It was wrong, he knew, so very wrong, and yet he couldn't help it. He knew what they'd say if they ever found out, the wolves, and it tore him apart inside. But he couldn't stop himself. He couldn't after the first time, though he swore he would, and he still couldn't any time after that. And it carried on through the years, because although he knew it was wrong, it was the only thing in this blasted hellhole that felt right.
Perhaps if he'd stopped for a moment and taken a step back from all that he had created, from the beliefs he'd espoused till he was blue in the face, he would have realised and he would have allowed himself to believe everything was all right. Maybe he wouldn't have hated what he did, and himself even more. But he had spent so long being worshipped as some sick sort of hero, so long as the stinking king of the werewolves, that his subjects were howling his laws on the streets and writing it in blood and wouldn't have given him the time to explain he'd been wrong all these years before they ripped his face off.
And he needed their respect, because that was all he had. So he convinced himself that what he was doing was more than wrong, that it was sacrilegious, and he convinced himself he hated himself for it. But he knew he would have hated himself more if he'd given into that other temptation – the temptation to sink his teeth and his claws into Scabior's flesh and to make him just like himself. Because Scabior didn't understand that, and he didn't see the difference between them, and that made him better than the rest.
But it also made Fenrir realise just how much worse he was, so he hurt him. He bit him hard enough to bruise and dragged his nails across his skin so it stood up in white ridges, torn, damaged – but he never drew blood, because that would take away his humanity, and at the end of it, all anyone had left was their humanity. But Fenrir had lost his long ago, and now all he had left was the feeling of sacrilege, of breaking his own law, and of betraying his people. But he couldn't stop himself, because in spite of – or maybe because of – the constant burning hatred and the dull rage he felt, Scabior just made him happy.
Written for Gamma Orionis' OTP Boot Camp with the prompt 'sacrilege'.