Author's Note: I don't know how I first came to realize the parallels between Wingul's booster and furyhood, but I couldn't unsee it, and thus was born this AU. Just a couple notes before we begin: one, this takes place several years before the canon timeline starts, so several characters make appearances in different contexts than the game provides. And two, if you want the exact translations of the Long Dau sprinkled throughout the story, I used the online translator on Yola.
The first sign of consciousness is, unsurprisingly, torture.
It's bad enough at first that Wingul can't even form thoughts amid the haze of hurt. It starts as a slow dull ache, like some invisible force is pushing pressure points all over his body, but then it rises in pitch and intensity until he feels himself twitch, spasm, writhe in agony—and then, his body finally fails him as his muscles stop responding, only for the pain to start building up all over again.
Sounds drift in and out of his ears, but they all seem muted, as if Wingul lies under the surface of something thicker and darker than water. Even breathing seems too much of an effort, shallow and labored. But as he forces himself to think, he finds that it might have been better for him to sink back into slumber. Nothing hurts more than the anguish tearing him apart from the inside.
Wingul knows, even before he's lucid enough to hear anyone tell him so, that he'll never fight again. This is no temporary injury. If his entire being hurts this much even after all the healing artes, that single blow from the giant's hammer had almost killed him. Wingul winces, but his face barely responds; his lip twitches, and is still. Never in his life has he been so utterly defeated, so thoroughly humiliated.
Even before he opens his eyes, he tries to sit up, but the action never makes it farther than the impulse. White-hot pain shoots through his everything, and Wingul can no longer suppress an indistinct moan, his teeth clenched hard enough that it hurts more. If he had more strength, it might have been a screech.
The noise, more than the motion, is enough to get him noticed. "Stay," a familiar voice commands, almost imperiously, and Wingul stiffens. He might have told him to know his place if he hadn't been put so completely in his own; he has little choice but to obey, and reluctantly forces his muscles to relax. If he didn't know better, he'd say that voice belongs to…
"Don't push yourself," says Nils, peering at Wingul sharply, but by no means is he angry. In fact, there's overwhelming relief shining in his bright blue gaze. Wingul frowns faintly at his restless retainer, sitting at his bedside. "It's a miracle you're even alive, let alone awake. You need to rest."
"N-no," croaks Wingul, as defiantly as he can, but even that single word seems too much for his lungs. His eyes widen, and he almost chokes as wet coughs tear at his throat, already raw and aching from the strain of breathing. The stark truth is that a sword doesn't help much against a warhammer. Much as Wingul hates to admit it, Nils is right. It would be best for him to hold still, at least until his every nerve stops screaming.
Nils dabs anxiously at his mouth with a dingy cloth and holds it up so that he can see red flecks. "That's blood," he says, as if he can't see for himself. "You're in bad shape. Please, Lord Wingul." There is enough delicate insistence in his tone that Wingul can tell this is more a demand than a request.
Wingul manages a shaky scowl, trying to discrn his surroundings. Given that he can't have been safely moved too far from the place he fell, not to mention the aura of almost penetrable gloom, there's no way he could be anywhere other than the Labari Hollow laboratory. It was due to his intervention that this place is still in operation… and it was also on his orders that the scientists there are refining the substance they so ironically call the Water of Life.
After His Highness unified the nation a couple years ago, Melard was willing to resort to desperate measures to retake the throne. Severely outnumbered and outmatched, the exiled king commissioned a concoction intended to enable humans to make use of mana directly, augmenting their physical strength, speed, and regenerative abilities. In this way, he hoped, he could retake the capital with the few supporters he had.
It was a brilliant strategy, but Wingul never would have taken a risk like that in Melard's position. His soldiers indeed gained superhuman abilities, but—perhaps fitting for a potion intended to replicate spiritual powers—they came at the cost of their humanity. The Battle of Arklund was over as soon as it began. Most of Melard's men snapped at the sight of blood, and they turned on each other like animals, some even tearing at the flesh of their fallen comrades in a desperate effort to sate their unnatural thirst…
Wingul doesn't realize he's slipped into a dream until he hears raucous, shrieking laughter. He starts, looking around to find himself on the battlefield again, and settles automatically into a combat stance as he assesses the situation. His trepidatious men have by now nicknamed their artificially enhanced enemies furies, after their indiscriminate wrath. After a few instances of attempted desertion, followed immediately by Sutīditu Vuredun' through their backs, he has informed his men that if these so-called furies strike fear into their hearts, they ought to strike steel into theirs, or he'll do the same to them.
Smiling almost as savagely as his adversaries, Wingul hefts his hilt in his hand. Some might call this a nightmare, but he feels in his soul that he belongs on the battlefield. His dream-self settles easily into the style he's practiced from the age of five. As he flits endlessly from fury to fury, slashing and stabbing with all the power his real self can no longer muster, he finds himself sympathetic to their tireless enthusiasm for battle, and envious of their miraculous resilience. If only he had their strength, but his own sanity, he could use it for a far higher purpose.
As the thought crosses his mind, Wingul laughs aloud as a new and shining possibility is made clear to him. This battle has already been won, and he's had the research on the Water of Life resumed, but research has recently come to a standstill without His Highness's permission to experiment on humans. However, according to their latest tests on various animals, they've made a considerable amount of progress with regard to maintaining sanity. And if Wingul is too badly injured to be of use to his king and country as a human…
As if summoned by the thought of his present condition, the giant's silhouette appears in the fog of battle, and Wingul glares up at him with as much hatred as he can muster—but as the hammer comes down a second time, he jolts awake again.
Wingul's eyes flutter open to take in the same surroundings as before, and he grimaces. The physical part of his pain has thankfully lessened to a dull throb during the time he was unconscious, but the torment of his defeat still aches sharply in his heart.
"Welcome back, Lord Wingul," Nils greets him, and Wingul squints at him, frowning faintly. He's wearing a different outfit, and his face seems much more drawn and tired. How long has it been…?
Wingul clears his throat faintly, and the impulse to cough hits him almost like a physical blow, but he is able to swallow it this time, albeit with some difficulty. "H-how long…?" he manages shakily, but can speak no further. Thankfully, Nils understands his intended question, as expected of a servant almost close enough to be his shadow.
"It's been the better part of a week since they brought you here," he says, his voice strained, and Wingul stares. An entire week? He tries to sit up once more, but can only lift his torso an inch or two before his strength fails him, and he falls back again. "Please lie still," says Nils, patiently ignoring Wingul's readily obvious frustration with his condition. "You may be doing better, but you're still far from healthy."
Wingul narrows his eyes in displeasure. "And… how long do they think… it will take me to… recover?" he asks haltingly. Breathing too deeply still hurts, and his voice is hoarse and ragged from disuse, but he has to ask. The answer may affect his decision; it's important for a strategist not to slip up. If he throws away his humanity for nothing, His Highness will never forgive him—to say nothing of himself.
Nils looks at him for a moment with some worry, as if to gauge how he will react to whatever he has to say, then lets out a long breath. "They say it'll probably be at least another month before it'll be safe for you to travel back to the capital," he says, and Wingul stares at him incredulously. "And… from the looks of things, you'll be out of commission for a long time."
Wingul glares at Nils with all the ferocity he can muster. He must understand that his purpose in life is to advise and defend the king, as his purpose was once to advise and defend him—even if he's since stationed himself here to oversee the Water of Life's development process. "Any word from… His Highness?" asks Wingul, shifting helplessly in place.
Much to his dismay, Nils shakes his head hesitantly. "Not that I've heard," he says, frowning. "But I've been busy fending off the people who want to turn you into a fury. It's… possible… that a message has come for you in the meantime."
As he speaks, a wry smile tugs at Wingul's mouth, and Nils eyes his expression with increasing alarm. "I have a solution," announces Wingul as authoritatively as he can, struggling to sit up. His stiff sore muscles twinge, but he grunts and pushes himself upright with what remains of his formerly formidable strength. If this is all he is now, he's no use to anyone, not even himself. "Give me… the Water of Life."
Nils stares at him momentarily, then blinks a few times, frowning as if unsure whether he heard him correctly. "I know how difficult it is for you to be helpless, Lord Wingul," he says, shaking his head, and his tone is aggravatingly appeasing underneath the layers of worry. "But I must beg you to reconsider."
Wingul gives him a look. "That's an order, Nils," he barks, and his retainer flinches at his tone. "I'm telling you… to give me the Water… of L-Li—" Convulsive coughing cuts him off again, and he tastes something thick and metallic and almost retches. That, more than anything else, convinces Wingul that his chosen course is the right one after all. He will never allow himself to be incapacitated like this again.
"I don't have the authority to do that," says Nils, clearly struggling to keep his voice level; Wingul can see him trembling. "It hasn't been sanctioned for testing on humans yet. Besides, I'm sure you'll need His Highness's—"
"I'm the one who… approved the research… in the first place," Wingul interrupts, almost snarling. "Bring it!"
He bellows the words with as much force as he can muster, though his voice is still so weak it may as well be a whisper. Nils gets to his feet obediently, but hesitates one last time, scrutinizing his expression as if to evaluate his sincerity. Wingul can only glare at him, his chest heaving, and dare him silently to question his decision once more.
Finally, Nils sighs, his eyes welling up with almost frightened tears, and can look at Wingul no longer. "I'm sorry for your loss," he mumbles, bowing his head briefly more in sadness than agreement, and shuffles out the door.
The snowy hair and scarlet eyes he sees in the mirror are not his own, but Wingul feels like himself for the first time in far too long. Perhaps he's more than himself, now. He kneels before his own twisted image, wracked with the lingering agony of metamorphosis, laughing and crying and shivering in all the feverish intensity of his rebirth as a monster.
"Yaio'din imuruya e subaididu miba," Wingul tells himself gleefully: he is only a sword now. Sourceless tears streaming down his face, he punches his reflection in the jaw for his insolence, and the glass shatters. Pain shoots across his knuckles as his fist collides with the mirror, and he inhales sharply. Licking the blood from his skin, he brushes the back of his hand over his cheek, diluting the crimson stain with saliva and sweat and tears.
Yet his blood tastes no different than usual on his tongue, and no compulsion tells him to drink it. Madness is not among the sensations in his mind, or perhaps he's just always been mad. Even as he stares down at his torn knuckles, Wingul feels his flesh mend itself seamlessly, and stares in awe, braving another tentative smile, and the last remaining shards of the mirror on the wall smile back with their jagged silver teeth.
"Do you think—do you think he'll be all right?" asks Nils's voice as if from a great distance, breaking in the middle, but no one responds. For all Wingul knows, he's asking him.