Winter arrives in a flurry of white flakes. The chill in the wind continues to bite at his skin, but it feels harsher now. He spends these days either curled up in the wagon or taking small walks outside with Guts. His strength is slowly returning, though he fears it will never be what it once was. Caska always sets out the largest plate during mealtimes for him. It makes Griffith feel both guilty and frightened when a member of the band brings him food.
(Rickert had been right, Casca truly is a dreadful cook)
He knows that he must get stronger, that they depend on him, but sometimes he fears that he may need someone to depend on too.
Guts looks up from where he sits, polishing his sword. Griffith's eyes are glazed over as they peer out into the drifting snow. There is an air of something akin to sadness around the man that comes not only from his melancholy appearance. His snow white hair has grown longer, his blue eyes more solemn.
Guts fears that Griffith is beginning to fade.
He finds himself wondering, not for the first time, where that icy determination has gone.
"Please stop staring."
The voice is sad, quiet and contemplative, a far cry from the Griffith Guts had once known. It makes him feel inexplicably angry inside seeing him like this.
"Is that an order?"
He lowers his head, drawing the blanket that Pippin had given him earlier that morning tighter around his frame. He wishes for the snow to disappear, for summer to envelope him in its warm embrace.
No
"Yes."
Casca feels hopeless.
She hates cooking, even Judeau and Pippin are far more proficient at the skill than she is. She remembers a time when there had once been women around the camp who had prepared meals and completed other mundane chores for them, but they have all long since vanished.
Griffith had once told her that it was a women's duty to cook. She ought to have been offended by that, but instead his words and the way he had spoken them with that small quiet smile of his had made her feel proud, proud to be a woman. It is one of the many reasons why Casca admires him so. Griffith has the ability to manipulate insult into compliment and now...
...now Casca can see just how valuable the art of cookery really is.
She tries her best to emulate the work of those mercenary women before her, but Casca is unlike the rest of them. Perhaps that is why she fights in battles, to prove a point, to show that women could be just as strong as men.
If it were only that simple.
Casca knows that that is untrue. She knows that she is no feminist. Her reasons for fighting are far more womanly, humanly than that. Humans love to love, just as much as they love to hate.
She had loved Griffith, she believes she still does. It had been her reason for fighting. She fought so that Griffith might trust her, so that she might become his sword. For despite all of his splendour and magnificence, Griffith is but a young man, a child really. Casca cannot begin to even fathom the staggeringly heavy burden that rests on his thin, proud shoulders.
On the other hand, Casca isn't blind either, she has come to understand the pressures of power, the pressure to be perfect. How could anyone expect to be such a thing when they come from a species so sullied that even their definition of perfection was flawed? There is no such thing as ideal or perfect, at least not in people. There is only love, love which spawns hatred, despair and pleasure. Then there is indifference which comes from a lack of love.
Love and devotion towards Griffith had been her reason for fighting, but now...
"Mind if I sit with you for a while?" Guts doesn't bother waiting for an answer, flopping down onto the log next to her.
...now she is unsure.
"He's asleep by the way, took awhile but the guy's exhausted. You done with that? I'll go bring him some when you're finished or maybe you could do it, that is...if you're not busy cooking." He eyes the pot with a suspicious stare.
Casca rolls her eyes, typical Guts.
"Stop with that look, you should be grateful that I even bother taking the time to feed all of you."
"You mean poison right?"
She shoots him a half-hearted glare. Guts, the man with no dream who lives each day just to survive onto the next, swinging his sword from battle to battle.
To think she had once believed in those words.
She leans her head against his shoulder. Unlike Griffith, who has always seemed so faraway and untouchable, Guts is right here next to her, a warm and powerful presence that soothes her senses.
Humans love to love and Casca is no exception.
"It's not like I don't appreciate your cooking, but there is a difference between appreciation and satisfaction."
"Satisfied my ass. It'll taste good this time, just you watch." She smiles. Bantering with Guts, she likes it.
"I'll let Griffith be the judge of that. He thinks he's doing a pretty good job of hiding it, but I can tell when he doesn't like something."
She frowns at that. She doesn't like failing, especially when that failure directly affects Griffith.
"I do appreciate everything you've done for us though."
She looks up, confused.
"Your cooking among...other things," Guts makes a non-committal gesture with his right hand, his left arm wrapping itself around Casca's waist.
This picture that they paint together, it feels so right.
Humans love to love. However, in exchange for doing so they also expect (sometimes subconsciously) to receive something in return for expressing such a taxing emotion.
And Casca is no exception.
He awakens to something that smells frighteningly similar to a charred wood squirrel.
"Griffith, time for supper." A soft voice has him sitting up, rubbing the sleep away from his tired eyes.
Casca.
He hasn't seen her much in the past few weeks. That's to be expected though, the Band of the Hawk are a mercenary group now and mercenaries need florins to survive. Her and Guts and what's left of their men have been fighting to earn whatever spare coins they can get.
Griffith hates seeing them go off to battle while he lies here in this stuffy old wagon. He hates feeling so inadequate, he hates the cold thoughts that begin to creep into his mind on those days when nothing else is present to occupy his attention.
A little boy with a knights doll, a child playing war in a back alleyway.
A fire. This is war, there is no spectator seat on the battlefield.
Am I a terrible person?
"Guts says you don't like my cooking, but I want you to try and finish it. You have to get your strength up."
What are you thinking? This is the path you chose isn't it?
"Why?"
Casca looks up, eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"What do you plan on doing? Why do I have to get stronger?"
He feels rage bubbling inside of him. He hates this feeling. the worries that grip at the edges of his mind, condensing together into a chilling fear. He draws the blanket tighter around himself. His dream, the deaths, tugging at his mind, his heart, looming closer and closer.
It's too cold.
A nervous laugh brings him out of his thoughts. Casca is staring at him with a most distressing expression.
"The band will be leaving Midland soon. We plan on heading south, to Vritanis. We've been getting work here and there, but it's not much and the King's bound to come after us sooner or later. Vritanis might be better, we should go, but only if you think so too." The last part is rushed as though she is unsure now of what to say to him.
"And even if you don't want to leave, you must get stronger. You-we're not safe in Midland anymore so...so you must, for your sake, for everybody's sake."
He can see the pity in her eyes and it makes his blood curl.
"Stop it," he whispers.
"I'm sorry, but it's true. If you don't want to go then I won't either. I owe you that much at least."
He looks up, surprised. There is conviction in her eyes and he knows that she means it.
This is the path you chose isn't it? The path to your dream.
She and Guts are so alike in that sense. The thought brings a bittersweet taste into his mouth. He eyes the plate she has given him, how Casca managed to make vegetable broth smell so rancid, he will never know.
Nonetheless he is grateful.
"We should go."
She leaves Griffith to pick at his dinner. There are things to do, a journey to plan and thoughts that she has to sort out before doing it all. A flutter in her stomach stops her mid-step.
This winter, Casca believes, will prove to be especially difficult.
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