a/n: Written almost entirely while listening to The Dream, by Jocelyn Pook. I can't explain why, I just like the mood of the piece, especially in correlation to the scene.
Some lines are taken directly from chapter 63 of the manga, (Wounds – II), while others have been tweaked for the sake of the general flow. If you don't like it, go write your own story.
Reviews are always welcome.
"Guts?"
Casca turns her body halfway, dazed and confused.
He blinks, and sees instead the child. Dirty drool runs down each corner of the mouth through the crude gag and its eyes are wide and fearful. It becomes smaller still within his hulking shadow, shrinking back.
With one hand he covers the delicate face as if cradling a baby bird, so it cannot look at him.
But a single eye peeks through the gap in his meaty fingers and his grip compresses.
You should have died….
It tries to make a sound. He squeezes hard enough to crush the tiny bones.
A muffled cry. The stench of aged shit and piss floods his nostrils and something catches in his throat.
You should have died!
The other hand closes around its throat so tight he can feel the windpipe compress.
—should have died, you SHOULD HAVE DIED, YOU—
The accusation becomes a wordless roar of vitriol.
Both his hands are a shaking circle around its throat. He can't kill it, but he wants to.
"Guts—"
It croaks the word, tiny hands soft and warm over his, too weak to resist.
The voice is horribly familiar.
He freezes, and releases his grip. Stumbles back, quivering, while Casca falls to the ground, coughing, her hands raised to massage her bruising throat. Guilt consumes him and he falls forward, both fists slamming against the tree with an abrupt and abrasive shock that runs up his spine and makes her jump.
"—didn't want to do that, I didn't—I had to do it. I had to kill you, Gambino…."
He's babbling. Casca stares, slightly afraid, mainly confused.
"You killed him?"
Her voice is noticeably hoarse and he feels a new thrill of anguish.
"I couldn't stop it, I was only a ch—" His breath seizes. "That's why I killed him. I put an arrow in his back so it would look like he died in the war—that fat bastard pig!"
He notes, also for the first time, the lazy trickle of red running down her leg. He knows she is not menstruating.
"You killed Gambino because he attacked you?" Casca asks softly.
"NO!"
She quails under the forcefulness of his reaction. Guts takes a shuddering breath.
"No, no, Gambino isn't the one who—I didn't want to kill him! Gambino took me in when I was only a child, he—he taught me how to use a sword. But why…why did he sell me to that bastard pig?"
As he speaks, he crumples before her, on all fours. He cannot face her.
"He would drink. He became lame because of the war and he would always drink. And he talked to the dog, he never said my name once." His breath chokes again. "One night he was drunk, and came at me, with the sword…I was going to avoid it, but by then—"
He can't go on. But he has to tell somebody. And Casca will understand, perhaps better than anyone.
"—by then, I realized that my sword was already through Gambino's throat."
Guts curls into himself, like a beaten dog.
"He told me I should have died! He told me I should have died years ago beside my mother's body…"
In silence he weeps.
"I'm sorry, Gambino…" he croaks.
Father.
Casca is silent while he tries to regain composure. The gentle touch of her hand upon his back is enough to frighten him once more, and he bolts upright.
She is so small, and she has made herself vulnerable. But she's not afraid of him. Perhaps this is what brings him back to sense.
"I'm sorry," he says gruffly. "This is your first time, and I…I screwed it up."
"Guts…."
But he casts her his cloak, turning away.
"It's impossible to ask you to forget everything when it's already happened…. If you want me to disappear, I will go right away. Otherwise…I will repay you during the upcoming battle."
Casca gets to her feet. "Guts. Did you…?"
"Yes, I…killed my father."
The admittance rests between them. Silence, but for the whisper of the breeze among the trees.
"It happened a long time ago. I wanted to forget. And this year I didn't think about him once…" He can feel the wetness on his cheeks, but his voice remains steady. "It's like a joke! I've killed so many people before, and afterwards…so why now?"
He is aware of her tread approaching upon the grassy terrain. Then she casts aside his cloak, and her arms are around him. Again he freezes, but not from fear.
"It's okay," she insists. "I've let you see all of me, even my weak spots. And even if this tears us apart, it will still be okay."
How he wants to believe her. Guts cannot express this desire in words, but he simply holds her gaze as she ducks under his arm, and they are face-to-face.
"You once bled so much for me," she mutters, eyes running over the many scars that mark his body, old and new.
"All these injuries?" he asks.
Her eyes settle on the wound she has inflicted. It's still bleeding. She burrows her head into his chest and he feels her tongue swipe over the cut. This gives him a slight amount of pause, but he does not protest.
"Even if it tears us apart…" Casca reiterates, gazing at him, "I want a scar on my body from you."
Nose-to-nose, he looks at her, and she at him. They do not speak, for there is no need, and instead let action do the talking for them. It will be enough.