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Guts let's his good eye sweep over the forest clearing, over the bright firelight that illuminated Schierke and Isidro's sleeping faces. Their temples pressed together, Schierke's knees drawn up to her chest, and her staff tucked against her shoulder.
Their lips are slightly parted, soft, sleeping breathes a dull noise beneath the cracking of the fire. His gaze lingers on their faces. He often wondered, in the dull moments between all the fighting, what kind of adults those children would grow up to be.
The thought made something in Guts twist low in his belly. He presses a hand against his stomach. The knock of a shoulder against his causes Guts’ gaze to swing to Casca.
Her hair is still long, but has been pulled back away from her face and tied into a ponytail with a ribbon.
Her eyes are soft, warm, and searching as they stare at his face. Her voice is a whisper when she asks him, “Are you thinking about the baby?”
Ah. The numb void in him clenches. His fingers curl, digging into the fabric of his shirt, pressing hard into the soft flesh of his belly that had once housed life. Something that had been part of him. Something that had been part of Griffith, too.
“No,” he says. “I'm not.”
The loud braying of a horse in the distance causes the quiet peace of the camp to be broken.
Casca whispers to Serpico to douse the fire. The light of the fire disappears. The stars above become their only source of light. Isidro and Schierke press themselves against the forest floor, the underbrush housing their small forms. Faroese and Serpico hide behind the thick trunk of a tree.
Casca's hand grips her sword tightly as she hides behind the trunk of a tree to Guts’ right. His left side is pressed against the rough bark of another tree, the giant chunk of metal he calls his sword, drawn in tight to him.
He peers around the tree, observing in the distance, illuminated by the stars and bobbing wisps of light, horses and knights clad in armor.
His lips press tightly together when the banners spawn into vision. White hawks burned against a pale blue flag. His muscles stiffen, he whips his head around, and signals for the group to keep silent.
Turning his head, Guts’ eye finds a pair of blue ones staring at him from a distance. Hair as pale as the moonlight gently sways in the breeze. Griffith raises a single hand, his mouth curving into a gentle smile as Guts’ spine stiffens.
His heart claws up to his throat, his pulse loud in his ear as Griffith’s army pauses in its march.
The young medium in Griffith’s army pauses, her eyes sweeping over the dark forest. Her voice is too soft and far away for Guts to make out what she asks Griffith, but his voice rings out loud and clear as if Guts were standing beside him.
“It’s nothing,” Guts can hear him say.
And a moment later, the army starts to march again. When they have disappeared completely, Casca pokes her head from around the trunk of the tree, her eyes landing on Guts.
His back is pressed against the dark trunk, the shadows of the forest hiding the beads of sweat that dot his face, but not the way his form is doubled over, the tips of his fingers digging into his belly, nor the curl of his lip, or the slight tremble of his shoulders.
The trembling grows worse when Caseca’s soft footsteps walk toward him, one of her hands pressing against the back of his head, her other pressing in between his shoulder blades. She drags his head close to her chest, his hearing filling with the sound of her heartbeat, and he allows himself to tremble in her embrace and swallow down the longing ache that Griffith’s gaze had left behind.