Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hey Guts?” Judeau was resting with his back against a tree trunk, twirling a dry piece of wheatgrass between his fingers. “Have you ever cut your hair?”

Guts was resting on the ground against the same trunk. He lay on the opposite side with his arms behind his head, eyes closed and legs crossed, and his sword leaning up against the tree alongside him.

“No,” he said like it was obvious.

“Really?” Judeau sounded surprised. He tucked the wheatgrass underneath his tongue and crossed his arms, staring off into the distance. “I would’ve never guessed.”

Guts was suspicious. He cracked open one eye and angled his head towards Judeau, trying to catch a glimpse of his expression from behind the tree. “Why? Does it look bad or somethin’?”

“No, not ‘bad’. Just…eh,” Judea trailed off with a shrug.

Guts opened his other eye and waited for Judeau to follow up on his thought. When nothing came, his brows knit together and he frowned. “The hell is that s’posed to mean?!”

“Hey, hey, take it easy!” Judeau turned towards Guts and waved his hand in front of his own nose, trying to placate him. “I just meant that I’m surprised your hair is still so short if you’ve never gotten it cut before. That’s all.”

Guts scoffed. “Why’s that so surprising? Long hair makes you look like a girl.”

“Now you’re just being rude,” Judeau said like he was offended, but secretly, he smirked.

Guts’ smirk was less secret. “Can’t say I’m ever not.”

“Fair point,” Judeau acknowledged with a sigh. He sank further down against the tree and placed his legs out in front of him. He crossed the right over the left and stretched, yawning. There was a moment of silence between them as they relaxed, each enjoying the feel of the sun warming their skin between spotty breaks in the leaves above.

The rest of the Band had set up camp down the hill. They were on their way to Windham from their most impressive victory yet—the recapture of Doldrey. It was a victory that signified the end of the Hundred Years War and meant that peace was not far behind. Everyone was in good spirits (had been since their success nearly three days ago) but there was at least another day before their company made it back to the country’s capital, so they set up camp near a place called Rodfrey’s Basin to water their horses and replenish their own strength.

Judeau twirled a strand of hair around his finger. “Maybe I’ll ask Casca to trim my ends.” 

Now Guts was the one to turn towards him, confusion writ all over his face. “Huh? Why bother doing somethin’ like that?”

Judeau shrugged. “We’re going to be in the capital less than a day from now. It makes sense that, once we’ve arrived, we’ll be summoned to the castle. I’m sure the king himself will want to meet with Griffith, but there’s a chance the rest of us will be asked to join, too.”

He pulled his ponytail over his shoulder and ran his finger through the blonde strands. It caught at the ends, and he had to force it through.

“All those people, looking at us so closely like we’re actual heroes…” He sighed, then stared off into the distance like he was lost in a daydream. “I’ve always imagined we’d get there someday. That Griffith would get us there someday. Get us here, I mean, to this level. But a part of me is still nervous, y’know? Like it’s all just a dream and we’ll wake up tomorrow and realize it’s gone, that it was never real to begin with.”

For a moment, there was another bout of silence between them. Both had somber expressions on their faces. Judeau continued to play with his hair, and Guts continued to lay there, quietly thinking.

He was the first to break their silence.

“That’s bullshit,” Guts scoffed, spitting to emphasize his displeasure. “Griffith got us here plain and simple. Everyone with eyes can see that, and the ones who can’t are already dead. Don’t take Griffith’s dream so lightly.”

Judeau glanced over at Guts curiously, impressed to hear such devotion coming from him. “I don’t mean to. It’s just…hard to believe it’s all real now.”

Guts relented with an unseen smile. “Yeah, I get what you mean.” It was true. He understood exactly what Judeau was talking about. He’d had plenty of the same thoughts himself.

Guts watched the clouds pass by above them. Most of their forms were obscured by the leaves, but he could tell they were moving very quickly. It reminded him of the Band in a strange sort of way, how they charged forward uninhibited by anything else around them. Not that there was anything else around to inhibit them. Guts didn’t know much about the wind, but he knew the clouds followed whichever direction it chose to go. They weren’t exactly free to move about on their own terms, to choose their own path. They were beholden to the wind. To its direction, to its path.

That was another similarity between the Band of the Hawk and the clouds. It was almost as if there was nothing else around them, as if they followed their wind wherever he chose to go. They were successful in everything they did. They never failed—Griffith never failed. It didn’t really matter what any one of them wanted for himself because all they ever wanted was what Griffith wanted, and wasn’t what he wanted better anyway?

Guts told himself he believed that was true. Deep down, however, he wondered if it actually was. There was something about living for Griffith’s dream that just…didn’t satisfy him, not in the way he wanted. But then again, could he really even say he knew what he wanted?

“...Have you ever had Casca cut your hair before?” he asked instead. It was the easier question to think about.

Judeau chuckled. “I have.”

“Did she do it?”

Judeau threw his hair back over his shoulder and crossed his arms with a smirk, responding in a tone that sounded supremely satisfied. “She did.”

Guts almost laughed. “Heh, I never would’ve guessed.”

“She can be very kind if you ask her to do something nicely.”

“She’s never been kind to me,” Guts frowned, taking his arms out from behind his head and crossing them over his chest, pouting. “And I’ve never done nothin’ to her.”

“I said if you ask her. Nicely.”

“Tch, whatever.”

Judea peeked around the tree and tried to meet Guts’ gaze. There was a smile on his face that was equal parts friendly and mischievous. “I can ask her for you, if you’d like.”

Guts saw Judeau’s expression and immediately distrusted it. He turned his head away with a scowl and wrapped his arms even tighter around his chest. “Don’t bother.”

“Alright, alright. If you insist,” Judeau said with a noncommittal shrug. He turned back around and pressed his arms tighter against his chest with a cheeky smirk, resolved to do the exact opposite of what he’d just agreed to, and started to hatch a plan to get Casca to do Guts’ hair.

Guts sat around a campfire with three of his fellow Hawks. Dusk was on the horizon, and they were all gathered together having some stew for dinner. Guts was to the left of Pippin, his fellow outsider in the ‘discussion’ that Corkus and their chef, Gaston, were having amongst themselves. He chewed on the tough, flavorless meat absentmindedly, feigning disinterest in what they were talking about, but his eyes followed the action like he was thoroughly invested, and really, he was—the conversation between them was very heated.

“Look, all I’m saying is there’s plenty of guys here that cook for us already, right? One of them has to have something. Anything! This is slop, you dimwit. Slop!!!” Corkus yelled. He sat on a rock opposite the other three Hawks with one foot resting atop his knee. He pressed a hand against his leg to keep himself balanced while the other was folded into an angry, accusatory fist. He looked like a frustrated teacher trying to teach his idiotic student how to do something basic, and had been going on about Gaston’s lack of appropriate seasoning since his first bite. That it was lacking was his own opinion, of course, a reflection of his self-proclaimed ‘professional’ opinion, an opinion neither Guts nor Pippin had yet to openly share.

Gaston sat beside Pippin on the other end of the log they were using as a bench. His hands were in his lap, holding an empty bowl that appeared to have been licked clean. His eyes were closed and his head angled downward like he was deep in thought, but the boot rapidly thumping on the ground suggested he was really just holding his tongue.

Corkus huffed, then crossed his arms over his chest and threw his head back with a snide grin. “Honestly, it just goes to show that some men should pick one thing and stick with it. You gotta know what you’re good at if you’re gonna be good at anything. Not all of us can be a jack-of-all-trades like me.”

Apparently, Gaston had had enough. His eyes shot open and his brow furrowed. The consistently kind, gentle, and perfectly agreeable second-in-command of the Hawks’ Raiders snorted derisively, then scoffed. “Like you? I’d like to see you try and boil water, Corkus. That’d be something, wouldn’t it?”

Everybody froze. Nobody said a word. The tension was so thick it would take a sword to cut through it.

Guts was so stunned that the spoon he had halfway to his mouth froze with him. Some of the broth dripped back into the bowl with a tiny splash. It was the only sound being made around their circle besides the steady crackle of fire, like a ring of keys dropped on the cold, hard floor of a prison cell. He was tempted to finish the bite, but the odds of him doing so now without ending up in a fight himself didn’t seem to be in his favor, and he didn’t want to fight until he’d finished eating, so he left the stew suspended near his lips, uneaten.

Across the way, Corkus seemed to have lost his mind. His mouth hung open, flabbergasted, and his eyes blinked rapidly like he was in the midst of seizing. He was well and truly speechless.

Guts took a curious glance at Pippin. It just so happened that Pippin was also taking a curious glance at him. Their eyes met, and suddenly, they couldn’t help it.

Pippin smiled.

Guts smirked.

Then, they laughed.

Gaston turned towards his two comrades with a start. He looked confused, like he was waiting for their support and couldn’t understand what was so funny. But their continued laughter was infectious, and he couldn’t help but join in on their mirth. Involuntarily, he started to chuckle, too.

“W-What’s so funny?!” Corkus finally managed to find his tongue, but his words fell on deaf ears.

Guts dropped his spoon back into the bowl, brought a hand up to his eyes, and rubbed them. He was even more amused to find them watery. It meant that he was laughing so hard he’d actually started crying, a rare occurrence.

He was still laughing when he felt a hand clap his shoulder. Startled, his laughter turned into a pained cough, and he nearly choked on his tongue. He turned towards the offender with an angry glare and shouted his frustration. “The hell was that for?!”

Judeau’s smiling face was easy to recognize through the haze of unshed tears that had started to water his eyes.

“Oh, sorry,” he scratched the back of his head with an apologetic grin. “I just wanted to borrow you for a second if you’ve got some time. It won’t take long. I promise.”

Guts regained some of his composure and frowned. “What for?” he asked again, still quite irritated. He stuffed another spoonful of food in his mouth while he waited impatiently for an answer.

Judeau just closed his eyes and smiled. “You’ll see.” 

Guts prolonged the need to voice his decision by chewing the food in his mouth slowly. He turned and glanced at the other Hawks, distantly aware that Corkus had somehow put Gaston in a headlock and Pippin was trying to rescue him. It was harmless fun, he thought. They were getting along well. Nobody was going to kill each other. They didn’t need him to stick around, which meant he had no believable excuse to avoid doing whatever Judeau wanted him to do, since all his other assignments prior to tomorrow’s departure had already been completed.

With a muffled groan, Guts swallowed the rest of his food. His bowl was nearly empty; he set it down on the ground beside him unfinished. Reluctantly, he stood up. He rolled his shoulders as though he was preparing to head to a fight, then crossed his arms over his chest with a heavy sigh. “…Fine. Where are we going?” His tone suggested he really didn’t want to know.

“Just follow me.” Unperturbed, Judeau waved his hand and started off in the direction of the command tent.

Guts sighed again. Several complaints flashed across his mind, but he followed along without voicing any of them.

He assumed it was going to be something pertaining to business. His raiders were all set and ready to go for tomorrow’s send-off. He’d made sure of it himself, so he figured Griffith had need of him elsewhere. Probably something to do with wrangling up the usual stragglers and fall-behinds. It was an unpleasant task unless he got permission to rough them up a little, which he hadn’t gotten yet. Maybe that’s where they were headed.

He rolled his shoulders again and groaned, wishing he could’ve just gone to bed instead.

Judeau didn’t take him to any of the usual suspects, though. Instead, he took him right outside Casca’s tent. He stood tall beside the entrance and placed his arms in the crook of his back as he called out to her in a loud voice. “Heya Miss Barber! I’ve got your client right here!”

“Wait, what? What’s going on?” Guts glanced around, expecting to see one of his raiders lurking nearby, hiding in the bushes to practice an amateur ambush, but nothing came.

Before Judeau could give him an answer, Casca parted the curtain acting as her tent’s door. She was dressed in a simple red tunic and tan pants along with her usual pair of boots. She looked tired, like she’d prefer to get some rest instead of carry out whatever favor Judeau had asked of her, but was obviously trying not to let it show and smiled gently at him instead. As soon as she saw Guts, however, her facade dropped. She crossed her arms over her chest and grimaced, giving Judeau a disapproving look.

“I can’t believe you asked me to do this,” she said with a shake of her head.

“Hey now. Everybody deserves to look their best, right? We all should when we see the king! I figured it’d be good to get everybody cleaned up a little, you know?”

“Everybody?” she asked, raising a disbelieving brow. She gave Guts another glance. It wasn’t as disdainful as the looks she usually gave him. In fact, it was arguably more considerate—intentional, even, like she was actually assessing the quality of his appearance.

It made Guts uncomfortable, and he looked away with a quiet growl.

Casca noticed his discomfort and huffed, then went back to ignoring him completely. “And why couldn’t he do it himself?”

Judeau wasn’t quick to answer. He glanced awkwardly at Guts and chuckled nervously, but Guts was just standing there with a sour look on his face. Judeau turned back towards Casca and put one hand on his hip, scratching the top of his head with the other as he tried to smile away his own building discomfort.

“Ah…well…because you’re just so much better at it and—”

“Judeau.” Casca glared at him.

“Alright, alright!” Judeau brought his hands up to indicate his surrender. “I thought it would be fun! Don’t hang me for it. Please?”

Casca’s frown deepened, but she gave Guts another glance. She crossed her arms tighter against her chest and looked into his eyes intensely, like she was searching for something specific.

Again, it made Guts uncomfortable, so he glared at her and crossed his arms over his chest with a scowl.

Casca was unphased. Her gaze shot up to the top of his head where her task lay, and she considered it with the same careful precision she did any other job she took seriously. Apparently there wasn’t much to consider, though, because as soon as she gave his hair a look, she sighed.

“Fine. I said I’d do it and I will.” She didn’t sound enthusiastic. Or very hopeful, either. She pivoted back towards Judeau and continued, adopting a more authoritative tone of voice. “Are all the preparations made for tomorrow?”

Judeau’s grin faded as soon as talk turned to business. He adopted the expression he did whenever it was time to get to work, and stood tall with his arms uncrossed. “Yes ma’am. We’ll be ready to head out as soon as we wake.”

“Good. You’re dismissed.” She uncrossed her arms, then parted the curtain to her tent and ducked into it. Pausing, she kept her hand along the edge of the curtain, leaving it parted to give Guts a chance to follow, but he continued to sulk, oblivious to her unspoken invitation.

Upon noticing that he didn’t get the hint, Casca clenched her teeth and furrowed her brow, placing a frustrated hand on her hip. “Well?! Are you coming or what?!”

Guts frowned at her, then gave Judeau a murderous glare. “I’ll remember this.”

“Hopefully with fondness,” Judeau was smiling again, far from intimidated. He inclined his head towards Casca’s tent to suggest that he should probably get going.

As Guts begrudgingly ducked down into their woman commander’s tent and out of view, Judeau turned and went his own way, stretching out his arms as he yawned, more than ready to go to bed himself. He smiled softly and chuckled, satisfied with his efforts. There was a chance that the two hated him for a month or so after the fact, but he had a feeling everything would be alright. Plus, he couldn’t wait to see the end result.

“Sit down.” Casca motioned to a sheet she had folded into something like a pillow at the center of her tent.

“Listen now, I’m not here to—”

“Sit. Down.” She spat the command through clenched teeth, then headed over to a small, wooden trunk she kept alongside the foot of her bed.

Guts cursed but did as she asked, sitting cross-legged on the makeshift pillow as she opened the lid of the trunk and started pilfering through it.

He’d never been in her tent before. He didn’t know what to think of it, but really, there wasn’t much to think. It was about the same as every other man’s tent in the Hawks. No more garish, no less supplied. He’d never really thought about what her living space would look like before and didn’t realize until that moment he expected things to be just a little bit…different. Girlish, perhaps. He didn’t know what that would mean, exactly, since he’d never known Casca to behave like any other woman he’d ever met, but seeing that her space wasn’t like that made him feel slightly less uncomfortable. Slightly.

The rest of her tent was uncluttered and undecorated, organized in a way that lent her the opportunity to move quickly and efficiently when morning came. There was a small table she used as a desk in the far right corner and a simple chair beside it. Only a few items were on it—a quill, a couple of sheets of paper, and what looked like a journal bound in cowhide alongside a slow-burning oil lamp. Her bed was already laid out on the floor along the tent’s opposite corner. It was a roll of animal hide, the same kind that most all the Hawks used for sleeping.

Casca continued to rummage through her trunk’s contents. It was halfway full with items both practical and sentimental, but she picked through them all like she knew exactly what she was looking for, and she did. Soon, a small pair of shears and a wooden comb were in her hands, and she closed the trunk’s lid. She made her way back over to Guts and set the shears down alongside him. Then, she brought her hand up to his head and grabbed a thick chunk of his hair.

“Stay still,” she said, then gave his hair a yank.

“YOW!!!” Guts hollered. His eyes clenched shut at the sudden pain and he grit his teeth with a hiss. He pulled his head forward, freeing himself from her fingers, and gingerly rubbed the offended area. He turned towards Casca with a glare. “That hurt!”

She glared, too, and reached a hand forward to pull him back into the right position. “Then don’t move,” she said as though it was his fault.

Guts was too stunned to resist the way she pulled his head back into place, but managed to growl in displeasure all the same.

Again she wormed her fingers through his hair. She was no gentler this time than before, but started close enough to his hairline that she didn’t have much to pull. His bangs were as short as they’d always been and offered no resistance. Unfortunately for Guts, that was the only section that was easy. The rest of his hair was full of tangles, and as she raked her hands across his scalp, Casca’s fingers caught in nearly all of them.

It wasn’t exactly pleasant, the way her hands felt on his head. He wasn’t quite sure how to describe it. Weird was one way. Irritating was another. He wasn’t fond of how she yanked and pulled whenever she caught a tangled patch of hair, jostling his head around like he was some brainless fruit. He did a perfectly fine job of taking care of them himself and had managed to do so for almost 18 years without ever once making it hurt the way she did. It pissed him off, and he shared a few choice words with her every time one of her actions got a little too unpleasant for his liking.

Yet for all her roughness, there was also a meticulousness to her touch that felt almost…good. The way her nails raked against his scalp, picking through knots and tangles he never even knew he had; it wasn’t all that bad. Her fingers were gentle (occasionally) in a way his never were. Smaller and more delicate, too, a feature that felt surprisingly pleasant whenever she pressed down on his head. It sent strange vibrations across his scalp that trickled down his neck and spine. They left him feeling more willing to relax than he’d anticipated, and his shoulders started to drop as the feeling grew stronger.

Suddenly, her fingers hit a large snag. They caught on a section full of tangles that she tried to carefully pull them through. When that didn’t work, she tried again, placing her other hand on his head and pulling—hard.

Guts howled, snapping from his sleepy reverie. “Dammit woman! What the hell’s wrong with you?!”

Again, Casca responded with her own outrage, placing her hands on her hips in an accusatory manner. “What part of ‘don’t move’ is too hard for you to understand?!”

“I didn’t!” Guts exclaimed, knowing full-well he hadn’t done anything wrong yet. It was always that way with her. She’d make up some petty excuse or find some stupid reason to get mad at him, then blame him for something she obviously started! He was getting tired of it, and slammed his fists onto his thighs as he turned around to accuse her to her face. “What’s your problem?! Why do you have to be such a nag all the time?!”

Casca leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest. She pressed her lips together in a thin line and furrowed her brows, obviously angry, but there was something else in her eyes Guts couldn’t name, something that made her look almost sad. She scoffed, then closed her eyes and turned her head away with another huff.

“A nag, huh?” Her shoulders trembled, and her lip wobbled despite how she tried to stifle it. “You think I’m a nag? Well fine, finish it yourself!” She took the comb and threw it at his face.

Guts dodged it, but she didn’t seem to care.

“And don’t you dare mess it up! We’re going to be meeting with the king tomorrow, and if you can’t even be bothered to try and present yourself decently, I won’t let you hear the end of it! Griffith has worked so hard for this. Griffith deserves this. If you mess it up for him then I’ll kill you!!!” With that, she stomped away, throwing open her tent’s curtain with a furious shove.

Guts’ eyes followed her for as long as he could see her. It wasn’t very long, since the curtain fell back into place as quickly as it had parted. He was left angry and confused in her wake, frustrated that he’d even tried to play nice to begin with.

It never worked with her. She was completely unreasonable, way too emotional for someone he could ever hope to actually get along with. He’d thought maybe things would change after their first battle with the Blue Whale Knights had ended, when he rescued her and she gave him that special medicine, but things hadn’t stayed better between them for long. Sometimes Casca was reasonable. Sometimes she wasn’t. It didn’t make any sense, and it frustrated him trying to understand it.

Despite all that, what she said about Griffith was true—he did deserve to be recognized by the king, and Guts had no desire to rob him of that honor.

In light of that, Guts leaned forward, reaching for the comb Casca had carelessly discarded. He strained to reach it, wiggling his fingers against the edges of its wooden teeth. Finally, he managed to snag the tip of his fingernail around it and pulled. Once he was holding it, he brought it up for inspection. It looked strange, like a thin wooden block that was carved on both sides with a dozen tiny barbs. He’d heard of combs before, but never used any himself. Never needed to. His hair was short—a little curly, but nothing he couldn’t work out with his own fingers and some water.

Unsure of how to use it, he took the flat part and swiped it over his hair. It did nothing, skimming over the top of his head like an open palm. He tried it one more time just to be sure, but again, nothing happened.

He brought the comb back down for inspection, twisting it back and forth like that might help him find whatever he was missing. Maybe it was the barbs? He couldn’t figure out why they were on both sides and didn’t really think they’d be any more useful than his fingers, but he gave it a shot.

This time, the comb was met with immediate resistance. He felt the tips of the barbs against his scalp and gently pulled. It didn’t budge. Again he pulled, a little harder this time, but the comb tugged his hair the way Casca did just a moment before. Frustrated, Guts tried to pull it out of his hair, and in doing so caused himself a surprising jolt of pain.

“What the—?!” He gave another experimental tug, but the comb stayed put. It was stuck.   

“…Have you ever combed your own hair before?”

Casca’s voice suddenly appeared behind him, and Guts was startled to see her. His eyes went wide and his cheeks flushed, the faintest hint of embarrassment by how she caught him off guard. As quickly as his blush came, it left, and his expression contorted into the same type of frustration he’d previously felt. He opened his mouth to speak, but paused. Then, he turned his head away abruptly, the comb still stuck in his hair, and slumped forward like he was sulking.

“…No,” he muttered. He was obviously unsure how adamant he should be about that confession.

Casca’s eyes widened, shocked by both his actual confession and the manner in which he’d voiced it. His uncertainty was the closest she had ever seen him come to actual humility. It made him seem human in a way she hadn’t noticed since…since they spoke together about their dreams that night on the hill.

She looked away and bit her lip softly, warring with some unseen thing in her mind, or perhaps, her heart.

Whatever she wrestled with, it softened her temper, and she was less confrontational than she’d been before. She walked up behind Guts and ran both of her hands through his hair, gently. “Seriously? It’s always just been like…this?”

Guts winced, expecting more painful tugging, and pulled his head free from her grasp. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Casca retrieved the comb from his hair. She did it with much more expert precision than he had, and for the first time that evening, it didn’t hurt.

“That you really need to get it under control. Judeau was right. I don’t know much about what you’re supposed to look like among wealthy nobles, but I know you’re not supposed to look like whatever thing you do.” She crossed her arms with a frown, but her expression was less severe than it had been before. She gave his head another once over, like she intended to figure out where she should start.

“Tch. You’re awfully judgemental for a woman who cut all her hair off.” Guts didn’t appear to notice the change, having already turned back around so he could sulk while he waited for her to do whatever the hell Judeau had conned her into doing. He sat with an elbow on his knee, the palm of his hand open to cup his chin and cheek. His other hand was resting atop his thigh. It still looked like he was pouting, and he was.

“Idiot. That’s how I know what I’m doing.” Unoffended by the jab, Casca’s tone was laced with much less disdain than it was previously. It seemed like her mind was made up, and her attitude transformed into that which she had whenever she had a job to get done.

Gently, she brought the comb back to his head and buried it in the strands. She started at the front where his hair was the shortest and easiest to comb, then pulled. It was a soft tug. The comb slid through the first stretch of Guts’ hair unobstructed. Her second stroke was much the same. Upon catching in any tangles, she would pause, then carefully pick through them with her fingers.

Over and over, she repeated the motion: pull, pause, detangle, push through. It was rhythmic in a way that Guts realized was surprisingly smoothing. His head lolled with each stroke, and whenever she added her fingers to the mix, that same sharp, pleasant tingle jolted across his scalp. It was so pleasant he found his eyes starting to close involuntarily. He had to fight to keep them open, and to his surprise, was sorely tempted not to. His face sunk deeper into his open palm, and he was very nearly asleep when he heard a sharp metallic snip behind him.

The sound woke him with a start. He shot up straight, almost as though he was getting prepared to fight, but Casca set her hand on the back of his head and shoved him back down. It was rough, but not so rough that it hurt, and Guts didn’t have any rebuke for her this time.

Again, he heard the sound of the shears cutting off another piece of his hair. He saw the chunk she severed float to the ground beside him, falling like a feather lost on a bird, and he realized he’d never actually seen his own hair before. Not like this.

Guts didn’t know what to think about it. He never really thought much about his hair. It was one of those things that simply was. It got in the way sometimes, but it was just as much a part of him as his feet, his hands, or even his dick, if he was honest. It neither helped nor hindered him as far as he could tell, so the fact that everybody was starting to make a fuss about it made no real sense to him. It also meant he didn’t care what happened to it. At least, he thought he didn’t care.

Snip, snip, snip… The sound carried on for much longer than he thought it would. Piece after piece of his hair floated to the ground around his feet, enough that Guts was able to gather the remnants into a ball in his hand. Minutes continued to pass by without any sign of her stopping, and for the first time in his life, he wondered if he might lose all his hair.   

Finally, after what felt like much longer than necessary, it was over. 

Casca stepped back to examine her work with a critical eye, placing her hands on her hips as she tilted her head around his own, giving each angle a thorough review. Satisfied, she reached for a rag she had hidden beside the trunk she got the equipment from, and started to wipe off the residue from both the shears and the comb.

“There. Go borrow Corkus’ mirror or stare at yourself in the water if you want to see what you look like. If you get it all messed up by tomorrow, don’t come begging me to fix it. You’re on your own. I’ve got more important things to do.”

Guts rolled his shoulders and raised his arms, stretching out the muscles in his back that had grown sore. He ran a hand through his hair, experimentally feeling the ends. It felt noticeably shorter than it’d been before. Softer, too. Much softer than when he just washed it out in the river or something. He wasn’t sure how it was possible, but it was…kind of nice.

He responded to Casca’s instruction in a tone that conveyed only a fraction of his former irritation. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Casca said nothing, engrossed in cleaning her tools as she knelt alongside her storage chest, carefully replacing the shears and comb back where she typically kept them.

Guts started to stand, and nonchalantly rubbed the back of his neck as he tried to peek over her shoulder and into the trunk.

Casca caught on to his scheme and quickly closed the lid, looking over her shoulder to level him with another glare.

Guts rolled his eyes and turned away, shaking his head to rid himself of the hair particles that clung to the back of his neck. He headed for the entrance of her tent and parted the curtain halfway, then stopped. With a heavy sigh, he straightened himself all the way up and tossed his head over his shoulder, looking Casca in the eye.

“And uh…thanks,” he said with as much sincerity as he’d said anything else in his life. With that, he headed out into the night, privately debating whether or not to stop by the basin and check out his reflection in some torchlight.

Guts didn’t see the way Casca’s eyes lingered on him as he left, nor was he privy to the small smile she gave as he went his way.

Chapter Text

It was a calm, pleasant day in the middle of summer, and the sky was full of fat, fluffy clouds. The Band of the Hawk set up camp in the heart of a wide open plain, surrounded by nothing but the pale blue sky and an endless field of tall green grass. It stretched on as far as the eye could see, disrupted only by the mounds of shallow hills rolling gently over the horizon. The Hawks’ horses rested safely on the outskirts of their encampment, content to munch on the wild grass as they stood at ease, undisturbed by pests or predators. Neither man nor beast threatened to intrude upon their circle. The Hawks’ last campaign had been a rousing success. All their enemies lay slaughtered, their bodies left several miles away as food for the fleshfowl, so the mercenary band decided to have a day of well-deserved rest. It was a day as close to heaven as they all felt they’d gotten in a long, long time.

To the northwest of their encampment lay a small hill, just a stone’s throw from where Guts and the rest of the Hawks’ leaders staked their tents. Its side was only a little steep, easy enough to climb for practically anyone. The top of the hill flattened out, creating a small plateau that was great for lounging. Atop it grew a single tree. It was short and squat with broad, supple leaves and strong, sturdy branches, the kind that bent and twisted in a manner that made for great climbing. Its trunk was the color of ash, large and knotted with roots scattered throughout the dirt like a trail of petrified earthworms. It looked old and it was, but like a seasoned warrior on his last campaign, no less strong despite its age.

It was there that three of the Hawks chose to spend their afternoon. Rickert and Pippin sat alongside each other on a raised root beneath the shadiest part of the tree. Both were wearing their usual garb, but in light of the heat—which even in their chosen spot was not completely absent—had rolled the legs of their pants up to their knees. Rickert’s bare feet dangled over the edge of the root nearly a foot above the ground, swinging gaily. Pippin was sitting on a lower section of the same root, hunched, with his elbows resting on his knees. Unlike his small friend, his boots were firmly planted on the ground. Both appeared engrossed by what was going on above them.

Rickert pointed at a large patch of approaching clouds, then turned towards Pippin with a big smile and even bigger eyes. “See those ones?” he asked expectantly. “They look like horses, don’t ya think?”

Pippin glanced up at the horse-like clouds, squinting in that way he did when he was giving something an honest look, and pursed his lips into a frown. “Mm,” he hummed, nodding. He was in agreement.

Rickert smiled even wider. He braced both his hands against the root and bent forward, looking down at someone laying on the ground with the same eager expectancy he had Pippin. “What about you, Guts? Do you see horses?” he asked.

The aforementioned swordsman was at their feet, resting on the grass with his eyes closed and arms crossed behind his head. He looked completely unbothered, seemingly unaware of anything going on around him. The rise and fall of his chest was slow and measured, unhurried, like he was deep asleep. His sword was laying beside him, but the rest of his usual weapons were nowhere to be seen. He wore a black, sleeveless tunic and pants that were rolled up to the knee, but his feet were bare. His boots were tossed haphazardly against a portion of the root upon which Pippin and Rickert sat, too far to reach without standing. 

“Mhm,” he hummed nonchalantly. His eyes were still closed as he gave the young boy his answer.

Rickert frowned, unamused. “You didn’t even look!”

“Mhm,” Guts hummed again, unapologetic. He still didn’t open his eyes. Instead, he lifted his head and stretched out his arms, then returned to his relaxed position in an attempt to actually fall asleep.

Rickert huffed. Suddenly, he noticed a twig that was sticking up from a branch on the root beside him. He picked the twig off its branch and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger as thoughts of payback flashed across his mind. He gave Pippin a mischievous glance, curious to know if his friend was having the same idea, but the hulking mercenary didn’t seem to notice. With a smirk, Rickert hurled the twig at his lazing companion down below.

It hit Guts right on the tip of his nose, striking him at an angle that actually hurt, and his eyes shot open. He growled, irritated, and rubbed his nose with a muttered string of curses. He grabbed the twig and inspected it briefly, then flicked it back at Rickert much harder than the young mercenary had flicked it at him. His aim was true—it hit the boy square between the eyes.

“Ouch!” Rickert gingerly rubbed the sore spot with his fingers, then stuck out his tongue and blew a raspberry at Guts.

“Tch, serves you right…” Guts muttered. He placed his arms back under his head and closed his eyes, still determined to get a good nap.

Pippin watched the two with a smile. Slowly, he turned his eyes back to the sky. Something piqued his interest, because as soon as he looked up he was gently nudging Rickert with his elbow to get his attention.

The boy was still pulling on the corners of his mouth to stick his tongue out even further when he felt the nudge. Startled, he pulled his hands away with a wet plop and gave his friend a curious look. “What is it, Pippin?”

With another soft smile, Pippin pointed up at the clouds. A new batch was approaching from the east, a group of some of the largest clouds Rickert had ever seen.

“Oh wow!” he exclaimed. His eyes were wide, full of childlike wonder, and his momentary feud with Guts was suddenly forgotten. He swung his legs back and forth like a kid that was promised something sweet to eat every day for the rest of his life, overcome with such exuberance it was almost magical. He raised his hand and pointed at one particular cloud near the middle of the group, tracing the outline of an imagined creature with his forefinger. “That one looks like our bird! Look, you guys—a hawk! It’s like a hawk!”

Guts opened one eye at that. Both he and Pippin followed the outline drawn by Rickert’s finger. It was a rough rendition, but Guts could see a vague resemblance to their icon. A fair amount of the sky was blocked from his view by the tree’s leaves, but what he was able to see was quite the sight.

The clouds headed their way really were impressive (for as much as clouds could be impressive). They approached like a cavalry of a thousand men, all dressed and ready for battle, thick masses of white and gray parading across the open sky like it was a land they were hellbent on conquering. As far as Guts could tell, summer wasn’t usually the best time of year to get the big white ones, but fate or whatever it was that chose to bring or not to bring the clouds seemed to regard them favorably, because young Rickert’s simple little pleasures were being fully met by the display.

His pleasures were always simple. Always. The young boy was more ecstatic about the clouds than he’d been about anything in quite a while. His glee was hard to explain, but it was evident to anyone who could see it. It was a stark reminder of the innocence of youth that, more often than not, the older Hawks had forgotten, and an example of what it was really like for the ones that had never known.

The cloud in question was fullest at the middle, with a small protrusion at the top the young mercenary insisted was like its beak. A fluffy, triangular section protruded from the bottom of the main body, flaring out like a bird’s tail in flight. To the left and right were smaller clouds, thin streaks of vapor amidst a sea of fullness like feathers on a pair of wings. Neither was as large as the other, leaving the poor cloud creature quite disabled if it had been a real bird, but as a cloud, the deformity was insignificant.

The pieces were all there to make the shape of any bird, really, a fact Guts was going to point out when a new voice suddenly raised its own question from somewhere down below them.

“Don’t you think it’s rather large for a hawk?”

All three mercenaries turned towards the voice, drawn by its angelic familiarity, and saw Griffith cresting the hill. There was an upturned corner of his lip that suggested his remark was not meant to be taken seriously.

“Griffith!” Rickert exclaimed. He carelessly leapt off the treeroot and ran over to his leader, wrapping his arms around his waist in a tight hug. “I thought you’d be too busy to hang out with us!”

Griffith responded to his young mercenary’s affection with a chuckle and a pat on the head. “Of course not. The battle is won! There will be time to plan our next move later. Now, we may all rest and be merry. I would not forsake the chance to spend the fruits of this hard labor with all of you.”

His hair was loose, gleaming like it had been freshly washed and oiled, but they knew none of them had gotten the chance to bathe for at least a week. That was just its natural state. He wore a lavender shirt with sheer, elegant sleeves he’d rolled up to his elbows, exposing the pale, unmarred flesh of his arms and hands. His pants were equally smooth, free of stains and wrinkles despite being the same ones he’d worn in the midst of the slaughter just days before. There was beauty and strength in the way he carried himself up the hill, like he was a creature more prone to fly than restrain himself to the humble earth, and that to grace the ground with the weight of his presence was like an honor the land itself ought to revere.

Alongside him was Judeau, dressed in his usual summer clothes. He greeted the group with a clipped salute.

“So what have the three of you been up to?” he asked their youngest member. He crossed his arms over his chest as he breathed in a sudden gust of air.

“We’re cloudwatching!” Rickert exclaimed. He quickly brought his eyes back up to Griffith’s, gazing into them with a childish eagerness that was desperate for approval. “Do you guys wanna join us? It’s a great day for it! Pippin and I are seeing a bunch of animals. Guts keeps agreeing, but he won’t even open his eyes…”

Griffith smiled, and Judeau laughed. The latter slipped past his comrades with an exaggerated yawn and a stretch. He found the place where Guts was laying and flopped onto the grass beside him, choosing the slim patch of space between the swordsman and his sword as his makeshift bed. The sun was already moving and both young men were now exposed to more heat than shade, but Judea seemed to appreciate the warmth, sighing contentedly as he mimicked Guts’ position—arms tucked behind his head; eyes closed. Bringing his legs up, he tried kicking his boots off without using his hands, a challenging feat for the average mercenary, but Judeau was dextrous in a way the others weren’t and managed to kick both his boots off in record time. By chance, one ended up near the ones Guts had tossed. The other? It dropped right on top of Guts’ stomach.

The swordsman was startled out of his reverie and turned towards Judeau with fire in his eyes. “Watch it,” he growled.

“Oops. Sorry,” Judeau said with an apologetic smile. He started to reach for the object of his missed attempt in order to put it in its proper place, but Guts cursed his name and threw the offending boot down the hill before he could grab it.

“Hey!” Judea exclaimed. “I was gonna get that, you know…”

“Could go get it now,” Guts muttered in a tone that sounded angry, but he was smirking like he was amused. “Unless it’s still too far of a walk for you after all that fighting.”

Judea laughed, choosing to ignore the taunt and leave his boot alone. He bent one of his legs up and placed the other over his raised knee, flexing his toes with a contended sigh. “Ah~ That’s the stuff. Always feels good to let your feet have some air, you know?”

The smell of his unwashed feet wafted in Guts’ direction and the swordsman grimaced. It was familiar yet no less distasteful, so Guts rolled away from Judeau and onto his side. He’d been glad at first, seeing that he and Griffith had deigned to join them. Now, all he really wanted was to be left alone and finally get some rest. But that was not to be, apparently, because all of a sudden he felt someone poke him in the back. Repeatedly.

“Quit it…” he muttered. He tried to ignore it, but the prodding was insistent. With a frustrated growl and a clenched fist, he flipped back around to face the offender. “Would you knock it off?!”

Judeau said nothing in response to his angry request, but took the finger responsible for Guts’ ire and aimed it up towards the sky. “What do you think those ones are?” he asked quietly, pointing at a new section of clouds that had broken off from the original batch. “Looks like a helmet to me. One of those fancier kinds the Midland knights wear. Do you agree?”

Guts’ eyes were nearly closed and he sighed, toying with the idea of telling Judeau to piss off. Instead, he finally acquiesced to his and Rickert’s incessant requests for him to play along, rolling over onto his back with his hands tucked underneath his head. For appearance’s sake, he closed the eye nearest Judea (just to be spiteful) but cracked the other open to give the clouds his attention. As quickly as it was open, though, it was closed again.

“Sure, I guess,” he said, sounding far from convinced.

Judeau chuckled, but said nothing about Guts’ obvious attempts to avoid playing the game. He looked back up at the clouds and hummed in thoughtful consideration. They’d already shifted, and the shapes were different enough for the young mercenary to reconsider his previous assertion.

“Hmm, maybe it’s more like the Tudor helmets?” he said after a beat. His tone was indecisive. He tilted his head back towards where Griffith and Rickert still stood. “What do you guys think?”

Griffith placed a hand on Rickert’s shoulder, encouraging the young boy to finally let go of his waist. Rickert scurried back to his seat alongside Pippin while Griffith wandered over to where Guts and Judeau had taken up residence.

Guts heard his approach and opened his eyes, glancing at his leader. Griffith chose to stand beside him, placing a hand on his chin in even more thoughtful consideration of the question than Judeau. He stood tall in the sun, gracious and poised as another gust of wind swept tufts of dry grass and pockets of hidden pollen through the air around him. The debris encircled him like a swarm of fairies, and his hair floated around his shoulders like a satin blanket. The blue in his eyes was as vibrant as the midsummer sky. His face was like an ancient sculpture carved from precious stone, picturesque and serene, slightly wrinkled by the way his eyebrows softly knit together as he pondered the clouds, and Guts found himself inexplicably drawn to the sight.

“If you are referring to those that belong to the Purple Rhino Knights, then yes, I agree,” Griffith said in answer to Judeau’s question. He closed his eyes and turned his head towards the lounging mercenaries with a soft smile, the kind that bared the faintest hint of teeth but more than a faint hint of mirth. “Although, I personally don’t see much resemblance to a helm at all. The shape lends itself more to an erection, I believe. A rather large one at that.”

Immediately, the salacious remark was met with raucous laughter from all the Hawks except Rickert, who looked around confused as to what it was that was so funny. He turned to Pippin for an explanation but found his friend too consumed with his own laughter to offer anything useful. Judeau wasn’t much help either; he was pressing both hands against his belly to keep from pulling a muscle. Even Guts had managed to crack a genuine smile and joined in.

The levity from Griffith’s joke lingered for a while, but once they’d calmed down, Judea pointed out a new set of clouds.

“Ok…how about that one?” he asked. He nudged Guts in the ribs with his elbow, once again bothering Guts to give his answer first.

The swordsman almost refused, but Griffith’s joke cracked something in his hardened exterior and he decided to finally play along. He was still smiling when he opened both of his eyes to give the clouds an honest look.

As he did, a sudden gust of wind blustered from across the plain. It was cool and crisp, a refreshing contrast to the blazing heat from the sun. Guts was mostly in the shade again, comfortable and at ease, with only a few pockets of direct sunlight landing on his chest and legs. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw his friends smiling. Despite Judeau’s insistence, they gave their own answers to the question first. Rickert was still seeing animals and claimed it was a rabbit with short ears. Judeau offered up his own suggestion in opposition, and Pippin agreed to the latter’s observation with a solemn Mm. Griffith found another naughty reference to make, and once again everybody laughed except Rickert.

It was at that exact moment Guts felt grateful to be alive.

“I’d say it looks like…a mace,” he said tentatively. His tone was as dismissive as it ever was, but there was a degree to which it wavered that communicated his uncertainty, like he didn’t know whether he was playing the game properly. “The kind Pippin likes to use. A little shorter, though.”

The others turned towards Guts with varying degrees of shock and delight. Rickert was the most surprised to hear him speak, and glanced at Pippin with wide eyes. His large friend did not seem nearly as surprised, looking at Guts with squinting eyes and the faintest hint of smile. Judea was also smiling, but kept his eyes fixed on the clouds.

Griffith turned towards Guts and smiled widely, bright and brimming with mirth and pleasure. “An astute observation, Guts. But perhaps I am unwell, because now all I see is a woman’s breasts,” he said, almost as though he was disappointed in himself.

Again, the group burst into laughter. Even Rickert, but just because he wanted to feel included.

Guts was laughing, too, and smirked once he’d finished. “Heh, I’d say you just need to fight another battle.”

“So soon?” Griffith asked with a touch of disbelief. Slowly, he began to lay on the grass, stretching out his legs as he situated himself alongside the swordsman. He chose to lie even closer to Guts than Judeau had, and their shoulders touched. “I admire your tenacity, Guts. Your willingness to fight and keep fighting is bar none.”

As Griffith settled on his back, his hair fanned out beneath him like a halo. He crossed his ankles delicately, like he was maneuvering the limbs of a doll, and placed his hands on his chest, crossing them over each other so that they nearly touched his shoulders. His resting posture made him look like a corpse on display in its casket, but nothing about Griffith seemed remotely dead. He closed his eyes for a brief moment and inhaled deeply of the sweet summer air, tilting his head back to better enjoy the sensation. He smiled, and Guts saw the way the sun gleamed off his lips. They were moist, glistening despite the heat, and looked very soft.

It was strange, the way Guts felt seeing him part his lips and sigh, completely satisfied to live in the moment. Seeing him relaxed and resting, so at peace and wholly at ease, filled the swordsman with a warm, pleasant feeling in his chest, a warmth unmatched by the heat of the sun.

“But”—Griffith suddenly continued—“life is also full of lesser pleasures. Pleasures which we may find ourselves refreshed in the partaking of, and so better suited to accomplish our goals. Even those in battle.”

Guts’ brows furrowed, confused. “What d’you mean?”

Griffith chuckled. The action caused his Adam’s apple to bob up and down, and Guts couldn’t help but notice. He was surprised, because on Griffith it looked…beautiful.

“Only that sometimes, the best-fought battles are those after which we have remembered what it is for which we fight,” Griffith said. His face was still towards the sky, and his eyes were wide with desire, like he was referencing some unspoken dream that consumed his soul with passion merely at the thought of it.

Guts’ eyes lingered on Griffith for a little longer. He wrestled with the feeling he’d gotten just by looking at him, with the way he marveled at how Griffith spoke and breathed and moved. It was a pleasant feeling—perhaps the most pleasant he’d ever felt. The warmth in his chest had begun to spread to parts of his body that made him very uncomfortable, so Guts quickly set his head back on top of his folded hands with a sharp intake of breath. He looked back up at the clouds but was no longer seeing any shapes like the others. His thoughts were still on Griffith, and only Griffith.

He wondered what it was for which Griffith fought, if  there were other dreams he had that were just as big and grand as his dream to have his own kingdom. He wondered if they were even larger, or if such a thing was even possible—to have dreams larger than ruling a kingdom and conquering the lesser kingdoms that sought to overthrow it. Guts also wondered, vaguely and with a bit of eagerness, whether he himself would be by Griffith’s side upon his realizing those dreams.

“Oh look!” Griffith interrupted his musing by pointing at a cloud directly overhead. “That one looks like you, Guts. Don’t you agree?”

Startled out of his thoughts, Guts felt a brief twinge of heat flush his cheeks. He glanced at Griffith but found that doing so only made the warmth spread further. Tearing his eyes away from his leader, he looked up at the clouds instead, searching for the one to which he was referring. As soon as he saw it, he scoffed.

“Tch, not at all,” he said. It was large, round, and shapeless; nothing at all like how he looked. The absurdity of it being Griffith’s claim was so amusing it shocked him back to his senses, and all the discomfort he’d just been feeling was momentarily forgotten. 

“I can see it,” Judea chimed in from his other side, wiggling his toes in the grass as he tilted his head up to get a better look at the cloud in question.

“Me too!” Rickert added.

“Mm,” Pippin joined the consensus with his own agreement.

“Hmph. Whatever…” Guts muttered. He pretended to be offended, but only because he was suddenly so overwhelmed by everyone’s attention he didn’t know how else to respond. It was tempting to call it quits and actually get back to having that nap he’d been trying to have for quite a while now. Maybe they’d all finally leave him alone this time.

That was definitely not to be, however, because two newcomers suddenly crested the hill and intruded upon the cloudwatching session with a combination of loud voices and palpable displeasure.

“What’s going on up here?”

Casca was the first to find them. She stood beside Judeau with a frown and her arms akimbo. Corkus came up after her, mumbling beneath his breath about something no one could quite discern, but he was obviously in just as foul a mood as she was.

Rickert and Pippin turned away quickly, looking back up at the clouds as sweat started to pool on their foreheads, and the boys on the ground looked like they’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t have. Judeau pretended to be asleep. Guts frowned and turned his head away, mumbling something about it being none of Casca’s business. Even Griffith seemed concerned about being on the receiving end of her ire and started whistling as he uncrossed his arms to pick out some grass that had gotten tangled in his hair.

Casca crossed her arms over her chest and huffed. “Well fine then. Be that way, if you must.” They all watched her turn around and march straight back down the hill, complaining about something regarding boys and how they never changed.

Corkus didn’t follow after her, but watched her leave and rolled his eyes with a scoff. “Hmph, women.”

The rest of the Hawks couldn’t help it. They laughed, deep belly laughs that sent each of them into his own unique fit. Corkus was startled, demanding to get an answer as to what was so funny, but to his extreme displeasure, he never got one.