Guts blankets down upon him, all weight and safety, and Griffith hugs his arms reverently around Guts' head, keeping him close. He presses his cheek against Guts' hair, eyes closed with bliss for this moment where Guts is unguardedly his, vulnerable and protective.
He stays like that even after Guts' suggestion. His fingers comb gently through Guts' hair, so calm that he almost seems not to have heard the heresy.
Why not give up your dream? Guts suggests, and if it were anyone but Guts suggesting it, Griffith would eviscerate them. Just another body that had dared to stand in his way. But Griffith has made so many exceptions for Guts. Again and again he has compromised in order to keep Guts at his side. Because Guts says it, Griffith doubts himself for a moment.
He wonders if he was wrong about his idea of a friend. He'd always longed for an equal, someone who could stand at his side without needing to be helped up, someone who had earned the place. But there was an inherent contradiction in his imagined scenario--himself as a king, with his friend... also a king, who had earned his own kingship? How would that work? Two castles? If he encountered someone with an equal dream, it would be an eternal impractical balance. Two castles, and thus never really at each other's side. Two castles, until one yielded or one conquered so the kingdoms could be joined. It was a friendship that could only ever exist in the theoretical.
And here was Guts, offering to set himself in opposition to Griffith's dream in order to save him.
The three of them on the road. They'd do well enough, finding work as they could. Guts strong, Griffith clever, Casca to balance their tempers and make them both more palatable to anyone they encountered. They could find work here and there, building walls, defending towns. It's a pretty image, the three of them in the sun. Inevitably drawing a band again, even if they released the current band go where they would. More would come.
But Griffith didn't believe it would last for long. They'd need somewhere to stay for winter, and a source of food, and that meant settling into quiet domesticity in some nowhere town, or securing allies, or working as mercenaries again, and starting back at the beginning for no reason other than the beginning had been good and the now came with the awful weight of madness.
The freedom of it, though. The open road. The edges of the world, where there might very well be dragons. Guts as a traveling bard, with a lute instead of a sword.
His dream hadn't ever been specific. The castle was a symbol. Wealth. Power. Authority. Respect. Safety. As Griffith had begun to succeed and his dream had become a real possibility, he had simply assumed that success would be a series of stepping stones. Beyond the castle was another, greater, more glorious castle. King of a small country, king of a large country. Why stop? Why put boundaries upon his dream? Wouldn't he be happy if he died that way, king of an empire and working toward king of the world? And even beyond death, why ever change his ambitions? King of Heaven, or Hell. Both, eventually. Let all of creation bow to him.
But here he was, king of a castle, and with a friend who would die to save him.
Was there a point at which he could count his dream achieved? And if so, what then? A new dream?
It was easier to continue on the trajectory he'd set himself. That child's dream which had none of these complications. He'd built himself up to be one thing, to have one skill set, to bend all the world toward his one purpose. If his dream was achieved, then what purpose did he have?
"Wouldn't you?" he murmured, after a long, long time. The shadows all stayed where they belonged. "We'd end up working as mercenaries in someone else's war, or subject to someone else's rule. Even if we took to the road every time someone tried to boss us or conscript us, we'd need places to settle down every winter. And for that time, either we become someone else's soldiers or someone else's peasants."
no subject
He stays like that even after Guts' suggestion. His fingers comb gently through Guts' hair, so calm that he almost seems not to have heard the heresy.
Why not give up your dream? Guts suggests, and if it were anyone but Guts suggesting it, Griffith would eviscerate them. Just another body that had dared to stand in his way. But Griffith has made so many exceptions for Guts. Again and again he has compromised in order to keep Guts at his side. Because Guts says it, Griffith doubts himself for a moment.
He wonders if he was wrong about his idea of a friend. He'd always longed for an equal, someone who could stand at his side without needing to be helped up, someone who had earned the place. But there was an inherent contradiction in his imagined scenario--himself as a king, with his friend... also a king, who had earned his own kingship? How would that work? Two castles? If he encountered someone with an equal dream, it would be an eternal impractical balance. Two castles, and thus never really at each other's side. Two castles, until one yielded or one conquered so the kingdoms could be joined. It was a friendship that could only ever exist in the theoretical.
And here was Guts, offering to set himself in opposition to Griffith's dream in order to save him.
The three of them on the road. They'd do well enough, finding work as they could. Guts strong, Griffith clever, Casca to balance their tempers and make them both more palatable to anyone they encountered. They could find work here and there, building walls, defending towns. It's a pretty image, the three of them in the sun. Inevitably drawing a band again, even if they released the current band go where they would. More would come.
But Griffith didn't believe it would last for long. They'd need somewhere to stay for winter, and a source of food, and that meant settling into quiet domesticity in some nowhere town, or securing allies, or working as mercenaries again, and starting back at the beginning for no reason other than the beginning had been good and the now came with the awful weight of madness.
The freedom of it, though. The open road. The edges of the world, where there might very well be dragons. Guts as a traveling bard, with a lute instead of a sword.
His dream hadn't ever been specific. The castle was a symbol. Wealth. Power. Authority. Respect. Safety. As Griffith had begun to succeed and his dream had become a real possibility, he had simply assumed that success would be a series of stepping stones. Beyond the castle was another, greater, more glorious castle. King of a small country, king of a large country. Why stop? Why put boundaries upon his dream? Wouldn't he be happy if he died that way, king of an empire and working toward king of the world? And even beyond death, why ever change his ambitions? King of Heaven, or Hell. Both, eventually. Let all of creation bow to him.
But here he was, king of a castle, and with a friend who would die to save him.
Was there a point at which he could count his dream achieved? And if so, what then? A new dream?
It was easier to continue on the trajectory he'd set himself. That child's dream which had none of these complications. He'd built himself up to be one thing, to have one skill set, to bend all the world toward his one purpose. If his dream was achieved, then what purpose did he have?
"Wouldn't you?" he murmured, after a long, long time. The shadows all stayed where they belonged. "We'd end up working as mercenaries in someone else's war, or subject to someone else's rule. Even if we took to the road every time someone tried to boss us or conscript us, we'd need places to settle down every winter. And for that time, either we become someone else's soldiers or someone else's peasants."