Ros (black_faery) wrote in the10thkingdom,
Ros
black_faery
the10thkingdom

The Hunt

Hi all,

Rewatched The 10th Kingdom in the last week, having borrowed the DVD off a mate. Hadn't seen it in years, but it's still as great as I remembered it!

I was in the mood, so have a little Wolf-in-trouble fic...there can be more if anyone wants more :-)

The Hunt by black_faery
Rating: 12-ish. Not too bad. No bad language, no sex.
Disclaimer: Wolf is not mine. Woe.


Wolf runs.

The thrill of the hunt, the quarry twisting and turning, frantically trying to evade the inevitable capture.

Wolf runs.

The quarry splashes down through a shallow stream, gasping for breath. Behind, the baying of hounds, the thud of horses on the ground.

Wolf runs.

Blind flight, now. One foot in front of the other, a desperate bid for freedom. He can feel the muscles shaking, knows he can’t last much longer. It’s the fear that keeps him moving. Knowing that if he stops, the dogs will be on him in moments. He stumbles, loses his footing, lands heavily on his hands on rough grass. Somewhere in his head he manages to register that something in his left wrist cracked, but he’s scrambling back to his feet again hardly noticing the pain. Keep moving.

Wolf runs.

He heads back into the woods, hoping to lose his pursuers in the trees. He knows he can’t last much longer, and in open ground they’ll quickly gain on him. At the start of the chase he’d been confident, cocky, sure of his escape. He knew that he was smart, smarter than all the other who had been run to ground. Now he’s not so sure.

Each gulped breath burns the back of his throat, each pace jars his whole body. He falls again, a stray root across his path catching his foot. Landing winds him, and he lies on the hard earth, gasping for air.

He can feel the vibrations through the ground of the horses behind him, almost hear the breath of the hounds and their excitement, crashing through the undergrowth. He has a brief, fleeting memory of what it feels like to be the one chasing, to be able to smell the fear of his prey – but that is all long gone, in the past. Now it is only him, alone, afraid, the hunted rather than the hunter. He drags himself to his feet once more, not yet willing to lay down and die. If they take him, they will have to bring him down, and he will fight to the end. It will come soon. He knows this, has seen the bloodied tails hung from village gates, has smelt the rotting corpses of wolves thrown onto the refuse pits, where crows pick the bodies clean. He knows now that wolves don’t escape.
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