A/N: Now, before you go on and read this, a few things.

Conditions for this story: werewolves aren't all the same color. Their hair color = their fur color. Their eyes don't all turn gold; the eye color stays the same, just gets a bit luminous in wolf form. They run on all fours all the time, instead of just when they sprint. And I know you're supposed to be a werewolf for x amount of seconds/minutes and that gets longer every time you feed, but let's just say that the ring makes that a little glitchy. (Plus I don't know firsthand because every time I get around to this quest I'm already a werewolf.)

There are obviously other ways to become a werewolf than being a Companion in the Skyrim world (because I seriously doubt that Sinding was part of the Circle, for one), and I'm exploring that just because. [Originally I was going to pair Aen with Vilkas but I'd forgotten that werewolf hunts are a no-no for the Companions. I'm guessing Kodlak instituted that rule, and even though I'd probably set it after his death Vilkas was such a Kod-lapdog he probably still wouldn't do it.] Also, I love how they break down the name pre- and suffixes on UESP. I stuck one together that I liked and it's pronounced A-N-dree-L (and, naturally, the short version is just A-N). Just so you know, I'unno.

There may be more chapters to this, but you know how I tend to disappear for… months. (Years.)

Apologies for the long Author's Note. You can read the story now :3

…

This pack mentality is new but it leaves him feeling more protected, closer to anyone than he's ever been. Even if there are only two of them.

Sinding was still shaken up about the death of that little girl, the shame and guilt coming off him in waves, but Aendriel could never bring himself to care; he's one of Namira's own, he could care less about one dead child. Though, to others, the guilt is normal, is expected. But when he walked into Falkreath Jail and Sinding turned before his eyes, he knew he had to help this beautiful creature.

So he marched right into Bloated Man's Grotto, both daggers drawn, barely acknowledging the Khajiit lying in a pool of his own blood (he likes that "the prey is strong", though. It just proves his point). The bodies strewn across the clearing had been freshly killed, the air thick with the scent of blood, and it had been a long trek from Falkreath… but he could eat later. After he'd helped Sinding. It didn't take long to find him, either; the Nord met him on his way up the rise in that breathtaking other form of his, fanged snout wrinkling oddly when he began to speak.

After Aen assured him that he wasn't out to slay his first werewolf they went on the hunt, and if the others were no match for Sinding on his own, there was no chance for any of them when they were together. It was full-on slaughter mode, the wolf snapping his jaws and tossing the hunters aside like they weighed nothing while the Bosmer slashed at them with his daggers as if he had claws himself. It was a wild survival instinct driving the Nord on and a pure, unrestrained will to slaughter plus the promise of a beautifully large meal for his companion when they finished.

And then that damn ring kicked in.

It started with an intense, searing heat in his gut, enough to make him drop to his knees on the stone, gripping his abdomen with a choked grunt of pain. Then went his back, spine curving as he curled in on himself. Sinding turned back to him with a curious little grunt, then his eyes went wide and he went to the Bosmer's side, though nothing could be done for him now. His entire body was one big throb, muscles growing and skin stretching and bone cracking and realigning in the worst kinds of ways. Breath refused to come in anything more than little snatches here and there as his lungs reshaped themselves, so he had no way to scream; all he could manage was to shut his eyes and try to get in as much air as possible, whimpers slipping past his lips.

And then the pain stopped, as soon as it had come.

And when Aendriel came back to himself, his first instinct was to lift his head to the bloodmoon and roar.

Or, rather, howl.

He was breathing in rapid pants now but each felt like a deep inhale of fresh mountain air. His vision came in shades of white and grey but that fresh mountain air carried distinct scents on it, of blood and steel and leather and wood and hunters. Fanged jaws snapped as his mouth watered and his mind filled with only one command—hunt. He left Sinding behind in his bloodlust, taking off at an awkward scramble at first but soon learning to coordinate the odd canine limbs. His long, lean muscles bunched at the shoulders and hips under sandy brown fur as he ran and launched himself down the rise, landing right on top of one of the hunters.

The woman had no chance, really; he ripped her throat out before she even had a chance to scream. The others looked wary as he looked up, hunger in his eyes and blood on his maw – this isn't the wolf they were sent out to kill, where did this one come from? Who is it? – but they got no mercy, either. This was a hunt, he was going to do some hunting. By the time Sinding caught up there was little for him to do; bodies were strewn about, the ground soaked with blood, and the tawny brown wolf was crunching noisily at the leg of one of the hunters he'd dragged off to the side.

Aendriel regarded him with indifferent eyes as he stripped flesh from bone, and then crunched through that. He liked this strength, this power – this jaw, he's never been able to get through bone without worrying about getting shards in his hands. He'd mangled this body beyond repair, and all the good parts were gone anyway so he turned to get another to chomp on…

But was interrupted by the feeling of the ground falling out from under him.

His throat closed up and ears popped and he shut his eyes tight when the world flashed up to meet them in brilliant color. Air was evading him again, as if his lungs were too small for his body, and the rapid beat of his heart thundered in his ears. His stomach literally bulged with the amount of "food" he had eaten, and by the time he could breathe, could see, could get himself up to his knees and think, a glance up revealed that Sinding still hadn't gone back to human form.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeahmmfine…" but he wasn't, far from it, actually. Nausea was sweeping over him in waves, and his over-full stomach could only agree, so he wasn't surprised when his entire body lurched forward and out came a bloody pile of barely-digested flesh and crunched-up bone. He felt like he had been retching for hours when it all finally subsided, and he dropped onto his side with an exhausted sigh. It was a few moments before he really noticed the blood on the ground below him, and the absence of his clothes.

"How's your stomach?" Sinding's voice cut through the fog in his head, and Aen frowned at how quiet everything sounded, how he couldn't smell like he had been able to. Everything was so dull in comparison, besides his sight.

The Bosmer's nose wrinkled irritably, both at the way his hollow stomach still squirmed and at the question. "How do you think my stomach is?"

"Right." To his credit Sinding sounded a little bashful about it, though Aen couldn't see because he was staring up into the slowly lightening sky. "You did… um, eat a lot of… people. I'd imagine you're not feeling well."

"That's not why I got sick. I've been 'eating people' for a long time." This time he did glance over at the werewolf, a dark smirk on his face. He'd come a lot closer, crouching beside the other. Aen found himself quite interested in the way he could run like a quadruped but still balance on two legs.

"But you're not a werewolf…" Sinding's muzzle wrinkled a bit, his expression falling somewhere between disturbed and perplexed. "At least, you weren't."

"You think you're the only one who makes a meal out of the living?"

A blonde brow furrowed and the beast beneath it leaned down, giving Aen's general space an almost cautious sniff. "You don't smell like a vampire, either."

"Oh, I'm just a normal elf," said elf sat upright at that, slowly as the twisting in his abdomen subsided, "It's just that followers of Namira are quite particular about their… tastes."

Sinding wrinkled his snout a bit, then shook his head. "I suppose I can't judge..."

"True," the wood elf looked down the way they had come and then the way on, wondering which would be a quicker route back to the mouth of the cave. He was getting bored, getting fidgety. "Shall we be on our way?"

"Are you alright to travel?"

"I just ate too much. I'm fine," Aen waved a dismissive hand, but his voice betrayed his urgency. "Let's go, we don't know if any more hunters are coming."

"Alright, alright," Sinding rolled his eyes and got up to his paws, and when the Bosmer stood beside him he followed the other's gaze as he pointed to the path up ahead with a nod of the head. "That way leads to the overhang you saw at the entrance. It's much closer."

"Lead the way," he understood exactly which way to go, yes, but he really just wanted to see that body move. It was fascinating, the change; going from man to beast in a matter of seconds. His own change felt so far away now, like the fading memory of a dream, and he found himself longing for the strength that the change had lent him—those powerful shoulders, and limbs, and huge, wide paws, and luminous blue eyes, and strong jaws and sharp fangs and—

They left the mouth of the cave together, and it was barely three steps before Hircine showed back up, in the same ghost-of-a-stag form as before. In that moment Aen was honestly ready for the Prince's wrath, to have to fight a god and lose, and he didn't even consider the possibility of Namira coming to his aid, but it didn't matter because he was rewarded for his actions, and allowed to keep the ring. (He had no idea what good that did for him, it didn't even look worth anything.)

Sinding had turned to him then, head tilted slightly, glowing eyes soft with gratitude. "Thank you for your help. I'll make my home here, away from anyone I might hurt."

"What?" Aen snorted at him, crossing his arms. "That's kind of the idea."

"Why would you want to do that? I couldn't stand to hurt anyone the way I did again…" his ears flattened to his skull, and Aendriel found himself impressed with how thorough the change really was.

"Sinding, you're a werewolf. You're literally made to kill. I wish I had that kind of power."

"No, you don't!" it came out as a snarl, the werewolf's fanged snout snapping closed in front of Aen's face. "It's a curse. I'm doomed to be an animal, in this life and the next."

He dropped to a crouch, falling a bit below Sinding's height, his voice smoothing over with a cool tone of negotiation. "Alright, look. Living in that cave will kill you, Sinding—even if you do survive on the bodies in there until they rot, that place reeks of death, and blood, and you. No other prey will wander in there for months, and you'll starve. That's not a death you deserve. And I couldn't possibly help you like this… make me a werewolf, too. We can look out for each other. You need someone."

Shining blue eyes went to the ground as Sinding thought, squinting a little. They slowly rose back to the Bosmer's own green, and he tilted his brows up in a wordless 'well?' "And we're not going to hurt anyone?"

"No one innocent, at least." That was a good place to start; they'd have to hunt eventually, in their beast forms, and any bandits that happened to try and attack them were fair game.

He started to nod slowly, and huffed out, "Alright. Let's do it. You have to drink some of my blood."

"Great," Aen tried not to grin so hard, to look so excited, but he couldn't help it; he was. Drawing a dagger from his hip he reached for one of Sinding's forepaws, stating softly, "I'm sure this won't hurt for long…"

The cut was a long, straight line down Sinding's palm, and Aendriel ran his tongue up the length of it, the coppery taste coating his palate. He sat back, licking his lips, and grinned wide when heat settled heavily into his belly.