Ficlet: Memory (Berserk)
Title: Memory
Rating: G
Archive: Please ask me first.
Notes: A conversation taking place many, many years after the end of the series (so, obv, spoilers). Grossly sentimental and clunking, now that I think about it. pfeh.
The Black Swordsman threw his sword onto the table in its sheath, absently rubbing one sore shoulder as he did so. There was wine on the table, but he first turned to the fireplace to warm his hands, only to find Griffith standing in front of him.
‘What are you doing here’ he snarled, hands moving instinctively to grab concealed weapons. This was the first meeting in many years. Griffith had disappeared for over a century before appearing to him now.
‘Oh, stop that,’ Griffith replied wearily, ‘don’t you get tired of all this posturing at your age?’
It was unexpected enough that it stopped his reflex anger from advancing any further. He tried to surprise Griffith in his own turn: ‘Why did you do it?’
For once, Griffith answered him with apparent seriousness: ‘You would have left, gone on without me. You did leave. It was the only way I had to keep both you and my dream.’
‘What do you mean, keep me?’
‘My dear, has it still not occurred to you that we are twinned for what is quite possibly eternity? You may hate me, but I am your main focus…and you are one of mine.’
He put his head down on his arms. It was too much. The heavy, familiar weight of his grief for his Hawks and his friends, and his rage over Casca’s rape and everything he had lost had eroded over the years into something less potent, less immediate. Yesterday, for the first time in a long time, he had dreamt of the Hawks as they were before everything happened, squabbling in a grassy clearing amid pitched tents. He had been watching a card game, laughing with Griffith as they saw Rickert cheating.
It was more and more difficult for him to remember that Femto and Griffith were one and the same, as memories of Griffith chipped away at the black mass of his hatred for the entity he had once called his friend. After so many years and so much blood shed by both pairs of hands, neither entirely human, how much longer could he hold onto his raison d’être?
‘Can we not put it aside for this one evening?’
He raised his head to look into blue eyes, tinged with red at the rim of the iris, but familiar nonetheless. The once-beloved face smiled as he nodded.
So they poured glasses of wine and talked about whatever two immortal beings, one a demon slayer and the other a demon lord, can talk about. Current events, perhaps, or the weather. Occasionally, they laughed, and yet the whole lively stream of their conversation was supported on a current of grief. Sorrow: past, present and future, issuing from the big, scarred man looking into the face of his destiny. Grief for what could have been two normal lives, intertwining and then separating, perhaps forever, but going their own way and finally coming to a full stop. Grief for the two travesties they had become, leaching their energy off causes and vendettas, existing on through infinity and never, never, never ending.
Finally, Gatts covered his eyes with one hand, and excused himself, pleading weariness. Griffith rose and wrapped his cloak about himself, disappearing from the room. The immortal Black Swordsman stumbled to the bed and fell onto it, not bothering to remove his clothing or boots. Tomorrow, hopefully, his hatred would be back in full spate, and he could go charging after the latest monster oppressing the people of Midland. But what if that hatred did not come as readily as it always had? It was a question he had asked himself before, but it did not bear thinking about tonight. He blew out the lamp and slept.
Rating: G
Archive: Please ask me first.
Notes: A conversation taking place many, many years after the end of the series (so, obv, spoilers). Grossly sentimental and clunking, now that I think about it. pfeh.
The Black Swordsman threw his sword onto the table in its sheath, absently rubbing one sore shoulder as he did so. There was wine on the table, but he first turned to the fireplace to warm his hands, only to find Griffith standing in front of him.
‘What are you doing here’ he snarled, hands moving instinctively to grab concealed weapons. This was the first meeting in many years. Griffith had disappeared for over a century before appearing to him now.
‘Oh, stop that,’ Griffith replied wearily, ‘don’t you get tired of all this posturing at your age?’
It was unexpected enough that it stopped his reflex anger from advancing any further. He tried to surprise Griffith in his own turn: ‘Why did you do it?’
For once, Griffith answered him with apparent seriousness: ‘You would have left, gone on without me. You did leave. It was the only way I had to keep both you and my dream.’
‘What do you mean, keep me?’
‘My dear, has it still not occurred to you that we are twinned for what is quite possibly eternity? You may hate me, but I am your main focus…and you are one of mine.’
He put his head down on his arms. It was too much. The heavy, familiar weight of his grief for his Hawks and his friends, and his rage over Casca’s rape and everything he had lost had eroded over the years into something less potent, less immediate. Yesterday, for the first time in a long time, he had dreamt of the Hawks as they were before everything happened, squabbling in a grassy clearing amid pitched tents. He had been watching a card game, laughing with Griffith as they saw Rickert cheating.
It was more and more difficult for him to remember that Femto and Griffith were one and the same, as memories of Griffith chipped away at the black mass of his hatred for the entity he had once called his friend. After so many years and so much blood shed by both pairs of hands, neither entirely human, how much longer could he hold onto his raison d’être?
‘Can we not put it aside for this one evening?’
He raised his head to look into blue eyes, tinged with red at the rim of the iris, but familiar nonetheless. The once-beloved face smiled as he nodded.
So they poured glasses of wine and talked about whatever two immortal beings, one a demon slayer and the other a demon lord, can talk about. Current events, perhaps, or the weather. Occasionally, they laughed, and yet the whole lively stream of their conversation was supported on a current of grief. Sorrow: past, present and future, issuing from the big, scarred man looking into the face of his destiny. Grief for what could have been two normal lives, intertwining and then separating, perhaps forever, but going their own way and finally coming to a full stop. Grief for the two travesties they had become, leaching their energy off causes and vendettas, existing on through infinity and never, never, never ending.
Finally, Gatts covered his eyes with one hand, and excused himself, pleading weariness. Griffith rose and wrapped his cloak about himself, disappearing from the room. The immortal Black Swordsman stumbled to the bed and fell onto it, not bothering to remove his clothing or boots. Tomorrow, hopefully, his hatred would be back in full spate, and he could go charging after the latest monster oppressing the people of Midland. But what if that hatred did not come as readily as it always had? It was a question he had asked himself before, but it did not bear thinking about tonight. He blew out the lamp and slept.