Chapter 6: Bound Up with Blades

On the Road to Camp, Midland

Daniel took in the sights around him silently for a moment, ignoring, for the most part, the glances from the soldiers around him, and found his focus, once again, drifting to Griffith. The man was cool as could be, chatting with Casca about some things that had to be done at camp.

"Casca, I'm going to ask you to do something for this young man," he said calmly.

Casca's brow arched, a slight look of disgust on her face as she leaned forward and looked at Guts, who was now between Griffith and Daniel. "What about him?"

"He's likely going to be suffering from the effects of blood loss. He will need a source of warmth in the night as we tend to him over the next few days. Can I trust you to help in that regard?"

Casca's disgust grew more evident. "Really? How am I supposed to do that?"

Griffith smiled slightly. "Another person far cruder than I might say it's a woman's duty to warm a man. However, I leave the method to your discretion."

Casca's eyes went wide as she realized something, then a sullen look crossed her face as she nodded. "Alright, then. I'll see what I can do."

Inwardly, Daniel cringed. 'Damn, that's how it went? I can't blame her for being mad at Guts for being out as long as he's going to be.'

Casca's gaze turned to him. "What're you looking at?"

Daniel blinked. "I'm just… surprised, is all."

Griffith looked over at him. "Does my command make you uncomfortable?"

"Frankly, yes," Daniel admitted. "But… you also seem terribly nonchalant for someone said to be unbeatable to have gotten as close to death as you did by my hand."

Griffith smiled. "You wouldn't have killed me. After all, you didn't kill Errol, or Judeau, or Casca, and you were trying to de-escalate things. I simply presented you with what you might have perhaps expected of me. A competent, though not thoroughly trained soldier."

The smile dimmed. "Should we come to blows again, I won't present such an opening as I did."

With that, he rode forward, making his way towards the camp which was now in sight. Casca looked over at him with a grin. "I knew he was leading you on. No one actually takes on Griffith and lives."

"Indeed," Daniel said levelly, unable to keep a look of concern off his face as he regarded Casca for a moment, then the rest of the camp as they entered, many looking back at him with some curiosity.

He also realized how young they all were. Not a hair grew on their faces, and many of them, gaunt though some may have been, still had the fat of youth on them. 'Good lord. I might be the oldest-looking person here.'

The thought was almost amusing, should what he thought might come to pass become reality.

But, as Guts' stretcher diverted toward what he assumed would be the medical tent, he wondered if such circumstances would be in his, or anyone's control.

. . .

As the night came on, Daniel found himself sitting beside Guts' prone form, wrapped in bandages and covered by Daniel's greatcoat, pondering further on what, exactly, might happen.

How much had managed to stay the same, really? Guts was still forced out of the camp after killing Gambino, still made to wander, and still killed Bazuso and ran into the Band of the Falcon. And Guts was, at the end of the day, still… Guts. Was it the Godhand? Were they really that much more cognizant of what was to come, and more able to tug at the threads of causality to manipulate things to go their way?

Or was it him? 'Am I really doing all I can?' he wondered.

No. And if he knew what was good for him, for the people of this whole Echo, he would never do 'all he could' ever again. Not if he didn't want to become… that, again.

The flap of the tent rustled, shaking Daniel from his reverie, and he looked up to see Casca, bereft of her armor, looking down at Guts for a moment before looking back at Daniel. "Well, that makes things easy," she said with a sigh. "You were going to make things awkward otherwise."

"But you can't leave, can you?"

"Of course not. Griffith gave me an order, after all. I'm going to carry it out."

"Well, you can also engage in that time-honored tradition of soldiery: finding a workaround and kicking back. Take a seat. We've got all night, after all."

Casca sat down beside Guts, and Daniel regarded her intently. "You know," he began, "I haven't seen such devotion to a commander for a long time. One could even hazard calling it fanaticism, to an extent."

"Please," Casca rolled her eyes, "I'm not some zealot of the Way of White. Griffith has had our backs since we all joined. He puts his life on the line for us every time he goes into battle. It's only fair that we pay him back equally."

Daniel nodded slightly. "I see," he said quietly. After a moment, he continued. "You're all quite a varied group. I don't think I've seen quite as many people from so far away from Midland as I have here. Where are you from?"

"I'm from Wallatoria," Casca said after a moment. "Not that it matters much, anyway."

"I would have guessed further afield than that. Kushan at the very least."

Casca shrugged. "My ancestors were supposed to have come from the Kushan Empire if I remember correctly. My family's been a part of the Duchy of Wallatoria since it and Morgar won their independence from the Kushan."

Daniel arched his brow. "Do tell. I was under the assumption that the Duchies were just breakaway Tudor Houses."

Casca shook her head. "Not the way I've heard it. It's been a long time since I've heard the stories my mother would tell me, but… those places were sort of a dumping ground for Mahrati prisoners, dissidents, and all other sorts the empire didn't like, apparently. One day, they got sick of it. Told the Holy See that they'd convert if they helped them gain their independence."

Casca shook her head. "It was hell while they fought for it. It still was hell when I left it with Griffith and the rest of the Band." she sighed quietly. "I've got better things to do now than worry about protecting a meager harvest or becoming some petty nobleman's maid."

It was silent between them for a moment, Daniel not deciding to press the matter further, before Casca nodded down at Guts. "What's his name?" she asked somewhat brusquely.

"Guts," Daniel said slowly.

"Yeah, I get that's his nickname, but what's his real name?"

Daniel sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. "It is Guts. Not a nickname. Just a reminder of how we found him."

Casca blinked. "What? What do you mean?"

Daniel was quiet for a moment, looking down at Guts. "The mercenary company I was with found him in a pile of his mother's guts. Or at least, it probably was his mother, what with where he was under the hanging tree."

He glanced up, saw Casca's eyes widening in shock and no small amount of horror before he continued. "He got taken in by a washerwoman to who the leader of the band had taken a shine to. She was mentally coming off a bad miscarriage, and didn't really have another name in mind."

Daniel smiled slightly for a moment. "She was good to him. At least, before she died when he was 5."

Daniel shook his head. "After that, it was only a year before the leader of the mercenary band had him on the battlefield. Three more after that… he killed his first man in battle."

Daniel looked down at Guts again. "Death has been his life, even long before that day when he was 9 years old. More likely than not, it will continue to be his life. Spare him some pity. If nothing else, he deserves it more than some."

It was silent in the tent for long moments. Daniel finally looked up at Casca, who stared at Guts with some mixture of horror and sympathy.

Then, Guts shifted slightly, his brow furrowing and his eyes opening, looking around without focus as he began to mutter in delirium. "Gambino…" the name was hard to make out at first.

"Who's that?" Casca asked quietly.

"That's the name of the mercenary leader who took him in. Who set me to training him for the time when he would go to battle. The man who tried to kill him in a drunken rage three years ago."

Casca shook his head. "My god…"

Daniel chuckled softly. "You still don't fully believe it. How one person's life can be such a tragedy. I wouldn't believe it myself if I hadn't practically raised the boy."

Guts looked over sightlessly at Daniel. "He's… he's coming…"

Daniel's fist clenched. "Who?" he whispered.

"Do… Dono…"

Guts began to shake, and tears began to well up in his eyes as the words choked in his mouth. Casca looked up at Daniel to see his jaw clenched. "Who…" she began.

"Someone who wronged him when he was a child. Greatly so." Daniel bit out quietly. "Someone I should have protected him from. I may have helped him kill the man in revenge, but the stain of letting him do what he did will never leave me."

Daniel paused for a moment as Guts slipped back into unconsciousness. "It's not my place to speak any further on the matter. If you want more, you'll have to ask him when he's lucid."

Casca nodded silently, and Daniel sighed as he laid down on his bedroll. "Well, I'm tired from today, as I'm sure you are. So, goodnight. I'll see you in the morning."

Casca looked between them as Daniel scooted closer to Guts, putting an arm around the boy's head before closing his eyes and drifting off. She still couldn't fully figure out those two. And she was still angry at the kid for running her horse off, regardless of whether it came back or not. But…

She shook her head as she lay down beside Guts, getting under what was now a comfortably warm greatcoat and beginning to drift off. Orders were orders, after all.

. . .

As dawn broke, Daniel rose and stretched, looking at Casca under his greatcoat with Guts and sighing quietly as he picked up the sheath for his sword and dagger in one hand while sticking his whittling knife in his belt, propping his swordspear against his opposite shoulder before he exited from the tent.

Looking around himself as he walked towards the camp's edge, he saw a series of rather lively groups, playing cards, eating breakfast, and washing alone or together as the smoky smell of campfires cut through the cool aroma of a forest coming out of the night. It was all the signs of a close-knit band, one that could be relied upon to uphold the high standard that they had set for themselves in battle.

They all looked at him with varying degrees of interest, more than a few becoming somewhat confused as Daniel paused to inspect a few wood piles around the fires, picking up a stick or two to judge it more closely before moving on. Eventually, he found himself in front of a campfire around which Judeau sat, along with a still younger man and one that was, if nothing else, terribly big, along with several other men.

"Sir Daniel," Judeau said, somewhat in surprise, as Daniel shifted through the pile. "What could you be looking for?"

"A softwood I can easily carve," Daniel said somewhat absent-mindedly.

"There should be some balsa wood in there. What're you planning to carve it with?" the younger man asked, clearly confused.

Daniel looked up as he chose the stick he would carve, tucking it under his arm. "I have a carving knife in here. These are just for some training today."

He studied the boy for a moment, a little shorter than Judeau and almost a carbon copy of him, his blond hair cut short compared to the ponytail that Judeau wore. He could have sworn they were brothers. "What's your name?"

"I'm Rickert." the boy replied, a slight smile on his face. "You're one of the people who came in yesterday. The Midnight Dragon."

Daniel nodded as he saw the recognition on several people's faces as they heard this. "Yes. I see my reputation continues to precede me."

"Wait a minute. Weren't you working with Midland for a while there?" one of the men asked. "You were on our side. And in charge of your own mercenary band. What happened to have you just… drop off the map?"

"There was a disagreement," he said levelly as he looked up at the large gentlemen sitting before him, leaving it at that. "And who are you?"

"I'm Pippin." the man said. "Nice to meet you."

Daniel waited for a moment to see if Pippin would continue on, but none else was forthcoming. "He's not exactly a conversationalist," Judeau said with a shrug.

"And where are you going?"

Daniel stood and turned to look at Casca, who had awoken and dressed, her sword belted to her side as she put her hands on her hips.

"To get some exercise in. I may be your prisoner for the moment, but I won't simply take it lying down."

Casca's brow arched at this, then she sighed and shook her head. "Well, I should keep an eye on you anyway. We're not going to have you running off and playing spy to try and destroy us, however small that chance might be."

Daniel shrugged. "Alright. "I'm not going far."

With that, he turned and walked away from the campfire, Casca following behind as he came to a small clearing at the edge of the camp. He set his stick and sword against a nearby tree and stood in the middle of the clearing as he readied his swordspear and began to exercise.

As the tip of the swordspear traced through the air, and Daniel stepped through patterns seemingly etched into memory, Casca watched on, leaning against a tree. "So, where did you get that thing?" she asked.

"Same place I got my armor," Daniel replied as he continued through the exercise, the blade's flight beginning to grow faster and faster. "A kingdom in a far-off place that I traveled to. I had a home there. But now it's gone. And as far as I can tell, I'm the only one in this whole world that has this armor and this swordspear."

Casca nodded slightly as she continued to watch Daniel train, the pace picking up, faster and faster before it ended with a flourish, Daniel panting slightly as he held the last stance in the exercise for a moment before the blade dropped.

He turned back towards the tree that had his sword, and Casca, leaning against it and found that he now had something of an audience, Judeau, Rickert, and Pippin, along with a thoroughly unamused Corkus and a few others, watching intently as he set the swordspear against the trunk, retrieving his sword and unsheathing it. "Where did you get that one?" Casca asked rather archly.

"This, I'll admit, is a newer addition," Daniel said as he returned to the center of the clearing. "It's from a Midlandian castle when the mercenary band I was in raided it. It's paired with the dagger, though the claw-hook in the dagger is one of my own flourishes."

"Ya swing your fancy spear around, sure," Corkus said with a roll of his eyes. "But you still couldn't get past Griffith without him making a stupidly obvious opening for you. Hell, you probably couldn't beat Casca here in a fair fight either."

"Corkus?" Casca said with a quiet sigh.

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

Corkus nodded, a sullen look on his face as Daniel chuckled. "Well, skills are like a blade, I've heard tell. You have to sharpen them against something. Care to have a quick spar, get the blood flowing for the rest of the day?"

Casca seemed to consider the offer for a moment, then narrowed her eyes. "And how can I be sure that this isn't some play to try and kill me?"

Daniel shrugged. "Well, Everyone here would likely beat me to death. And someone's got to look after Guts, after all. Heaven knows the boy's too stubborn to let anyone else have a go at it."

It was nearly silent again for a moment before Casca sighed and stepped forward, drawing her sword as scattered cheers went up. "You're a lot brasher than I expected," Casca said as she put herself on guard.

Daniel smiled slightly as he dropped his sword to a low guard, a fool's guard, the pair beginning to pace one way or another to try and get an opening advantage. "Keeping people off their balance wins wars in the end, ma'am. Simple as that."

It was still between them for a moment, guards shifting slightly, before Casca darted forward, aiming several strikes at Daniel's torso. Daniel batted them out of the way, backpedaling as Casca began to lean into the attack.

The attack slackened off, and Daniel began to charge in with a mix of wide swings and quick thrusts, Casca fending off most of them. In the end, however, her guard slipped for just a moment, and Daniel tapped the flat of his blade on both of her arms in quick succession.

Their audience, who had grown somewhat, let out a shocked gasp as Daniel stepped back, chuckling. "You're good. This is the most fun I've had dueling in ages."

"You take me a lot more seriously than most," Casca said as she paused, then pressed her attack, the strikes coming in faster and faster.

"If… there's anything I've learned, miss," Daniel said in between dodging and trying to pierce her defenses, only managing to slip his blade just towards her before she stepped back or batted it away, "it's to never underestimate someone in this line of work."

Daniel caught Casca's blade in a bind for a moment, maneuvering it to the ground and trying to step forward to deliver what would otherwise be a killing blow.

But Casca's blade slithered out from under his, and Daniel felt the flat of the blade smack against his stomach. "Especially when it would be easy to do so." Daniel finished.

Cheering and clapping from the collected Falcons, small in number though they were, filled the grove as Casca stepped back and sheathed her sword. "I hope you're happy. Because that's all you'll get from me. I have other things to do anyway."

Daniel nodded as she turned away, pausing as her brows rose. "Griffith? What are you doing here?"

Daniel looked over to see Griffith leaning against a tree a little apart from his companions, looking on with some amount of interest apparent in his expression. "Enjoying the show you two were putting on," he said with a slight smile. "A shame that it seems to be over."

"And yet it is," Daniel replied as he walked over to the tree his sheath leaned against. "Far be it from me to keep your men from their duties."

"And what will you be doing?" Griffith asked as Daniel shifted his weapons aside and sat against the tree, taking out his whittling knife and holding the branch gently.

"Sticking around until Guts wakes up," Daniel replied frankly. "Until then, I'm as good as your prisoner."

Griffith's brow arched. "You're quite loyal to the boy."

"I've raised him nearly from birth. Where he goes, I go. Where he stands, I do. And as long as I breathe, he won't fall anywhere."

Griffith considered the declaration silently as Daniel began to carve the soft wood in his hands. "I see." was all he said.

For a while, they simply remained in place, even as Casca and the other soldiers moved back toward the camp. Finally, though, Griffith left Daniel to his devices, the grove silent save for the muffled scraping of the blade against the wood and the idle humming Daniel let drift into the air.

Soon enough, Daniel examined his work, satisfied with the level of detail he'd put into his creation, and sheathed his whittling knife, belted his sword and dagger to his waist before he shouldered his swordspear, and began to stroll back towards the tent Guts lay in.

The camp bustled as the soldiers and camp followers went about their day, training and chores filling the air with shouts, neighing, clattering, and clanging.

Looking around, he found Judeau and Pippin helping several followers drag wood for the fires. 'Oh good. That makes this easy.'

"Sir Judeau?" he called out, the boy stopping and looking over at him. "Catch."

He tossed his latest carving to him, and Judeau caught it in his hand, looking down to study a remarkable depiction of Daniel's swordspear. "What…?"

"A little memento in case Guts and I decide to move on once he's back on his feet. Bit of a shame we had to meet as we did, but you seem a decent enough sort. Ta."

With that, Daniel walked away from a thoroughly confused, but somewhat intrigued, Judeau and Pippin, finally entering the tent, light shining down on Guts' prone form. Daniel felt a pang of… something, far deeper than sadness, as Guts didn't even stir.

He was afraid, he realized. Ashamed, still. As he leaned his weapons against the stacked crates within the tent and sat down, the epiphany crystallized his thoughts, random facets of thought and emotion becoming a terrible gem of memory. Of what he'd done. Of the power he wielded within himself, regardless of the weapons that he used. Even the thought of using something so benign as to help Guts heal far more quickly than he would normally for more than a simple bruise struck him as… the beginning of a path. A path that would lead to this world's enslavement. If not its destruction.

The only other solution he had, however, still seemed utterly hollow as he dug through his bag, taking out what most people around here would be hard-pressed to call an instrument. It was an almost bulbous thing, dark woods held together by glue to make a chamber with holes in it for his fingertips to cover, a branch containing a windway that he placed to his lips as he began to blow, a slow, contemplative tune that he had used to put Guts to sleep for ages beginning to swirl in the air as he thought of the tale that went with it. 'In a faraway land, a vast desert hid a long dead civilization, and a wanderer traced his path across it, wearing a long cloak of brown and a scarf that let him dance through the air in flight…'

. . .

Guts ran. It was all he could seem to do in this vast, mist-filled void, even with the sword in his hand, so big compared to the child that he was again. Or was still?

He felt the looming of the two behind him, chasing him across the length of this place for what felt like seemingly forever. Their gazes seemed to lance into his back, three baleful eyes almost pinning him in place without him even needing to look at them.

His only hope was in the distance. A pillar of nearly blinding blue-white light that he was sure would fend off the monsters that were after him. He pivoted, aimed a desperate swipe at the reaching hand of the one-eyed one, and cut a deep gash through it that began to close almost immediately. All that mattered was that the monster was held up. He could get that much closer to the light. To safety.

But Guts slid to a stop as he saw a figure sitting in a chair, his crutch leaning on its side as he played with a dog. Gambino was in his way. He couldn't afford to stop for long.

But no matter how he tried, he could not go around Gambino, his dread mounting. "Gambino!" he finally shouted as he pointed his sword at him. "Get out of the way!"

"Why should I?" the man flippantly replied. "You aren't even holding a sword. That's my leg. I lost that because of you."

He looked down, and with a shock, saw that the sword he thought he'd held was indeed the man's leg, bent at the knee and dripping blood. With a shout, he dropped it on the hill of… bones? Where did those come from?

"Besides, you can't move me." Gambino continued. "I'm dead and gone now. All because of you shoving your blade through my throat. That hurt, y'know?"

Gambino cupped his chin and pushed up, and Guts' eyes went wide as his neck split, the tear going farther and farther as he tilted his head to an impossible angle. "All the way to death." Gambino finished.

"Besides, you caused all this," Gambino said as he let his head back down to its original place. "Isn't that right, Shisu?"

The dog turned, and its face was his mother's, blood pouring out of its neck in sheets as its tongue drooped to the side in an almost grimly comical exaggeration of death.

Before Guts could process this, he felt the hands landing on his shoulders, shoving him down, pinning him in place. It was beginning again. Oh god, it was beginning again. Donovan was finally getting to do what he wanted.

"Daniel!" he shouted out to the light, looking like it was trying to get closer. But the other figure that chased him, lanky and ape-like, strode past him, taking the light by a neck he'd never seen and strangling it. "Daniel! Help me!"

But the figure held it, held him, in place, the light beginning to flicker and fade. But not before he saw the skeletons that had taken the place of Gambino and the Shisu-dog. "You should have died." he heard again, as more skeletons rose to grin at him from Gambino's side. The words he'd said repeated over and over.

'Stop… don't touch me…' he thought as a weight settled across his whole body, seeming to smother him in its warmth. 'Wait… where…'

He was laying on his back. And there was someone beside him, pressed against him…

'A woman? Wait… I think I know those eyes…'

Finally, after who knew how long, he struggled back to consciousness, leaning up and finding himself under Daniel's greatcoat. Looking around, he saw Daniel's weapons laid aside, the tent empty.

'Where am I?' he wondered as he threw the greatcoat aside, revealing the rather startling number of bandages that he was wrapped in, a small dark spot on the side of his chest. 'Wait a minute… the attack!'

He remembered the white-haired man — or was he younger than that? — stabbing him, just missing his heart as he got to his feet. Where was Daniel? Was he in another tent? Were they prisoners?

He walked to the tent flap, pushing it aside to reveal that there were no guards for him. Looking around the camp, he saw… what he assumed were the soldiers that had captured them.

'They're all around my age… man…' He began to walk… somewhere, looking around the people and tents to find…

"Guts? Thank god, you're awake."

Guts turned to regard Daniel, who had a relieved smile on his face. The woman next to him, the woman he'd seen laying with him, was hardly so enthusiastic.

The woman stepped forward, and after regarding him for a moment, punched him in the shoulder. "That's for running my horse off."

With that, she turned and walked past Daniel, the man sighing quietly. "Well, at least Ms. Casca only did that much," he said rather ruefully.

Guts rubbed his shoulder as he looked at her retreating form. "What's got her pissed off?"

"It's only natural." someone said from behind him.

Guts turned to look at the source of the voice, a young man with long blond hair, whittling away at something. "Casca gave up being a regular woman to be a warrior. The battlefield's rubbed off on her as much as it has on all of us. Honestly now, she's probably a better swordsman than most of the men here."

He glanced over at Daniel. "Though no one's perfect," he added.

Guts looked back at Daniel and saw the white-haired man, who looked so much younger out of his armor, beginning to walk over towards them, his sword in his hand. "You'd lost a lot of blood when Griffith stabbed you." the man in front of him continued. "She had to sleep next to you for two days. Something about a woman's duty being to warm a man or something."

Daniel sighed quietly as he rolled his eyes. "I had it under control," he muttered before he followed Guts' gaze to see the white-haired man pass him and come to a stop, regarding him silently for a moment.

"I'm Griffith," he said simply. "What's your name?"

Guts blinked, somewhat taken aback by both how straightforward Griffith was and how soft his voice was, somehow softer than Casca's. "Guts," he replied after a moment.

Griffith nodded, taking Guts' sword in his hands and hefting it. "It's an impressive blade for you to wield it as you do," he said, his expression in agreement with his words. "I could never wield this myself."

"It's a wonder he can wield it as he does sometimes," Daniel interjected, the two looking over at him. "He's grown quite capable with it. And he still has room to grow."

"You've trained him, I presume?" Griffith asked with an arched brow as he handed the sword to Guts.

"Since he was old enough to pick up the longswords we had on hand. Literally." Daniel shook his head as he smiled slightly. "He was too stubborn to ask for something smaller, too."

Griffith chuckled softly as Guts rolled his eyes. "I see." he looked over at Guts. "Would you accompany me?"

"What for?" Daniel asked as Guts' brow arched before he went back into the tent, likely to grab a shirt.

"We have something left to settle," Griffith replied, looking back to see Guts emerging from the tent with his sheath, if it could be called as such for a sword like his, strapped across his back, following Griffith away from Daniel. Guts saw the concern on Daniel's face as he passed.

Guts followed Griffith through the camp, looking around at the sight of those looking back at him. Most looked curious. A few looked on with some suspicion. And one who was all too familiar was following them from what would have been an inconspicuous distance if he wasn't looking. "So," Guts began after a moment, "who are all these guys?"

"We're the Band of the Falcon," Griffith said simply.

Guts nodded. "I see."

"You know of us."

"Who doesn't around here?" Guts said almost incredulously.

'The Band of the Falcon itself. The last thing anyone working for the Tudors wants to see.' he mused as they continued on, past the edge of the camp. 'The siege we were helping the Tudors with lasted 3 months because of them when it should have been done in as many days.'

They climbed a hill outside of the camp, Griffith stretching his arms as he reached the top before Guts. "Ah. What a view," he said as he took in the landscape that stretched out before them.

As Guts approached, one question that he'd been holding on to since he woke up finally came to the fore. "So, why?" he paused as Griffith looked back at him with some confusion. "You put a blade through a gap in my armor while you were passing by on horseback. It would have been just a few inches to the side to go through my heart. So, why didn't you kill me?"

Griffith considered the question for a moment before turning to look at Guts. "Because I realized that I want you."

Guts blinked, then his eyes narrowed. "You'd better be trying to hire me because I don't swing that way."

"We were also in the castle that fell four days ago. We saw your performance against Bazuso. You fought admirably. But you also were close to the edge of danger."

As Guts arched an eyebrow, Griffith continued. "If your opponent's weapon hadn't been nearly destroyed by your sword, Bazuso would have cleaved into your head instead."

Guts pondered on what Griffith said. Daniel had warned him about such risk-taking. More often than not, he still found himself confident enough to get into situations where Daniel had to pull him out of the fire. "Maybe so," he said with a shrug.

Griffith regarded Guts intently. "You're honest. The way you fight… you seem to have nothing you're afraid to lose. Not even your own life."

Guts shook his head. "You act like you can read my mind or something. It doesn't make me like you any more."

"Hardly. I'm simply going off of what I've seen and what I feel is right about you." Griffith paused for a moment before continuing. "The way you fight is by no means cowardly. But it means that, without help, you struggle at times to make it out alive."

"Yeah. Daniel pulls me out of trouble sometimes. Probably more often than he likes."

Griffith tilted his head to the side for a moment. "You're interesting," he said the words as if they were a solution to some great question. Then, he smiled, a boyish thing for a boyish face. "And I've taken a liking to you."

"Thus, I want you, Guts."

Guts sighed quietly. 'He might be skilled, but he's still some wannabe royal snob.'

"And what if I say no?" he said as he stepped closer to Griffith.

Griffith arched a brow. "Do you say no?"

"I have every reason to, don't I?" Guts scoffed. "Talking like you magically know who I am. How much can you really know if we never met?"

He said the last words with a shout, and pain stabbed through his wound, almost doubling him over before he caught himself. "This is insane. You guys attack us, you stab me, and suddenly everyone's buddy-buddy? Don't be stupid. I killed your man, which I'm sure you won't forget. And I won't forget you almost killing me. The only thing that makes us is enemies."

Guts was properly riled up now, and Griffith's other brow rising silently did nothing to help matters. "So what will you do then?"

"That's simple." Guts replied as he drew his sword from his sheath, pointing it at Griffith's face. "We settle it with these, nice and simple! I win, and I put a hole in your chest that matches mine."

Guts clenched his jaw as Griffith's smile returned slightly. "And what happens if I win?"

Guts scoffed. "Then I'll be your soldier or boy-toy or whatever the hell you want from me."

Griffith shrugged as he drew his sword, a curving saber with a basket guard that paled in comparison to Guts' blade. "Well, it's not as though I'm against settling things with violence."

"Griffith!"

"Guts!"

The pair looked over to see Casca and Daniel marching up the hill toward them. Both had their swords belted to their sides.

"Stay out of this, Casca," Griffith called to them.

"But-"

"I must obtain what I desire."

"He is not a weapon for you to take as you please."

Daniel marched further up the hill, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "And if you plan to be poking any more holes in him, you'll face my blade again. And it won't matter how good you are."

Casca looked between the two of them with wide eyes as Guts growled out a sigh. "C'mon, Daniel. He needs to be knocked down a peg or two anyways!"

With the last word, Guts charged at Griffith, bringing his sword high to cleave into the man's shoulder. Griffith turned to the side, his blade rising to meet Guts' and holding it back by the barest of margins, the slab-like steel sliding down to the ground as Griffith angled his blade just so while he turned to face Guts.

Guts raised his sword, his eyes going wide at the breathtaking speed at which Griffith's blade began to come towards his neck. The strike went wide as Guts parried it, and he aimed a thrust at Griffith's body that would likely split him in two. Griffith simply turned aside, his blade guiding the blade away from its mark once again before coming up behind his head and flashing down towards Guts' arm.

Guts dodged back, wincing slightly as he felt the shallow cut on his arm. Any slower and he wouldn't have been surprised if it had nicked something major.

He paused for a moment, glancing to the side to see several Falcons, the one that had charged him two days ago once again leading the way with a crossbow, stopped by Casca and Daniel, their swords at his throat. The others simply watched on from behind him, held up by the sight of them dueling.

But that was enough of that, Guts thought as he looked back at his opponent, the white-clad man standing there with barely a scratch on his face. 'Amazing. Even his blade's barely nicked from parrying, and I've sliced through plate armor with mine. All of that with just one hand, too.'

A grin began to spread across his face as he came to a realization. 'He's good. He's really good. Well, so am I.'

"You know," Griffith said calmly, "we can postpone this so that your injuries have some time to heal."

He said nothing, simply charging forward again with his blade low, seeming to try at slicing up. As Griffith prepared his defense accordingly, Guts instead swept the flat of his blade through Griffith's legs, sending the man tumbling to the ground. With a shout, he raised his sword to try and cut Griffith in half.

Griffith deftly rolled out of the way as the blade slammed into the ground, Guts struggling for a moment to extract his sword as Griffith seemingly floated to his feet, the blade rising from the ground just in time to block a flurry of blows as Griffith pressed his attack.

But his defenses could not hold out for long, and more and more cuts began to appear on his body. Even still, he pressed forward, finally batting aside his sword once again.

Out of the corner of his focus, he heard shouting. It meant nothing to him as he raised his sword once again, ready to split Griffith down the middle.

His eyes, however, went wide as Griffith dodged to the side… and jumped into the air.

As the blade slammed into the ground once again, Griffith landed with almost inhuman grace on the edge of the blade. And Guts leaned his back as Griffith leveled his blade at his neck.

As they fell still, Guts could hear the cheers from the sideline. "Wow, that's amazing!" one said. "I never thought he could do that!" another shouted.

Above all, one cry rose above all else. "He beat him!"

Griffith simply looked at Guts. Had he even broken a sweat during all that? "I must say, I find myself liking you more and more. But you can't swing your sword like this. So, what now? Will you give up?"

Guts' gaze darted between the man's eyes and the tip of his blade, then began to chuckle. "You're a real talkative bastard, aren't you?"

Griffith's eyes went wide as Guts continued. "Let me show you what to do with your mouth in a fight!"

With that, he took the tip of Griffith's blade in his mouth, uncaring of the cut he got inside of his cheek, taking advantage of the shock of the moment to lift his sword, tilting it forward and sending Griffith tumbling back and the saber flying out of his hand.

The pair pitched forward, Guts losing his own sword as they tumbled down the hill to the shouts of those behind them. Griffith slowed to a stop at the foot of the hill first, allowing Guts to straddle him as he raised a fist and planted it on the side of Griffith's face with a right hook.

He laid into Griffith, blow after blow slamming into his face and chest, and arms raised to block his attacks.

Finally, he stood, spitting blood into the grass as Griffith struggled to his feet. The air now stank of metal. Some blood must have gotten into his nose. "So, how's the blood taste in your mouth?" Guts panted. "Must be the first time you've tasted it."

"That's enough, Guts!"

He looked up the hill and saw Daniel marching toward him, the group of people behind him seemingly being dragged with him towards the seemingly impossible scene. "You've proved whatever point you might have. It's time to walk away."

"Come on, Daniel-"

"The fact that the wounds you had before this nonsense haven't reopened is a miracle. If you keep going, I can't guarantee either of us are making it out of here."

Guts gathered his breath as Griffith finally stood. That damnably smug smile was back.

"Fine." Guts finally said, flecks of blood flying out. "But there's one more thing."

With that, he turned and charged at Griffith, fist cocked back to try and slam straight into his face.

But again, Griffith moved with an unreal speed, grabbing his arm and twisting just so as he fell, locking Guts' arm out to the side.

Guts jerked against the hold, the smell of grass shoved into his face mingling with the blood. He heard the cheers of Griffith's Falcons as they watched on.

"You can't win this anymore, however effective that might have been," Griffith said into his ear. "Will you yield, or will I have to dislocate your shoulder?"

"He will yield."

A shout went up, and Guts tried to twist his head to see what was happening. He saw Daniel's blade raised to Griffith's throat. At least two were raised to his. "You've clearly defeated him. There's no need to take this further. Let him go."

"Then he is now mine. Such were the conditions of our duel."

"And as I've said, where he stands, I shall as well. Now, will you let him go, or will we both regret what comes next?"

It was a tense silence. Then, the pressure on Guts' arm lifted, and Daniel's sword went back to its sheath. "Thank you," Daniel said.

As Griffith stood, Daniel made his way to Guts and lifted him to his feet. "You damn fool." Daniel sighed. "You need to keep your head when it comes to things like this. We'll talk about how brazen you are later."

"Come on, Griffith!" Corkus shouted, drawing the attention of a good portion of the group. "You're just going to let them get off scot-free with this?"

"They're members of the Falcons, now," Griffith said, his voice carrying a tone that would not be denied. "And they will be treated as such. Now, get back to work. Our new orders could be coming in any day now."

Up on top of the hill, Casca looked down at everyone, especially the trio in the center of the rapidly dispersing group. 'I want you. He belongs to me.'

She felt something… complicated dig itself into her heart, a burning thing that made her clench her jaw and turn away. 'He's never said anything like that. To anyone!'

She'd have to deal with it, however. Like it or not, they were here to stay. However long that might be.