BlisteredBlood
The Crucified Angel
- Joined
- Jan 9, 2009
- Location
- Rhode Island
There was an eerie silence on the Hill of Swords when Guts revisited this place. And yet, there he stood, looking among the wreckage from the harrowing fight with Nosferatu Zodd where the entrance of Godot's mine once stood, now reduced to a pile of rubble and nothing more.
There was a brief moment where he began to hear Griffith's words echoing within his mind as he stood there among the hundreds of blades buried tip first within the snow laden ground here, causing the Black Swordsman to flinch in a mixture of agony, hatred and sheer and utter frustration. "This is the man I am now," Griffith told him as he began to fly away with Zodd carrying him. "And you of all people, should know better than that."
Those same words resonated within Guts' mind with a dull echo, one that made him nearly nauseated. Did he even have any shred of pity? Did he have any forethought? Did he even care? Was he even able to care? Did he even feel any sense of remorse for what he had done to his beloved Casca? If neither of these... Then what was that monster he had seen there? Though his right eye may have been ruined, his left knew exactly what it was it saw, and what he saw was someone far removed from the Griffith he once knew. Whatever that was, that was some kind of demon reborn in Griffith's body, something that stripped him of all emotion and care. And what he saw filled him with nothing but absolute venomous hatred unlike anything he had ever felt before and it would've been so easy to slip into that mindset, to just let the Beast of Darkness within him just slowly take over his mind and just lay waste to everything within striking distance of his massive dull broadsword. To just let the blackened wolf feast upon the flesh of the fallen enemies and slake its hellish bloodthirst. But no. He had to remain steadfast. If not for his own sake, then perhaps Casca's. He had no other alternatives but to turn towards.
And that was the issue. He had no other alternatives. Aside from Casca who had regressed to nothing more than a child mentally after what happened to her, he was entirely alone. A normal man would've been crushed under the sheer weight of what he had felt, or if not, had just flatout killed themselves, but not him. And as long as Griffith still lived, there would not be any force upon this earth that would ever take his life, not as long as he still drew breath and could swing the Dragonslayer in both his left hand of Rickert's construction and his right hand of flesh and bone. There would be a time when the Grim Reaper would lay claim to his soul, but that day had not yet come.
There was a brief moment where he began to hear Griffith's words echoing within his mind as he stood there among the hundreds of blades buried tip first within the snow laden ground here, causing the Black Swordsman to flinch in a mixture of agony, hatred and sheer and utter frustration. "This is the man I am now," Griffith told him as he began to fly away with Zodd carrying him. "And you of all people, should know better than that."
Those same words resonated within Guts' mind with a dull echo, one that made him nearly nauseated. Did he even have any shred of pity? Did he have any forethought? Did he even care? Was he even able to care? Did he even feel any sense of remorse for what he had done to his beloved Casca? If neither of these... Then what was that monster he had seen there? Though his right eye may have been ruined, his left knew exactly what it was it saw, and what he saw was someone far removed from the Griffith he once knew. Whatever that was, that was some kind of demon reborn in Griffith's body, something that stripped him of all emotion and care. And what he saw filled him with nothing but absolute venomous hatred unlike anything he had ever felt before and it would've been so easy to slip into that mindset, to just let the Beast of Darkness within him just slowly take over his mind and just lay waste to everything within striking distance of his massive dull broadsword. To just let the blackened wolf feast upon the flesh of the fallen enemies and slake its hellish bloodthirst. But no. He had to remain steadfast. If not for his own sake, then perhaps Casca's. He had no other alternatives but to turn towards.
And that was the issue. He had no other alternatives. Aside from Casca who had regressed to nothing more than a child mentally after what happened to her, he was entirely alone. A normal man would've been crushed under the sheer weight of what he had felt, or if not, had just flatout killed themselves, but not him. And as long as Griffith still lived, there would not be any force upon this earth that would ever take his life, not as long as he still drew breath and could swing the Dragonslayer in both his left hand of Rickert's construction and his right hand of flesh and bone. There would be a time when the Grim Reaper would lay claim to his soul, but that day had not yet come.