The scent of earth and roses mingled in the breeze, brushing through the half-open window.
Beyond the treeline, birds sang without care, as if the horrors had never happened.
But within the quiet sanctuary, Arthuria Pendragon felt no peace.
She sat at the edge of her modest wooden table, her hands trembling as she stared at the worn surface.
A simple vase of blue roses rested beside her, their petals already wilting.
The sight of them twisted something in her chest — the bitter reminder that even beauty could not escape time.
And now, she had made her decision.
The Avalon Core — the sacred fragment of the ancient power that had once saved her — no longer belonged within her.
It had been a burden from the moment it fused with her soul. A reminder of prophecies, curses, and a destiny she no longer wished to bear.
It was not strength she wanted anymore.
It was freedom.
Her trembling hand rested upon the cool metal of a dagger.
Not for battle — not for blood — but for the task she would carry out alone.
She would remove Avalon.
Gilgamesh was nearby. She could feel him. Ever watchful, ever protective.
He had kept his distance, though the storm that raged behind his crimson eyes had not lessened since the moment he carried her from the ruins of the Fae Realm.
But this was not a choice for him to make.
It was hers.
She knelt before one of the larger trees, its bark twisted and weathered with age. She ran her fingers along its surface, feeling the heartbeat of the earth beneath her touch.
It would be enough.
The dagger glinted in the sunlight. With a steady hand, she carved into the tree's flesh, the bark splitting away beneath her blade. She traced the shape with precision — the unmistakable form of Excalibur.
Piece by piece, the bark curled and fell, the tree offering itself to her will. The wood beneath gleamed pale and strong.
Though no magic surged from it, no ancient whispers called its name, it bore a resemblance that would fool any who dared look upon it.
When it was done, Arthuria stepped back. The false Excalibur stood like a silent echo of the one she had once wielded.
But there was still one task left.
She placed her hand against her chest, closing her eyes. The warmth of the Avalon Core pulsed faintly, a distant heartbeat that had long since become part of her. It resisted.
"Not anymore."
With a trembling breath, she began the separation.
Magic swirled around her, faint blue light curling from her skin.
The air grew heavy, the power that had kept her alive through countless battles resisting her call.
But Arthuria did not falter. She reached deeper, commanding it to leave.
"I am no longer worthy ."
A cry escaped her lips as the core tore itself free, the golden light pulsing like a dying star.
It hovered above her chest — a shard of divinity, glowing with the last remnants of Avalon's ancient blessing.
And just as quickly as it had come, the light faded.
Her body trembled, the absence of its power leaving her weak.
No binding fate.
Just Arthuria.
When she returned to the cottage, Gilgamesh was waiting.
He had felt it.
"You removed it." His voice was low.
She nodded, though the strain of the ritual was still visible in the pallor of her face
. The small glowing orb, no larger than a heartstone, rested in her trembling hands.
"I need you to take it away."
The request settled between them. He said nothing for a long moment, his gaze flickering from the core to the weary determination in her eyes.
"Are you sure this is what you want?"
Her fingers curled around the glowing light, the warmth of it still pulsing softly.
It no longer bound her, but it called. The temptation to take it back, to wield its strength once more, lingered.
But Arthuria shook her head.
"I'm sure."
Gilgamesh stepped forward, his presence commanding, though the shadows of concern flickered beneath his usual mask of indifference.
His large hand closed gently over hers, the Avalon Core's light illuminating the golden patterns on his skin.
"Then I will take it."
She exhaled, the burden lifting. "Thank you."
But she did not ask him where he would take it.
And Gilgamesh did not tell her.
He had no intention of destroying the core, nor of casting it into the void where none could find it.
Instead, he would claim it as his own — not out of desire for power, but because the day might come when Arthuriawould need it again.
No prophecy was absolute.
And should fate ever dare reach for her once more, the King of Uruk would ensure that she had the strength to meet it.
The Avalon Core would rest among his treasures. Hidden. Guarded.
Perhaps one day, she may need it.
Gilgamesh did not stay. He could not. Arthuria had made it clear—through words unspoken, through the rigid way she held herself, through the hollow look in her eyes—that she was not ready. And so, he left. Coward, he thought to himself. Not before ensuring she had everything she needed. Not before stationing knights nearby—ones she would never see, but who would guard her nonetheless. Not before making certain that no one would enter her cottage. Unless she wished it.
Without farewell, without a word, he turned away from the threshold of her small, quiet home and walked into the night. He did not look back. He would have stayed if she had asked. If she so much as breathed his name. But she did not. And so, He returned to the golden halls of his palace alone. The first letter was short.
The city is well. Your people have rebuilt, as they always do. As you taught them to. I have ensured no one will disturb you. Take your time, Arthuria.
He did not know if she had read it. But he sent another.
Your Knight has received the proper burial of A King's Knight. When you're ready, you may wonder to his station..
Still, silence.
But he kept writing.
Never demanding. Never pressing. Never asking if she was well—because he knew she wasn't.
Instead, he simply reminded her that he was still there. That Uruk stood, waiting. That he stood, waiting.
Do you still hear the wind where you are? I hear it when I stand on the palace balcony. It's lovely.
His fingers had hovered over the parchment for a long time after writing one last letter.
It was long.
And very detailed, hoping it helped clear up the missing pieces she sought. He never asked her to return. He didn't ask for anything. But if she read the letters—if she ever let her fingers trace the ink he had written—she would know. She was not forgotten. She was not alone. And when she was ready—whenever that day came—He would be waiting.
The days blurred into duty. Council meetings. Trade agreements. The aftermath of war.
Gilgamesh resumed his rule as if nothing had changed, as if the absence of a single woman should not matter in the grand scheme of his kingdom. And yet, it did. He did not speak of her, nor allow others to. But she lingered in the spaces between breaths, in the shadowed corners of the throne room where she once stood at his side. The court felt quieter without her sharp wit, the battlefield lonelier without the glint of her silver blade. At feasts, he found himself tracing the rim of his goblet, staring into the depths of his wine, hearing echoes of her laughter in places she no longer stood. At night, when the wind howled through the palace corridors, he wondered if it carried his name to her, the way it once carried hers to him. She was not here. She was in a cottage on the edge of the world. And he—who had torn through kingdoms, who had burned empires to the ground—could do nothing but wait. Wait for the day she would step out of that cottage with her fire rekindled, her sword once again in hand. A moment when she would no longer flinch at his touch. A day she would look at him and see him, not the shadow of the man who had hurt her. Until then, he would rule. He would lead. And he would wait.
Until——the servants who told him.
"She hardly eats, Your Majesty."
"She doesn't sleep."
"She spends all her time in the garden, planting flowers."
It had been weeks since Arthuria withdrew to her cottage.
While he had allowed her the space she needed, hearing that she was wasting away—that she had lost so much weight that the servants whispered in concern—was the final straw.…..
"PAUSE THE STORY—"
Gil looked up mid-word.
Elaine's eyes beamed with a question, "Who said I love you first ?"
The siblings turned their attention to their father, who in turn turned his gaze to his wife.
Arthuria set down her cup, leveling her children with a steady look.
" Yes, well, under the circumstances—," she admitted. Gil leaned forward, voice dripping with satisfaction. " No, I wanna hear it. " She scoffed, but her lips twitched at the corners. " It was your father." Artizea gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. "Blasphemy!" Arthur shook his head."I knew it was too good to be true." Eugene muttered under his breath, "This explains a lot." Then, where was Elaine with her curious eyes? "But– if you hated each other," she asked, voice soft, almost hesitant. "What changed ?" His smirk faded—just slightly. His gaze drifted to his wife once more. She was a beacon of light and hope. And for a moment—just a moment—the weight of the past settled between them. A memory unspoken. A history too great to be contained in mere words. And so, with a rare, quiet reverence, he simply lifted his goblet once more and said— "love," he admitted, voice quieter. The siblings exchanged glances, still unsure of what that meant
And how could they?
How could anyone comprehend what happened that night?
If they weren't there to see it.
The night had long since swallowed the sky, the moon casting a pale glow over the garden of roses.
It was quiet. The kind of heavy silence that comes before a storm.
The blooms, once a vibrant sanctuary, were now little more than graves beneath the stars.
And in the center of it all, Arthuria Pendragon knelt, her trembling fingers brushing the silver hilt of Excalibur.
She was ready.
Her heart pounded beneath her chest, the weight of her choice pressing down like an anchor. The blade gleamed in the moonlight, waiting.
"For them," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
For the knights who had fallen.
For the kingdom she could not save.
For the guilt that refused to let her go.
She would see no throne. No future.
Just the roses. Just the end.
But before the steel could pierce her heart —A hand seized her wrist.
"Foolish woman."
The words were like a snarl, low and trembling with the kind of fury that burned colder than any flame.
Her eyes snapped up.
Gilgamesh.
He loomed over her, his crimson eyes ablaze.
He looked nothing like the untouchable ruler he was. His hair was wind-tousled, his jaw tight with barely restrained rage.
There was no crown, no armor.
Only the raw, unforgiving presence of a man who had arrived just in time.
"Let me go," she growled, twisting against his unrelenting grip.
"No."
"Gil—"
"Silence!"
Without another word, he pulled her up, the force of it making her stumble.
Excalibur clattered to the ground, forgotten. She lashed out, but his grip was iron, his strength unmoving.
"What are you doing?!" she hissed, the tears threatening to spill.
"What I should have done weeks ago."
Before she could protest, he lifted her over his shoulder.
She kicked, she fought, but it was like struggling against the wind.
He moved with purpose, each step echoing the barely contained storm within him.
The roses blurred past them.
And then — the cottage.
The door slammed shut behind them, the heavy wood trembling with the force.
He strode inside, the air thick with tension. The golden glow from the lanterns flickered as if fearful of the scene unfolding.
Without pause, he set Arthuria down in the center of the room.
But when she tried to stand, the chains came.
His chains slithered from the shadows, their divine links shimmering like molten gold.
It coiled around her ankles, forcing her into the chair. Another set of chains wrapped around her wrists, binding her firmly.
She gasped, glaring at him through the strands of golden hair that fell into her face.
"This is madness."
His crimson eyes flashed. "Madness? This is madness?" His voice was sharp, each word dripping with bitter disbelief. "What in the six realms do you think you were doing?"
Arthuria jerked against the chains, the futile effort only making them tighten.
"Isn't it obvious?!" she spat.
He was pacing the room. She shook her head, refusing to meet his gaze.
"Why did you come?"
"Because I knew," he growled. "I knew the moment I gave you space, you would try to carry the weight alone. I knew you'd see your death as some twisted form of redemption."
Her breathing quickened.
"I'm the last Pendragon who can wield Excalibur. Without me, she can't win."
"And so you thought the answer was to die?" His voice cracked, though the fury did not waver.
"Yes!" The word escaped before she could stop it. "If I end it, it ends with me!"
He stared at her, the anguish in his gaze too raw to hide.