Femto watched Guts fight.
Long ago, Femto had possessed another name. He had been called Griffith, and he had been merely human as well. A human with a dream, an overwhelming ambition… But a human nonetheless, frail and fragile and filled with weaknesses like compassion, honor… Love… Those things were merely words to him now, burned away in the wash of the Sacrifice. The Sacrifice had ripped away his old body with the lives of those he had once called friends. It had first branded them, then called the demons to devour them. The Band of the Hawk had perished this way, each death adding to the dark power that had built his astral body, the truest picture of his soul. Each death had fuelled its construction, replacing his twisted, tormented flesh with the unnatural essence of the Godhand. No apostle was he, Griffith had gone straight from crippled human to something barely short of God himself, gained from the torment of human souls as the Band of the Hawk died.
All of the Band of the Hawk had perished, save for two…
One of them was curled in his arms right now, eyes never leaving his face. The other was fighting against a horde of demons, struggling like a madman to stay alive. And it was this man that Femto, once Griffith, watched.
Long ago, he had looked upon Guts and seen something within that brutish frame. Something within that barely human soul that would never give up, no matter the odds. Griffith had stood face-to-face with Guts and said at him, over him, “I want you.” And it was the truth, plain and simple. Of course Guts wasn’t so easily gained, and their duel was legendary among the Band of the Hawk for days to come. He’d nearly lost. If Guts had started the fight uninjured he WOULD have lost. That’s all there was to it. But he’d won, and Guts became his strong right arm, his sword pressed into Griffith’s duty. That was all Griffith had ever asked of him.
But still...
Griffith had meant something more, when he told Guts he wanted him. Something he never quite admitted to himself while he was human, but that his unbound mind now presented to him in uncaring clarity. He had fallen in love with Guts that day he first saw him. And he’d known instinctively that pressing the case would only drive Guts away. And so, he called him friend, raised him to a Captain of the Hawks, and fought alongside him. He’d laughed with him, drunk with him, spent most of his waking moments with Guts not far from him, and all through it he had hoped that one day, Guts would look back at him with the same raw emotion in his eyes that Griffith felt every moment of every day. And then… Then, he would finally have someone with which he could share his dream. Even the highest glittering dream, the greatest castle of ambition is not enough if you are alone. Not for any human. And Griffith had only ever found one that he could love…
Guts had never looked back at him, not in the way that mattered. And then, when Griffith was so close to his dream, came the greatest disappointment. Guts had left. Griffith arrived barely in time to stop him, but instead of admitting what had been eating away inside him for years, he drew his sword. He had let fear, loss, and yes rage, rage that someone he had CHOSEN would WANT to leave him dictate his actions. They had once again dueled, for Guts’ life.
This time, Guts won.
His loss left Griffith hollow. There had been misfortune after that, as he let his grief drive him into a foolish act. That act had gained him a year of imprisonment and torture, his body crippled and maimed. But that loss turned to hope, hope that kept him alive after his tendons were cut, and his limbs reduced to useless clubs. Hope that kept him from crying out while his skin was stripped from his body and face, hope that kept him still and calm, while his tongue was cut away from his mouth. Hope that one day, his love would return. Hope that Guts would carry him away, and together they could find their own dream…
Guts had returned, with the best fighters of the Band of the Hawk. And Guts had carried him away, cradling his broken form, and fighting his way out of the dungeon that Griffith had been kept prisoner within. He had come for him, and Griffith’s heart rejoiced… No matter what else had been taken from him, if he had just this one thing, he could survive…
And then, the ultimate betrayal. He remembered watching Caska and Guts, watching the sidelong glances, and the little hints in their conversation. Their LOOKS, when they thought no one else was watching. Most of all, the way they touched, in the way that Guts would NEVER touch him. He knew. He KNEW. They still argued as fiercely, but now there was something different. And he knew just what that something was.
He had never told Guts, and now it was too late. Too late for everything. Guts loved HER.
And when the sacrifice had come, the eclipse had darkened the sky and his behelit, that strange magical talisman bled tears of blood… He had called without words and the Godhand came. They brought Hell with them, and offered him a choice. A chance to get his body back and more, to gain his dream of old, to gain a whole land under him, or even a world if he so liked. All he had to do, was make a simple sacrifice.
The choice was simple.
And now, he was Femto forever more.
“Aba?” Caska was playing with his hair, the white locks blowing in the breeze. He smiled down at her, eyes tracing the constant leak of blood discoloring her robe, oozing from the brand on her breast. Though it must hurt, her simple mind was more concerned with the familiar face in front of her. Some part of her remembered him as he once had been, before the Sacrifice. It was ironic, really. He could bleed her to death simply by keeping her close to him, and she would go willingly…
He had shattered her mind during the Sacrifice. The first act of his Divine form had been to rape her in front of Guts’ one remaining eye. The act had driven her mad, and he was amused to see that she had not recovered. He had thought that he had done it on a whim, but he was surprised to feel a twinge of pain within him, as he looked upon her face once more. He still felt a shadow of the spite that had driven him so, years ago…
He looked back at the battle.
Guts was still alive. Chunks and splatters of demonic flesh littered the ground and lake, while ichor turned the snow and mud to slush. The sword never stopped moving, that behemoth of a weapon Guts lugged around nowadays tore and ripped at the crowd that surrounded the lone figure. The Swordsman moved as well, rolling and running, using their bulk against them, and confusing their aim so that they struck each other as much as they struck him.
But, strike him they did, and he couldn’t parry every attack. He was bleeding from multiple gouges on his exposed flesh, and from lacerations under the armor. He was moving against a chest full of broken ribs, and one of his fingers was bent askew and broken. Bone showed from a gash on his scalp, and blood poured down his face in a steady stream.
He was tiring. He was slowing. And his opponents did not tire. Six lay dead in the snow, their forms reverting to their previous human shells, but the rest were merely injured. And those injuries were already healing, as they fought. Only if you shatter the heart or the head… That was the only true way to kill an apostle.
Another fell as he watched, but Guts received a slash to the back of the leg. He was limping now, the others closed in for the kill.
Femto felt a brief sense of pity. He would not be able to give him a clean death, with his own blade. And there was something else under that pity, something that hurt in ways that it should not. Impossible… I cannot still feel for this… This human…
Giving his head a small shake, he returned his eyes to Caska. She laughed, in response to his perfect smile.
Well. Feelings or not, they did not extend to this pitiful specimen. And she was no longer of any use to him. Idly, he reached out a hand, and closed it around her throat. He watched as she blinked in confusion, and scrabbled at his grip. He watched as her face started turning blue, and her eyes bulged, and he watched-
“NO!” Something was coming at the back of his head, and with perfect grace and impossible speed he whirled, holding Caska’s arm with one hand, as he snapped a tiny green form from the air with his free hand. Caska coughed and gasped in air, as his new prey yelled childish obscenities.
Ah yes, the elf.
“Just what did you hope to achieve, little insect?” Curious eyes peered down at the captive sprite, as it pounded harmless fists against his hand.
“Me? Not much. I’m the distraction!”
Femto’s eyes went wide, and he looked up too late…
As the oddly silent horse leaped past him, and the rider’s gauntleted hand stretched out…
…Plucked Caska from his grip, hauling her onto the horse with one smooth motion…
…And galloped into the middle of the battle, without hesitation.
Femto blinked in disbelief, then felt a stinging in his palm. He looked down to find the elf replaced with a doll made from nettles, and threw it into the lake as he started running toward the battle, drawing his sword as he went. No…
Too late, as the Skull Knight caught up Guts, holding his sword arm as the Swordsman raged, trying to cleave in yet another apostle’s skull. No, after all this…
And too late, as the horse departed at speeds that no apostle could easily match.
No apostle, true. But one of the God-hand…
With barely a thought he shunted away his mortal flesh, loosing the power of his astral body! Feeling himself clad once again in the metallic red shell of armored flesh, he spread his wings and FLEW.
As the remaining apostles cheered, he sped from the lake like a bolt from a ballista.
The Hawk hunted tonight, and his prey would NOT escape him twice…
In his haste and rage, he never noticed the small green glowing figure clinging to his back and holding on for dear life…