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missvaseline · 3 months ago

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Whenever you watch me: Chapter 2 (Griffith x Reader) 18+

When Griffith was a child, he found his very first member. They've grown together and she became the best swordsman he’s ever seen, a prodigy. But there is a difference between being a mercenary, and then being Griffith’s.

Triggers: harassment, heavy manipulation, possessiveness, dubious consent, sadism

Read Previous: Chapter 1

The swordsman's eyes focused on the tree line following the river before she turned to the voice behind her.

“You show up and ask me to race now?” The swordsman asked, adorning skepticism on her face.

“Like I’ve been showing up and asking you every sunrise. This isn’t a strange occurrence.”

“While we are… upset at each other?” She corrected.

Aqua eyes searched for every hint of understanding that he could find within her own. Her name slipped between his lips as he scoffed.

“When I told you to retreat for the night, I was no longer upset.”

Delicate lips twinged as she brushed her fingers between the fabric of yesterday’s clothing balled in her arms, a nervous habit over any of her wear. Inky guilt still clung to her while skepticism hid just beneath.

“What if I’m too upset to race?”

“Then I’ll console you.”

A breeze settled through that chilled her without her armor. And it was all the more reason to ponder simply putting on the iron suit and racing with him just for a little bit. These moments stirred her into long confusion, words were usually stuck behind chattering teeth while she struggled to understand. It felt like a need lost and forgotten in the comfortable confines of its near famine which never seemed to fully go away in every cycle

“I’ll put on my armor.” She said.

She slipped passed the linen of her tent and all too quickly strapped herself into her armor. When she had come out he had already gathered their horses, quietly waiting while the morning fog lapped at the metal plates over his calves.

He looked magnificent. It was a standard thought that he tended to himself more often in the mornings. But it seemed as though it was more than usual. How the world around her grows rose tint the closer she got to him. He had this way about him.

The dueler gathered the leather reigns from him, climbing onto her steed. It was soon that hooves trotted in rhythms beside each other. The low of yesternight was melted by the warmth of the morning and already she was in higher spirits. They would go a mile out from camp, riding into a trail that slithered through crowded trees; their score with each other was neck and neck in their races.

“How far do you want to go?” He asked.

“To the hills? Finish line at the big boulder.” The corners of his lips lifted.

“Ambitious today?”

And hers did too, “Are you?” She concurred.

When their horses stopped at the redwood tree they had labeled as a starting point for the area, they had waited. She kept her steed ready.

“We’ll see where the ambition goes after this race.”

She tightened her fingers over leather, already picking out the best routes to take. She brushed the dark brunette main of her steed, leaning in slightly. Blue eyes toured the slant of her body pressed over the back of her mount.

“Listen Viola, we’re going to defeat this chap and I swear, I’ll find as many apples for you to eat. Focus, girl” She whispered to the flicking ear of the stead before straightening herself. The horse chortles and snorts in response, breaths in the cold air danced.

“I could never get over that name, Viola.” He tittered. "I wonder if the apples you feed her will be from spoils or consolations.”

Suddenly, leather cracked into the air as he whipped his reigns, his stallion surged forward leaving a trail of his laughter behind to chase after.

“You cheat!” She yelled, painfully snapping her reins, the quick jolt of her horse being unfelt in comparison to Griffith’s jests.

“Cheat?” His voice called back honeyed in mock offense as he failed to let her catch up, “Whenever did I call start before?”

Molars pressed into themselves as heels dug into the sides of her steed. Her stomach nearly pressed into the curved leather of her saddle as she leaned forward trying to catch as much speed as possible. Long silver tail hairs whipped like a mocking flag in front of her as she focused.

“I didn’t call start yet!” Her nag finally ate the distance between them.

“Ambition doesn’t wait for permission.”

His fingers loosened over his reins as a form of mercy, slowing down just to mirror her steed.

“There. Better?” He cast his Azure gaze on her as his lips formed into a leer.

“Oh, don’t give me that, you are so cheap.” She said between laughter, both of their steeds galloping easily through the trail. In just enough gradualness, she hastened her mount again to shoot forward. A defiant chortle shot out of her as she snapped back to look for Griffith behind. Though only the empty damp pined path was shown before hearing his horse snort beside her.

“They’re my tricks, don’t you think it would be harder to use on me?”

“Of course.” The swordsman grumbles, leather creaking between her tightening fingers.

His smile turned away as his eyes flickered in behind him and then forward. His horse suddenly stepped in front of her path, halting her.

“Let’s take a detour.” Eyes flickered up to his as her brow tilts.

“I don’t know the paths out this far besides this one and we are racing.”

“Plans changed. You can follow me.”

He says as he and his steed sift in front of her, the golden light from the sky kissing his argent locks into its color.

“We have training-“

“I let them know we are on a longer race.”

The air grew quiet before she finally relented, following him deeper into the forest where the path raised into its convoluted nature. Every piece of land was a novelty in every pace revealed as she grew quiet.

“Where are we going?” She called out as she trailed behind him.

“You’ll see.”

He replied without looking back.

Intuition stirred beneath the surface of her as they ventured forth. Minutes melted into nearly an hour before the trees parted themselves into a small field. Blue speckled between green in the clearing like a secret waiting to be told.

The swordsman halted before going any deeper as trail of parted grass followed his horse until he stopped at the center, the only thin misplaced was a ross ridden boulder. Life had painted him in front of her eyes in a still frame until the breeze whispered between silver, wavy tresses and the greenery below him. Her mind couldn’t fumble the words together as his cobalt eyes pointing the sky suddenly flickered down to her.

“How do you feel?”

he asked, making her uncertainty well to the surface.

“A bit… confused, though, the orchids are beautiful… these are the same flowers we used to collect as children.”

“Why did you decide to follow me?”

The swordsman paused as she searched for his meanings in his eyes.

“Because… you told me to?” She stilled on her horse as she watched him carefully.

“Why when I said so?”

Air thickened with his tone. Asking the question again and again until she made the right answer.

“Because I wanted to.”

Griffith slipped off of his horse, pacing to her, palm open, beckoning her. He silently waited.

“I don’t understand the meaning of this-“

“Take my hand.” He interrupted with velvet shaping the dagger hidden under his words.

Carefully, she reached for his hand, slipping off her horse before he quietly paced them to the center of the field. The dueler moved to pull her hand away but he tightened his fingers to the shape of her palm. Blades of grass and pedals sighed between armor as they sifted to the middle where rays of the sun littered groups of sapphire corolla at once. He finally stopped and turned to face her, his look burrowing into her own.

“You followed me here because you want to. Our shared history. It wasn’t blind faith.”

A tug and she skipped closer.

“You aren’t blindly following me.” He whispered as if the trees that stood around them was an audience attempting to peer into their conversation. Silver brows furrows slightly with a rare look. So unique it was hard to place.

“I see…” The swords master averted her gaze as confusion was hitting to a boiling point. She was scared to say the wrong thing. To stir him when they were alone, damn near lost away from the camp.

She was trapped here with adrift and him. Leather over the pad of his thumb brushed over her knuckles.

“When I stumbled on this field, It scared me.” Silver lashes veiled his eyes as he glanced at the curves that made her palms.

“Why?”

“Because it was something other than what I always thought I wanted for once.” He gave a half smile, “That was years ago. Could you imagine how my thoughts are now?”

“What were those thoughts?” She asked.

A beat of silence and he tugged her fingers to pull her a step closer to him. His presence, larger than the field they were standing in.

“How do I own a kingdom when you’re not there.”

Eyes stared until the cool breeze between them forced her to blink.

“I could be a knight or come to visit whenever I can. I’m sure you’ll be busy in the castle when you get there.” She cooed, trying to soothe his worries. It was understandable, they were like bonded felines- unable to stray too far from each other naturally. At least that was her reasoning

“I mean,” He paused before craning over her, “When you’re not here, like this. This close.”

Blood quickly ran to her cheeks; It felt so dry outside there was nothing to swallow.

“I won’t be leaving you like that. I’ll always be here when you need me.” Was all she could muster. She stilled, eyes widening as she felt silvery, wavy bangs against her forehead as he pressed his against hers. Another breath shortens while leather slipped against her cheek.

“Always?” He murmurs, “Say it again.”

The cold confused her; she couldn’t stop shaking. The dueler took a step back but he followed with another in a duet.

“I-I’ll always be here.” her breath pushed out. She jolted as the thumb that rubbed her cheek suddenly pressed upon her bottom lip, brushing it open. He reeled for comfort again, his compulsive need wrapping around her like a bag over her head.

“Again.”

He took a step closer, caging her against the large boulder she thought was so far away.

“I’ll a-always!“ She coughed as she felt his thumb push against her tongue. “Griff-!“

“Shh shh.” Griffith hushed, His thumb slid deeper while the tip his nose brushed against her scalp, inhaling the ghost fragrance of lilac. “You always reminded me of these orchids.”

The swordsman began to pant. Sheets of her armor scraped against the boulder, the sound that tore from it felt as grating as the gloved finger between her teeth. She yanked her mouth back before she felt the bite of fingers squeeze her jaw harder. Hacks sounded again while a strange tinge coil within her gut.

“Where you don’t need much care to be in the way that’s perfect. Beautiful.” He whispered, “I just needed to keep the weeds away to let you grow when we were kids. It was easy that way then... Do you know how hard that will be when I’m writing edicts and sitting on the throne. How the weeds will come then to steal your time like vultures who were waiting for the kill all along.”

Palms push at his shoulder as she gagged while the finger held her tongue down.

“Griffith-”

Nails skitter at iron plates before he finally relinquished her, spit bridging from her chin while she peeled over to cough violently. Griffith simply held his gaze at her while the wretching continued.

“I apologize for the slip.” He said almost too gently. He kept himself gated behind a boundary he was barely holding up to.

“I had gotten upset thinking about it-”

“Fuck your feelings, you scared me!”

He kept the mask of calm as she resolved herself. She peeled from the rock to quickly get to her horse, scrambling like it was life raft.

“Whatever is going on with you, you need to deal with it!”

She yelled as he didn’t turn to face her. She assumed it was from guilt.

“You don’t even know the way back.”

“I’ll find it!” She yelled as she whipped her reins, the hooves driving themselves away from him- leaving him in the parting of trees. Her eyes were frantic as she shivered on her horse. Why would he do that? Where did that come from? Why was he acting this way suddenly? It was the questions that poured into her because if he were to rock in his resolve, she would feel it. She always did. Even when he appeared calm- it was the slightest tone of his voice that would make her feel it.

He's never this upset unless she spent too much time training with others. In their teens, whenever she would come home late from hanging with the others, she would face his fury in the shape of him sitting in dent in chair at their shack of a home. The hidden resolve would torture her with questions and nitpickings down the bone just for him to reshape her skin with something else.

Flowers hummed against steel as he stood long after she had left.

#griffith #berserk #griffith x reader #we are all fucked up #my fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #tts #podfic #audiobooks #fanfiction #smut #dubious consent #SoundCloud #x reader #beserk fanfiction #femto #griffith berserk

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missvaseline · 16 days ago

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Whenever you watch me: Chapter 11 (Griffith x Reader) 18+

Here is the link to: Previous Chapter

Her lips tasted like his flavor.

The rising cacophony from the camp finally shattered the buzzing around her mouth. Shouts, the scream of sharpening steel, the frantic neighing of warhorses. Reality swallowed her whole, a brutal tide drowning the nascent embers of that fragile hope. The swordswoman broke from the treeline’s embrace, sprinting towards the maelstrom. Armor clanked with quick steps. She saw him almost immediately- Griffith, issuing orders while holding onto his calm. He turned as she approached, eyes finding hers across the churning sea of men and steel. The intensity from their encounter still simmered there.

“The eastern flank is faltering,” he stated, his voice cutting through to her, devoid of any hint of their earlier intimacy, yet somehow carrying its weight. “Laban’s strategy holds, but the Tudors press hard. The King’s Fifth needs support at the vanguard. You’re with me. We reinforce the front.”

Not the command post. Not guarding nobles. The front line. With him. The reversal of events felt succulent with fierce wild joy that surged through her. It fried whatever confusion was within. This was where she belonged

“Understood,” her voice clipped.

They moved together then, a whirlwind of silver and steel cutting through the ranks. Reaching the front, the true face showed itself. Mud churned with blood, the air thick with screams and the sticky coppery stench. Tudor soldiers, emboldened by numbers, crashed against the thinning line of the King’s Fifth like a relentless tide. The Swordswoman drew her blade naturally. It was as if a dam within her had burst. Years of discipline, hours of relentless training, the gnawing ache of being sidelined. Now she was feral. She ran forward, hands tight in her hilt as she swung at the side of a knight caught mid swing with his war hammer. Her sword rattled against chainmail, dulling a curdled scream beneath it. She twisted her upper half further to sink the edge of her blade deeper before stepping out to relinquish it from the hilt of his flesh. The swordswoman didn't have time to fully see the knight slump to the ground before she heard the whirl beside her. She side stepped, sabre slanted to arm herself as biceps hardened, taking the brunt of a long sword head on. Soles of her boots skid against pebbled rocks while teeth grit.

“Fucking bastard-” she snarled before falling forward, swords singing together as the sliver of eyes beneath the Tudor Knight's helmet widening at her bold move. Her sword came through his chest. She stepped forward with more strength. When warmth spilled over her tightened fingers, the last gasp parted from him and his sword slipped to dirt was when she stepped back to let his body fall. Two. Men fell before her like wheat before the scythe, their surprise often the last expression on their faces.

From the slight elevation where he coordinated the flanking maneuver, Laban watched, flinty wide eyes open with an echoed expression of bewilderment. He saw speed and the almost contemptuous ease with which she dispatched seasoned Tudor warriors. But more than that, he saw the ghost. It was Kael reborn, Kael’s ferocity unleashed without the older man’s weary caution. The sheer volume of her kills was mounted with every twist and arc of her blade She spun, avoiding a clumsy axe swing. Her proximity to freedom felt close to an earlier sensation. A whisper from beneath oak branches.

It was enough.

A hulking figure, sensing the momentary lapse, roared and charged. His movements were surprisingly fast for his size, his massive sword descending in a whistling swing aimed directly at her neck. She saw the rusted chainmail, and hatred burning in his eyes. Sunlight glinting off descending steel.

Instead, silence slammed down where the clang of impact should have been.

Griffith stood where the knight had been seconds before. His sabre was clean, yet the Tudor knight lay crumpled at his feet, neck severed in the way he attempted on her, eyes rolled up in their sockets. He turned to her, and the Swordswoman braced herself for the expected fury. Instead, he had placid concern etched over his features. The serenity wasn't coldness; it was deeper. His azure eyes scanned her with swift and thorough assessment for injury, devoid of panic or overt anger.

“Are you unharmed?”

She could only nod with a tight throat. The adrenaline drain leaving her suddenly weak-kneed. Sheer absence of his anticipated rage was more disorienting than the near-death experience itself. It didn't compute. It felt wrong.

He stepped closer, his gloved hand gently, briefly, resting on her shoulder pauldron. Intention was entirely unknown. "Stay alert," he gently patted her shoulder in a comradic gesture, "The battle turns. We press forward."

Then he was moving again, directing the charge, voice ringing with clarion command. The touch on her shoulder burned hot even through her armor plate. His calm, attentiveness, kindness- it sliced deeper than the Tudor’s blade could have. She watched Griffith become a beacon of silver against the chaos with his commands slicing through the battle like whip cracks. The echo of his touch lingered, more potent than the sweat cooling beneath her armor. His unexpected calm was a puzzle piece that refused to fit, leaving an unsettling vacancy where fury should have been. Shaking off the disquiet, she raised her blade again.

But the surge had already broken. The Tudor charge, emboldened by their initial success against the strained King’s Fifth, seemed to lose its impetus with the Hawks joining the vanguard. Where moments before there had been a desperate scuffle, now the Tudor were sputtering like dying embers. The Hawks flanked the remaining pockets of Tudor soldiers. And the cries of battle shifted, thinning cries and Shouts into chirping buzzards. The Swordswoman advanced, picking off isolated opponents, but the frenzy was gone, replaced by the grim task of cleanup. Mud sucked at her boots as she moved through the wreckage of the failed assault. The sweet adrenaline ebb leaving behind a weariness and the hollow ache of her earlier confusion.

Laban strode onto the churned battlefield from his command position. He stopped near the Swordswoman, nodding towards the impressive tally of Tudor dead surrounding her position. The ghost he’d seen in her movements was now evidenced by the sheer destruction she'd wrought.

“Good work, soldier,” he rumbled, the compliment gruff but sincere, carrying the weight of a commander’s rare approval. “You fight like him. Fast. Decisive. You honor his memory with that blade.”

“Hopefully I'm not just a ghost of my father in your eyes.” She replies, flicking stray blood onto mud before wiping the rest away with the purple cape of Tudor knight severed in half. Entrials gleamed from the sun above. Breathy laughter cracks behind her.

“This wasn’t a probing attack, too reckless for their main force right now. These weren’t frontline grunts. Look at their gear, what’s left of it. Better quality. Desperate, maybe, but skilled.” He spat onto the blood soaked ground while he focused on the narrow point of where the Tudor came between tall trees. “I’d wager they were a suicide squad. Sent ahead specifically to try and decapitate Midland command before the main offensive even begins tomorrow.”

His assessment resonated, clicking another piece into place. A targeted assassination attempt on the leadership. It explained the ferocity and seeming disregard for their own survival. And it underlined the danger of her post. Though she hadn't felt in danger even with cool steel swiping for her neck earlier.

“Figures.” She muttered, eyes narrowed at the blood seeped onto the crevice of her hilt as she tried to rub it away.

Guts had emerged from the across the field, his amor slick with blood. A scar knitting at his forearm. “West’s secure.”

Laban had given him a nod, “Good.”

She expected there to be a conversation between them when there wasn't any to be had. Guts lingered, his silence heavier than questions. Though he spoke anyway.

“You alright?”

She hadn't answered at first, believing he was speaking to Laban, but when the silence fell- she turned to meet their gazes pointed at her. The concern unnerved her more than his usual indifference. She hadn't imagined him being concerned, much less voicing it. She bristled, armor suddenly suffocating and hot like it wasn't winter’s eve approaching. “Fine. The ambush just… caught me off guard.”

His dark eyes held hers longer than she would surmise. She swore he saw it all. The distraction and guilt, the taste still haunting her lips. Guts’ dark eyes didn’t waver. The skepticism wasn't aggressive, just a quiet, heavy certainty that settled between them like dust after an explosion. He shifted his weight, the movement seeming to draw the very shadows of the alley deeper around them.

A deep hum settled through him in response, “I saw some of the auxiliary tents were damaged. Now that the perimeter is secure, come and help set up replacements.”

For some reason it didn't feel like a simple request. She paused first and then fell into step with him.

“Do your due diligence.” Laban said as a parting to them both and she realized his hovering sounded more like fanfare than the standard observation. It was a few steps on, then she saw him point vaguely back towards the treeline where she and Griffith had emerged separately moments ago.

“Seemed like you had other things on your mind. Saw you come out of the woods after Griffith did.” His comment lashed at her without him intending to, making her flinch. He’d seen them. Not together, maybe, but the implication was clear, hanging thick and undeniable in the air. Her constructed excuse crumbled between them, leaving her exposed. And he wasn't finished. This time he was stripped of pretense, “And when the attack hit near the command tent while Gaston was rallying the guard- I was patrolling the perimeter. Heard someone crying.” He looked uncomfortable saying it.

“Sounded like you.”

Crying? She opened her mouth, but no sound emerged, only a dry click in her throat. Her mind scrambled, searching for denial, deflection, anything- but Guts’ focus on her subtle trembled form offered no escape. Before the crushing weight of exposure could fully snuff her, her eyes followed trails of smoke tangling above scraps of charred canvas, fragments of what structure they were. She subliminally took the opportunity to ignore Guts’ observations, sifting through the debris to salvage whatever survived.

Guts kicked away a beam now made of charcoal, easily snapping it from the force.

“Looks like eight.” He mused.

Her eyes briefly flicked to the scene as she gathered stray daggers hidden beneath torn cloth, “Nine. I'm sure we have a surplus at the supply carts.”

He grunted at the worse circumstances. The swordswoman stood with a dagger, an old cloak, a sword and a bed roll that managed to survive nearly unscathed. She sighed, finally managing to gather her wits to answer his question before she went rummaging for items in the dirt.

“One of the commanders knew my father. I got emotional. It was beyond me.” She whispered beneath the veneer of Midland knights and Hawks scattering to their duties alike.

The dueler didn't turn to look at Guts before she faced the direction of the line of carts. “Could use a hand bringing supplies for nine tents.” with that, he followed. By the time they had made it eastward, the supply carts themselves looked trampled and raided. She stepped faster, more determined to follow clues of smoke curling in the air, leaving Guts behind. When she rounded for the supply cart, she saw Corkus pinching the bridge of his nose, Pippin pulling out tainted canvas from the din of a burnt cart with arrows sputtered from it. They must've been chewing through the supply carts first right under the Hawk's noses.

“Hey! I’ve been looking for you!" Rickert panted, addressing the Swordswoman, his eyes wide.

“Yes, Rickert?” She asked.

“You saw your tent, haven't you?”

The Swordswoman's tired look was enough of an answer to him. He managed carefully through an unsteady pant. Poor boy must've been running around in charge of site management with dwindled resources by now.

“Well, the supply carts have been torched along with the military grade tents. We had another set only to find those were torched too along with the weaponry carts”

The Swordswoman stared, words barely registering past the ringing in her ears that frustration began to chime. Rickert, mistaking her stunned silence for simple shock at the loss, hurried on, relaying his orders.

“Commander Griffith heard about it already. He said…” he lowered his voice conspiratorially as he stepped forward, “well, he’s allocated you space in his command tent for now.”

She must've been glaring daggers at him, her eyes parched from her focus on the young mercenary. Rickert shifted nervously, fumbling with his vambraces out of a nervous tick, clearly reciting a justification he didn’t fully grasp himself. Corkus and Pippin found themselves in the vortex of his words, stepping closer to eavesdrop.

“Said since you’re guarding the nobles anyway, and his tent is right near their command post. It's just practical. Saves setting up a new one right away, keeps you close to your duty station. The other Hawks are setting up further back, consolidating…” Rickert trailed off as he finally registered the profound, almost identical looks of stunned shock from everyone nearby. The Swordswoman felt the blood drain from her face. Griffith’s tent. His tent. After what transpired just moments ago? The world tilted, the ground unstable beneath her boots.

Guts’ reaction was a mirror of her own internal hell, but reflected through a different lens. His eyes widened fractionally. Corkus, standing in his simmering resentment, looked utterly poleaxed. His jaw dropped, eyes bulging, sputtering incoherently for a moment before raw outrage contorted his features.

“His tent? Are you kidding me!?”

The accusation of favoritism, always boiling, now exploded into full blown certainty in his furious gaze.

“Why?” The word clawed its way out, desperate and ragged. She grabbed Rickert’s arm, ignoring the startled look on his face, needing an anchor in the suddenly pitching world. “There must be something else- Officers’ quarters, requisitioned space. It’s safer to have separate tents, surely?” The plea sounded weak even to her own ears, laced with an impropriety she couldn't fully articulate but felt viscerally.

Rickert gently disentangled his arm, his expression sympathetic but firm. “I’m sorry, but the fire took the main supply carts- the ones with the spare command grade canvas. Everything’s gone. Griffith’s orders were clear. He said you should take it up with him directly if you had objections. Look, I need to help allocate what supplies we do have left.” With a final, apologetic glance, he turned and hurried away towards the smoking remnants of the supply line, leaving her adrift. Pippin had stopped rummaging for items, his glance seemingly mirroring Guts'.

Take it up with him directly. The suggestion was laughable. The near-miss in battle didn’t seem to phase him for this reason.

“Great.” She sighed to herself, her knees growing wobbly with frustration. She kept her face tilted to the earth, afraid that if otherwise, the heat on her face would be seen through her skin.

“Unbelievable,” Corkus sneered, breaking the stunned silence. His gaze dripped with envious contempt. “Of course she gets to share the White Hawk’s tent. Biggest one in the whole damn army, probably got feather pillows and silk sheets. While the rest of us are crammed five to a leaky canvas!

“Corkus,” Guts’ voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "You’re dismissed from guard duty. Go help Rickert with the supplies.”

Corkus sputtered, indignant, but one look at the unyielding set of Guts’ jaw and the dangerous stillness in his eyes seemed to convince him. Muttering curses under his breath, he stalked off, defeated. She could feel Guts’ eyes on her as she stared down into the dirt with items balled in her arms.

“Do you need help carrying them?” his voice slivered through her grievances.

“I should be good. Thanks.” she gave a weary smile at him, trying to cover her growing angst. Pippin and Guts had stared at her enought to make her jolt from her place. "I'll just put this at my new tent." Before Guts could stop her she had already weaved herself through knights and mercanaries.

On the way to the noble’s tents, her eyes scanned the command area, settling on a large tent where muffled voices hummed within its hearth, indicating a debriefing was underway. Griffith was inside, undoubtedly charming the Midland commanders in the serenades they needed to hear. But standing just outside the flap, patient and observant, was Owen, the Toumel Knight leader. She haphazardly paced into Griffith’s tent, noting the spacious area. More- the smell of him before she placed her items down on the ground. Corkus may have not been lying. Though, the dueler didn't have the time to see for herself. she was quick to Catch Owen before the nobles did, slipping out from the tent to dart directly for him. He could at least tactically give answers, his non bias reasoning may be more clarifying than her gut deep down assuming that this wasn't coincidental. If anything, Midland could fetch her a spare tent.

“Sir Owen,” she began as she approached, keeping her voice level.

He turned, offering a polite, if slightly weary, smile. “Ah, the Hawk herself. Settling in?”

“A question, if I may,” she said, skipping the pleasantries. “Midland command- are there absolutely no spare officer’s tents available? Any reserves at all?”

Owen’s smile faded slightly, replaced by genuine sympathy. “None, I’m afraid. The fire was thorough, hit the primary stores hard. Everything extra went up in smoke. Why do you ask? Does this have to do with Commander Griffith lending you space in his pavilion?”

So, it was already common knowledge among the command staff. She felt like she was being stripped of her skin and exposed for everyone to see. “I understand the necessity, but I worry it could be politically unwise for him. Sharing quarters with a soldier, even one under his command. Nobles gossip.” She offered the concern as a plausible, detached observation, hiding the frantic personal objections churning beneath.

“Commander Griffith seems remarkably unconcerned with such whispers,” he observed dryly. He hesitated, then seemed to make a decision, lowering his voice slightly.

“Look, I don’t wish to alarm you, but Commander Laban is my closest friend. We spoke after you met him this morning. Griffith likely offered his tent as a form of protection. Your father- he was a significant figure, and at one point, a political enemy, or at least a perceived one, to certain factions within Midland.”

The Swordswoman stiffened, her blood running cold despite the lingering warmth on her lips. Laban knew. Owen knew. How many others? This offered a potential logic, albeit a disturbing one. Protection through proximity, control disguised as shelter. It fit Griffith’s pattern.

“But,” Owen frowned, tapping his chin,“that’s the odd part. From what Laban recalls, and from the histories I know- very few of the current high command actually saw Kael in person, especially not near the end. Which makes Lord Lyle’s comment earlier, his claiming you looked familiar rather surprising. Almost impossible.”he trailed off.

The Swordswoman seized on the doubt. “Lord Lyle looked old enough to confuse my face with any number of soldiers he’s seen over the decades,” she countered, perhaps too quickly. “Memory plays tricks.”

Owen shrugged, though his eyes remained troubled. “Yet, Laban seemed quite unsettled by it, Lyle’s apparent recognition. Staying close to Griffith, within the commander’s inner circle might be best. I say this to reason you, as you came here looking for answers presumably.”

Hidden in plain sight. Or trapped in the center of the storm. With Griffith, she suspected, there was rarely a difference.

"But why?" she pressed Owen, lowering her voice, needing to understand the underlying current pulling her into these dangerous waters. "If Laban knows who my father was and the potential complications… why bring me here? Why involve me with the high command? Wouldn't it be safer for everyone, including him, to keep me at arm's length, or buried within the Hawk ranks?" Why wasn't he trying to oust her, leverage her past, or simply warn Griffith away?

Owen shifted his weight, his gaze sweeping the perimeter as if ensuring their conversation remained private. His answer, when it came, was coated in the smooth patina of courtly diplomacy, yet felt oddly hollow.

"Commander Laban values competence above pedigree." Owen added, a slight emphasis on the word, "though, trusting the known quantity, even one with a complex past, is often safer than relying on the shifting allegiances and whispered poisons of nobility. They backstab each other for sport.”

His answer felt practiced and evasive. It didn't fully explain the personal risk Laban seemed to be taking, nor the almost paternalistic way he’d handled the dagger. Something was missing. But Owen wasn't finished. He leaned fractionally closer, his next words delivered with a quietness that prickled the hairs on her neck.

"And between us… it wasn't Griffith who initially pushed for your placement here."

The Swordswoman froze. "What?"

"Laban utilized the King's formal decree quite deliberately, commander Griffith, initially, seemed less than enthusiastic about you being detached from the main Hawk force and placed directly within this command circle."

He clarified. That clarification punched the air from her lungs. Griffith hadn't wanted her here? He hadn't lied about the King's decree being the impetus, at least not entirely. But his reluctance. Now, it contradicts everything. She stared at Owen until he shifted uncomfortably. There was no reason for him to lie about this.

"I… see," she murmured, the words feeling inadequate. There were no other tents. Laban had insisted she be here. Griffith, after initial reluctance, had seized the chance created by the fire to ensure she stayed, right next to him. There was no escape hatch, no alternative lodging. She had to stay in his tent. The realization settled with the cold finality of a dungeon door slamming shut.

And then, slicing through the confusion, came the memory of Griffith’s voice in morning dew months back:

"Was it less confusing when we were younger? Sharing tents, telling each other stories? Was it better when we did those things?"

Sharing tents. How convenient. How perfectly, suspiciously convenient that circumstances had now forced them back into that childhood intimacy, the very state he had wistfully recalled back then.

A fleeting thought surfaced- Casca. Could she share with Casca? But the idea died almost instantly. Casca commanded Hawk units, her tent would be positioned with the main encampment, likely miles from this command nerve center where the nobles and generals huddled. It was logistically impossible, reinforcing the stark reality of her situation.

A humorless scoff escaped her lips, "Funny," The word came tight with irony, "I accused him of engineering this, of wanting me here all along. He didn't exactly fight me on it." in fact he leaned into it.

Owen chuckled softly, a sound of genuine amusement mixed with a hint of resignation. He clearly recognized the intricate dance of power and personality between the Swordswoman and the White Hawk, even if he didn't grasp all the steps.

"Well, Navigating Commander Griffith's motivations seems a campaign strategy unto itself. He may have simply recognized the inevitable once Laban invoked the King."

The Swordswoman let out a weary sigh, rubbing her temples against the burgeoning headache the day’s revelations had induced. The tent flap behind Owen remained closed, muffled voices still audible from within. "How long do you expect their debriefing to last?" she asked, the edge returning to her voice. Patience felt like a foreign currency she couldn't afford right now.

Owen glanced back at the command tent, then back at her, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Impatient to move into your new accommodations, are we?"

She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, armor plates groaning faintly in protest. Her jaw set stubbornly. "I think I've had quite enough surprises for one day, Sir Owen. Knowing what comes next feels like a necessary tactical advantage at this point."

He turned slightly, lowering his voice again as if sharing a confidence that bordered on impropriety.

"Regarding Laban, he likely made some promise to Kael. Years ago."

The Swordswoman's breath hitched. A promise? To her father? "What kind of promise?"

“I do not know. Laban guards his past closely. But Kael saved his life once, perhaps more than once. Debts like that, among men like them, are not easily forgotten, regardless of politics or kings."

This added another layer of complexity, a motive rooted in honor rather than strategy or manipulation. But it still didn't explain everything. "How did he even know it was me?" she pressed, the question burning. "My father kept his family life separate. How could Laban possibly recognize me after all these years, amidst thousands of soldiers?"

Owen hesitated, his gaze flicking towards the royal crypts, unseen beyond the camp bustle. "He told me… it was at the funeral procession. For Julius and Adonis."

The Swordswoman frowned, trying to recall the chaotic, grief stricken event.

"The queen noticed the disturbance. Laban was standing quite near her then, part of the immediate royal escort. He said when you looked up, after bowing, he saw your face clearly for the first time. And he knew. Instantly."

Stunned silence descended again. The funeral. That humiliating moment under the queen’s glare, Pippin hauling her back. Laban had been right there. He had seen her face, recognized Kael’s daughter in the midst of royal mourning, and said nothing until this morning. A familiar figure detached itself from the command tent, gliding towards them with that distinctive grace.

Griffith was approaching. And the fragile truce brokered by Owen’s partial revelations felt suddenly, terrifyingly inadequate. She remained quiet, caught in the crosscurrents of relief, suspicion, and unwelcome guilt over her earlier certainty about his motives.

“Sir Owen,” Griffith greeted him with a nod, his smile polite but brief, a necessary acknowledgment before turning to his true focus. His azure gaze settled on the Swordswoman. “Finished with your duties here?”

She felt Owen’s presence beside her keenly, a reminder of their conversation, of the truths and half-truths exchanged. The guilt reveberated. She had accused Griffith, raged at him, based on assumptions that were, apparently, incomplete. She kept her eyes fixed on a point somewhere over Griffith’s shoulder, unable to meet his gaze.

“Yes,” she managed, her voice subdued.

“Good,” Griffith said, his tone smooth, accepting her quietude without comment. “The command tent is being struck for the evening redistribution. You should move what little remains of your gear to my pavilion now. I managed to salvage a spare bedroll from the secondary supplies; I’ll take that. You can have the cot.”

His offer of the cot, the prime sleeping spot felt like a means to butter her up. It wrong-footed her again, making her earlier fury feel churlish. They began walking beside one another- keen not to touch, moving through the bustling camp towards the large, distinctively marked tent that served as Griffith's mobile headquarters. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the sounds of the recovering army.

Finally, the pressure became too much. She cleared her throat, the sound small in the open air. “Griffith…” She paused, struggling for the words. “About earlier… my accusations about Laban’s request… I apologize.” The admission felt like swallowing stones, heavy and unpleasant, but necessary.

He glanced at her, and surprise had caught him before he wiped it away. “There’s nothing to apologize for.” His dismissal was effortles. “I told you it was the King’s decree, invoked by Laban. I knew you would eventually see the situation for what it was, without my needing to force the perspective.” He hadn't lied, not technically, but he had allowed her anger to run its course, knowing the facts, when revealed, would land with greater impact. He had let her discover it herself, maintaining his position of quiet authority and deeper knowledge, even in reconciliation.

"How long is this arrangement likely to last?"

Griffith glanced sideways, the setting sun gleaming in the azure of his eyes. "Until the next supply convoy arrives with replacement command tents. Could be a week. Could be a month, depending on Tudor movements along the supply lines and the King's priorities."

A month. The word hung in the air between them. A month of sharing this confined space, of unavoidable closeness, of navigating the treacherous territory they'd entered under the oak trees. Slow heat crept up her neck. She looked away, focusing intently on the rhythmic crunch of their boots on the path, suddenly finding the pattern of trodden grass fascinating.

Then, another question surfaced, nagging at the edges of her understanding. "Owen mentioned… you initially objected to Laban’s request for me to guard the command unit." She risked a glance at his profile, seeking confirmation. "Why? If you knew Laban… knew the potential connection?"

Griffith didn’t break stride. "Because, I knew how you would react. Being confined to a command post, guarding nobles while the main battle rages elsewhere. You'd feel caged. Pent up." He paused, letting the accurate, if unflattering, assessment land."And when I suspected Laban's insistence stemmed from his past ties to your father, I objected even more. It adds layers of complexity I couldn't predict or control. Placing you in the center of that felt unnecessarily risky."

"Understandable then." She concurred for a rare once.

He stopped just outside the entrance to his large, well-appointed tent. The canvas glowed warmly from the lantern light within finally facing to the darkness showing itself over the lands. "Now, circumstances have changed. Laban's motivations, Lord Lyle's scrutiny, the general instability after Julius' death… the safest place for you is close. Where I can ensure your protection directly." A faint, almost self-deprecating chuckle escaped him. "Frankly, I don't trust the average Midland knight or even most of these noble commanders to adequately defend a potted plant, let alone someone as… prone to attracting trouble as you are."

"Fair point," she conceded quietly, turning away from him. Her attention snagged on the pitiful state of her bed roll, cloak, secondary sword and dagger. The scorched fabric, the pervasive smell of ash. It felt like a tangible representation of her own precarious situation. She picked it up, scowling as she tried to shake out the worst of the soot and smooth the stiffened wool, focusing intently on the futile task. It gave her something to do, something to look at besides the man sharing her enforced sanctuary.

Behind her, the distinct sounds began: the click and scrape of buckles being undone, the sigh of leather straps loosening, the soft thud of discarded pauldrons hitting a trunk lid. Griffith was removing his armor. Piece by piece, the barrier of polished steel that defined the White Hawk was coming down, leaving behind the man beneath. An involuntary tension coiled in her shoulders. She kept her back resolutely turned, fiddling with the cloak, pretending to inspect a particularly stubborn scorch mark, feigning difficulty in balancing her sword against the campaign table – anything to avoid acknowledging the intimacy of the sounds, the vulnerability inherent in shedding one's defenses.

"I'm going to the lake to wash off the grime of battle," Griffith's voice broke the silence, "The water will be cold, but it's necessary." She could almost feel his gaze on her back. "If you feel unsafe going alone later, given everything… you're welcome to come now. There's safety in numbers, even for bathing."

Her cheeks, already warm from their earlier proximity, felt blistering. The suggestion hung in the air, seemingly innocent, practical even, yet loaded with unspoken implications after everything that had transpired. Bathing. Together. Griffith had bathed in lakes and rivers alongside the entire Band countless times over the years. When they were younger, scrambling through streams after dusty spars, it hadn't meant anything more than rinsing off sweat and mud. There had been an easy camaraderie, an absence of sin born of shared hardship and childhood familiarity.

But things were different now. She was different. He was different. He wasn't the lean boy she’d wrestled with anymore; he was Griffith, the commander, sculpted muscle and unnerving grace, a man whose touch now ignited far more than simple friendship. The kiss. That brief pressure of his lips had irrevocably changed the landscape between them. The thought of seeing him stripped of his armor, of being near him in that state of vulnerability after that… it felt like bathing with her soul and secrets out from her body. Too intimate. She hadn't consciously bathed near him, not like that, since they were well into their teens, since the undeniable realities of their maturing bodies had erected invisible but potent barriers. She hadn't seen him fully unclothed since then.

"We haven't-" Her voice caught, forcing herself to turn and face him, needing to establish distance. He stood now only in his linen undershirt and breeches, his armor neatly stacked. Even partially clothed, the lean power of his build was evident. "...bathed together like that since we were young, Griffith."

He met her gaze, and it was too hard for her to read what was in them. He nodded slowly.

"True." He didn't press more than that. "If you feel uncomfortable, perhaps ask Casca to accompany you later. She’ll likely be heading down with some of the other women."

His easy acceptance somehow felt more cutting than persistence would have. It made her feel… childish. Unreasonable. Yet the boundary felt necessary. "Then why… why even suggest bathing together now?" she asked, needing to understand his reasoning, needing to know if it was another calculated move or simply thoughtlessness.

He seemed genuinely taken aback for a moment, a scoff slips from him as he parts tresses behind his ear. "Honestly? It didn't occur to me that it would be like that. Old habits, I suppose. Practicality. Thinking only of safety after the attack. My apologies." He didn't linger on the awkwardness. With a final, almost formal nod, he gathered a small bundle containing soap and linen.

"I won't be long."

He parted the tent flap and disappeared into the fading light, leaving her alone in the suddenly vast, shared space. It was going to be either a long week, or a very long month.

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