Title: Protect or Fight
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Pairings: implied Guts/Casca, eventual Guts/Griffith, Casca/Farnese, Farnese/Serpico, Sonia/Schierke, and possibly Casca/Farnese/Serpico if I manage to do what I intend
Warnings: Non-con, S&M, I'll probably self-censor any truly explicit scenes and only post the smutty versions on livejournal, but the themes will all still be here. If slash, femslash, incest, BDSM, and especially sexual slavery are not your bag, turn back now.
Author's Notes: This is completely ridiculous, completely gratuitous kinkfic I'm writing because I'm desperate for some post-Eclipse Guts/Griffith porn, and because I have a big master/slave kink. I feel the need to disclaim that the sexual politics that will eventually be presented in this fic are NOT OKAY, not the route to a happy ending or anything even approaching it, and you shouldn't find them remotely realistic; I know I don't. I do, however, find them pretty hot, and as one of my primary reasons for reading fanfiction is to feel exactly that way, it is nevertheless my pleasure to bring this unrealistic, sexually problematic fic into existence. On that note...

It was supposed to be the end, the final battle, his last ditch effort at avenging the murder of thousands and the rape of one who was worth more than the whole world put together. Casca was supposed to be safe, safe and miracle of miracles happy, in Elfhelm where they restored her mind and by her own request did not restore her memory, millions of miles away from the chaos and carnage Guts was slowly slicing his way through to get to him.

When he'd last seen her she'd been curled up by Farnese's side, night-dark cheek rubbing contentedly against sunshine hair, and he'd thought to himself this could be enough. But then she noticed him and her eyes had flashed with fear before she'd caught herself and pasted on the placid smile he knew was meant to soothe but truly only made him ache, and he thought of another placid smile and the one who had first put that fear in her eyes, of a boy speaking dreamily of friends and equals and a man with the same dreamy voice saying "I sacrifice" and "I'm finally free". He thought of the corpses of their comrades and a sky full of blood, of eyes and voice and heart screaming, of a body worthy of angels drenched in demon seed and cast aside like old garbage…and Guts knew with caustic, choking certainty that nothing would ever be enough as long as he still walked the earth.

And so he'd stolen away in the night like a thief, knowing that the letter he'd left Schierke detailing all the reasons she and the others should not follow him would not be enough unless he put so much distance between them she didn't have a choice, and though when Puck had appeared over his shoulder three hours out he knew he'd be grateful for the help, he still planned to find some way to be rid of him before the final battle.

Because yes, he was one man, and yes, without the armor's power or Schierke's help or Puck's dust he was hardly a match for the soldiers and spellcasters and trolls upon demons upon monsters that would litter his path on the way to Griffith, but he was sick of getting other people involved in his and Griffith's mess, sick of watching the disaster that followed him everywhere deface beings still beautiful with the glow of hope, and even annoying little pipsqueak elves didn't deserve to get caught in the crossfire of his berserker rage when he went into the armor one last time.

And now that time had come. The days had turned into months as he singlehandedly cut his way through the enemy's forces, cut his way all the way through creatures 10 times his size without a thought for his improbable survival because he had only one thing to focus on, and that one thing was now standing in front of him, finally, FINALLY!, the only thing between them, between Guts and his long-sought revenge, the impregnable mountain that was Nosferatu Zodd.

But just as he let the armor start to close over him, let himself fall into that darkness because this was it, this was the last fight and he couldn't risk losing, not now, not after coming this far…just as his victory was so close if he licked his lips he was sure he could taste it...just when all his desperate struggling had at last come to fruition….just then, the man, the hawk, the beast, that devil in angel's armor, GRIFFITH!, waved Zodd aside and looked straight at Guts and smiled.

Without knowing what he was doing Guts surged back out towards the light, surged back out of his best and worst weapon before it could take him over completely, because yes Griffith was right there and yes this should be the moment he had been waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting for, but somehow that smile told him it wasn't, told him something was very very wrong, so he let that wrong push him back human before he got lost in something inescapable and what should be his hard-won revenge turned to shit.

And that was when he saw her, held taut by thirty different hands, some of them human and some of them most decidedly not, her, the woman who was supposed to be warm and loved and protected a billion miles away, Casca, or Casca-who-was-not-Casca, for it was obvious that now, out of Elfhelm, she'd already returned to a babbling broken doll, and how did he do it why did he do it why would he do it if not to oh fuck oh hell oh please, please no it's happening again again again again…

When hundreds of maybe-demon-maybe-human hands wrapped around him and his sword and his canon and carried him after Griffith as he lead them, still smiling, some place deep and dark and away from the bewildered eyes of his devoted followers, Guts didn't even have the energy to struggle.

"You've made quite the mess of my troops, Guts, and only you and that sword. I was wrong to underestimate you."

They were in some sort of dungeon chamber, uncannily reminiscent of where Griffith - the other Griffith, their Griffith - had been held and tortured for a full year, and if Guts wasn't practically spitting with rage and despair he might have wondered if it was intentional.

"So torture me, Griffith, kill me, do whatever you gotta do. But if you fucking touch a hair on her head I swear I'll haunt your ass from beyond the - "

"Kill you?" Griffith's quiet laugh was too painfully identical to the sound of another time; Guts wanted to close his ears to it. "If you haven't died by now, it's certainly not my task to end a life that has so defied fate. I do need to protect my troops, though. I was wondering if you'd be interested in a truce?"

The cold glee dancing behind Griffith's eyes made it obvious to Guts just what he meant by "truce", and somehow knowing how soundly defeated he'd become in a matter of head-spinning minutes wasn't as shocking as it should have been. It was incredibly infuriating though. Griffith always did like to play dirty, and if Guts had just let go of his silly notion of revenge on a foe more powerful than he'd ever be in three lifetimes, Casca wouldn't be mindless and in danger yet a-fucking-gain…

He could almost laugh. After fighting and fighting and fighting and refusing to let himself consider failing for even an instant, it was kind of a mindfuck to experience such an immediate and total sense of surrender…but it was Casca, and he knew what Griffith was capable of, so it wasn't like he had much of a choice. "I get it, alright, I fucking get it. I can't fight you anymore. Just leave her out of this, okay? I'll do whatever you want to prove you've won, cut off my other arm, stand here and let that motherfucker Zodd slice my head off, you name it. But she's got nothing to do with this, she never has, and even if she did you already hurt her enough for a hundred vengeful devil-gods. I know you're the one holding all the cards here, I know you ain't got a shred of human emotion left, but from a logistical standpoint there's no reason to hurt her again, so…so don't, Griffith." Please.

Griffith chuckled.

Guts did not like the sound of that chuckle.

"Is that your only demand?"

"Huh?"

"Our truce. Your only demand is that Casca remain unhurt?"

"She's already been hurt, you asshole, you took her outside of Elfhelm and your demon minions destroyed her mind all over again…"

"If you agree to my terms, not only will she be taken back to Elfhelm immediately and escorted inside by a very talented young medium who can surely assist in the restoration of her mind and memory, but I will instruct my so-called 'demon minions' to resist the lure of the brand from this moment on, which will allow her to enter and leave that place as she pleases."

"You…ha…wha-what?"

"I'm sure you heard me."

"You're gonna protect her from the brand? The brand you put on her? Why would you do something like that? You havin' regrets or something?"

"Regrets? Whatever for? I'm simply offering you something you want to get what I want. That's how negotiations work, Guts."

Don't play dumb, you twisted bastard, you know exactly "whatever for". Can't even pretend what you did to her was part of some big scheme to get where you are now, 'cause I saw how you looked when you fucked her, and you looked happy. You liked raping the girl whose only crime was loving a sick fuck like you more than he ever deserved…

But even the ever-present rage swirling through Guts because of all that Griffith had done was temporarily muted at the thought of a Casca safer and happier, freer than she'd been in decades. Nothing could ever replace what was lost, and nothing could ever redeem Griffith from the monster he'd become, but Guts was desperate enough to take what he could get and full protection from the brand was more than he'd ever hoped for.

"What…what do you want, then."

If it wasn't his death, Guts was good and stumped. Surely Griffith knew making him join his army or some shit - leaving Guts alone with weapons anywhere in Griffith's immediate proximity - was profoundly stupid…

"Oh, it's very simple: I want you under my command again." And, as if reading Guts' thoughts - "Don't misunderstand me: if you agree to these terms you will not be serving me as a combatant; indeed, you will never fight again. Should you ever disobey me after you accept, let alone threaten my life or seriously wound me, Casca will be immediately retrieved from wherever she is and torn apart slowly in front of you," - a new wave of disgust and despair had overtaken Guts, and Griffith, Griffith could be telling him the time for all that he seemed to notice the words coming out of his own mouth - "but nonetheless it seems prudent to refrain from giving you any more temptation to act out your foolish notion of enmity than you already have. In other words: Today will be the last day you ever touch a sword, Guts."

"If I accept."

"Do you not accept?" The face Griffith pulled then, one so young and full of bewilderment, could have been ripped straight off the head of the 17-year-old leader of a mercenary band, for how familiar it was. Guts would almost think he was being offered the harmless truce of a lifetime ago if it weren't for the dark glint in those no-longer-innocent eyes and the cruel twist of those mockingly capricious lips.

The subtle reminders of who he was dealing with put Guts back on guard, and he remembered what had just been promised if he accepted…and if he refused. You don't have a choice, he's made that abundantly clear. You owe it to Casca…come on…just go along with the crazy mass murdering demon freak…

"Uh, no, I do, I…I accep…I…" Nope, can't do it. I swear I'll make it up to you, Casca. "Okay, listen Griffith. You know and I know I ain't got a choice and I'm eventually gonna have to say yes. But before I do, can you just explain one thing to me?"

Griffith made no move to start 'tearing Casca apart in front of him', and simply continued staring at him inscrutably; Guts took that as a yes.

"How the hell'll I be of any use to you if I'm not fighting? You gonna make me clean your kingly quarters and serve your tea? Fluff your pillows or something? I just don't get it. You could easily kill me, or cut me up to keep me out of commission if you really think murder'd be going against fate. Why bother bringing this Casca shit into everything if you're just gonna turn me into your errand boy or whatever?"

"That was more than one thing, Guts. Rather presumptuous of you, too, to conclude so easily that if I don't want you to fight I must be in need of some ornery middle-aged butler who wants me dead."

"Yeah, well I just want to know what the fuck you are in need of! You're right: if I were in your place, you WOULD be dead already, so from my perspective, all this blackmail and doom-and-gloom shit to manipulate me into something so frivolous seems awfully excessive for a pragmatic guy like you…"

Now Griffith was smiling again. Uh-oh.

"Either you truly are hoping for an easy death - which does remind me, if you ever attempt suicide or try to put yourself 'out of commission' on your own power, the consequences will be identical to any other form of disobedience, even if you're no longer alive to witness them - did you just growl, Guts? My, my."

Guts growled again, but Griffith didn't seem to find it interesting enough to acknowledge this time.

"Or, you're hoping if you do enough attention-deflecting and flattery, you'll successfully convince me to give you a sword after all…mmm, or perhaps convince me to leave Casca out of our negotiations altogether."

Guts growled a third time. Griffith's smile stretched wider, like it was saying Gotcha!.

"Regretfully, none of those wishes can be fulfilled. The conditions are what they are. Now, shall I call Sonia in to bring Casca home, or shall I tell Zodd to begin ripping her limbs out of their sockets one by one? Make your choice, Guts. This grows tiresome."

Zodd waved. Cordially.

Guts decided to snarl instead of growl, this time. "You obtuse bastard, you know what my 'choice' is, so just…go ahead and send me off already to make your fucking bed or whatever."

"Excellent. It's better for everyone that you proved so amenable to negotiation, don't you think? With your current temperament, it was impossible to be certain you wouldn't just do something idiotic and force me to kill you both. Ah, that reminds me! Before my guards let you come anywhere near me, they're going to have to take everything you're wearing to ensure you haven't got any concealed weapons. Your first command is to assist them any way you can; prove to me you can follow this and my next few orders, and Casca's free to go."

As Guts lifted his arms up to let some creepy tentacle things unlatch his armor and pull his tunic over his head, it suddenly started to hit him, all at once: he was just a few steps away from finally giving Casca something back after all the things she'd lost, because of him. Yeah, her safety and freedom was going to be the specter hanging over his head for the rest of his life, but as long as he didn't fuck this up, she WOULD be safe and free, freer than he could ever make her on his own. To think it's Griffith of all people who's letting this happen... Guts actually found himself grinning a little as a horde of claws slit the knots holding the multiple quivers of arrows and knives against his chest and back; if it weren't for the fact that Griffith was the betraying motherfucker who destroyed everything Guts ever cared about and was currently using the one good thing left in the world to force him to obey his whims, Guts might want to hug the eccentric son-of-a-bitch.

In a way, he thought dizzily as he lifted a leg and shook out the lances and spears he kept fastened inside his lower armor, it was a relief that Griffith was disallowing him access to any weapons, because he was basically taking away almost every temptation to fuck this up for Casca…all he'd have to do now was, what, bury his rage and hatred and loneliness and play castle with a mass murderer for the rest of his life? Guts could do that. There weren't even many things he could think of which would offend his sensibilities if he knew doing them meant Casca was happy. Hell, he'd become the royal latrine cleaner in a heartbeat if it helped right that one most wrong of wrongs. For an evil soulless monster, he decided cheerfully, letting some weird bony hands slide off his pants so he was at last standing in nothing but a loincloth, Griffith sure didn't ask much. Maybe some of his villainry had thawed out over the years he'd spent back in their world? Worth considering.

He was getting ready to ask Griffith if he himself had noticed any...soulful feelings of late, any changes within himself of the not-completely-fucking-evil variety, when he realized that the king had started unlacing his own britches, and surely he didn't think Guts had managed to conceal any weapons in his pants? He also wasn't exactly looking at Guts the way a king should be looking at a lowly manservant...Rather presumptuous of you, Griffith had said...

That's when Guts realized what a fool he was to have forgotten, to have ever thought it could be otherwise: In the times they lived in, altruism always came at a price.

This price would be particularly steep, from the looks of it.

Impossibly steep.

"Come here," said Griffith.

"Babble babble," said Casca.

The words of the Skull Knight rung in Guts' ears, and he knew what his choice really was, had been all along.

Protect or fight.