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The members of the Band of the Hawk were camped near the river, the flames of the fires dancing in the darkness of the night. Guts, sitting a little apart from everyone, couldn’t focus on anything.Not on the others’ chatter, not on the sound of the water flowing slowly, nor on the laughter echoing in the distance.
It had been a long day of training, but the physical exhaustion couldn’t quell the storm boiling inside him. There was a thought, an image, that kept haunting him, like a parasite that wouldn’t stop making itself felt.
Griffith.
It was his presence. That way of being. That unsettling calm that never wavered. No matter how much Guts tried to ignore it, he couldn’t help but feel it. Even when he wasn’t speaking, when he wasn’t commanding, when he wasn’t imposing his will, Griffith was there. He was like a shadow cast over everything, and Guts couldn’t escape it.
As he stared at the tranquil waters, his thoughts drifted back to the last time he had seen Griffith. He had watched him as he spoke with Princess Charlotte, as if the entire world had vanished around him. It had been an innocent encounter, perhaps, but there was something in Griffith’s eyes that had made Guts shudder. Not the usual indifferent gaze he had come to recognize over the years. No. There was something different, something that had struck him unexpectedly.
Griffith had never looked at anyone with such sweetness, such lightness that it seemed almost…human. And that drove Guts mad.
“So fascinated by Griffith, are you?” Casca’s voice—the woman who couldn’t keep her eyes off him—interrupted his thoughts. She had noticed Guts had been staring far too long at the spot where Griffith and the princess had been that afternoon, clutching his sword with a tense fist, his brows furrowed.
Guts initially didn’t respond but slowly turned to her, noticing the strange light in Casca’s eyes, as if she were reading every one of his thoughts.
“It’s not what you think,” Guts said, trying to maintain a detached tone. “It just bothers me.”
Casca studied him for a moment. “Exactly,” she whispered as if sharing a secret, “that’s precisely what draws you to him, isn’t it?”
Guts didn’t answer, merely casting a severe glance at her, but something within him shifted. It wasn’t just envy. Not just the resentment he had always harbored toward Griffith, the leader of the Band of the Hawk.
There was something subtler, something more insidious. And Guts hated it because he couldn’t admit it to himself. He couldn’t understand what it was.
——
Later that evening, the fire slowly died down, and the men retreated to their tents. But Guts couldn’t sleep.
He rose, walking stealthily into the darkness of the night, away from everything.
He found himself near the river, where the water murmured, creating a sound akin to a gentle melody. He paused for a moment to look at it, as if it were the only thing capable of calming his mind. But the thought of Griffith returned—violent, uncontrollable.
Then, a voice interrupted him.
“I didn’t think you’d wander so far from everyone, Guts.”
Griffith.
His pale figure emerged from the shadows, like an apparition, a ghost more real than it should have been. It wasn’t his mind imagining him—Guts couldn’t help but stare for a moment. Griffith approached slowly, unhurried, but his steps were deliberate, as though he were the sole master of that night. His eyes shone with an intense light, his smile sharp as an invisible blade.
“This isn’t the usual Guts we know,” Griffith said, his voice calm and controlled, yet with a hint of curiosity that bordered on a challenge. “What are you thinking about?”
“It’s none of your business,” Guts replied, though his voice was lower than he intended. Anger was rising, but there was also something else—an overwhelming sense of helplessness he couldn’t manage.
Griffith stopped a few steps away, his gaze steady.
“You know I could simply take it, don’t you?” His words hung in the air like a silent command.
“Take what?” Guts snapped, though his heart was beating faster.
“Your heart,” Griffith answered with an enigmatic smile, “or maybe it’s something more complicated, Guts.”
Guts felt the tension rise. It wasn’t just his body reacting to Griffith’s proximity. His mind was in turmoil. What was Griffith trying to do? Why did this oppressive sensation overwhelm him whenever their gazes crossed? Why couldn’t he shake off this thought?
“I don’t care what you think of me,” Guts said, trying to break free from the invisible hold Griffith seemed to have over him. But there was a tremor in his voice that betrayed his inner state.
“It’s not a coincidence, Guts,” Griffith replied, his tone for a moment sounding softer, almost understanding. “We’re more alike than you want to admit.
We both need someone to destroy, someone to blame, someone to fight. Until it becomes someone we can't do without.’’
The wind rose, rustling the leaves of the trees around them.
For a moment, Guts found himself staring into Griffith’s eyes, which seemed to glow in the night.
“Are we really so alike?” Guts whispered, as if seeking an answer, as if it was something he was trying to understand but couldn’t grasp.
“More than you think,” Griffith replied as his figure faded into the darkness, leaving behind a silence heavy as a verdict.
——
The night seemed endless. The silence was heavy, broken only by the sound of trees creaking under the wind.
Guts remained motionless, his eyes fixed on the spot where Griffith had disappeared. Despite his outward certainty, his heart beat erratically.
He couldn’t understand how or why, but he knew something was changing within him.
He couldn’t look away from the places where Griffith had stood. The words he had spoken continued to echo in his mind, forcing him to question himself, what he was becoming, and what Griffith had been trying to tell him.
‘’We both need someone to destroy, someone to blame, someone to fight. Until it becomes someone we can't do without.’’
Those words, light as a whisper, struck Guts more deeply than he wanted to admit.
It wasn’t just about battles or survival. It wasn’t just his anger toward Griffith or his constant desire to surpass him. There was something darker, something deeper that bound them together. It was like a hall of mirrors, where they both saw parts of themselves reflected in the other without wanting to accept them.
“What the hell does it mean?” Guts murmured to himself, striking the trunk of a tree with his fist.
Frustration mingled with a growing unease. What had Griffith meant with that sentence? He, who had always lived for combat, for revenge, for his own pride, couldn’t find an answer.
Yet that phrase haunted him. Something in that declaration, in its unsettling truth, threw him into turmoil.
On his way back, a noise behind him startled him, pulling him out of his thoughts. He spun around abruptly, grabbing his sword, ready to face any threat.
“Relax, Guts.”
Griffith’s voice. That aristocratic accent, that impassive tone that left no room for doubt. He hadn’t returned to the camp—something had held him back even longer. Griffith stepped in front of him, his subtle smile never devoid of that air of superiority that always accompanied him.
“We’re alone,” Griffith continued, his figure seeming to shimmer under the faint starlight. “And yet, I can’t ignore the fact that we’re destined to remain close, despite our desires.
Both of us know that our bond is something we can’t break. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Guts, who had lowered his sword for a moment, now felt his heart pounding harder.
A sense of helplessness washed over him.
“I don’t care about your philosophy, Griffith,” he replied brusquely.
“I’m not like you. I’m not like them. I’m not someone who’s content to be worshipped.”
Griffith didn’t react, but his gaze grew more intense.
“I’m not asking you to be like me, Guts. I’m asking you to be yourself. But you can’t help seeking me, thinking of me, can you? In a way, we can’t do without each other.”
The remark, calculated as it seemed, pierced Guts’s heart like a knife. He felt exposed before him, powerless, as though everything he’d been trying to hide—every feeling he had never wanted to face—was brought to light in an instant.
“It’s not that simple,” Guts said, trying to mask the agitation creeping into his voice. “I don’t want this bond, Griffith. I don’t want to depend on anyone.”
Griffith smiled faintly, as though he knew something Guts didn’t.
“Words are nothing but a surface, Guts. You speak of independence, of freedom. But the truth is, deep down, you know you can’t live without me.”
A profound silence fell between them, as though the very air was waiting for an answer Guts couldn’t give. Griffith’s words lingered in the darkness, whispered like an uncomfortable truth, and Guts couldn’t dismiss them. There was no escape, no place to hide.
“That’s not true,” he finally said, but his voice was weaker than he had intended.
A sudden wave of loneliness swept over him. He felt anger welling up inside him but couldn’t express it.
What Griffith was saying—that this wasn’t just a game of power, but a far more complex connection—made him feel vulnerable.
Griffith didn’t respond, but his presence—that glacial calm—seemed to fill the entire space around them.
Again, there was no escape. There was no way to deny that their bond, despite being filled with rivalry and contempt, was also necessary. Like a fate they couldn’t avoid.
“Are you sure you want to keep ignoring it?” Griffith asked, his voice calm, as if he knew Guts was wrestling with himself.
“I’m not like them. I’m not like the world that made you suffer. But the way I see things has never been simple. And you know it, Guts. You know it better than anyone else.”
The moon, high in the sky, briefly illuminated their faces among the shadows of the trees.For an instant, Guts stopped to look at him. That sensation, that emptiness within him, seemed somehow filled by Griffith, even though he didn’t want it to be. Yet, he couldn’t deny it. That bond, that dependence he couldn’t shake, was becoming a part of him. A bond he knew would always be with him, even when he wasn’t looking for it.
“I don’t want this,” he said again, but this time the words lacked the strength they should have carried.
They were no longer a denial but a challenge—a desperate attempt to resist something he couldn’t comprehend.
Griffith stepped even closer, too close, and Guts felt his warm breath on his skin. His figure seemed to grow larger, more inevitable. “You know you won’t be able to do without me in the end,” Griffith murmured, almost like a promise, but with a strange melancholy that briefly flickered in his gaze.
Guts was about to reply, but stopped himself. There was nothing left to say. Both of them knew that the true battle wasn’t fought with words, but with something far deeper, something that bound them, something that made them more alike than they would ever admit.
In the next moment, another step, and Guts’s lips met Griffith’s.
And just like Guts’s thoughts, everything around them seemed to disappear, swept away by the gravity of that gesture. They would inevitably wound each other—far more gravely and deeply than any battlefield injury.
Pain doesn’t necessarily mean blood.
It’s how life whispers its essence.
It’s like a cold wind blowing fiercely, stripping the trees of their leaves, leaving them bare, heralding the arrival of a freezing winter.