For a while, his mind is blank. Peaceful sleep isn't a thing he gets often, as he was prone to nightmares.
"You've practiced enough already. You have to start earning your keep around here," a roughened man looks down at him, uneven smile, broadsword rested against the ground. The image brings with it a whirlwind of emotion: admiration, trust, love, hate, betrayal, fear. It also brings a name - Gambino.
A vignette of another battle, several years younger than he was now. The boy was placed on the front lines among the hired swords of their company. The promise of three silver coins for charging on ahead was enough to spur them. Fortune favors the bold.
Only, of course, as soon as the first line runs into the field, Guts spots Gambino staying behind with the bulk of the company. It'd been a trick all along. The first few lines were a convenient distraction, and once the enemy lets loose its arrows, he is quickly surrounded by death. He remembers the sharp sting of an arrow lodging into a tiny shoulder, the pain mirroring the stab wound he received in the fight. He lies limply on the ground, wondering if this would be the end of him.
"Good job," Gambino smiles at him,"You made a great decoy."
The boy simply looks up from his miserable place in the dirt. He hurt inside and out.
"What's with the sullen face...? It was a good experience, wasn't it?"
Guts is lying on his side on the straw bedding of a cold cell, now a similar age as he was currently. The sting of old arrow wounds bite at his side and back. Different ones. He was remembering the lesson of that day. People do despicable things to survive. Trust no one. Depend on no one. The sting of betrayal burned fresh in him again, but he was more frustrated with himself for being foolish enough to get tricked in the first place.
After eating a mouse scurrying along the dungeon, he nestles into the straw as small comfort in the bitter cold. It didn't do much to help the fever making his head hurt.
I don't care when or where I drop dead. he muses to himself, wondering if this would finally be the end of him. Even if it was in this dreary place, maybe all the hurting would finally stop.
And yet, in that cold and dark cell, he spots a wildflower growing out of the cracks of the stone. Cellmates. And then, what must certainly be a hallucination peeks at him from behind the stalk and leaves. A tiny, sprite-like figure shyly watching him from a sunny spot on the ground.
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"You've practiced enough already. You have to start earning your keep around here," a roughened man looks down at him, uneven smile, broadsword rested against the ground. The image brings with it a whirlwind of emotion: admiration, trust, love, hate, betrayal, fear. It also brings a name - Gambino.
A vignette of another battle, several years younger than he was now. The boy was placed on the front lines among the hired swords of their company. The promise of three silver coins for charging on ahead was enough to spur them. Fortune favors the bold.
Only, of course, as soon as the first line runs into the field, Guts spots Gambino staying behind with the bulk of the company. It'd been a trick all along. The first few lines were a convenient distraction, and once the enemy lets loose its arrows, he is quickly surrounded by death. He remembers the sharp sting of an arrow lodging into a tiny shoulder, the pain mirroring the stab wound he received in the fight. He lies limply on the ground, wondering if this would be the end of him.
"Good job," Gambino smiles at him,"You made a great decoy."
The boy simply looks up from his miserable place in the dirt. He hurt inside and out.
"What's with the sullen face...? It was a good experience, wasn't it?"
Guts is lying on his side on the straw bedding of a cold cell, now a similar age as he was currently. The sting of old arrow wounds bite at his side and back. Different ones. He was remembering the lesson of that day. People do despicable things to survive. Trust no one. Depend on no one. The sting of betrayal burned fresh in him again, but he was more frustrated with himself for being foolish enough to get tricked in the first place.
After eating a mouse scurrying along the dungeon, he nestles into the straw as small comfort in the bitter cold. It didn't do much to help the fever making his head hurt.
I don't care when or where I drop dead. he muses to himself, wondering if this would finally be the end of him. Even if it was in this dreary place, maybe all the hurting would finally stop.
And yet, in that cold and dark cell, he spots a wildflower growing out of the cracks of the stone. Cellmates. And then, what must certainly be a hallucination peeks at him from behind the stalk and leaves. A tiny, sprite-like figure shyly watching him from a sunny spot on the ground.