Chapter Text
Throbbing bodies and pulsating flesh.
In the moment of decision, time slows down. He can feel each second as it passes. Surrounding him, as loud as an orchestra, is the sound of suffering and despair. Flesh and bones swarming, rivers of blood pooling and the distant but unforgettable sound of human screaming. It is familiar to him and a reminder of the cell he had been freed from.
He can feel his skin taut and thin, the agony of his joints and unhealed wounds.
Ahead of him, Demons loom. The world glows red below the endless blood moon.
Had he ever truly been in control of his destiny? Was this always the path he was destined to take? All the battles and victories and defeats; had they been decided before he had ever conceived of them as an idea?
He hugged his bony and mangled arms to his body, his mind dwarfed by the enormity of his understanding. And his memory showed an absence. An absence of grace. His life had been touched now by the taint of demon's more than once. Yet he could not remember the presence of its antithesis. Where was the glory of God? The mercy of light and faith? If it was absent, did it mean that it did not exist?
He could feel that this conclusion was wrong. The very scenery around him told him that this must be wrong. In a place so filled with evil, it was only natural that its opposite must exist. The world among all else demanded balance.
If he accepted its existence, he must also accept that there was more than one path ahead of him. He could fall into his anger and rage... Or, he could forgive.
He stilled, his eyes welling with tears. The terror in his heart draining and refilling with a new fear. The fear of rejection. Of accepting those around him as they are... As equals to him...
The sound of flesh being torn and a piercing, deep and guttural cry.
"GRIFFITH!"
He lifted his head, the pain blossoming from his wounds at the small movement. Forcing his way through flesh and bones was Guts. His neck bulged with roping veins as he lashed at the wall of viscera again and again. A part of him, the part that felt he deserved his fate, almost wished that Guts wouldn't reach him. Just so he could have one more moment to wallow in his misery.
With a strangled roar, Guts tore through the last of the tendons and flesh, pushing the remaining draped organic material aside like a curtain. He felt his heat stop.
"Griffith! Hang on! I'm coming!"
Griffith wanted to scream at him. Hang on to what? He was untouched in his present position. Was he asking instead for him to hold onto his sanity? It was far too late for that.
The tall and burly man dashed from the opening, sliding to a stop in front of him. He could see the blood and wounds on him. Guts was breathing heavily, his eyes wide and panicked.
He wanted to glare at him. Glare at him for leaving. For pretending he was loyal all those years. For forgetting him in the dark basement of hell while he was out finding himself. He wanted to glare at him for being the only thing that kept him alive and breathing in his dungeon. For being the chosen hallucination that had told him to keep breathing. For being the safe memories he had retreated to when the night had become silent and still and he had been alone and untouched.
A booming and seductive voice echoed, "How sweet. A last ditch effort by the handsome right hand man."
Another voice, removed of femininity, "An admirable effort but a needless one."
"Shut up!" Roared Guts.
Griffith almost wanted to smile. Guts certainly had bravery. Not everyone would have the backbone to stand up to a group of Demons.
"It hardly matters," said the beautiful winged demon, "your fate, and those of your comrades, has already been sealed. We have laid far too much groundwork to let someone like you change the course of history."
"You act like a decision has already been made. But I haven't heard a damn thing come out of Griffith yet. So until then, you'll have to get through me first."
Guts, with only a dagger in his hand, positioned himself over him. He could only stare up at the man, wondering at what compelled him to continue to believe in his decision making.
The winged woman smirked, "A decision must be made but we are hardly concerned of what that will be. We are merely holding a mirror to his consciousness and allowing him to witness his reflection. He has already stacked the cobblestones to reach the castle in the sky. That was and always has been his destiny."
Griffith felt his heart twist. Her words were true. He had trodden over countless souls to achieve his dreams. He had laughed in the face of death and taunted his enemies without regard. Since his first view of the castle in the sky, he had followed a path deeply etched into his whole being. Who was he to refuse it?
"The man I know would rather die than live his life for no reason other than he was born to it."
Griffith felt his heart still and his eyes widen. He gazed up at his loyal companion, his mind flying back to a night under the stars.
In a flash, he could see all futures. The future where he gave into darkness and despair. Where writhing bodies fueled his hunger to new heights and he stood alone but powerful atop the world. Yet another future, where he sat without conviction and ambition in front of Casca, his life calm but meaningless. And hazy but growing ever more defined, a third path. A path where his anger at being manipulated by dark powers fueled his purpose and made him finally and completely whole.
He clenched his first, his weak and bony fingers aching at the effort.
He had made his choice.
Raising his shaky and feeble arms, he gently opened the helmet that had been his only retreat for a year. Removing it completely, he knew that his face would be horrifying to witness. Half of his cheek flayed, an eyelid removed and his scalp matted with limp strands of dirty hair and numerous scaly bald patches.
Guts stepped aside slightly, his body still tense and at the ready. With the small change in movement, Griffith could now see clearly the row of Demons that awaited his answer.
He knew that anything but complete acceptance of his fate could lead to the death of not just himself but of his entire band. There was no guarantee that they would return from the dimension they had been thrust into. With all choices, the likelihood of blood on his hands was high.
The air stilled, as time and space paused for him alone.
"No."
The demonic faces twisted, pure anger and rage dripping from their every fibre. A roar, powerful and angry, ripped from the throat of all dark entities in attendance.
A figure appeared, seeming woven from the cosmos into the tapestry of the moment.
A skeleton of impossible stature, astride a dark steed. In one hand, a mighty and great spear, its gold tip shimmering in the red tinged night. With a great heave, the skeletal man thrust the spear's base into the ground of flesh and defilement. At its contact, a great explosion of thundering wind and change erupting all around. The sky, once a blanket of wailing souls, appeared to be torn apart at the seams, shuddering in a great catastrophic surge as it dissipated.
Where the rider had appeared from, he didn't know. But in one act of strength, he had started the shattering of the dimension.
The demons, once gracefully and comfortably awaiting their King to rise, shrieked with rage, their bodies seared by the wind that seemed to tear at their spoiled flesh with savagery. The howls of minor demons rose to join them, the wind tearing at them as well.
In the chaos of the moment, Griffith could only curl in on himself. He felt proud of his choice, fleetingly amused at seeing the rug being pulled out from beneath the horrid creatures. Whether his choice would kill them all remained to be seen. But he finally felt he could die satisfied at his last act of defiance.
Strong arms embraced him. He looked up, his vision obscured by his hair as it whipped across his face. There was no question though. It was Guts.
He felt his heart break. Or perhaps, it healed. To him, both felt so intertwined in the moment that he couldn't separate them. In these final moments, the only one who had ever worked their way into his heart was with him. He rested his head on the chest of the man, allowing himself to be shielded from the world. Guts wrapped an arm around his head, covering him even more completely from the whirlwind that surrounded them.
"I've got you, Griffith."
His mouth, so close to Griffiths's torn and mangled ear, whispered the words. But he could hear them above the roar of the dimension being broken around them. The feeling of his hot breath on his skin, after so long being deprived of all human contact, sent shivers down his spine.
Despite his broken body, he could feel his mind quiet. He let go of his thoughts and allowed himself to feel the strength of the arms around him. Through the rot and decay, he could pick up the faint scent of Guts. Of earth and skin and warmth. Lifting a scarred arm, he pulled himself closer to the man, until he could almost place his lips on the skin of his chest. He felt the man squeeze back in return, both huddled together as they awaited their fate.
Similar to the rush of a stampede past them, the wind increased. It pushed against their bodies, lashing at what little clothes and bandages protected them. And then, sunlight streamed through his eyelid. He squeezed his eyes shut, pushing his face into Guts chest so that torn eyelid didn't betray him.
As the wind lashed them, he felt his body groan. Something was happening to him and felt like it was bursting from within him. He felt like a glowing ember, burning from the inside. A cry wrenched itself from his lips and the burning increased, the pain blossoming itself across every surface of his body. The heat seemed to be just within him, as Guts had yet to remove his arms and was instead, gripping him tighter at the sound of his pained wail.
He dug his fingers into the other man's skin, unable to control the force he clung on with. He was roasting and boiling and steaming all at once. He felt his mind struggle to grasp the depths of pain that had suddenly and without warning overcome him.
And then... The roaring of the wind faded. And the pain, like a pot of water taken off the fire, slowly faded. He released his grip somewhat, his hands shaking and vibrating.
Against his legs, he felt something akin to grass. And stones and pebbles. The sound of birds singing and wind gently moving the surface of water.
Guts' unfurled his embrace, and Griffith raised his head just slightly. Enough to look up at the man. He saw in Guts face stress, weariness and relief. He could see tears form around his eyes as he looked down at him and then gently placed his forehead on his. Just inches from each other, Griffith could almost fall into the man's eyes.
With a level of gentleness he had hardly seen with the man, Guts lifted Griffiths hand, turning it over in the sunlight.
His broken and mangled hand had been healed. Healthy and strong fingernails showed on each digit, with no scars littering the skin of his palm.
He looked down, gasping at the healthy body that he saw. Raising a hand to his head, he ran his hand through locks of hair that spilled around his shoulders as they once had years ago.
The snorting of a horse nearby and the sound of leather and clasps. Startled, Guts and Griffith both snapped their eyes to the figure that remained, spear by its side, watching passively.
With their attention now grabbed, the skeletal man spoke, "Your choice now made and your body now mended. The age of twilight has been diverted. Though through the tear in space, Demons will pass. It is you," he lifted his spear and pointed at Griffith, "who will vanquish these foul beasts. Journey your own path and return the world to grace. Power within you stands now untouched until darkness you meet."
The man and beast, now strange in the daylight, stepped back once. Their forms disintegrating into thousands of glinting shards, like dust caught in a beam of light. Soon, the space near them was empty, no sign of the horse and rider remaining.
Griffith knew there was only so long that he could stay wrapped within Guts arms. But he was suddenly and alarmingly exhausted. He felt as if he had fought an army and then risen and repeated the battle again. The feeling had hit him without notice and he wondered absently whether it was the aftermath of his healing. He supposed that such a quick repair had taken all of his strength. Not to mention that he had not eaten since before his escape from the tower.
He considered whether he should feel embarrassed that he was half naked, wrapped in the arms of another man. But with the tiredness washing over him in waves, he instead laid his head once more on Guts upper chest, yawned and closed his eyes.