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

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

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.

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“Likely not,” Griffith says, going to the balcony to take stock of the view and possible routes of emergency descent. He does spare a glance over at Guts, though, eyes slightly narrowed. “Are you teasing me?” He’s so proud, honestly.

“We’re outnumbered and we don’t have much choice but to accept their hospitality,” he states, coming back to the bedside and starting to strip off his layers. Despite the open doors of the balcony, the heat stays pooled inside the room. “I don’t know their nature, but I’ve never known any group to offer help without expecting anything in return, and I won’t be at ease until I know what that is.” Stripping down to just his shirt and trousers, both of which feel damp and grimy, Griffith regrets passing up the bath. “Why are you so at ease?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up at the question. He was most definitely teasing. Guts keeps his armor on, deciding he'll be the one to keep watch, and looks out to the city once Griffith strips down. Unlike him to pass on a good scrubbing, he thinks. Rarely did Guts see him muggy and uncomfortable. It was a good reminder that Griffith was just a man too, sometimes.

"I got a visit from one of 'em once. Long time ago. At least, I think it was them."

Guts still remembers the warm spot on his back where the fairy comforted him in the dark.

"Got pretty hurt while taken prisoner. Ended up in some nobleman's dungeon. She used up her energy to heal me, and we escaped."

All he could do was bring the flower spirit back to the others, as she wanted. Not the happiest ending, but her kindness was a rare thing to find in their world.

Edited 2019-07-19 15:45 (UTC)

"You think it was them," Griffith repeats, skeptical. But he's also exhausted, and he's already deeply at a disadvantage here. Griffith's walked his band into a trap where they're outnumbered and outmatched by magical foes of unknown intent, while his band is exhausted and starving. They don't have a chance. It weighs on him, exhaustive and painful, and Griffith doesn't know how to deal with it. There are no easy answers.

If it were only his own fate, he might be able to be blithe about it. But he's brought his men into this, and if he's misjudged or if they're just plain unlucky, then there's every chance that they'll all die here.

"Unless you're certain that these are the same or that friend of yours can vouch for you, I'll stay on my guard," Griffith says. There's no hurry, after all. If they don't die for a day or two, maybe then he can relax. Until then, Griffith goes to the balcony, crossing his arms and looking out over the city. He's exhausted enough to collapse, but he doesn't care. "Get some rest. I'll keep watch."

“Is that an order?”

Guts leans forward on the edge of the balcony, taking in the odd, spiraling sights strewn out in front of them. The curving, icy forms of the faeries’ wonderland stood in sharp contrast with the stone fortresses and wooden inns of the human world. The alert fascination in his eyes was signal enough that he wasn’t tired enough to consider sleep. Or maybe that he made a habit of staying up late looking at the stars.

He glances at Griffith out of the corner of his eye, curious. It wasn’t like him to let his paranoia break his composure. Although it wasn’t obvious, Guts could see the weariness in his eyes and the travel’s wear on his skin and clothes. A washing could really do him some good.

“Ain’t gonna be much of a watch if you keep pushin’ yourself when you don’t have to.”

Griffith peers at him. It still seems strange that Guts is advocating trust and relaxation, though he doesn't otherwise seem ensorceled. Griffith wants to relax and accept this hospitality (and, most of all, that bath), but he can't quite let himself do it.

"Advise me," Griffith commands, providing it as a compromise for the both of them. Guts can advise him to stand down and Griffith can decide to accept his advice, leaving the responsibility for the decision somewhere between them. He's so tired. He wants to yield, and to trust himself to Guts for a brief stretch of time.

His knowing grin widens, in that daring way he sometimes did before becoming the tip of Griffith's spear in battle. Even the White Hawk could use advice, sometimes.

"First, you should go get that elf to lead you back to the baths and clean up. Even if I'm wrong, least we could do is be damn comfortable before we die. After the way this Winter's been, you could do that much. Once you're done with that, maybe you'll change your mind."

A hand reaches to grip the long hilt of his sword.

"Plus, I still got my armor and weapons on. Makes more sense if I keep guard first."

Griffith trusts Guts and his judgement, and it helps him now to relax into that trust, since he knows that his paranoia isn't likely to help anyone now. Much of the tension drops from Griffith, though he's still exhausted.

"Too bad you're going to have to take off that armor for the bath," Griffith says, light and playful now. He stretches his arms above his head, pushing his worries to the back of his mind and laying a hand on the doorknob. "Come on."

He'd rather have Guts at his side, no matter where they are, and he's not going to be so absurd as to insist that Guts stand by and watch while Griffith relaxes. So they're going to the baths, and Guts is going to join him. Griffith has made a decision.

The baths turn out to be underground, in a series of interconnected stone grottoes heated by an underground spring. Their hosts lead them to one where candles are lit and an array of little soaps and oils rest on a tray nearby. Griffith laughs with delight at the wonder of it, thanking their guide cordially before stripping out of his remaining clothes and stepping into the warm water.

Guts is a little confused by how easily the tension left Griffith at his mere suggestion. He expected a little more hesitation before deciding to leave the room.

"Uh," I am? he thinks," - Okay. Sure."

He follows Griffith and their guide down to the warm depths below. In the grip of icy winter, the hot springs seemed absolutely divine, though Guts doesn't join in right away. His boots find puddles of warm water beneath them, and he watches passively as his leader disrobes to try the water.

The creases of his brows ease and soften at seeing Griffith laugh and enjoy himself a little. So often he let his burdens hide this part of him, especially in times like these, that it was nice to see the little luxuries ease his spirits after the hard season they'd been through.

"You sure you don't want me to keep watch?"

He knew if he had his sword, he'd be fine, but...

"Are you modifying your counsel?" Griffith asks in reply, lifting his brows as if in innocent surprise at this. If Guts would prefer to advise a measure of retained wariness, Griffith will accept it, but as long as Griffith has let down his defenses this much, he doesn't see a point in retaining some last vestiges of paranoia. Not when he'd so much rather see Guts naked and clean.

"Strip or I'm going to start splashing you," Griffith warns, striking up a few playful little waves that don't reach past the rim of the pool. Warning strikes only, meant to invite Guts closer. Griffith absolutely doesn't want to wet Guts' clothes and armor if he doesn't have to, not if they do end up having to leave here in a hurry, and not if it causes extra work in polishing and oiling the armor later to keep off rust.

"Whatever you say," he remarks with amusement.

Guts begins to unclasp his pauldrons and breastplate, removing the rough, riveted metal from his body and setting it onto his outstretched cape, protecting them from the humid pools by wrapping them up in the cloth. His sword, too was bundled up and left close by. It is a bit of a process, unstrapping it all - but he eventually manages to strip down to his clothes, and eventually to his bare skin.

Three years ago the thought of leisurely bathing with Griffith would have taken a lot more coaxing. Nowadays, after all that they'd been through the last few months, he didn't quite mind as much. Guts didn't look the type, but he actually did make an effort to keep himself clean whenever their mercenary's life allowed it.

"So which one of these do we use?"

Guts kneels down next to the soaps, picking it up to get a whiff of the strange scents. They were nothing like the lavender and honey-scented things you could find in a human village. The soaps and oils were as fantastical as the city itself.

Griffith luxuriates in the water while he enjoys the view of Guts stripping. Soldier that he is, Griffith appreciates care for armor, and the process of removing it is deeply attractive and appealing, a specific kind of exposure and vulnerability that entices Griffith more than it might entice a peace-abiding man.

He chooses one of the oils that he likes the smell of and spills a little of it into the water. It diffuses across the water, clinging to his skin and making him feel soft and smooth wherever it touches. Griffith likes the result, so he adds a little more, then dips down to wet his hair.

"Whichever ones you like the scent of," Griffith instructs, resting his arms on the side of the pool as he considers the array. "I think these ones are soaps to get you clean and these ones are oils and lotions for afterward to make you soft and nice-smelling. And these ones make the water smell nice." That's about the limit of his expertise. He's probably wrong about half of that.

Picking one that he likes the smell of and that seems like a pretty straightforward soap, Griffith pours some of it into his hand, scrubbing it over his skin to strip away the sweat and grime. It works as expected, so he indicates it to Guts. "This one's soap."

He gets a whiff of the one Griffith picked, taking in the scent. A pleasant floral mix of sweet and pungent that could easily be mistaken for one of the oils, had Griffith not tested it on himself.

"Smells like springtime."

Guts thinks of the flower fields he wandered when he was younger and alone. The cusp of spring and summer, where the blooms were at their most bright and colorful before the hot weather made them wilt away. A brief moment of beauty.

He decides that'll be the one he uses, too. It's soap. It cleans. That's why they were there. And so, with the pearlescent bottle of soap in hand, he takes his first steps into the pool, letting the heat ease up his legs. It begins to melt away the remaining licks of frost and mud and sweat of the cold outside. He can't help but exhale as the tension leaves his body. Sinking chest deep into the hot bath is easily the most relaxed Guts had looked that winter - and the furthest he's allowed his sword to sit away from him.

"It's nice," he says, eyes closed,"This is nice..."

It was nice to see Guts resting for once, and Griffith admired the view, smile soft and fond.

“I’ll do your hair,” he offered, sending a shallow, playful splash of warning in Guts’ direction as he approached. He touched gently and carefully, making sure that Guts wasn’t going to lash out. After an initial exploratory caress, he poured some more of the soap into his hands and started to massage it into Guts’ scalp. “Tip your head back so you don’t get any in your eyes,” Griffith advised, cradling Guts’ skull in his hands as he guided him to tilt it back a little.

The soap foamed and sparkled in Guts’ hair, and Griffith laughed at the fully lathered result. “You look like a fairy king,” he teased, planting a soft kiss on Guts’ lips before releasing him. “Rinse.”

Guts finds himself melting into Griffith's hands. The fingers running through his hair were patient and careful and tender - exactly the way they needed to let Guts keep his guard lowered and relaxed. He pliantly allows Griffith to lose the short, rough tufts of hair into the foaming soap. He rests his head back with the ease of a hound willfully showing its soft belly. As close as he had gotten with the Hawks, rarely did he let himself be vulnerable in someone else's hands like this.

But nothing could quite prepare him for the most intimate gesture of all. Surprisingly even to Guts, the kiss doesn't bring offense. He sits up, little bubbles of soap beginning to run down his face as he avoids the rinsing to look back at Griffith.

"Wait - hold on. What's that about?"

"I wanted to kiss you," Griffith explains lightly, as if it's nothing strange at all. He doesn't want Guts to spook or to back away, and he doesn't want there to be any pressure with the kiss. It doesn't have to happen again, if Guts isn't comfortable with it, but Griffith prefers to act like it's something so small as to be barely worth the notice. An irrepressible gesture of affection that Griffith only displays toward Guts, and only when they're alone. Nothing so strange about that.

Giving Guts a fond, patient smile, Griffith taps his nose in playful reprimand. "Rinse."

"Hold on - ", Guts starts, before his eyes begin to sting from the soap. It's a bit silly, perhaps, the way a little soap makes his mouth curl up in irritation when he's been dealt with far worse pain. It does get Guts to finally dunk his head in the water and vigorously rinse it out, until all that is left is the pitch black strands flattened over his brows.

"Don't act like nothin' happened,"he says, spitting some of the water out. His voice was loud - but it wasn't angry. It was born from a more complicated well of emotion than that, trying to parse out friendship and whatever this was.

"Why? Why me?"

Edited 2019-07-27 01:49 (UTC)

Guts is stuck on this, so Griffith needs to make it clearer for him. "You're mine," he explains, with an innocent blink as though that explains everything.

Maybe not much clearer.

Turning his back, Griffith glances back over his shoulder. "Scrub my back for me?"

He's not sure if this will make things any clearer for Guts, but he wants his back scrubbed and he wants Guts' hands on him, so this seems like the clear course of action.

"Quit with all the cryptic crap and I'll think about it."

Guts looks back at him, brows furrowed and arms crossed in that same stubborn way he looked when Griffith first extended his offer to join the ranks of the Hawks.

Three years... There is a lot Guts has readily accepted from Griffith, no questions asked. Griffith was their leader - he had the plans - Guts accepted the role as his subordinate when it came to their profession. Even if he didn't always perfectly follow orders, he trusted Griffith enough to follow his dream and kill for him.

This, on the other hand, was personal in a way Guts couldn't just leave be.

Griffith turns to face him again, face open and guileless as ever, though Guts will have learned by now that that means nothing.

Cutting the cryptic crap was not something that Griffith had ever been very good at. His untouchable demeanor had always been his greatest defense, and he was loath to surrender it, even for Guts.

"If you don't like it, I won't do it again," Griffith says, as casual about it as though they're quarreling over what kind of fruit to purchase in the market. His eyes are serene and distant, emotions locked up tight behind a thousand foot wall.

"If I was pissed about that I wouldn't just be askin' a question," he snaps back, frustrated that the wall is what was staring back at him. He knows that look - it can be reassuring and alluring to a lost soul, it was alluring to him for a time. Now, however, Guts has seen and known too much of Griffith to accept it. Not here.

"I need to know what the hell it is we're doing here."

He stands up in the water, tense with emotion.

"What is it you're looking for, Griffith? What do you want?"

Griffith doesn't know what to do with those questions. He doesn't know what it is that they're doing here. What he wants has been so simple for so long, but Guts' presence consistently muddies his certainty.

He wants Guts near him. He wants Guts to desire him with such a strength that Guts will never leave him.

Anything more specific than that makes his mind blur with panic and doubt.

"We're taking a bath," Griffith says, almost stupidly, keeping himself distant because it's that or panic. "What do you want me to say? I wanted to kiss you. If you don't want to be kissed, you can just say so."

He turns to the bottles again, selecting one and beginning to massage it through his hair.

There's a part of him wrought with a terrible fear that his worst thoughts about himself were true. A thought that sent his nails digging into his palms until red, stinging crescents formed there. Dreadful thoughts about how someone like Griffith might really think about a mongrel as lost as he was. That none of this was more than a greater man with loftier goals and his useful, bloodthirsty play-thing.

Guts reaches forward to clasp one of Griffith's hands, offering a gentle gesture to keep those thoughts at bay. The grasp is firm only to catch his attention - should Griffith pull away, Guts wouldn't stop him.

"I want you to tell me what you're feeling. It doesn't have to make sense."

Griffith doesn't pull away from the touch. Guts is allowed to touch him. He's the only one who's allowed to touch him, and Griffith trusts him so much that he doesn't question any touch.

The demand is harder, though, and Griffith glances over, wariness held behind his pale eyes.

What he's feeling? He doesn't feel things. He's only logic and ambition. Goal, plan, action. There's no space for sentiment in his heart.

"Are you afraid it's only because you're convenient?" Griffith asks, coolly. He continues combing the cream through his hair one-handed, allowing Guts to keep possession of the one he's claimed. His eyes gaze across the room, unfocused. "I can't say it's not. There's no one else I'd consider. You are my greatest soldier, my finest commander. I don't trust anyone else enough to desire them."

Guts is quiet for a long moment, letting some of the sting from the admission ease off. Griffith kept avoiding his eyes as he spoke. Even though the words spoke exactly to his fears, they still didn't quite ring true.

"And when the war's over? What then?"

His eyes bore ahead to Griffith, vulnerable yet undoubtedly intense. It isn't like Guts to discuss the future like that - but Griffith made him think about his own future in a way no one else did. He didn't quite have an answer for himself. If Griffith truly saw this all as mere convenience, he'd prefer to take the hit now rather than entertain any further delusions. He's long since learned that those belonged nowhere near a battlefield.

"The war?" Griffith asks it distantly, dispassionately, as though he's forgotten there is a war. The war is only a tool for him, a pathway to where he means to go. "Another war."

It's the wrong question, so Griffith takes a little bit of mercy and corrects it for him. "You want to know what use I'll have for you when I'm a king. Kings need armies, and generals. You will always be my best." You will always be mine.

He continues playing with his hair. It's that or look at Guts, and he's wary of the sentiment involved in the latter. But he still doesn't take his hand away from Guts.

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