How Did The Eclipse Event Permanently Change Griffith X Guts?

In the pages of 'Berserk', Griffith has done something that is too cruel to Guts; his character changed in an instant from being an admired leader into a beast. Taking into account his methods, he used his own mercenary troops, the Band of the Hawk, as an offering so to God's Hand that he transformed into Femto, one member of God's hand. In doing this it helped to redo in connection with Casca from Guts' point of view. What a hideous act and very successful, in as much as it did succeed in bringing pain to him and terror into their midst.

There are a handful of moments in 'Berserk' that hit me in the chest every time I flip back to them — the chemistry between Griffith and Guts isn’t just plot, it’s emotional dynamite. My take is pretty sentimental: the scenes that keep looping in my head are the duel that pulls Guts into the Band of the Hawk, the lonely farewell when Guts leaves, Griffith’s slow implosion during his imprisonment, the Eclipse with all its horror and betrayal, and the cold rebirth of Griffith as something beyond human. Each one feels like a turning point that rewrites their relationship in a new, painful register. The duel that results in Guts joining the Hawks is surprisingly intimate for a battlefield moment. It's not just about skill; it’s the first real recognition between two people who will shape each other's lives. Griffith’s reaction after that fight — the way he regards Guts — has layers: admiration, calculation, and maybe a flicker of something like longing. That early chemistry sets up everything that follows, and every later scene pulls emotional weight from that first mutual awareness. Guts leaving is what I always come back to when I feel melancholic. The goodbye scene where Guts decides to go his own way is tender and jagged: they both split open. Griffith breaks in a manner that felt so human to me — not theatrical, but raw. He begs, he crumbles, and it becomes clear that his dream isn’t purely political; it’s tied up with people like Guts. That vulnerability is part of why the later betrayal cuts so deep. When Griffith is later captured and tortured, that physical ruin is heartbreaking because of who he was with Guts standing in his light earlier. The sequence of his fall in captivity — the strips of dignity being removed — makes his later choices feel like tragedy mixed with inevitability. And then there’s the Eclipse, which sits at the center of every discussion about Griffith and Guts. It’s horrific, cathartic, and devastating, because it shows Griffith choosing a terrifying path to achieve his dream, and it reveals the sheer difference between what he once was and what he becomes. Watching him ascend as Femto, seeing him turn his back on human ties, and the way Guts reacts — rage, disbelief, helplessness — is a knot I can’t untangle when I reread those pages. After that, even small scenes where they are in the same frame carry a universe of meaning. The contrast between what was and what is now is why these scenes have stuck with me for years; they’re less about plot beats and more about the ache of what we lose when ambition and love collide.

There’s a whole corner of the 'Berserk' fandom that keeps trying to wrestle with the Griffith/Guts dynamic, and if what you want is redemption arcs for Griffith paired with Guts, I’ll gladly point you where to look and what to expect. I’ve spent a ridiculous number of late nights combing through AO3 and old forum rec threads looking for stories that actually treat redemption as hard, slow work rather than a one-paragraph confession and everything-is-fixed epilogue. If you want fics that earn a redemption, search for tags like 'redemption', 'atonement', 'canon divergence', 'post-eclipse', 'post-conviction', and 'therapy/counseling'—those are the tags that usually mean the author is aware Griffith’s crimes have consequences and is trying to grapple with them rather than gloss over everything. A practical checklist I use when I open a fic: does Griffith show genuine remorse across time (not just immediate regret), does the narrative let Guts have agency to accept or refuse, and does the story center victims rather than making Griffith the main focus of sympathy? Good redemption fics often include therapy arcs, restorative justice scenes, consequences (legal, social, psychological), and long-term penance: rebuilding trust through actions, not speeches. I’ve bookmarked a handful of multi-chapter works where Griffith attempts to atone through exile, rebuilding communities he harmed, or facing judgment from former comrades; those stories usually pair grit and introspection with heavy content warnings, so check tags for 'non-con', 'graphic violence', or 'trauma' before diving in. If you want exact places: AO3 is the goldmine for well-tagged, searchable content. Use filters—language, rating, and particularly the 'relationship' field—then sort by kudos or bookmarks to find fics the community respects. FanFiction.net has older, longer works but far less sophisticated tagging. For curated recs, look up fandom-specific threads on Reddit (search 'Berserk fanfic recs' and include 'Griffith/Guts'), and check Tumblr rec blogs that still archive lists under 'redemption' or 'post-eclipse'. When reading, be prepared for very different approaches: some writers go full AU (Griffith never elevates to the same place), others keep canon events but make Griffith wake up to his crimes in a supernatural way, and a few write 'second chance' AUs where both characters live different lives and meet again. Honestly, I love the challenge of a redemption fic that respects the gravity of what's been done. If you want, I can dig through my bookmarks and point out a few specific multi-chapter works I liked most and what made them work for me—whether it was slow emotional work, realistic consequences, or a Guts-centered healing perspective. It’s a messy, emotionally raw ship to read about, and that’s exactly why some of the best writing comes out of it.

There’s something about freezing a Griffith x Guts moment into a set of cosplay panels that lights me up—it's like trying to photograph sunlight hitting a sword: the emotion is in the angle. I usually think in small scenes rather than one big tableau, because the dynamic between them is so layered that a single shot rarely does it justice. For a convention photoshoot or a portfolio series, I’d lay out four panels that each tell one emotional beat: the camaraderie spark, the duel and leaving, the ascent (dream) versus reality, and the aftermath. Each panel should have its own palette and physical spacing to reinforce the relationship: warm golds and open space for Griffith’s charisma, cold greys and tight framing for Guts’ solitude. For the camaraderie panel, aim for a candid, almost documentary feel—Griffith laughing with an open hand, Guts mid-smile but with a faraway look. Use soft natural light, relaxed poses, and props like a falcon motif banner or a simple ale mug. This is the easiest to cosplay convincingly because it leans into small body-language cues: how close they stand, whether Griffith’s posture tilts toward an audience, whether Guts is oriented slightly away. For the duel/leaving panel, stage a mid-action frozen moment—Guts with his sword lowered, Griffith with that proud tilt of the head. Use motion blur around the sword or dust kicked up to sell movement; color-grade toward cooler tones or a muted dusk to heighten tension. The ‘dream versus reality’ pair is my favorite creative trick: literally split a diptych. On the left, Griffith posed like a leader on a golden throne or terrace, bright backlight and ethereal filters; on the right, Guts alone in a ruined arch or narrow alley, hard shadows and texture. If you can, have the frames line up so Griffith appears to be looking toward Guts’ frame—it makes the split feel connected. For the aftermath, don’t recreate graphic scenes—hint instead. A close-up of a hand clutching a token (a torn banner, a locket, the hilt of a battered sword) and the other shot showing two empty footprints leading away tells a heavier story than gore ever could. Small theatrical details—scuffed boots, weathered leather, and a single stray feather—will telegraph the weight of their history without being exploitative. I once shot a friends’ duet cosplay where we used a narrow alley with a single shaft of light to capture Griffith’s hauteur against Guts’ shadow; the photographers we chose preferred long lenses to compress the space so the emotional distance read bigger. If you play with lens choice, lighting, and micro-gestures, the panels will communicate more than an elaborate prop ever could. My last piece of advice: talk to your partner about consent and limits before staging anything intense. It keeps the vibe creative and safe, and the resulting images are always more honest for it.

As someone who's deep into both 'Re:Zero' and 'Berserk,' the idea of Puck facing off against Griffith in 'Re:Zero x Guts' is thrilling but not straightforward. Puck, while powerful as a Great Spirit, operates on a different scale compared to Griffith's godlike presence post-Eclipse. Puck's ice magic and playful demeanor contrast sharply with Griffith's calculated, almost divine cruelty. The crossover would likely focus on their ideological clash—Puck's protectiveness over Emilia versus Griffith's ruthless ambition. The battle dynamics would be fascinating, with Puck's agility and elemental attacks pitted against Griffith's strategic mind and Femto abilities. However, the tone mismatch is stark; 'Re:Zero' leans into emotional stakes, while Griffith embodies cosmic horror. The crossover would need to reconcile Puck's whimsical nature with Griffith's darkness, possibly through a scenario where Emilia's safety forces Puck to escalate beyond his usual limits. Griffith's manipulative prowess could exploit Puck's loyalty, turning the fight into a psychological duel. Puck's raw power might surprise Griffith initially, but Femto's reality-warping abilities would dominate. Thematically, it's less about who wins and more about how their clash highlights their core differences—Puck as a guardian of life, Griffith as its orchestrator. The crossover could borrow from 'Berserk's' grim aesthetics to elevate Puck's seriousness, creating a rare moment where his playful facade drops. The outcome might hinge on external factors, like Subaru's intervention or the Witch Cult's interference, to keep both characters true to their narratives.

I was a teenager when I first saw panels from 'Berserk' and, no joke, I cried and raged in equal measure — which is probably why I eventually understood why a lot of people ship Griffith with Guts despite everything. There's an emotional rawness to both characters that makes fans want to tether them back together. For many younger readers, shipping is an act of rebellion: you take a canonical wound and say, 'Not like this.' You make your own tender version that the original text denies. That impulse is especially strong with Griffith and Guts because their bond is so ambivalent — one moment brotherly, the next competitive, then intimate in ways the story hints at without spelling out. Specifically, fans often zero in on pre-Eclipse scenes where Griffith and Guts share quiet, charged moments: a shared joke, a look, a hand on a shoulder. In fandom, those small gestures become amplifiers — the subtext is fertile ground for romance. Combine that with the fact that shipping communities are full of people who want to fix broken things: they write AUs where Griffith never sacrifices the Band of the Hawk, where he confesses feelings he never could, or where he spends decades trying to atone. Shipping becomes a cooperative storytelling project to imagine redemption, complicity, and consent — things the canon complicates or destroys. I won't romanticize the harms though. The Eclipse and Griffith's transformation into Femto are trauma that should never be minimized, and some ships do veer into problematic territory by fetishizing domination. But many creators in the scene are conscientious: they explore consent explicitly, depict long-term healing, or use forgiveness narratives that demand work and accountability rather than easy absolution. I've read fics where Guts and Griffith survive, but Griffith spends years making reparations; others flip it and focus on Guts’ anger and complicated care. Those stories matter because they treat trauma as ongoing, not something to be swept under the rug. On a personal note, shipping felt like a way to sit with contradictions: to love a character's brilliance and be horrified by his choices. It taught me that attraction in fiction can be about nuance and pain, not endorsement. Sometimes I write short scenes where they drink tea and talk about birds, because imagining gentleness is a small, stubborn kind of comfort.

Watching the Griffith x Guts moments always scrambles my feelings in the best and worst ways — they're written to be magnetic and messy, and each anime adaptation leans into different parts of that. For me, the core of their dynamic is a push-pull between adoration and control: Guts admires Griffith’s almost inhuman charisma and drive, while Griffith treats devotion as currency to buy his dream. In adaptations, that ambiguity is handled mostly through visual language — the way shots hold on two people in a room, how a hand lingers on a shoulder, or the music swells when a quiet confession is made. The 1997 'Berserk' TV series treats those beats with a slow, atmospheric approach where silence and composition do a lot of the talking; the films in 'Berserk: The Golden Age Arc' make the same moments glossier and sometimes more explicit; the 2016–2017 version, with its heavy use of 3D, often flattens nuance and leaves fans feeling like the emotional choreography is missing. As someone who first encountered these scenes on a late night stream and then rewatched them with friends and later on my phone during commutes, I can tell you that little directorial choices — a lingering close-up, a voice actor's crack in a line, the tempo of a soundtrack — totally change whether a moment reads as tender, manipulative, or both. Specific scenes show how flexible the adaptations are. Take Guts’ decision to leave and how Griffith reacts: in the manga you get internal monologue and access to both heads, so the emotional calculus is granular. Anime has to externalize that, so filmmakers lean on body language — the way Griffith's expression fractures, the tilt of his head, the silence that follows. In the films, that silence is charged with romanticized tragedy; the camera lingers like it’s savoring heartbreak. In the 1997 series, the same scene feels rawer and more haunted because the pacing gives the audience room to breathe into the betrayal. Then there's the Eclipse sequence, which all adaptations portray as horrific but differ in framing — the films use a sort of operatic brutality and slick visuals that make the horror feel cinematic, while the older TV series used atmosphere and unsettling soundscapes to hammer the emotional weight home. I also notice how voice acting and composers influence readings: a softer delivery makes Griffith seem vulnerable and intimate, while a colder, calculated tone pushes him into puppetmaster territory. Those choices nudge viewers toward readings that range from tragic bromance to a predatory power relationship. Among fans, interpretations scatter — some emphasize queer subtext, some focus on trauma-bond dynamics, others see pure ambition and sacrifice. Personally I oscillate between fascinated and unsettled every time I revisit their arc. If you want the most nuanced take, the manga still gives the richest interior access; if you want atmosphere and mood, the 1997 series ages like wine; if you want modern visuals split by hit-or-miss animation choices, the films and 2016–2017 material are worth experiencing but come with caveats. Whatever route you pick, brace for heavy themes and make sure you watch with an eye for the small details: those are where the Griffith x Guts moments hide their true power.

There’s something almost surgical about the way Kentaro Miura knitted Griffith and Guts together psychologically in 'Berserk'. He didn’t rush their relationship into cliché; he built it like a slow-burning duet, alternating scenes of intimacy and distance so that by the time the Golden Age turns sour, the reader feels the weight of every choice. Miura uses prolonged apprenticeship moments—combat training, shared victories, late-night conversations—to create an emotional economy: small glances and routine tasks become deposits in a bank of trust that will later be violently withdrawn. That accumulation is what makes the betrayal sting; it’s not just plot, it’s a ledger of moments Miura drew in painstaking detail. On the craft side, Miura exploits visual language to shape psychology. Close-ups of eyes, skewed panel composition that isolates one character against negative space, and repeated motifs (the hawk symbol, the behelit, the Brand) act like leitmotifs in a symphony. He juxtaposes tender, quiet panels—Guts and Griffith sharing a drink, or Griffith watching Guts fight—with sudden, brutal set pieces. That contrast trains the reader to feel both affection and unease at once. Miura also gives both men interiority: Guts’ yearning for self-definition and Griffith’s crystalline ambition are shown, not sermonized. By letting us empathize with both perspectives, he creates a toxic gravity between them: it’s not pure love or pure rivalry, it’s an entanglement of admiration, dependency, resentment, and a hunger for meaning. Narratively, Miura’s decision to make the Golden Age largely a flashback was brilliant: it frames their bond as a past myth that haunts the present. The Eclipse then functions as an almost ritualized collapse of that myth, turning personal history into cosmic trauma. Afterwards, their psychological connection isn’t erased; it mutates—Guts’ quest alternates between vengeance and an almost obsessive need to understand Griffith’s choice, while Griffith’s rebirth as Femto reframes his ambition into something monstrous yet eerily focused. Miura resists tidy moral labels, and that ambiguity—his refusal to make one wholly villainous and the other wholly innocent—keeps their bond alive in the reader’s mind. Even when words fail, the art carries the residue: a tilted silhouette, a lingering shadow, a flash of a hawk. Years later, I still find pages I want to turn back to, not for answers but to feel that precarious, heartbreaking pull again.