Conostra

This thing is ridiculously fire. Just wanted to lyk your efforts are appreciated lol this shit is so hard

Griffith and Guts are many things- almost lovers, brothers-in-arms, trusted comrades, and above all else, incredible reflections of each other. Miura created both of these men as phenomenal foils, and there’s never a moment where this doesn’t shine through in their reactions to certain events, and to their own growth, snd how it cganges5their perceptions of each other. But there’s one particular pair of events that I think perfectly illustrates their differences: The death of innocence to their own hands.

I’ve talked at length (at least 20-something pages worth LOL) about Griffith’s absolutely fucked up relationship to… well, relationships in general. I made a post specifically about his interactions and relationship with the young boy who joined the Hawks. But to succinctly summarize my thoughts: Griffith was faced with an absolute that he was forced to reconcile with in order to continue pursuing his dream. When that young boy had the wings granted to him by the Hawks clipped by battle and bled out into the terrain of war, Griffith was very clearly distraught. He is left to ponder the fact that this young boy, younger than even him at this point, was led to battle by his sword, and led to sword by his word. He's cost this boy his entirety, every dream he ever had or could ever have, every possibility his life's multitudes could have contained. Gone. All through his mere words, his very existence. And this would happen to countless more boys, and men, and women, children, innocents, civilians and soldiers alike, should he continue.

Guts was equally invested in what he caused, but the difference was that the blood showed not in his words, but on his hands. On Griffith’s orders, one night, Guts assassinates the brother of the King of Midland, and in the midst of escaping, he kills a smaller figure that, only after his sword plows clean through his abdomen, does Guts realize was, in fact, the young son of the man. Guts has cast this boy to death, having cut off any chance of him ever truly knowing his father's love. Any chances at being better than the sorry nobility with which he was surrounded, all through chance, were squandered, all through chance. This was not intended, this was not planned, and yet, it happened all the same, and Guts was left to flounder in the inescapable pool of his own inner turmoil after the fact.

Both of them are forced to have the bleak reality of their actions wash over them like rain, and both are forced to reckon with what they've done.

Both of them, understandably, are destroyed by this. Obliterated. Neither of them can function properly after the fact, and for a long while. But for one of them, this becomes permanent. One of them breaks themselves down from this, while the other becomes broken. One of these men allows this instance to define who they will be, and the other uses this to guide who they will become.

Griffith, from this, falls into the medieval equivalent of the alt-right pipeline LOL, specifically indoctrinated under the idea that If I Don't Feel Things, They Can’t Hurt Me. And for the record, he is wrong. Both in his ability to not be hurt by things, and his ability to not feel them. This incessant repression of all of himself, his emotions, his sexuality, his own human desires at the expense of his grandiose dream, lead him down a path of ruin. This pseudo-stoicism lends itself only to festering truths being locked under a truthful veneer of depressive apathy, a complete expression of himself in its own right, cracked only when in the company of a man who he deems to bear as much as himself. He wants to shut this turmoil away and bury it, only to allow it to continue to simmer, burn and flash in some moments, and ultimately explode in a brutal, spectacular fashion.

Guts, meanwhile, as the actual face of some weird alt-right ideas from idiots about the way anger and suffering supposedly actually make you *stronger*, instead becomes a better warrior and a better man by not allowing this moment to define who he is, and who he can continue to be. He will always define himself as a warrior first. But a warrior does not necessarily mean a ruthless slaughterer of men, women, and children alike, an indiscriminate killer who cares only that his sword is swinging, and does not care what fills the space in its arc. And it takes him time, an entire journey in fact, to learn and truly understand and internalize this. But it happens. Because he allows himself the space to mull over himself and his destiny, and does not internalize and pathologize what he does and what happens to him the way Griffith does. But they are in different situations, under different weights during different circumstances- and yet, this is what makes them these foils. Neither of these men would react the same way to either’s situation, and we can tell that in the way they oppose in the same. 

This is gonna be more a stream of consciousness than a properly-written piece btw. Love me some CSM and had some thoughts on the recent chapters

It finally happened! Denji got molested. Unfortunately, this is probably the absolute worst way bro could've got his first nut off. After a series of literal months of his life being sexually harassed, assaulted, manipulated by older women in his life, and then ultimately coming to the conclusion that his dick, as the embodiment of his sexuality, was his ultimate demon, and that the stick gotta go. Maybe the balls too. They make the testosterone, so they gotta be the problem, right? And Yoru offers to assist him, by cutting his dick off in the back alley between some nearby buildings. They go back there, he changes his mind, they argue over it for a bit, and then she forces her hands into his pants- Yoru, not Asa, forces herself into his pants. One tally on the "ummm, I don't think this is appropriate" score.

Tally two comes after she grabs his penis, and this is where the weirdness comes into play. She remembers as she grabs his dick that this is not, in fact, the first time that these two have "gotten intimate". The first time was Asa and him at his apartment, at her behest- before she was turned into a dog by Nayuta, and had her memories wiped. She remembers that they kissed, and leans in to kiss him again. Denji's face screams confusion, but ultimately, he accepts, leaning in to kiss as well after her second go at him. And she begins to jerk him off, to completion, and he finishes in her hands.

So, here we are. Denji finally got his nut off! But instead of celebrating, he slumps to the ground in the alley as Yoru cleans off her hands in a puddle. Her immediate first response is, at first calm, then panicked, to cut Denji off when he asks why they kissed to tell him that she only kissed him because it felt good. And absolutely no other reason. At all. And that she harbors no feelings for him. At all. In any way at all. In any way shape or form. And in fact, that any and all feelings that she felt or has only came from the "other her", Asa.

Way to clear things up, Yoru.

Asa bitch smacks the absolute fuck out of Yoru on her way out the alley, hurting both of themselves, punching and beating on herself even after she gets her body back, crying into the wall that she did, in fact, like Denji, and now he's just gonna think she's some slut cause she literally gave it up to him in a back alley.

And on the train, they both look like they've gone through shell-shock, and to varying degrees, they both have.

Asa was forced to become a rapist. Despite Yoru being the one to "act", it was her body, her hands, her feelings that were Yoru's own one and the same. She, to some degree in her own mind, bears enough of the responsibility here to feel shame on herself, not just if at all for what she did for Denji, but the age-old shame that all women, but especially women Asa's age are forced to bear for being at all sexual with another person, especially another young man like Denji. She's soiled herself, in her eyes, and Denji wouldn't want her. She holds no value to herself, as much as she thinks she holds to Denji.

There's a mix of other feelings in there, of course. Potentially, there is jealousy that Yoru was the one who used her body for the "real" kiss from Denji, that she was robbed of the opportunity to actually get to perform the acts of both love and intimacy that her body was puppeteered for. There is also more than just a small chance that Asa is too caught up in these mixed feelings in the moment to understand that what just happened to her AND Denji was nothing short of sexual assault by Yoru.

And this is almost definitely what happened to Denji. When he has been manipulated like this for the entirety of his life at this point, with no real autonomy or ownership over himself, starting as a young boy and ending with the collapse of Makima's reign over his life, Denji is almost used to these feelings. But when this... "thing"... happens with Yasa, this on-and-off relationship the two of them have shared over the past few months, his immediate concern is the one thing he's truly focused on when it came down to it for his relationships- Does Yasa really feel a way about him? Or did she, just like those before, simply use him?

First the mafia. They owned his body as a tool to pay off his father's debt. Then, Makima, and Himeno, and Reze, Power, and even Nayuta. Himeno used him to try to get off, then vomited in his mouth, then utilized him to try to get what she wanted from Aki. Sure, she became a friend, but only after nearly forcing herself onto the conflicted and young boy.

Reze, who claimed to have fallen in love with him, and wished to run away. Who helped teach Denji to do math, and read, and to play and think for himself, before ultimately revealing that the love had been staged, and that she was a powerful devil sent to either kidnap or execute him. She kills some of his friends, allies, whatever- and still, he wishes to run away with her. He hopes that, perhaps, although staged, the flower of love had still actually bloomed, and could grow even further were it planted somewhere else. And Reze, in fact, reveals that it could have blossomed even more beautifully- before being cut down at the stem by Makima.

Power is Denji's first real experience with the female body. And it's... not at all what Denji had it cracked up to be. First time bro copped a feel on a pair of titties, and not only were they padded, but he still didn't enjoy it nearly as much as he imagined he would. In fact, this was enough to get him to re-think his goals, and what it was he wanted out of life. It got him to almost remember...

And then Makima got her hooks back in him. She ruined not just his relationships with women, but people in general. Got him to kill Aki. Got him to kill Power. Got him to forget his initial dream, his dream to just find a girl to hang out with and play video games with, a girl to just fall asleep with in his arms. She might, in fact, be one of the primary reasons that his perversion went beyond just standard perversion. By making herself the object of his desire, she could shape his activity, shape the very desire itself. And she did- he needed a mother, and she gave him the idea of that and a lover in one, the shelter he needed through the girl he could fall asleep with. She made herself his goal, and dangled it, constantly. Every woman now compares to Makima, and now with every woman Denji must go through the same hoops.

One of those hoops being: "Do you really love me?" Not only if they truly love him, but if they love him. That they aren't still just there for chainsaw man. That they aren't still just there for his body, aren't there on some secret agenda, that they're there for him. And Asa? Denji enjoyed his time. And perhaps, Denji thought that Asa was there for him, even if she flip-flopped so hard. Even through her emotional issues and diabolical amounts of autism, she was fun to be around, and enjoyed the time she spent with him for him.

And here, stripped to his barest, literally slumped to the ground in an alleyway after being sexually taken advantage of more directly than any other time in his life, is the first girl who's really, truly, unabashedly brought enjoyment to his life in a way that Nayuta simply couldn't, there is- nothing. There is just the idea that, once again, Denji has been used and cast aside.

Satoru Gojo needs no introduction. The greatest sorcerer of the modern era. The first in centuries to be born with both the Six Eyes and the Limitless. The man so gay he honored his lover by destroying the broken system that broke him too, in the name of himself and all those he valued and truly cared for. Despite his confidence that often veered directly into narcissism on many an occasion, despite his issues stemming from being bred to be the ultimate living weapon, Gojo was, ultimately, a man who wanted to change society for the better. Even if, at times, that meant making himself so much worse. He would bear the cross to become the catalyst, his own blood and sweat, his very humanity, the fuel through which he would burn down the old world, and raise from the ashes a better Jujutsu society, a better Jujutsu world- a better world for sorcerers and non-sorcerers alike. 

Gojo was the mentor for numerous students, and if not directly teaching them, then an inspiration all the same- Maki, Panda, Megumi, Nobara, and several other students spanning years and schools alike. But no two more directly outline Gojo’s influence than the two true protagonists of Jujutsu Kaisen- Yuta Okkotsu, the Greatest Living Sorcerer of the Modern Era, and Yuji Itadori, Sukuna’s Vessel, The Tiger of West Junior High. LOL

Yuji and Yuta are Gojo’s truest disciples, following exactly after their teacher, and despite this, they are contrasting parallels to each other. Yuta, willing to throw away all of himself, just like his teacher, in order to do what must be done. Yuji, willing to go through anything in order to prevent himself and his allies, his friends, now his family, from compromising themselves any further in this perpetual war they exist to fight. And in this moment, it puts them at complete odds. 

Yuta is no stranger to complete desolation. In his very origin, he finds out he is responsible for his childhood love, Rika, becoming a cursed spirit. He is bullied in school, harassed and isolated in the world. And all of these people- cruel, sure, but random people all the same- are absolutely fucking obliterated. Destroyed. He is directly responsible for a notable amount of pain and sorrow in the world. And who is it who shows him kindness, and grace? Who is it that, in a series of his darkest moments, shines the light on the path he should take forward? Who is it that puts his own life on the line for Yuta to continue to even live in the first place? Satoru Gojo. 

And Yuta makes good on the opportunity. He follows in Gojo’s will, a will to change the world by any means necessary, for the good of all involved. Through his own immense power, despite the gap between them in strength, he closes the gap between himself and Gojo emotionally, more than perhaps any have known since Gojo’s love, Geto, was lost to him at the Breakup KFC.

Yuta continues on that path. When Yuji’s life is put up, Yuta takes the opportunity to deceive the Jujutsu elders and save him. When the Culling games begin, Yuta is the primary contestant for our heroes, the one who amasses points through the slaying of these decrepit revenants and modern-day deviants alike, the one who bites the bullet on the wholesale slaughter for them to achieve their plan and attempt to foil Kenjaku. And when the foiling of Kenjaku is indeed what is on the line, who else but Yuta to be the one to confront him, to attempt to mitigate casualties? And when Gojo dies, who else but Yuta to be the one to take control of the battlefield, now the strongest sorcerer alive on the side of our heroes. Domain Expansions, Cursed Techniques, sneak attacks by the Heavenly Restricted. Nothing comes to fruition.

And so, in a last-chance bout of desperation, Yuta decides to play his final ace. He uses that monster of a man, Kenjaku, as inspiration, and takes his cursed technique as his own. They are in a war of absolute horror, and are in need of any advantage he can get. The risk of death is high. The moral implications are… horrific on every end, to say the least. But who else but Yuta, with the power to perform the acts that can make the change he wants to see in the world, is not just willing, but able to do what needs to be done to stop the Rampaging Demon, Ryoumen Sukuna? 

Is Yuta Okkotsu willing to give up his humanity, and potentially his life, to save the world?

Is Yuta Okkotsu Gojo’s disciple because of the lengths he is willing to go to? Or is he willing to go to these lengths because he is Gojo’s disciple?

The answer is simple. Yuta has adopted Gojo’s willingness to play however he has to in order to do what he must, with none of the ego that prevented Gojo from playing his cards right in the moments where it truly cost him. He, as himself, Yuta Okkotsu, is of far less importance to the Jujutsu world, to his family at Jujutsu Tech and their sister school, than he is as the weapon through which Sukuna will meet his maker. And even if all he gets is 5 minutes. Even if all he is is a weapon. He will load himself, and aim himself- and if no one else is willing, he will pull his trigger on his own.

Yuji is cut from the exact same cloth, with the opposite texture.

Kindness. Humanity. Morality, willpower, whatever positive attributes you can give to a sorcerer are present in Yuji in spades. Arc after arc after arc, his humanity is tested and his morals are put in places they should never be, and yet his choice is clear- selflessness over all other things. And in a bit of a twist, that includes selfishness. 

From the beginning, Yuji’s mission has simply been to do good. His grandfather died, his last family, with his final words bearing a burden of destiny- Help people. Be kind. And Yuji took this to heart. On pain and threat of death with Junpei, he decides to attempt to talk him down and ask him to change his mind, to get help, to come with him. Rather than allow Sukuna to kill Megumi, a man who has been relatively cold to him at times and at more than one occasion has threatened to kill him should he get out of hand, Yuji rips his own heart out, almost assuredly taking his own life instead. He had been one of the only people truly torn about killing even Mahito’s poor victims of Idle Transfiguration, and even about the prospect of Cursed Spirits that showed more humanity in the first place.

Even now, his life at risk once again, more than ever before, his goal, his true priority, is to rescue Megumi before killing Sukuna. If the powercliff between Gojo and the rest of the main cast was not present, if there were truly a way he could have been an asset, Yuji would have been the first (next to Yuta) to step up and join his mentor for the Jumping of Sukuna. 

Besides his link with the Greatest Sorcerer in History, there’s another glaring reason why the JJK crew didn’t let Yuji in on their plan, maybe an even greater one: He would have, in no uncertain terms, absolutely NOT, under ANY circumstances, have let Yuta do this to himself. Yuji’s philosophy is simple. No More Martyrs. Suguru was enough. Gojo was enough. His grandfather was enough. Mai was enough, Mechamaru was enough, Yuki,. Tengen, Junpei, Masamichi, Nobara, Panda’s siblings, shit, Todo’s arm and Megumi’s sanity, if not totality- too much. Gojo, now. Too much. Sukuna killed his mentor, then Kashimo in quick succession, then Higuruma, then nearly killing Yuta, then nearly killing Maki, then nearly killing Kusakabe, and UI Ui, then burning his now only living relative, Choso. 

No. More. Martyrs.

Yuji possesses a rather overlooked aspect of Gojo’s personality- his kindness. His compassion. His desire to better the world, without everyone else having to suffer. And that is where the distinction lies.

Yuji holds in him the aspect of Gojo that wanted everyone to become stronger, to try to keep pace with him, to work in tandem to create a better world for sorcerers and regular people alike. And Yuta holds in him, well, from his own words, the Monster. The willingness of Gojo to lose himself in the abyss, to blink first, to dive headlong into his own darkness in order to breach and create a light for others to seek for guidance, even if he will never see that light in his life. They are both, in their own right, martyrs. Yuji gave up his own life to attempt to harbor Sukuna, to save as many people as possible. And here he is, fighting that very demon, the King of Curses, to rectify the wrong of merely allowing him to exist. And Yuta has now potentially given up everything. His life, literally his very identity in the potential last few minutes of his existence, depriving himself of his humanity to save the humanity of all those who are left around him, a shambling corpse piloting a shambling corpse.

Yuji is Gojo’s righteousness, and Yuta is Gojo’s darkness. But both of them are most assuredly his greatest disciples, and both of them, in their own right, are two of the greatest heroes the Jujutsu world has ever seen.

In the old West, the old South, death was plentiful as dust in the Mojave. But in Blood Meridian, it is the Chihuahua that takes precedent, and the Chihuahua desert alone whose arid soil bears the blood of everyone lost to the party that our nameless protagonist, “The Kid”, travels with in his journey to find something to make out of this miserable little thing we call a life. And the world views these lives as just as miserable. Blood Meridian is incredible at conveying the truths of the old world: this is a place filled with bloodshed, loss, and pain insurmountable, a concrete and unbreakable vow of promised misery placed on each and every occupant, and fulfilled like prophecy by not only the insanely inhospitable climates, but the even more deranged occupants who have nothing better to do than act as extended arms of the chaos and turmoil that the wilderness on its own is quite capable of supplying. But as frequently as Death occurs during The Evening Redness In The West, it is vapid and empty- every lost life is as meaningless as the things that life managed to perform in its short and destructive duties scalping or being scalped. Lives are viewed like livestock, merely performance numbers meant to measure how well or poorly the brigade is doing at any given moment. 

Death here comes and goes like the wind. It is never hung on, nor escalated in proportion. I would go so far as to say that death in the West is a statistic and nothing more, a life is a resource- every count after every skirmish the party is involved in lists off dead, then lists off injured, then lists off those injured enough to be left for dead, and then moves on. At most, we will get another paragraph detailing how their things were distributed and their horses used, and then the caravan continues on in their journey. And even those embellishments begin to fade off as we continue further into the story, into the journey. We spend two chapters with a young man who rides with The Kid, only for him to be shot and killed at the doors of a saloon and bleed out in a few sentences. The beginning of the next chapter has completely moved on from the morbidity, and instead shifts focus to the handling of his equipment. 

This is how life is treated by everyone, by the world, by the author. At least, with the exception of two people in private- The Kid, and Judge Holden. Now, keep in mind, I have not finished the book, but I am in the process of doing so day by day. That being said, I just came off of reading a series of passages that portray death so markedly different from what came before them that I felt the need to say… something, at least, about it.

Holden is very clearly a man far removed from whatever things go on in the world, so distinctly human that he seems insidiously inhuman, a living thing surely, but more closely aligned to a creature, some sort of beast from the depths of the world’s underbelly that wears the skin of a man and nothing more. His goals are distinct and independent from the rabble around him, attempting to understand everything about everything he can see, hear, learn of, or even merely acknowledge. He would so much as pluck the very moon out the sky if it meant he could learn what the dark side looked like and mark it in his journal. He is prolific in his notation and profound in even his most casual speech, wise beyond mortality and willing to gamble with his life as much as any other’s like another casual chip to throw in the pot. But he is vindictive, vile as he is educated, his talking points and sagacious musings a veneer for his sadistic tendencies. 

In the heart of Jesus Maria, the Mexican town they reside in after another successful bout of scalping and selling, a young boy approaches Holden and attempts to sell him goods- again, the lives of two young and eager dogs would be more than just goods in any context excepting the depravity of the exact context in which they reside- and Holden is nothing more than amused. He offers the boy far more than the worth of “a bushel of suchpriced dogs” as the boy takes it and offers them to him. The glistening of the gold is infatuating, and deflects any attention away from the Judge walking to the river nearby and pitching them into the frothy mess below until the splash, followed by their cries, stirs the boy from his blood-soaked riches. Holden’s demeanor remained unchanged by the thrashing desperation of the dogs, pleading in the waters as they were dragged along by the current. Eventually, after a signal from the Judge, Vandiemanlander puts one in each of their skulls, the water now running a soft, diluted pink as their carcasses aimlessly drift along its pull. The Judge continues to walk on, and Vandiemanlander finishes pissing in the river as he was doing before.

What is different about this to me is not its brevity- it is its tone. This section lasts only a few short paragraphs, no more than most of the other segments of discussion leading to death- after all, the Jacksons were consistently at each other’s throats, and even then, their actual arguing lasted only a page or so until Black Jackson put it straight through White Jackson. What’s different here is that this is even more callous and sadistic than the activity they have engaged in before. Even in the dragging of old women out of their homes, the scalping of young boys, of anything, there has never been activity like this by anyone but Holden himself. To all the others, this murdering and pillaging is still just… work. Even if they are “superior” to the "disgusting Injuns" they hunt and slaughter and are hunted by and slaughtered by like warring herds of cattle, they still treat it at best like a job worth the gold. 

But for Holden? This is tantamount to some type of holy war. But not as though the Indians are depraved. It is a war against sense, against the most modest of even utilitarian good or generosity. Against humanity, almost. Doing this to the dogs is a swansong to the magnum opus of his wanton cruelty, the murder of the innocent young Apache boy. The Judge, after leading the men in the slaughtering of entire villages, warriors and civilians alike, takes to a young boy they find in the wreckage. The gang feeds him, plays with him, grants him -and themselves by association- a small reprieve from the brutality of their perverted crusade. Holden takes note of this and, when the men take a pause in their relaxation, takes the boy to play with him himself. He bounces the boy on his knee, plays with him, and after a moment, scalps the boy and kills him, leaving his body on the wayside while he sits. Everyone is perturbed to some degree, most of all Toadvine, who pulls out his gun, pointing it directly at Holden’s head. Holden looks at Toadvine, unflinching, and tells him: Shoot me dead now, or put that gun away. Toadvine holds for a moment, before the realization of their predicament hits him, and he re-holsters and bites his tongue.

The Judge revels in the vileness that the warfare and chaos he perpetuates provides. He thrives off of it, feeds off of it. It fuels him, and in turn he fuels it through his ridiculously sadistic behavior. He flips the narrative’s lack of hanging on a moment on its head. When every scene rushes by, every moment Holden acts hangs a moment too long- for every decision they make, cut-and-dry, the action taken one moment and the reaction occurring the next, Holden violates the theme and moves just as swiftly, but things hang not on his actions, but on the reactions. Holden’s behavior has more gravitas behind it than any else in the world, and despite his larger-than-life persona AND literal personhood, there is a magnifying glass that highlights his behavior more than anyone else’s.

Anyone else’s, of course, except for The Kid.

If Holden is a magnification of the violence of the world that they reside in, The Kid in isolation is a blow-up of the context of the world around it, and the gaps between that violence, even more so than The Judge. Whenever The Kid is part of the gang, operates in the crowd, he is effectively nothing more than a passive observer and participant in the senseless violence and barbarism they all engage in. But in those moments where The Kid is alone, or even in a group smaller than the whole, he almost regains his personhood, and independent will. He does not engage in the same savagery as his peers unless goaded into it. 

There are two particular events that cement this point for me. The first is when The Kid helped David Brown by removing an arrow from his leg. In the very same Chapter where the Judge commits his (so far) ultimate act of malice in the scalping of the baby, it starts with The Kid committing an act of selflessness beyond any the rest of the gang was willing to commit, independent of all of them, since they all actively refused to do the same before him. He alone took the supposed risk of assisting his fellow man, having the arrow pierce all the way through his leg, cutting the barbed head off. He gets back into his bed and is immediately lambasted by the expriest in the gang, told that God will not love him forever, that he would sooner have lost his life than successfully remove the arrow and that his luck will, inevitably, run thin. This frowned-upon act of independent good is hammered in with emphasis, both within the narrative through its highlighting and the controversy around it, and even meta-textually. There is a mid-chapter partition immediately after the boy has the priest hissing like the serpent down his ear, raving about how he would be hung out to dry for trying to do good.

The second is the passage that I just read, the one that inspired me to write this. In the very second paragraph of Chapter XV, the chapter that contains the passage I’m referring to, there is a sentence detailing how, while fighting a cavalry, three of Glanton’s men die, seven are injured, and of those seven, four were no longer fit to ride. Immediately, after all this death, things move on. And yet, just a bit later, here we are with The Kid accompanying several of the injured. The injured who is still the most capable, Shelby, a young man who had even been going to college before coming out here through the allure of a future for himself and a woman, had his hip shattered by a round. He could scarcely move, couldn’t even crawl on his own. The Kid offers to help him. Shelby’s response is swift and coarse. “If I had a gun I’d shoot you.”

And yet, they still go back and forth, and after a time, Shelby concedes to assistance, only to attempt to take the gun out The Kid’s waistband. He returns to his horse, puts the weapon away, and still decides to return and continue to talk with Shelby. Only after Shelby finally consigns himself to his fate, staring straight up at the sky after being warned of the approach of hostiles, does The Kid finally take his leave.

The Kid is practical, but generous all the same. There is no excessiveness to his actions- at least, not anymore. He does not overstep his welcome, but tries to help to the extent that he is allotted all the same. He is, in this way, the complete opposite of Holden, a man who gives nothing but strife, who takes all that he can force to take, and allots only that which he can abide to lose. They share only in their inversion, and act only in synchronized opposition- Holden and The Kid both are truly themselves when left completely to their own devices, and oppose each other completely in both action and inaction. I know there is so much more for me to discover as I continue to read, but I just wanted to share a quick observation I had made that I thought was interesting.

Berserk’s beginnings make me sad. From the very start, the series was incredible. Great art, a rich world, complex and interesting characters, terrific explorations of motivations and philosophies and relationships and everything you can think of. Even including, despite all the airs around the manga, the intricacies of sexual assault and abuse!

At least, against men.

Casca, Griffith, and Guts all have their lives irrevocably warped by both the threat and pursuance of sexual assault against them in the Golden Age. It goes on to define their various pathologies, influencing how they interact with the world around them. And this is handled with incredible nuance and care, up to and including events like Donovan’s assault on Guts, Griffith selling himself to the Governor, and Casca being sold off by her family to the noble in her town. These events are all pivotal to the development of the characters into those we know and love. But unfortunately, at least in the beginning, this is where the praise ceases. Allow me to expound:

Guts’ entire life, from his literal conception, is drenched in vulgarity and gore. Born and baptized in blood from his mother’s hanging corpse, and rescued by a band of lunatic roaming mercenaries, Guts is far from a stranger to the horrors of the world. Forced to carry a sword for his survival, trained under an uncaring brutal mercenary who gave flashes of approval to a boy desperate to please, who was only truly “fair” to him when paying him for his work of slicing down men twice, thrice or more his age in combat to the death, Guts’ perspective would be warped further still. 

And yet, no matter how warped his perspective could have been, it was not warped enough to handle what fate still had in store. One night, Guts is set upon in his tent, and viciously raped by a member of his own crew. A demon of a man named Donovan violates Guts’ autonomy to the highest order, proclaiming that this was allowed, as Guts’ very independence had been sold out by Gambino, the distorted version of what some would call the only thing resembling a father figure Guts had ever had. 

And this affected Guts in a way that became prominent through the story. He becomes incredibly reclusive and aggressive. Even the lightest of contact from even his hirers, offering extensive gold in exchange for his service on the battlefield, flashes him back to that time and place. Even the lightest allusion to operating under anything other than his own will (or, to some degree, blind allegiance to Gambino) is heresy, and a violation of his autonomy on par with spitting on his face and telling him to wipe it down. This is especially seen in his first interaction with Griffith, where he flat-out asks him upon hearing him speak: 

“Are you a homo?”

And even though he definitely is, it’s almost irrelevant to how Griffith is talking about him. Griffith objectifies Guts here, places him as an item of desire, to own, to wield, and to do as one wishes with. And Guts objects to that to his very core. There is no part of him that does not scream and rail against the very notion.

And in the beginning of his tenure with the Hawks, Pippin of all people is the salt that pours over Guts’ old wounds. While played somewhat casually, Guts still freaks out at Pippin’s casual disregard for his personhood. Whether or not that is Pippin’s goal is meaningless in the face of what it actually does to Guts and how it makes him feel.

Even later on, when Guts has his sexual encounter with Casca, the physicality of the intimacy they partake in flashes him back to that moment with Donovan. It takes him and Casca time to process everything that’s happened to him, for him to finally vent and take at least some of that pain off of himself alone, that allows him and her to finally love each other.

Griffith is not too far from this. Although this life was forced upon Guts, it feels only partially thrust upon Griffith by himself. From the very beginning, his sexuality was paramount to his mission. The fawning of common citizens and women and men and nobility all alike over his body, over his presence, was something he decided he had to exploit in order to do what he thought must be done for him to gain what he knew would one day be his. From his interactions with the Governor, to how he almost leads on Casca, to the entirety of his relationship and the strange power dynamics at play every time he and Guts are alone in a space spilling their guts to each other, everything Griffith plays at is tinged with a man who has, since a boy, been tainted with a nearly-religious worship by zealots of various degrees, including some who have no qualms over tainting the statue they kneel at and pronouncing it to the world as worship. This puts him at odds with Guts from the very beginning, the man he loves, violating his self-sanctity, as this is the way Griffith knows to attain what he desires. 

This plays out further with how he… interacts… with Charlotte after Guts leaves him, and how he treats Casca, uses Casca, throws her back in Guts’ face to get at him. Ownership, dominance, and usage are what Griffith knows. And he knows how Guts feels about Casca. So he tries to, from his perspective, ruin her. The same way Guts was ruined. Honestly, it’s incredible, and would be a great way to handle it- if it didn’t completely strip Casca of her character for the next 300 chapters.

Casca was affected by all these things too. Same as Guts, sold off, but by her actual family. Almost immediately, assaulted by the stranger who now owned her life. Then, a murderer. Then, over the course of the rest of her life, despite becoming one of the most prodigious warriors the very world had ever seen, she was often reduced to the butt of the joke- always laughed and jeered at, not taken seriously by Guts or unfavorably by Griffith. Always caught off guard, always caught weak, or tired, or on her period, always taken advantage of, always on the ground, threatened to be molested, stripped bare for the usage of whatever the army they’re fighting at the time is. Always having her sexuality used as a catalyst for other characters, always used as a damsel to allow another to save the day- her body is a resource pulled at by Miura to cash in on more grandiose moments for the narrative. 

Even in the road to the eclipse, there are at least two separate occasions where Casca is sexually taken advantage of, with soldiers slowly stripping her armor when Guts steps in and earns his title as the hundred-man slayer, and then the Apostle Wyald, leader of the Black Dog Knights, completely strips her bare and literally molests her, only not managing to penetrate because he is murdered by Guts in a stupendous rage.

And then the eclipse happens. There are so many things I can say about what occurred on the Eclipse, but ultimately, it is Casca’s humanity that makes the Eclipse so tragic. Scorned by her infatuation, unable to be saved by her lover, she is finally destroyed the way both of those mentioned prior have been. But this time, there is no growth from this. There is no development. There is no greater story to be told from this for Casca. As incredible as this moment and the development from it are for Guts, there is nothing gained from this for Casca. Her entire arc has simply been to be… what, torn apart for the sake of the boys around her masquerading as conquerors? To be used and abused, ultimately fridged for literal decades, kept around as important but unable to be anything more than arm candy? What happened to Casca is a tragedy, and is great writing as well in full admittance- but with two entire chapters devoted to her violation, a view of her complete degradation from the male gaze, and her complete loss of ability after the fact, it makes me view how she was treated before that with some amount of… anger? Frustration? 

Something. It makes some amount of sense, of course- but if this was her penultimate conclusion, at least for as long as she has remained in this state, I would have appreciated if the other attempts at violating her were treated with the sanctity of Griffith’s and Guts’ encounters, if not even the attempt made at her in her past. You can only have a female character as incredibly skilled & competent as Casca trip herself into a terrible situation and threaten to be raped by the big strong men around her so many times before the singular self-save against the leader of the Blue Whale Ultra Heavy Armored Fierce Assault Annihilation Knight Corp, General Adon Coborlwitz, loses a bit of its luster, no matter how many different variations of the reason you can find.

Ultimately, I’m glad that Miura has other very well written women in the series- after all, even Charlotte is given time to shine, shown as able to play her role and shoot for lofty goals even under the crushing weight of Griffith’s ambition later, and both Schierke and Farnese have great arcs. I just… I’m just glad Miura rectified this later on, all in all.

Put it to bed, that shit was indeed racist. No mincing words, no covering, nothing. Gojo's statement about Miguel was bred from ignorance and nothing more. And to be honest, I'm okay with that.

Been a lot of discourse about whether or not Gojo himself is a racist over the discussion he had with Miguel over both his physiology and his cursed technique. Specifically, Gojo and Miguel are having a discussion, and Miguel expresses surprise at Gojo being able to just know his CT. Gojo says he can tell just by looking, but that the real frightening thing about Miguel is his build. He then begins to talk about African sorcerers.

"99% of all sorcerers are Japanese. Add a cursed energy buff to these guys' physiques and muscle mass, which are crazy rare in Japan, and the result is pretty amazing."

Miguel sees the pretty over, if incidental, racism sown through the statement, being very quick to point out that him being African is not what makes him special, but being himself. Gojo quickly apologizes.

But the point still stands. Gojo makes a broad blanket statement about an entire racial demographic of people, and uses it to attempt to explain one of those people's greatness. This is undercutting the work Miguel as an individual, not just as a black man, and not just as a sorcerer, has had to put in to get where he now is. And this is especially cutting coming from Gojo, who is clearly established as, at least in motive, one of the more progressive members of the modern Jujutsu society.

But are we actually crying foul over whether or not Gege's anti-Gojo propaganda is at work here? To me, this seems like a pretty clear take on how racism permeates. Gojo is not racist, in that he does not look down upon any races. But he is perpetuating a clearly prejudiced idea, born from a long history of eugenicist, biological-determinism-rooted thinking. And is this really a surprise?

Gojo wants massive, fundamental reform for the world of Jujutsu. He has gone out of his way on several occasions to intervene in the going-ons of the fucked up system he takes part in. Yuta and Yuji's executions, Megumi's sale, and has on more than one occasion threatened to simply massacre the elders of the different clans and the various schools if he thought that it would be the easiest way for him to fix the problems he sees in that system.

But at the same time, Gojo is also quite literally the living result of the Jujutsu world's most powerful clan engaging in a centuries-long eugenics project themselves. He was not sent to real schools to gain an actual education, instead raised by the very people who selectively bred for dozens of generations to engineer the genetically perfect offspring, amongst other, equally stringent clans, all of whom engage in the exact same behavior. And all of this is all the more true when you remember that apparently, 80% of Jujutsu is already hard-coded into the body at one's very birth, neurologically and physiologically hard-wired from one's very conception. and Gojo, since his birth was told that he was the best among the best in a world literally bred for this kind of competition.

All of this, of course, happening in the country of Japan, very well known for its incredibly conservative, xenophobic views on race and outsiders in general. This entire thing just kind of reads as that guy you know who's pretty progressive but both of his parents are conservative so every once and a while he says something that's not reminds you his parents own a confederate shot glass you saw in the back of their cupboard.

These kinds of ideas are pervasive and seeping. They work their way into the bases of ideology, warping the very way one views the world and how they express that. Gojo is the literal poster child for everything wrong with the Jujutsu world, and actively fights against what it stands for. And yet, it is still the world that dictated how he grew up, how he was educated, how every part of him was developed until he developed the ability to do these things on his own. And even then, the developments that really cemented his disillusionment with the Jujutsu society were never anything that challenged his beliefs in the weird parasitic eugenics projects they engaged in, but the system itself. Doing the mental work to completely strip every part of that system, which you still actively engage in every day as a mentor figure, is not easy, and not something Gojo seemingly engaged in.

So TLDR, Gojo is not a "bigot". But his worldview is tainted by the very world which victimized him, and his perspective is warped by those who literally shaped the lenses through which he sees. No clarity from the Six Eyes is enough to ease the difficulty of introspection, I guess.

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.

Today, 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 not 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 itself. 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, we will be discussing 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 6: The Wings of the Hawk (2)

Love. Hatred. Love and hatred and a burning, smothering, suffocating desire. Those are the things that define how Griffith felt about Guts. There is no other way to put it. There is some amount of discourse around whether or not Griffith’s attachment to Guts is platonic, romantic, sexual, or whatever- I am here to tell you that it does not matter. (but to be clear, it is at least a little gay. Sexuality and attraction are a spectrum, and something can be homoerotic without necessarily being homosexual. But the undertones and subtext in much of Griffith’s interactions and feelings towards Guts is there. It’s pretty clear.) Griffith’s emotions are so garbled, his feelings, how he perceives the dynamics of lust, love, affection, appreciation, power, and control are so tangled up and destroyed by even the time he meets Guts, that every single interaction involving any of those feelings has to involve all of them. They are so inextricably connected through trauma and his history that their influences on each other must be taken into account. 

Like at their very first meeting. While Griffith had spotted Guts when he fought against Bazuso, noticing the insane, borderline-suicidal tactic that Guts had used to best him, their first real exchange is after Guts killed some of his men, and was about to slaughter Casca and Corkus. Griffith bears no ill will towards him, merely asking, “Would you lower your sword?” When he sees Guts’ reaction, he reluctantly continues, “I guess not…” before parrying his swing and relatively gently disarming him with a strike to the armpit. A few days later, after Griffith ordered Casca to assist him in staying warm, as was, supposedly, her duty, his first words to him are to compliment his strength and swordsmanship, admitting he could never wield the way Guts does. Later on, in the same conversation, Griffith puts all his chips out at once with a single statement, point blank: “Because I realized I want you, Guts.” Guts rebukes this because of his own personal issues, and Griffith’s response is casual, asking what Guts will do, and admitting that he does not dislike violence as an answer when that response is violence. It’s all laid out here. “I must obtain the things I desire.” Whatever Griffith thinks this means, however he intended it, it’s perhaps the most honest summarization of himself in the series. 

And then, they fight. And all this does is improve Guts’ status as an object of Griffith’s desire. He is unwavering, willing to put life and limb on the line with every swing. He has incredible spur-of-the-moment plans that work in his favor, incredibly absurd strategies that somehow sway the tide to play to his strengths. He even manages, if only for a moment, to flip the script on Griffith, getting some very solid hits in before Griffith ultimately incapacitates him. And from here; Griffith is certain. Guts is his, and Guts will be his, and Guts will be the best thing he has ever had. Despite Guts’ issues with Griffith at this point, Griffith immediately begins entrusting him with very important, vital parts of the Hawks’ survival. The next mission, he is assigned to head their rear guard, making sure the Hawks are not overrun by enemy soldiers as they flee from the raid they are to perform. Most people think Griffith did this on purpose, as Guts would either run away or get slaughtered. But a few understand what this assignment really means- Griffith trusts Guts 100%, already. Later in that mission, Griffith even returns to save Guts after he put his life on the line to save more men. They play together, and Griffith strikes a chord deep in Guts as he proclaims he will one day have his own kingdom, sparking something that will lay dormant for years, but eventually fire back at him. And he puts more faith in Guts all the same, entrusting him with 10 men after his first mission, the number only increasing as Guts proves more and more why Griffith’s faith is not misplaced. 

They play off of each other very well. Guts is reckless, but fierce, and loyal. His skill with a sword is matched only by his willingness, an almost insatiable itch, to swing. And Griffith is just as skilled, just as fierce, but his strength lies not in his strength, but in his ability to plan, to account for Guts’ ferocity as part of his overarching goals. And together, they ascend through Midland’s army, Griffith becoming nobility as they begin to turn the tide against Chuder. The relationship reaches its ultimate test when Griffith puts his life on the line to assist Guts against the legendary battlefield hurricane, Nosferatu Zodd, the immortal mercenary who’s torn war fields to shreds for over a century. Risking and losing soldiers by the dozen, his own life hanging by a thread after the fact, forcing Casca to take the others and retreat, Griffith cements here the idea that Guts alone is worth the risk, and potential forfeiture, of his own life. But Griffith counts on their combined will to see them through the day, the combination of their strength, endurance, and the combined fate they both share. And as the Crimson Behelit drives the creature with the inhuman name Nosferatu Zodd off the battlefield, it only ascertains to Griffith that he and Guts stand above in terms of what they are capable of, and what they are fated for. Only the two of them could have possibly survived long enough for the Behelit to come into play as a deciding factor for their lives in the first place.

And this is Casca’s issue when she argues with Guts, asking what exactly it is that Griffith sees in him. Of course, she recognizes that this only happened to Griffith because of Guts. But what she fails to accept in the moment, and what even the two themselves don’t quite know or understand, is that this would not have happened to Griffith if it was anyone but Guts. When the rumor of Zodd’s appearance is shared, it is no one but Guts who is Griffith’s primary concern. Not all the men in the castle. Not all his warriors on the field. Not the others he has deemed as captains around him, who would have to fight the beast should Guts fail- it is Guts alone which occupies Griffith’s mind.

And after Griffith heals from his injuries enough to walk, what does he do? He goes straight to Guts, who is training despite clearly still being injured. And he does something he has never found reason to do- he justifies his behavior, and explains why he is doing what he is doing. If Guts does what he must on the battlefield, Griffith does whatever he must to gain favor, approval, and less prestigious advantages, but advantages nonetheless, as the face of the Hawks. He must navigate the battles of political intrigue, the shifting tides and domineering armies of the royal court, the same way Guts must lead the raiders to a battlefield where blood is spilled instead of secrets and gold.

And once again, Griffith is frighteningly transparent to Guts here. And once again, Guts does not understand. 

Why, he asks, does Griffith continue to stake his life over one, single, lone soldier, out of his army? 

And Griffith’s answer is clear:

“Tell me…

Do I need a reason each time I put myself in harm’s way for your sake?”

It could not get any more obvious than this. Griffith is a man of a million reasons, a man who juggles complex logistics the same way we might a pair of fruits. And yet, here he is, admitting that despite the facade of logic, and cold, calculated reason that he shows, there are things he values beyond that. Rather, his language makes it clear. A single thing. One thing, beyond all others, that he is willing to put himself at death’s door for. Guts. And still, Guts does not understand the weight behind the words. And, in his fairness, Griffith is a man of shocking truths behind muffled and insulated airs. He hides each dagger behind a smile, and each motive behind further motives still. And yet, this here is the unadulterated truth. Guts is as valuable to him as his own life.

And this continues for a long time. Guts is told Griffith’s plans, his information, things that he has shared with no other soul, given glimpses into plans years in the making, even let in on and participating in Griffith’s plans to assassinate many of the nobles and royalty that stand in, not his, but their way to prominence. And during these missions, Guts makes decisions that he regrets, that cause him to spiral, that cause him to question his allegiances and his devotion to Griffith’s dream. And one day, he hears Griffith wooing Charlotte, and Griffith says something to her.

“What I think a friend is, is one who is my equal.”

This something is what finally widens the schism in Guts’ heart. He feels as though he is not Griffith’s equal, that he has no greater aspiration for himself, that he currently just is not worth being Griffith’s friend. But what Guts does not understand here is that Griffith is blustering. Guts is already the closest thing Griffith could ever consider an equal. Guts is already the thing Griffith can consider closest to a friend, a soulmate, a partner, a lover, whatever you can call what Griffith would truly regard as an equal. Whatever Griffith says here about his stance, there is nothing that Guts can say or do that can advance himself any further in Griffith’s mind. 

And this is proven on the fated day. The day that Guts finally decides to challenge Griffith once again. To Guts, this is the first step in a long journey, a journey to prove not only to Griffith, but to himself, that he is worthy of being held in the same regard as the lofty ambitions that occupy the primary space in Griffith’s heart. But to Griffith, this is nowhere near the same. This is not Guts attempting to prove his kinship- far from it. This is treason. This is near-blasphemous. This is the ultimate betrayal. He is attempting to remove himself from not just the Hawks, but from Griffith. Guts is rebuking everything that Griffith has extended towards him, and in turn, Griffith himself. Griffith’s poisoned understanding of relationships makes this as seething and burning as it is heart-wrenching for Guts. For Guts to denounce Griffith’s only true feelings amongst a sea of affectations that Guts alone should be able to see through? Why, this is the same as spitting in his face and asking to be apologized to. And as Griffith once said, he is not a man who dislikes violence as a solution. So, the two stand off. And in a non-verbal exchange between all the characters present, something is made absolutely clear once again: This is, far and away, the most devastating misunderstanding that could have possibly occurred here. But the fault does not fall solely on either of them individually.

Guts has, at this point in time, made his goals in leaving very clear. Very clear, that is, to everyone except the White Phoenix General himself. The man before him, Griffith, has no understanding of the true motivation Guts has besides the fact that Guts indeed wants to leave. And that is the only information Guts gives him. And on Griffith’s end, he can see no other reason that Guts wants to leave, other than to simply be rid of him. While they are stanced, readying themselves to engage, Guts is thinking about how, at the very least, Griffith being willing to fight him means he is still willing to spill blood over Guts, including his, and including his own. Griffith, on the other hand, is having a meltdown. His focus wavers. He spirals out, thinking to himself: 

“Do you want to go? 

Is this how badly you want to leave my grasp? 

You can’t. You can’t! I won’t have it!

 I won’t let you!” 

As he thinks on how to defeat Guts, he falls on a single option that might potentially end his life here. But in this manic state, the first time witnesses besides Casca acknowledge that Griffith’s usual poise is completely deserted, he acknowledges this and continues on: 

“Even then… if I can’t have him, I don’t care!” 

But, he does. Oh, so obviously, so clearly, he does. And when Guts beats him, calmly, without harming him at all, Griffith collapses, dropping his rapier. He is completely, utterly broken with this single swipe. Guts simply tells him, “Take care.” And he leaves the Hawks. And he leaves Griffith, alone. Sure, the other commanders, the other relevant members of the army are there by his side. But what does that matter? Griffith has finally been bested. Not just bested, humiliated. It has been asserted in no uncertain terms that he does not have the sway he thinks he does. And that, in his eyes, his camaraderie, his trust, his faith, his love, is not worth holding on to.

So he goes off. That same night, he gallavants with Charlotte, taking her virginity, and during the whole act, despite him almost claiming Charlotte, assuage her fears and pleasuring her, it is Guts who dominates his mind. It is Guts he sees as Charlotte orgasms, and it is Guts’ voice he hears as she cries out. All he can envision as he asserts himself onto this girl, who is in completely and utterly helpless love with him, is the only man he truly cared for, giving him one final good-bye. Charlotte does not notice his thousand-yard stare, his vacant eyes. But we do. And we see that it is Guts that rules his decision-making. Even after they make love, all he can do is caress the mark on his shoulder that was left from Guts’ blade, and cry in Charlotte’s bed. Griffith is arrested for this act of high treason, and sent to rot with the torturer in the deepest dungeon in Midland. And with all of this happening, throughout the entire year of his torture, slowly being driven mad, trapped in the darkness with only his thoughts and the torchlight of the thing hired to bring him naught but suffering, chained and strung up, he has no words besides the last he had uttered. 

“...Yes. Worthless. This is worthless.”

And in that infinite darkness, when time flows as it stagnates, when brightness flashes dull, there was a single thing, not keeping him sane, as his sanity was up for question long ago, but keeping his consciousness anchored to this mortal coil- Guts. every time he envisioned his face, every feeling he could still feel stirred within him.

“Malice, Friendship, Jealousy, Futility, Regret, Tenderness, Sorrow, Pain, Hunger… So many recurring, yearning feelings. That giant swirl of violent emotions in which none are definite but all are implied.” 

Griffith even finally acknowledges that, at the end of this raving speech in a madman’s perpetual dying gasp, perhaps… perhaps his goal was no longer the castle on high. Why, he asked, in this vision in his light, did the castle’s glow reduce to a pale shimmer compared to the sight of his face, the sound of his voice, the mere idea of his presence? Since when did Guts get the grip over him that he had so firmly, so soundly, over Guts instead? 

Since when did Guts become Griffith’s dream?

And who else could lead the charge to save him from this endless nightmare, but his waking dream himself? When Griffith’s eyes open, and there is not pure darkness, there is Guts. After a long, brutal year, the first thing he sees is none other than Guts. And his first instinct after all this time, after all the suffering, and prolonging in turn, Guts has caused him, Griffith seeks to choke him. And what does Guts do, after seeing the man to whom he aspired, crippled and weakened to the desperate state he was in? He cries. He cries over Griffith, who softens his grip, and instead grabs his hand.

After their escape, where each of the commanders of the Hawks puts their lives on the line to save Griffith, killing the Bakiraka and the Black Dog Knights, finally, Grifith is returned to the light in peace. But through it all, Griffith realized his body was in tatters. He had no strength left to hold a sword. He could barely mouth words, and speaking was out of the question through the loss of his tongue. And through it all, he saw Guts perform. He was a demon in battle, his strength incalculable. He tore through man and Apostle alike. His every word carried the gravitas of a leader for decades. He did not carry the same incredible airs as Griffith, but every word carried with it a domineering force. The men respected him, and they would follow him to the ends of the earth. With or without Griffith to lead. In fact, they insisted. And Griffith had even overheard the very moment that Guts truly had stolen away Casca- evidence abound both before and after she vented about how pitiable his fragile form had become, and how much time would be needed to gently nurse him back to health. If he could even return to a state where he could live on his own again, of course. And only after the horrific embarrassment, the final stripping away of Griffith’s mystique, his humanity, at the hands of Wyld, the leader of the Black Dogs. 

And somehow, motivated by a hallucination, or perhaps a waking dream, Griffith manages to take off with a carriage, before being vaulted into the air, and landing in the lake. The lake where he attempts to take his own life. The lake where the Behelit lies. The lake where, after all this time, the Eclipse occurs. 

And we know what happens in the Eclipse. We are well aware. And we know what happens with Casca, and Griffith, and Guts. And during this transformation, where Griffith supposedly reaches this ascended, emotionless form, he does but one thing. He still, after all of this, wishes to put Guts through the same torture, same repulsive emotions that he went through in that dungeon. By taking away from him the one he loves. By stripping him of his aspirations. After all, the only thing that can equal the loss of a dream, is the stripping of a dream in turn. But through this act, he shall never have the one thing he had wished for. He is the Blessed King of Longing, and forever shall he desire. 

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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.

Today, 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 not 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 itself. 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, we will be discussing 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 5: The Wings of the Hawk (1)

Casca is many things. She is the most skilled woman to ever pick up a blade. She is the third-best swordsman in the Hawks, behind only Griffith and the Raider Captain. She is a great strategist, a good face, the former right hand of history’s greatest leader. But most importantly to Griffith, she is affirmation. Not that what he is doing is correct. Not that what he is doing is the good thing, or the bad thing, or anything at all. She is the first, and greatest affirmation he gets into his worldview. To Griffith, Casca is an object. Not an object of desire, an object to use. She is, more specifically, a tool. A tool not only through which Griffith wields his strength, an extension of himself in a way, but also a tool for him to manipulate and utilize to his wishes and whims. She was his to use, abuse, to break. And he did.

But it was not always like this. Before Guts joined the Raiders, before Charlotte was thrust into Griffith’s arms, before a young boy would change the trajectory of the man destined to be king, there was a young girl. She belonged to a village which had unfortunately been caught on the front of the war. Resources were scarce, and safety scarcer- between evacuations and skirmishes, there was barely enough food to survive every single day. And then, a miracle for Casca’s family struck- a rich noble rode through their town, for some reason or another, and offered to buy her as a castle maid. The gold was nearly necessary for the rest of her family to make it through, and one less mouth to feed would mean that they could stretch it further than they could if they had her in the first place. And she would not go hungry, nor have to work as she did, nor lack any amount of resources this nobleman would have to offer. And despite this, her father did something she considered odd, if only for a bit- he hesitated. But eventually, he caved. And off she was sent.

Of course, this would be proven too good to be true- how could it not be? Nearly instantly on the cart, after a bit of observation, the man attacked her. How could she be so ignorant, she thought to herself, as they both tumbled out of the wagon. He landed on her, stripping her chest bare. There was nothing she could do, her arms pinned to the ground. And then, his left ear was gone.

“Does being born of the nobility mean that you’re chosen by God?”

The words rang through Casca. An angel, sent by God from Heaven, had descended to be her savior. But this angel would not be her savior, so much as her herald. A herald of the life she had to come. He threw his sword down, offering her a choice. Was she willing to fight for the life she wanted to live? Or was she merely going to take the life that was to come? Did she have something she was willing to fight for? To die for? To kill for?

“If you have something to protect… take up that sword.”

And this herald watched. Watched as the two scuffled, for a moment, the noble lunging for the sword, Casca grabbing it, pulling it out the ground. And a moment later, the noble was impaled on its blade, collapsed on the ground next to the poor girl as she began to weep. And the herald said no words. He merely rested a comforting hand on her shaky grip, and she smiled. Her fear did not abandon her. But her guilt, her regret, melted away. This was the hand of the angel she thought had been sent. She was scared as he began to ready to ride away. What should she do, she asked?

“Do as you wish.”

This was her providence, and to follow him was her destiny. She decided, then and there, that she would follow this angel, and be his right hand, his flaming sword against all he dictated. 

And in this moment, Griffith’s perspective showed. He gave the girl a warning. “You might die, you know.” And she knew. And she followed him regardless.

Later, tragedy strikes. A young boy dies under Griffith’s command. A boy even younger than him, even younger than Casca. A boy that shatters Griffith’s worldview. In the beginning, he was colder, more calloused. His attitude to people joining, even children, was simple: “Do as you wish.” It was other people’s dreams to follow his. But the death of this young boy stirred something in Griffith, something that had not been stirred until this point; was it fair of him to hoist his dream onto others, and to expect them to risk life and limb for his own sake? Was it fair of him to jeopardize their lives for him to continue to pursue his goals? And furthermore, could he stomach sending children, over and over, to die in battle at his behest? Time and again, until he achieved his dream that, at the moment, was a far-flung passion?

He could not. And so, he allowed himself to be violated, putting himself on a cross to bear the weight of all his follower’s lives, their passion, the fires of their own desires and dreams, so that there was even a sliver of a higher chance of them being allowed to live to see them come to fruition. But allowing yourself to be sexually used by a disgusting creep simply to be able to afford to live another day is a mentally taxing process. And this took its toll on Griffith. He broke down one day, Casca as his only witness. 

“Am I…

Dirty?”

Casca could not bring herself to say no. Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, she instead asks why the two of them were alone that night. She tries to reason herself out of her suspicion. A war council, she presumes, was the reason why they were together. But no, Griffith says, she’s right. It was exactly as she saw. It was exactly as she assumed in the first place. Griffith claims he used the man for his exorbitant wealth and sordid tastes. Griffith claims that amassing the strength of the Hawks through combat is too timely, requires too much risk. Griffith lets slip that it is too dangerous, and that he cannot afford the lives of the men who follow him. And he claims it all is through sound, cold logic. 

But Casca does not see in front of her a cold, logical machine. She sees a masterful tactician, an incredible warrior, her herald, her angel. Cold. Soaking. Alone. Literally tearing himself apart. Viscerally reminding himself through the rending of his own flesh, the spilling of his own blood, that he is of no greater worth than the men he sacrifices, and that he must do everything in his power to attain his dream, for the sake of the thousands of dreams that have been snuffed out on his path, for his sake. And she is terrified. She begs, pleads for him to stop. And eventually, it becomes all too much. He pulls himself together after she leaps onto him in the river, calming down, asking him to stop. And his recovery is nearly instant. But you can see the very instance Griffith swallows his anguish, and puts on the brave face for Casca. And that face, for her, has not changed since.

Casca’s eventual replacement by the Raider Captain, Guts, is a burning spear in her side. But it changes nothing for Griffith. Ever since that very day, where Griffith is but a young boy thrust into a position of leadership that he is in every way qualified except in experience, and Casca is a young girl, dealing with the shattering of her image of the legend who saved her life, their relationship is marred. She was not equipped to help him in his time of need, nor is it fair to have that thrust upon her. And he was not equipped to deal with it himself, or the leading of a thousand more people just like her. And so, he closes himself off to the rest of the Hawks. None ever manage to see Griffith vulnerable. See his secrets. Hear his heart. None but Guts.

In fact, after this moment, Griffith almost abuses his position in Casca’s mind. He makes her use her body to warm Guts from his deathbed. He orders her around, sending her to clean up other people’s messes or assist them in their results. And she abides. All because, in the end, she wished to be his sword. She took that as an honor. But after that fateful day in the river, Griffith treated her exactly like that: a sword. A tool that, although it must be taken care of, is to be used when needed, kept by your side, but sheathed until required. And nothing more. What else was it good for? 

This is the first we see of Griffith’s actual manipulative tendencies. Perhaps not consciously, perhaps not to harm her, but after she splayed her hands across his chest that day, they both revealed something about themselves that only he could use. Being the object of another’s desire was a position to be utilized, he had concluded. And utilize he would. If the Governor was his first encounter with this prospect, then Casca was the beginning of his warped understanding, sharpening his mental and emotional sword until he met Charlotte, where he could truly use the skills he had unfortunately honed. Casca may have started as his sword, but she ended her tenure as his whetstone, no matter how he may have actually cared for her at any point. Those feelings simply could not stand in the way of his one, true shot at his dream.

Until his new right arm, Guts, becomes a figure of betrayal in his mind, and Griffith has the opportunity to test himself against Casca’s heart once again after his rescue. And after everything he had gone through, and everything she had done to retrieve him, she rebukes his advance, laying on the ground with him, crying. He lays no claim over her anymore, and he believes she sees him now as a figure to be pitied, to be ridiculed. And he overhears that his ultimate betrayer, his Judas, his old best friend, and perhaps, the one he loved above all, is the reason.

And so, on the eclipse, he finally concludes his usage of Casca as the tool she became to him. He shatters his whetstone, which had become Guts’ heart. And in the process, severs any emotions he held towards the man who had become the definition of his life, and even perhaps, could have been the one who took him off the very road that he had, instead, inadvertently cemented him on. She was an object to be desired, but no longer by him: and still, she meant nothing to him anymore. To be viewed as subhuman allows much to be excused against you, and there was only one figure left in the world that made Griffith feel anything. And Casca was caught in the crossfire.

At least, from his point of view.

Casca was more than well aware of how Griffith had changed, especially after Guts’ arrival. She knew she'd been cast aside, she knew she was no longer the favorite. She had been his confidant, his greatest admirer, far too long not to see. And still, she stuck by his side. Her reverence knew two bounds: the end of her life, or its change. And when given the option, she chose its end as her preference. And it took Guts for her to both break and reconcile with that, starting at the waterfall and ending, unfortunately, at The Eclipse.

Casca was far from just some toy to be used and cast away, strung along under false hopes and the pretense of a broken dream. Deep down, Griffith felt for her, and she knew that even in her darkest, she knew he felt… something. And deeper still, she knew it did not matter. And she resigned herself to that. And regardless of her intentions, her following, her obedience to his pull on her strings, fueled his puppeteering all the same.

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.

Today, 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 not 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 itself. 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, we will be discussing 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 4: Princess Charlotte

Her mother died in her youth, and her newer mother attempted to kill her soul. Charlotte was never like the rest of the nobility with which her father surrounded her. Much more amicable, approachable, not nearly so haughty. She did not hold the same values as those in her space, values which could not nearly be called virtues. The demand for “respect” almost on-par with worship. The despicable bigotry towards any who was not born as lucky as them. Their wanton cruelty, their near bloodlust, their willingness to jump to all sorts of evil acts in some sort of asinine chest-puffing to defend their supposed honor- none of this was Charlotte. Her father called her shy. But she simply had no want to get to know further those around her, those who she had already understood far too well to be comfortable.

And then, one day, there is a new man in the court. One who had very quickly gained her father’s favor, enough to be their assigned guard for the annual hunt, yet another frivolous activity that was bloodshed for bloodshed’s sake, to satiate the itch for violence that all the men around her possessed. She was forced to go, of course. But she would not involve herself. Yet, the new man in the court, Griffith, involved himself with her.

He was softer, more compassionate, than the gaudiness that usually clung to her. He was gentle, like a breeze, and the wind passed through his lips like music, especially as he showed her how to whistle through a leaf he gently plucked from a nearby tree. They talked, not dancing through the formalities that she normally must, but as equals, him not talking to her, but with her, frankly and insightfully, giving her a conversation she had not had with any, especially of his stature, in a long, long time, if ever at all. And then, her horse took off, scared by the prey of the hunt. And who was it but Griffith, the gentle, beautiful man she had gotten to know, that would rescue her runaway and herself. As he assisted her, guarding her, almost, from further harm, she saw his beauty in its fullest. And then, sprouting from that beauty like a thorn from a rose, was the shaft of an arrowhead, directly from his chest.

He was fine, of course, saved by luck, or perhaps fate, but it only cemented to Charlotte that this Griffith fellow was different than the other men she dealt with. He had risked his life for her, she thought. None of the sniveling shady cowardice with false bravado that she dealt with so much. And this was no fluke, no falsehood on Griffith’s end to try to get into her good graces. How could it be? One night, after a dinner party hosted by the princess herself, the two of them begin to have a deep discussion. Charlotte is almost honored, enraptured by his boldness and confidence, while being touched deeply with Griffith’s willingness to be honest, transparent with her, to communicate with her on an equal level, to open himself so fully and completely to her that there would be no question about who he could truly be.

He proved, sure, that he could indeed earn his stripes in the world of men, and play along with their little games, by taking Doldrey. But upon his return, he still remained as gallant as ever. The ball her father held in their honor was nice and all, but she simply wanted the opportunity to be with him again. An opportunity that, unfortunately, she would not get, due to Griffith being poisoned at the ball. Or so she thought. He had nearly died, the entire court thought, but once again, as if by a miracle, the White Hawk was lifted from death by those on high. 

She was overjoyed. But unfortunately, since his arrival, he had not been able to meet with her. To return her the trinket that she had gifted him, almost forcing destiny to allow the two to link once again. But one day, almost forced by fate, deep in a storm that was ravaging the area, Griffith appeared in her window, like a flash of lightning, nature itself deigning his arrival. After some hesitation, finally, Charlotte allows him in, and then, after a bit more, she finally gives in to the desire she’s held for Griffith ever since they first met. The two of them, passionately, make love. Charlotte’s first, being entrusted to Griffith, a commoner by blood, but a noble through work, and her lover through trust. She falls asleep, and when she wakes… he is gone.

Word spreads, and she uncovers that Griffith was being tortured, captured by her father for simply embracing the love she held for him. And she cannot abide by this. In fact, after the attempted assault on her by her “father”, she could not care less what his whims and wishes were. The love of her life would no longer sit chained in the dark if she could so help it. She assists the Hawks in organizing his rescue,.even participating and preventing their capture. She sees how broken Griffith is by what he had gone through, and yet, swears that she will remain by his side if he cannot speak, cannot eat, cannot move, cannot breathe. Even if she cannot be with him, she will be his. And later on, when Griffith recovers through the whims of fate, she stands by her word. She helps in the war effort, and when Griffith finally gets his kingdom, through her, she remains by his side, attempting to make the kingdom better in ways her father could not manage, and that even she could not manage without Griffith’s guidance.

At least, that was how Charlotte felt. 

To Griffith, once again, she was nothing but a stone on the path to his dream. His heart rested nowhere near Charlotte. He had no more care for her than he would any other particular resident of the lands he would soon be to rule. She was a life to value and protect, but nothing particularly special. She was not Guts. She would never be what Casca was. She was simply a means to an end, and, when tragedy struck him, she was a tool for him to vent out the damage he had received after what he took as the largest betrayal of his life. She was merely there for him to assert his warped perception that power, and control, and to grant them or take them away, to manipulate them, to use others, is to love. Griffith’s entire philosophy is dictated by his broken philosophy on the nature of how relationships function. And here, he is making love to Charlotte, but he does not LOVE Charlotte. He is merely using the sex as a means of re-asserting the power and control that he lost over another, the one person in his life that he may have truly loved. Guts.

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.

Today, 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 not 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 itself. 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, we will be discussing 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 3: The King

The man who lords over Midland is many things, but he is nothing if not faithful in Griffith’s ability to succeed. In the war council deciding what was to be done about Doldrey, what was once Midland’s greatest bastion against Chuder, and now was the home of the Holy Purple Rhino Knights and the base of operations of their assault on the very nation which originally owned the fort, Griffith alone is completely confident in the fact that the fort can be captured. Not only so, but he remains adamant through the meeting that he and his forces alone could best General Boscogn and his men. There is but one single voice to support The Band of the Hawk, a noble named Sir Laban. Laban puts their situation quite simply: a small force like the Hawks being bested in combat should do no damage to the entirety of Midland’s otherwise massive force of arms. Besides, the Hawks have shown prodigious ability, being undefeated until this point. There is no further harm in allowing them to attempt, even with their paltry 5,000 men, against the occupying force of 30,000 strong. 

The king looks on at this circus amongst his advisors, lower lords, and generals, and has but a single statement to utter.

“Sir Griffith.

Was that sincere?”

And upon Griffith’s affirmation, he orders the Hawks to take Doldrey.

And upon Griffith’s orders, they do.

There is a celebration held when the Hawks return home. An armistice agreement is sent, signed from Chuder, and the war is over. The king is gracious, generous, putting Griffith as the White Phoenix General, and promoting all of the Hawk, now White Phoenix, division leaders to peerage. But this same night, tragedy strikes. 

Griffith falls ill, nearly dying. Then, later on, as Griffith recovers, Charlotte is kidnapped, and returned, and the Queen dies, along with countless other nobles, in a fire that collapses a building. So much bloodshed, between moments of endless revelry. The King is stricken with grief and tragedy. An endless river of crimson flows, despite Midland finally being able to erect a dam to stop it. But as the King says later, “The monster named War is always seeking new blood, starting to brew itself anew”. And the King is still at war. Not with Chuder, not even the war with Kushan. But he is at war with that which soars on beams of light, whose wings flap with the strength of hurricanes but the delicateness of a gentle night’s breeze. He is at war with the very concept of Griffith. He is at war with the very sky that supports the White Hawk. But he does not yet know it.

Griffith, too, is stricken with tragedy. But it is not crimson that flows from Griffith, but azure.The tragedy of loss, loss beyond any tragedy he had experienced to this point. Every difficulty Griffith has encountered has since only served to strengthen his resolve, no matter how much it may be to his detriment. But this? This breaks him. And “this” is the abandonment of the Hawks, of himself, by Guts. Guts defeated Griffith in a single stroke in combat, earning back his life and his freedom. And Griffith, a man who has only known control and power as his substitutes for affection, is broken. And so, he goes out, in search of some meager amount of solace that something in the world can provide. And ultimately, he reaches the window of a certain someone, quite important to Midland, and even more so to the King himself. He reaches the window to the chambers of Princess Charlotte, daughter of the King of Midland.

But Griffith finds no solace here. Even inside the Princess, his thoughts, his eyes, wander to Guts. It haunts his vision, in every stroke, with every blink, every shudder, only makes him wish he had won that fight. Charlotte’s body is not a shrine to Griffith, nor even just another body to use. It is a tool to vent his frustration, to pour into the dissolving, unraveling of his very psyche. And this meltdown is witnessed by a rogue maid, peering through the keyhole in Charlotte’s doors to her chamber. And he is arrested as he flees the very next morning, sword not in hand.

And so, the two men meet. Face to face, but not as equals. Griffith, bound and chained, strung up on a board. The King, staring up at him as he hangs from his wrists attached to a rope on the ceiling, whip in hand. And the king confirms, as he tears Griffith’s skin apart, crack by crack, slit by slit, with each sewing of the whip, that Griffith’s dream was a mere moment away. That, despite his disgusting blood, if he had merely retained patience, he could have, perhaps, attained his dream. But instead, Griffith merely proved the rumors around the court correct. He was not a Hawk, but a vulture, waiting to pick at the scraps of opportunity left behind by the war. The King rants to Griffith, starting about the weight he holds on his shoulders, but slowly, steadily and horrifically veering towards his daughter. Towards her ignorance, at first, and then, her naivete. Then, her innocence. Then, finally, her impurity. How Griffith soiled her. How Griffith plucked from him the one flower he so desperately wanted. And that it was soiled, now that she had given herself up to him.

And something, in that moment, clicks for Griffith. Despite his wounds, despite the blood loss, his mind connects threads that weave together the full picture: 

“That you…

Rather…

To have been with Princess Charlotte…

Would have had her yourself?

Don’t you want her to have you?”

And this breaks the King. To be exposed, even in the lowest levels of Midland’s deepest, darkest dungeon. Here, even in the pits of his shame, does a spotlight flash on him. In the darkness, beacons point directly at him, blinding him, searing him in his squalor, all aimed by the Hawk’s burning truth. His protection of Charlotte is, at least not in its entirety, not based in his love for her as his daughter. At least partially, if not more… he is motivated by his desire. He desires her, his own seed. And more, he knows this, and does nothing. He does not push himself because of it, or in spite of it. He merely sequesters her away from the world, putting it on her shyness, and tried not to be a better king, but to reach a place where he can enjoy her. His only motivation is his daughter, but it is not love; not the kind of love that makes one a good king, or a good man. The kind of love, of longing, of lusting that tears a man’s soul apart. And this has led the king to become a hollowed version of himself after the passing of his first wife.

And Griffith sees this. And he sees right through the King.

And the King does not enjoy this. He tears into Griffith, before leaving him to rot with the torturer. And then, he does exactly as Griffith claimed. He goes, observing his daughter in her doctor-enabled sleep. He obsesses over her, over her body. Over Griffith’s claim over her body. He lusts over her, over how she has grown so much into the shape of her mother before her. He obsesses over how Griffith lay claim to the very features that once belonged to his wife. And then, in her sleep, the King begins to molest her. And when she attempts to fight him off, eventually succeeding, it is Griffith’s name that Charlotte calls out. Even in the depths of his defeat, Griffith succeeds in towering over the king with the mere shadow of his presence.

They needed each other, from the start. The King needed someone able to truly fight, who could wield every ounce of conviction in their soul, and the souls around them, in order to turn around what had been raging for a century. And Griffith? Griffith needed a way into his dream. A way to have his kingdom. But through this, they both made terrible decisions. And ultimately, the king’s own lust betrayed him. If the King had even been able to come to terms with how he truly felt about his daughter, much less deal with it properly, things would not have turned out the way they had. Instead, ironically enough, the King’s wish that Griffith suffer in that following year, and his overprotective, obsessive lust for his daughter, turned Griffith into the very White Phoenix that he so desperately wished to eradicate the possibility of. 

The King, in a very tangible way, caused the Eclipse. Caused his own downfall. And Griffith, cemented in a way by the life experience he had earlier on with the Governor, saw the King and Charlotte both as nothing but a stepping stone on the journey to his dream. And when he lost that? When he knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that there was no possibility for the King to be able to assist him any further in his pursuit of his dream? He cast him aside like a stone on the road, and nothing more. And he spoke the truth to the King. And ironically enough, this very betrayal between the both of them is what awarded him with the blood-soaked version of the dream he aspired to, but blood-soaked or not, he treats it as though it were his dream all the same.

Ultimately, I take Griffith’s relationship with the king as one of simple mutual benefit. And when the mutual benefit is lost, it reveals the two’s truer natures- The King as a coward, and a disgusting pig, and Griffith, as an almost supernatural studier of all around him. Griffith is corrupted by corruption, is truly turned evil by evil. Guts’ disappearance may have broken him, but The King’s betrayal is what put him in a state enough to ever perform the things he eventually does. But this is far from shocking or surprising. Broken men breed broken men, turn them into broken soldiers, and are caught off guard when they break. In this case, the only issue was that his breaking broke everything.