Words they both know, but only Griffith understands. If Guts were to summarise this stretch of ghastly moments, it would be so. He hears, ears open and prone, and some distant part of him dissects and archives Griffith's small gasps and petty truths, conserves them for a proper look later.
First, what he is truly here for — not to produce an answer, but to pretend it comes easily. He leans in, hovering overmuch with his neck craning and his shoulders crying under the strain of a night of watch, and now the care of this precious, spoiled thing beneath him. And he sets his hand on the top of Griffith's head, ruffling curls should know better than to think they can ever survive a day in proper balance, like a child accepting his scolding. There Griffith goes.
"A curse wouldn't know who the hell the conqueror is." Why not Guts, in the end, the man who delivered more blood, spread more agony? Why Griffith, but for the obvious knowledge that now he sits a throne. This, Guts will give him,. "If it thinks you because you're the one giving orders, sure. Then it will pass on to whoever's pulling the duty."
Casca, Guts, whoever's entrusted. Whoever's left.
"Maybe you didn't ride out far enough. Or long enough. Tomorrow you're packing some..." His nose wrinkles in obvious admission that he knows all too little what proper men need for their essentials, and he is not of a mind or age to learn. "Possessions, and you're off for the next sennight. See a city. Broker some treaties I'll get to laugh about. See if it improves."
no subject
First, what he is truly here for — not to produce an answer, but to pretend it comes easily. He leans in, hovering overmuch with his neck craning and his shoulders crying under the strain of a night of watch, and now the care of this precious, spoiled thing beneath him. And he sets his hand on the top of Griffith's head, ruffling curls should know better than to think they can ever survive a day in proper balance, like a child accepting his scolding. There Griffith goes.
"A curse wouldn't know who the hell the conqueror is." Why not Guts, in the end, the man who delivered more blood, spread more agony? Why Griffith, but for the obvious knowledge that now he sits a throne. This, Guts will give him,. "If it thinks you because you're the one giving orders, sure. Then it will pass on to whoever's pulling the duty."
Casca, Guts, whoever's entrusted. Whoever's left.
"Maybe you didn't ride out far enough. Or long enough. Tomorrow you're packing some..." His nose wrinkles in obvious admission that he knows all too little what proper men need for their essentials, and he is not of a mind or age to learn. "Possessions, and you're off for the next sennight. See a city. Broker some treaties I'll get to laugh about. See if it improves."