man hisses.

“I’m saving your ass, that’s what I’m doing.”

“Just let me go.”

Lance shakes his head. “No can do, buttercup.” The man’s lip curls at the nickname, and Lance finds satisfaction in that. “These are my woods, and I’m not about to stand by and watch you get yourself killed.”

“Your woods?”

Beneath his mask, Lance smirks, letting that brash confidence he’s know for ooze into his voice. Not for the first time, he regrets his choice of wearing a mask to hide his charming smile. Still, Hunk assures him that he makes up for it in his voice and presence.

“Yes, my woods. I am the Blue Lion, and my pride runs this forest. The rich can’t pass without being taxed, and we make sure no one else is harmed, either by man or beast. And that includes you. So, nothing personal,” he says nonchalantly, almost tauntingly. “But I don’t want to see your blood spilled in my woods.”

“Wait…” The man’s eyes narrow, lips pursing into a little frown. His gaze flickers over Lance’s face— from his mask, to his eyes, to the hood, down to his clothes and his bow. Something ripples across his face— a spark in his eyes— “I know who you are.” His gaze snaps back to Lance’s, fixing him with that sharp, intense glare. “You’re the Blue Bandit.”

Lance blinks… and then his entire body sags with a groan. He lets go of the arrow, dragging his hand down his face. “Nooo,” he whines. “Gods damn it all— that is not the name I chose! They can never get my name or my picture right. Have you seen the wanted posters? My jaw is not that squared! My nose isn’t that crooked! And don’t get me started on how they draw my hair—“

“I could have you arrested.” The man says, cutting Lance off.

His mouth snaps shut, hands stilling from where they had been gesturing wildly— a frequent byproduct of his tirades. Lance’s eyes narrow as he pouts, feeling his lips press against the mask— and then slowly curl into a smile.

“You could try, but I doubt you could catch me.” It’s a little bit of a bait. A little bit of a boast. A little bit of truth, despite how cocky it sounds. He hasn’t been caught yet, and he’s very good at getting away.

“Leave me be, and I won’t call the guards,” he says, voice stern and confident. He sounds like a man who’s used to getting his way.

But Lance is a man who has learned when people are merely trying to get him to go away, and how to call someone’s bluff.

“Call them, then,” he says with a shrug. Grin widening when the man’s eyes narrow. “Go ahead. Bring them here. With as much racket as they’re making, by the time they hear you and find their way here, both me and that boar will be long gone.”

The man frowns, that hellfire back in his glare as he leans forward, wrapping a hand around the arrow. He stares up at Lance, unblinking— intense— overwhelming— Lance feels another shiver wrack down his spine, hair standing on end as a spike of adrenaline hits his bloodstream. Yet he holds his ground— holds that glare—

“Just leave me alone.” The warning is clear. Sharp, heated, and dangerous.

But Lance has never been good at heeding warnings.

He yanks the arrow out of the earth, freeing his cloak. He tosses it aside before standing, turning on his heel and striding away. Headed in the direction the boar had disappeared.

“Hey, stop!” Lance scrambles to his feet.

The man scoffs as he turns, keeping to the tree line as he edges around the clearing. If Lance didn’t know any better, he would say that scoff nearly sounded like a laugh. “What’re you going to do? Shoot me?”

Not a bad idea, really.

He only gets a few more steps before one of Lance’s arrows slices through the air in front of him, sinking into a tree trunk. He freezes, the shaft of the arrows still wavering in the air, mere inches in front of his face.

He turns slowly, eyes narrowed, finding Lance still standing where he had left him. Bow raised. Hand still poised from where he let go of the arrow. He meets that glare with one of his own. He tried to be nice— sort of— and this guy wasn’t getting it through his thick head.

He doesn’t know why he cares. He shouldn’t. If this guy wants to get himself killed, then he should let him, but… but it’s too late for Lance to simply walk away. He can’t. Not in good conscious. Not when he knows this idiot is going to run headlong at a northern ridgeback boar merely for the sake of whatever nobleman is paying him.

He won’t let anyone die in his forest. Not while he can help it.

Even if it means knocking the guy out first.

“Yes,” Lance says simply, letting the answer hang heavy in the tense silence. “If that’s what it takes to stop you, then yes. I will shoot you.”

The man says nothing for a long moment. Neither of them move. A breeze rolls through the trees, tugging at their hoods. Distantly, he can hear the faint sound of baying hounds, but this section of the forest is quiet. Peaceful, almost. Were it not for the tension radiating between them. Crackling like static in the air. Buzzing across his skin.

And then… the man smiles. It’s small, but Lance sees it. The little quirk at the corner of his mouth. “You could try,” he says, soft and mocking. Heat surges through Lance. “But I doubt you could catch me.”

And then he’s running.

Taking off through the trees.

Sprinting through the forest like a bat out of hell.

Leaving Lance standing there, mouth agape, frozen in his stupor.

“Hey!” By the time he snaps out of it, the man already has a head start. And Lance could let him go… but he can’t. He already decided to follow this through, and there’s just something about the spark in his eyes. About the challenge. About that smirk.

It sets Lance’s blood on fire. Has him charging off after him. He doesn’t give it a second of thought. Suddenly he has something to prove. Something to win.

The man is quick, but so is Lance. He grew up in these woods. He knows them better than he knows himself. He’s light on his feet, and his reflexes are sharp. He keeps the man in his sights, and whenever there’s an opening, he pauses, lifts his bow, draws and arrow, and fires.

They never hit him, of course. Lance meant it when he said he doesn’t want this man’s blood spilled in his woods. But he uses the arrows to herd him. To make him change direction. Shooting at trees and at the ground in front of his feet.

It works like a charm, and he smirks. The man no doubt thinks he’s being clever. Being quick. Dodging Lance’s arrows. He has no idea Lance is slowly steering him away from the boar with each and every arrow.

Some come close. Pinning the cloak to a tree just to have it be torn. Several times. Just to keep him on his toes. Just for Lance to prove that he can. That he’s not to be messed with.

An arrow causes him to make a sharp turn, darting through the trees— and Lance grins as he watches him come to a screeching halt. Faced with a wide river with a quick current. He stands there, looking up and down for a way across, but Lance knows he’ll find none.

Lance slows as he approaches, smiling lazily— victoriously— as he drawls. “Looks like you’ve reached a dead end.”

The man glares at him over his shoulder, hood falling away as he whips his head around. A mess of black hair falls to his shoulders, framing his face and offsetting his pale skin. And he… smiles. “That’s what you think.”

Lance tenses. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me—“

But he’s turning around, finding a spot on the river, body coiling like he’s about to make a run for it—

Lance drops his bow, sprinting forward to tackle him to the ground before he reaches the river.

They hit the earth hard, breath being knocked out of them both— but Lance doesn’t have time to let it pass. The man is already struggling— fighting against him— and Lance has to wrestle him back down. The man is strong, he’ll give him that. But Lance grew up as the youngest of five, and he knows a thing or two about fighting dirty.

“Get off me!” The man snaps, nearly bucking Lance off as he pins him to the ground.

Lance finds a hold on his wrists, pinning them as he uses his body weight to keep him down, situating himself in a spot where he can ground himself and prevent the man from bucking him off, tangling their legs together so he can’t get leverage on the ground.

“No,” he grunts, jaw clenched. “Not until you agree to go back to your hunting party.”

“I’m killing that boar, and you can’t stop me.”

“I can. I am. I did. Give it up, buttercup.” But the man keeps struggling, thrashing wildly beneath him. It’s difficult to keep him down, and Lance knows he won’t be able to hold out for long. So he sits up, letting go of his wrists to grab the front of his tunic instead. Fists in the cloth, he lifts him up and then slams him back down— just hard enough to knock the wind out of him and get his attention. “Stop being stupid,” he hisses, sharp and frustrated. “That was a northern ridgeback. It will kill you. And if it doesn’t, then it’s mate will.”

“There was only one—“

“And they always travel in pairs. They’re not your average boar. They’re angrier, more violent, and their hide is an armor of it’s own. Taking it on alone is suicide, and providing for the king’s table is not worth your life.”

And finally— finally— the man stills beneath him. The fight leaks out of him slowly, and after a moment, Lance’s grip on him relaxes. But neither of them move. The man is watching him, eyes narrowed and wary. There’s a pinch to his brows and a purse to his lips that Lance can’t read. He doesn’t bother. He merely meets that gaze with a scowl of his own and tries to catch his breath.

None of this went according to plan— not that there was much of a plan to begin with. And they’re so far from the hunting party. Hunk is going to be so worried. He only hopes he’ll be forgiven when he explains the circumstances.

Hunk always forgives him when his impulse decisions save someone’s life.

“What…” The man starts, then stops. Lips twisted up into a frown. He looks… wary. Thoughtful. Cautious, but curious. “What do you know of the king?”

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

1) "He's arrogant and cold. He's given me no proof that he's not exactly like his uncle."

2) "He ignores his people and lets his council run wild. He might be a warrior, but it takes more than a sword to run a kingdom."

3) "I know that a man who stays locked away in his castle isn't worth dying for."

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Lance huffs, a short and breathless scoff as he makes a show of rolling his eyes. He may not know the king personally, but he has a lot of opinions formed simply from observing his reign since defeating his uncle.

There’s a lot he could say, but where to start?

“He ignores his people and lets his council run wild,” he says, irritation itching beneath his skin and lip curling as his voice comes out with a bite. “He might be a warrior, but it takes more than a sword to run a kingdom.”

Beneath him, the man’s eyes narrow. Pretty plump lips twisting into a scowl. He grabs Lance’s wrists, trying to push them away, but Lance’s grip on his tunic tightens. “What’d you know about running a kingdom?” It’s full of venom entirely clear that it’s not meant as a serious question.

But annoyance flares at the dismissal, and Lance will give him a serious answer. “I know more than you, pretty boy.”

The man scoffs. “Yeah, sure, Blue Bandit.” He finally manages to push Lance’s hands away and gives a sharp roll of his hips— and holy fuck the power behind those thighs and that body Lance doesn’t get much time to marvel at it before he’s being throw off of him. He lands on the ground beside him with a very manly sound, thank you very much. Absolutely no startled yelps. The man sits up, straightening his tunic and rubbing his wrists as he glares. “I’m sure running your woods is very intricate,” he says dryly, sarcasm dripping from his lips. “But running a kingdom is a little more complicated.” He looks down, brows furrowed as he adjusts one glove, stretching and flexing his fist. He mumbles, “I don’t expect you to understand.”

Lance bristles, propping himself up on one elbow, almost lazily stretched out on the ground next to him. For the moment, at least, he doesn’t seem like a flight risk. “Okay, first of all, I don’t like your tone,” Lance says, holding up a finger. He snaps the second one up. “Second of all, don’t underestimate me or my men. We do far more for the people of this kingdom than the recluse king or whatever nobleman you work for.” He holds up a third finger, wiggling all three. “Third, don’t pretend to know me.”

The man levels him with a flat look and says with little inflection, “You’re a bandit.”

Lance sits up, shifting to lean back on his hands, one knee bent and the other stretched lazily. He gives the man a lopsided smile, eyes lidded as he says, “I’m a very charming and handsome bandit.” The huntsman merely rolls his eyes. “And I’m one with a background that gives me a lot more insight into politics than you.”

There’s a curious look in his eyes as he narrows his gaze at Lance. “You don’t… know who I am, do you?”

Lance snorts, lolling his head to one side and lifting a brow. “Why… should I?” His lips curl into a playful smirk at the man’s incredulous look. “Call it even, huntsman. You didn’t know me, and I don’t know you. Even if you’re the most well known huntsman in the entire kingdom, I’ve definitely never seen you before.” He pauses. Lets his gaze roam over the man, from head to toe, and back. He stiffens, and Lance grins. “I definitely would have remembered.”

“Are you…” The man blinks, brows raised and mouth agape. “Are you… flirting with me?”

Lance’s grin widens, and he winks. “Depends… is it working?”

“No.” It’s stern, but a hair too quick.

Still, Lance isn’t sure what to make of that, and he tries to snuff out the burn of disappointment in his gut. Not all men are attracted to men. Unfortunately, in this aspect of life, not every shot hits its mark.

The huntsman clears his throat, looking away. “Point being, I doubt you know more about how to run a kingdom than the king. He was born for it, and he fought for his place.”

Oh, right. That’s what they were talking about. Lance can’t help his snort of amusement, and smirks when the man casts him a glare. “As I said, a sword might win him a crown, but it doesn’t rule a kingdom. He sits back in that castle of his and lets his council call all the shots. Half of that council, might I add, is made up of rich nobles who kissed Zarkon’s ass when he rose to power.”

“He forced them to bend a knee to him,” The man snaps. He looks away, brows pinched and lips pursed. “They didn’t… they didn’t want to give up on their prince. He told them the prince was dead, and he didn’t give them a choice.”

Lance’s smile falls, irritation bristling beneath his skin. “And do you know what that choice was? It was to either kiss his ass, or die. He burned the homes of the noble families who opposed him, until only the corrupt and greedy remained.”

“And how would you know—“

“Because I was one of those families.”

Silence falls between them. Lance hadn’t meant to shout, but it had come from his throat hot and sharp. The man’s jaw snaps shut, and he stares wide-eyed as Lance glares. Every once of amusement gone from his features. It’s not often that he loses his humor— and Hunk says it’s a scary sight when he does— but this is a touchy subject. One that remains raw and festering more than a decade later.

Birds sing distantly, calling between the trees.

A twig snaps in the forest.

The river bubbles and babbles beside them.

“Oh,” the huntsman breathes.

“Yeah. Oh.” Lance says dryly. “Don’t let the glitter and gold fool you. The noblemen who decorate themselves in jewels rarely give a damn about the people they’re supposed to rule. They sit around and get sores on their asses while some of us are out here actually trying to make a difference.”

A rustle of bushes.

A soft whistle of wind through branches.

The soft murmur of leaves.

Lance watches the man’s lips move— pursed, opening, frowning, working like he’s trying to find words that never come. He feels a sense of satisfaction in that. At making this man speechless. At watching him try to figure out how to navigate this new territory. At watching him be thrown so far off balance and realizing just how wrong his assumptions have been.

It’s amusing, to say the least, and Lance can feel a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I… I didn’t know…”

“Of course, you didn’t. I’m sure the noblemen you work for never talk about the noble families they threw to the fires during Zarkon’s reign.” He continues to smile, despite the venom in his voice, despite the bit to his words. He looks away, past the huntsman and into the woods. “They used his paranoia and impulsive brutality to get rid of rival families.”

He hears the horns of the hunting party echoing through the forest, and he tilts his head, trying to determine just how far they are.

Another snap of twigs.

A rustle in the underbrush.

A heavy snort. A grunt and whine. A guttural sound that’s not quite a howl but still sends shivers down Lance’s spine.

He stiffens, eyes snapping to the sound— and his breath catches as he sees not one, but two large shadows moving through the trees. Headed for the river.

“Why didn’t your family come forward when Zarkon was defeated—“

Lance shifts forward quickly, moving up on one knee and getting his other foot under him in a half-crouch. His hand shoots out, slapping his palm over the man’s mouth. He jerks back, but Lance keeps his hand flush to his face. He glances at him only long enough to catch his glare, but puts a finger to his own lips, eyes darting back to the woods over the man’s shoulder.

He can see the outline of the two boars now, their shoulder peaks high and heads bent toward the ground, snuffling and grunting.

“That’s a story for another time,” Lance whispers under his breath. “Right now, we’ve gotta go. Your boar is back, and this time he brought a friend.”

The man stills, eyes widening. Slowly, he pulls back from Lance’s head, turning to follow his gaze. Lance drops his hand, reaching for the bow he had abandoned on the ground. Slinging it over his shoulder, he spares a glance at his companion, relieved when he sees the brief flicker of trepidation.

“You’re not stupid enough to try and attack them both, right?” He whispers, grinning when the man’s gaze snaps back to him with a heavy scowl. It’s sharp. It’s intense. And Lance is sure that a lesser man would cower at the sight of it. Thankfully, Lance is no lesser man. “Thank the heavens,” Lance breathes out with a sigh. He crouches next to the man, grabbing his upper arm and hauling him to his feet. “I was not looking forward to going in after you.”

“I never asked you for your help,” the man grumbles. It sounds like he meant it to be indignant, perhaps even scathing, but it comes out more disgruntled and defeated. He tries to pull his arm from Lance’s grasp, but Lance holds on tight.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a big tough huntsman and not a damsel in distress. We can argue the details of it later.” He’s already pulling the man away, in the opposite direction of the boars and toward the woods. “Right now, let's get out of here before they smell us. They’re extremely territorial, and they might be looking for a new breeding ground—“

The squeal is horrifying. Loud, low, and guttural. Angry and aggressive. It starts with one, and then the other joins. The stomping of sharp hooves and the crack of wood as they trash into tree trunks. It sends adrenaline shooting through Lance’s heart, pin pricks in his veins.

“Run.” Lance’s grip on the man’s arm tightens, dragging him the first few steps as he breaks into a sprint. But once he picks up his balance, the man is right beside him. Easily keeping pace. Lance lets go of his arm as the huntsman starts to pull ahead of him, risking a glance over his shoulder—

Only to find both boars charging through the forest after them. Two monstrous and dark shapes, tusks glinting in the light that filters through the trees. Teeth bared and gnarled.

He’s heard horror stories of hunters torn apart by boars.

His heart leaps into his throat, a strangled sound escaping him. Legs burning as he picks up the pace, relieved when the man next to him stays neck and neck.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

1) Split up and run in opposite directions to split the boars' attention

2) Grab the huntsman and climb up a tree

3) Pull the huntsman to the side and hide

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

His eyes dart around the forest, adrenaline making his thoughts frantic. But as he’s said before, he thrives on a little danger. Some of his best work comes when the stakes are raised. It keeps him focused and keeps him sharp. And strangely enough, despite the rapid beat of his heart in his throat and the fear pulsing through his veins… he feels steady.

It’s not the first time his life has been in danger, and it won’t be the last.

Because he’s going to survive this, and he’ll make sure the idiot beside him survives, too.

Lance isn’t sure what he’s looking for exactly— anything to get him out of this situation, mind spinning with possibilities as his gaze darts around the forest— but he knows it when he sees it.

And hey, impulsive decisions have kept him alive this long.

“Hey, pretty boy,” he pants, glancing sidelong to catch the man’s quick glare.

“Are you—“ He pauses as he leaps over a fallen log. Lance makes the jump half a second later, and he refuses to admit that he wasn’t nearly as graceful about it. Seriously, why is this guy ridiculously good looking even when running for his life? “Seriously flirting with me right now?”

“It’s only because you haven’t given me your name yet, buttercup.”

“Stop with the nicknames!” He snaps, and Lance relents. But only because they have more important matters at hand.

“I’ve got an idea,” he says instead. “Do you trust me?”

“No.”

“Well, this is a great time to start. Come on!” He grabs the man’s arm, just above the elbow, and quickly changes direction— darting off the path they’ve been taking and into the thick of trees, dragging the man with him.

He’s resistant for a moment, caught off guard and stumbling, momentum slow to shift. But he gets his feet under himself quickly, keeping up with Lance rather than trying to fight it. For that, at least, Lance is grateful. What he’s not grateful for is the venom with which the man says, “What are you doing? You’re going to get us killed!”

“Shut up and trust me,” Lance snaps. “These are my woods, remember?”

“They’re not—“

“Here,” Lance comes to a sudden stop, and uses his grip on the man’s arm to yank him back when his momentum carries him forward. He falls back against Lance’s chest, but Lance is already pushing him forward. Toward a large, sprawling oak.

“What—“

“We’re out of the boar’s sight for now, but it won’t last long. Go.”

Thankfully, the man doesn’t argue much. While he doesn’t seem happy about it, he appears to be a man of action. Just as impulsive as Lance. Stubborn, but willing to take direction. He scrambles up the tree with surprising ease, heaving himself up into the branches quickly— just how strong is he?

Lance scrambles up after him, and he’s pleasantly surprised when— after the man settles— he braces himself and leans down, offering a hand. They clasp forearms, and the huntsman practically hauls Lance up onto the branch. Lance’s heart skips a beat, but he blames that on the adrenaline. The warm trickle of interest settling in his gut, though? He can’t deny that.

What can he say? He likes a man who can give as good as he gets.

The huntsman courteously waits until Lance is settled onto the branch next to him before griping once more. “Now we’re just stuck up a tree—“

Lance slaps a hand over his mouth, ignoring the glare and following after him to keep up the pressure when he tries to pull away. “Shhhh,” Lance hisses, looking down and over his shoulder.

Sure enough, the boars come barreling past a moment later. Both of them freeze, breaths held as they watch the huge creatures sprint past— screeching and howling. He can feel the vibrations of their feet tearing up the earth through the tree. And even after they pass, neither he nor the huntsman move.

The boars return moments later. Slower this time. No longer charging, but snuffling curiously. Noses to the earth as they search. The man beside him startles as one of the boars lifts its head, sniffing the air and looking right up at them.

His eyes dart to Lance, and Lance just gives him a subtle shake of his head, lifting a finger to his own lips.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take long for the boars to lose interest. It does, however, take them a while to shuffle on. Lazily making their way back through the forest, snouts rooting along the forest floor.

Lance waits until they’re far enough away that he can no longer hear their grunts and squeals that he finally lets his hand drop from the huntsman’s mouth.

“I can’t believe that worked,” he says as soon as Lance pulls away, voice still hushed and brows furrowed as he stares at where the boars had gone. “How did they not see us?”

Lance leans back and shrugs, nonchalant and casual, but he can’t help the smile that curves his lips, relief flooding his veins in a giddy high. “Northern Ridgebacks have great hearing and a keen sense of smell, but their eyesight is terrible.” Lance waves a hand around vaguely, gesturing to the branch they’re sitting on. “Hence, the tree. So…” Lance tilts his head forward, waggling his eyebrows as he smirks. “Do you trust me now?”

The man looks at him then, and slowly— achingly slow, like the rising sun— he smiles, huffing out a sharp exhale that Lance swears is a laugh. “Not a chance.”

“Come on, I saved your life!”

The man leans back against the trunk of the tree, giving Lance a flat look, but unable to hide the way the corners of his eyes crinkle with a half-formed smile. “You also endangered it.”

“I did not!”

“You did so.”

“I did—“

“Keith?” Both of them stiffen at the sudden voice, echoing through the forest. “Keith!”

He watches the huntsman’s eyes widen. Watches his lips part as his jaw goes slack. Watches something akin to surprise and… panic flicker across his face.

“I’ve—“ He’s already scrambling. Already shifting on the branch, twisting around to begin his climb down. “I have to go.”

“Keith? Is that your name?”

The man doesn’t answer. Already gone from their shared branch, he makes his way haphazardly down the tree. They managed to get a fair distance up— too far for him to simply drop without consequences. Lance watches him make his way down, hurried and barely look at his footholds before shifting his weight. His brows pull together, a small frown on his lips.

Why does that name sound so familiar? He knows he’s heard it before. Not just in passing, but somewhere where it held more weight. More importance. Somewhere like—

He loses his train of thought when he sees the man’s leg stretch out for a rotted branch.“Wait!”

He jerks forward, throwing out a hand to signal to the man— Keith?— to stop, but it’s too late. He puts his weight on a rotting branch, and it immediately cracks beneath him.

Lance watches as panic and understanding race across his features. He scrambles to grab something— anything— a branch or another trunk— but he’s already falling— and his cloak catches on branches on the way down, twisting his body and wrapping up in his limbs—

Lance winces as he hits a thick lower branch hard, one arm caught up in his cloak and twisted around in front of him. His chest hits the branch, right over his arm, and the air leaves his lungs in a pained grunt. He tries to wrap his free arm around the branch, but it’s not enough before he slips off, falling backwards—

And landing hard on the ground—

Neck cracked at a terrifying angle as his head hits one of the gnarled thick roots.

“Oh fuck,” Lance breathes, already moving— practically throwing himself off his perch. “Oh fuck. Ooooh, no. No, no, no.” He shimmies down the tree as quickly as he can, taking heed of all the branches below and testing them carefully before letting his weight settle on them.

He grabs the lowest branch and swings himself down, dropping the last few feet before scrambling forward and falling to his knees at the huntsman’s side.

“Come on, man.” He mumbles, hands hovering wildly and uselessly above the still body. His eyes are closed, mouth gone slack. He isn’t moving. “Come on, Keith. Buddy? Please, wake up.”

He knows better than to shake him, but gods dammit it all, he wants to so bad. Instead, he holds a hand over the man’s mouth, watching his chest carefully— and letting out a sigh of relief when he both feels and sees his breath. “Thank the heavens.”

He carefully shifts Keith away from the root, lying him out flat on the ground. He winces when he moves his right arm, certain by the odd angle and purpling that it’s broken. Lance gently feels the back of his head, fingers carding through thick black hair— and coming away with smears of blood.

“That’s not good,” he mumbles. So much for not letting him spill his blood in this forest. “You’ll be okay,” he says, more to himself than the unconscious man. More to steady his shaking hands. He takes a few deep breaths. “I won’t let you die. Okay. Think, McClain. Think.”

He needs Hunk. Hunk would know what to do. Hunk always knows what to do in situations like this. He’s patched Lance up more times than he can count. But going to get Hunk would mean leaving Keith alone, like this, unconscious and bleeding in the woods with boars around… and he’s not about to do that.

“Fuck,” he hisses under his breath. He doesn’t want to have to use his flare arrow, but he may not have a choice. They’re expensive to make— the materials almost impossible to come by— and Hunk had told him to only use it in times of emergency.

But… this is an emergency, right?

He’s reaching behind him— fingertips brushing along the fletching of his arrows, searching for the right one— when he feels the cold steel of a blade pressed against his neck. Sees it catching the light, glinting beneath his chin.

He freezes, heart hammering and breath caught in his throat as he hears a low voice say, cold and stern, “Hands in the air.” He moves slowly, obeying the command. “Good. Now step away from the king.”

His eyes snap down to the man on the ground— a huntsman who isn’t a huntsman at all. The fine embroidery and fabric of his clothes. The clean cut, handsome face. The intense stare and sharp glare that demand to be obeyed… Keith.

That’s why he knows that name.

Keith Yorak Kogane. The lost prince. The true heir of the Marmoran bloodline. The Warrior King. The True Dragonheart.

Bloodied and unconscious at Lance’s feet.

The air stilled in Lance’s lungs finally escapes, rattling across his vocal cords in a low groan as his eyes slip shut.

Hunk is going to kill him.