#shapeshifter!lance

 It will be strong enough to send him into a frenzy, to make him beg for an ending bullet to his brain, for a knife to dig deep in his heart, for a rope to cut off his airflow.  It will be a memory capable of breaking down every frail wall of moldy stones he knows he will try to build around himself to try and protect whatever remains of him from any further harm.  

 It will change him, as much as it is changing him now, and he will be unable to make it stop, to turn back in time, to stop himself from being foolish, foolish, foolish.

 His heart is hammering inside his chest with painful thuds and he’s now extremely aware that thinking about the future will in no way improve anything about his present.  It’s only making it worse, considering — considering he doesn’t know if he has much of a future left to begin with.

 Oh how much he wants to curse his own nature.  He wants to curse his stars of bad luck and life-wrecking omens that threw upon him the reality of being what he is.  He wants to be able to say he hates it, he hates being a guardian, he hates his ability to shapeshift, to accept his primal side and turn into the fox form he’s trapped in now.  

 But admitting this need, accepting it, that is something he cannot do: it would break his already shattered heart, it would corrupt his mind, it would send him into a darkness that could only end in death.  And if there’s one thing he wants so much it makes him ache, it would be that he wants to live.

 He wants to live.

 The cage the hunter threw him in is small and he has to remain hunched in an uncomfortable position that’s only accentuating his lingering pain from the fight.  The metal bars under his paws are digging into his flesh and leave him unable to rest in any kind of way.  He cannot move his head, he cannot move a single part of his now fox body — he had been trapped while in this form and now he has to pay the consequences.

 Deliriously he thinks that it is better like this.  Letting the hunter discover his human identity would only end with deadly consequences for everyone who knows who he really happens to be: Lance.

 He closes his eyes and wills himself to not breathe too deeply.  He forces himself to ignore the pelts and furs hanging on the walls.  The hunter hasn’t come back yet, and Lance takes advantage of these precious moments to tap into his magic and reach out to the other wild animals that had been trapped with him.  

 Young raccoons shake in their cages and baby foxes cry out to him, hungry, cold and oh so afraid.  It breaks Lance’s already frayed fortitude and he whines in distress.  Being in his fox form made him all the more susceptible to what was happening around him.

 In a desperate attempt he tries to use his wavering magic to open the cages — small sparks ignite here and there but nothing happens.  It only makes him even weaker than before, and now he’s shaking from exhaustion.  He tries again, though, those baby foxes don’t deserve this, the raccoons don’t deserve this, and it hurts to breathe but he pushes through the hot waves of mind-numbing pain to try and free them.

 The door of the small cabin opens, and Lance has never been so aware of his uselessness as he is now.

 He doesn’t deserve to be called a guardian of the forest.

 He only manages to fail everyone.

 The hunter smells strongly of gunpowder and smoke.  Lance growls from deep within his chest, fur on his snout wrinkling as he shows his teeth at the unwanted being.  He knows it’s all for show, since there’s not much he can actually do locked inside a cage and with little to no access to his magic.  Lance can only hope it’s enough to keep the hunter’s attention solely on him.

 But the human ignores him, at least for the time being he seems to do so, and instead starts setting up the creaking old table he keeps at the other end of the cabin.  Meticulously, he arranges an assortment of various types of knives that at first glance Lance knows only mean suffering.

 Fear is coursing through his veins now, his left ear still throbbing from when the hunter used one of his serrated knives to cut off the tip, and the feeling of being under the mercy of a monster makes him snap and uselessly fight against his metallic confines, causing the cage to rattle on the wooden floor.

 It earns him the weight of merciless eyes on him and the sound of manic laughter breaking through the space in the cabin.

 “You’re scared, guardian,” the hunter says, his voice a deep and pleased rumble.  He sets one last knife down before walking towards the hunched form of the magical fox, “good.”

 Lance tries to reach deep within his very core, where he knows his magic comes from, yet the cries of baby foxes resonate again and — dread fills his entire body, seizing his organs, clutching his lungs and tearing at them.  No– no, no, no, no–

 “Your grandfather put up much more of an interesting struggle than you,” the hunter grins with malice now, and his boots now are no longer approaching Lance’s cage, instead going to grab the one with the kits Lance has been trying to protect.  “Perhaps I should give you an incentive to make you fight harder.”

 Stop, Lance cries inside his own mind as he whines and barks in heart-throbbing distress, his breathing coming in in erratic puffs, his paws digging deeper into the metal bars, stop stop stop stop–

 The hunter opens the smaller cage just enough to get a kit outside as he reaches the table, his hold on the scared little fox unforgiving.  Lance cannot close his eyes, he cannot breathe or think or even remind himself that if only he would try again, reach inside, connect with his magic, then—

 The little fox in the hunter’s hand cries as it is thrown onto the table.

 Lance’s eyes are wide, wide open.

 A knife is lifted into the air by a monstrous hand, and Lance hates —truly hates— being a guardian now.

 His bond with magic breaks and blood and screaming and laughter pollute the air all around him.