Title: What Must Be

Summary: At the end of it all, Guts is 'killed' by Femto, but unexpectedly awakens among his companions from the Band of the Hawk. He wishes that his memories of the Godhand were merely a dream, but the Brand of Sacrifice remains.

Rating: PG-13 or T (It may move up to M in the future; it is Berserk, after all.)

Warnings: Minor violence, gore and language. Little or no suggestive or sexual content.

A/N: Thanks go out to YANSLANA for her help in keeping Guts in character. Her advice was a huge help in pointing me in the right direction, and chapter two (now chapters two and three) has undergone heavy revamping to try and stay true to Guts' current mentality.

Thanks for your help, Yanslana. I kept slipping from post-Eclipse Guts to pre-Eclipse Guts and I didn't even realize it. ;; Whoopsie! Hope the new chapters are better. Let me know, okay?

If you read the previous chapters prior to 11-17-05, then you need to go back and reread chapters two and three to catch back up. This chapter is, essentially, chapter three reposted.

-Chapter Four-

Those You Must Lead

"One-hundred fifty-two… one-hundred fifty-three…"

All humans had instincts. Most humans, however, had never learned to listen when said instincts tried to alert them to something, often resulting in embarrassing moments, crippling injuries or horrific deaths.

"…one-hundred fifty-four…"

Guts was not one of those humans. He knew what that odd prickling along the back of his neck meant, and he had earned too many scars from not paying attention to it to ignore it now.

He paused a moment in the exercise, resting the tip of his broadsword lightly against the snow-covered stones that covered the ground in one of the smaller, side courtyards of the castle. He let out a long breath, clouds of steam curling sinuously into the air and fading, and he listened. He had made his way down to the courtyard before the sun had risen, seeking out a place to test his strength where people would not happen upon him. He had found this out-of-the-way courtyard after a few moments' search. The pristine snow covering the stones, free of boot prints, testified that, since it had not snowed the night before, the courtyard had not been entered in some time.

He raised his head, looking up at the brooding, gray sky, letting out a sigh that was almost half-growl. Lifting his sword once more, he held it perpendicular to the ground as though examining the blade, meeting his own gaze in the dully reflective surface, and then he twisted the blade just so, looking further into the reflection.

There you are…

"Kinda' early to be out spying on people, ain't it?"

There was a small 'eep!' like a startled mouse, and Guts turned to meet the wide, hazel eyes of the boy who was trying without success to blend into the blue shadows beneath an arch set in the castle wall. Guts' took in the well-made clothing, the clean, neatly-groomed hair, and the small, pale hands that bore no calluses from work.

Noble, his mind supplied brusquely, along with a small mental snort.

"What're you doing out here?" He swung his sword up to rest against his shoulder, and he noted how the child's wide eyes followed the blade with timid fascination.

Younger than Rickert, he thought to himself. Eight years old, maybe? Nine?

A young noble-born…Does the lord have a son?

He had yet to meet anyone in the castle beyond a few servants, one stableman, the one Raider from the previous day, and Rickert. He had yet to even catch sight of the lord of the castle, a man, according to Rickert, known as Brien. Seeking time to think, Guts had even avoided his own men, though they were probably just now rising, and he reminded himself to check on their supplies before the day was out.

"… do you really fight with that?"

He blinked down at the child, who was now blushing furiously from venturing the timid query. "'Course. What else would I do with it?"

The child's mouth formed into an amazed 'oh.' "But it's huge. It's taller than you are!"

The special emphasis on the word 'you' seemed to indicate that Guts' own size was something beyond the boy's ken.

But the boy was speaking again, sounding gleefully excited, like Corkus upon coming across an as-of-yet unexplored bar-and-brothel. "Are you really a captain in the Band of the Hawk? I've heard so many stories!"

Guts snorted. "Don't you have somewhere else to be, kid?"

The child ducked his head, suddenly looking extremely guilty. "I wanted to come see," he said, as though that statement should explain everything.

Guts waited, one eyebrow arched.

The boy squirmed. "Father said not to… He said that I shouldn't hang around the soldiers so much…" Suddenly, the child shook his head furiously. "But father said that you'd be gone soon, and I wanted to see… I w-wanted to see if the st-stories were t-t-true…" The boy's lower-lip trembled. "Now N-nurse will be m-mad at m-me…"

Okay, maybe a bit younger than eight. Six?

… aw, shit, don't you dare start crying, kid…

Guts made an irritated sound in the back of his throat, trying not to look at the child's embarrassingly tear-bright eyes. "Knock it off. We ain't going nowhere until the rest of the Hawks get back, and that'll be nearly a week, maybe more."

The boy sniffled again, but this time as an attempt to bring the tears back under control. "R-really? But I heard F-father say… say that you-you'd be gone d-days b-b-before the B-band of the H-hawk could come b-back, and f-father's in charge, so he w-w-would kn-know…"

His brow creasing, Guts stared hard at the child, watching the boy rub at the corners of tear-reddened eyes. "Is that so…?" The sword swung down off of Gut's shoulder to ground its tip in the snow. Once more, the boy's eyes were caught and held by the movement, and he even ceased to sniffle. A smirk crept stealthily onto the swordsman's mouth. "… You like watching soldiers, don't you, kid?"

The boy blinked wide hazel eyes up at the swordsman, nodding uncertainly, still looking as though he expected a vengeful father –or perhaps worse, a worried nanny— to leap out of the shadows and spank him for his disobedience. "Uhn-huh."

"Think you can sit still while I finish this drill? Then I'll take you to meet some real fighters."

A sharp gasp, and hazel eyes widened impossibly with delight. "Really? W-will you even… I mean, maybe… let me… let me hold your sword? Just for a second?"

Guts chuckled darkly. "No chance. You'd be squished like a bug. Now step back." He raised his sword once more to the ready position, a grimly amused smirk still playing on his lips. "One-hundred fifty-five…"

"Captain!"

"Sir!"

"It's Captain Guts!"

Guts had expected that his men would be as friendly toward him as ever, perhaps a little relieved to see him hale, whole, and sane, but he soon found that he had vastly underestimated his Raiders.

With the small boy trailing at his heels like some upright form of terrier, Guts had strode into the main courtyard of the keep, making his way toward the squat, snow-draped building that could be nothing other than the barracks. A few early-rising soldiers were out in the snow in front of the building, sparring, and Guts recognized a handful of his Raiders in with the group.

It was one of the castle soldiers that spotted Guts and his shadow approaching from across the courtyard. The man, his eyes fastened on the boy, straightened abruptly with a loud call of "Young Lord Arlen!"

The child ducked back behind Guts' broad form, but heads were turning, and a couple of the Raiders let their swords drop into the snow in sheer surprise.

And then pandemonium made its grand appearance on the stage. The majority of the Raiders bolted toward their captain, broad grins on their faces, whooping loudly enough to wake the entire castle, but one enterprising fellow ran to the door of the barracks and pounded heavily on the wood.

"Get up, you lazy louts! Captain Guts is back!"

Cue muffled shouting from inside the building. The door was nearly torn from its hinges, and a tide of men in various states of disarray came piling through the portal, many still pulling on boots and shirts, some shirtless but with what appeared to be blankets wrapped around their shoulders.

Guts watched in dumbfounded bemusement as the wave of men bore down upon him, his muscles tensing as they neared, and suddenly he was in the middle of a sea of smiling, yelling, laughing men, shoulders jostling him, hands clapping him on the shoulders, calls echoing around the courtyard walls and ringing in his ears and blending until he could only catch phrases and words.

"Gods, had us worried… Captain Guts! … Geeze, don't ever… weren't even stabbed, what in… finally awake… don't scare us like… better now, captain? … eight days… never seen the commander so… Big Sis gonna' say… okay, captain? … Captain Guts, sir… Guts… Captain Guts… captain… captain!"

His entire body tensed from the unwanted contact and the whirling kaleidoscope of sights and sound. He felt his hand itching to grasp for the handle of his sword, but he squashed that urge and instead settled for an earth-shattering bellow of "All right, you dumb bastards, KNOCK IT OFF!"

The roar clawed its way up the walls and into the open sky, startling a pair of jays into flight. Silence descended warily in the shout's wake, and Guts looked past his men, noting the trickle of castle soldiers still coming out of the barracks looking sleep-muddled and not a little flabbergasted.

Mannerisms that he had not used since before he had left the Hawks trickled slowly back, and his shoulders pulled back, a smirk growing on his face.

Guts shook his head. "Is this how the Hawks' Raiders behave under the hospitality of a nobleman? Were you raised in barnyards?"

A hearty chorus of 'yes's answered him, along with a raucous dose of laughter.

"Maybe I should have you transferred to stable duties, then," Guts threatened, receiving a round of groans and snickers for his efforts. "But we'll see about that later. There was a kid with me; you cattle didn't trample him, did you?"

Muted, doubtful mumbles followed, and the mercenaries as a whole looked toward their feet, but someone behind Guts called out, and the swordsman turned to see the child standing wide-eyed, staring up at the crowd of battle-scarred men with an expression of openmouthed awe on his round face.

Guts snorted a dark laugh. "So… Arlen, huh?" He turned and raised his voice. "All right, listen up. This is the son of the lord of this place. He wants to learn more about the Hawks, so keep an eye on him. Keep him out of trouble, but let him hang around, got it? If he gets so much as a bruise, it's your ass, clear?"

A loud chorus of "Yes, sir!" set the courtyard to echoing again, and Guts studiously ignored the thunderous looks creeping onto the faces of the castle guards, though whether the dark expressions were due to the noise or Guts' familiar treatment of a noble was unclear. In any case, Guts had more important things to worry over.

Guts glanced around at his men once more. "All right, I want everyone ready for sword drills in half an hour. Assemble here. Dismissed. Maer!"

A sandy-haired man pushed his way to the front of the crowd that was rapidly dispersing. "Yes, captain?"

Guts lowered his voice so that his words would not carry to his unwanted audience. "Orders for the men: be on guard, but do nothing suspicious. Go nowhere alone or unarmed. Keep the boy happy, but safe. No rough stuff. And send a guard for Rickert; he's probably somewhere in the castle. Make sure he and the kid get along nice."

Maer's eyes widened, and then narrowed, the cold steel of a soldier's spirit glinting in his eyes. "Trouble, sir?"

"We'll see." Guts' eyes flicked to soldiers still standing in front of the barracks, their eyes narrow in suspicion and dislike, and Maer did not miss the gesture.

"And the boy, sir?"

"Even I know what collateral is, Maer." Guts raised his voice abruptly, ending the tense, secret conversation. "And get those idiots to fish their swords out of the snow before they rust. If I see anything like that happen again, it's gonna' be latrine duty for the entire division for a month."

Maer saluted. "Yes, sir."

Guts snorted. "Get back to work."

"Sir." The mercenary turned smartly and strode away.

Guts watched as Maer trailed after the herd of thirty or so Raiders –and one noble born child— as they filed back into the barracks, a small something unfurling within his chest and growing into a fierce, possessive pride that he had not felt in years beyond years.

These men… My Raiders…

Responsibility had resumed its heavy perch atop his shoulders, but Guts found himself, without conscious thought, accepting the weight the way that he accepted the familiar weight of the great sword across his back, something to be borne, and accepted, and perhaps even appreciated.

I will not fail again.

And he wondered briefly…

Was this what Griffith felt, this protective pride, when he looked at the Hawks?

Griffith… He scowled and shook his head. I have to get through this… I have to see…

… I have to see whether the man I remember really existed…

… or if Femto lives in you, even now.

Footsteps crunched in the snow behind him, and he turned to face the gangly, richly dressed, darkly scowling man who had emerged from one of the many doorways that led from the castle into the courtyard. The swordsman noted the man's narrow, hazel eyes… eyes that matched those of the young boy.

So this was the Lord Brien.

"So, you are the infamous captain of those men." The inflection on the words 'those men' insinuated that perhaps the men in question were not fully human but maybe an intelligent form of hunting hound, useful but hardly worthy of bed space. "Is this how Griffith rouses his soldiers on campaign, having you and your rabble squeal until everyone wakes?"

Behind the first man was another, this one short and soft around the middle with squinty eyes, the crown of his head shiny and bare of hair. He nodded zealously in agreement with the nobleman's words. "Indeed! See how your hospitality is greeted, my lord? I told you that these commoners would be nothing but trouble!"

Those 'commoners' get paid to be trouble, and they're damn good at it.

Guts met the noblemen's simmering gazes, and then dipped his head slightly, not quite a bow, not quite a nod. "Sorry if they woke you. I'll tell 'em to keep it down 'til the Hawks come back."

The portly man huffed, wrinkling his nose. "If they come back, you mean. That upstart soldier will get himself killed with his arrogance, and then you Hawks will be nothing more than unimportant rabble once more!"

Guts found himself smirking, and the fat man swallowed loudly, his eyes wide at the wolfish expression. "You could be right. Accidents happen, after all, on and off the battlefield."

Now the lord's hazel eyes were narrowed not with irritation but suspicion, and Guts shrugged. "If somethin' happens… mercs know how to roll with the punches, and they're pretty good about getting on their feet again and punching back. I'm not that worried."

The swordsman turned his head slightly to look over at the barracks, noting with approval that the boy had gone inside with the rest of the Raiders, and he hoped that Maer had sense enough to keep the runt out of anything explosive and away from any of the sharp, pointy tools of the Raiders' trade.

He was not worried about the boy's welfare, per se, just his capacity for mischief; he had told his men to keep the kid safe, which translated into something roughly along the lines of 'If he trips and skins his knees, I'll cut yours off… or make you wish I had,' so he knew that they would do their best, but he would be the first to admit that mercenaries did not make ideal child minders.

Hope Maer gets Rickert down here soon. I'd trust him with the kid more than anybody else right now.

He shook his head and nodded to the lord once more, ignoring the fat man's existence. "'scuse me. We're about to do drills."

He turned and strode toward the barracks, ignoring the insulted sputtering of the fat man and the heated gaze of the lord drilling into his spine, right between his shoulder blades.

Actually, doesn't Gaston have a kid somewhere? This'd probably be easier if he were here… but he's probably taking care of the rest of the Raiders. Best place for him.

Wonder how the campaign's goin…

The Raiders probably ended up in with Pippin's heavy cavalry. Heh. Hope the Breakers can keep up with 'em.

And when they came back…

Hah! We'll see if any of them can keep up with me.

To Be Continued…

—BONUS SCENE—

The Captain, The Maid, and The Firewood

AKA Why Guts Was Not Practicing His Exercises With Wood Bound To His Sword

"Shit!" The Captain of the Hawks' Raiders pulled his winter cloak even tighter around his shoulders, glaring blackly at the clouds of steam that appeared when he breathed even here, within the shelter of the castle proper. "Colder than a damned frozen corpse."

Which is what I'm gonna' turn into if I don't get warm somehow.

His hobnail boots clicked against the bare stone floors, setting echoes running up and down the darkened corridor like little demons skittering in the shadows. Every now and then he passed small slits that passed as windows, but only the faintest of blue light came in from the outside; the sun had not risen yet, much like the majority of the castle's inhabitants, and Guts was doubting his own sanity for allowing his usual early-rising rituals to prod him out into such a hellishly cold world. Even clad in layers upon layers of clothing, the cold bit through to his skin like a particularly vicious serpent nipping after prey.

Bet even the servants aren't up yet.

… which was, technically, a good thing. Guts preferred that he not be watched while he gauged his current strength, and servants were notorious for their wagging tongues. All he had to do was find the kitchens, which were, as a rule, located on the lowest level that was still above the dungeons.

Guts had learned over the years that the kitchens were the best places to find firewood, and he needed at least eight pieces and some rope to do his exercises properly.

He walked for what might have been fifteen minutes before he began to feel the slightest warmth. A few more strides, and he rounded a corner, seeing an open doorway that bled golden light out into the hall. He smirked.

He stepped through the archway, ducking his head slightly to avoid hitting it on the lower-than-average lintel. Large tables for food preparation stood out in the center of the floor, and various roots and tubers hung from the ceiling beams where the heat would keep them dry. The air smelled thickly of onions and meat and bread, making Guts' stomach attempt a mutinous grumble. One out of a trio of cooking-sized fireplaces was blazing merrily, a bent old woman sitting in a chair as near to the fire's warmth as she could get without becoming roasted.

Guts eased forward. Call him what you will, but he did not have any interest in waking one of the elderly from what appeared to be a very comfortable sleep, and besides, there was a huge pile of firewood, nearly up to his chest, a few short strides away. Perfect. He made his way over.

There was no real science to choosing wood beyond picking the pieces that had the least bulk but the most weight. More efficient that way, and it used less rope. It took him only a short minute before he had nine sections chosen and stowed away under his arm.

He turned to leave…

…and an onion pelted him in the jaw.

Guts paused, blinked, and wondered if that had really just happened. He glanced at the floor. A small, rather stringy onion lay next to his right boot, looking extremely miserable with its lot in life.

Something whistled close to his ear, and his free hand shot out to catch hold of…

…a carrot?

"Thief!"

Guts' eyes darted to the positively ancient-looking woman who now held a wrinkled apple ready in her hand, her arm drawn back for the throw.

Guts managed a highly confused "What?" before the woman, with pinpoint accuracy that belied her great age and rheumy eyes, conked him on the nose with the fruit.

"Stealing our wood! How dares you? I be tellin' the lord, I wills!"

Grabbing his stinging nose, Guts flinched and dropped the armload of wood with a clatter, making a massive effort to not grab his sword. "Gods, you old bat, what the hell—"

Smack! Potato.

"My li'l Johnny don't be goin's into the forest and working his hands raw for the likes o' yous to be stealin' our firewood! Git outta' here, ya' hear?"

Crack! Onion, again.

"Shit, grandma, I ain't stealin' nothin'!"

"Liar!"

Whack! Radish.

Guts batted away more flying vegetables, wincing as a lucky shot caught him on his temple. "Ch! Fine, keep the damn wood, you crazy old hag. I—H-hey, put down that poker, I—Shit! Lady, what the hell, I—Hey! I'm going, I'm going! Cranky bitch, I oughta'—Ouch! Stop tha—OW! I said I'm going!"