Title: Iteration
Author: Akshi
Warnings: Alternate universe, violence (kind of a given with this series, eh?), het sex, character death
Archive: Please ask me first
Note: Berserk belongs to Kentarou Miura and Hakusensha. Warm thanks go to my patient and long-suffering beta readers, Jeanne and Priya, for beating this story into the shape it is now. I would also like to thank Tsubaki and Sahari for their feedback. Any mistakes are, of course, entirely mine.
Feedback appreciated at pharcical@yahoo.com
ITERATION
Prologue
In this world man’s destiny is controlled by some transcendental entity or law…like there exists a hand of God. At least man knows that he has no control over his own destiny.
When the body crumbles to dust where does the soul go? The answer is different for each corpse. Some fall with the body and do not rise again. They sleep undisturbed for aeons. Some are not reconciled. They have seen too much, done too much, and are tied to others in a slow dance that takes many lifetimes to spin to a halt.
Many lifetimes, or never, as they endure an unending sequence with permutations in each cycle, changes that are never drastic enough to stop the music and free the dancers.
The Hand can be merciful – most do not realise that they are playing out the same story again and again. Some are not so lucky – they may bleed, but they continue to spin as they recall their past existences. A trade is required: one willing life to partner each of the damned and spin them out of the eternal dance. It is not easy. It is not expected to be.
>
Part One
Hitosu, Hitoyo no koi naraba(One, it's a love in one generation)
- Yoma Counting Song
Gatts swims through blue glass that ripples and parts smoothly to let him pass. Under the water he can see his brown arms describing languid arabesques in front of him, dappled with shifting patterns of sunlight. Below him, shoals of flickering fish dart in and out of the coral reefs, growing smaller as he swims towards the surface. Above him – he rolls over to float on his back and peers through slit eyes – the afternoon sun glows in his peripheral vision and gulls lazily swoop and dive through the air. Waves of air caress his wet body as he drifts on the water. Soon it will be time to return home and help with the evening chores at the forge, but – not yet!
Drifting in the dreamy state between sleep and awareness, Gatts closes his eyes. He can almost imagine that his body has vanished and it is his mind, weightless, that is floating on endless blue, shading into indigo at the edge of the horizon, and then into red, the red of the sun through his eyelids. His heartbeat sounds again and again in his ears, beginning to pound through his body, and is suddenly external to him, as if he is enclosed within a cavernous womb.
Without warning he is inside the Dream. Sharp light flickers at the edge of his vision, as his eyes drown in red and images of blood flash in front of him. His body spasms convulsively, rejecting this intrusion of his vision into his waking hours, and he retches and flings his arms out in denial.
Memories rise up to combine with the visions: beatings that left him quivering in a corner of the shack, humiliations to cow him, always lit by the unsteady light of the blacksmith’s furnace. Images of his foster father with his hand raised; the mocking faces of village children above him as he sprawls in the dust; whispers and taunts forming a constant refrain in his mind: dead woman’s child, outcast, unclean!
He spirals slowly towards the bottom of the ocean in a shroud of bubbles. Dimly, he realises he should be doing something to save himself, trying to control his limbs and failing. He forces his eyes open to find a white face floating in front of him, streamers of pure white undulating gently around the perfect oval. It is so beautiful that he knows immediately what it is: a medusa, that most lovely and dangerous of all the secret creatures. He smiles gently at his personal death and falls forward into blackness.
>
Gatts wakes with his throat and lungs burning and sits up to cough and spit out the residual seawater, dislodging the hands braced on his chest to pump the water out. His monster is hovering over him, kneeling with white hair spilling over its shoulders. ‘Are you alright?’ the apparition asks and he realises with a jolt of disappointment that it is only a boy; albeit of a type he has never seen before. The dreamlike quality of the afternoon vanishes and the disappointment coagulates into his habitual resentment.
He pushes himself up, startling the boy, and walks away as quickly as his aching limbs will allow him to. Ignoring the exclamation he hears behind him, he breaks into a run, knowing that it is already too late for him to avoid punishment. Running anyway, his lungs protesting, he crosses the outskirts of the village, past families sitting outside their homes, repairing their nets and gossiping in the cool of the evening.
A foot reaches out to trip him and he falls forward, scraping his palms on sandy ground. He remains still until two pairs of feet move into range, and then sweeps his foot around in a wide arc, tripping both boys and springing to his feet. The fight begins in earnest, welcomed by his widening snarl and his fists.
Repeated beatings from his foster father have not taught him to accept this humiliation from the other village boys. A part of his mind admits that if they did not provoke him, he might still find reason to fight; deep down he enjoys this – his fists bruising their bodies, splitting their lips and making them all bleed. He kicks viciously at a boy lying on the ground, hearing the sound of his foot connecting with satisfaction.
He is too involved in meeting blow with blow to notice boys falling out of the fight one by one. When the fighting slows and the red haze clears from his vision, he spins to see the white-haired boy standing behind him, guarding his back. The village boys are all flat on the ground or moving away.
‘I didn’t need your help,’ he says.
A white brow arches as the boy turns to face him, one hand braced on his hip. ‘You got it anyway,’ the boy says. ‘Isn’t it customary to thank people on these occasions?’
But he is not thankful at all, already conscious of eyes and more eyes from the shade of thatched huts linking him to this freak. ‘Fuck off,’ he says.
‘No-o, I don’t think so. What’s your name?’ The boy’s mouth forms a tiny smile, which only makes him angrier, sparking the aggression remaining from the fight. He hits out, catching the boy by surprise. The boy licks his swollen lip and moves smoothly out of the way of his next swing. They spar for a while and he sees that the boy is still smiling: he’s enjoying this. It catches him off guard and the boy neatly trips him, and then sits on his back. One arm is pushed high above his back. ‘Enough for you?’ the boy asks solicitously.
‘Fuck you,’ and his arm is pushed higher, screaming with pain.
‘Enough?’
He repeats his earlier reply, pain having shrunk his world down to those two words and the determination not to give in.
The boy sighs. ‘Have it your own way.’ Abruptly, his shoulder is dislocated and he faints for the second time that day.
>
This time he wakes on a soldier’s pallet in a tent lit by flickering lamps. So the boy must be with the company currently camped outside the village, although he doesn’t look like a soldier. His left arm is bound up; someone has tended to it and the pain is present but bearable. He looks around the tent, noting a rather ostentatious bed in one corner and other expensive furnishings. The tent flap opens to let in the white-haired boy, who gives him a flask of water. He drinks deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he finishes.
‘Let’s start again. Who are you?’
He stares at him, not knowing what to make of this peculiar creature. Somehow, his earlier anger has leached away, leaving only a weary sort of bemusement. The boy’s eyes are clear and very intent. There is no mockery in them that he can see, no contempt or disgust underlain with fear, and it is this that makes him answer. ‘Gatts.’
‘I am Griffith.’
‘You fight well,’ Gatts tells him.
‘I know,’ he replies, but so calmly that his arrogance seems only natural. ‘So do you.’ Gatts looks him over, realising that he is a few years younger than Griffith, even though they are of much the same height. But then, he has always been too big – unnaturally big – for his age.
Someone enters the tent, breaking the silence with a loud ‘How do you feel, my boy?’ Gatts looks around to see a large florid man with a noble’s crest on a chain around his neck advancing to stand behind Griffith. ‘Fine, my lord,’ he replies, scrambling to his feet. Gatts watches the man’s hand settle on Griffith’s shoulder.
‘My lad doesn’t normally get into scrapes, but I’m glad someone was there to help him,’ the noble says, stroking the side of Griffith’s face with one hand. Griffith’s eyes are veiled now, half-lidded, before he looks down and nuzzles against the man’s hand. Something like shock goes through Gatts.
‘You’ll be on your way now, I suppose?’ the man continues, his hand moving down Griffith’s back. ‘Here’s a little something for helping Griffith.’
A coin spins through the air towards him and Gatts catches it reflexively, thanking him and hoping his disgust doesn’t show.
‘I’ll show him the way out of camp, my lord,’ Griffith says, moving away from the man’s roving hand and ducking out of the tent behind Gatts. Gatts tries not to look at him as they stand outside the tent, disappointment once again sour in his mouth. The moon lights the scene faintly; dim man-shapes move in the darkness, polishing weapons and carrying water.
‘Meet me on the beach tomorrow at sunrise,’ comes a low voice. Gatts whips around to face Griffith, who looks at him with hard eyes and no hint of embarrassment in his manner. He raises his voice to give Gatts directions out of the camp, then turns and goes back into the tent. The tent flap remains slightly open and through it Gatts can see Griffith being pulled towards the man, pliant and unresisting, as his mouth is claimed in a greedy kiss.
>
As he makes his way back to the village, dismay seeps through him at the thought of how long he has been gone from home. Hesitating, his feet pause as the path divides into two. If he goes back now, he will be beaten too badly to go anywhere for the next day or so. But why should he go to meet Griffith when the boy has turned out to be exactly what he looks like: a pampered bum boy, a camp follower who trades his ass for money? Notwithstanding the insults his mind is heaping on the boy, his feet pull him inexorably towards the beach. Padding through soft sands lit by moonlight, he finds the spot where he had lain earlier, and settles into the white sand for the night.
He opens his eyes as the sun begins to rise, long rays sparkling on the sand around him. His arm aches dully, but he knows it will heal soon. His unnaturally quick healing is something else that infuriates his foster father. The sound of waves lapping at the shore is interrupted by splashes behind him and he turns to see the boy throwing pebbles into the water. Griffith is dressed only in a pair of worn breeches. A misshapen red stone hangs on a leather thong around his neck. He turns towards Gatts, looking at him sombrely.
‘I want to raise a mercenary band. There’s good money to be made working for the King’s court in Garima.’
He doesn’t know how he should react to this extraordinary statement. This pretty boy leading a mercenary army? And where would he get the money for it? Unless that was why he was whoring himself out…
‘Gennon will give me my war chest if I please him,’ Griffith says, anticipating his thoughts. He stares at Gatts directly, his face blank and consciously devoid of shame. Gatts understands that this is another statement in itself.
The blue eyes are still looking at him, gauging his reaction and evaluating it. There is, Gatts realises, a tinge of calculation in everything this boy says or does. The pure profile turns sideways, suddenly distant, one hand fingering the pendant around his neck as he speaks.
‘There are only the rulers and the ruled in every country. And, till now, there has been no vision or strength of mind that differentiates one from the other. That will change with me, Gatts,’ he sweeps his arm out in a wide arc. ‘I know that this is all mine to take.’
‘Will you join me?’ Griffith asks, looking at him.
Gatts has to laugh. ‘Are you mad? I am not even old enough to leave home without being brought back and beaten.’
‘What are you, fourteen? I’ll come back for you in a year.’
He takes a mean pleasure in saying ‘I’m twelve,’ and seeing the surprise in Griffith’s face, but the expression fades fast.
‘No matter. I’ll come back in three years, then.’
‘What the hell do you want with me? I can’t even use a weapon yet!’ Gatts says. He is obscurely angry with this boy for trying to involve him in his foolish dreams. Look at them now: two stupid boys, each as wretched as the other!
‘I knew when I saw you…’ – and for a moment Griffith hesitates, the constant calculation in his eyes replaced momentarily by confusion – ‘when I saw you fight those boys that you would be a strong fighter.’
It is not what he was going to say. There is a long silence, broken by the sounds of gulls wheeling and diving over the ocean.
Looking at the stranger, Gatts acknowledges, wordlessly, what Griffith does not want to say out loud. That they have been linked since the first moment they looked into each other’s faces underwater. That he does not know much about Griffith, and what he does know should not dispose him to believe anything he says, but that he believes him nonetheless. That he does not know anything of friendship or loyalty but is somehow ready to join his life to Griffith’s anyway.
‘I want you,’ Griffith says. ‘Will you join me when I come back?’
‘Yes,’ Gatts says. ‘Yes, I will.’
>
Author: Akshi
Warnings: Alternate universe, violence (kind of a given with this series, eh?), het sex, character death
Archive: Please ask me first
Note: Berserk belongs to Kentarou Miura and Hakusensha. Warm thanks go to my patient and long-suffering beta readers, Jeanne and Priya, for beating this story into the shape it is now. I would also like to thank Tsubaki and Sahari for their feedback. Any mistakes are, of course, entirely mine.
Feedback appreciated at pharcical@yahoo.com
ITERATION
Prologue
In this world man’s destiny is controlled by some transcendental entity or law…like there exists a hand of God. At least man knows that he has no control over his own destiny.
When the body crumbles to dust where does the soul go? The answer is different for each corpse. Some fall with the body and do not rise again. They sleep undisturbed for aeons. Some are not reconciled. They have seen too much, done too much, and are tied to others in a slow dance that takes many lifetimes to spin to a halt.
Many lifetimes, or never, as they endure an unending sequence with permutations in each cycle, changes that are never drastic enough to stop the music and free the dancers.
The Hand can be merciful – most do not realise that they are playing out the same story again and again. Some are not so lucky – they may bleed, but they continue to spin as they recall their past existences. A trade is required: one willing life to partner each of the damned and spin them out of the eternal dance. It is not easy. It is not expected to be.
>
Part One
Hitosu, Hitoyo no koi naraba(One, it's a love in one generation)
- Yoma Counting Song
Gatts swims through blue glass that ripples and parts smoothly to let him pass. Under the water he can see his brown arms describing languid arabesques in front of him, dappled with shifting patterns of sunlight. Below him, shoals of flickering fish dart in and out of the coral reefs, growing smaller as he swims towards the surface. Above him – he rolls over to float on his back and peers through slit eyes – the afternoon sun glows in his peripheral vision and gulls lazily swoop and dive through the air. Waves of air caress his wet body as he drifts on the water. Soon it will be time to return home and help with the evening chores at the forge, but – not yet!
Drifting in the dreamy state between sleep and awareness, Gatts closes his eyes. He can almost imagine that his body has vanished and it is his mind, weightless, that is floating on endless blue, shading into indigo at the edge of the horizon, and then into red, the red of the sun through his eyelids. His heartbeat sounds again and again in his ears, beginning to pound through his body, and is suddenly external to him, as if he is enclosed within a cavernous womb.
Without warning he is inside the Dream. Sharp light flickers at the edge of his vision, as his eyes drown in red and images of blood flash in front of him. His body spasms convulsively, rejecting this intrusion of his vision into his waking hours, and he retches and flings his arms out in denial.
Memories rise up to combine with the visions: beatings that left him quivering in a corner of the shack, humiliations to cow him, always lit by the unsteady light of the blacksmith’s furnace. Images of his foster father with his hand raised; the mocking faces of village children above him as he sprawls in the dust; whispers and taunts forming a constant refrain in his mind: dead woman’s child, outcast, unclean!
He spirals slowly towards the bottom of the ocean in a shroud of bubbles. Dimly, he realises he should be doing something to save himself, trying to control his limbs and failing. He forces his eyes open to find a white face floating in front of him, streamers of pure white undulating gently around the perfect oval. It is so beautiful that he knows immediately what it is: a medusa, that most lovely and dangerous of all the secret creatures. He smiles gently at his personal death and falls forward into blackness.
>
Gatts wakes with his throat and lungs burning and sits up to cough and spit out the residual seawater, dislodging the hands braced on his chest to pump the water out. His monster is hovering over him, kneeling with white hair spilling over its shoulders. ‘Are you alright?’ the apparition asks and he realises with a jolt of disappointment that it is only a boy; albeit of a type he has never seen before. The dreamlike quality of the afternoon vanishes and the disappointment coagulates into his habitual resentment.
He pushes himself up, startling the boy, and walks away as quickly as his aching limbs will allow him to. Ignoring the exclamation he hears behind him, he breaks into a run, knowing that it is already too late for him to avoid punishment. Running anyway, his lungs protesting, he crosses the outskirts of the village, past families sitting outside their homes, repairing their nets and gossiping in the cool of the evening.
A foot reaches out to trip him and he falls forward, scraping his palms on sandy ground. He remains still until two pairs of feet move into range, and then sweeps his foot around in a wide arc, tripping both boys and springing to his feet. The fight begins in earnest, welcomed by his widening snarl and his fists.
Repeated beatings from his foster father have not taught him to accept this humiliation from the other village boys. A part of his mind admits that if they did not provoke him, he might still find reason to fight; deep down he enjoys this – his fists bruising their bodies, splitting their lips and making them all bleed. He kicks viciously at a boy lying on the ground, hearing the sound of his foot connecting with satisfaction.
He is too involved in meeting blow with blow to notice boys falling out of the fight one by one. When the fighting slows and the red haze clears from his vision, he spins to see the white-haired boy standing behind him, guarding his back. The village boys are all flat on the ground or moving away.
‘I didn’t need your help,’ he says.
A white brow arches as the boy turns to face him, one hand braced on his hip. ‘You got it anyway,’ the boy says. ‘Isn’t it customary to thank people on these occasions?’
But he is not thankful at all, already conscious of eyes and more eyes from the shade of thatched huts linking him to this freak. ‘Fuck off,’ he says.
‘No-o, I don’t think so. What’s your name?’ The boy’s mouth forms a tiny smile, which only makes him angrier, sparking the aggression remaining from the fight. He hits out, catching the boy by surprise. The boy licks his swollen lip and moves smoothly out of the way of his next swing. They spar for a while and he sees that the boy is still smiling: he’s enjoying this. It catches him off guard and the boy neatly trips him, and then sits on his back. One arm is pushed high above his back. ‘Enough for you?’ the boy asks solicitously.
‘Fuck you,’ and his arm is pushed higher, screaming with pain.
‘Enough?’
He repeats his earlier reply, pain having shrunk his world down to those two words and the determination not to give in.
The boy sighs. ‘Have it your own way.’ Abruptly, his shoulder is dislocated and he faints for the second time that day.
>
This time he wakes on a soldier’s pallet in a tent lit by flickering lamps. So the boy must be with the company currently camped outside the village, although he doesn’t look like a soldier. His left arm is bound up; someone has tended to it and the pain is present but bearable. He looks around the tent, noting a rather ostentatious bed in one corner and other expensive furnishings. The tent flap opens to let in the white-haired boy, who gives him a flask of water. He drinks deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he finishes.
‘Let’s start again. Who are you?’
He stares at him, not knowing what to make of this peculiar creature. Somehow, his earlier anger has leached away, leaving only a weary sort of bemusement. The boy’s eyes are clear and very intent. There is no mockery in them that he can see, no contempt or disgust underlain with fear, and it is this that makes him answer. ‘Gatts.’
‘I am Griffith.’
‘You fight well,’ Gatts tells him.
‘I know,’ he replies, but so calmly that his arrogance seems only natural. ‘So do you.’ Gatts looks him over, realising that he is a few years younger than Griffith, even though they are of much the same height. But then, he has always been too big – unnaturally big – for his age.
Someone enters the tent, breaking the silence with a loud ‘How do you feel, my boy?’ Gatts looks around to see a large florid man with a noble’s crest on a chain around his neck advancing to stand behind Griffith. ‘Fine, my lord,’ he replies, scrambling to his feet. Gatts watches the man’s hand settle on Griffith’s shoulder.
‘My lad doesn’t normally get into scrapes, but I’m glad someone was there to help him,’ the noble says, stroking the side of Griffith’s face with one hand. Griffith’s eyes are veiled now, half-lidded, before he looks down and nuzzles against the man’s hand. Something like shock goes through Gatts.
‘You’ll be on your way now, I suppose?’ the man continues, his hand moving down Griffith’s back. ‘Here’s a little something for helping Griffith.’
A coin spins through the air towards him and Gatts catches it reflexively, thanking him and hoping his disgust doesn’t show.
‘I’ll show him the way out of camp, my lord,’ Griffith says, moving away from the man’s roving hand and ducking out of the tent behind Gatts. Gatts tries not to look at him as they stand outside the tent, disappointment once again sour in his mouth. The moon lights the scene faintly; dim man-shapes move in the darkness, polishing weapons and carrying water.
‘Meet me on the beach tomorrow at sunrise,’ comes a low voice. Gatts whips around to face Griffith, who looks at him with hard eyes and no hint of embarrassment in his manner. He raises his voice to give Gatts directions out of the camp, then turns and goes back into the tent. The tent flap remains slightly open and through it Gatts can see Griffith being pulled towards the man, pliant and unresisting, as his mouth is claimed in a greedy kiss.
>
As he makes his way back to the village, dismay seeps through him at the thought of how long he has been gone from home. Hesitating, his feet pause as the path divides into two. If he goes back now, he will be beaten too badly to go anywhere for the next day or so. But why should he go to meet Griffith when the boy has turned out to be exactly what he looks like: a pampered bum boy, a camp follower who trades his ass for money? Notwithstanding the insults his mind is heaping on the boy, his feet pull him inexorably towards the beach. Padding through soft sands lit by moonlight, he finds the spot where he had lain earlier, and settles into the white sand for the night.
He opens his eyes as the sun begins to rise, long rays sparkling on the sand around him. His arm aches dully, but he knows it will heal soon. His unnaturally quick healing is something else that infuriates his foster father. The sound of waves lapping at the shore is interrupted by splashes behind him and he turns to see the boy throwing pebbles into the water. Griffith is dressed only in a pair of worn breeches. A misshapen red stone hangs on a leather thong around his neck. He turns towards Gatts, looking at him sombrely.
‘I want to raise a mercenary band. There’s good money to be made working for the King’s court in Garima.’
He doesn’t know how he should react to this extraordinary statement. This pretty boy leading a mercenary army? And where would he get the money for it? Unless that was why he was whoring himself out…
‘Gennon will give me my war chest if I please him,’ Griffith says, anticipating his thoughts. He stares at Gatts directly, his face blank and consciously devoid of shame. Gatts understands that this is another statement in itself.
The blue eyes are still looking at him, gauging his reaction and evaluating it. There is, Gatts realises, a tinge of calculation in everything this boy says or does. The pure profile turns sideways, suddenly distant, one hand fingering the pendant around his neck as he speaks.
‘There are only the rulers and the ruled in every country. And, till now, there has been no vision or strength of mind that differentiates one from the other. That will change with me, Gatts,’ he sweeps his arm out in a wide arc. ‘I know that this is all mine to take.’
‘Will you join me?’ Griffith asks, looking at him.
Gatts has to laugh. ‘Are you mad? I am not even old enough to leave home without being brought back and beaten.’
‘What are you, fourteen? I’ll come back for you in a year.’
He takes a mean pleasure in saying ‘I’m twelve,’ and seeing the surprise in Griffith’s face, but the expression fades fast.
‘No matter. I’ll come back in three years, then.’
‘What the hell do you want with me? I can’t even use a weapon yet!’ Gatts says. He is obscurely angry with this boy for trying to involve him in his foolish dreams. Look at them now: two stupid boys, each as wretched as the other!
‘I knew when I saw you…’ – and for a moment Griffith hesitates, the constant calculation in his eyes replaced momentarily by confusion – ‘when I saw you fight those boys that you would be a strong fighter.’
It is not what he was going to say. There is a long silence, broken by the sounds of gulls wheeling and diving over the ocean.
Looking at the stranger, Gatts acknowledges, wordlessly, what Griffith does not want to say out loud. That they have been linked since the first moment they looked into each other’s faces underwater. That he does not know much about Griffith, and what he does know should not dispose him to believe anything he says, but that he believes him nonetheless. That he does not know anything of friendship or loyalty but is somehow ready to join his life to Griffith’s anyway.
‘I want you,’ Griffith says. ‘Will you join me when I come back?’
‘Yes,’ Gatts says. ‘Yes, I will.’
>