Title: What Must Be
Chapter Summary: The Raiders are reunited with the Hawks, but a conflicted Guts feels distant and separate from his companions. He realizes that the only way to resolve his doubts is to face their cause head-on, but some meetings are more difficult than others.
Rating: PG-13 or T (It may move up to M in the future; it is Berserk, after all.)
Warnings: Minor violence, gore and language. Little or no suggestive or sexual content.
A/N: This chapter is a sort of personal celebration for surviving my freshman year of college. throws confetti In approximately one hour, I will finish moving out of my dorm and head back to my home and my darling kitty. w00t
… passing my freshman year, though… Well, the jury's still out on that little doozie. Wish me luck.
-Chapter Seven-
Those You Must Face
"This isn't like you. If you aren't careful, you'll die."
Even in the dim, fading light of the dying day, the rider shown as something ethereal, something distant and untouchable… something from beyond Guts' dreams and nightmares.
Indecision, uncertainty, confusion all warred within Guts, freezing his limbs into stiff immobility. His tongue was as rough and unwieldy as a lump of sand, but he managed to force out a single, hoarse word. "Griffith—"
"… but isn't that all you're good for?"
In the twilight of sunset, the silver armor took on a darker color, like bronze or copper… or darker, seeming almost to blend with the ruby drops of dead men's blood that still clung to the upraised sword, and the blue eyes were no longer blue but such a dark shade of scarlet that they could well have been black, and the pale mouth was parted in a cold smirk that bared pointed fangs for all the world to see.
Pain exploded in his belly, and he nearly toppled to the gore-soaked ground as one arm clamped instinctively across the gaping wound that dribbled black blood upon the tainted snow… the wound bestowed upon him by the demon when they had last met. The demon's clawed hand was upraised, glistening wetly, and the horse was no longer white but such a deep black that it seemed to swallow the light, eyes burning with an inner fire.
"Death follows you, Black Swordsman."
Needles of pain stabbed viciously into the cursed mark upon the swordsman's neck, such a small pain alongside the agony of the wound that poured his life out over his hand, and he felt the liquid fire of fresh blood welling out of the brand. Breath rasped in his throat, coming in harsh gasps, and he could no more speak at that moment than he could raise his sword from where it hung limply in his grip, tip grounded in the snow.
"It is your hound, a beast tamed to your hand, but keep it too long in your company and it will turn and devour you."
The pain was everywhere, crawling through his blood and behind his eyes, and everything was fading away to scarlet and black, the colors of old blood, and his vision was filled with those cold, cruel eyes…
His sword was in his hand, upraised against the darkness surrounding him, and wild dark eyes flitted from shadow to shadow, harsh gasps muffled to soft pants through sheer willpower alone. His legs ached from his awkward position, not quite a crouch and not quite kneeling.
His sword… the greatsword, not the dragonslayer. He blinked dumbly, his heart throbbing in a panicked rhythm.
Pressure against his back… a pole, the central support for a tent.
Tent.
Noises, outside. The chilled moans of night winds. The muted crackling of campfires and the shifting of restless horses.
A camp.
… the Hawks…
He lowered the blade, its hilt a steady and solid presence within his grip. Real.
Something shifted at the edge of his vision, and he whirled silently, eyes searching and focusing upon the two sections of darker shadow showing at the base of the tent wall and the slender silhouette outlined by the dim gray light of a distant flame.
The brand prickled, and the leather binding his sword's hilt creaked softly with the pressure of his grip. Not strong enough to be a demon…
Behelit.
Griffith.
He waited, pulse thundering fiercely within his chest and the hand clenched around his sword.
The shadow waited, perfectly still, and many long moments passed.
A dark voice whispered within the back of Guts' mind, the presence that told him when to duck and when to strike, when to run, to hide. The voice that helped him to survive.
So easy, it whispered. One lunge, one thrust.
Through the tent wall.
Pierce the heart.
The nightmare will be over…
Something hidden and ugly twisted within his gut.
…before it ever has a chance to start.
The sword's tip raised slightly, a serpent contemplating a strike.
He would not even hear it coming.
The clench of coiled muscles, the weight of choice upon his shoulders, and the fluttering tickle of uncertainty deep within his chest.
…wouldn't even hear it…
He could picture it, the scarlet-armored demon standing tall, just outside, dark eyes cold and unforgiving within the dark helm, the scent of blood and pain and death hanging around it like a cloak, and his grip tightened upon the sword…
But the image changed.
Black eyes melted into blue. Blood-red armor faded to silver and white, and the cold smirk twisted into an amused grin. Snow-white hair fell around a boyish face that had yet to grow into the hard lines of maturity, and Guts smiled bitterly.
He sank back to sit upon his folded bedroll, shoulders resting against the tent's center pole. The greatsword lowered, grounding its point into the damp earth within the tent with a barely audible scrape.
The silhouette jerked slightly as though startled out of its reverie. Guts watched as it shifted and grew blurry, silent steps carrying the watcher away and into the depths of the camp.
"Griffith…"
"If you aren't careful, you'll die."
The words rang clearly over the din of the battle, and Guts was torn, uncertain, but the decision of what to do was taken from him when one of the castle soldiers lunged toward him, blade at the ready, and then the time for thoughts and questions was over, and all was blood and violence once more.
He was separated from the white rider, and it was not until some time later when the fighting had settled and his sight cleared of the red haze of battle that he was able to stand and breathe and watch as ghosts from his past came and went, taking prisoner the few soldiers who had surrendered, aiding the injured Hawks back to the rest of the company, searching for the dead and dying, sometimes calling greetings to him when they passed near enough.
The few Raiders who had accompanied him from the keep returned to his side in trickles of two and three, bruised and spattered with gore yet laughing and generally euphoric with relief and victory.
Far to his right, he noted the immense bulk of Pippin exiting the woods surrounded by his company, the Breakers, and then there was a uproarious chorus of shouts, and a large section of riders accompanying the Breakers broke away and did all but stampede toward the small gathering of Raiders, the familiar figure of Gaston at the forefront.
It was a repeat of the scene several days before in the castle courtyard, save that this time there were the horses added to the mix and the separated Raiders were greeting one another as well as Guts. Later, he would think back and marvel that no one was trampled.
Gaston executed a moving dismount from his horse that would have left a desert tribesman green with envy, and in short order the Raiders Captain found himself with his second in command wrapped around his neck in a very Gaston-ish display of welcome and a crowd of jabbering mercenaries surrounding him.
Ill at ease, and yet more embarrassed than anything else, Guts tried to pull away from the strangling embrace without it looking like he was trying to pull away.
The scene was interrupted, to Guts' relief, when a ripple of tension ran through the assembled mercenaries, and the Hawks turned as a whole to see a procession of several riders winding their way down the main road from the keep, the familiar form of the Lord Brien at the head.
The lord of the keep's expression was reminiscent of a thundercloud before a particularly vicious lightning strike, and yet he and his entourage had none of the air of people prepared for a fight. Guts thought that they looked rather resigned, mulish, like children after being soundly beaten in one of their games.
A white rider rode out from the mercenaries, a cluster of riders following him as hounds follow their master. The Raiders captain moved forward past the screen of mercenaries that hid the confrontation from his sight, the Raiders following him as his own pack of hounds.
Guts slowly drew nearer to Brien and Griffith. He could see the Hawk Commander's profile as the two parties neared one another, and a chill crept down his spine at the small, icy smile upon the blue-eyed Hawk's face… the smile of a wolf looking down upon particularly troublesome prey.
"What a way to welcome our return, my lord," commented the Hawk commander with all the cool politeness that came from years' worth of political games. "You keep very bad company in your men-at-arms."
"Your rabble provoked the attack," bit back the nobleman with a sneer. "My son—"
"Was in danger." Griffith's tone was carefully impassive. "My men expended quite a bit of effort saving him from the attacks of your own soldiers. My men would not fight unless somehow provoked."
"There is no excuse for kidnapping a noble born child." Brien's hazel eyes locked onto Guts with fury, and then the cold gaze slid past the Raider captain to look at something further back. Guts glanced around and saw what had caught the lord's attention; Arlen, pale and terrified, was seated in front of one of the mounted Raiders.
Griffith's smile widened ever so slightly. "No excuse for kidnapping a child? Or no excuse for kidnapping a noble?"
The lord was clearly not accustomed to anyone –certainly not an upstart peasant mercenary—speaking to him in such a way. His mouth opened and closes, groping for words, and his cheeks paled to a sickly shade of yellow out of sheer fury.
Guts found himself repressing a grin, a sense of nostalgia sneaking up on him unnoticed and unopposed, the distance between him and the silver-clad specter from his past leaving him feeling oddly detached. One way or another, they always end up speechless.
Typical Griffith.
In the end, Brien returned to his castle with Arlen at his side, shaken but unharmed, and several dozen dead men-at-arms lying at his back, spilling scarlet upon the trampled snow.
The sky was grim and overcast when Guts exited his tent. The clouds were the surly, slate-gray sort that heralded a heavy snow. The first tendrils of sunlight should have been highlighting the land by now, but the clouds stubbornly held the light at bay, leaving the camp in a dim twilight.
There were few if any people up and about. The camp was nearly four hours forced march away from the castle, and the Hawks had outnumbered Brien's men-at-arms even before the battle outside the lord's keep. There was no hurry for the mercenaries to be up; today was for the injured to recover and the weary to rest.
Guts' feet followed the dark, muddy paths worn between the tents by the passing of many men with his cloak pulled closely around him. The near-silence and the familiar sights around the camp left him feeling vaguely as though he were walking through another dream, but his eyes were always scanning the gray and black shadows for anything unexpected. Even here he could not lower his guard, and some part of him regretted that loss. His breath came in gusts of mist, the cold air biting at his throat. Occasionally a fellow early riser would nod or call a greeting, but they were ignored.
His steps led him between two closely placed tents, the large tents used to shelter supplies or act as shelter for the wounded, and he knew he was near the center of the camp. A small, metallic scraping sound caught the swordsman's attention, and he altered his course to pursue it. The path abruptly opened into a clear area that held a small, dwindling fire ringed with dark, bare earth, stark against the untouched patches of snow. Seated upon a section of log, his back to Guts, was Judeau.
"Well, that's new."
Guts started at the unexpected comment, halting in his tracks. "What?"
Judeau never turned to face him, focused on sharpening one of his throwing knives. Even if Guts could not see the action, the noise of a whetstone against a blade was very unique.
"I almost didn't hear you come up. Normally you clump around camp like a plowhorse." The Scouts Captain tossed a quick, teasing grin over his shoulder, taking any sting out of his words. "Been practicing?"
Guts frowned. "… somethin' like that." The warm scent of something porridge-like drew him nearer the fire, and he debated only for a moment before settling on a section of log on the fire's opposite side.
Judeau.
His eyes traced the young man's freckled cheeks and blond hair, the intent frown pulling at the other captain's mouth, the confident, sure motions of the other's hands as he focused upon the small throwing knife. Content. Happy.
Alive.
A small ache within Guts' soul, one among many, throbbed painfully before fading and disappearing into nothingness.
Tawny eyes flicked up from their work and met Guts' dark gaze. The swordsman looked away.
The steady scrape-scrape of the whetstone faltered and stopped. When Guts glanced up once more, it was to find that it was Judeau's turn to examine him, dark golden eyes seeming to trace every bit of Guts' being. The scout's mouth curved into a small smile.
"It's good to have you back."
Guts looked away, tracing the path of a spark as it swirled up from the fire and fizzled into nothingness upon the wet ground. But am I really back?
The brand chose that moment to flare with pain, and Guts' breath caught, his eyes narrowed, his head coming up like that of a wolf scenting something suspicious. His gaze fell upon a white-cloaked figure far down one of the wide trampled pathways, pale hair gleaming in the morning light, conversing with a nameless soldier outside one of the larger tents.
The man once known as the Black Swordsman released his breath in a slow hiss, pressing one hand against the brand. His fingers came away speckled with rusty red, and he rubbed his thumb over them to wipe it away.
Judeau's eyes followed the movement, his posture startled and alert, gaze going from Griffith to Guts to the brand before focusing upon Guts' face at last.
The scout's voice was remarkably level when he asked, "What was that?"
Guts strangled the growl that wished to rise in his throat, rising and turning away, pulling his cloak more tightly around himself. "Nothing," he said harshly. "Just nothing."
He strode away, caring nothing for direction just so long as it was away from there. The weight of that all-too-familiar sapphire gaze pressed between his shoulders until he passed out of sight.
There was no such thing as shelter, not on these broad, naked plains of snow. The forest was a dark smudge between the white ground and the blue, blue sky, and the camp was a vast spattering of white and brown and blue and black that stretched around and masked the opposite horizon from sight. From Guts' vantage point atop a small hillock, the dark figures scuttling amongst the tents were small enough to be blotted from existence by his thumb.
Instincts ingrained in him by years of constant combat screamed that he was an idiot to stand atop a hill highlighted against the sky, and he obliged them by walking down the knoll's opposite side, allowing the slick, snowy slope to hide the camp from sight. His boots crunched and squeaked in the icy blanket covering the ground, leaving dark, muddy scars in his wake.
He drew his sword, contemplating the (comparatively) slender blade, wondering how long it would take to work his strength up to where he would be capable of wielding the dragonslayer once more.
Somethin' tells me I'll be needin' it.
He found himself haunted by a nightmarish image of the Hawk encampment falling beneath a tide of monstrous Apostles, of snow morphing into the hideous, lumpy red ground of That Place Between, the place of sacrifice.
How long? How many years until the Eclipse comes again?
Somehow, he did not think that he would be able to live through that nightmarish massacre again. Once was one time too many.
If this is real…
The leather-wrapped hilt of the greatsword creaked within his grip, reassuringly heavy, pulling on his arms and shoulders with its weight.
… I can't lose them again.
His eyes narrowed, and he raised the immense blade into a ready position. "I won't."
That dark voice stirred within him once more, whispering to him, and he knew with cold certainty that there wasonly onesure way to guarantee that the Eclipse could never come.
But could he do it?
The sun had moved to its zenith by the time his mind came away from the trancelike state that battles and sword practice brought upon him. The distinctive creaks and shuffles of someone stepping lightly over snow had broken the empty silence encompassing the snowy plain.
An all-too-familiar voice, heavily laden with disdain and exasperation, intruded on his solitude. "Only you would come all the way out here just to swing your sword around."
His heart froze within his chest, sinking like a lump of the heaviest, coldest iron to settle somewhere low in his stomach. He turned slowly, dread and fear and disbelief and hope all swirling together into something jittery and uncertain within him.
Somehow, he had never truly realized that this… this hallucination… this dream, this second chance, call it what he would, would mean being able to see her again.
The sunlight highlighted the metal sections of her armor and turned her dark eyes to a jewel-like shade of amber brown. Against the bright snow and the pale sky, her skin seemed to be even darker and richer than he remembered. She stood tall, head held high, as fierce and proud as the wildcat he so often had compared her to.
Beautiful.
"What are you thinking, wandering out here alone? What about your duties as captain?" Even though his memories of the Hawks may have faded and dimmed, Guts clearly remembered this particular glare; this was the glare that she reserved especially for him, the 'How can you be so dense?' glare that had plagued him incessantly through his years with the Band of the Hawk. "Just because you've been sick is no reason to neglect your men; if you're well enough to trek all the way out here and swing that monster around, you're well enough to at least make sure all of your men are in one piece, and—what are you staring at?"
He blinked himself back to reality, his heart pounding so wildly that he could easily feel his pulse in his ears and neck and the palms of his hands and deep in his chest. "Caska."
It was hard, so hard to stand still. She was right there, and he had never wanted anything in his life more than he wanted to touch her at that moment, to reassure himself that she was not some illusion come to haunt him. His pragmatic nature stepped in before he could do more than stare dumbly.
… She'd skewer me.
She had exchanged her glare for a suspicious narrow-eyed frown. "Maybe you aren't as well as we thought."
He shook his head, more to clear it of wayward thoughts than to deny her theory. "I haven't neglected the Raiders," he grumbled, swinging his sword up and over his shoulder and into its harness. "Scratches and bruises, mostly. Beddyr has a gash on his sword arm that's giving him grief, and Tils caught a crossbow bolt to go with the wound he got at the keep, but they're healin'."
That seemed to stymie her for a moment, though whether it was the fact that he had looked after his men without her having to berate him first or the fact that he answered her at all, Guts did not know. She frowned, eyes narrowing. Finally, she let out a soft, annoyed huff and said, "Griffith was looking for you. He wants details about what happened. Don't take all day."
With that, she turned on her heel and stalked away up the hill, soon vanishing from sight.
Guts let out a long whoosh of breath, feeling as though he had just run an entire circuit of camp. He chuckled softly, feeling more than a little disconnected from reality.
"Damn… I hadn't realized how much she'd mellowed over the years."
To Be Continued…
A/N: I now have a Yahoo!group dedicated to all of my fanfiction, complete with chapter and story previews, fanart, alternate storylines, and more. Visit my profile for more info.