Chapter Text
The terrace is much colder than the ballroom, but Guts finds the chill a welcome reprieve. Inside, the air is so thick with the scent of perfume and rich foods that it turns his stomach. Funny that the stink of dead soldiers bothers him less than this. More evidence of how ill-suited he is to this lifestyle.
Duke Vogt von Rieneck, Midland’s Minister of Foreign Affairs, is hosting a horde of Tudor delegates at his estate just outside of Wyndham. They’ve come to negotiate the armistice, a process that’s finally wrapping up after two and a half weeks of negotiations. Apparently there were a lot of terms to hammer out before the King would even set eyes on the damn thing.
Griffith has been instrumental in securing every key concession, a fact Guts has heard repeated in tones of glowing admiration from Casca, and overheard in tones of offended incredulity from Midland’s other generals. Griffith seems to have a gift for high-stakes political negotiation that the other nobles didn’t expect.
Guts isn’t surprised at all. Griffith is good at everything, of course he’d be good at this too.
Griffith wanted all of his captains in attendance for the talks, so off they all went to Vogt von Rieneck’s big fuckoff estate to prance about and look intimidating while Griffith worked. He only required Guts to be present for the first meeting, thank god, to present a united front and ensure they had the best possible starting position. After that, he said Guts was free to enjoy von Rieneck’s hospitality as he pleased.
The duke has held several hunts over the past two weeks to entertain the visiting nobles and their entourages. Guts went out on one just to stave off boredom, and found it about as enjoyable as he expected. Too much sitting around on their horses while they waited for the dogs to flush the game. Guts would’ve had a better time putting his destrier through its paces on his own, which is mostly how he’s been occupying himself since then. There’s no real need to keep the Hawks’ warhorses in fighting shape now that the war is over, but Guts is fond of his ornery stallion and finds his company more enjoyable than any of the knights and generals and diplomats and whoever the hell else is attending this thing.
Casca is the opposite of him, she’s taking to peacetime like a frog to water. She’s attended every negotiation with Griffith, copying down notes for him in her neat, square handwriting. They’ve been meeting together every evening, tracking the land distribution and ownership interests of various noble houses across a great map of the continent that takes up the entire table in Griffith’s quarters.
Guts knows Griffith is the one who taught Casca how to read and write. That she can use those skills now for his sake…Guts is glad for her. Being useful to Griffith makes her happy, and she lights up like cannonfire when he praises her. If only he could be so content.
But he’s not.
Guts is hungry.
Terribly, selfishly hungry.
Hungry for Griffith’s attention and his body and his time. He’s had none of them since they’ve been here and a stupid, ugly jealousy has been festering in his gut.
It will only be worse when Griffith is king and Guts knows this, knows it in his marrow. Griffith will continue acquiring more responsibilities, more people who need his attention and his time. And his body.
Guts doesn’t like thinking about the Princess.
She can give Griffith everything he desires. And Guts can give him nothing at all. Because everything he has was given to him by Griffith in the first place. His comrades, his successes, his experience, his strength. The only thing of his own Guts has ever had is his sword.
That’s why he has to leave.
He needs a dream, something to live for beyond mere survival. Then Griffith will see him as an equal. Then Guts can be as selfish with him as he wants.
He’ll leave at first snowmelt. A practical choice, since he’ll be sleeping on the ground for the foreseeable future. He’ll warm himself by Griffith’s fire until winter’s icy grip falters just enough that he won’t have to contend with the snow.
This decision, made several months ago, has not stopped him from crawling back into Griffith’s bed every chance he gets. But in Guts’ defense, it’s been a frigid winter. It’s easier to sleep with someone there to keep him warm.
No, he shouldn’t water down the truth like that. It’s easier to sleep with Griffith there. Guts doubts he could share a bed comfortably with anyone else.
A gust of wet, icy wind bites through Guts’ overcoat, sending a shiver up his spine. He should probably go back inside soon, endure the echo of loud voices bouncing off the marble floors long enough to warm up and circle the room.
Griffith has all his captains running reconnaissance tonight. The ball is being held to celebrate the finalization of the armistice treaty. Well, finalization of the first draft, it’ll be sent to the King tomorrow for approval. Casca, Pippin, Judeau, Rickert, and Corkus have all been assigned different factions to monitor. Guts was ordered to keep an eye on the crowd and track who came and went with whom. He’s dogshit with names, but good enough at remembering faces to know which Tudor negotiators have been sneaking off to have private conversations with which Midland nobles.
“Keeping guard?” Griffith’s voice snaps him from his thoughts. Guts turns to see him slipping out of the ballroom to join him on the terrace. He looks like a doll in his stupid, poofy coat.
“Just watchin’ like you told me to,” says Guts.
Griffith smiles. “Good boy. And what have you noticed?”
Guts’ pulse spikes at the little tease—goddamn he's pent up—but he keeps the reaction off his face.
“The Tudor guy with the fuckin’, the mustache that goes like–” Guts gestures at the shape on his own face. “He keeps sneaking off with people who weren't here for the talks.”
“That makes sense,” Griffith comes to stand beside him at the edge of the terrace. “General Boscogon’s nephew, Count Edvard.”
“That’s him?”
Griffith nods, “He owns several iron mines in southern Tudor. Very profitable ones.”
“Why’s he sneakin’ around?”
“I believe he’s selling ownership interests in the mines.”
That gets Guts' attention. “To Midland?”
“To specific Midland nobles who were excluded from the armistice negotiations,” Griffith corrects.
“Why them?”
Griffith looks pleased with the question. “Because all of the negotiators are directly tied to the crown. Any arrangements they make can be scrutinized later by the King’s ministers.”
“But the ones who weren’t there–”
“Have plausible deniability.” Griffith looks back towards the spill of light from the ballroom. “Walk with me,” he says, catching Guts’ eye before starting off along the terrace rail. As always, Guts follows.
Griffith says, “If Edvard spreads ownership of Tudor iron across influential Midland houses, any future sanctions or trade restrictions will become politically inconvenient.”
“Because the Midland nobles would lose money too?”
“Exactly.”
“Huh.”
Griffith glances up at him, eyes bright. “You understand these kinds of things much faster than you pretend to.”
Guts snorts, “Don’t start.”
A soft laugh escapes Griffith and Guts feels a sudden surge of fondness. He wants to hear that sound again.
“The fat lord with the red sash keeps talking to Edvard,” he says. “And the old bastard with the droopy eye.”
“Lord Kline and Baron Haffner,” Griffith nods. “Kline’s family owns several foundries. Hafner supplies arms to three regional lords in the east.”
“Makes sense for them to buy into the mines I guess.”
“Yes, and once they do they’ll be financially invested in Tudor’s recovery.” Griffith trails his gloved fingers along the frosty railing. “They’ll oppose any faction at court pushing for harsher postwar restrictions.”
“That’s underhanded as hell.”
“It’s very clever,” Griffith says mildly.
Guts snorts, “You sound impressed.”
“I am.” Griffith doesn’t bother denying it. “Edvard is building political alliances without formally negotiating anything. And without involving the crown. If anyone, Tudor or Midland, objects later, he can simply claim they were private commercial investments.”
“And are they?”
Griffith smiles, tapping a finger against his lips. “Well that depends entirely on who’s asking.”
Guts huffs a laugh despite himself. Griffith really does enjoy this shit.
“The Duke’s playing games too, ain’t he?”
“Oh constantly.” Griffith glances towards the ballroom’s glow as they reach the corner of the terrace and turn to follow it along the manor’s eastern wall. “Vogt von Rieneck has made himself indispensable to this process. Everyone here owes him some courtesy or favor now.”
“So nobody can cross him without pissing everyone else off.”
“Precisely.”
“And the old generals?” he asks. “What are they scheming up?”
Griffith’s lips twitch. “They’re deciding whether I’m useful enough to tolerate.”
Guts looks down at him, at the flicker of his white eyelashes.
“The war bought me influence,” Griffith continues, “but military victories are temporary things. Politics will determine whose power survives in peacetime.”
“They hate that you’re better at this than them,” says Guts.
Griffith smiles nonchalantly. “Many of them certainly hoped I would not be.”
“Dunno why they’re so surprised. You’re good at everything.”
Griffith grins. “Don’t flatter me, it’ll go to my head.”
He shivers, almost imperceptibly, beneath his elaborate purple coat. Guts wouldn’t have noticed if they weren’t walking close enough to touch. He feels that same tug of affection and recklessly decides to follow it. They're far enough from the ballroom now; no one will see. He catches Griffith’s waist and pulls him into an alcove.
“Gettin’ cold?” Guts rumbles, crowding him against the wall. “Bet I can warm you up.”
Guts kisses him, quick and rough, like he's staking claim to something before it can be taken from him. Griffith's breath catches, an audible gasp, and Guts feels it, the way it opens him up for just a second. That’s all he needs.
He leans in deeper, one hand palming Griffith’s jaw while the other pulls their bodies close. Griffith makes a broken sound against his mouth—half protest, half longing—and then he’s kissing him back. It's raw and reactive and Guts swallows it down, claims it, lets it burn through him.
No one else can have this. No one but him.
When he pulls back Griffith gasps and pins him with his eyes, blue enough to drown in. Guts looks at him, really looks, trying to memorize this fracture in Griffith’s composure. His lips are still parted and there's a pretty flush blooming high on his cheeks. It’s heady, how quickly his immaculate self-control splinters under Guts’ hands.
It makes something unfurl in his chest, something hot and mean.
Guts lunges back in before Griffith can protest and this kiss isn’t stolen, it’s taken. He moves slow and deliberate at first, giving himself time to feel it, all the soft curves of Griffith’s mouth. Guts tugs at his lower lip, slow and insistent, until Griffith shudders.
“Guts–” he gasps. It comes out wrong, too thin and breathless to be any kind of command. Guts answers him by pushing closer, pressing Griffith flush against the wall, stealing all the air from his lungs so he won’t have any left for his stupid, fancy words. He wants to purge Griffith’s brilliant mind of everything but this.
Another kiss, harder. Griffith’s lips part under the pressure and Guts takes advantage of it, licking hungrily into his mouth. Griffith melts beneath him with humiliating speed. He always acts so untouchable in public but Guts knows the truth, knows how quickly he unravels, the way he trembles when Guts sucks on his tongue. Griffith reacts to everything like his body was made to betray him.
Mine, Guts thinks, viciously. He yanks the silk knot of Griffith’s cravat loose and bares his teeth against the pale line of his throat. You’re mine.
Guts bites down. Hard. Griffith jerks against the wall and lets out a high, broken moan. He slaps a hand over his mouth, as though he could muffle the sound now that it’s already out. Guts digs his teeth in and feels Griffith’s pulse leap beneath his tongue. Warmth floods his fair skin, delicate and fever-hot where Guts has him pinned.
“Guts!” he hisses through his fingers.
Guts is panting. He tugs the cravat further aside and bites him again, lower, right above the collar of his shirt. He needs to…he needs–
Griffith snarls, grabs Guts by the shoulders, and shoves him off. He comes loose with a little grunt of surprise.
Griffith holds him at arms length, fingers trembling slightly where they’ve clawed into his coat. His eyes are hazy and furious.
“You…” he pants, “you beast.”
“Beast?” Guts says, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice.
Griffith releases him and jerks his cravat back into place, hiding the ripe red imprints of Guts’ teeth. His fingers fumble once before managing the knot. Guts thinks his indignant pout is terribly cute.
“We should head back,” Griffith says, voice uneven, “before someone comes looking for us.”
God, Guts doesn’t want to go back. He wants to drag Griffith deeper into the shadows and keep going until all his cool composure is stripped clean away. He wants Griffith blushing and marked up enough that everyone in that ballroom will know exactly who had their hands on him.
But he can’t. And the moment is already slipping through his fingers.
“Yeah,” Guts exhales, surrendering. “You’re right.”
He pokes his head out of the alcove to check for wayward partygoers. Finding none, he nods to Griffith.
“Coast's clear.”
Griffith has mostly pulled himself back together. Only the faint pink dusted across his cheeks and the tips of his ears betrays him, and that can easily be explained away by the cold. He starts back towards the ballroom and Guts follows, feeling his hold on Griffith slipping away with every step.
“Keep an eye on Kline and Haffner,” Griffith says, picking up their previous conversation as though nothing happened. “I want to know if they start bringing other nobles to Edvart.”
“Sure,” Guts says. “Whatever you want.”
Griffith stops just outside the spill of light from the ballroom and looks back at him like he's trying to calculate something. Guts can’t tell if Griffith finds what he’s looking for in his face.
“You're in a strange mood tonight,” he says.
“I'm just–” Guts finds all at once that he can’t meet his eyes, “just sick of this shit,” he finishes quietly. Griffith favors him with a reassuring smile.
“With any luck we'll be finished here tomorrow and headed back to Wyndham Castle the day after.” Griffith reaches out to fix Guts’ collar where he wrinkled it during the shoving. “Your patience will be rewarded,” he murmurs.
Guts’ lips twitch. “That so?”
“Yes.” Griffith swats him gently. “If you can behave yourself.”
Guts smiles despite the lingering ache in his chest. “No promises.”
Griffith gives him a sly look as he turns back to the ballroom. He steps inside and Guts, as always, follows after.
When they first arrived for the armistice negotiations, Casca could not for the life of her fathom why Duchess Sibylle d’Auvergne was taking an interest in, of all people, Corkus. He’s convinced that the old woman is his ticket to the good life and has been clumsily attempting to court her since their first conversation.
The silver-haired widow manages great tracts of land in northern Tudor, and is the only woman besides Casca herself who’s been present for every negotiation. Tonight, she is the picture of elegance in a two-pronged hennin and a bejeweled blue gown. Her daughters flit about her like well-trained little birds.
Marguerite, the youngest, had invited Casca to tea on several occasions to beg for stories about the war. The girl had somehow become enamored with the idea of starting an order of female knights. Casca tried to be polite and acquiescent, but by the third time Marguerite waxed poetic about the romance of battle, her patience had worn thin.
So she told the girl the truth; that battlefields stink of gore and shit because soldiers' bowels go loose when they die. Casca told her about Coborlwitz, the wretched things he’d said to her, what he would have done to her if she’d been just a little slower, a little weaker. She told Marguerite that deploying an army of women would be like dangling a cut of fatty meat above a hound. The sparkle in the girl’s eyes died and turned to horror.
Marguerite wasn’t so keen on her after that. But Duchess d’Auvergne found and thanked her a few days later. Over a game of chess—wherein she trounced Casca soundly—the duchess confessed she’d lost two husbands and a son to the war. She’d done all she could to shelter her remaining children from its brutality, but now that Marguerite had reached the age of majority, she ought to learn the harsh realities of the world. The duchess mused that perhaps Casca’s honesty and wisdom would save her daughter from folly. Casca said that she didn’t think herself particularly wise, and d’Auvergne admonished her for not accepting the compliment.
It was during this chess match that Casca figured out why the duchess was entertaining Corkus’ stupidity at all. He'd swaggered into the parlor with an enormous bouquet of winter roses, new boots squeaking on the polished floors.
“M’lady duchess! A little something to brighten your afternoon,” he declared with a sweeping bow.
Millibelle, the duchess' dame d'atour, accepted the bouquet with visible strain. Casca immediately recognized the problem; winter roses were funeral flowers in Tudor.
“Why Sir Corkus, how thoughtful of you,” said the duchess, her fine features sharpening with amusement. “You honor my late husbands beautifully.”
“Heheh, uhh, what?”
“I admit it is rather unusual to deliver a funerary arrangement to a woman one wishes to court.” She plucked a rose from the bouquet and turned it about, inspecting the petals. “But you have certainly distinguished yourself from the competition.”
“T-that's right!” said Corkus with an overconfident grin. “I wanted to uhh…ensure m'lady knows I have nothing but the utmost respect for her dearly departed paramours.”
Calling d’Auvergne's husbands her paramours crossed the line from disrespect to insult, but the duchess only laughed.
“Such a gentleman,” she said, hiding a mean smile behind her gloved hand. “Where do they make men like you?
“You can find ten just like him in any mercenary band,” said Casca.
“Hey!” Corkus squawked. “I’ll have you know I’m one in a thousand—no, ten thousand men!”
“And humble too,” the duchess cooed. “Why, you’re the very paragon of a knight.”
Millibelle muffled a fit of giggles into the bouquet. Corkus looked genuinely bashful.
“Aww shucks—I mean! My sincerest of thanks to you, m’lady.” He bowed again. “Perhaps…you would accompany me on a stroll across the grounds?”
The duchess said nothing, regarding him coolly until he started to fidget.
“A-at your convenience, of course!” he added. “I would not uhh, wish to inconvenience a lady of your stature–”
“Perhaps,” the duchess said, “I will send for you.” She granted him a brief smile. “Now, run along. I’m sure a man of your caliber has many pressing matters to attend to.”
“Yes ma’am!” Corkus saluted and the gesture was so out of place Casca had to hold back a bark of laughter. He scurried out of the parlor as the duchess chuckled into her glove.
“Funny little thing isn’t he?” she mused.
“Not when you have to work with him every day,” Casca sighed.
“You have my condolences.”
Over the last two weeks, Sibylle d’Auvergne has managed to turn Corkus into her personal jester. Casca is absolutely certain that the jokes she makes at his expense fly entirely over his head. Or he’s so gog-eyed about her money that he simply doesn’t care. Probably the former. Corkus has never been very bright.
Serves him right, Casca thinks, watching Corkus make a fool of himself once again as the duchess and her daughters take turns sniping at him. Isadora, the eldest, an arrestingly beautiful woman with honey-brown eyes, turns to Casca.
“That man over there,” she murmurs, “the one skulking about the perimeter, is that the hundred-man slayer?” Her low, sonorous voice carries clearly despite the volume of the crowd. Casca follows her gaze to Guts, who’s standing by the windows and looking broody.
“That’s our raiders captain,” Casca replies, “Guts is his name.”
Marguerite turns to her with wide eyes, “Are all the stories about him true?” Casca wonders what stories she means.
“I make a point not to traffic in gossip, my lady,” she says, instead of asking for clarification.
“Marguerite,” says Isadora patiently, “perhaps Dame Casca would be kind enough to introduce you?”
“Eeek! No way!” says the girl, hiding behind her fan. “He looks so scary!”
“I thought you wanted to speak with him?” Isadora says, the gentlest hint of teasing in her voice.
“Well…yes, but…” Marguerite peeks out from behind her fan.
“He’s not so scary once you get to know him,” says Casca, mouth pulling into a smile. “Guts may look intimidating, but he’s really a big softie.”
“Aww what d’you wanna talk to a faggot like him for anyways?” Corkus intrudes. Casca slams the heel of her boot down on his toes.
“Yeowch!” he reels backwards and nearly falls over. “Casca! What the hell!”
“You’ll mind your language in the presence of ladies!” she snaps. Corkus balks and turns to the duchess, only to be hit with the full force of her disapproving frown. As he stammers apologies, Casca tries to get her racing heart under control.
Had she overreacted? No, those words are too dangerous for anyone to utter at court. Words like that carry accusation, punishment, ruin. She has to nip this in the bud now because anything stupid fucking idiot Corkus says about Guts could be linked right back to—she cuts that thought off hard. One of d’Auvergne’s other daughters is saying something else, she needs to focus.
“Indeed, one could stand to learn from the strictness of Dame Casca’s discipline,” says Isadora.
“T-thank you, my lady,” Casca says with a respectful nod and averted gaze.
That’s when she feels Griffith’s eyes on her.
She can always tell when he’s looking for her, feels it like a physical pull. Casca looks up and meets his doll-blue eyes across the ballroom. The faint twitch of his mouth says, I require you, come to me.
Casca politely excuses herself from the duchess’ circle.
When she reaches his side Griffith murmurs, “How are things progressing?”
“Count Edvard approached d’Auvergne a few hours ago to discuss the mineral rights to her land,” Casca says quietly, falling into step beside him.
“And?”
“She stonewalled him, as we expected,” Casca flashes him a smile like a secret. “But now I know why.”
They skirt the edge of the ballroom and slip into a side hallway. Casca checks behind them before she speaks again.
“It’s Hezebelle, the married daughter. Her husband is Edvard’s second cousin, and their son is the one who’s poised to inherit everything when the duchess dies.”
“He’s the only male heir?”
Casca nods, “He’s only a few years old, but the duchess is already trying to control who’ll have access to the boy during his adolescence. I'm sure she wants to minimize whatever influence the other half of his family will try to exert over her estates.”
Griffith’s pretty lips curl into a smile.
“Well done,” he murmurs, and his praise makes Casca's whole body flush hot with pride. “I presume she already knows about Edvart's other dealings?”
“I'd be shocked if she didn't.”
Griffith hums and taps a finger against his lower lip, contemplative.
“I want you to keep an eye on Edvart for the rest of the evening,” he says eventually. “Find out who he watches when he thinks no one else is looking.”
Casca nods slowly, “Because people reveal their intentions that way?”
“Their priorities,” Griffith corrects, with a smile. “Now, I should speak with von Rieneck before his toast.”
He turns back to the ballroom and that's when Casca sees it, a perfect half-moon imprint of teeth on his neck. She splutters, an enormously undignified sound, and Griffith looks back at her.
“Are you alright?”
“Y-you…uhh–” Casca gestures weakly at her own throat. “You've got a–”
Griffith blinks, some unidentifiable emotion surging behind his eyes. Then those white eyelashes dip, hiding his gaze as he smoothly readjusts his cravat, tying it higher up on his throat so that the knot rests just beneath his chin.
“Thank you,” he says evenly. When he looks up, Casca is pinned by his eyes, and she wonders if she's imagining the challenge in those icy depths.
“Better?” he asks.
Casca nods jerkily and manages an awkward, “Uh huh!” followed by the most embarrassing thumbs up she's ever given anyone in her life.
Griffith rewards her with a quick smile, then slips back into the ballroom. Casca is left unsteady and embarrassed, as though she'd been the one caught doing something shameful.
And then all at once she’s angry.
How could he be so reckless? That bite mark was fresh, ripe purple bruising staining Griffith's throat and damning him. If she hadn't caught it first, if someone else had seen…
Casca balls her hands into fists.
How could he be so careless? As though his dream wasn't balanced across a fragile chain of impossible successes. As though one mistake couldn't send him plummeting into the abyss.
Why, why, why did Guts make him act so fucking stupid?
Casca turns and strides back into the ballroom. Guts is still brooding by the windows where she last saw him. She skirts quietly along the edge of the walls because cutting straight through to him would draw too much attention.
Griffith had officers' uniforms commissioned for all of his captains before they left, long boots and neatly tailored wool jackets in dark colors that helped them blend in. Casca, Guts, and the others would be seen but not noticed, forgotten amid the sea of silk and jewels.
As she rounds a pillar and closes in on him Guts looks up, as though he sensed her coming. His pouty lips pull into a smile that makes Casca want to punch him in the mouth.
“Hey,” he says. “What’s–”
Casca grabs him by the ear and yanks him outside.
Guts stumbles after her hissing, “Ow! Ow! Casca! What the hell! Let me go!”
They step onto the terrace and she drags him another few yards before releasing him. Then Casca whirls on him like a thunderstorm.
“How dare you?” she snarls. “How dare you take liberties with Griffith in public!”
“What are you talking about?” he stammers.
“Don’t play dumb!” she nearly shouts. Guts flinches bodily and whips around to look behind them.
“Keep your voice down,” he hisses. “We can’t cause a fuckin’ scene here.”
He starts towards one of the enormous curved stairways at the edge of the terrace, touching Casca’s shoulder briefly as he passes, the slightest pressure to encourage her to follow him. Three years ago, Guts willingly touching anyone was unthinkable. The trust in that simple gesture makes her want to scream.
Casca follows and the two of them slip down the stairs into shadow. At the bottom, Guts turns back to her.
“Now what the hell’s got you so riled up?”
“You,” she growls. “You stupid, reckless dog! You never think about anything but yourself!”
Guts’ expression darkens into anger. Good.
“I saw it,” Casca snarls, “I saw where you bit Griffith. And it’s a damn good thing I did because if anyone else had seen it first they could have–” her voice breaks.
Guts tries unsuccessfully to school his face into neutrality.
“W-what makes you think that was me?”
Casca laughs, a mounting hysterical sound that leaves her doubled over, cackling so hard she can’t breathe. Guts starts to look worried.
“Casca–”
“I’m not stupid,” she wheezes. She straightens and jabs a finger into his chest. “And you’re not subtle.”
Guts blushes then, actually blushes, so hard it’s visible even in the dim light and Casca wants to cry.
“How uhh, how long have you…known?” he asks.
“Since the beginning,” Casca says, all the anger draining out of her. “I could tell after we fought Zodd that something…changed between you two. I didn’t want to believe it at first but…I wasn’t surprised. He’s always looked at you like that.”
Casca curls her fists into the front of Guts’ coat, anchoring herself. She can’t bear to look at his sweet, stupid face anymore, so she keeps her eyes fixed on the copper buttons of his jacket.
“When I was little,” she whispers, “there were two girls in my village. I was too young at the time to understand what happened between them but–” she swallows thickly. “The unmarried girl was stoned to death in the town square. I didn’t see it because I was out in the fields with our sheep. But the married girl…they took her into her husband’s house and…” Casca’s hands are trembling. “I’ll never forget the way she screamed when they circumcised her. Like a dying animal. So long and loud I could hear it clear across the valley.” Casca sucks in a ragged breath. “If something like that happened to you, or to Griffith, I–”
She's crying now, hot, humiliating tears dripping down her cheeks and splattering on the frosty steps.
“Casca…” Guts says, resting his hands on her shoulders.
“You can’t be so goddamn reckless,” she sobs. “You're going to get Griffith killed, or worse!”
“Alright,” Guts sighs, “I get it, point taken. I won't…I'll be more careful.”
“Promise me,” Casca says, even though she knows it sounds childish.
“I promise.” Guts squeezes her shoulders. When she looks up at him, his smile is wistful and sad. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs, “it's not gonna be a problem much longer anyways.”
“Oh spare me,” Casca snaps, shoving him off, all her anger returning at once. “You say things like that but you're still crawling around after Griffith and begging for his attention.” Takes one to know one, she thinks bitterly. “If you were going to leave you would have done it already.”
Casca sees the flash of hurt on Guts’ face before his expression twists into something more complicated. She turns and marches back up the stairs, trying to choke down the guilt bubbling up in her throat. She shouldn't feel bad for hurting him. Force and pain are the only languages men understand. Maybe the sting of her words will make him fucking behave himself. Casca hears the crunch of his boots on the frost as he follows her back up to the terrace.
“We have work to do,” she sniffs, scrubbing at her blotchy face.
“Here,” says Guts. Casca turns to see him offering her a handkerchief. She takes it, wipes the lingering tears from her eyes, and blows her nose.
“Thanks,” she mumbles, offering it back to him.
Guts makes a face, “Just throw it away.”
Casca balls the handkerchief up and tosses it over the terrace railing. She looks up at Guts and a long moment of silence passes between them.
“I–” she starts, then doesn’t know what else to say. Guts mouth twitches.
“C’mon,” he says, moving back towards the ballroom. “Like you said, we’ve got work to do.”
“Right,” Casca says, steeling herself.
They slip back inside just in time to catch the tail end of Vogt von Rieneck’s toast. Casca spots Griffith immediately, standing by the minister’s side with a serene smile. The whole ballroom is watching him.
Please, she prays, please don’t falter. Not now. Not when you’re so close.
All of the Hawks' hopes and dreams are riding on him. Casca never doubted that he could handle the gravity of it. He’d never given her a reason to doubt his resolve.
Not until now.