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On the day of their departure, a blizzard of snow and ice decorates the sky. It beats against the heavy folds of their wagon, forming thin delicate sheets of ice along the canvas, each piece threatening to crack under the slightest press of a finger.
To Casca it serves to be a rather fitting send-off, but she takes care, adding extra blankets over Griffith's thin frame. It would not do at all for him to get sick amidst this harsh weather.
These past few weeks have been focused solely on setting up provisions for their journey to Vritanis. There have been many, too many Casca notes, days spent making preparations ranging from simple, mundane tasks such as brushing horses and tracing maps to sharpening weapons and practising fighting formations.
One should always be ready for a battle, Griffith had once told her that.
Now with all planning and preparations completed, she is more than ready to leave Midland behind despite how terrifying the next leg of their journey might just prove to be. The storm is thick and heavy but they have endured worse. For now the long succession of carts and wagons mill slowly across the piling snow, the group meandering forward at an unhurried albeit substantial pace.
"Do you have any more blankets?" Casca is quick to oblige, grabbing the last quilt and draping it gently over Griffith's shivering frame. She notes that his body has been having a particularly hard time adjusting to the cold weather.
"Is that better?" He looks up at her with a tranquil smile.
"Yes, much better, thank you." She frowns, he's still shivering.
"Guts do you have any quilts?" She pokes her head out into the front of the prairie schooner where Guts is situated, silently steering the horses.
"Guts?" She calls again when there is no reply. It is then that she notices something off about her long time, battle companion.
From where she stands, Guts sits like a statue on the bench, his grip on the reins tight and a distant look on his tired face. For a second, Casca believes that he won't say anything, deciding to turn back when-
"He can take my coat if he wants, it's in that chest you were sitting on," he replies monotonously.
She frowns, noticing that he has been unusually quiet these past few days or at least quieter than Casca knows him normally to be. It's obvious that something's troubling him. Perhaps it is something to do with Griffith? Or maybe Guts too, has also been pondering over the probable implications that could arise from their decision to leave for Vritanis?
Perhaps he suspects something? Does he know?
Impossible.
The question is on the tip of her tongue when, out of the blue, a harsh cough diverts her attention. Griffith sits hunched at the other end of the wagon, ragged gasps shaking his chest as he attempts, unsuccessfully, to stifle the hacking coughs, seeping like fireworks from his throat.
This makes Casca frown. She goes quickly to snatch Guts' coat from the chest and finds herself pleasantly surprised when her hand touches thick fur. Distantly, she remembers the short-lived time they had spent as nobles in Midland. Though Casca despises the snooty airs of royalty, she can't help but revel in their materialistic indulgences. The soft, plush coats, the silk stockings and the velvet dresses had all seemed so foreign on her battle-hardened warrior's body. Nonetheless she had been secretly elated at the idea of being the owner of such fanciful belongings. But now, now there is almost nothing left to serve as a token of that time, nothing but a simple night shirt that she had hastily put on beneath her armour. That had been just moments before the band was driven out of the very place that they had so tentatively begun calling home.
She gives a forlorn sigh at the thought before draping the thick fur coat over Griffith. As they begin drawing closer and closer to the border, Midland slowly becomes more and more like a pretty painting, etched in the back of her mind, a dream that she knows she shall return to time and time again in her slumber.
"You think we should stop?" She looks up from her quiet musings, noticing Guts staring at her from behind the thick flaps of the wagon.
"Yes, Griffith needs something to drink," she decides resolutely, taking her leader's hand and dragging him out of the mess of blankets. There is a well nearby and his coughing has yet to subside. She busies herself, taking a pail and dragging water up from the ground.
"Drink," she orders. For a moment, Griffith merely stares at her, an unrecognizable expression on his pale face. There is a tense silence that lasts just a moment too long and it makes Casca want to squirm. He keeps his eyes on her even after accepting the bucket, sipping silently with that strange look in his eyes. It scares her a bit, she can't tell whether he looks happy or angry.
She knows however, that he has been bothered, bothered by something that she has done no less. Perhaps she has been too commanding these past few weeks, ordering him about as if he were a child. This makes her feel terrible, but not disappointed. She has been stressed and he has been ill. It had almost been instinct.
She shall have to try harder from now on.
When he finishes, she takes the bucket, scooping more water into it for their long journey. Once the pail is full, they begin heading back to the wagon, a strained silence poisoning the air between them.
They are about halfway there when the small throwing knife whizzes by, just a hair's length away from striking Casca in the head.
From the corner of her eye, there is a man, a man dressed completely in silk that Casca has never seen before. Cloth covers both his face and head, making his eyes look all the more frightening. What little armour he has on seems more for ornamental purposes than anything else, his baggy clothes swishing about him as he leaps at her. Even with his strange appearance, she does not hesitate, drawing her sword and switching into a fighting stance.
The mysterious man merely quirks his eyebrow in amusement.
"Kushan slut," he whispers in disdain before drawing his own sword. Except it is not a sword, at least not one Casca has ever seen before. There are three pointed blades on each handle instead of one, and he has two of them. They look almost like hands, hands made of knives as he lunges them at her. She is quick to dodge, striking her own sword at an opening. The man parries at the last second, his eyes dancing with delight. They continue like this for awhile and soon, Casca begins to feel uneasy. The man fights so differently from what she is used to and with only one sword she is at a disadvantage.
She can almost see the smirk in his eyes.
"A slut you may be, but a warrior, you are not." He swings his leg at her own. In another moment, she is on the ground, searching frantically for her sword. Upon feeling the familiar weight in her hand, she turns just in time to see a flurry of silk and horrendous black eyes lunging at her. Casca can see him getting closer, readying for the final blow. She tightens her hold on her own sword, her mind trying frantically to find an opening, all the while waiting for him to stab her with those sharpened claws.
It never comes.
In another second the strange warrior is doused in water, his surprise giving her just enough time to get up and strike him in the chest. A warrior he may be, but modest he most definitely was not, having ignored Griffith entirely to battle herself.
The creature is dead before he hits the ground. After a quick survey of their surroundings she turns to thank Griffith who stands next to her with an empty bucket in his hands.
Words of gratitude are forming on her lips when all of a sudden, her stomach lurches. She covers her mouth, stumbling a few steps away from him before sinking to the floor and emptying her stomach. She gags at the foul taste in her mouth, a new wave of nausea making her want to retch all over again.
"Casca!" An alarmed Griffith rushes shakily towards her side, his hand on her back, stroking soothing circles into her flesh.
"I'm alright," she insists once her stomach has settled. He gives her a disbelieving stare.
"Casca! Griffith!" They turn in time to see Guts and the rest of the band running towards them. She wipes her mouth discreetly, praying that they hadn't seen her spewing her guts out earlier.
Guts reaches them first, inspecting Griffith and then herself for injuries. From the silent rage on his face, she knows that he has seen everything, both the attack and the vomit that came afterwards.
"C'mon, let's get out of here," he says supporting both herself and Griffith on either side of his body, escorting them back to the wagon. The silence is even more tense, as they walk back. Thoughts from earlier begin invading her mind. She risks a glance at Guts' face, cowering at the anger and...fear? that clouds his eyes.
No it can't be, I haven't said anything...
But then again...
She takes another glance at his frightened face.
Does he know?
He sits silently, gazing sullenly at the makeshift campfire in front of him. They have already set up camp for the night and almost everyone, save for those on guard duty, was asleep. He feels tired, but the thoughts running through his head refuse to let him rest. On top of that, Casca is sick and now, he is also worried. She has been working far too hard these past few weeks.
"Can't sleep either?" He frowns, turning to see Griffith leaning silently against an oak tree, his white hair tied up and away from his face. He doesn't say anything, not when Griffith moves to sit next to him nor when he feels those cold hands touching his arm.
"Guts about that night, I'm-"
"You're what? Sorry for kissing me?" He smirks, turning to face Griffith, whose cheeks have gained a faint tinge of pink made all the more visible by the fire.
"To be honest, for some reason I don't believe that." Guts lets out a dry laugh, revealing more of his confusion than he had wanted.
"No, I suppose you wouldn't," Griffith sighs, "But I'm not sorry. You do know why people kiss each other do you not?" Guts frowns at that.
"There's more than one reason. You could have done it for love, lust or maybe it was just a ways to a means." He waves his arms slightly to further show his exasperation.
"Yes I suppose you're right about that too," Griffith frowns, "I believe however that I did it because I like you."
Guts inwardly scoffs at the answer, it's far too simple for a person like Griffith.
"Besides, you aren't mine anymore Guts, you've gone your own way. You've proven yourself. Even when I didn't want you to leave, you went against me, you went against my dream. Yet, despite what you did, I couldn't hate you for it. When you left, there was of course resentment, but mostly it was just confusion. When I was imprisoned, I couldn't stop thinking about you and...and..."
He turns and is shocked to see that same determined expression on Griffith's face. Though the air outside still beats with cold and ice, it is warm near the fire, a little bubble of heat protecting them from the harsh wind. Griffith's hand on his arm tightens.
"...and while I was there, I realized something. I realized that you were the first true friend that I've ever had."
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