The room was so silent, one could hear her nervous murmur of the council upon the former concubine who stepped in, her swollen belly unmistakable beneath her plain robes, though her eyes never rose from the floor. She knelt—slowly, with difficulty—and did not speak.
Gilgamesh studied her carefully. "I will ask this once. And only once. Do you claim this child to be mine?" He asked.
She stilled, then, quietly—she replied with a. Trembling tone. "I do not, my king." Her voice cracked as she added, "It was… a mistake. After my dismissal, many of us had no choice. We turned to the brothels. We were subjected to… poor contraceptives. Forgive me. I never meant to cause any distress—"
He raised one hand, and she stopped. He inhaled once—quiet, but deep—and then said with tempered grace: "It is I who has caused you distress, for I have been unjust as your sovereign. For that, I shall accept my responsibility for that injustice."
She looked up, startled. "Pardon… your grace?"
He stood, descending the stairs toward her."Must I repeat myself for the second time?" he said dryly.
She shook her head, flustered, blinking back tears. "…No, your grace."
He stopped before her. Gently—without ceremony—he lifted her face by the chin. Her eyes met his, uncertain, still haunted by shame. "Be free," he said softly.
A stillness settled in her bones. Then, she swallowed hard. "May I ask something, your grace?"
He didn't speak—but the silence was permission enough.
"May I kiss you goodbye? If I may be so bold as to think that… the past four years meant anything to you."
Gilgamesh's eyes softened—but not in a way that encouraged delusion. He stepped forward and instead pressed his forehead to hers. "They did," he whispered. "To the man I was—before I met the only woman who I wish would ask me such a question."
Tears welled in her eyes, but she nodded. She understood.
"May I?" he asked gently, gesturing toward her belly.
She nodded once more.
He placed a hand over her stomach, warm and calm. A rare, almost fatherly smile ghosted his face. He held it there for a moment—then turned to the side.
"Summon the highest-ranking eligible lords of the realm," he instructed a councilor.
Viviane gasped. "My king, that's not necessary—"
He cut her off with a measured look.
"I may not love you," he said, "but I care for your future. This will be our final meeting. But I will ensure you are protected and cherished even if not by me." He paused, waiting. "Will you accept this gift and forgive your king?"
Her voice broke as the tears finally spilled. "Of course, your grace."
He stepped back as the guards led her gently out of the hall, murmurs rising behind them once more.
But Gilgamesh did not return to his throne.
Instead, he looked out toward the open doors… to the path that led toward a cottage in the hills.
Toward the only woman who ever made him want to be a better man.
Days Past, and to Arthuria's surprise, she didn't receive any dinner invitations for a few days. She wondered if he had been ill or something. Until A knock on the door. It was the same boy gave her a letter,
"For you, My lady." She smiled this time.
She unfolded it slowly, breath catching. The handwriting was bold.
Dear Arthuria.
He was erased.
But you make me want to remember. You asked me what love is. I cannot answer that question with certainty. But what I do know is that your presence has disrupted the very foundation of my world. You have a strength that rivals the gods, a stubbornness that challenges my own, and a fire that refuses to be extinguished. I cannot offer you promises of peace without chaos, nor freedom without duty, but I can promise that I will stand beside you. I will share your burdens, not place them upon you. If you choose to stay in your cottage, I will respect that. But know this: my offer stands, and my resolve is unshaken.
Yours, should you wish me,
Gil
Arthuria stared at the letter, her chest tightening as she read the words again. Then down at the rose in her hand. She had expected arrogance, perhaps even mockery, but this… this was something else entirely. She set the letter down, her hands trembling slightly. For all his faults, there was something undeniably real about the man beneath the golden armor.
And that terrified her.
She stood in her garden, dressed in simple linens, the weight of another golden crown nowhere near her. For the first time in years, she felt at peace. The flowers swayed under the evening wind, their petals brushing against her fingers as she traced their edges absently. The quiet of the night settled around her. And then—A shift in the air. Her body moved before her mind caught up, old instincts snapping back to life.
She turned sharply—only to find Bedivere standing there, his face pale.
"Arthuria— Get down!" But before she could process, an arrow struck him in the chest. The impact sent him staggering back. She lunged forward—too late. A second arrow, black-tipped and glowing with Fae magic, struck him directly in the heart. Poisoned. "Bedivere—!" She caught him before he could fall, her hands pressing against his wound.
His breath was ragged, his silver eyes dulling. But his grip on her arm was strong. "Morguna—" he rasped. "She's here."
And then the shadows moved. Figures emerged from the darkness—knights of Britannia, lords of Britannia, and Morgunastanding at the head of them all. "Hello, sister." She smiled. "Did you miss me?"
Arthuria's grip on Bedivere tightened. She could feel his pulse weakening. Morguna's eyes flicked down to him, mocking pity in her voice.
"I'm disappointed. I expected more from the great king of knights ."
Arthuria bared her teeth. "What do you want, Morguna?"
"What do I want? Instead of mourning your people," Morguna replied smoothly. "I find you here..in complete peace and comfort. I want to know what right do you have to comfort, Dearest Sister?"
Arthuria stiffened. Her mind raced. How? How did they find me? And then realization struck. She turned back to Bedivere, whose blood-stained lips parted, guilt heavy in his gaze.
"…I didn't know," he whispered. He had been tracked all along. His loyalty had betrayed her, even when he never meant to. And every knight standing before her—whether by intent or ignorance—had done the same.
Every. Last. One.
Before Arthuria could move, Morguna spoke again. "Take her."
Knights rushed forward. Arthuria threw herself into battle—barehanded, no sword, no armor, but still Pendragon. Her fist collided with the first knight, sending him crashing into the dirt. She dodged another attack, twisting midair, her knee slamming into a soldier's ribs. Another came at her with a dagger—she caught his wrist, twisted, and broke it with a single motion. And then—Pain. A blade pressed itself against her back, the cold sting of steel against her spine. She stilled. From behind her, Morguna's voice purred. "I wouldn't move, dear sister." Arthuria's breath came sharp, but she didn't flinch. Morguna stepped into view, and in her hands—Excalibur. Her stomach dropped. "The Sword of Kings," Morguna mused, tilting the blade in her grasp, watching the way the golden steel caught the moonlight, "They say it chooses the true king…" Her lips curled."…this sword belonged to Mordred ." Arthuria's breath hitched. "Mordred was no true king," she spat, voice hoarse. "He had no honor, no discipline—" A sharp slap cracked across her face, snapping her head to the side. "You," Morguna seethed, "speak of honor while you cower in a cottage, abandoning your kingdom? The people of Britain mourn you, revere you as a hero, while you live in peace among flowers?" She let out a bitter laugh. "What a pathetic lie. But I suppose that's what you do best." Tears burned in Arthuria's eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Instead, she lifted her chin, defiance shining through every ounce of pain.
"You waste your life chasing ghosts," she whispered, voice trembling with restrained fury, " Mordred is dead." "Yes," she purred, "That's why I need you." The knights around her tightened their grip, she realized—they weren't going to kill her. Morguna's green eyes gleamed. "Time to come home, sister." The guards wrenched Arthuria away from Bedivere's still form. He barely stirred, his breath shallow, his fingers twitching toward his sword, but darkness was already claiming him. Rough hands seized her wrists, yanking her back. The fairy guards restrained her, ironclad grips pressing bruises into her skin as she struggled, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Bedivere!" Her voice cracked, frantic, her gaze locked on the knight slumped in the dirt, his hand pressed to the wound blooming red at his stomach. Morguna watched with a cruel smirk, her dark robes billowing like shadows themselves. " Good," she mused, stepping forward, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. " Now you know how it feels. The agony of watching someone you care for fall before your eyes."
Her voice dripped with venom. "Now you understand what it was like when you drove your blade into my son." Morguna's eyes darkened. "Leave him," she ordered coldly. "Dead men tell no tales anyway." And then—Darkness. They were gone. Bedivere forced himself onto his elbows, teeth grinding against the agony ripping through his body. His vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edges, but he clung to one desperate thought. The tyrant king. The one man who could bring Arthuria back. Bloodied and gasping, Bedivere dragged himself to his horse, hoisting his failing body into the saddle with sheer will alone. Every movement sent fire through his veins, but he gripped the reins and spurred the beast forward, riding toward the only hope he had left.
The fire crackled low in the great hall, throwing long shadows against the walls.
The plates between them had been pushed aside. Only half-finished goblets of wine remained.
Gilgamesh sat back in his chair, idly swirling the dark liquid in his cup, his gaze distant. Hr had yet to receive a reply, if he had ever been written.
Across from him, Alexander lounged carelessly, one leg kicked over the other, looking for all the world like this was just another tavern night and not two kings sharing the weight of their ghosts.
The fire crackled low between them. Alexander wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, tossed a bone onto the plate, and leaned back lazily in his chair.
"Apologies for our little king's fall," he said casually. "Had I been on my soil, I would've gladly assisted her." He swirled his wine and lifted it toward the empty air, a sardonic salute.
"Man or woman, she was a damn good king."
Gilgamesh, who had been staring too long into the fire, finally spoke, "She still is."
Alexander tilted his head, studying him."Speaking of which…" A pause. "Where is she?"
Gilgamesh sighed heavily, pressing his lips into a hard, thin line. He said nothing. And that was all Alexander needed. The shift in his posture. The way his eyes didn't lift. He had royally fucked up. Alexander mirrored the grim line of Gil's mouth, setting his goblet down with a thud.
"So what's your plan here?" he asked, voice almost sympathetic. "You saw how she was at the banquet. She's not gonna marry you like some delicate damsel and sit around sipping tea for the rest of her life. Just saying."
Gilgamesh's hands clenched slightly on the cup. "She's just—so…" he started, then exhaled sharply. "Perfect. She's too perfect. And I—" He broke off, trying to catch a breath that wouldn't come. "I tell her to be my wife, and she says no. I ask her to have dinner, she says no, I take her to see the city, and she fights me every step we take—" He let out a rough, frustrated sound. "And it's so… Exhausting. All I want is to tell her—I love her."
The confession left him almost winded.
Alexander watched him quietly, then—grinning like a bastard—leaned forward.
"Gil—" he drawled. "Or should I say, Gilgamessi…"
Gilgamesh's head snapped up. His face shuttered. No one called him that. Not since Enkidu. Not since he buried that cursed name with the friend he could not save. It was the false name, the tool name the gods had given him—meant for a puppet king they could control. A name he hated.
Alexander saw the flash of pain, the tightening of his jaw. But he pushed gently, not unkindly. "I know you may not want to take advice from a walking sperm bank like myself," he said, smirking. "But believe it or not, I've been in real relationships."
Gilgamesh just stared at him, unimpressed.
Alexander shrugged."Which makes me qualified to say: you need to tell her everything you just told me. Before it's too late. Before some knight, for example, sweeps her off her feet."
Gilgamesh's expression darkened slightly.
Alexander continued, more serious now, "Because now that she's no longer a king with the burden of choosing for a kingdom, something tells me she might finally want—"
Gilgamesh finished it in a low, broken voice: "Freedom. Peace. Maybe even love."
Alexander nodded slowly. "I'm guessing she already told you that once. And you just… ignored it. Because you didn't—"
Gil grimaced, looking away. "Listen," he muttered.
Alexander smirked widely and slapped the table. "Good job. You pass. With flying colors."
Gilgamesh rolled his eyes skyward like a long-suffering saint.
Alexander tapped the rim of his goblet once. "I told you you would find someone."
The sea was gray that morning, the kind of endless gray that swallowed both horizon and hope. Gilgamesh stood at the edge of the rocks, the taste of salt and regret on his tongue. Somewhere behind him, the serpent that had stolen immortality from his grasp slithered back into the depths, carrying the one thing he had left to believe in.
He almost laughed. Almost.
"—Well, well," a voice called from behind. "Fancy finding you in the middle of no hoes. Get it? No hoes?"
Gilgamesh turned, unimpressed.
Standing there in his travel-worn armor, cloak half undone, was Alexander. "A snake, was it?" he asked when he saw the broken remnants of Gilgamesh's satchel. "Yikes. That's gotta sting."
Gilgamesh still didn't answer. He only looked out across the open sea, where a sleek ship bobbed lazily on the waves.
"Need a lift?" Alexander offered with a grin.
Gilgamesh's lips twitched — the closest thing to a smile he'd had in years. "Fishing for friends?"
"You look like you could use one," Alexander said, but was cut off by a grip to the throat.
"Never." Gil hissed.
"I wouldn't mind an alliance." Alexander's eyes gleamed with amusement or challenge.
Gilgamesh's eyes narrowed. "Acceptable."
"Now you're talking. I've got wine, a warm deck, and a few companions who'd make you forget your troubles."
Gilgamesh glanced at him sidelong. "I don't trust your taste in company."
"Ha! That's fair," Alexander said, following into a small rowboat tethered near the shore.
"Well?" Gilgamesh called back, picking up one of the oars. "What are you waiting for? Row."
Alexander snorted, dropping into the opposite seat. "Who do you think you are, King of Humanity?"
Gilgamesh tossed him the other oar with a sharp grin. "Alliances," he said, "are fifty-fifty."
The boat rocked as they began to row toward the ship, the silence between them stretched taut but not unfriendly.
After a long while, Alexander said quietly, "You lost someone."
Gilgamesh didn't look at him. "Yeah."
"You know, my father killed my uncles to be the first in line," Alexander murmured. "I am just as traumatized," he pouted.
Gil finally turned his head, the faintest smirk ghosting across his face. "Just shut up, will you?"
Alexander grinned.
They rowed on in silence, two kings adrift between gods and ghosts — each pretending, for a moment, that the other wasn't as lonely as he was.
"But seriously, Gil. How the hell did you never end up with any bastards?"
Gilgamesh's hand stilled.
He didn't speak right away. The fire cracked and hissed, filling the silence between them.
Then, at last, he said—quiet, almost an admission, "Because it would have been cruel."
Alexander blinked, surprised by the gravity in his tone.
Gilgamesh set the goblet down, steady.
"To bring a child into this cruel world… to father it without the intention of loving it, or its mother—"
He met Alexander's eyes, the full weight of it there, burning.
"Then I would have been my father."
The words landed heavily between them.
Alexander shifted, sitting up a little straighter. He scratched the side of his beard thoughtfully, then muttered, "Yeah. I know you're not him."
He raised a brow, skeptical.
Alexander shrugged.
"Your old man—" he jerked his chin toward the throne "—would've killed every king in that council room that day. No speeches. No mercy. No chances, just blood."
Gilgamesh said nothing. He knew which day he was referring to. The day he broke away from the heavens. He only looked into the flames, as if seeing ghosts dance there.
Alexander leaned forward, elbows on the table.
"You might be a bastard sometimes, Gil—but you're not a tyrant. At least not he kind they say you are."
That finally made Gilgamesh lift his gaze.
For a moment, just a heartbeat, there was a flicker of something rare in his eyes.
Gratitude.
Alexander grinned to shake off the seriousness, leaning back again.
"You know," he said, tossing a grape into his mouth, "When I go—pass on whatever this 'legacy' shit is supposed to be…"
Gil raised a brow, curious.
Alexander smirked.
"I think I wanna be somewhere far. New. King Alexander the Great is too..Royal, I like Alexander the Conqueror…Maybe even just Alex."
Gilgamesh chuckled, low and rough.
"I don't know why you were ever chosen to be their king," he drawled.
"Always on some ship, chasing storms and pretty women."
Alexander laughed, the sound echoing off the stone walls.
"Makes me harder to assassinate."
Gilgamesh smiled thinly, shaking his head.
"Fool."
Alexander raised his goblet lazily.
"To happy Fools"
They drank—not in celebration.
Not in mourning.
But in the quiet, fleeting peace that only men who have survived too much can ever truly understand.
And somewhere, in the silent spaces between their words,
both knew—
The world they had inherited was not the one they would leave behind.
Back at the lower palace, a maid hurried through the grand halls, carefully balancing a silver tray laden with two meals.
Another invitation from the king.
Though the lady Arthuria had already declined dinner once. She accepted the last. She was barely a few steps from the kitchen when the sound of hoofbeats, erratic and unsteady, echoed from the courtyard. The moment she turned, she gasped in horror.
A knight slumped over his horse, barely holding on, blood dripping down his armor. She dropped the basket, the king's words lost in mud. "Your king—" Bedivere rasped, swaying in the saddle, his strength giving out." Where is your king?" She was met with no response. The knight's eyes closed.
Panic surged through her as she ran to the nearest guard.
The doors to the hall slammed open, and a guard rushed in, breathless, armor clanking. "Your Majesty—!"
Gilgamesh didn't even look up from his seat, voice edged with irritation. "If the city isn't burning, leave me be."
The guard hesitated, eyes wide. "It's Lady Arthuria, sire—"
Gilgamesh snapped up, the goblet falling from his hand and shattering against the marble floor. "What?" In two strides, he reached the guard, grabbing the man by the front of his tunic, lifting him slightly off the ground. "What about her?" His voice was low, dangerous — terrified.
The guard stumbled over his words."She's missing, Your Grace—and her knight is… he's on the verge of death."
Gilgamesh didn't wait to hear more; he shoved the man aside and stormed out of the hall, the heavy doors slamming against the walls behind him. The guards barely had time to react before he shoved past them, the sheer force of his presence shaking the very air.
At first, it was pride that forced him to walk.
Controlled. Sharp.
Like a King. A king does not run. A king must be —calm—Collected—But then—
He could feel his heart was already sprinting faster than his feet. And it was even in the palace. He did not know where she was.
Fuck it.
And so he ran.
Down the marble corridors, down into the darker, colder bowels of the palace—the lower levels where the servants whispered, where secrets festered.
Alexander, cursing under his breath, followed after him—but he couldn't keep up.
By the time he reached the medical chambers, Bedivere was collapsing onto the healer's table, coughing up blood as they frantically worked to keep him alive.
"My king—The Lady Arthuria—I fear she's been taken!" she cried, breathless. "Sir Bedivere is wounded—he's barely alive!" A beat of silence. Then a storm. "Where is she?" His voice was death itself, cold and Definite. The nurses barely dared to breathe. Bedivere tried to speak, but another wave of pain wracked his body. His lips parted, gasping, but no words came. One of the healers stepped forward cautiously. "My king, he's dying—"
"He should be dead—" Gilgamesh snarled, his voice cracking. If this poor excuse of a knight wasn't the last hope of finding Arthuria, He would be. His hands slammed down on either side of the table. His face was carved from rage and desperation, his entire body taut with unspent violence.
"—Where. Is. She?"
Bedivere coughed, his hand trembling as he clutched the bloodied fabric of his tunic. His lips moved, barely forming the words.
"WHERE IS MY WIFE?"
"Gil," Alexander said. Trying to calm him down.
But Gilgamesh simply shot him a Glare that said. Silence. His voice dropped into something lethal, something terrifying.
"The only life that matters is hers…" he growled.
"We both know she wouldn't share your view. So I ask you to ask yourself, What would she want?"
Gilgamesh let out a breath while he tried to calm himself.
"—her sister—Morguna," he rasped, his voice wet with blood. "—Took her."
Gilgamesh grabbed him by the collar with terrifying ease. His grip was unrelenting, his rage barely contained. "And you let her ?" His voice was death itself, a sharp, guttural sound that sent shivers down the spines of everyone in the room. Bedivere's lips trembled, his hands clawing at Gil's wrist, but the king didn't loosen his grip. The knight had failed. And most importantly.
He had failed.
Bedivere forced himself to remain conscious. He had to—if he lost the fight now, Arthuria would never be found. "The Fae…" he gasped. "… they need her alive." A chilling silence followed.
Gilgamesh's entire body went still. He knew what that meant. The Fae did not take prisoners. They captured to use, to break— reshape. His blood roared in his veins, his fury nearly suffocating. Slowly, deliberately, he released Bedivere, letting the knight collapse onto his deathbed. He turned to the nearest guard. His jaw tight, his voice deathly calm.
"Ring the bell, call the armies." The words were a death sentence. "Send word to every corner of this realm." His crimson gaze burned with an unholy fire. "Any who doesn't answer will be deemed a traitor and will be dealt with without mercy." The room seemed to shrink beneath the weight of his voice as they awaited the final command. "We go to war."
That was all Alexander needed to hear.
The moment the Horns blared, the palace erupted into motion. Soldiers readied themselves for the bloodshed to come, but the king of Babylonia did not sit upon his throne. He stood at the heart of his kingdom, a force of reckoning, a husbandwho would tear the heavens apart to bring his wife home. The masters hesitated. "Your Majesty, what should we do about the knight—"
Arthuria's face flashed before his eyes. "He is my last knight, and you will not harm him."
He gritted his teeth, "Make sure he lives. " His tone left no room for argument. He stormed out. Every step he took was charged with divine wrath, with the unshakable will of a King of Kings.
The Fae had dared. They had dared take what was his. And He would remind them, and the rest of the Six realms.
If they thought Gilgamesh was a tyrant, then the son of Lucalbana Albanian knew no mercy.