Chapter Text
They amputated it.
As cleanly as they could, but it was still grotesque. Too many veins, capillaries pierced, his arm dried out like a withered plant. But it’s alright, Griffith will have the resources for a new one, shiny and silver. His proximity to Charlotte will soon bring him many things; Guts only needs to wait a little for the replacement. He had laid out the timeline for Guts (who normally never asked such things) (but now he feels involved, justified to that kind of information)
“Will you kill her after you get what you want?”
“That wouldn’t be kind.”
“Neither is this.”
Griffith smiles, and the moonlight races to illuminate it. “Eventually. If that’s what you want.”
It’s deep into the night, where everyone is asleep and unaware, except of course for the two of them, and Charlotte. They’ll be requesting more provisions from the princess, in order to reinforce her bond to the band of the hawk. The plan is to address her rather than the king, make requests that he would deny but she would happily, desperately fulfill. Rather than snatch her out of that tall castle, he’ll lure her out. And if she throws herself out the window rather than descend down the stairs, all the better. With her blind devotion, it’s plausible that she would slip and fall through the glass.
This one’s a harmless request that wouldn’t make them appear unreasonable if discovered, and the repercussions, if any, would fall on Charlotte. The request would come from her lips, with witnesses as well, and so if it was deemed wrong, then she would be wrong.
There’s no doubt that she would act accordingly; they had both seen the look in her eyes when Griffith leaned in close to her ear and whispered the time and meeting place. Guts’ isn’t the only one who’s been blinded.
But Guts wears the behelit now, placed around his neck in his sleep, where it’s remained ever since. The gesture itself is significant— Griffith’s only possession, the manifestation of his dream, an object that’s always been literally right beside his heart. The symbolism was initially lost on Guts, the significance of wearing the embodiment of Griffith’s dream— meaning that it’s one and the same with Guts, that they were equally treasured.
Though it’s heavy, and not just metaphorically. He swears that it burns him at night, that its mouth cracks open and latches onto his skin. Defiance, to be held by the wrong owner, to have switched hands. He doesn’t tell Griffith… he doesn’t want to sound unworthy of it.
As much as he appreciates owning it, he can feel an almost madness seeping into him— there's a constant unsettlement, a premonition of vague ruination, especially tonight; there’s something eerie about the sound of the wind, the shape of the moon. The tiny lips of the behelit hiss against him. He walks closer to Griffith than usual, close enough that his cloak would momentarily flap against his side, and he wishes it could swallow Griffith up completely.
Griffith’s grin turns cheeky. “Worried she’ll seduce me?”
Guts scoffs and bumps shoulders with him, now much more confident of his importance. Griffith leans into him once given the opening. “Do you want to come tonight? Get some face time with our princess?”
“...I’d.. dampen the mood.”
“I’m sure she would see your charm, given enough time.”
“She said I was scary.”
“She has bad taste.”
“....She’s in love with you. What does that say about you?”
“Rather, what does it say about you ?”
Guts clicks his tongue and shoves him away. “Stop teasing me. It’ll work best if it’s just you.”
He hasn’t realized it, but there was a large difference between being a knight and a right hand man. Quite literally, he was now always on hand, always by Griffith’s side. The strategy meetings, the obligatory parties, the constant studying, it wasn’t particularly interesting to Guts— in all honesty, he tuned it out. But he liked being with Griffith. Griffith always asks his opinion now, on everything. If Guts agrees with the plans, his impression of people, what he wants for the two of them. For the first time, Guts has full control of his life.
Some are glad he’s staying, others uncomfortable, and one (Corkus) flatly pissed. But every single one of them avoided looking at him. And when they did, he could see the slight movement of their eyes, the way they dart at his missing one. No one asked why, but they probably suspect punishment. It makes Guts almost smile.
This clinginess, honesty, was out of character for Guts. But for the first time, he knows what he wants. And it’s… not cathartic, something stronger than that— maybe just comfortable. He feels lighter, happier; comfortable. This is, for sure, his place.
And the behavior’s mutual. In the past, even when Griffith had asked for cruel things from Guts, there was a certain amount of restraint. His ruthlessness would slip out in his demands, in his actions, but not in his actual language, or his spoken thoughts. He had selected a voice, a tone to go along with his face, gentle and kind. That’s now ceased with Guts.
Now, there’s no coating his assessment of others, observations as crude as their subject matter. He was machiavellian, and Guts expects, wants nothing less from him. After what he’s done to keep Guts, he can’t stop now.
He’s happy now, he has what he wants, but doubt is a snake, curling around his legs. It could never be asked, and yet he wondered, how Griffith would react if Guts told him to choose between him and his dream. It would be incredibly cruel (but, more cruel than losing an arm and eye?) and he feared his answer, but he still thought about it. Often. Has Guts seen all of him? Does he now know him, everything about him? Are there still unspoken thoughts?
“You know, I heard you that night. At the ball.”
Griffith’s good humor disappears, face smoothing out like a sculpture, carefully cast. “....That’s why you tried to leave?”
“Yeah. I was… jealous.” Of him having a dream, of the phantom equal, of… Charlotte, maybe. He had made the decision to ignore it, to find peace in his own route, retreat into this new found comfort, but it must be acknowledged first, at the very least.
Did you mean it— he wants to, can’t ask that. It doesn’t matter, Griffith has made his choice and proved himself, Guts just wants to… hear him say he changed his mind. Guts discarded the notion of a dream for his sake, and so he expects Griffith to discard his notion of friendship. Or just— anything, Guts will believe anything he says, he just has to say something—
Panic rises in him as Griffith’s silence continues— the ground is shaking, wind howling, sky grows impossibly darker. It’s only when he sees the surprise on Griffith’s face that he realizes that he’s not the only one feeling it.
Recognition is instant upon eye contact— it’s Zodd — appearing from the sky, but it feels like he’s erupted from the ground, from hell itself, for the entire forest shook as he landed, shuddered in dread.
Huge, towering, even more fearsome than the last time. Guts can’t help it, his knees go weak, his body freezes. As fearsome as the first time Guts had seen him, if not worse , for he wore a face of absolute anger, lips pulled back in a growl, wide enough to show all his teeth, sharp and huge. He could eat Guts whole if he tried. A single breath from him shook the nearby trees more than the wind could. His eyes beam red in the darkness, so bright that he swore there was a light glow of red on Griffith, when Guts’ eye darted to the side to check on him. Griffith grabs onto Guts’ arm, but doesn’t look at him. An overbearing hold that further anchors him in place, but it’s welcome, it keeps him upright.
“This is wrong. You have strayed from the predestined path.”
Guts and Griffith stand too close to each other, he can’t tell which of them Zodd is speaking to. He hasn’t forgotten Zodd’s words from last time (though he did try). That being by Griffith’s side would kill him. That he would be sacrificed.
“That doesn’t belong to you.” His huge hand approaches them, and that’s when Guts finally has the sense to move—
He pulls out his sword and tries to stand in front of Griffith, protect him, but he quickly realizes that Zodd is after him . He’s so large, so fast, that Guts has to throw his whole body to the side to save himself, and just barely makes it.
But Zodd follows him there, crushes him against the ground with that huge hand of his, the force knocking his sword out of his one handed grip. This fight is different from the last— only now does he realize that it didn’t reflect Zodd’s true strength, that he was playing with his food. Now he moves with intent , and the ease in which he overpowers Guts gives him the instant realization that he is overpowered.
His one eye connects with Griffith’s, who’s already racing towards them, caution damned. It makes Guts angry at himself for momentarily giving up, and then he too resists, biting and clawing. Zodd tightens his grip, nails piercing through his clothes, his skin, maybe even muscle— but he’s distracting him, that’s enough, so now Griffith can—
Zodd sees him though, fuck, huge eye swiveling towards his charging figure, which continues undeterred, and his sword— connects!
Into the flesh of Zodd’s arm, his bicep, intended to force him to release Guts, but it doesn’t work, he’s not sure if Zodd even feels pain from it at first, but sure enough, his fingers waver. The lack of resistance is odd, but there’s no time to wonder.
“The eclipse in inevitable. The behelit cannot be in your hands once it comes. You’re to be a sacrifice.”
Guts takes advantage of that small opening, kicking and throwing out a fist in order to break out of the vice. “Says who?”
“You cannot defy destiny. Only he can hatch the egg of the king.”
His breath comes out quick and fast, and it’s not just because of the strangulation. “It was given to me!”
Whether from Guts’ struggle, Zodd’s injury, or just a loss of interest, Guts is released— he rolls with the fall to minimize it, but it certainly isn’t kind to his fresh injuries.
Zodd now appears to be.. kneeling? One knee on the ground, and his head ducked down, directly before Griffith. “You. Do not lose sight of your destiny. That is the mark of the godhand. You must have it when the eclipse comes, in order to take what is rightfully yours.”
Griffith had been running towards Guts, but he halts at Zodd’s words, expression indiscernible.
He pulls back onto his haunches, and looks at Griffith, only at Griffith. “If you wish for your kingdom, you will take heed.” And he takes off, as suddenly as he had come, his appearance lasting all of five minutes.
And Griffith is still standing there, watching where he had been, though his eyes are sightless. The fact that he’s unscathed is miraculous, and yet Guts feel unsettled rather than relieved.
“...Griffith?”
He snaps out of his daze at once, and is by Guts’ side immediately, holds his upper half up so that he’s sitting up.
“He hurt you. I’m—….sorry.”
“Why.. are you sorry?”
Griffith shakes his head in place of an answer, covering Guts’ cuts with his hands, like they’d disappear if out of sight. “Unforgivable.”
The waver in his voice is also worrisome, and for a moment Guts wishes he was even more injured, enough to snatch Griffith’s attention away from Zodd’s words.
What is he thinking— does he want the behelit back, is he going to—
Indeed, Griffith’s hand leaves his side to reach at his chest, and so he jerks away haphazardly, single arm drawn in to fend him off. Griffith wears open hurt, and pulls back as well— but he reaches out again, more insistent now, and to Guts’ great relief, he’s simply examining a wound by his ribs (which are definitely broken).
“We.. need to get you medical attention.”
The feeling is reaching him now, the pain, dizziness, and he staggers forward against Griffith, unbalanced body tipping over at his heavier side, like his remaining arm also wishes to be taken by Griffith.
“Don’t fall asleep— wait, we’ll get back soon, just, walk with me—“ Has Guts sapped away his level headedness? Strategy and calmness was always guiding Griffith, no matter the circumstance, even in life-threatening situations, but it’s been lost since Guts has taken him; His arms shake against Guts, eyes wild, face pale. Guts drove him to this.
With some effort, he heaves away and upright, and immediately starts walking so as to not squander the limited time he has left conscious. Griffith quickly comes and assists him, franticness disordering his step.
It seems the initial threat of loss broke something in Griffith, opened a door neither of them knew existed. It’s a trap door, for you don’t willingly walk in, but rather fall; the drop disfigured both of them (visible only on Guts, but equally inflicted upon Griffith).
It can’t be closed now, it’s broken off its hinges, which is an apt metaphor for Griffith truly has become unhinged. And maybe Guts should feel guilty to hurt him, scare him like this, or disturbed at the sudden, almost, obsessive attachment he now has.
But no, he’s undeniably, singularly happy about it. Griffith will never allow him to be lost, and it makes him feel found. The behelit swings as he staggers through, as if it had heard what transpired, and was trying to break free, perhaps slip through one of the gaps in his armor. It’s a good thing Griffith tries to plug those holes.
He’s on the brink of passing out by the time they reach their base, almost completely drifted away, but Casca’s distressed cry pulls him out of it.
“What happened? What’s going on??”
Griffith’s already cutting Guts’ shirt open, now that he’s laid down and can finally rest— he pulls the material apart with just his hands, which still haven’t ceased shaking.
Casca hovers at his bedside, and even in Guts’ bloodloss-induced haze, he can tell how scared she is. “I’m getting… pretty used to laying around like this..”
That doesn’t ease her fretful eyes, which quickly fill with tears. He winces and looks at Griffith instead, whose back is turned as he ransacks the drawers for medication.
“Griffith…” She sounds so uncomfortable, unsure. “I can take care of him, you should also rest…”
“No.”
Griffith whips back around and holds a small bottle to Guts’ lips, carefully cupping the back of his head and guiding it upwards. Like this, Gut’s gets a full view of his own body, which is paling and decently torn up. The bleeding has somewhat clotted, but it’s already begun seeping through the messily wrapped bandages. Still, the red of the behelit was stark against them, open and out. There’s something vulnerable about having it visible; he feels a strong need to cover it, hide it, protect it. His gaze rises to meet Griffith’s, which is pushing right through his. Even after Guts swallows what he’s given and is laid back down, Griffith doesn’t look away. It’s reminiscent of the last time he was on this bed, so much so that his eye pains him more than his new wounds. He closes his remaining one.
“Then.. I’ll go… I’ll call in the medic.”
“No. I’ll handle this.”
Griffith’s overbearingness makes him feel safe, and within minutes he passes out.
And so, when he later wakes, the first thing he feels is panic when he realizes that Griffith has left. He sits up, or he tries; his body struggles to listen to him, heavy and hurt.
Small hands immediately push his chest back down and his weak body can only comply. Oh, Casca— he saw her but instantly forgot, she wasn’t the one he wanted at his bedside.
“Guts! Lay down, you shouldn’t move yet—“
“Where’s Griffith?”
Casca’s face of worry quickly deteriorates into one of anger. “You two don’t always have to be together.” She pulls her hands back like he had burnt her. “This is the first time I’ve spoken to you alone in weeks.”
She’s left his mind, everyone has— it was full of Griffith Griffith Griffith. For all the years they’ve known each other and all the time spent, it was never enough. Even now, as they spend every day, all their time together, Guts still doesn’t feel quite satisfied.
“I, I felt like I was finally getting to know you— to understand you! I even almost li—“ She shook her head to throw the thought out. “What’s going on with you and Griffith?”
Guts grits his teeth in frustration; he doesn’t want to explain himself to her— not to Casca, who felt the same way as Guts had, resigned to their cast. Guts has broken out of it though, tore his way through, and now with only one arm, he can’t pull her up with him.
“I… wanted you to stay but… not like this…” Her face is wet with tears, and it’s odd to see her like this, so openly and freely vulnerable. “You were so set on going… what happened? If you really want to leave, then I could even help you—“
“I don’t want to leave.”
She swings a fist at him, and he allows it, but rather than a blow, she collapses against his chest. He can’t bring himself to help hold her up. “What happened to having your own dream??”
He had given up on it, forgotten it, in favor of what’s comfortable. What can he say? He’s not so noble, so independent to go after what is right with such conviction. If that were his nature, he never would have joined the band of the hawk to begin with.
This was the reason he never sought Casca. The judgement, the disappointment, it wore on him heavily, forever picking at wounds first wrought in childhood. There was little room, justification for complaint though, not when he had believed that judgement.
Only Griffith who never insulted him, who welcomed and used all of Guts’ qualities, who needed and liked them. Of all the orders he’s received from Griffith, changing himself was never one of them. Yes, only Griffith who appreciates him, who acknowledges him.
It’s not enough to wear the name dream, but it’s been what he always wanted. It’s what he sought from his phantom parents, from Gambino, from just— anyone willing to look. And Griffith had seen him that day, the very day they met, and found him worthy. Important, immeasurably so.
That desire grows stronger and stronger as Griffith feeds it, quickly growing into a need, where any absence is deeply noted. Want is the beginning of a tumor, the first mutated cell, initially undetected, but killable if found. Need is the last stage of a cancer, completely overtaking its host, spreading until it’s indistinguishable, indivisible from its receptacle.
He swallows. “We’re friends. That’s… enough for me.”
She bangs against his chest. “He believed what he said that night.” Her voice shakes. “I know him, I know when he’s being honest. You’re still not equal to him.”
“Well, he was wrong!” And now he’s raising his voice, even though he told himself he wouldn’t do that anymore, that he’s changed, no longer brash mean selfish. It’s just like with Zodd, vehemently denying the facts, the truth— but Griffith’s word is truth, and so Guts won’t believe any other voice besides his.
“I changed his mind.” Quieter now, but his voice is still rough, like the words were being pushed out of him.
“Guts.. look what he did to you…”
Whatever pain his injuries inflicted on him, the behelit soothed. “You wouldn’t understand. I changed. I’m not like you anymore.”
He clutches it, despite how it seems to scorch his hand, like a flaming piece of coal, glowing red as it burns. Zodd’s words were lost on him, and there’s no way to know if it was even true— but he wonders, can they avoid their supposed fate if he keeps the behelit?
King, he’d said king— this doesn’t represent Griffith’s dream, it literally holds it. If so, Guts should return it… it means everything to Griffith.
But he doesn’t want to… not yet. Isn’t that equally as cruel as what’s been done to Guts? Then, isn’t that fair?
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
It’s that Guts is no Icarus, that the sun moved to him, outstretched its rays for him to grasp. So what if he couldn’t reach there on his own, who cares whether he crafted wings or brought the sky down— he also doesn’t care what it takes to get what he wants.
He wears his burns with pride, for he’s the only one that touched that fire, cupped his hands over it, smothered it— he welcomes its spread up his arms, for then he is also part of it .
He sits up again, shaking off her touch. “Where’s Griffith? Why did he leave?”
Her smile’s bitter, eyes still wet. “Charlotte went missing last night. The king summoned him.”