A Father's Burden, A Daughter's Light
Shout-out to @none-of-ur-business-fuck-off the poor girl had to wait for this for almost a year. Turned out a little Last of Us ish, and I don't mind tbh.
Part 1: Before the Band of the Hawk - The Scars of Solitude
The world Guts knew was a canvas painted in blood and iron, a relentless cycle of kill or be killed. He was a mercenary, a sword-for-hire, honed into a weapon by a childhood stolen and a life defined by violence. He was barely an adult himself, still carrying the ghost of a boy who never knew a mother's touch, when fate, in its cruelest irony, thrust a new life into his calloused hands.
Her mother, Brighid, had been a fleeting warmth in his desolate existence. A farmer, kind-hearted and unassuming, she saw past the hardened shell to something raw and deeply wounded. She asked for nothing, gave everything, and for a brief, bewildering time, Guts knew a semblance of peace. Her death in childbirth was a brutal hand, reaching into that fragile space and crushing it. He stared at the tiny bundle, Lucia named for the stars Brighid had loved, her eyesâbright green, like spring leavesâblinking up at him, a stark contrast to the black curls framing her impossibly small face.
Fear. Responsibility. A flicker of something akin to love, so alien it almost choked him. He was a soldier, a killer, not a father. But he couldn't abandon her. He couldn't leave her to the same brutal fate heâd been condemned to. Brighid had given her life for this child; Guts would not let that sacrifice be for nothing.
The first months were a purgatory of sleep deprivation and paralyzing terror. He, who could cleave a man in half with a single swing, fumbled with swaddling cloths, his massive hands trembling as he tried to unbutton his tunic for skin-to-skin warmth. He learned to differentiate between a hunger cry and a comfort wail, his gritted jaw a permanent fixture. He bartered for goatâs milk, scavenged for whatever sustenance he could find, and for the first time in his life, actively avoided truly dangerous contracts. He stayed closer to hamlets, taking on caravan protection or bandit suppression, anything that kept him from the heart of war.
Lucia, tiny and fragile, was carried in a sling strapped to his chest, her small hand often clutching the cold leather of his armor. She was a silent, insistent reminder of what he was fighting for, a tiny weight that anchored him to something beyond the next kill.
Other mercenaries, hardened men like himself, would sneer. "Soft Guts," theyâd snarl, "a wet nurse with a sword," "that small thing wouldn't make it to the next winter." He heard them, and for once, the taunts barely pricked him. He didnât care. There was a strange, unsettling solace in caring for her. Her innocent gurgle, the feather-light touch of her fingers on his cheek, her simple, vibrant existence â little by little, they chipped away at the formidable walls he had built around his heart. He couldn't protect her from everything that this cruel world held, but by the gods, he would give her a chance at a life he never had.
Part 2: Within the Hawks' Nest - Shielded by Wings
The day Guts met Griffith and the Band of the Hawk was a turning point. He'd resisted, wary of any attachment that could be severed. But Griffith, with his impossible charisma and piercing ambition, saw something in Guts, a potential he craved. And then there was little Lucia.
Lucia proved herself to be a surprisingly resilient child. She was quiet but observant, quick to smile, and fiercely attached to Guts. She seems to sense the darkness within him, but her presence is a constant source of warmth and love.
Griffith, surprisingly, seemed genuinely drawn to the child. He would often hold her, his elegant fingers surprisingly gentle, and speak to her in soft, melodic tones. Sometimes, much to the amusement of the cynical Hawks, he would even hum a lullaby. He saw in Lucia a purity, a vulnerability that he, in his relentless pursuit of a kingdom, had long since abandoned. She was, in his mind, a symbol of the life Guts could have, a life beyond the battlefield, a stark contrast to the brutal world he sought to conquer.
Guts watched Griffithâs interactions with a complex mix of gratitude and unease. He appreciated the kindness shown to his daughter, a kindness rarely extended to him. Yet, a deep, primal wariness prevented him from becoming too reliant on Griffith, or letting his Lulu become too attached. He kept her close, teaching her the harsh realities of their itinerant life â how to tie a knot, how to sharpen a small stick, the importance of silence when danger lurked. But he also fostered her innate curiosity, a spark he never knew he possessed.
The Band of the Hawk, a motley crew of outcasts and dreamers, became a makeshift family for Lucia. Casca, initially sharp-tongued and aloof, found herself disarmed by the tiny girl's quiet strength and observant green eyes. She would take Lucia under her wing, patiently teaching her to trace letters in the dirt, to read the few tattered books they acquired. Judeau and Pippin, their gruff exteriors melting away around her, would fashion small wooden toys, or play simple, clumsy games that brought genuine laughter from Lucia. Even Corkus, in his own crude way, showed a peculiar affection.
Guts, for the first time in his life, allowed himself to hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could build a life for Lucia here, a life where she wouldn't have to know the crushing horrors he had endured. A life shielded, if not entirely, then partially, by the wings of the Hawks.
Part 3: The Eclipse - The Shattering of Hope
The Eclipse. The very word would forever be a brand on Gutsâ soul, a scream trapped in his throat. It shattered everything. The sky ripped open, bleeding red. Demonic forms twisted out of the void, their grotesque shapes a morbid mockery of earthly creatures.
Guts fought with a ferocity born of pure, primal desperation. His sword became a blur, a frantic attempt to create a sanctuary, to shield Lucia from the unfolding nightmare. She was no longer a babe but a small child, her eyes wide with terror, clutching his pant leg amidst the chaos. He tried to tell her to close her eyes, but the horrors were too vast, too absolute to ignore.
He was powerless. Totally, utterly powerless.
In a moment of unimaginable horror, amidst the cacophony of screams and tearing flesh, Lucia was almost sacrificed alongside the Band. The memory would forever be a gaping wound: Griffith, transformed, his ambition devouring everything, including them. Guts, berserk with grief and rage, his mind fracturing under the strain, lashed out. He barely managed to shield Lucia from the worst of the unfolding apocalypse, a desperate lunge, a roar that tore his throat. The Brand of Sacrifice, meant for him, burned on her tiny arm, a searing, unspeakable mark of the atrocity.
The experience left them both irrevocably changed. Guts, broken and scarred, and Lucia, his little treasure, a child forever marked by a horror that defied human comprehension. The "shining one" had witnessed the deepest darkness.
Part 4: Scars and Fury - A New Path
After the Eclipse, Guts was a ghost, a walking embodiment of vengeance and despair. His left arm was gone, an eye lost, and his soul was a shattered landscape. The voices of his fallen comrades, their screams, Griffithâs betrayal â they were a constant, tormenting choir. He retreated into a cycle of brutal violence, hunting apostles, his only goal to survive long enough to face Griffith again.
Their journey became a desperate, relentless struggle for survival. Guts was not a gentle parent, not in the traditional sense. He was stern, demanding, his discipline rooted in the harsh realities of their existence. "Watch your back," heâd bark, "never show weakness. Trust no one easily." He taught her to respect strength, to be wary of strangers, to read the wind and the shadows. He taught her how to hold a small blade, how to move silently through undergrowth, how to tend a fire. Guts taught Lucia to survive, but Lucia, in turn, began to teach him how to live again, even if he fought it at every turn.
One rain-slicked evening, they found shelter in the ruins of a collapsed village. The air was thick with the stench of death and decay, but Guts's nose caught another scent: a lone, terrified man huddled in the remains of a cellar, a meager sack of scavenged foodstuffs clutched to his chest. Guts moved like a wraith, Dragon Slayer already singing its low, hungry hum. The man, gaunt and trembling, saw the terrifying silhouette of the Black Swordsman and shrieked, dropping his pitiful hoard.
"Thief," Guts snarled, his voice a gravelly rumble. He lifted the massive blade, ready to silence another mouth, another witness, another potentially weak link in their survival.
"Wait, dad!" Lucia's voice, clear and surprisingly firm, cut through the night. She stepped forward, her small hand on Gutsâs armored thigh, looking not at the cowering man, but up at her father. "He's starving. Look at him. He didn't try to hurt us, he just took what was left here."
Guts paused, the Dragon Slayer's tip a hair's breadth from the manâs throat. His single eye, accustomed to seeing only threats, narrowed. "Weakness," he grunted, his gaze still fixed on the trembling figure. "Compassion kills."
"No, unjust compassion kills," Lucia retorted, her sharp wit flashing even in the dim light. "But heâs no threat. He's just... desperate." Her green eyes, so like her motherâs, met Gutsâs. "You taught me to tell the difference between a predator and a cornered mouse. Heâs a mouse, dad."
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Guts's face â annoyance, perhaps, or a grudging acknowledgment. He lowered the Dragon Slayer, but only slightly. "He took our supplies."
"He took scraps," Lucia corrected, bending down to retrieve a bruised apple that had rolled from the sack. "We have more. We always find more. He has nothing." She looked at the man. "Go. Take your food. Don't let us see you again."
The man scrambled away, not daring to look back, vanishing into the rain. Guts stared after him for a long moment, then turned his gaze to Lucia. She met it unflinchingly, a small, stubborn set to her lips.
"You speak too much," he said, the words gruff but lacking their usual cutting edge.
"You speak too little," she shot back, a hint of a challenging grin. "Someone has to make sense of things."
Luciaâs loyalty to her father was an unyielding force. She might argue with Guts, fight him on points of morality, but woe betide anyone who dared to speak ill of the Black Swordsman in her presence. She'd seen the torment in his eye, the constant battle against the forces that sought to consume her. She knew his harshness was a shield, a necessary evil in a world gone mad.
As for Guts, he knew only two things in this world: Griffith must die and he couldn't abandon Lucia. He owed it to her to survive, to protect her from the darkness that always threatened to consume them both. The Brand on her arm pulsed, a living reminder of the monsters that pursued them.
He wasnât educated, but he encouraged her sharp mind. When they encountered a traveling merchant or a scholar seeking refuge, he would barter fiercely for books, even simple primers. Heâd sit, his massive hand dwarfing a small tome, and listen, answering her questions as best he could, his gruff explanations often laced with a blunt practicality. "Why does the moon change, dad?" "Because the world turns, and light hits it differently. Like a shield turning in the sun." He struggled to understand her emotions, especially after the Eclipse, the quiet moments of her distant stare, the way her laughter sometimes seemed brittle. But he tried his best to just be there, a silent, immovable presence.
Emotional support wasn't in his vocabulary of expression. He didnât offer soft words or comforting embraces readily. His love for Lucia was a heavy, unspoken thing, shown through his actions: the countless battles he fought to keep her safe, the meager meals he always ensured she ate first, the way he would instinctively place his body between her and any perceived threat. He was fiercely, brutally protective, a mountain of iron against the tide of darkness. He shielded her from the full horrors of the world when he could, but he also armed her with the tools to face them, should he fail.
Lucia, with her black curls and bright green eyes and constellation of freckles dusting her cheeks, somehow managed to absorb the light around her, even in the bleakest landscapes. Her quiet resilience, her observant nature, her quick, genuine smiles were small miracles. She sensed the darkness within him, the beast that roared beneath his flesh, but she never flinched. Instead, her presence was a constant source of warmth and a fiercely loyal love that cut through the desolation. She would, in turn, help him hold onto his humanity, her very existence a reminder of the good that still lingered, the things worth fighting for.
She was his reason for living, his guiding light in the overwhelming darkness. A fatherâs burden transformed into a daughterâs light, illuminating a path through the unending night.
