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: I have not read the end of the manga, nor have I seen the end of the anime (though I'm getting there; my anime club is just going really slow). Take any mentions of the happenings after the Eclipse with a grain of salt, and I'll see about faster updates.

-Chapter Five-

Traps You Must Avoid

The cloth was dirty from long wear, as was the small, slender hand that bore it, and there was a hint of rust-red showing through the once white bandage. Seated upon one of the many bunks lining the inside of the castle barracks, Guts tracked the hand's movements automatically, his own hands pausing in the repetitive motions of sharpening his dagger as his thoughts wandered.

"…shouldn't be able to bleed, right?"

Rickert must have felt the weight of Guts' gaze, for he paused in showing young Arlen the correct way to grip the hilt of a practice sword (a small wooden model made for the boy by one of the Raiders) and turned toward Guts with a confused, questioning frown. Guts looked pointedly at the young mercenary's injured hand, one corner of his mouth twisting in a displeased frown. Rickert blinked, looked down at his bandaged palm, and smiled. He raised it and flexed the fingers in a show of 'It's nothing. I'm fine.'

Turning the tables, Rickert arched an eyebrow and sent a pointed look of his own toward the side of Guts' neck where the brand was still hidden beneath a light bandage. Guts sneered and shook his head in a show of 'Mind your own damn business' and returned to sharpening his dagger, pretending to not hear Rickert's soft giggle or see the amused grins of the handful of Raiders also in the room with them.

The barracks consisted of a single large building that contained a single large room filled with enough beds (and floor area left open for bedrolls) for slightly more than two-hundred men. The castle guards worked in shifts, meaning that there was never a time when all of the soldiers had to sleep, and it was through this system that nearly four-hundred men were able to live in a space meant for half their number. With the addition of forty-odd mercenaries to the living arrangements, things had become somewhat more crowded than intended, and that had led to some interesting, if quickly ended, confrontations between soldiers and mercenaries.

Days had passed since Guts' awakening, and tension was rising ever-higher within the castle. It was rare now that Guts spent more than a few minutes away from his fellow mercenaries, for he had even begun to sleep in the barracks with the Raiders –if 'sleep' was even the word for it, for he catnapped during the night and caught brief snatches of light, uneasy dozes during the day. Too often had he caught the tail-end of whispers among servants and castle soldiers that set his instincts on edge, and he found himself feeling as though a storm were building and he were waiting for lightning to strike.

In the open aisle between the rows of beds, Rickert had gone back to playing with Arlen, something that the young mercenary obviously enjoyed; there were few, if any, opportunities for Rickert to act like the boy that he really was, and Arlen seemed to be enjoying the attention, holding the small, wooden sword as though it were the greatest gift he had received in all of his short life.

Damn lucky they didn't give the kid a real sword. For a while, Guts had half-expected it. He had made the boy's welfare one of his priorities; Arlen was Brien's only child, the sole heir, and quite a valuable person because of it.

"You hold it like this, see? Up near the hilt, or else you don't get as much leverage."

"Like this?"

"Right! Now try swingi—Ow! Not at me!"

Rumbles of amused laughter prowled around the dim room, and Rickert rubbed the new sore spot on his bicep while Arlen flushed a mortified scarlet. Guts snorted.

'Course, that don't mean he can't do some damage. The small scar across the bridge of his nose –along with a myriad of others received during various sword practices—twinged in sympathy.

From outside in the courtyard, the clash and clang of swords, muted as the sounds were, provided a harsh counterpoint to the dull rasp of the whetstone against the metal blade of his dagger. Guts found himself tracking the noise absently, wondering who was practicing with whom. The Raiders had occasionally treated themselves to practice bouts with the castle soldiers, but after Guts' orders several days past, the Raiders had kept more to themselves. Fighting was one of the few entertainments open to the mercenaries, confined as they were to the keep, and it was a necessary exercise as well. For a mercenary, fighting meant money and prestige, but more than that it meant survival, and the Raiders were among the best at their trade.

More than once Guts had wrestled with the urge to merely gather his things and leave. If the mercenaries could not look after themselves, then that was their own problem. Better dead than weak, wasn't that what his travels had taught him?

But… even so…

Even if it was all a dream, a hallucination crafted of demon magic by Femto, an attempt to push him past the bounds of sanity, to break him… How many times had he dwelt upon should haves and would haves and could haves and if only, if only, if only…?

Wasn't it worth the risk?

If it was a dream, then what was there to lose?

And if it was real…

If somehow, beyond reason or belief, there was some slight chance that it was truly, honestly real…

He realized that the dull scraping sounds of the whetstone against the dagger blade had ceased once more, and he was receiving more than a few odd glances from his men at his obvious distraction. Irritation prickled in his chest, but then his heartbeat quickened, and it took him a moment to realize that the sounds from outside had changed, and now interspersed with the sounds of swords ringing against one another were the yells of angry men and cold laughter and cruel jeers, and he was rising to his feet even as the barrack door crashed open and one of his Raiders was silhouetted in the doorway.

"Captain!"

That one word was all that the Raider was able to get out before Guts was brushing past him, tossing a curt 'Rickert, stay here!' over his shoulder, one hand already upon the hilt of his sword, and the other Raiders were hot on his heels, pouring out into the biting winter air a mere moment behind him.

He found himself in the midst of a chaotic swirl of Raiders and soldiers, many with naked weapons in hand, and all of the action centered around two men standing at the heart of the crowd, swords drawn. A handful of servants stood in various doorways ringing the courtyard, watching the confrontation with the air of circling jackals.

Guts' memory provided identities for each of the pair within a heartbeat. One was a Raider, one of the younger men to be found in the division, nicknamed Tils (short for Talsirom), the ninth son of a minor noble from somewhere up north, some obscure holding that Guts had never previously heard of. The other was called Darid, a whip-thin man with a hatchet nose and narrow eyes who was the captain of the castle guard; Guts had never encountered the man face-to-face and had never felt the slightest desire to rectify that fact.

Darid was smirking openly, the tip of his blade stained crimson, and Tils was holding onto his sword only through sheer force of will, for his right shoulder was weeping dark liquid down the side of his tunic and onto the snow.

"Pathetic!" the captain was saying, teeth bared in a wolfish grin. "Is that all that the legendary Band of the Hawk has to show?"

"Band of the Pups, more like!" came another jeering voice from the other side of the crowd, answered by a loud wave of raucous laughter. "Can your sick ickle captain even lift a sword?"

Raiders joined in the verbal duel. "Watch your tongue 'fore we cut it outta' ya!"

"Pampered castle pets! You're nothing but the nobles' lapdogs!"

Darid laughed derisively. "Dogs, are we? We aren't the ones that squat like beasts in the wilderness waiting for new battles!"

Tils smiled fiercely, shifting into a more secure stance and bringing his sword to bear with an effort. "No, you just hide inside your castle walls praying that your master doesn't call you out of your kennel!"

Darid's smirk morphed into something darker, and he drew his sword back as though for another strike, but Guts was pushing his way through the last of the crowd, his sword clearing its harness with a deadly hiss.

A wrench of muscles, a flash of sunlight on polished metal, and the shriek of tortured steel, and the tip of the captain's severed sword clattered to a halt upon the snow-streaked stones.

Heavy silence fell upon the assembly with all the quiet subtlety of a hammer striking an anvil.

Darid gaped at the empty air where the tip of his sword had once been, and then his gaze traveled to the tip of Guts' greatsword, tracing up the weapon's immense length until his gaze came to rest upon Guts himself.

"Who… the hell…"

Guts smiled darkly. "I'm their 'sick ickle captain.'"

A quick ripple of suppressed laughter traveled through the assembled Raiders, laughter that held a grimly gleeful undertone of 'oh, you are in such deep shit.' The soldiers either looked mutinous or alarmed… and in some cases, a mixture of both.

"Raiders, stand down or be put down." There was a quick chorus of metallic hisses as blades were slid back into sheathes. Guts turned his head slightly to one side, keeping his eyes locked on the castle captain. "What's it lookin' like, Tils?"

The wounded man grunted. "Flesh wound, sir. Didn't even get to the bone."

"Good. Maer."

There was a shift in the crowd behind him, followed by a quick reply. "Here, sir."

"You've just been elected as medic. Get him inside and help dress that cut."

"Yes, sir." There was the sound of more movement and the shuffling of footsteps, and Guts tracked the pair of men out of the corner of his eye as they made their way back into the barracks, and then he focused his gaze once more upon the captain who seemed to be regaining some slight bit of his nerve.

"If you wanted a real fight," Guts informed the captain grimly, "you should've sent a man to find me. Real stupid of you, tryin' to start a brawl with us while we're under your hospitality. Good way to get us in your lord's bad graces, isn't it?"

"You talk like you were ever in his good graces," spat the older man spitefully.

Guts acknowledged the point with the barest amused quirk of his lips. "Nothin' much I can do about that. But I'll do you a favor." In an abrupt motion that had nearly every man in the crowd jerking in surprise, he swung his sword high and slid it back into its harness in a single motion. "I'm not goin' to give you a scar to match the one you just gave Tils, as much as I hate to say it." He leaned nearer the other man, lowering his voice. "Not sayin' that I'll pass on the opportunity a second time."

He turned his back to the fuming captain in a show of dismissal and returned to the barracks, avoiding the gaze of a wide-eyed Arlen, his mind stewing over the development, and more than one of the Raiders pressed close about him once they were inside, demanding to know why they hadn't been allowed to fight back, why he hadn't cut the captain down.

Guts' answer was simple, and it cut through the chatter more effectively than any sword ever cut through flesh.

"Because that's what they wanted."

There were new orders for the Raiders after that. Go nowhere in a group of less than five. Each man tends to his own horse; no more relying on the castle grooms. Accept no food from the castle kitchens; eat only rations provided by the Band of the Hawk. Sleep in shifts, and ignore any invitation to confrontation. Any blood shed by the Raiders could be seen as an acceptable reason for the lord to evict them from the castle, and once out of the castle they would be vulnerable to attack.

Even this early in the Hawks' long career of legendary campaigns, Griffith had acquired an impressive list of enemies, and there was an equally impressive list of bounties that those enemies were willing to pay if it meant seeing the destruction of the Hawks in general or Griffith in particular.

Guts wondered if there was a bounty for his life as well. The Raiders' infamy as the Hawks' shock troops, the division that could survive the impossible and defeat the undefeatable, made them –and their leader—prime targets.

Such a small keep as that of Lord Brien would profit enormously from one of those bounties.

Guts expected that the only thing that was keeping him and his men safe within the castle was the threat of the Hawks' impending return. Forty-three mercenaries were no sort of threat for four-hundred men, but an entire mercenary company, especially one so infamous as the Band of the Hawk, (enraged at the loss of a group of their companions, no less) was a different matter entirely.

They want us to leave. They want a reason to get us out of the castle and into the wilds.

An attack upon the frozen roadways could be blamed on brigands or bandits or some such, and though the Hawks would never believe such a ridiculous story, there would be precious little in their power to do about it.

Guts sneered. Politics. Ch.

Three more days passed. While the soldiers of the castle made no more overt attempts to provoke a fight, Guts was oftentimes hard-pressed to avoid Darid; the captain of the castle guard seemed to have taken it upon himself to see that the Raiders broke the peace, often jeering and insulting them during practice, and once even by attempting to corner another of the men into a fight. Each time, either Guts or one of the Raiders would step in and prevent the situation from escalating, but the man who had lived as the Black Swordsman was not known for his restraint, and the situation was testing the last shreds of his patience.

Clouds of powdery snow lifted into the air in hazy swirls, raised by the disturbed currents of air that came in the wake of the greatsword's broad arcs. This younger body, already weaker than his older self and less able to perform up to his higher standards, was also out of practice, having gone over a week battling a fever, not once lifting a sword or even walking in that time. It was not in his nature to accept anything from himself but his absolute best, and he would not be satisfied until he was back in top form, and he had been working endlessly ever since he had awoken to achieve just that.

Guts squinted against the midday snow-glare and braced himself upon the slippery stones, cold air burning in his throat, and his mind conjured an imaginary opponent for him to face, but his practice faltered periodically when the shade's blurry visage would morph into other, well-known faces: Gambino, Femto, Griffith… Nosferatu Zodd.

A feral grin crossed Guts' face at the last, accepting the conjured challenger, and he threw himself forward. A swift, overhead cut, straight down toward the demon's head…

Zodd… I could beat him.

… parried by the demon's sword. Retreat a pace, adjust his weight and his grip on the pommel. Lunge forward, swiping from the side, beneath the demon's guard…

I know now.

A shallow wound across the demon's ribs, and suddenly a monster stood where there was once a man.

Cut off the head.

Dodge the lashing tail and the swiping claws. A swift strike at the neck, evaded.

Pierce the heart.

Crouching low, drawing the greatsword near to his body, coiling like a serpent…

The rasp of his boots upon wet stone, cold air lashing his face as he lunged, muscles down his back and legs burning with strain as he extended, the greatsword burying itself in the demon's ribs.

The only way…

Ripping the sword away, flinging a spray of black blood through the air. Twisting his torso in a punishing arc, drawing the blade back before wrenching it forward in a scything blow through the monster's neck.

… only way to kill 'em.

Right, Femto?

"Captain Guts!"

Bloodied fur and black wings melted away into clouds of snow-mist, and Guts found himself facing one of his Raiders, a stocky man in his mid-twenties grinning from ear to ear. A frown creasing his forehead, Guts swung his sword over his shoulder and sheathed it in one easy motion. His thoughts meandered back to the present, bringing with them a name to match to the man.

"Beddyr? What in the world…?"

The man's grin only seemed to stretch wider. "A messenger just came in, sir. An armed force has been spotted on the nearby roads, a band of mercenaries bearing blue and white banners!"

Guts stared at the flushed face of the mercenary for a long moment before he came back to himself.

"Does the lord know?" he demanded.

Beddyr's smile vanished, replaced by the solemn mask of a soldier. "Not yet. The messenger's just now gone into the keep."

"How far away?"

"Less than a day's ride."

"Did the messenger say which way? Which road?"

"The same road we came on, sir. Any of the men could find their way there."

Guts' mind flashed through scenarios, and more than anything he knew that if ever there was a time that Brien would risk breaking the nobles' rules of hospitality, now was that time.

"Prep the horses, and have an extra horse saddled for Arlen. If he's not with the men, send Rickert for him. We're leavin' within the next half-hour, and we're goin' out in armor. Anyone objects, don't you dare take 'no' for an answer!"

"Yes, sir!" The man was off like an arrow from a bow, racing toward the barracks, and Guts was off to make his own arrangements.

The castle was protected by a standard drawbridge as well as a metal portcullis. The main gate led to the main road of the surrounding village, and the village was surrounded by intermittent sections of a small, chest-high stone wall that would do little more than give invaders a brief pause (most likely only while said invaders wondered why in the hells anyone would waste good stone on such a useless defensive measure).

Already clad in his armor (as was his daily practice), Guts took the steps leading to the top of the keep's outer wall two at a time, and upon reaching the top he was confronted by a pair of soldiers watching with suspicion as the mercenaries below scuttled between the barracks and the stables like a nest of disturbed ants.

His knuckles ached after hitting each of the soldiers' skulls, but he expected that the pair would be in far more pain when they awoke in several hours. He made his way to the gatehouse at a lope, a feral smirk tugging at his lips.

"Guts!" Rickert was already mounted by the time Guts returned to the courtyard. The young blond mercenary nudged his mount through the throng of horses and men, his blue eyes wide, and behind him came an excitedly grinning Arlen mounted upon a pale pony. "Guts, what's going on?"

Guts smirked. "Can't you tell? We're leavin'."

Rickert frowned. "Guts…"

"Are we going on a trip?" asked Arlen, eyes bright with enthusiasm. "An adventure?"

One of the Raiders led over a chestnut gelding bearing Guts' tack and saddlebags, and the swordsman took the reins with a quick nod. "Yeah, kid, an adventure. Just stay close to Rickert."

The Raiders were nothing if not efficient. Every man Guts could see was armed and clad in full armor, their horses prepped for a long ride, and a thick circle of mercenaries surrounded Guts, Rickert, and Arlen at all times. Soldiers ringed the group with hands on their weapons, unsure of what to do but certain that the lord would be displeased with the turn of events. The courtyard rang with the sound of hooves upon stone, the jingle of tack, voices of men, and the air was filled with jets of steam as the horses snorted and neighed.

Yet a single voice managed to rise above it all in a bellow of fury that echoed off the walls.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Rickert winced, his horse shying. "Oh, boy."

Arlen hunkered low in his saddle, looking a far cry from his previous bright-eyed self.

Guts wove his way through the press of men and horses, leading his gelding along behind him, a small smile tugging at his lips as he caught sight of the apoplectic face of the castle's liege lord and the plump, berry-red face of his overweight toady as the pair stood on the castle steps.

"Lord Brien." Guts did not even bother with a bow.

"Y-you…" Hazel eyes flashed with fury, thin, pale lips pressed tightly together, and the nobleman seemed to grope for words. He obviously did not dare order his men to attack while his son was at the heart of the Raiders. "What… Who do you think… Y-you vagabond! Do you think you will get away with this?"

"We're just leavin' a bit early. Don't want to overstay our welcome, is all. Little Arlen's comin' part of the way to see us off."

"Kidnapping!" cried the fat man in a strained voice, his bald pate shiny with nervous sweat, seemingly unable to get out more than that single word.

"Oh, we'll let him head back at the edge of the village. But I wouldn't try followin' us until he's on his way back. You don't want us to slip up and do somethin' stupid."

The lord's teeth were bared in a snarl. "You… You dare threaten—"

"You'll find I dare a lot of stuff." Guts' eyes roved over the crowds of castle soldiers ringing the group of mercenaries. "I even dared to fix your gates, just so we wouldn't be delayed." He smiled. "I'll even dare ask you just how much bounty you were offered for our heads."

The lord's eyes widened. "H-how—?"

"Here's some free advice." Guts' smile widened wolfishly. "However much it was, it ain't enough for you to tangle with the Hawks."

To Be Continued…