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"Do you know anything about constellations?"
Griffith asks this one night as he's lying on his back, atop a hill, sprawled in a most uncommanderly manner. The night is cool, but not cold - the dredges of autumn fading away, shuffling in the chill breeze of winter, and above their heads the trees are crisp and red and gold and brown and almost, but not quite, bare.
Guts, for his part, sits upright - his sword's blade anchored against the hardening ground, one arm draped over its blade (gently, of course, so his leather armor absorbs what little edge it has), another hand gripping its hilt. Call it a comfortable position if you like. For him, it's comfortable enough, anyway, and it's ready, which is even more important. This is about as unguarded as Guts gets. And even though they're still close to the relative safety of the city, even though it's quiet tonight, he figures it's as unguarded as he'll ever be. Or allow himself to be.
Besides, quiet is relative. There could always be something dangerous hidden inside the gently rustling branches that make up the forest at their backs. There could always be footsteps beneath the soft breath of the wind, or the far away cry of night birds.
...actually, that would be pretty welcome. Overall, it's been pretty boring, as far as nights go. Griffith would call it lovely and calming instead. He's always saying shit like that.
And speaking of shit Griffith says.
"Can't say I do." Guts shifts slightly in place, adjusting his arm position on the blade. "But you know, I bet you do." He grins now, just a little bit along the edges of his mouth. "Been reading up again?"
"Well, maybe." Which means yes. Griffith only ever comes in two varieties: noncommittal and extremely intense. Thing is, they're both pretty much the same variety. Griffith never does anything halfway. Even when he kind of pretends to.
Guts jerks his head to the side a bit, stretching his muscles. Sitting around's a good way to get cramped up. And from here, he can see the city lights stretched out below, and if he looks up, he can see the sky, too - blotted out here and there by the occasional silhouette of the occasional branch, but still there, and still wide as all of infinity. It's when he's looking up that he notices Griffith is, too, and Griffith is pointing on top of that. It's backwards, but that just makes Guts look down - at Griffith. At his face. At how the night makes him even paler and bleaches all the roses from his cheeks and the red from his mouth. How in that moonlight, his hair is all liquid, like the fountain outside Promrose Hall that night - shimmery and moonlit.
Guts clicks his tongue, imagining that pale-hair curling into Griffith's face as he bends his head over a book. Or three. Or three thousand. Each one carrying a different subject - another miscellaneous set of facts and skills that Griffith has no practical need to know. It's weird - it's always been weird. But that's just the way he is, really - always striving for more. Climbing higher. Like his gaze, always headed skyward.
Heh. That's all pretty depressing. So, when Griffith shakes his hand a little, Guts lets the movement drag his gaze up, following the point of his finger to... whatever.
"All right, what am I looking at?"
"That one there is the princess." Griffith sits upright, and his eyes are sparkling. "And there is the hydra. Look. Do you see how it nips at her slippers?"
Not really. In fact, Guts isn't even looking - not at the sky. Instead, he's watching that face again, now calm and aloof and then animated, excited. Like a child clutching its newest toy. And Guts just kind of smirks, watching him, glancing at the sky now, and then back at his commander. His... friend. Even if it isn't exactly mutual, not yet. And, okay, he'd think about that more - he'd lose his train of thought and look away from Griffith and look past him instead, and ponder dreams, and the absence of his flame in the campgrounds at night. He would think about all that, except Griffith says, "That one is a hawk."
Turns out, that's a pretty good way to catch someone's attention. Guts raises his head, squinting. Trying to see what Griffith sees, or what the ancients saw when they decided it was a good use of time to play connect the dots in the sky. He tries, but when he looks up, all he sees is stars.
"Well, some call it a falcon," Griffith says, and gives a light chuckle. "It's one of the first constellations I learned about when I was a boy." Wistful. His voice softens, and his gaze does, too. "It seems like a much longer time ago than it was, really. That... always seems to be the way. But in any case, I was interested, then. I don't know why. Maybe I'm just drawn to birds."
If he is, it's probably a mutual arrangement. Guts can remember clearly the first time they met - the sky was full of wings then, just as it was the day Griffith stood before the sun and told him, I will decide the place where you die. Funny how something like that can sound nostalgic at a time like this. It probably doesn't help that the night cries have grown louder - that there are wings silhouetted against the moon.
Guts nods in that direction, and smirks. "Guess they're drawn to you, too."
And Griffith chuckles, and says, "That was probably a bat."
...the night is quiet, again. Rustle and whisper. Guts lets his sword rest over his knees, and his fingers drag through the sparse and drying grass. Around them, insects make their little noses - at least he's pretty sure they're insects. Whatever the hell makes noise in the middle of the night. And he can remember when those sounds were his constant companions - the only thing he listened to on nights between assignments, when he left one army behind and went in search of another bloody field to die in. Was it three years ago? Four? That's just another thing Griffith is right about - time always seems longer than it is. And he remembers something else, too: the howling of wolves far in the distance. Their snarls as they came closer. He remembers the full moon, and the blood soaked ground, and the deadening quiet.
And then Griffith clears his throat and says, "I wasn't born this way, Guts." His voice is gentle enough that Guts finds himself straining to hear. Even so, it's better than the quiet. "In fact, I wasn't even born the way I was on the day we met. When I was a child, I had very little. I didn't go to school. I didn't know how to read. Some time later, I begin to learn... through the gracious charity of others."
Guts glances at Griffith, whose head is slightly down, hands palm up on his knees.
"In this case," Griffith says, "...it was a book shop owner. He lived just outside the district where I grew up, and I would go to him afternoons, and he would teach me." How strange, picturing Griffith as a child, Griffith in rags, hugging his knees, looking over words, trying to make sense of them. Struggling? No, probably not. It probably came easily to Griffith, like everything else. That's how things always seem to go.
Griffith leans forward and plucks a blade of grass. "Back then, I came across a picture in a book - an image of a hawk made of golden light. It seemed to be rising from the darkness. I liked the image. You might say it was inspirational - if I thought of the darkness below that bird as my own beginnings, life in those crowded streets full of poverty and pawnshops... I could almost imagine myself rising out of those things and into a more promising, brighter future." Pluck. His fingers come away with several blades. "That was before I'd quite settled on what it was that I wanted. And perhaps it was hubristic of me... but years later, when I decided on a standard, I thought of that image. The light of hope against the darkness."
Guts raises his head. "The White Hawk," he says, imagining Griffith's standard. That pale imposed upon a deep blue background. The source of his name. Guts furrows his brow slightly, still silent, but he's thinking about Griffith with his ink-smudged hands. Little Griffith with papercuts on his fingertips. "Looks like everyone's got an origin story."
And even without comment from either of them, Guts can see the pride gleaming in Griffith's eyes. Who wouldn't be proud after everything he's done?
The look only lasts for a moment, though.
"I guess everyone does," Griffith says, and he shrugs. His hands are relatively clean, considering they were resting palms down on the ground not so long ago, and when he moves, moonlight dances on those medals he has pinned on his open jacket. These days, every time Guts sees him, there's another honor attached to his chest. He's starting to look like a trophy case. It's weird, but the medals are a lot easier to look at than his behelit, which currently rests above his shirt, lying at the center of his chest.
Griffith's fingers idly run around the edge of a medal as though on cue. "I never did find that book again. But... I have encountered quite a bit of that kind of thing in other places. More recently, I spent a bit of time looking at the doctrine of the Holy See. There is a prophecy buried in some of their more obscure texts regarding a hawk, you know. This time... the bird is painted in a slightly less flattering light."
And maybe it's because of the way he looks down, covers his face with a veil of white-silver hair, that Guts feels the need to stop him from saying... whatever it is he's about to say. Maybe it's just because prophecies are boring, or because whenever he hears one, he can't help but think of that day, and those wings. The intense feeling of dread, and death he could not escape. Or maybe it's because it's always sort of disquieting when Griffith looks downbeat.
Whatever the reason, Guts grabs a handful of dirt and grass, and tosses it across the space between them. It scatters across Griffith's purple vest, and his white pants; suddenly there's grass in his hair, and dirt on his face. And Griffith blinks twice, quickly, before he looks up and says, "Eh?"
Guts gives his best sort of rolling-eyed grin, and waves the hand that once rested on his sword's hilt. "What are you doing, talking about prophecies? Who cares about destiny and all that?" He follows this up with best sort of roll-eyed grin, and waves the hand that once rested across that blade, now smeared with dirt. "I don't believe in any of that shit and neither should you. Look at everything you've done. Starting from where you did, that's proof enough that we make our own fate."
Griffith looks at him. And right now, at this moment, he doesn't look in the least bit like the commander of thousands - the most decorated military general in Midland. He doesn't even look like the leader of a mercenary group. Blinking, eyes wide, he looks like nothing more than a boy. And Guts can picture him sitting on his throne, crown on his head, regal and beautiful and laughing like a child. ...that may well be something about him that will never change.
Griffith's fingers close around the behelit - yet another thing that probably won't change - and he says, "That's an admirable way of looking at things. I agree."
But that red egg's eyes are open, and they're looking at Guts from between Griffith's fingers. It reminds Guts of a blood-drenched fortress, and the echoing words of a demon from hell. It reminds him of that monster's widened eyes. Guts definitely believes in creating one's own destiny, but that kind of thing... it can really make you wonder.
He sighs. Well. It probably doesn't matter.
The night air is cooler, now... or maybe it's just an illusion of the breeze. Guts finally looks away from the ice blue eyes of that... whatever it is. That egg thing. And Griffith is... watching him again. With that strange look he gets sometimes - enigmatic, and difficult to understand. For a moment - not for the first time - Guts considers asking what it means.
But Griffith stands, and he brushes the dirt and grass from his shirt, and shakes it from his hair. And when he looks back, it's just the same, cool face he always has, so the look probably doesn't matter either.
"Well, " Griffith nods his head vaguely in the direction of the city, laid out before them, all pale lamplights burning, all tiny little firelights in the windows. "I should get back. We should both rest up for tomorrow... and it seems I need to wake up in time to take a bath."
Guts takes a moment to sit, watching Griffith with the moon at his back, metaphorical hand extended. And it's true - Guts, too, needs rest. The next day would be celebrations, and socializing. The next day would be - god forbid - interacting with the damn nobility, too. The very sort of thing Griffith excels at. Also the kind of thing that makes Guts want to hide in the forest forever, swinging his sword at nothing. Which means...
"Eh," he says with a shake of his head, a wrinkle of his nose. "I'll hang around here. Least for now. "
Griffith pauses for a moment, and then inclines his head slightly in acknowledgment. "That's fine then." And if there's a slight shift in Griffith's face, Guts doesn't know how to read it, exactly. Anyway, it's gone a moment later, just before Griffith turns away. "I'll see you in the morning, Guts."
The wind carries Griffith's hair around his shoulders, and rustles even his heavy jacket. Guts watches his back until he's vanished beneath the hill. Even then, he doesn't look away.
There's nothing to do now but think, and wait.
...it won't be long now. Only a few weeks to get things settled... to make sure all his various ends are tied. And it'll probably be a time like this: a dark evening, moonlit, quiet. By then, it might even be snowing. He'll pack his things, the few he needs. And he won't bring anything that Griffith gave him. No helmet, and no armor. Only the sword on his back and the clothes to keep out the cold. A few days rations, a water jug. No crutches. Nothing he didn't earn. That's the best way to start a quest, really - the first thing you do is make sure that any wins are yours, and any losses are, too.
He'll let his absence explain his decision. No sorrowful goodbyes, no hugs, no justifications. And he'll walk past this spot on the way to... somewhere. Who knows where. Someplace out there in the world, where he can find a dream for himself.
And one day, he'll march back into Midland with (what? an army at his back? a list of accomplishments as long as Griffith's? What will it take? What will he need to do to stop looking upward all the time? to--) ...it doesn't matter. He'll come back, proud of himself. And Griffith will be proud of him, too.
In the end, that's the only way, isn't it?
Eh. Necessities. They always feel pretty shitty.
Guts rubs his face, and pulls himself to his feet, and the trees rustle above him. When he closes his eyes, he can hear the night-sounds, the forest, the insects. The wind. And when he opens his eyes, he can see that same bird silhouetted against the moon again, circling overhead.
And now that he's standing, looking down... he can just make out that pale back in the distance, moving toward the city lights.