It's not working anymore. It shouldn't be a surprise, given that the medicine took much longer to affect him last time, and they did warn that it was temporary; but what else is Wingul supposed to do? Giving in to the madness is not an option, but he's not… strong enough for this… torture…

Even long after he swallows the last dose of medicine… his thoughts have degenerated into an unbroken internal scream… threatening to shatter his skull from the inside with the force of his suffering… perhaps that means the medicine is working after all… he no longer wants blood… he wants it to be over… he wants to die… to be human… to be himself… to be… his own… master…

Coughing and wheezing… Wingul scrabbles at his chest… scratching and scraping desperately at the surface of his skin… but it heals too quickly for him to rip out his heart… and he sways and falls to the side… the dull ache of colliding with icy cobblestone is nothing… compared to the white-hot pain pressing on the backs of his burning eyes… as dry as his mouth, open in a silent shriek…

The gutter is only a few feet away… if only he could drown… someone might be calling his name… but he doesn't recognize either the voice or the word… only the sound… he doesn't have the strength to struggle against the strong and steady hands… that peel his broken body off the ground and carry him… elsewhere… every noise, every breath, every step, every heartbeat hurts like hell…

It's not over yet. An eternity later, Wingul realizes hazily that someone has removed his coat and shirt, and he shivers in feverish exhaustion, clutching fistfuls of blankets instead of snow, and trembling with the effort of trying to hold himself together as his body tries to tear him apart from the inside out. A damp cloth on his forehead tells him that he is not alone, and only a split second after he notices this does someone speak.

"Why didn't you tell me?" asks the king, the first clear voice he hears, and Wingul's eyes snap open to find His Highness sitting by his bed, along with the giant looming behind him. Though his words are hushed as if he speaks half to himself, Wingul is suddenly sensible that despite his reason for becoming a fury in the first place, there is no room for thoughts of his king and country amid the agony in his head.

But His Highness has asked a question, and Wingul must answer. "Tuya—ususon'," he pants, gritting his teeth; his voice is a growl, breath rattling in his throat. The only thoughts that make it as far as his mouth are in his mother tongue; he's lucky the king is among the few who understand. "U'tu fuumun'… baimu'ti tiekun'… emuya—" A sharp gasp cuts him off, and he clenches his teeth still more tightly in a not-altogether-successful attempt to keep from wailing aloud.

The king's eyes widen in horror. "So this is the bloodlust," he murmurs, then gives a shake of his head as if to stir himself from a dream, his voice gathering strength. "You will always be my right-hand man, Wingul. Your loyalty is unquestionable. But what do you mean to accomplish by destroying yourself like this?"

Wingul flinches. Sudden resentment rises in his throat like bile, made bitterer by the pain gnawing at his stomach, and he almost spits out his response. "U waemu… fuugati hidi… Ajur," he growls. He can still fight for his country, and defend his king with his life—more of a life than any human could ever have. He will never be defeated again, and he will overcome any torture for the sake of protecting his kingdom. "Hidi… yaio. Mi waisuti… usu tii'i…"

He can't finish the sentence—no cost is too great—but His Highness understands. "Not even that of your sanity?" asks the king, almost interrupting, and his voice is taut with anger born of overwhelming concern. "It's far easier to find capable warriors than brilliant strategists, Wingul. To dull your mind's edge in madness is too great a cost, whether you choose to believe it or not."

Wingul wants more than anything to contradict him, to explain that his suffering is purely physical and his psyche remains untouched, but any more words in Long Dau will prove His Highness's point instead of his own. "Rest," commands the king, rising to his feet. "We'll discuss this later. Kitarl, keep an eye on Wingul. Don't let him hurt anyone, especially not himself."

"Yes, Your Highness," says the giant, and the king takes his leave.

They call the giant Jiao the Immovable, and for good reason.

Wingul has no wish to speak to him after his initiation ceremony into the newly expanded Chimeriad, but cannot easily duck past him to the hall, and Jiao clears his throat in preparation for some sort of speech. "Given how recently we stood opposite one another on the battlefield, I can't say I blame you for distrusting me. Thus, I must apologize for my actions in the hopes that you will be able to forgive me someday."

He gives a short but sincere bow, still much taller than any ordinary man, but Wingul only narrows his eyes. Jiao is not the only immovable one. "If you acted according to your conscience, then there is no need for you to apologize," he says, unable to suppress his irritation. "Any self-respecting warrior should know that."

But, to his surprise, Jiao shakes his mighty head. "My quarrel was with the king alone, and even that was in error. I never intended to challenge anyone except His Highness himself, so I'm glad you recovered so quickly. But then, I suppose I shouldn't have expected any less of the Ebon Wing of Auj Oule."

His deep dark chuckle rumbling through the hall like thunder, and Wingul glares at him. "No, you shouldn't have," he agrees tartly. Not because the rumors of his invulnerability are true; Jiao should know better than anyone that such legends are, or at least were, baseless. Rather, it's because he possesses an uncommon strength of will that dictates he must do all within his power, and more, to keep his king and country safe.

"Don't misunderstand," says Jiao, his expression clouding over. "I know you are, or were, like any other mortal man. I speak of the devotion required to drink the Water of Life." Wingul's eyes widen, and what remains of his heart almost stops. "I've seen the symptoms before," he continues, his voice somber now, heavy with untold tales. "I'm sorry to see them again. I thought the last of the furies died with King Melard."

There is the merest hint of a question in his voice, and though Wingul owes him no explanation, he can't help but justify his condition anyway. "The concoction has been refined," he retorts crossly, almost defensively. The version he took was a vast improvement from the draught Melard's men drank, after all.

Jiao only shakes his head slowly. "It's true that the effects seem to have been delayed and suppressed, and you may look and act more human now than the original furies ever did, but still you suffer. Your dedication to your duty is admirable, but His Highness is concerned for you." He hesitates, bowing his head. "As am I."

Wingul glares at him. First Jiao dehumanizes him, and then he patronizes him? Insufferable! "You have no right," he starts telling him, but a summons from the king cuts him off, and he turns slowly around. They have barely left the throne room, after all, and His Highness still sits there, observing their conversation—impartial, until now. In the heat of frustration, Wingul had all but forgotten that he and Jiao were not alone.

The king beckons him closer, and Wingul approaches and kneels: Jiao bows and takes his leave.

"Your voice carries," says His Highness disapprovingly. "I had intended to let you rest awhile before I spoke with you, but if you can argue with Jiao, then you can explain to me why you chose not to tell me of your… difficulties." He waves a commanding hand, indicating that Wingul should speak.

Wingul takes a deep breath, gathering his scattered thoughts, and does not dare look up at the king's expression. "I apologize for my secrecy, but I made the decision to drink the Water of Life, so it is my duty to endure any hardship as peacefully as possible. I thought it beneath Your Highness to trouble yourself with my condition, since I've resolved never to let it control me, and you know my will is even stronger than my body." He swallows convulsively, wondering if that is really true anymore. "Still… I am prepared to accept whatever punishment you deem fit."

"Look at me, Wingul," commands His Highness, crossing his arms, and Wingul jerks his head up more in astonishment than obedience. "Your choice is its own punishment, I think. You traded your soul for your sword, so if I take that away from you as well, what will you have left?" The king shakes his head slowly, almost sadly. "I have no choice but to let you continue along your chosen path, and pray that you will honor your word to stay yourself."

Wingul bows lower still. "Yes, Your Highness. Thank you."

"There is no need to thank me," says the king, his expression darkening as he glances briefly away at nothing. "There is little else that can be done. But let me make one thing very clear." He levels a glare at Wingul so frigid it almost makes him shudder. "Every secret you keep from me is another step closer to becoming a monster—and the moment you bloody your hands is the moment I bloody mine." He pauses for emphasis, eyes flashing like lightning. "Am I understood?"

"Yes, Your Highness," says Wingul again, and lowers his gaze once more, this time in respect. He knows, even without being told, that he will be tracked from now on like the animal he is… and wonders, with a somewhat bitter smile, if he can remember how to act like a human.