It's getting hard to bear, watching you all alone

[forakingdom]

They set up camp in the shadow of the place so that Griffith could watch it.

Though the walls were sound and the castle looked whole, even luxurious, no one suggested that they camp inside. There was something about it, a coldness, and the local villagers spoke of ghosts and demons and monsters in the haunted castle. Conflicting stories too outrageous to be real.
Griffith wanted to explore. But even he hesitated at the sight of the dark gate. Perhaps in the morning. Once they were rested.

In the morning, he took the lead with Guts. They left their horses down in camp with most of the band, and took only a small raiding party to investigate.

The castle’s gates were wide open, as if for a festival, and there were even garlands of wilted white flowers and scraps of fluttering white silk festooned around the courtyard. Griffith entered warily, hand on his sword. He kept Guts by his side, though they went a few paces ahead of the others. If they faced down anything supernatural, Griffith wanted to meet it first.

Somehow it wasn’t a surprise when the gates slammed shut behind them. Griffith glanced back, expression tight as they were cut off from the rest of their party, and drew his sword.

“Welcome, my love.”

A figure seemed to melt up out of the rocks, solidifying as if from wax and drawing itself up to a height of more than seven feet, not including the curving horns that grew from its brow. It had dark brown skin with gray and mossy hues distinctly reminiscent of grave pallor and loam. Both the face and the figure had a striking sort of beauty, as if they had been carved from wax and cast in bronze by a master sculptor, though there was something unnatural and unnerving about it. The body was perfect and bare, with no clothing to conceal the heavy phallus that hung between its legs.

It had eyes only for Griffith, who stared at it in stunned shock as it approached, not even lifting his sword to stop it as it reached for him as if to draw him into a lover’s embrace.

Comments

[swordbiter]

Guts didn’t believe a word of what they heard. He had enough real things trying to kill him on a daily basis to let himself get all worked up over some stupid village fairy tale. Ghosts this, demons that. Ridiculous, all of it. He honestly expected their trip through this creaky old fortress to be pretty boring, as far as days heading the Raiders went. Maybe some guy was out there scaring away some peasants and farmers. Interesting story, but nothing he considered worth the concern.

‘What’s the big deal? If ghosts are what we're worried about, this'll be the easiest castle we've ever taken.’

That’s what he had said when gathered with the other captains and unit commanders. In all honesty, he probably wouldn’t have gone to scout if Griffith himself hadn’t chosen to head the party. If their leader saw some value in it, he’ll join him.

One can imagine the look on his face when the figure seems to materialize out of the moss and mud of the garden itself. Did he care about its inhuman size and clear supernatural origins? Well, it seemed pretty damn impossible, and the sexually charged nature of it really got under his skin, but Griffith was in the thing's reach and that makes that part of his brain shut off rather quick. Eyes growing cold, he grabs Griffith's arm and yanks him away to safety by his side, over-sized sword already drawn in his other hand.

He doesn't know if this weird thing is hostile, so he doesn't attack, but he does keep his sword in between it and them.

"Gettin' a little ahead of yourself, aren't you?"

[forakingdom]

Griffith stumbles back, startled back to his senses, and he tucks close by Guts’ side, out of the way of his sword as much as possible. His own hesitation makes him uncomfortable. Whatever this thing is, it clouded Griffith’s mind for a moment. He would have let it embrace him. That idea terrifies him—becoming some creature’s pawn or plaything.

Guts clearly isn’t having the same problem. Either the thing didn’t cast its spell against Guts, or Guts is just too damn stubborn to be lured by a siren spell. Griffith trusts that stubbornness.

“You are unnecessary,” the demon says to Guts, waving a dismissive hand at him. “He is mine.”

“I am my own,” Griffith counters, but he stays behind Guts, trusting to his captain’s sword and broad shoulders. He thinks about what he can offer, for a moment, and what the demon would give in return. He’s sold his body before. But the demon isn’t offering anything. He’s just claiming. “Open the gates, and perhaps we can discuss a bargain. Otherwise we will fight.”

“I will kill your valet,” the demon says, “and then I will take you as mine.”

“Looks like we’re fighting for my virtue,” Griffith says to Guts, voice light because he can’t help but find the humor in this situation. Especially after Guts being called his valet. He takes up a fighting stance to Guts’ left, letting Guts have the lead in the fight while Griffith covered him. Taking his eyes off the demon, Griffith scanned the rest of the courtyard, pressing his back against Guts’ when he saw a monster crawling toward them from a dark doorway. “Crab-thing, southwest,” he told Guts, feeling his skin crawl with fear in the face of these creatures. “I’ll take it. Keep your focus on horns.”

[swordbiter]

"Do I look like a servant to you? You must not leave your dusty castle much, pal."

Don't get him wrong, there is definitely the fear of the unknown undoubtedly rising up his heels as more monsters emerge. Guts isn't entirely sure what he's up against, here. But with Griffith by his side and in need of protection, he shoves that all down and lets his eyes grow sharp with focus. This is no different from any other battle, he figures. Just need cut that thing to pieces so that it shuts its damn mouth.

When Griffith gives his orders, he simply nods and gives him a grunt of confirmation.

Grip shifting on his sword, the blade glides into position to charge forward, quicker on his feet than his size would suggest. The heavy greatsword is a silvery blur through the air as he makes a powerful vertical stroke right for its face. It had a height advantage, but the reach of his weapon more than made up for it. His attacks have long since been able to cleave through steel armor, so when his edge finds the muddy soil, it slices through the thick substance with barely any resistance. It didn't take much strength on his end to gut their host like a fish down the belly.

Levering his sword with a masterful turn of the blade, he finishes the job by lopping its head clean off in one stroke. But this was easy - far too easy. This is supposed to be some legendary supernatural being, right? At the end of his attack, he still has his sword at the ready, watching the pieces of sculpted mud collapse on the ground.

[forakingdom]

In his periphery, Griffith notices the mud collapsing into pieces and then melting into the ground, and it strikes him as wrong, and important, but he has other things to focus on right now. Like the scuttling thing moving toward them, with pincers and hard shell armor, like an enormous centipede crossed with a crab.

Griffith's sword won't cut through bone or metal, so he has to assume that it won't cut through the monster's shell. He'll have to make targeted attacks instead. The eyes look weak, and the joints. The eyes are the higher value target, but they have the risk of those massive pincers. If those catch him, he's done. If those catch his sword, they could probably snap it without any difficulty. So he's going to have to be careful, dancing around it to get an opening.

As it approaches, Griffith moves to one side, expecting it to pivot to follow him, but it doesn't. It ignores him entirely, heading for Guts.

Griffith is very slightly insulted by this, as if he's not even a threat to it, but he's not going to sulk over being given an opportunity. He spots a gap where two sections of the body fit together, and he stabs his sword into it. The thing shrieks, turning enough to swat at him like a fly, but its primary attention and attack remains focused on Guts.

[swordbiter]

That crab monster doesn't give him a lot of time to dwell on their host. Guts glances back as he hears the sound of its armor plates scraping against each other, and narrowly misses the pinch of a claw at his greaves. He whirls to bring his blade around to his new opponent, eyes cold with the same battle focus he uses to mow down a Tudor vanguard. He can be shocked about its existence after it's dead.

Griffith's strike gives him a few seconds of an opening, and he takes it. He recklessly rushes well within the reach of its claws, striking one away the manner one may deflect a sword strike. The first blow sends a crack through its shell, but it isn't the main attack. Using his momentum, he runs the length of his large blade through an eye, sending it deep into its head until the other end breaks out between two plates.

He grimaces as the thing shrieks in pain right in front of him, gushing pale blue blood onto his forearms. Its reaction is more wild thrashing rather than a proper counterattack, but with his sword embedded that deep, he's going to be dragged around with it.

[forakingdom]

Winter was not a mercenary's friend.

It was always a problem, figuring out what to do as a mercenary in winter. Most battles were fought in summer. Everything was more expensive in winter. Troops moved slower, needed more food, needed to be kept warm, died quicker. No one wanted to hire mercenary armies in winter, and no one wanted the expense of maintaining them, either.

Griffith laid his winter plans well in advance, leveraging alliances to ensure that he always had a haven for himself and his troops come winter.

This season, they were housed in relative comfort in the castle of a certain lord. He had work for the band to do--menial work, repairs and lifting, but it was work, and they were given food and shelter. In the winter, that was more than enough. They could press for better pay and better work when summer came around again, and their services were in demand as the greatest mercenary army in the country.

The first month of the winter was almost luxurious. There was food and comfort, even plenty of the apple brandy made in the lord's orchards, and they made swift work on the tasks laid out for them.

But then things had gone awry. The band had completed their tasks admirably, expecting that with them they would have secured safety for the winter, but the lord went back on his promise. They'd finished the work, so he no longer needed them around. Risking Griffith's rage and any repercussions, he threw them out, and the band was at enough of a disadvantage, unprepared and soft with comfort, that they went.

Griffith was enraged, but there was nothing to be done. It wasn't particularly unexpected, after all, but it was the sort of thing that happened to lesser mercenary bands. Few fools would have been willing to risk such an insult given to a commander of Griffith's reputation. But revenge would have to wait until spring, and until then they simply had to survive.

So they set out, needing to secure first shelter, then food for the winter. It was a dismal prospect.

The first few days were manageable enough, with crusted snow on the ground but sunny weather. But then the clouds blew in, and the snow started thick and biting.

They found a ruined castle, barely more than a maze of walls at waist height. A few of the rooms still had partial roofs, but that was all. It was the best shelter they would hope for, so Griffith commanded that they make camp.

"Everyone sleeps in groups of three to five or more," he said. The cold and exhaustion burrowed deep under his eyes and dug caves under his cheekbones. "Any sick and wounded at the center. The others rotate in shifts who sleeps on the outside of each group. Watch rotates ever four hours. The rest of the time, stay close and stay warm until the storm blows over."

They had one fire, unable to scavenge any wood beneath the snow for much more than that. It was lit in the thickest part of the castle, under a partial roof. Beyond it was a small little room with solid walls that Griffith had claimed for his own. The walls protected it, and a little bit of the warmth from the big fire reached it, which would save Griffith from the humiliation of having to sleep in a big burrow of bodies, like a rabbit warren, the way he had commanded of his men. But none of them could sleep alone, or else risk never waking at all. "Guts. Casca. You're with me."

His two captains, the best of his band, and the most fragile. All three of them wary of touch. Griffith thought that they could endure each other, at least, and they needed to rest. They'd been walking for too long. Even though the band still had food for another week or two, no amount of rationing would get them through the winter. But right now, the exhaustion was the higher priority, and Griffith thought he was likely to collapse at any moment.

Striding into the thick-walled little storeroom, Griffith started stripping out of his armor, setting it piece by piece in a corner of the room. His hands shook as he did so, deeply unsteady to his core with cold and exhaustion.

Casca industriously set out their bedrolls without needing to be told. All tucked close and overlapping, conserving space and warmth. Her eyes were wide and a little bit scared, still in shock about the scenario that Griffith had commanded.

[swordbiter]

As expected, Guts had recovered remarkably quickly after being beaten to a pulp. It’s as if that stubborn spark of life in him refused to let him rest for too long. It is a small mercy for him as the fiery reds and oranges of fall made way for the beginnings of an icy blue winter - an injured man could be a dead one if he is too much of a burden.

The Raiders Captain was back up and walking about in time to help the fortification of the castle - and it’s likely only by Griffith’s orders that he didn’t storm in to let the entire Court have a piece of his mind after they are due to be thrown out like trash.

'Damn nobles,' he growled rather vocally to Gaston, the day they got the news, ' All that money piled around and they still act like cheap bastards.'

Having gone face to face with an actual demon did little to temper his boldness - why should he fear any man after what they’d seen?

Ultimately, though, they leave with no incident, and he obediently follows Griffith’s plans for winter preparations. There is no army to cut down here, only the vicious swords of nature in the forms of icy wind. This was their leader’s expertise, and Guts considered it his own duty to make sure his subordinates made it through.

When Guts enters the room, he makes eye contact with Casca before they both look away. He sheepishly scratches the back of his neck. He isn’t really sure what Griffith was thinking when it was clear the unit commander hated him. Couldn't she and Griffith just keep each other warm? Still, he isn't one to let awkwardness get in the way of his duties. For now, it'd be as if nothing had happened between them in that tent several weeks ago.

“Raiders found some extra supplies,” he says bluntly, dropping two furs on their end for them to use as bedding. Guts is a little bit leaner than usual, they all were, but he was otherwise weathering the biting cold as well as any soldier could. He is tired, certainly, but he could probably go through more miles of bitter winter if he was commanded to. Griffith looked like he was being run ragged by his responsibilities as well as the cold, and a bit of worry clouds his thoughts.

When was the last time he ate? Guts wonders, before he begins to unclasp his plate mail until all that was left on him was his tunic.

[forakingdom]

Stripped down to just his shirt and trousers, Griffith hung his sodden cloak and jacket along the wall in hopes that they would dry a little in the night. He was trembling badly, unable to maintain the physical control to hide it now that his cloak was off and there was no one to see him but his two most trusted advisers.

Griffith curled up on the mattress, taking the middle part of the blankets and furs and holding open the space before him with teeth clenched to keep them from chattering. "Casca," he ordered. She finished setting aside her own armor and damp things and came to him quickly, tucking her body into the curve of his. Her trembling was just as bad as his, but Griffith was still glad that he could offer her this. Warmth and safety without the risk of violation.

Though he expected the same of her as anyone else in his army, Griffith had always been aware that a separation must be maintained with Casca. She must always be kept slightly separate, slightly special, always forced to prove herself just a little bit more. Griffith threw her gender at her, now and then, in off-hand remarks meant to make her all the more fiercely determined to act like a thick-skinned soldier. And Griffith's reminders made the band more protective of her, more likely to treat her as a little sister even while she earned the right to lead them in battles. It was the best that Griffith could do for her, by isolating her just enough to keep her safe.

Hugging his arms around her slender body, Griffith pulled her tight against his front, so that their warmth would be shared as closely as possible. "Guts," he commanded, not bothering to look up.

[swordbiter]

Guts looks down at them both as Griffith calls him to attention. Something about seeing them trembling against each other brings a softness to his eyes that hinted he isn't only obeying out of his sense of obligation. Casca is the toughest woman he's ever met - and Griffith is a league all on his own. Seeing the two commanders so vulnerable was... well, it was something. He seems to forget about his reticence almost entirely in that light.

"Yeah," he says finally, after a notable pause. He settles on the other end of that mattress with no fuss, nestling up against Griffith's back and providing his own warmth. For all that the cold was bitter, Guts is a steady little furnace up against their bodies. This aspect of him, at least, he could readily share. His arms brush against Casca as he reaches over Griffith's body, but ultimately end up resting over Griffith's pale shoulders. No need to make it any more awkward than it already is.

That silvery hair that Guts was so curious about is right in his face now, which makes him decide it isn't so bad to be like this. The curls were soft against his cheeks - even cold and damp from the snow. He can feel Griffith trembling against his chest. He could feel the ins and outs of his breaths. Not wanting to think on this too hard, Guts makes the effort to close his eyes and go to sleep. May as well make this pass as quickly as it could.

[swordbiter]

Sex isn’t a strange thing to find in a mercenary camp. Back in Gambino’s company, each had their pickings of servant girls and prostitutes. Sometimes they were in groups or with the same sex. Soldiers had their physical urges, and no man who had accepted death as his profession really cared much about what one did in their tent as long as they were ready to fight the next morning. Guts had been exposed to this hunger in men since he’d been a small child, even before the night in his own tent.

It is entirely aware of what men did when they were bored that Guts had looked for the solitary woodlands to do his training. He had no interest in honing his technique with noise around to distract him. Ordinarily, he would have ignored the sounds of a couple doing their business and moved on, but there was a frightening violence to the screams that made him step closer to see where it was coming from.

He knew the two of them - Gale was a younger member of the band just coming into his own, an excellent rider if not the best swordsman. The other was an older, larger mercenary named Raulyn. He’d been considering bringing the latter into the Raiders - he certainly had the prowess for it - but all those hopes were swiftly dashed to splinters after what he spotted between the bare trees.

Maybe it was the tight bindings on his partner’s slender wrists, or the sounds of his muted cries that made it seem all too familiar to his own violation. The most grotesque acts one human could do to another, happening again before his very eyes. Visceral disgust would make Guts’ retribution come swift and harsh upon the perpetrator. His voice would snarl in a way rarely heard from his allies:

“The hell do you think you’re doing?!”

“-Guts!?”

The older Hawk is ripped free of his partner and thrown into the icy cap of melting snow. Raulyn and Guts were nearly the same size, but the one was armed and armored, and planted a heavy boot on the chest of his opponent. Emblazoned in Guts' eyes is a particular ferocity that sent a deep chill through them both, the couple’s moment of ecstacy rapidly twisting into cold, mute horror. The sharp blade of Guts’ greatsword is shoved into the other mercenary’s mouth, the metal edges scraping against flesh and clattering against teeth as it begins to draw blood.

It is only Gale furiously slipping free of his bonds and screaming desperately for Guts to stop that saved the other man from being summarily executed where he lay - nothing Raulyn could say would have doused the flames of that wrath. Once Gale was able to talk him down and realize his mistake, the rage of the Raiders' Captain would almost instantly deflate in kind. For a few moments, there would be silence, and the plumes of breath escaping from their mouths.

They'd managed to avoid the worst kind of tragedy, but Griffith would have a busy command tent shortly afterwards. Guts chose not to be there. What could he possibly say beyond the meek apology he already gave? No, Guts would be found doing what he initially planned at the top of a nearby hill - training. Working what he couldn't put into words into the strokes of his sword.

[forakingdom]

Griffith's heart hurt for all three of them as he made his way through the crusted snow and barren trees. One of the camp scouts had pointed Griffith in the right direction once he emerged from his tent and made a quiet inquiry.

While Guts made an effort not to see anything, Griffith paid far closer attention to the sex lives of his men than anyone realized. It was an important facet of devotion and morale, after all, and Griffith had complicated that by banning prostitutes and camp followers. The men could visit prostitutes in nearby towns all they liked when they had leave, but Griffith didn't allow them within his camp, which meant that the men had a much higher tendency to find solace in each other. Griffith thought that was an advantage. They'd fight harder and behave more gallantly if they wanted to impress a lover, and they'd help keep each other safe.

When he'd noticed Gale and Raulyn, he'd immediately and discreetly arranged an opportunity to speak to Gale alone. Gale was young and vulnerable, young enough that it made Griffith a little uneasy to have him involved in sexual activity at all. But he'd seemed genuinely happy with his arrangement, and to be the primary driving force behind the pairing. Raulyn had further assured Griffith's worries, because he seemed genuinely fond of Gale, and protective of him, even a little concerned of Gale's desire for rough handling.

Griffith could have done without some of the more visceral descriptions, but he had enough information to be content, and he hadn't given it much further thought. After Griffith's initial queries, the two of them had made greater efforts to be discreet and to enjoy their rougher pleasures farther from the main camp.

Griffith hadn't taken Guts into account, and certainly hadn't expected him to react with such intensity. Though he'd suspected that Guts had some very negative associations with sex, his reaction was extreme. They were all lucky Raulyn hadn't died. From the sound of it, he very nearly had. If Guts had been faster, or if Gale had been gagged...

His boots crunch on the snow as he approaches, wanting Guts to hear him, and he comes up at an angle, making sure that Guts sees him approach. Startling Guts is never a good idea, and especially not at times when he's upset.

Though Griffith has his warm winter coat and his sword at his side, he has no armor, approaching bare-headed and casual, as Guts' friend rather than as the commander of the army. He stops at the edge of the little clearing where Guts is training, watching him silently for a minute as he considers how to begin.

[swordbiter]

Guts stops when he sees Griffith approach the clearing, the arc of the blade scattering a bit of snow as the tip hovers above the ground. He hadn't layered up at all to avoid impeding his movement - the physical activity is what kept his body warm. He doesn't make direct eye contact, maybe because he was afraid of breaking the cool expression on his face. His gaze is fixed at his invisible opponent, or maybe at the dizzying vertical trunks of aspen surrounding him like the bars of a cage.

It's pathetic... How long has it been? How long has it been since that shadow loomed over him? He'd managed to not think about those times for almost a year, and yet it was like floodgates burst open the moment it came back. He would never let that happen again - he knows this - yet he could still feel his skin crawl. Claws of fear and disgust seized him like no mortal fear could. It made his grip falter and tremble like it did when he was a child.

And now, it made him nearly mess-up in a way he couldn't fix. Maybe Casca was right in calling him a mad dog. What could he possibly say to Griffith?

"How are they?"

[forakingdom]

Griffith's surprised by the question. He'd expected that Guts' first reaction would be disgust. But perhaps he should have expected this, after all. Guts is a good leader who cares for his soldiers, and one of them was wrongly hurt because of him.

"Upset," Griffith says honestly. "And Raulyn's getting the side of his mouth stitched up. He may have some scarring."

Since Guts isn't disgusted and vicious, Griffith comes a little closer, standing in front of him and studying Guts' face. He'd never seen Guts like this, with an awful vulnerability that Griffith wanted to wipe from Guts' soul. That look made Griffith glad he hadn't said anything to start with. It made Guts look as though he needed a hug more than a scolding.

[forakingdom]

Griffith kept his distance for the next two weeks. He thought--and hoped--that this would go relatively unnoticed. It was his habit to keep himself aloof and his thoughts private, and that had only begun to change a little in recent days, with the handful of times when he'd let Guts see a softer side. Now he withdrew. The winter was still bitter, but they found shelter and food here and there, doing odd jobs and tasks where they could. The band had diminished significantly, as all of those who had other places to go had gone, and only the most loyal and most desperate remained, the ones who belonged to Griffith alone, with no other home or sanctuary in the world.

He hoped that the worst of the winter was passed, though there were still weeks to go at best, and possibly another month or two. Doldrey lurked at all times in his thoughts, despite the promises he'd made to Guts.

Smoke brought them to the little town at the edge of the forest, and at first hopes were high that this meant warmth and food, but as they reached the town it was clear that it had been attacked.

A young man came out to greet them, armed with a pitchfork and looking wary, but Griffith rode forward alone to meet him without fear. "I am Griffith of the Band of the Hawk. Who did this?"

The man looked them over warily, as more townsfolk gathered, looking defensive and hostile. "Bandits."

Barely seeming to notice the hostilities, Griffith asked for which way they had gone and for some description, and then he ordered Casca to stay with the weak and the sick of the band to help the townsfolk put out fires and mend the urgent damage. The men who could fight would go with Griffith and Guts.

There was fresh snow on the ground, so the trail of the bandits was easy enough to follow, but Griffith remained alert as they made their way through the forest, seeking their prey.

[swordbiter]

When Guts wasn't on his own, he'd spent more time with his Raiders and Casca as of late. The two of them still didn't quite get along, but at least he knew what to expect of her. The familial warmth of his own division had managed to smooth things over after the incident. He couldn't help but feel content and at home surrounded by them, even in the cold wails of winter. Even after feeling so vulnerable.

Things with Raulyn were awkward, to say the least, but they were still mercenaries in the end. Corkus had tried to rob and kill Guts before his fated duel with Griffith - a merc wouldn't get too far if he held onto that kind of thing. They weren't close, not by a long shot, but the other man reluctantly agreed to stick with the rest of the Raiders this time. A tentative mend, but a notable one nonetheless.

As long as there is an enemy for them all to cut down, Guts could handle that. He always did talk better with his sword than he did with his mouth.

He gives Gaston a quick glance once Griffith summons them together, and his second-in-command gives the verbal orders to dismount and get into formation on foot behind their leader. Not much use cramming cavalry through dense woodland. The animals were better off being used with Casca's unit.

Guts lowers his visor and follows Griffith's command, leaving only the steeled eyes of a man ready to spill blood. Whoever needed to be dead would be in a short time.

[forakingdom]

The bandits hadn't gone far. They'd clearly felt that they had nothing to fear, as the village had already fought and lost, and there were no fortresses or barracks near enough to be any trouble on short notice. But they were unlucky in drawing Griffith's attention, and a plan had formed almost as soon as he'd seen the attacked village. They would help, and in return they could claim a little food and shelter, which was quickly becoming more valuable than gold. Next winter, Griffith would do better. He would ensure that they were never in this helpless and begging position ever again.

But for now, he held up a hand to pause his men, listening to the sounds of revelry ahead from the bandits. Then he made a couple of quick gestures. Guts with the main party to strike. Griffith to loop around behind and fall upon any who tried to flee.

There would be no survivors. Griffith wanted this quick and merciless, and he had no need for tale-tellers to carry the story. The village would repeat the version of the story that Griffith wanted told.

He moved quickly with his smaller band of troops, circling around behind the bandit camp. They had no scouts, no defenses. This was barely worth the Hawks' notice. But it would do his men good to blood their swords, and to feel a sense of justice and heroism.

Taking up his position on the crest of a hill and waiting for Guts to strike, Griffith watched the greedy fools in the camp below. The worst kind of bandits, the kind who stole not out of desperation but out of entitlement, feasting while others went hungry.

[swordbiter]

Perhaps it spoke to Guts’ state of mind that he didn’t much care which enemy had been placed in front of him, so long as one was there. The enthusiasm of giving rotten men their due certainly helped when his Raiders were hungry and cold, however. They weave through the trees of the wild forest, successfully getting into position to begin the ambush.

A volley of crossbow bolts interrupts the bandits’ party, spilling the first pools of blood onto the newly fallen snow. The sounds of festive drinking is interrupted by cries of pain, sending confusion through the camp. The Raider charge follows soon after, with Guts at its head. Drawing his great sword, he engages with his first man, sending the massive blade clean through the leather and furs of his opponents. Between the wet sounds of splitting flesh and bone are sparks - metal on metal - like flashes of lightning in a thunderstorm. It’s been a while since he’s felt that same rush.

He cleaves a path through the bandits scrabbling for their weapons, leaving his flanks to be taken up by his subordinates. Thieves that chose easy prey weren’t much of a threat to a properly trained army - it is simply a matter of someone bothering to rout them out. Even then, there is something particularly ferocious about the way Raiders’ Captain dispatched his enemy - something notably violent in the how bodies are impaled and helmets are split open. It wasn’t just the constant training that left such a furrow in difference between now and the mercenary he was three years ago.

It was as if the weeks and months of chewing at the bit were finally allowed loose. For now, he didn’t have to think - only act.

[forakingdom]

They had a couple of pleasant weeks in the safety of the village, living off the bounty of what they'd taken from the bandits and what the villagers could spare. But there was a limit to that, and Griffith's band--even reduced as it was--was a heavy burden for any small town to bear.

Griffith kept their welcome warm for as long as he could, but there was a limit to even Griffith's charm. The soldiers were gruff and brash, even despite the calming and civilizing influences of both Griffith and Casca, and after the first two weeks the villagers grew distrustful of them, and angry with the flirtations and foul speech of the less civilized members of the band. But even that was ameliorated by Griffith's influence with the mayor's son. Their flirtation grew stronger, seeming almost like courtship, although Griffith kept putting off any kisses or promises, and he kept Guts in his bed. At first, excuses could be made for that, but soon enough the mayor's son grew impatient and jealous.

It ended with the mayor's son making public accusations about Griffith using Guts as his stud, which nearly devolved into a riot when the villagers picked up the opportunity to make angry rants about all the complaints they had toward the band. Griffith soothed the tempers and sent everyone to bed, but he made sure that they were packed and ready to move first thing in the morning, heading forth once more into the snow.

They had another couple of cold, awful nights in the forest, shivering in their tents, before they came upon the gatekeeper.

It seemed at first to be a child lost in the woods, crying and hungry, begging for help. Griffith wasn't about to pass that by, though the child was too young to fight and a mercenary band was no place for a child. He picked the child up anyway, setting the child in front of him on the horse and sparing a little food, though they were all already hungry.

As they continued after that, the child began to say that things looked familiar in the forest, and to point the way. Griffith noted that the child's story seemed to have changed, and they were now mentioning things like family and home where they had previously said abandoned and alone. And then they approached a glittering gate that seemed to have been wrought from sprays of ice, twisted and welded in ways that defied belief. The gates hung open, and lights beckoned them forward. Griffith drew up his horse, glancing over to Guts to get a second opinion on the situation.

[swordbiter]

After the first night in Griffith's bed, Guts had awoken with a splitting headache, which didn't leave him in the best mood. He had some memories of the feasting night before, of his own vulnerabilities and the way Griffith comforted him. It is difficult to forget that warm wave of emotion, even through the haze of brandy. He didn't talk about any of it.

Guts' sentiments with regards to the mayor's son wouldn't be brought up again, even as their courting and flirtation intensified. As Griffith did his best to smooth over relations, Guts had his and Cascas' backs. He was rough like much of the band, but he knew how to keep his Raiders in line. When soldiers get bored and comfortable is when trouble starts to rear in its head despite their best efforts, and he could see the deteriorating relationship long before the ridiculous accusations. Only a silencing gesture from Griffith could have kept him from telling their host to piss off that night - and the rest of the village for that matter, too.

The day they were set to leave didn't come as a surprise to him, and he dutifully supports the decision when the time comes. Guts didn't forget what Griffith told him about Doldrey - he would rather sleep in the cold than let that happen again. But as quickly as their luck made a turn for the worse it would eventually veer around yet again, and Guts found himself in front of the gate with Griffith.

"Seems like a trap. I would've left the kid and kept going," he says bluntly, though maybe it was the cold and the hunger speaking. The last time they stepped through some mystical gates it ended poorly for them, and Guts has been around enough cruel mercenary camps to know children were often used as lures. Why wouldn't demons do the same?

[forakingdom]

"At least a trap is an opportunity," Griffith points out. And at this point they don't have the leisure to overlook any opportunities. Even a trap means that someone has resources, which means a chance for Griffith to take those resources.

That was decision enough for him. His band was exhausted and might soon start dying off. Better a trap now while they still had any chance of resisting it. Their food was already scraped to the most meager quarter rations, and Griffith didn't want to find himself in a position to consider cannibalism.

He nudged his horse forward.

Almost as soon as they were through the gate, the forest seemed to unfurl in to a crystalline city. It was crafted from trees and ice, a winter fairyland glistening with snow and soaring up into turrets and finials in the forest canopy.

Petite, slender folk wearing white and green emerged from the houses, unarmed and looking curiously at their guests. The 'child' Griffith had rescued squirmed down from the horse, looking now like a petite adult rather than a child.

Bewildered but intrigued by this spectacle, Griffith rode forward boldly, looking all the more like a prince in a fairy tale now that he was surrounded by literal fairies. One figure advanced, taller than the rest and offering a speech of welcome and hospitality. Griffith glanced briefly at Guts again, to see if he had any additional insight on this probable trap, but they didn't have the leisure of looking their gift horse too closely in the mouth.

He made his quick calculations about holding back and making camp at the edge of the fairy city, trying to lay some grounds of protection, but all his ideas could not be maintained and threatened to insult their hosts. The best choice was to walk into the trap and hope that they could get back out again.

"Stay close," Griffith said to Guts, with a blithe little smile because he remembered all too well the last enchanted castle they'd entered.

[swordbiter]

The fairy kingdom was immaculate and utterly unreal to the weary eyes of a mercenary. It felt so distant, yet still had a hint of familiarity to Guts. One particular boyhood memory brushes up against his mind, though it took place in a dark and miserable dungeon. Up on his warhorse (even as lean as it was nowadays) the curious fairy folk looked non-threatening, and the ghost of spring flowers hovered in his senses. This is nothing like the demonic castle that trapped them before. He could feel it.

Unlike Griffith, Guts looks hopelessly out of place - much like the rest of the Band. A ragged, scarred, brutishly practical assortment of steel armor and leather, ugly human weaponry, and hungry eyes gone as soft as they could at the miraculous sights. Their appearance betrayed their vocation and all its unglorious, bloody strife. And at the head of it, behind their leader, was the intimidating form of Griffith's Captain. He looked even less inviting among the elegant, slender locals. If their hosts had wanted prey, they certainly picked a scrappy bunch.

“I think they're okay,“ he says, changing his tune. Guts still kept his horse one or two paces behind Griffith's with an eye on their guides, but his body is calm. He doesn't seem convinced he'll need to draw his sword today.

[forakingdom]

In the morning, everyone was accounted for, well rested, and happy. Griffith's paranoia receded like a tide, slow but steady, and by lunch time he was as cheerful as he'd ever been. Their hosts adored him, and he loved the pageantry and beauty of the fairy city. He spent a couple of days learning the city, playing with children, and attending banquets, but he always sought out Guts within an hour if they were ever separated.

When they were together, his touches were more frequent. Whether it was a brush of their shoulders or his fingertips on Guts' elbow, Griffith stayed close and often reached out to make sure that Guts was still solid.

He spent a late evening dancing and returned to their room exhausted, curling up against Guts' side and falling straight asleep.

On the second day, just past lunch, Griffith spotted a break in his schedule and sought out his captain, brushing his knuckles against Guts' forearm as he stepped close. "Guts, come with me, I want to go over some reports."

[swordbiter]

Something had changed in Guts, too, after their first night together. He'd always been closer to Griffith than the other Hawks - that was true since his enlistment, really - but he always had something of an independent streak in him. He never idolized Griffith the same way, even if he greatly admired him as a leader.

Something seemed to have softened in him, in moments where they were alone, or when Guts saw fit to playfully jab at him - verbally, for the most part. Griffith's touches would always come with a gentle reciprocation. A quiet reassurance from Guts that he was here, with him, and that he had nothing to worry about. It's as if some broken part of him had been allowed to mend, just a little, and it emerged more as Griffith's paranoia receded. He was calmer, too, content in a way that he couldn't quite place. He could even dare to say that he felt not simply satisfied, but happy, as they spent more time in the city.

Guts had been discussing plans with the lieutenants of his unit when he spots familiar silvery strands out of the corner of his eye. He still carried his sword everywhere with him, but he was out of his armor again. He wore it a lot less as time passed, since he'd been doing a lot more contemplating than fighting, nowadays. He dismisses his officers to follow Griffith instead.

"Did we get reports on the state of the food and drink?"

A joke - he still wasn't much of a partygoer, but he could see that this one had been popular with their men.

[forakingdom]

"The entire contents of the reports are a mere three words," Griffith responds, playful. His stride quickens as they climb the stairs and approach their room, and as soon as they're through Griffith swings the door shut and presses close against Guts' chest. "I want you."

His pulse surges as he says it, because even though they've both been in a good mood for the past two days, he's not sure if Guts was really comfortable with what they'd done together, or if he'll ever want to try it again. Griffith longs for him, and he can't bear another hour without finding out if Guts still feels the same.

[swordbiter]

Oh.

The fact that they'd been touchy doesn't protect Guts from the little flare of nervous excitement as Griffith's chest presses to his. How did he feel about this whole thing? Hell, he didn't even know. Not exactly. He just wanted to ride on the pleasant wave of emotion before it goes away, the same way he rode on a high after battle.

If Guts spoke he might have stammered at the sudden turn in conversation, but instead he manages to keep his composition by staring back silently. Mouth shut. Brain ticking. Processing way too damn hard on how to respond to such direct attention.

"...Right now?"

Does Griffith want to fuck?? He supposes the bed is right there.