Title: What Must Be

Chapter Summary: Guts and the Raiders wait at the edge of the village while those within the castle plot their demise. Arlen is their only surety of safety, but there are those who care more for money and blood than a child's life.

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 1: I have finished the anime, thanks to my esteemed aunts and uncles who donated enough money for me to buy the DVDs. :big smile and loud 'squee' inserted here: So now this story will largely be based on the anime as I haven't read past the ninth manga (I'm one of those psychotic people who refuses to read online translations or scanlations or whatever they're called). I will be borrowing bits from the manga I have read, though (i.e. Guts' rape, Puck, etc.) so just read with a grain of salt, please.

A/N 2: I'm upset that there isn't more Berserk fanfiction to be found on the web. Fanfiction . net, from what I can see, has the largest collection of any site. Can anyone recommend a place where I can find some more quality Berserk fanfiction?

-Chapter Six-

When You Must Meet

Guts thought in straight lines. If he liked or disliked something, he acted accordingly. He fought his enemies. He looked after his allies. He was not a man who engaged in –or enjoyed, or understood, really—the art of subterfuge. He had left such as that to Griffith or Caska, or Judeau, even. It was the main reason he had so disliked his time spent in the Midland court; he could not get his head around the idea of people who lived smiling at those they hated and flattering those they wished dead. If someone ever openly expressed a desire to kill him, Guts struck first. Enemies: destroy. Allies: defend. Straight lines.

This mindset left him sadly inexperienced when it came time to deal with those skilled in artifice. Had anyone else been there to take command, they undoubtedly would have handled the situation with more finesse than Guts showed in his heavy-handed solution. They would have talked their way out of a fight altogether. They would have found a way to stay at the castle. They would have managed to avoid that human-shaped piece of horse shit Darid.

Most importantly, they would not have allowed themselves to remain huddled at the edge of the village like so many rabbits cowering in their burrows.

The winter light was beginning to dim to silver-gray, the silent houses at the village edge (their inhabitants barricading themselves inside away from the armored strangers lurking outdoors) lending blunt puzzle pieces of silver, gray, blue and black to the landscape. Nearly the reach of a well-shot arrow beyond the village's outer wall there were the first scraggly specimens of the forest trees, jagged and dark against the pale snow. The village road (a line of dark, muddy ruts in the ground) stretched across this open area and pressed into the shadowy woodland, soon disappearing from sight behind the screen of trees.

The Raiders, still mounted, stood silently on the verge the open ground beyond the broken wall that ran along the village edge. Lonely winds twined their way between the simple village huts, a background moan punctuated only by the jingling of harness and the snorts and shuffles of restless horses. There had been mutters earlier (the most popular of which being "Damn cold out here" and "How long're we gonna' sit around like this?"), but they had died out hours past as the stillness that preceded battle permeated the air.

It had been a tense ride down from the keep. The Raiders had left the castle's main gate and wound their way at a brisk trot through the village by way of the main road, glares of the castle occupants drilling into their backs and villagers scattering before them and dogs yapping at their passing. The mercenaries, without needing an order, had hastened to escape arrow-range of the castle, for there were few sensations as unnerving as the feeling that someone is taking aim at one's spine.

Arlen had balked at accompanying the Raiders after witnessing his father's anger firsthand, but the mercenaries had not taken 'no' for an answer, and now the boy sat unhappily atop his fidgeting pony at the heart of the Raiders, drawing in quick, shuddering breaths as little boys were apt to do when fighting tears. Rickert had stayed by the young noble's side, looking uncomfortable with the situation in general but unwilling to leave the upset boy alone in the midst of edgy mercenaries.

Clad in full armor from his helmet to his boots, fully prepared for a brawl, Guts remained mounted several paces separate from the group, closest to the village and its keep, his attention focused on the castle rising above the uneven outlines of the village roofs. Small sparks of light flickered intermittently atop the lofty, distant walls, the flicker of dying sunlight on armor and weapons as men hurried along the walls like silver ants scurrying about a disturbed nest.

Hours had passed since the Raiders' hasty exit from the keep. The lord had had ample time to prepare an attack party. The question was whether his anger or his son weighed more in Lord Brien's mind.

Guts' hand rose to ghost over the leather-bound pommel of his sword, reassuring himself of its presence. Only a matter of time… but who will come first?

"Less than a day's ride." The messenger bearing that hopeful news had arrived near midday, meaning that the Hawks had been that close when the messenger had set out for the castle. That in turn spawned the thought that the Hawks were several hours' worth nearer by the time the messenger had ever reached the castle, and now nearer still, for close to four hours had passed since the Raider's had left the keep.

Guts' ideal scenario was that the Hawks would soon return and with the added support they would be able to send the boy back to the keep and leave without any more commotion than they had already caused.

Not that I'd object to a nice brawl, —The thought of a bloody free-for-all actually sounded appealing after a week of doubt and confusion and that idiotic castle captain's jeers.— but I don't need to haul deadweight into it with me.

And wasn't that a cheerful thought? A sheltered noble born child floundering in the midst of a violent bloodbath was not something that Guts wished to add to his rather impressive list of recurring nightmares.

The swordsman drew his cloak as closely around himself as he could without compromising his sword-arm, but it was little help against the biting chill of a winter evening, and the wind was not helping, sneaking its icy fingers through his clothes and raking its nails along his skin.

"Captain."

He turned at the call to find many of the Raiders focusing intently toward the barren tree line. Pulling his horse around, he moved nearer to the group. "What is it?"

One of the Raiders –the one who had spoken—raised his arm and pointed, his eyes narrowed into a squint as he fought to focus on the distant trees. "Something moving in the trees, sir. Near the road."

Guts scanned the tree line. The whole of the Raiders sat silently, some still keeping watch on the village but many now looking toward the forest. Wind whispered over the snowbound landscape, raising wisps of mist, and there was a definite flicker of movement between the distant gray and black tree-trunks.

The Hawks…? Guts tried to focus better. If it was the Hawks, he wondered why any of the Hawks would be among the trees rather than on the road, but Judeau's Scouts were sometimes sent ahead of the main body, and the Scouts were notorious for their skills in the wilds, often chosen for reconnaissance or to head small forest battles.

A dark shape bounded from the trees. The deer faltered upon finding itself exposed and turned to race along the tree line, soon disappearing back into the mottled shadows of the forest.

A murmur of disappointment rippled through the assembled men, and several chuckled at their own jumpiness. Guts let out a disgusted snort, turning back toward the village, his eyes catching on Arlen's hazel gaze. Guts found the remnants of his conscience smarting as he realized that the boy was still on the verge of tears and Rickert looked upset as well. Shit. He guided his horse over nearer to the boy's smaller pony.

Before Guts could speak, the boy sniffled and spoke haltingly through choked hiccups. "I h-hope Fa-F-Father l-locks you in-in th-the dun-d-dungeons!"

Rickert's eyes widened. "Arlen!"

"I d-do! I… I h-hate you!" Now the boy was crying, and Guts' atrophied conscience was regaining its strength with startling speed, stomping on his stomach with unexpected force. The child's hazel eyes were narrowed, and even bright with tears they reminded Guts of the Lord Brien's eyes, hatred and resentful anger burning in their depths.

"You ain't the first, kid," came Guts' quiet reply, "And you won't be the last."

He kneed his horse in an abrupt turn, and it was sheer, blind luck that the movement took him out of the crossbow bolt's path, leaving it to graze his bicep instead of pierce his shoulder.

Rickert's startled yell of "Guts!" mingled with Arlen's frightened scream and men shouting and weapons being drawn, and more bolts were ripping through the air as Guts yanked his horse's head around in a tight turn, his greatsword clearing its sheath with a deadly metallic hiss.

Guts' first thought was that Brien's patience had given out and castle soldiers had been sent to capture or kill the mercenaries, but the riders pouring out of the alleys between the village houses could not number more than a hundred, and then a familiar, hated voice rose above the din of thundering hooves and yelling men and screaming horses, and Guts spotted an armor-clad Darid leading the charge, and Guts realized that Brien probably did not know about this sortie at all.

"Kill their captain! Don't let him escape! Forget the others; his head is worth more than all of them combined!"

So there is a bounty on my head after all.

Guts did not restrain the harsh bark of dark laughter that bubbled up in his chest, and he watched with a bloodthirsty smile as the riders thundered toward him over the twenty-something yards of open ground between him and the village, and he slammed the visor of his helmet down with an impatient motion.

"Move your asses!" he bellowed. "Head for the trees! Protect the kid!"

Raiders wrenched their horses around in punishing turns that nearly set the beasts on their sides, and the air was filled with the pounding of hooves as well as the chunks of snow and dirt kicked up by the animals' feet. Guts' horse snorted and shimmied beneath its rider as a trio of daring soldiers pulled ahead of their companions and arrowed straight for the Raider captain, and Guts' muscles tensed as he raised his blade, and…

Don't think.

…sunlight on metal, brief resistance as sword meets sword, and then a clean sweep through armor and flesh that sends ruby spray across his vision and pattering upon virgin snow…

Ducking as a sword cleaves the air that had once held his head, and guiding his horse with his knees as he raises his sword once more. The greatsword stealing away the life of man and beast in one brutal stroke, sending a new rain of scarlet into the air, and a follow-through swipe cleaves the third man, pale and horrified, into two mutilated lumps of bloodied flesh.

There were more than a dozen men closing upon him now, and the Raiders were hanging back, unwilling to leave him, and he spat a curse, wrenching his horse around and forcing it after the retreating mercenaries. His mount settled into a swift gallop, and Guts held his mount back, keeping himself as rearguard, and flashbacks of another time, another road flew through his mind.

Ahead of him he could see one horse lagging slightly, carrying both its original rider and the slight form of Arlen, and Guts wondered it the boy's pony had fallen or if the Raider had doubted its ability to keep up with the headlong race that would soon have even the seasoned Raider horses laboring. Rickert was near the front of the widespread group, and there was a handful holding their horses back as well, bringing their mounts to either side and just ahead of Guts' own, but the trees were looming ahead, and the men at the front were pushing their horses in the slightest of turns, aiming for the road in the hopes of better footing.

A horse head appeared in the corner of his field of vision, and he turned, raising his sword just in time to block an overhead strike, and his arm wrenched the greatsword forward and back in a vicious swipe that separated the unfortunate rider from his legs and his horse in a burst of crimson, but another rider surged forward, crossbow leveled and ready, and Guts realized that the rider was purposefully outside of his sword's range and shifted his blade in preparation for an attempt to knock the bolt away—

The soldier's throat blossomed in an explosion of red around the arrow buried in his flesh, and the horse shied and pulled away from the chase as its rider became limp weight and tumbled from the saddle.

One of the Raiders let out a cry, not of fear or fury but of welcome, and Guts looked forward just in time to see a wave of familiar-yet-not men sweeping past Rickert and the Raiders, pennants of blue and white fluttering up and down the tree line, and more men were appearing from the trees to Guts' left and right, swords held ready. Several more bolts were released by the newcomers, whistling lethally through the air to pick off more of the pursuing soldiers, and Guts slowed his sweating horse to a canter and then a trot as the first line of men swept past, turning his horse back toward the battle with a fierce grin.

The castle soldiers had lost their confidence, many now turning tail with speed fueled by terror as they realized that their prey had been bolstered by several hundred displeased, battle-hardened mercenaries, but the Hawks hemmed in the soldiers on all sides, preventing escape, and Guts threw himself back into the battle with weeks' worth of anger and doubt and frustration burning in his mind.

The Hawks…

Men hailed him occasionally as he waded into the fray, and ghosts lingered at the edges of his eyes like restless demons come to drive him mad.

They're here.

There were soldiers pressing around him on all sides, and everything was sweat and blood and steel and screams, muscles straining and eyes dilating and heartbeat thundering, blood afire, and his hands ached with the strength of his grip upon the greatsword, cold air burning his lungs and the chaos of battle battering his ears, but there were Hawks all around and where was Griffith…?

His sword swept soldiers out of his path like bloodied rag dolls, screams clawing at his ears, and warm liquid spattered his face, his arms, his hands, and he snarled as a lucky blade crept past his defense to leave a stinging gash upon his cheek. He retaliated and sent a broken body hurling to the unforgiving ground to fall further victim to the hooves of maddened horses.

Focus!

But where was—?

Don't think.

And then needles of pain jabbed viciously into his neck, and he started so violently that his horse shied beneath him, pivoting on its hind legs and letting out a sharp cry, but Guts' eyes were scanning the battlefield, searching, wondering, hoping, dreading, and silver brighter than new-fallen snow shone in the sunlight, a helmet forged in the likeness of a hawk's visage showing prominently amidst the jumble of battered armor born by the other men.

"I will get my own kingdom."

Even in the midst of battle, the silver rider seemed to be scanning the assembled men as though in search of something, and a mere moment later Guts felt the heavy weight of that loved/loathed gaze settle fully upon him, and Guts was caught in a snare of sapphire eyes.

Time slowed.

"You will fight for my cause… because you belong to me."

There was a horrific jolt as his mount staggered with an agonized moan, and Guts' world turned upside-down as he was flung from the saddle when the horse lurched and thrashed in its dying moments, hacking blood around the arrow in its throat. A kaleidoscope of hooves and metal and snow and fur whirled past his eyes as he rolled away from the downed beast, and time regained its grip upon the world, seeming to rush faster than normal as though to make up for its lost moments, and his feet and hands skidded upon the wet, icy earth, forcing him back to his feet, and he wrenched his sword around to block an overhead blow that he sensed more than saw.

"I will decide the place where you die."

It was one thing to fight on foot in a widespread battle where there was room to move and watch for enemies, but this was a tight-packed melee with horses crowding on all sides, and Guts spent many long moments battering back the soldiers who now pressed eagerly forward, and the Hawks were calling out, urging their mounts closer as well, but the soldiers were like jackals spotting wounded prey and would not be forced off.

Footing was awkward at best, the bodies of dead men shifting and slipping beneath his boots –Don't think—and horses jostled him with their maddened movements as his sword moved in a furious swirl of metal to deflect the hostile blows, but a hasty step backward was fouled by the armor-weighted body of a dead soldier, and the swordsman faltered, nearly falling. He spat a vicious curse as he fought to regain his balance, bringing his sword to bear, but there were more enemies pushing forward to take the places of those he had felled, and he knew that there was a sword hovering above, ready to strike, and he wouldn't be able to move—

A prickling in the cursed scar upon his neck, a rush of white and silver, and the whistle of a blade through the air—a snow-colored stallion was abruptly between him and the majority of the attacking soldiers, the silver-armor of the rider spattered with blood, upraised blade stained dark with it, and the rider's mouth twisted in a frown, his eyes turned toward the hesitating soldiers but speaking only for Guts.

"This isn't like you. If you aren't careful, you'll die."

Even in the dim, fading light of the dying day, the rider shown as something ethereal, something distant and untouchable… something from beyond Guts' dreams and nightmares.

"Do I need a reason each time I put myself in harm's way for your sake?"

Ally and enemy… brother and rival… savior and murderer… leader, warrior, philosopher… friend…

Griffith.

To Be Continued…

A/N 3: For those who were wondering, a Flawed update should be up tomorrow with either Mission X or What Must Be the week after.