I'm updating early to commemorate the Season Two Finale.

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Zenammu's existence could hardly be better. In his three centuries of life, Lord Hircine had chosen him twice to be an instrument of his will. A native Ashlander, Zenammu had felt obligated to obey the Lord of the Hunt, for who provided his clan's game? Hircine called, and he answered.

His first task was to be a carrier, a vessel, for a new strain of lycanthropy. He had performed so well, spreading its glory across Tamriel. For eighty years, he hunted those that bent their knee to the Imperial menace, even his own kinsmen when it was necessary. A bonus was given, an optional addition to his great crusade, with a reward fit for a king. It was simple: enter County Kvatch and cause havoc, while paying close attention to Gray Gold Mine and the houses nearby.

It was there he met the Pup.

That was his target, Hircine whispered confirmation into his ear. So Zenammu waited, and waited, using his skills to stay hidden from those in the main house. The Pup had family in the Legion, the young Imperial was even courting a battlemage's daughter. Figures, Imperial scum with Breton trash, a match made for the temples. Of course, with this revelation, came a plan.

Zenammu would attack the family of the Pup's bitch. The fight was not easy, but he managed to kill the mage. The Pup arrived right on schedule, bitch in tow, and had engaged as expected. One bite, and Zenammu could leave and lick his wounds. It essentially simple, just infect and run.

The best laid plans of mice and men, as they say. He had accomplished his mission, at the cost of his own life, death was delivered via letter opener. Hircine gave him a hero's welcome for his accomplishment. For four years, the Ashlander had hunted by his master's side, eager to continue to please.

Then he had received this wonderful news. Zenammu was given a second chance at life, all he had to do was kill the Pup. Lord Hircine had twisted and hollowed the body of a Dremora to create his soul's vessel, and warped it to fit his old appearance. The shell was easy to use, and hardly cumbersome, but just didn't move like his old one. He looked like a Dunmer, walked like a Dunmer, sounded like a Dunmer, but he didn't feel like a Dunmer, like something was deeply wrong with him. The Ashlander pushed the thoughts from his mind, his temporary shell must not have been meant to contain the glory that was Zenammu reborn.

Even this body had not prevented him form performing his task. Stealth was still second nature to him, and stalking the Pup was easy enough. But could he be called Pup anymore? No, now the Pup was a Hound, with the hunting instincts to prove it. The Hound had known Zenammu was tracking him, but the pink horse had taken the fall. Or so he had thought.

The Hound and his new bitch were looking in his direction. They knew, and it was only a matter of time before they came for him. Zenammu needed to complete his mission, no more waiting, no more watching, he needed to act now. the Ashlander's vision pulsed, and power flooded his veins. This body's transformation was instantaneous, and he remained in full control.

One of his claws undid the window latch, and he climbed through the opening.

He received numerous, burning cuts across his back as he went.

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Reman had given Glade the Ring as a precaution, in the event she needed to transform. Her immediate response had been to do just that. When was the last time he'd fought side by side with a fellow lycan? That must have been when he'd first entered Skyrim, just over a year ago. Then and now, the Imperial could see why most people were scared by the very thought of lycans. The transformation itself is enough to inspire fear. With the two of them, there was little chance of defeat, if any, and they knew it, Reman stayed completely level headed.

But when he saw the werewolf that climbed in through the window, his blood boiled.

Hulking, black, and scarred beyond belief, it was familiar to the Imperial. One never forgets the lycan that infected them. Those slash scars over its left eye, a heart-shaped one on its right leg, and a stab wound in its ribs. Reman had been the one who added that, and hopefully, he'd give it a few more. Maybe this time, just maybe, the universe would be kind enough to make it stay dead.

Glade had taken the initiative, attacking the lycan's back. It seemed her claws affected all werewolves in the same manner, because the beast howled in displeasure. Reman followed the mare's initial assault with a roundhouse kick to the face. Negotiation was never the Imperial's strength. The black werewolf was seemingly unimpressed by his strike, that was never a good sign.

The beast backhanded the Imperial, who was sent flying into one of many dessert covered tables. It was stronger this time, much stronger. But Reman had grown up, he was a noble's child no longer, he was a warrior proper. Nothing of Aetherius or Oblivion would stop him from truly ending his forebear's life. Another smack brought an end to those thoughts, his entire brain halted, really, because spots appeared in his vision.

A piercing, shrieking roar brought the Imperial back to reality. Glade had taken that as an almost personal insult, her forebear wasn't allowed to be weaker than any other lycan. She launched herself at the black werewolf, and a mirror-like performance of her first transformation played out before the Imperial's eyes. The changed mare slashed and gored as though her life depended on it, as though her alpha's life depended on it. Glade was built for speed, not strength, and that glaring difference between the two transformed beings was brought to true light.

A slash from the beast caught Glade just under her ribs. Had that blow landed on a normal man or pony, their organs would be littering the floor, but to a lycan, it did damage equivalent to brambles cutting the skin. The force sent Glade to the ground, she would be up in a few moments, but Reman entered battle in her place.

An open-palmed strike to the snout, an uppercut to the throat, all quick, meant more to distract and cause pain than truly injure the victim. The beast had the advantage of muscle mass and strength, but the Imperial had the speed advantage. All that bulk slowed it down, and Reman's lean body was much more aerodynamic. He dodged attacks left and right, some close calls, a grazing hit or two, but no true connection. That was, until he was caught by kick to the chest, once again, he went into a table. This one, however, was covered in eating utensils, silverware.

Unfortunately, it was all pewter, nothing to use against lycans. A shame, really, that cake cutter looked pretty sharp. That train of thought was also cut off, the beast charged the downed Imperial. A brown blur slammed into the black werewolf's side, and it went tumbling to the ground. Glade had used her body as a battering ram. Reman was tired of being dead weight in this fight, he needed to do something, anything, to help.

“Glade, cover me!” A trick, and the mare knew it, but their opponent did not. Believing Reman would be an easy target, it rushed the Imperial, who was still sprawled on the floor. There was no chance it could predict what would happen next, no way of knowing the Imperial had more than a handful of tricks up his metaphorical sleeves.

In a fraction of a second, Reman extended his hand, and a bolt of electricity arced from his partially opened palm. The lightning hit the beast squarely between the eyes. The Imperial was no healer, but he knew what happened when one runs electricity through the brain. The black werewolf experienced a number of muscle tremors and small seizures, all within a fraction of a second, a single moment.

“That was for Gaston Jemane!” It was no true vengeance, but it was a start, a tribute to a wonderful man, taken before his time.

“B-bastard H-hound.” The beast spoke, stuttering from the residual effects of the blast. That was a neat trick for an animal, Reman never mastered talking while transformed, but he knew that some were capable of it. “Never would l-learn your p-place.”

“And what do you know of me?” Reman still had another bolt charged, and Glade was on the alert.

“I know t-t-that you and the B-breton bitch, L-lyne-” The beast had no chance to finish, and would not.

“NEVER say her name like you knew her!” Reman fired his magical blast into the beast chest. The Imperial's response struck Glade as odd, but she was unable to voice her concerns. Perhaps whoever the beast was referring to was Reman's former lover, but the man's reaction was above and beyond what Glade expected of him. The attachment must have deeper than the bond between two individuals that had casual sex, they must have been in love, or at least Reman was.

While Glade would have thought the idea was funny, seeing how her comrade, her friend, felt about the loss of his... whatever the relationship was, affected her deeply. She knew Reman was harden over the years, but Glade saw pain in those eyes.

“W-weakness, emotional attachment to th-the bitch would o-only b-bring you dow-own.” Reman gave a hard kick to the injured lycan, fury burning like the heart of the sun. “K-keep harming m-me, it will d-do n-nothing tho ch-ch-change the outcome.” Its form started to change, fade, leaving only an old Dunmer in its wake.

“What in Oblivion are you?” That was not a transformation Reman was familiar with, and he knew almost every strain of lycanthropy that produced wolves. This elf had something different... right? Or maybe, just maybe, Hircine had sent him, given recent events, that seemed not only possible, but probable. It made sense that the Huntsman could alter lycanthropy and its effects to suit his needs, but did binding the dead allow room for change?

“The ultimate understanding of our Master's will.” The stutter was gone, the lycan regeneration factor must have kicked in all ready. The slight brain damage would be completely healed in a few minutes, which gave Reman plenty of time to extract information.

And his revenge.

Reman never enjoyed torture, he'd learned to empathize with those who had suffered the abuse, his time in Valenwood had shown him how painful it could be. It had also shown him how effective it could be. Sparks was the most commonly used spell for information extraction, low damage, high pain output, low Magicka cost for those experienced in Destruction. Reman clenched a fist, and electricity crackled around it.

“Why were you sent after me?”

“I'll never tell you, Hound.” He really shouldn't have said that, not after he'd riled the Imperial's temper so much. Reman brought the fist down, a left hook to the cheek, a painful jolt ran through the captive Dunmer's body.

“Talk!” He brought it down again and again, each time upping the voltage just a hair. The Ashlander howled in pain at every blow, tears even welled in his eyes. Pathetic.

“Lord H-h-h-hircine s-sent me to ass-assimilate you into the p-pack.” What? WHAT!? Hircine had been the cause of the incident that ruined Reman's life! Gaston, Isabella, Hircine had ruined everything they had planned, the life they had worked so hard to achieve. The battlemage had been like an uncle to the Imperial, he'd taught him so much, many things his father couldn't. Reman had always heard of seeing red but he'd never experienced it before. He never been so angry, so enraged, so violent, never when in his true form, at any rate.

He didn't see the Dunmer's attack, didn't need to, he caught it all the same. Reman looked him in the eyes.

“What is your name?” His voice was even, flat, an eerie compliment to his blank face. But his eyes, by the Huntsman's Spear, those eyes! They could cut steel, and chilled the Ashlander to his very core.

“Z-zenammu.” The stutter was not from his injuries, but his body's reaction to the man before him.

“Well, Zenammu, I don't like your attitude.” What did he mean by that? He didn't like his attitude, he didn't have an attitude, he was being submissive to a stronger lycan. “I think I should fix that.” Reman grabbed the elf by his throat, lifting the old Dunmer almost effortlessly. “You should grow a pair!” With a single motion, he threw Zenammu across the room, and he impacted on the wall, denting the wooden boards that lined the interior.

“Reman! He's down, that's enough!” Glade must have transformed during the Imperial's torture session.

“Worried he's digging himself a deeper grave?” Zenammu almost sounded like he was laughing as he rose from the floor. The Ashlander wiped some blood from his mouth, grinning. He extended a fist, held sideways, and a purplish blue aura enclosed it. When the elf opened his hand, the glow materialized into a handle, with the remainder forming into a blade and and guard. The Dunmer had summoned a sword!

Zenammu ran to engage the Imperial, who easily met the challenge. When the elf brought his blade in a sideways arch, only to be blocked by Reman's own bound sword.

“When did you... ?” Of course the Dunmer was confused, sleight of hand made the Imperial's summoning magic into a difficult phantom to follow. He was never answered, Reman merely brought his hand up to head level, and fired another bolt of lightning into Zenammu's face. He flinched back from the pain and involuntary muscle tremor, the Imperial took this opportunity to slash at his foe. The blade's serrated edge sliced though meat and skin without effort, only being stopped by the elf's ribs.

With another kick, Zenammu was on the ground once more. None of the lycans gathered knew that this would be the last time he would hit the floor because of Reman. No one could know.

“You attack the family of my fiance.” Reman punctuated with another slash. Glade now knew why he had been so angry, this disease had taken him from his bride-to-be. “You kill the man I consider my uncle.” Another slash, and the Imperial dispelled the sword, its form dissolved into a fine mist. “You infect me, turn me into a monster.” Reman placed his fingers between some exposed ribs, and lifted. Glade had never seen anything so horrifying and awe inspiring, the Imperial exuded an aura of complete control over his opponent.

Reman raised his hand, and place it on Zenammu's head. “You tear me from the woman I love.” Glade didn't know if he suffered when the Imperial killed him, she would likely never find out, but the lightning arcing from his broken, beaten, bloody body certainly made her feel uneasy. “May your Master have mercy, for you received none from me.”

Reman turned to face his friend, who just looked a strange mixture of awe and disgust. What amount of each was directed at the Imperial, only the Divines could know.

“You look tired.” Glade was trying to be a pillar for her forebear, a courtesy she knew he would extend to her if need be. It was true, Reman looked exhausted, both physically and mentally, by the day's events.

“I'm more worried about paying for the damage we caused to the building.” Of course, he would make a joke right now. The two shared a quiet laugh, bonds forged in fire are the strongest, as they say. “I guess you have a lot of questions, don't you?”

“I'll respect your right to privacy.” Her answer seemed to relieve the man, whose shoulders seemed to deflate as the day's tension left them. Glade's old drill sergeant would have said he looked like shit, and that would have been an honest statement. “You look like you could use a drink.”

“Only if you're buying.” He chuckled at her joke, but knew she was probably right. Two black eyes, a split lip, at least one broken tooth, fractures up and down his left arm, and his right radius was shattered. He diagnosed the injuries by how they felt, which was easy, after every injury he had received over the years, all pain was relative to the man. Reman coughed up some blood, he added a slightly damaged lung.

“We should get you to a hospital, come on.” Glade was ready to leave this carnage behind, the least she could do was leave a note. Of course, the man complied with her demands, and started to hobble off behind her.

It was only too late that either of them noticed a rustling from where Zenammu's corpse lay. Too late to react, to prevent what would happen. The supposedly dead elf rose to his feet, and the two lycans were oblivious to him. If they'd payed attention, even given the slightest care to what they thought was a corpse, what, in all seriousness, should have been a dead body. But they didn't, and they payed the price of negligence.

Reman never felt the tiny dagger that pierced his chest, slipped so easily between his ribs. On his way down, he heard Glade truly end the elf's life. He took solace in that fact, even as his vision started to fade. His brain was working in overdrive to make his final moments pleasant, it blocked all pain from his mind.

He saw Glade frantically called for help, pleading for Reman to keep his eyes open, to stay with her.

He thought of Twilight, an intellectual who had offered assistance.

Fluttershy, who had been so timid, he hoped she would gain some courage, she could use it.

Rarity, who had designed his armor, fascinated by his strange body shape, he wonder how she would feel about designing his funeral clothes

Rainbow Dash, a loyal hothead, the kind of friend anyone would be proud to have.

Applejack, her background was similar to his own, he felt a type of kinship with her.

Pinkie, he'd gotten him to come out of his shell, a miracle by his own standards.

Princess Celestia, the kind monarch, every ruler paled in comparison to her, even his own Emperor.

Luna, given time, she could have become an adoptive little sister to him, time he sadly didn't have.

At last, his thoughts came to the mare trying to keep him awake. Summer Glade, he'd failed her, he infected her, promised to cure her, and now he lay dieing before her. This made the second promise he could not keep. For the first time in years, Reman cried, tears spilled down his face.

He reached out and touched Glade's cheek, a comforting gesture. He felt the vibrations of other ponies arriving, magic picked him up. He was likely being carried to a hospital. He knew he'd be in the morgue soon enough.

Just before his eyes closed, Reman felt County Kvatch's warm, summer breeze.