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War had its own scent: mud, iron, sweat, old blood dried upon armor and fresh blood still warm beneath boots. Guts carried it on him like a second skin as he made his way toward Griffith’s private tent.
It was late. For once, the Band of the Hawk’s camp had fallen silent. The celebrations following their victory had burned themselves out in wine and song until only a distant murmur remained. All that was left was the night wind rattling the canvas tents and the heavy sound of Guts’ footsteps.
The guard who always stood outside the Commander’s tent opened the entrance for him without a word. One glance from Guts was enough for the man to understand that he should move farther away and grant them some privacy. When the Band’s Captain was there, there was no protection more trustworthy for the Commander.
Griffith himself knew that. Not because Guts was his finest soldier, simply because he was Guts.
He had been waiting for him, as he always did after a battle. Guts was the only person Griffith could speak to without careful phrasing or endless formalities. Talking to him was easy. Being near him was easy. Spending time with him felt like a small indulgence Griffith allowed himself.
Guts stepped inside and stopped. The tent was bathed in dim light. Upon the large wooden table, where maps and battle plans had once been spread, several candles flickered softly, painting golden shadows across the canvas walls. The air smelled of wax, herbs, and something sweet that Guts could not immediately identify.
Griffith sat at the table. He had already removed his armor and washed away every trace of battle from his skin. He wore a simple white robe, elegant despite its simplicity. It was absurd how refined he could appear without making any effort. His silver hair fell over his shoulders like moonlit water, still slightly damp. For a moment, Guts had the strange impression that he was still standing on the battlefield, not because there was anything violent within the tent, but because looking at Griffith evoked the same feeling as standing before something far too vast to comprehend.
«You’re late.» Griffith said.
And yet, despite the seriousness of his tone, he was smiling.
«I was cleaning my sword.» Only then did Guts notice what occupied the center of the table: It was a fruit, split perfectly in half. The seeds inside gleamed beneath the candlelight like hundreds of tiny rubies. Or eyes. Or droplets of freshly spilled blood.
For some reason, he could not look away. «What is that?» He asked.
«A gift.» Griffith brushed the fruit with the tips of his fingers. «A nobleman from the south claims they grow beyond the sea. They’re apparently quite valuable. They’re called pomegranates.»
«It looks alive.» Guts leaned closer. «It looks like an organ.»
A soft laugh rippled through the silence. «That is a very you description.» Griffith tilted his head slightly. «Does it remind you of one in particular?»
Guts shrugged. «A heart.»
The answer was simple. Yet something about it struck Griffith. «And perhaps that’s exactly what it represents best…»
He plucked a seed from the fruit and held it up to the light. It was astonishingly red.
«Do you know the myth of Proserpina?»
«No.» Guts sat beside him. As he did, he caught the scent of Griffith’s damp hair and once again noticed the stark contrast between the fruit’s crimson flesh and Griffith’s pale skin.
«I thought not.» His voice shifted subtly, taking on the distant tone it always carried when he spoke of books or ancient legends.
«Would you like me to tell it to you?»
Guts simply nodded, already absorbed. In truth, he enjoyed listening when Griffith spoke about things he didn’t understand. It was the way he told stories. The calm cadence of his voice. The way he seemed to look at the world. It never failed to leave him fascinated.
«Proserpina was the beautiful daughter of Ceres, goddess of agriculture and fertility. One day, while gathering flowers beside a lake, she was noticed by Pluto, king of the Underworld, who abducted her and carried her away to his realm to make her his queen.»
Griffith’s gaze drifted toward the candlelight. «She was a pure maiden, destined to make the fields bloom. You see, Guts, she lived in a world of eternal spring. She was loved, protected. But untouched purity is like a painting: beautiful, yet without true direction.» His fingers brushed the surface of the pomegranate. «And fate does not tolerate stillness.»
Guts listened in silence.
«The King of the Underworld did not act out of mere cruelty. He saw in her the key to completing his kingdom. It was not simple desire that moved him, Guts. It was the nature of his realm itself.»
A faint smile touched Griffith’s lips. «Darkness will always long for light in order to become whole.»
The candle flames trembled.
«So the earth split open, and he took her down into the place where the sun never shines.»
His voice softened. «Her mother, consumed by grief and fury, threatened to abandon her divine duties. Crops withered. Famine spread across the world. She demanded her daughter’s return.» He turned another seed between his fingers. «The gods, fearing the death of mankind, negotiated an agreement.» His smile deepened slightly. «Unaware that the King of the Underworld already had a plan.»
Guts found himself hanging on every word. He never wondered how Griffith knew such things, he only wanted to hear the rest. Apparently Griffith could read that plainly on his face, because he smiled. «You want to know what he did, don’t you, Guts?»
Guts nodded.
«The living who eat the food of the dead can never return to the world above.» Griffith lifted the pomegranate. The ruby seeds shimmered as it moved. «To consume even the smallest portion is to belong to Hades.»
Guts’ eyes followed the fruit.
«Proserpina knew this. That is why she refused to eat…Until she was offered a pomegranate.» He held up a single seed. «Only a few of these were enough to bind her to that kingdom forever.» The seed glowed red between his pale fingers. «And so she became bound to its ruler. Yet a compromise was reached.» His gaze settled on Guts.«Because she had eaten only six seeds, Persephone was permitted to spend six months upon the earth and six months in the Underworld with Pluto.»
The wind brushed against the tent walls.
«During the months she remained below, from autumn until the end of winter, the earth grew cold, and the fields yielded no harvest. It reflected Ceres’ grief.» His voice became softer still. «But when spring returned, Persephone was free to come home.» For a moment, Griffith seemed far away. «And Ceres, overjoyed by her daughter’s return, brought life back to the world once more. The earth became fertile again.»
Guts frowned. «All that because of a fruit?»
«Because of a choice.» Griffith corrected gently.
Guts folded his arms. «Sounds like a stupid choice to me.»
A glimmer flashed in Griffith’s eyes. «Perhaps.» The candlelight danced across his features. «Or perhaps…» His fingers closed around the seed. «…the girl already knew she didn’t want to leave.» The silence stretched. Somewhere in the tent, a candle cracked softly. «Men believe this is only a story about the changing seasons.» Griffith continued at last, his voice lower now, almost contemplative «about why winter freezes the earth.» He glanced toward Guts. «But they are mistaken.» His fingers slowly turned another seed between thumb and forefinger. « I think it speaks of something else entirely. Of the moment a person stops belonging to the world they were born into.»
The pomegranate rested open between them, its seeds glowing like small wounds under candlelight.
«You see, Guts… Persephone is not a victim. And Hades is not a monster, as they claim.» A faint smile curved his lips. «This pomegranate represents something far greater.» His gaze sharpened slightly. «It embodies desire itself.» The seed shifted in his hand. «When you taste the fruit of your true purpose, when you accept your deepest nature, you can never go back. No matter how bright the surface world is. No matter how inviting…Part of you will always belong to the abyss you chose.»
The candlelight flickered across his face. «There are those born to walk beneath the sun.» Griffith said softly. «And those who must descend into darkness in order to forge their own kingdom.» His voice grew steadier. «To pursue an immense dream, one must be willing to swallow those seeds of pomegranate.» A faint glimmer passed through his eyes.
«To accept the winter’s cold… and the price of blood.» His fingers closed gently around the fruit again. «It is the price of becoming a king of one’s own world, even if that world is made of shadows.» He looked at Guts. «Proserpina is no longer an innocent girl. She is the Queen of the Underworld.”
Guts had never been good with metaphors. He did not understand the polished speech of nobles, nor the refined language of courts. And yet, he felt it. Griffith was not speaking of a legend, he was speaking of something else entirely. Of someone else.
His voice cut through the silence again. «And you, Guts…»
The words were softer now. «What would you do? Would you stand by and watch the flowers wither…» His gaze did not waver. «…or would you descend into darkness to take what is yours?» His fingers pressed into the pomegranate’s flesh. It gave way with a wet, yielding sound. Crimson juice slid over his pale skin like blood. It was only a small stain. And yet Guts could not look away. It looked like a wound.
Guts frowned. «For a few seeds of fruit, she ended up trapped in Hell forever?»
His voice carried frustration now, the blunt honesty of someone who could not accept unnecessary tragedy. «She should’ve fought her way out. Or not gotten caught in the first place.»
A quiet laugh escaped Griffith. Not mocking. Almost fond. «That is a very Guts answer.»
«What’s that supposed to mean?» Guts grumbled.
«Fight.» Griffith echoed softly. «You always believe every cage has bars.» He rolled a seed between his fingers. «But not all prisons are locked from the outside.»
Guts frowned deeper. «You’re being cryptic again.»
«Perhaps.» Griffith studied the red seed. «But there are bonds a person chooses willingly. For you, freedom is simple. If something binds you» he said, «you break it.»
«Of course.» Guts replied without hesitation.
«Yet what happens» Griffith asked quietly, «when the chain is something you desire?»
Guts fell silent. Their eyes met and Griffith did not look away. «What happens when you are the one holding it closed?»
The silence lingered. Then Griffith continued. «Everyone looks at me the same way.» His voice had grown lower. «The soldiers. The nobles. Even my enemies.» He picked up another seed. «They see a symbol.» Another. «A dream.» Another. «Something belonging to a higher place than themselves.» The seeds gathered in his palm like drops of blood. «And you?»
Guts hesitated. «What… about me?»
Griffith’s gaze sharpened. «What do you see when you look at me?»
The question struck harder than any blade. Guts looked down, words failed him. Because nothing about Griffith was simple. He was the man who had changed his life. The light that appeared whenever the world grew dark. The destination he kept walking toward without ever understanding why. And yet it felt right. «I see you.» Guts said at last. Only that.
Griffith froze for a moment, then smiled. A small, almost tender, smile. «Yes.» He murmured. His gaze lowered to his stained fingers. «That is precisely the problem.»
Guts did not fully understand what he meant. But something in his chest tightened anyway, as though he had grasped the meaning without having the words to hold it.
Griffith stood up, his white robe brushed softly against the floor of the tent, he stepped closer. Too close. Guts could smell him more clearly now, the clean scent of washed skin and damp silver hair, still carrying the memory of water and moonlight. Candlelight reflected in Griffith’s eyes, turning them almost unreal.
«You are the only one» Griffith said quietly, «who does not kneel before me.» The words fell into the silence like something fragile, dangerous. «And yet» he continued, lowering his gaze, «you are also the one who stays closest.» In his palm, another seed rested, smaller than the others. Red as a wound.
«Strange, isn’t it?» Griffith murmured.
Guts watched him warily. «What is?»
A faint smile touched Griffith’s lips. «That something so small can decide the fate of a person.» He turned the seed slowly between his fingers. «A war can change a kingdom.»
His eyes lifted. «A word can change a life.»
He paused.
«And sometimes… something even smaller than that is enough.»
The silence stretched. Griffith did not look away. It was as though he were observing something no one else could see, something that existed only within his mind.
«Perhaps that is why the gods are so fond of symbols.» He said softly. «They hide the most important things inside gestures that appear meaningless.»
He raised his hand.The seed caught the candlelight between them.
«What do you think, Guts?»
Guts frowned. «I think you’re overthinking a piece of fruit.»
A quiet laugh escaped Griffith, genuine, and somehow that made it more unsettling. «Yes» he said, stepping closer again. «Perhaps you’re right…» But he did not sound convinced.
Guts opened his mouth to reply. Yet the words never came. Griffith was watching him differently now. As if measuring him. As if trying to etch this moment into memory.
Slowly, Griffith raised his hand toward Guts’ mouth. The seed brushed his lips. Barely there. Yet Guts’ body tensed instantly, not in fear, but in something far worse. Something he could not name.
Griffith’s eyes never left his. «Open your mouth.» It was not quite an order. Not quite a request. Something in between, inevitable, like the conclusion of a thought that had already begun long before this moment.
Guts hesitated, then he obeyed and his lips parted. The movement felt unreal, as though it did not belong to him. Griffith’s fingers were still stained red. Thin streaks of pomegranate juice ran across his pale skin like blood. The contrast was impossible to ignore. Guts followed the motion helplessly, the seed moved closer, Candlelight trembled across its surface, then Griffith’s fingers touched his lower lip.
Guts jolted, not from danger, but from something worse. A shiver ran through him, like the frantic beating of a bird’s wings against a closed cage. Suddenly, he felt as though he were on a battlefield again. In the exact moment before a strike lands, but there was no enemy here. Only Griffith.
«Taste it.» Griffith whispered, the tone of his voice was low, seducing. Like a secret spoken into the space between them. The seed passed from his fingers into Guts’ mouth.
Guts did not move away. Did not resist. Did not think. He simply held Griffith’s gaze as he bit down. The flesh burst. Sweet and tart at once. Juice spread across his tongue, then his lips. And something changed. He felt it, not just in his mouth, but under his skin. A strange echo, like heat and memory intertwined.
Griffith held his breath for the briefest instant. Then it passed. Guts swallowed. The silence that followed felt heavier than before. Deeper. As though the room itself had shifted.
Griffith’s eyes lowered to Guts’ lips, the red stain lingered there. He stared at it longer than necessary, something passed across his expression: a thought, a desire, a regret.
Or perhaps none of them. Then he looked up again and smiled. It was not a simple smile, it held sweetness, triumph, sadness and something like possession. For a moment, the world seemed to contract into the narrow space between them, the candlelight, the scent of wax and herbs, the steady pulse of Guts’ heartbeat, the taste of pomegranate still lingering on his tongue, and Griffith’s gaze, unblinking.
Guts swallowed again, as if trying to anchor himself to the moment.
«Then it’s decided.» Griffith said suddenly.
Guts blinked. «What is?»
Griffith’s eyes lifted slightly. «Nothing.» He whispers. «I was only thinking aloud.» He turned away, gathering the remaining seeds, wiping his stained fingers carefully with a damp cloth.
And yet Guts noticed something then. Half the seeds were gone. Even though he could not remember Griffith ever eating them. Griffith turned toward the candlelight.
His silhouette briefly swallowed by gold and shadow. And Guts thought, without knowing why, that he had never met anyone like him. Not a noble. Not a warrior. Not a king.
Something else entirely. Something that did not belong to the world he knew. And yet, whenever Griffith reached out his hand…He followed. As if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if he had stopped choosing long ago.
Later, when he left the tent, Guts would not remember the story in full: the names of gods, the laws of the underworld, the turning of seasons. Only Griffith would remain: The sound of his voice. The dim candlelight. The scent of his hair. The red juice on his fingers. The touch against his lips. And the bittersweet taste left behind on his tongue. And a strange feeling, that something had changed.
And yet, as he walked back through the sleeping camp, he felt as though he carried something he had not possessed when he entered. Something nameless, something he would not be able to return.
When he had looked at the split fruit, he had not seen a trap. Only the hand that offered it.
And Guts did what he had always done:
He took it.