Chapter Text
As brightly the dream shines, it burns.
Tasting the metal resting on your tongue, you knew that if you look back to the path you've paved to achieve a dream, you would be greeted by a mountain of corpses— their bloody bodies are a mere second thought for you to step on. Against the tip of your swords, only did you decide how their death would be chosen.
Bearing a weight of the sword is a soldier's duty, to protect and to conquer. A double edged sword in saving others and killing the latter. Truthfully, this only benefits the nobles who wear their riches on their sleeve and drink dirty wine rather than the poor who are yet to live another day. A swipe of blood in a war's battlefield does not worth more than the food upon the riches' table.
So you dreamt. Avenging those who are exploited, used and abused.
You dreamt. And dreamt.
The bloodbath you created fills more than the castle's ballroom.
You dreamt. And it burns.
The warmth engulfed you, grasping your icy figure with their flames and endlessly tugging towards what is left of your flesh. Leaving marks that will stay. Once it clings, it would never let go— yet you allow the sensation, because for once in your life, you feel the indescribable and its flames is what makes you feel alive.
Ironic how this situation turns out.
You did not scream, it isn't painful enough for your voice to be heard. Wasting such a vocal when the situation is predictable. Screams brought you back to the battlefield, to the camp, and to the cobblestone alley.
To the spaces of home that never once brought comfort.
Closing your eyes, you are afraid that you'll wake up soon. To another unfamiliar place that only seeks danger, to where hostility lurks wherever you go. To another unwelcome pair of hands tending to your wounds. It is too late to realize how difficult it is for another thing to be called home, where there is nothing but comfort and peace.
Where the burn brings pain, it brings peace also.
He was a flame that you watch flickering under the moonlight, when the air is frigid— to bring warmth.
A flame awaiting to swallow you. His words hissing a charm to influence you, to have you by his side through the years together as children and young adults.
Though, the bonfire dwindles easily when the air is too cold.
It screams for you. Only you.
Yet you watch it slowly die.
“That should have killed her,” A groveling voice echoes throughout the chambers, you hear heaving and endless panting from a group of men. Their swords cluttering against the ground, you hear their laughter as they tossed a dried torch to the grassy meadows, talking amongst themselves in victory.
The smell of charcoal on your skin dives to your nose. The smell is atrocious and how these men chatter near the burning building is shocking to you. They continue to celebrate, patting themselves on the back while you lay in the ground, debris over your body.
Engulfed by flames. Spreading on your skin.
You like to think you are to be greeted by a white light, heavens above awaiting for you. However, your only remaining eye sees the burning hell that these men caused, to kill you.
He should have known better than to send these men.
Their screams follow afterwards, blood bathing in the meadows.
======
"So, what do you think?"
You stare at the boy sleeping soundlessly at your feet, then glances at the huge sword on Griffith's grip.
"This isn't what I thought when you said that you intended to scout him," Crossing your arms, you softly kick the boy's head in an attempt to receive a response. His slumber remains. You sighed, "Just how hard did you hit him? He would certainly try to kill you after this."
Griffith shrugs, seemingly proud as if he picks up a cute pup, "It was necessary especially when he was creating a catastrophe."
"A catastrophe Corkus started," Casca, standing at the corner, intervened with a begrudging look. She seems unpleasant at the young man's arrival, especially tucked within a valuable tent. If looks could kill, his slumber would be endless.
"Either way, we got him where we wanted," Griffith glances back at you, for approval.
"I just got back from the market yet I have come back to a boy sleeping because you ambushed him," Referring to the bag in your grasp, you didn't think Griffith would scout the boy this early— especially after the tournament. Even when Corkus started this, you could tell that it was in Griffith's intentions to sore the boy from fatigue and send the final blow in hopes of sending him unconscious.
You both stared, silence sinking in until you spoke, "A pat on the back is what you were hoping to receive from me?"
Almost childlike, Griffith smiles, "You could have seen him back at the tournament. He defeated Bazuso with—" He shows the sword, "This. It is almost as tall as you are, if not, taller."
The sword is tall, nearly standing in higher inches than you. Your reflection shines through the blade as you examine the weapon, the work is precise and perfectly executed. You wonder who is the workmanship behind this rather than the wielder. At the corner of your eye, Griffith's smile widens at your awed reaction.
"Hold this," Did not spare a second to hand the groceries at Griffith to carry the sword in your hands. Its image did not deceive as you nearly tripped on your feet upon holding the sword.
"Be careful," Casca appears at your side, ready to take the sword from your grasp.
"I could not properly swing this through," You admit, its weight does not allow for you to swing accurately as other swords would. In comprehending this, this can only be best suited for the physically fit who could endure this massive weight— especially to its user who is currently unconscious near your feet.
"Seeing how much strength you possess, it is incredible that even you could not utilize it correctly," Griffith analyzes you with calculated eyes and scratches his chin, "So, again, what do you think of him?"
Placing the sword down as its tip rests against the dirt, you place a hand on your hip and hum in deep thought, "Well, this is the same guy who defeated Bazuso, right? Though, I doubt he would accept the offer after you put him to sleep."
Casca intervenes with an aggravated look, "You're actually considering him? He is quite barbaric from what I have seen."
"All men are barbaric," You nudge the unconscious boy with the tip of his sword, "Especially when this one is carrying a big ass sword."
"Like you said," Casca defends, "He will try to kill Griffith after he wakes up."
"I mean, who wouldn't?" You shrug, ignoring the slight pout Griffith gives you and the shock morphing in Casca's face at the statement.
Sighing, you swipe a strand of hair from framing your face. In an attempt to assure her, you place a hand on her shoulder, "Casca, no one is killing anyone. If it comes to worst, I will intervene. I am rather curious in witnessing this kid's potential, he could be a great addition to the group just like you are."
Her shoulder relaxes, easing any discomfort and a warm hue spreads across her cheeks, "Alright, but do not expect me to sit idly when he will attack the camp. "
"Of course," You pat her shoulder and turn to Griffith who is watching the interaction, "Are you certain about this?"
Griffith smiles, almost softly, "I am."
You ignore how his eyes shine ever so brightly even under the shades of a small tent. Rarely does he express his fruition in scouting a young man under his wing, specifically on the watchful eyes of his comrades and the analyzing glares from every enemy. It reminds you when you both were very young, though, his child-like nature barely disperse over time.
Glancing down at the unconscious boy below you, you now take heed of how awfully fitted he is for his age.
"Casca, guard this tent until he wakes up. Make sure our men do not enter near this area." With your order, Casca straightens herself and nods.
"Actually," Piqued Griffith, you both stared at one another for a moment, "I was going to assign her a task."
Confused, you and Casca glanced at each other, "What is it?"
Without a second thought, he adds, "Since you are a woman, you could warm his icy body while he sleeps."
Silence blankets between the three.
"Casca," You turn to her, voice radiating with sheer commandment and hint of anger, "I give you the permission to punch Griffith in the stomach."
You wish she could have punched harder.
======
When the kid wakes up, he bombarded Griffith with insults and accusations. Griffith does not blink an eye at the allegation nor turn them back against the young boy. Instead, he spoke of his potential and the sword belongs to him. The guest barely tolerates the interaction thus leading them to a duel to a small scree where Griffith leads them.
The kid— Guts, as he called himself, looks more ready to kill his opponent and the fierce reflection of his eyes reminds you of the men in your hometown.
"Are you sure we shouldn't intervene?" Judeau asks in concern for his leader, seeing how this duel leads to a fistfight down to the scree.
"It's Griffith's orders." respond Casca.
When they turn to you for orders, you shrug, "I'm observing how well this kid fights and see if Griffith's fist fighting is improving."
When Guts mocks him that Griffith lacks experience in fist fighting, your eyes widen when Griffith pulls a stunt in locking Guts' arm— a stunt you taught him years ago, years before Casca's arrival.
Smiling softly, he didn't forget.
After the duel, Griffith claims his victory and momentarily, you are weirded by his commentary in scouting Guts as one of the mercenaries. You belong to me. It replays within your mind like a broken player and stays to the side in silence while the men bellow in having a new member.
You are mine. It is a vague memory that you cannot fully remember.
"So, what do you think?"
Griffith walks to you, sweat gathering his brows.
"You remember," Smiling playfully, you cross your arms and nudge his shoulder.
He seems to process what you have said, his eyes widen and pupil dilated before closing his eyes and chuckles. You swore younger Griffith is seeping through him when he looks at you, ever so softly and child-like, "Well, I do happen to have a reliable teacher."
His silver hair glaringly gleams under the soft rays of the sun, swaying through the wind. Through these years, he keeps his hair long as it is. Many refer to him as an angel descending from the heavens to save them from eternal suffering. They cling to him. Offer to him. Ready to take a piece of him.
Though, both of you know that he only willingly gives himself to you.
He clings to you, nails digging to your skin.
Suddenly, the sun feels too warm.
"He could help us," Griffin's voice snaps you from your thoughts and you both watch the small crowd surrounding Guts from afar. Their faint cheers remain in your ears until they mellow down due to Casca's demands. Griffith turns to you, clasping your hand with his, "They will help us achieve our dream."
You sadly chuckle, "Your dream."
"After we get my kingdom, you shall go find your sister," He states, ignoring the small flickering in his eyes when he mentions your sister— as if he is hesitant. He fully wraps his hand over yours, "Imagine the possibility you have in saving your sister when we obtain a kingdom. Possibly supporters and an army against your family."
"Slightly too far stretched, Griffy."
"It has a nice ring to it, does it not?"
"It seems you have faith in him."
"I have faith in all of us," He squeezes your hand, "In you."
You squeeze back, "I think that's great."
It burns.
======
When the priest receives the news, he is more than elated.
In writing a letter, the priest expresses his gratitude for taking a part in the final act of hunting down the witch. Moreover, the coins that come in succeeding it. The priest is willing to cut down all entities that defies God. Demons and witches have no business in walking down the realm that He created.
It is only fair that this comes with a hefty amount of money, after all.
The priest scribbles his words on the podium. The church is empty; the hours of ceremonies have gone by and nuns have already departed an hour ago.
He remembers complying to them that he has an important task to finish, one is obligated and left out the recompense of killing a witch. An entity that defies humankind.
The priest smiles, not a kind image.
Until a wave of wind passes by, almost cluttering the wooden doors like a knock.
He flinches, the hairs at the back of his neck grow instantly and silence lingers across the church. Eyebrows furrowed, the priest peers over the aisle in hopes to find no one and ignores the relentless beating of his heart.
The priest gulps, "Who's there?"
Upon receiving no response, he starts to deflate and reasons with the sleepless nights that is enough to startle him under the moonless night. He continues writing down the parchment with quick movements, aiming to leave as soon as he is done with the letter. They must be informed and heaven knows how long they have been waiting for his response.
There is a click on the floor. And his blood runs cold.
"Answer me!" His voice fails to be stern with anger, it comes out a plea of terror, "Demon! Witch! Show yourselves!"
He is about to flee from the podium until a silhouette appears at the end of the aisle. Dragging along two swords that are nearly their height.
"Oh God," What appears before him has his blood pumping with fear, eyes wide with fingers quivering and gripping the parchment to his chest. He believes Death is before him, knocking down his door to take his life.
This scarred creature is no more less than human. Not when there is nothing resembling humanity in her eyes. Her presence alone shakes nature in its core and the walls come tumbling down in fear.
You.
"He sent you, didn't he?" Your voice hoarse with no emotion, only staring straight ahead at the priest.
The priest should flee, however his feet stay behind the podium. Each step he takes, you come closer until his back is pressed against the wall and there you stand before the podium as if speaking of your sins comes with liberty from your own chains.
Suppose a church is nothing for a man to be taken granted when the faith runs out
"I'm afraid I don't know what you are speaking of," He answers with a shaking breath. A futile attempt to answer. Nonetheless, a lie is a cover up from the truth.
So, you nod. Your hair frames the scars on your face but the ones on your arms laid bare, "A lie from the priest? I can see why God abandoned you."
"No!" His voice echoes through the church, fingers clenching around the letter and other hand clasping on the wall as if to give a sense of reality that this is truly happening before him. Death herself is presenting before him. He cries, "I have been working endlessly in the name of God! Hence, I choose to murder a demon like you! A plague amongst this land!"
You click your tongue, hands gripping on the hilt of the sword, "The only plague amongst here is people like you. Do some fucked up shit and expect something grand in the finish line."
He sneers at you, "You dare speak of that in the house of God."
Suddenly, his throat squeezes and his parchment drops. Soon he is on the floor. But you remain still where you stand, watching him with a single eye. Blood seeping through his nose and mouth, his face morphs into a hue of purple. His vision becomes a blur and the world is spinning around him.
Through desperation, he tries to reach the parchment to rip it out so you cannot read the contents. However, his strength is no more than a twig. He fails.
Faint footsteps reach his ears and soon follow by your voice. It reverberates throughout the entirety of the church like a thousand voices. But it is only a mere whisper.
He hears it before his vision fades into black.
"Your God is not here."