They linger like that for a moment, Griffith a known warmth beneath him, while his joints protest the strain of holding himself courteously above his captive. In the end, he rolls over, landing with a tired creak from the bed below, and settling beside Griffith. They'll sleep poorly again, he can tell without the need for asking. Griffith's — agitated, and Guts struggles will take many an hour to ruminate over Griffith's revelations.

They might as well put this time to decent use.

"Have a word with Casca." She won't spare one for Guts, not when do much of their bond was forged on thoughtless abrasions and last-minute truths. "She knows something's happening."

Griffith is hardly the man who needs lessoning on what secrets Guts' mouth must mean. They've straddled this line before, halfway between tight-lipped silence and screaming from atop the barricades that whatever the hell they've got to share, spoils or bruises, is doled out carefully between them. They don't owe answers they never had to give.

But Casca knows now. Guts has never been the man with the strength to deny her. "Just... work your magic."