#every time his pen touched paper was a masterstroke

[conostra]

Griffith's Relationships

The White Hawk. The White Phoenix. The King of Falconia. The Savior. Femto. The Blessed King of Longing. Once, the greatest mortal to ever wield a sword. The bane of the Black Swordsman. The most beautiful man alive. Him with a stature nothing short of pure magnificence. You know him. You love to hate him. I’m talking about one of the greatest characters not just in manga, but in all of fiction: Griffith.

Griffith is one of many examples of how masterful Kentaro Miura was with a pen, be it pressing against a notebook or a panel. An incredibly written character, as complex as they can come, with some of the most complicated, deep, and tragic relationships I’ve ever seen put to any form of media.

Here, I’ll be discussing what is inarguably a core tenet of Berserk: Griffith’s relationships. With two exceptions, there is no dispute that Griffith’s relationships are the singular most important part of the media he resides in, there is no debate over whether or not they are still crucial parts of understanding both Guts’ disposition, and the world of Berserk. Griffith’s different approaches to interacting with those in his vicinity warps the very world itself, and his whims shape the very nature of the conflicts the protagonist engages in.

Here, in 6 parts, we will be dissecting Griffith’s most important relationships through Berserk, how they shaped him, and what they explain about who he is and how he got to where he is now.

Part 1: The Boy, and The Hawks

Part 2: The Governor.

Part 3: The King.

Part 4: Charlotte.

Part 5: The Wings of the Hawk (1)

Part 6: The Wings of the Hawk (2)

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Part 1: The Boy, and The Hawks

Throughout the story of Berserk, Griffith goes through many changes, some more drastic than others. But no change is more pivotal than the one caused by a certain young bird who flocked with him and the Hawks when he first started his journey. Before Guts, before Casca, Griffith was no one. He was a commoner, no more than a child, starting his own little group of misfit warriors to become… something. Whatever it was, surely, it must set him on the path to his dream. But to the others, whatever that something was did not matter. It was of no consequence to them whether that mystical something ever came into fruition. All that mattered was that Griffith was the one who was pulling them along with him into the smoke that obscured their immediate war-torn futures.

Among them was a young boy. Younger than Griffith, even. So young, he would even bring his toys onto the battlefield. A young boy who admired him from what he thought was afar, but in actuality could be only a few feet away at times. It was like admiring a star, or, as Griffith puts it, “the hero of some story.” A hero not too unlike the toy knight Griffith found one day in his satchel, no owner left to claim it, as he lay on the ground, blood pooling around him as it soaked through his bare clothes, no armor, merely a tunic and a dream. A dream to serve alongside Griffith. A dream to aid Griffith in achieving his dream, a small dream, a dream to aid another man’s story.

Griffith wondered, as he placed the boy’s toy back on his chest, whether, when he died, he felt comfort from his dream. Or, perhaps, did he die in agony, unable to achieve it? Was death the start of a new dream, or the end of all other ones? Was it even the boy’s dream that he felt as he slipped away? Or was it the dream Griffith imposed upon him? He did not know the answers.

But he knew one thing- that he could no longer idly hope for his dream to be achieved. He knew he could not simply throw enough numbers at the board, have enough fights, gain enough men, and maybe he’d get lucky, and his dream would simply fall into his lap. He would have to take initiative. He would have to work for his dream, would have to devote every waking moment, every sleeping moment, to the pursuit of that dream. 

One night, later on, upon returning to the castle, Casca finds Griffith with a man known for… having a particular taste regarding young boys. Later on, she finds him, bathing himself in a nearby river. He begins to quite literally tear into himself, ripping open his arm in a perfect metaphor for how he feels. He claims he has logically reasoned out that what he did was necessary in order to make sure that he gets the funds needed to properly helm a militia the size he will require. But this is only after admitting that he feels that he must be as filthy as those who follow him, because he does not deserve to be clean when his dream is smeared in the blood of thousands who follow his words.

Despite his supposed recovery from this mental break, and despite his claims, the scene of that young boy, dead on the battlefield, with his only belonging encapsulating the lofty ideal to which he held Griffith, broke him. It could have, should have broken any man who would be in the same situation. But it did not just break Griffith. It melted him down, only to reforge him again. That young boy pushed Griffith to do whatever it takes to achieve his dreams, and to accept that casualties will occur. It was a notion Griffith accepted, but not one he fully understood until it was there, laid bare in front of him, forcing him to either confront it, or to give up. And Griffith confronted it. And it warped him. As the story progresses, we see that Griffith is still affected by the death of this young boy, and that his blood still stains crimson all of Griffith’s decisions. 

Without this death, perhaps Griffith is content to simply grow the Hawks through skirmishes, through battle, and through battle alone, until another opportunity presents itself. Perhaps Griffith does not sleep with the old man. Perhaps Griffith does not engage in the activities he does later on in the story, assassinating rivals in his chase of his dream of a throne. Perhaps he does not pull Guts as his sole equal in the depravity he lowers himself to for his dream, sending him on an assassination mission where Guts has a realization of equal magnitude to his own. But Griffith does not recover from this spiral. Perhaps, if this child did not die as a result of Griffith’s own actions, perhaps The eclipse never occurs. Perhaps Griffith must work ten times as hard, it takes ten times as long, but perhaps Griffith does not become the false emotional stonewall he acts as. Perhaps he gains a new dream, perhaps he does not, but either way, perhaps he can have that journey with those he loves, he values, to keep him company.

And Griffith loves the Hawks. All of them. Perhaps not to the same degree, but for all of them, Griffith feels this same type of patriarchal, shepherd-esque obligation, with perhaps the exception of Guts, and Guts alone. He takes on the burden of making the hard choices, of putting himself through hell, to attempt to mitigate the harm they can potentially receive as much as possible. He bears the weight of every victory, every loss of every individual, all willingly given for the sake of his dream. He alone bears the cross of being the head of the Hawks, at every step of their journey.

And this makes his decision at the Eclipse all the more powerful. Some may think that Griffith made the decision because he did not actually care about the Hawks, those who would so loyally lay down their lives if he were to so much as ask. But no. The thing that makes Griffith’s decision to follow that through, to sacrifice all of the Hawks for the sake of his dream so sickening, so gut-wrenchingly despicable, is that he does care. He values each and every single life that was lost at the hands of the apostles, and the demons that began to ravage his party at his behest. He has to care. After all, the Behelit requires him to sacrifice whatever he values most in order to give him his chance at his dream. 

All this death and mayhem, yet underneath it all, it is the scarlet blood of a single child, barely younger than him, that tinges Griffith’s memory. 

[caemec]

M con Nathaniel por favor~

Two asks in one (since I still have 15 drabbles’ asks waiting, and as you begin to know how slow I can be, it’s probably better that way). 

F & M - Flirting with you & Making you breakfast

Reachingthe little cafe, the window shop lit up by paper lanterns, youhurried up inside, fleeing the cold weather of a winter morning. Youtook off your coat, wet strands of your hair sticking on the skin ofyour naked neck. You sat at your usual place, right alongside thelarge patio door, on which raindrops drawn geometric lines. Underyour feet, the old wooden floor creaked at every slight movement youmade. Some saxophone’s notes, mingled with the hammering of the heavyrain filled the room, a calm and timeless sensation lingering on thefew customers. 

Inthe corner of the coffee shop, you were sure you would be peacefulenough to work on the last chapter of your history law class you hadthis morning. Or at least, you would try. If you could easily assureyou fell in love with your teacher, enthralling and able to keep yourentire attention during three consecutive hours, you had to recognizeher capacity to give you more work than any other universirtyteacher. Writing an essay about the practice of the torture duringthe ages in less than a week was a masterstroke you weren���t sure youhad the time for. 

Faraway were the days you strode along the corridors of your old school,Sweet Amoris. Sometimes, you would give a lot to come back at thetime. Your life was way more easier than now, an average student atthe university, perpetually left to your own devices. Four yearspassed, you were practically at the end of your first year ofmaster’s degree, and you were literally begging for some free time,at least to take a bath and eat a proper dinner. 

- Already here ?

Youlooked up to meet the golden eyes and the slight smile of yourboyfriend, known as his renowned hallmarks. If time was beneficialfor someone, it was clearly for Nathaniel. You woke up many morningsper week at his side since years now, and you still found yourselfamazed at how gorgeous and charismatic he had become. Stunning, thatwas the word. 

Anddefinitively sexy in those black jeans and sponsored sweatshirt, anapron firmly tied at his waist.

- I ran until here. It rains outside.

- That explains your red cheeks.

- No, that’s because there is a beautiful man right in front of me.  

Youcould see the movement of his face you knew by heart, when he bit theinner of his lower lips, to keep secret the smug smile you caused.Instead, he leaned down, putting his forearms on the table, hisplayful eyes to the height of yours. Without a word, he brought hislips closer to yours, until you barely felt the subtle touch of its,his breath tickling your sensitive skin, giving you goose bumps. 

Yearslater, he was still able to lead you back to your clumsy shyness.Your composure definitively lost, you bit your lower lips, in a needto reject your embarrassement. He softly laughed against you, beforefinally leaving a good morning kiss.

- What do you want ? He asked, taking back his professional posture, a pen in the hand, while you were still a blushing mess. 

However,you learned it with time – Nathaniel was surprisingly the best whenit came to seduce. You gave him an ardent gaze, letting your eyesadmiring his torso, highlighted by the dark shades of his uniform. Hesighed with fake annoyance. 

- Except the staff, I mean.

- That’s too bad… You mumbled, stretching your arms out, narrowly holding back an unattractive yawn. But I don’t know what I want. I just had two hours about how to properly torturing unbelievers and witches. It’s not really appetising.

- So it will be my choice, he decided before turning around and walking away. 

Hestopped a few meters further, giving you one last glance. 

- No discount if you hadn’t written at least a half page when I come back, he warned, insensitive to your protests.

Youpouted in his back, lazily looking at the history books on the table,waiting for you to tear your hair out. You definitely weren’t donefor homeworks. No one was better than your dad to make you understandyour books – another benefit of high school. Not even Nathaniel,who had enough with his own studies, his student work and his verynew internship to handle a poor soul like yours.

However,his manner to watch over you, in a way he thought discreet enough togo unnoticed, was to invite you to the coffee shop – force you weremore suitable in your opinion – and to find little motivations foreach step you overcame. You loved him for that. Despite his lack oftime, he still managed to see you as often as possible, letting youunderstand you would always be his priority, even when he had to dotwelve hours a day. 

Incomparison, you were practically in holidays. You did your duty totake care of him as much as possible, even if it meant stealing hisapartment’s keys and achieving all of his house chores – if theyknew it, your parents would complain about how lazy you were when itcame to their own house.

Atthe counter, half-hidden behind the cookie jars, eyebrows frowned bythe concentration, Nathaniel leaned over a mug, liquid crème fraîchein the hand. A melancholy smile ornamented your face with, when youlost in the memories of his very first days as a waiter, at the timetotally unsure he would be able to draw small and cute figures oncoffees or hot chocolates. It definitely wasn’t his style. But sincemoney didn’t come alone and he wanted his total independence, faraway from his father’s hand, he gave everything he had, more studiousand hard worker than ever. Even reading pink and cliché blogs abouthow to become an expert in latte art was taken seriously, at thetime.

Aneed to feel his warm body against you filled you entirely. Afterglancing at the room, practically empty, apart two students too busywith their laptops to notice you, you stood up and joined Nathaniel.He had found his place here, and his colleagues knew you practicallyas much as him. You were unofficially a part of the team. Skirtingthe counter, you jumped the unique step, before letting your backrest again the piece of furniture.

- Think to the discount, he said promptly, without raising his eyes, busy to adjust home-made scones on a flowery plate.

- Seeing a man cooking is definitely sexy, you answered, denying his previous remark and the homeworks’ call.

- Technically, I’m not cooking. You should have come two hours earlier for that. But, he added before you could reply, in light of your conception of it, it has to be the hardest skill you ever saw.

Yougently hit his shoulder, pretending to be offended, even if your pooractor game couldn’t dupe him.

- You’re mean. No tip, if you continue.

Youdidn’t miss his triumphant smirk, knowing full well where he wantedto lead the conversation. Of course you ran in his game. The timepassed together was more and more rare to not enjoy it as far aspossible.

- But I still love your reheated noddles. You’re sexy when you use the microwave.

- That’s already better.

Hehanded you a spoon full of sweet clotted cream. You opened your mouthand let escape an odd laugh when you felt a bit of the creme drippingon your chin. Nathaniel refrained to comment, quickly scrubbing yourskin with a finger.

- You’re a child.

- That’s true, you laughed while taking a towel to clean yourself. That’s really good, by the way. Can you… Feed me again ?

- Because you can’t do it yourself and wisely go back to your table ?

- I can’t, I’m a child, you said it yourself.

Hesighed, smiling at you in despair. You knew how to have what youwanted, and more importantly, how to make him do it. Thingsweren’t so funny alone. He took a new spoonful of cream, and youleaned in his direction, your taste buds excited by advance. However,the spoon never met your mouth. 

- Tips come first, miss.

- Fine, but you don’t want me to pay you in a public place, trust me.