A Dog Among Princes

Chapter 20

Fuck fighting Zodd, fuck fighting Wyald, this was the hardest thing Guts had ever done. His eyes strained as he focused and he had to pause to wipe the sweat from his hands.

“What are you doing?” Casca looked over his shoulder.

“Writing poetry.” Casca choked trying to stifle a laugh.

“What made you decide to try your hand at that?” Tears ran down her face as she continued to try not to bust out laughing at the absurdity.

“I’m a prince, I might as well try acting like it once in a while.” He’d also heard from others over the years that it was a good way to stay anchored. Observe the environment as it is, try to commit the details to paper in a way that’s pleasing, don’t think about the past, just focus on what you’re seeing. Kept the old soldiers from looking at a holly bush and seeing blood instead of berries. Of course he couldn’t tell Casca that. She glanced at what he’d written.

Was it you that I beheld
from the window of my cell?
You who wilted to
Heal my wounds
In that place of darkness?
I see your sisters every spring
All around me blooming
But you were the only one
Who showed me such kindness

He wasn’t so great at this whole staying in the present thing.

“What’s it about?” He pointed at a cluster of small white flowers. “Never pegged you as the romantic type.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to get it.” Casca resisted the urge to yell at him. She’d asked, she didn’t know why she expected a different answer.

“Well maybe if you explained it.” Casca was being remarkably patient with him. He shouldn’t have snapped, she didn’t mean it as an insult. Still he hesitated. This one wasn’t too revealing, aside from the fact that he still thought about it. He took a deep breath.

“So you might think I was crazy. Hell even I thought so until I met Puck and started thinking about it again.” He crumpled up his poem and started telling her about Chitch.

“You still think about her, even after all these years?” Casca was stunned. Out of everything she thought Guts was going to say, she’d never had expected a story so tenderly tragic.

“Of course I do. She died saving my life.”

“You didn’t even know if she was real.”

“But if she was, what kind of person would it make me if I didn’t remember her.”

“I really have to get away from you.”

“Wait, why?” Had he said something that made her hate him?

“Clearly you attract weird shit. I’d never seen anything even remotely supernatural before I met you, but it seems like you run into magic all the time.” She smiled. Oh she was joking. “You sure you don’t have a tail hidden somewhere? Maybe a pair of horns?” She ruffled his hair. He good naturedly ducked away from her hand.

“Guess I'm just lucky. I met Griffith after all.”

“I guess you did.” Her jaw twitched.

“Something wrong?”

“No, I'm fine.”

Casca was not fine as she made abundantly clear to Judeau at their table at Corkus’s.

“Every time I talk to either of them now I feel like I’m going crazy!” She slammed her drink on the table. Judeau picked up his own so it wouldn’t spill. “Griffith keeps talking about how his ‘new form better fits the architecture of his soul’, whatever the hell that means and Guts is just acting like it’s completely normal. Although I’ve still got no clue what’s going on in his head. He told me a story today.”

“Oh no”. It was rare Guts willingly gave up any information about his life before the band so any time he was willing to give even a crumb of information Judeau would listen. Even though he knew he’d probably feel haunted by what he heard the rest of the week. “It wasn’t the spear story was it?”

“The spear story?”

“You’d know if it was the spear story.”

“No, it was something that happened while he was a prisoner of war.”

“Oh god, I really don’t think I wanna hear this one.”

“It actually wasn’t that bad this time, it was just a side of him I’d never seen before. It wasn’t even that he did anything bad, it was just way out of character.”

“Out of character how?”

“He was nice. Well as nice as he could be under the circumstances.”

“You don’t feel like you know them anymore.” Judeau sipped his beer.

“Of course I know them. I’ve known them both for years.”

“Well you said it yourself, neither of them have done anything wrong they’re just acting in ways you didn’t expect. It’s impossible for anyone to truly understand somebody. To even get close, you have to know them for decades. You need to be with them in times of joy, anger, tragedy, sickness, the whole span of the human experience. Even then they might keep parts of themselves private, because that’s just how people are. If they can, they try to shield their loved ones from the parts of themselves they hate the most. We only ever knew those two at their lowest points. Now that’s not a reflection on the band or anything, I think we all made things a little easier on eachother, but we were at war. Those two might’ve been a bit more forthcoming with you than the rest of us, but you still only ever saw them while they were in hell. It makes sense that they would start acting differently once they were out. At the same time I get how that would be jarring for you.”

“I know, but it just feels like I never really knew them at all.” She was tearing up a bit. He couldn’t blame her. It was the first time she could actually relax in months. It was natural that everything would hit her at once now that there was nothing distracting her. He took her hand. Now was his chance to say something.

“You sure do cry a lot.” Mother fucker! Holy shit! You fucking idiot! Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god! If Casca wasn’t here he would’ve started banging his head on the table. But if Casca wasn’t here he would have said that stupid shit. He wished he could just sink into the floor and die. That would be preferable to whatever she was going to say in response to that. She snickered.

“Is that the best you could come up with?” She wiped the tears from her eyes. “You normally have such a way with words.”

“I guess we both learned something about me today.”

“Do you want a redo?”

“I’d appreciate it.” She gestured, indicating to him to continue. “Casca,”

“Yes, Judeau?”

“Would you give me the opportunity to try and truly understand you?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Come on now, ask me like you mean it.”

“I was trying to be poetic…”

“Evasive maybe.”

“Casca, would you like to go out with me?” He finally choked out.

“Yes,” she smiled. “Yes I would.”

This poetry thing wasn’t really working. If anything it was just making Guts more antsy. The pen wasn’t really for him, he supposed. The ache of his arms after a long day of practicing with his sword kept him grounded better. Physical activity was helpful. He hadn’t realized just how helpful it was until suddenly he wasn’t fighting for hours on end or riding horses for miles everyday. For the first week he’d been bouncing off the walls and hadn’t known why.

The new sword felt good in his hands. It was heavy but well balanced for what it was. The tip was still far heavier than it should’ve been, but he needed that. Guts needed to struggle against the blade. It had been violently forced upon him but at the same time was the only constant in his life. It was his truest friend and companion, saving his life even at times he didn’t want to be saved, but its weight bore down on him inexorably, slowly tearing him apart from the inside out. He had never wanted a life by the sword but now it was all he knew. And the true shame was he was damn good at it. He swung hard at the dummy he’d constructed. The wood of its waist messily broke apart as his sword hit it. It wasn’t the sharpness but the shear force that caused its wooden head and chest to fly off into the bushes. At least now he had a reason to swing. He had always had a reason he’d just refused to see it before.

Guts had never swung his sword in service of Griffith’s dream. It was for Griffith, always for Griffith. He couldn’t care less about what Griffith becoming a king would’ve meant for him. As Gut was before, if Griffith had prevailed upon Charlotte and become king, he probably would’ve left in the middle of the night to go find the next battlefield. It might be selfish, but he could’ve never just stood by him and been happy that Griffith was happy. He would’ve left him just to be able to keep him in his heart. He’d never thought of himself as a particularly possessive person before. He always had to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice to avoid being hurt. It was better to avoid forming attachments. Being with the band for so long had changed that. They were his friends, his comrades and he would do anything to protect the misfit family they had made together. What he felt for Griffith though was even stronger. Now that he’d finally fallen into Guts’s arms, there was no way he was letting him go. Was this what Griffith felt when he spoke about his dreams? Did he feel the same ceaseless hunger? The same desire to physically grab hold of his future and pull it nearer to him? Griffith’s desires were a little more abstract after all.

“You make that look so easy.” Speak of the devil. “I still don’t know if I could ever wield a blade like that.”

“You want to try?” Guts offered Him the hilt. Griffith held it upright for a moment but the tip drifted lower and lower until it hit the ground. Guts stood behind him and placed his hands over Griffith’s. “You’re not compensating enough for it.” He pushed his feet apart. “First you need to widen your stance to make sure you can support it. You’ll want to be lower than you’re used to.” Guts pulled Griffith back into him forcing him to lean back a little. “Then, you want to lean back against it, let it support your weight a little as well.” He stepped away and let Griffith hold it unaided. This time the tip stayed level.

“I still can’t believe you can use this thing in combat.” He took it back from Griffith and began a sequence of swings, similar to the ones he taught Isidro.

“I don’t know how to use anything else.” Something about that struck Griffith as sad but he couldn’t articulate why. “You said you needed to get used to using a sword again right? Tournament is in only a couple of days. I could use a sparring partner, if you’d like.” Still, he was so demure about it. There were times when despite the scars, the slight fangs, and the growling voice, Guts was incredibly cute.

“I think I’ll take you up on that.”

Now Griffith ran into the first problem he’d experienced with his new body, his saber kept slipping out of his hand. He didn’t know if his hands were too smooth or his metal flesh too unyielding but he found his blade jumping out of his grip at Guts’s swings. After a few close calls as it whizzed past their heads Guts gestured for him to bring the saber to him. He ripped the edge of his cloak and wrapped the dark fabric around the hilt, forming a significantly softer grip. Griffith’s fingers sank into it easily. “Does this mean I have your favor in the upcoming tournament?”

“You’re going to need more than my favor if you plan to keep up.” This time the sword didn’t leave his hand.