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“There are lots of rumours about artists who either sold their souls to The Devil, or offered a human sacrifice to Him, in order to become famous, gain money, lovers… It’s common in that industry, you could say,” Griffith illustrates, matter-of-factly. And it’s the carelessness, of the easy way his statement unfolds, without any tension across his body, nor worry in his eyes— that crawls under Guts’ skin. Rushing his pulse with each pause and silence.
Then, the corner of Griffith’s lips lifts, discreet enough to miss.
It’s the most expression Guts has got out of him in ages.
“So, they tried to use me as a sacrificial offering. It seems to have worked out more or less, since they got what they wanted, but I’m still here.”
And just as quietly, as softly as Griffith’s voice, the words strike Guts’ skull, splitting it in two.
“What?”