Hello, hello! I'm back with another fanfiction, and it's not Silent Hill this time (GASP)! This sort of explains what I think about Guts' view on Griffith, and the dream he discovers while pondering on the man. This has information up to Volume 17, and there aren't too many spoilers, but if you haven't read that far, or haven't seen the whole anime series yet, you might not want to read on. If you still do though, go right ahead! Did I mention that I live off of reviews? I love my reviewers.

"…And we all disappear in the end…our lives spent…never even knowing who we were."

These faint words lingered, prodding and immortal, in his head. What could drive a man to ever say such a wise statement? A statement that seemed so obvious, so real, and yet so complex to understand. Never knowing who we were…did he know who he, himself, was?

Hardly.

Guts shifted his weight to the other side, turning so that he faced opposite to where he was looking. Atop a high hill, he felt so distant, and it was nice, until the shadows came to cause disturbance. Just moments before, he had been staring stoically down towards one of the many villages struck by the plague. Puck had gone to try to help—the irritating elf had once again became infuriated with him, and how many times this had happened, he hadn't even bothered counting. What had it been this time? He shook his head, burying further into the long cape that was wrapped around him.

Many of the people who lost their homes are on the road, traveling away from the disease…I think maybe we'll have to find another way. The elf had explained to him, after flying up to examine the further path.

This is the shortest route to the temple…I'm not about to risk time. He had argued gruffly.

But how are we going to get through all of them?

I'll just have to get rid of a few.

And that's when the pest had steamed, balled his hands into fists, called him a heartless asshole, and buzzed off down the hill. And Guts could agree—he was a heartless asshole…but he really hadn't meant what he said. The determination to get to Caska had almost devoured him, so he really could not think of anything else.

So, really, he didn't know what he meant anymore.

And he didn't know exactly what he was going to do, after he retrieved Caska, if she was still alive…

"That's what I want to know! What is my place in the world? Who am I? What am I capable of? What am I destined for?"

"And at that time," he murmured under his breath. "He shone before me as something beautiful, noble, and larger than life." He quoted his past thoughts like they had only been sprung from his mind moments before—and yet again, another sentence of words that bothered him to the core. Bothered as in nagged, not disturbed.

"Your life…your life was so high in the clouds compared to us. Compared to us, your life…was our life. Your goal…was our goal, and your thoughts, in command, were usually ours," he shook his head, eyelids slipping half closed. "And you cared for Caska and I, and all of the others…or so it seemed." He took in the barren land where he now faced. Empty fields, beaten down by filthy feet and years of hard weather. "And dammit, you didn't mean any of it…" he snarled, lip curled in hatred. The edges of his mouth softened as he let out a sigh. He couldn't blame the white-haired man…he, himself, was no better, leaving Caska behind because she would never be the same again…and he couldn't take that. The sea of bodies he'd witnessed before all of this—he couldn't let that all remain inside, either. Hate was the only thing sewing him together.

That soft face, those hard eyes…he'd looked up to him, like a bird in the sky unable to reach—he'd wanted to be that bastard's friend! He'd wanted to be equal to that son-of-a-bitch, and finally when he had left, so that he could become equal, the idiot runs off and does something stupid! Guts grunted in a half angered, half amused snort. Well that had turned out well enough.

So, that was Griffith's goal…had he just figured out his own? To be equal to that man, to be his friend? To be anything, anything at all, that was worth more than just a mere mercenary working under his hand? Guts didn't like being on the masochistic side of the deal, but he was almost sure that his used-to-be leader had enjoyed it greatly. Damn, he hated that man. He hated, admired, and obsessed over him all at the same time.

And he couldn't possibly control such things.

He forced his eyes back to the village once more—to the suffering, to the starving, and to the crying for the lost. And then he concluded his dream.

To become equal with Griffith, he'd have to stain him red. For red is a far closer color to black than white, and because of this, he would be one step closer.

One step closer to equality.

So maybe he did have a little fear. Not just fear for Caska, but for his dream as well.

"You're the first person I've ever spoken to like this," he mumbled to the sky, and gazed as the stars twinkled in response, watching as high above a white hawk made its way past, wings stretched wide as it glided regally through the sky.