Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Guts stood alone beneath the cold expanse of the night sky, the world around him muted by shadows that twisted like hungry specters. A whisper danced on the edge of his awareness—soft, insistent, and haunting. It called to him, a voice that felt familiar yet elusive, slipping through his grasp like smoke in the wind. He glanced over his shoulder, the hair on the back of his neck prickling as a strange sensation washed over him; he was not alone.

For a fleeting moment, a transparent light flickered in his periphery, ethereal and otherworldly. Guts blinked, and it was gone, leaving behind only a lingering chill that clawed at his insides. Something was watching him—an unseen presence, lingering just beyond the edge of his consciousness, its intentions shrouded in mystery. He shook his head, dismissing the feeling as a remnant of the countless battles fought against the dark. Yet, doubt coiled in his gut, twisting like a serpent; he couldn’t shake the sensation that he was being tailed, hunted.

Night after night, he found himself drawn to the moon, its pale glow casting long shadows that danced around him. He couldn't explain it, but something within him stirred as he stared at it, a subconscious yearning that gnawed at the edges of his sanity. What was it that beckoned him? What lay hidden in the folds of that celestial body?

He felt it now more than ever—a weariness that was almost intimate in nature. It was more than the deep fatigue from fighting, more than the bruising toll of battles with apostles. This exhaustion resonated with something deeper, something he could only compare to the drained feeling that lingered after he’d given himself completely. It was an unsettling contrast to the violent world he inhabited, a strange vulnerability that left him feeling exposed.

As he stood in the stillness, a dream flickered in the recesses of his mind, just beyond reach. Memories, like fragments of shattered glass, glinted briefly before dissolving into the darkness. They spoke of warmth, of a fleeting peace that felt foreign to his battle-worn soul. Guts shuddered as a rush of unfamiliar emotions surged through him, something that felt like relief yet tasted like bitterness. It was an unsettling contrast to the violent world he inhabited.

He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on the sensations that coursed through him—power building deep within, a simmering energy that resonated in sync with the pulse of the earth. Each breath brought with it a sense of awakening, as if he were being fueled by the very essence of the night. And yet, deep down, he felt the weight of dread pressing against his heart, the realization that he was becoming more aware of the cycles of the moon, the pull it had over him, the way it whispered promises he dared not believe.

Opening his eyes, Guts locked his gaze onto the moon once more, feeling an unsettling connection to it—an unexplainable bond that hinted at something greater, something dark and powerful. As the shadows lengthened around him, he couldn't shake the feeling that destiny was weaving its thread into the fabric of his life, and that soon he would have to confront whatever awaited him under the gaze of that haunting light—a force he could not yet name, but which called to him with an undeniable intensity.

It was a quiet night, the kind of stillness that put Guts on edge. The campfire crackled softly in the background, but Guts couldn’t rest. Fight after fight every night. He wandered away from the camp, his steps heavy as his thoughts churned. Guts stood at the edge of a cliff, the world spread out below him in darkness. The full moon illuminated the night sky, casting silver beams over the landscape, giving everything an ethereal glow. He clenched the hilt of his sword, the cool steel familiar in his grip, a comforting weight that grounded him against the chaos of his thoughts. Tonight felt no different, but there was a strange tension in the air, something Guts couldn’t quite place. His instincts screaming that something was off. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it a sense of familiarity, though Guts couldn’t explain why. He turns around, 

And then, he saw a person.

A figure seemed to emerge from the shadows themselves, draped in spectral white, silver hair catching the moonlight like a whispered memory. At first, Guts’ body tensed—he recognized the form, the armor, the face. It was Griffith. His mind immediately went to battle mode, ready to strike down the man who had caused him so much pain. But something stopped him. Griffith stood there, emerging from the darkness with an otherworldly grace, his falcon armor shimmering under the moonlight like a beacon. The armor glinted, framing his figure in an almost celestial aura,

The figure held a different presence, a subtle detachment in the way they stood—not as commanding as Griffith once was, yet not quite vulnerable either. Their gaze met his, quiet and unreadable, holding a depth he couldn’t name.

Guts’ brow furrowed in confusion, his hand tightening around the hilt of the Dragon Slayer. “What the hell…?” he muttered under his breath, unsure whether to attack or wait. It’s not too late for Guts to lift the his sword and plunge it into the chest of the person standing before him. The weight of the blade feels familiar, cold against his skin, a stark reminder of the violent world they inhabit. But before he can make the choice, the person in front of him—Griffith—In a silent step, he drew close, his hand rising as though to reach him. But then, his fingers lingered, just shy of his face, and in that hesitant space, the weight of their shared memories pressed upon him like a silent, haunting kiss.

Never, in all his wildest dreams, not even in the darkest corners of his mind, had he imagined being kissed by Griffith. For fuck’s sake! 

Before fury blinded him to rampage, —“Remember,” Griffith whispers. the words falling from his lips like a spell, wrapping around Guts and pulling him into a flood of memories. Instantly, his head spins, overwhelmed by images of their shared moments beneath every full moon. He remembers the laughter that danced between them, the moments of joy so rare in their harsh lives, intermingled with the tears of sorrow that threatened to drown him. There were times when Griffith smiled and felt invincible, and others when that person cried, weighed down by regrets he could never voice.

In those memories, Griffith confronts the honesty he had buried deep within himself. Those strange nights were like dreams, moments where reality blurred into a world devoid of the hell he was so accustomed to—a place where Griffith and him could simply exist together without the looming specter of violence. For some reason, in this tapestry of memories, he sees Griffith’s face illuminated by the moonlight, his gentle gaze piercing through the darkness of Guts’ soul.

And then, there’s the embrace—the warmth of Griffith’s arms around him, grounding him, anchoring him to this surreal moment. Guts feels a strange sense of belonging, a connection that both exhilarates and terrifies him. In the swirling chaos of his thoughts, he dares to imagine a different life, one where they could be free from the chains of their destinies.

Yet, amid the tenderness, a strange shiver of uncertainty runs through him. In a fleeting moment, as if conjured by some buried memory, Griffith's form seemed to shift, taking on an unfamiliar softness—a hint of something not quite as he remembered. A woman’s presence, though faint, lingered in his mind, unsettling and inexplicable."

This overwhelming rush of emotions feels like a tidal wave, threatening to pull him under. He grapples with the realization of what could have been, the possibilities that lay just out of reach. The knife still glints in his hand, a cold reminder of the choices he must face. Yet all he can think about is the way Griffith looks at him, those eyes holding the weight of unspoken words and shared history.

In this fragile moment, the boundaries of their relationship blur, and Guts is left standing on the precipice of desire and duty. The ghosts of their pasts swirl around them, whispering of lost opportunities and paths not taken. The ache in his chest deepens, a profound melancholy that intertwines with the hope flickering in his heart. Guts knows he is torn between the man he is and the man he wishes he could be, a warrior haunted by love in a world that only knows pain.

There, in those twilight moments, he confronts his own truth, a brutal honesty that feels both liberating and suffocating. Those strange nights blurred the lines between reality and dreams, creating a world devoid of the hell that plagued his waking life. It was a realm where pain didn’t exist, where he and Griffith could simply be.

For some inexplicable reason, he recalls looking into Griffith’s eyes—those mesmerizing, ethereal eyes that always seemed to hold the weight of the world. In that gaze, there is gentleness, a softness that pulls at Guts’ heart. He sees Griffith not just as a him before, even before he hate him, but as something more, something he had long buried deep within himself.

After seeing the confusion etched on Guts’ face, Griffith took a step back, creating some distance between them. “Griffith’s— wouldn’t let you remember,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “Not after… what passed between us.”

Guts’ grip faltered, the weight of his sword suddenly feeling heavier than he could bear, and he found himself bracing against the ground, breaths coming shallow. “Who are you?” he whispered, the question trembling on his lips, full of uncertainty.

Griffith knelt beside him, the closeness returning, but this time it felt different—less overwhelming, more solemn. “I am… what’s left.” He paused, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond him, the words hanging between them like a mystery unsolved. “Not him. And yet…”

Guts' gaze remained fixed on him, searching for something—anything—to make sense of this impossible situation.

Griffith let out a quiet sigh, his voice tinged with melancholy. “I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve tried to explain this to you. Every time we meet, it’s always the same…” he thought. He looked away for a moment, gathering his thoughts before turning back to Guts. “A fragment,” he said quietly, his gaze drifting past him. “Something left behind, something… forgotten.”

Still lost in confusion, Guts found himself asking a question that only deepened the mystery. “Why...?” His voice was unsteady, uncertain. He didn’t need to tread so carefully, but something weighed on him, urging him not to be too harsh with the person before him.

Griffith’s smile wavered, a shadow passing over his features, leaving his expression inscrutable—a familiar mask, haunted by something distant, unreachable. “So, you’ve finally asked,” Griffith said softly, his voice carrying the weight of something long buried. “I suppose it’s time I answer.”

Guts stared at the person before him, the weight of their words sinking in.

“You once gave me another name,” he murmured, a trace of something almost like sadness in his voice. “You never said why.”

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