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Resentment was the word that was plastered against his skin. It was etched into the creases of his new skin like ink upon parchment, woven into the keratin sheath of his body, coursing through his veins like sap.
Resentment.
There weren't any feelings from his old life before the encounter with him. His memories were a clear pond in his mind, feelings rippling across the surface but never daring to lap onto the edges of his psyche. Surface tension kept it from flooding into the rest of his mind, and for a moment he had wondered if his presence would break it.
Guts was always the only one who could.
And yet, he hadn’t.
In Femto’s hellish dimension, he hadn’t. His face matched those of his memories. A missing eye, a missing arm, a larger sword, but it was Guts. He had felt nothing. The way that his words flowed from his lips, the way it enraged him- it was amusing, like watching a worm struggle atop sunbaked cobblestone.
It was only after he had departed in that storm of anger and fury that Femto had felt it. It didn’t break that pond, which made him think that this was some newfound sensation- some curse alongside his inhumanity.
Resentment.
How dare he scream his name, the mere human’s name that Femto had once been? How dare his voice ache with fury, and pain, worn raw with grief for somebody that no longer existed?
And how dare his spirit prosper? The other members of the Godhand had remarked upon it, this raw force of his will that had so remained ignited. Blood gushed from his brand, and yet he staggered to Femto, wielding that sword of his and hoping to strike where he had once struck, that niche between shoulder and neck that had never stopped aching as a human, that he had still subconsciously rolled and stretched as an inhuman-
Was this resentment some sort of grief for his old life? In his old life he would have stood next to Guts, the kings above at the top of the staircase.
Even a king cannot live exactly as he pleases.
Femto imagined Guts bludgeoning that child with his torn hand, blood soaked into tile. He imagined him grasping the beherit. It would scream like his had, though Guts’ beherit would have big brown eyes and the agonizing expression would be the same as it had been when Casca had been under his condtrol.
Kings , together, lavish in power and wealth. Blood-soaked talons would grip his fingers, and he would grip right back. It would be just like it had always been. They would be alongside one another.
Femto wished Guts had died with the rest of them.
These were pesky thoughts, insignificant, and not worth his time.