Amaryllis

29

Greg comes fast like a flash of lightning, in a flurry of rage and saliva and his familiar brand of madness. The shaft of the arrow is still sticking out of his body sickly, broken in the middle and swinging back and forth. It doesn't seem to hinder him as he takes Louis down and tumbles with him to the side, unearthing wildflowers and grass.

Niall shifts his stance immediately, but it's obvious there's nothing he can do. The two wolves are woven together, one limb across another, mouths wide open and teeth bared. The looks on their faces are almost human; Harry recognises Greg's unsightly sneer like an old friend.

He doesn't wait, this time. He doesn't hold back and watch to see it play out.

The dirt crumbles underneath his feet, and the sound of Niall calling after him falls away. He pushes his muscles to the limit, tired and aching as they are, and sinks his claws straight into Greg's nape. The bigger wolf's howl of pain pierces the air, forceful like a punch, and warm blood mats Harry's fur together. It's satisfying, almost, with the memory of Greg's own claws still burned fresh in Harry's skin. They tumble and fall together, all soft fur and sharp edges, opening wounds in each other's skin.

Behind them, Louis gets to his feet, wobbly. Harry freezes for a split second, just a moment to catch his eyes and make sure he's okay, and it costs him.

Greg uses his weight and size to his advantage, at home in his wolf in a way Harry still hasn't quite achieved. He kicks his hind legs into the air, upsetting Harry's balance, freeing himself from the grip of Harry's claws, and flips them over. Harry lands hard on his back; the air leaves his lungs in a rush.

Greg's teeth, long and lethal and coated in foamy saliva, are right in front of Harry's face. The wolf's breath smells like blood, mostly, so repulsive it has Harry's stomach doing somersaults. He tries weakly to wiggle his way out, slip his smaller limbs through the cracks in Greg's defence, but he's shut down immediately by a snarl so loud it rumbles in his own chest. Greg's eyes are glowing red, and the familiar feeling of wanting to submit washes over Harry like icy water. No, he thinks, if it's the last thing he does. He's not going to die being Greg's.

As expected, at the sight of Harry's defiant expression, Greg jerks violently, growls, and closes his teeth around Harry's neck.

He doesn't quite pierce the skin, or maybe Harry is too numb with fear and too exhausted by emotion to feel anything else. The Alpha's teeth are pressed tight against his throat, though, barely allowing Harry room to breathe. For a minute, neither of them moves. Harry doesn't know what they're waiting for.

As he lies there, with a million pebbles and sticks poking him in the back, a hair's breadth away from being bitten open, he has time to take in his surroundings again. He doesn't even need to hear the creak of a bowstring to tell Niall's standing close by with an arrow at the ready, and judging by the wild mix of scents, everyone else has caught up with them in silence. Louis is the most prevalent one, the one that Harry seeks out, trying to offer some comfort, reassurance, anything to soothe the wild mess of anger and fear and madness clinging to Louis's usual scent.

Greg is growling, rumbling like he's about to fall apart, and with the next half-breath Harry releases, he realises that Greg doesn't want to kill him; he's completely frozen, holding still and careful, even as his teeth scrape against his scab on Harry's nape. It's Louis he came here after, and the others.

Just as Harry starts devising a plan, testing the mobility of his limbs spread out underneath Greg, twitching and wiggling as much as he can, he sees the shadow of Louis stepping forward. They've been going in circles all this time, Louis and Greg, a mad push and pull, and Harry's chest flutters with hope at Louis finally challenging him, showing him that his place is not here, perhaps never has been, except. 

When Harry strains his eyes all the way to the left, just enough for Louis's fur to brush his vision comfortingly, he's not standing like he owns the territory, like he's the leader of the pack, the way he should. His stance, the sharp slope of his neck, his head tilted downwards – he's submitting. It looks wrong on him, as wrong as the blood flaked and dried in his fur like bizarre war paint. Harry's breath catches, and his heart takes off so fast he feels breathless with it for a second. He knows Louis, knows that this can't be what it looks like. It can’t be, but.