The morning was warm, the kind of warmth that settled heavy on the skin,
The scent of warm bread and honey filled the cottage, mingling with the faint aroma of freshly planted flowers. Arthuriasat on the edge of the bed, her legs drawn up slightly, watching the tray of food before her with quiet hesitation. Gilgamesh sat beside her, his crimson eyes calm but unwavering.
"Eat," he said simply, placing a piece of bread in her hand.
She swallowed hard. The gesture unsettled her in ways she could not explain.
A king did not do this.
A king did not bring food. Did not tear pieces of bread and offer them with his own hands. Nor lower himself to something so gentle—not when he could summon servants with a single command.
It felt wrong. She felt wrong.
"I can feed myself," she murmured.
"You haven't been," he countered.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she stared at the food in her hands. The weight of his patience, of his care, was unbearable. She shook her head, trying to place the bread back onto the tray. "I don't—"
His hand closed gently over hers, stopping her. "Please," he repeated, softer this time.
The lump in her throat tightened. She forced herself to take a small bite, chewing slowly. It sat heavy on her tongue, her stomach twisting. She couldn't do this. Not with him watching her like that. Not with his eyes filled with something she didn't deserve. Panic clawed at her chest. She stood abruptly, shoving the tray aside.
"No thanks," she muttered. She turned toward the door, though she didn't make it far. Strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her back before she could escape. "Let me go," she whispered, struggling against his hold.
Gilgamesh ignored her protests, lifting her effortlessly before settling back onto the bed, cradling her in his lap like she weighed nothing. His grip was firm but not cruel, locking her in place without hurting her. She squirmed, pushing against his chest, trying to pull away—but he held her still.
"Enough," he said, voice low.
She stilled, her breath coming in uneven bursts. She hated this. Hated how easily he could keep her here. Hated how he did not command or demand—only waited. Her pride screamed at her to keep fighting. But she was so tired. And so, she let her head drop against his chest, trembling. The silence stretched between them, thick with something neither of them could name.
Gilgamesh exhaled softly, his grip loosening just enough for her to move. "Say ah…" he murmured with a smirk.
Arthruia rolled her eyes, but this time, when he picked up a piece of fruit and pressed it to her lips, she did not pull away. She took it.
"We need to talk."
Arthuria felt frozen in place. Her grip tightened around the bread. "No, we don't,I am fine."
His jaw clenched. More Lies. "Arthuria—"
"I said I'm fine." The words came stronger, sharper. Final.
"There's still a matter of the debt," He said casually, as if discussing something trivial. She exhaled sharply. "I don't owe you anything. We've been over this." He hummed, a low, knowing sound. "I'm talking about my debt to you."
That made her turn. Eyes narrowing, she regarded him with bewilderment.
"How are you in debt to me?" He gave her an incredulous look, as if she had just asked whether the sun rose in the east. "Isn't it obvious?" he said smoothly. "You saved me." She hated how her heart skipped at that. How her breath caught in her throat at the intensity of his gaze. "—I don't understand," she said, forcing steel into her voice. Gilgamesh took a slow step forward, closing the distance between them, and her pulse roared in her ears. "You saved me from my arrogance," he murmured. She stilled. He had never spoken of it so plainly before—of the silent agony he carried beneath his golden façade. "I owe you my life, Arthuria," he continued. His voice was steady—too steady. "I should have drowned in grief, but you kept me afloat. Because of you, I lived." His voice was steady, but his eyes. They burned with something so raw it made her chest ache.
" I was lost before, and—" He exhaled, dropping all defenses. "—And I could have stayed lost. It didn't hurt when I felt nothing. But now.." His breath hitched, his voice breaking ever so slightly, " Now I feel everything ." Arthuria forgot how to breathe. "So," he whispered, "I ask you to do me the greatest act of kindness, " his gaze pinned her in place, "To put me out of my misery." The world blurred. "…Of living without you." A Single tear. It was all she had left. And then—Her breath hitched. A sharp, broken sound escaped her lips before she could stop it.
Her hands stilled.
And before she could force another lie past her lips, the sobs overtook her.
He held her without hesitation, his touch gentle but firm.
She didn't fight him.
Didn't push him away.
She just wept.
Burying her face in his chest, her sobs raw and unrestrained, shaking with a grief so deep it tore through her like a storm.
And he held her.
For the first time, he held her.
Not as a fellow king who understands the burden of loss, but as a man who understood her inner pain.
Because he had felt it, too.
He had once spiraled in his grief, helpless, furious, lost.
His arms wrapped around her fully, attempting to fuse her into his chest as she cried into him.
And for once, he had no words.
There was nothing to say that would make it right. So he said nothing.
He just held her.
And he let her break.
His voice is quieter now, steadier. "You're not fine. And that's okay, you don't have to pretend that you are. Not in front of me ."
She stared at the flowers, tears slipping down her dirt-streaked cheeks. She had spent so long feeling nothing but the weight of her agony, drowning in the remnants of what had been done to her, in what she had lost. But right now, she was the one lost. He could have kissed her. The thought was there, lingering between them like a held breath. He could see it in the way her lips parted, in the flicker of something unspoken in her eyes. If he reached for her, she wouldn't pull away. And yet…He wouldn't. Not yet. She needed to process this—them. He had spent years waiting for her, and he wanted her to come to him by choice, not because he had willed it, not because his words had swayed her. Not that she would ever do something simply because he said so. That was what he loved about her. So instead, he exhaled, letting his hand drop from her face.
"I will wait for you," he said softly. She looked up at him, startled. "I have waited my whole life for you," he continued, his voice steady, certain. "And I'll wait a lifetime more… as long as it takes." His eyes lingered on her face for a moment longer, committing every detail to memory before he turned away. He forced himself to leave, to step outside her cottage and return to his palace, even when every fiber of his being screamed at him to stay. Then—
"Gil."
His steps faltered. His body tensed as he glanced over his shoulder, as if afraid to hope. Arthuria stood there, lips parted, the firelight casting a glow upon her sharp features. There was something on the tip of her tongue, something unspoken that shimmered in the silence. But then—she hesitated. Her expression softened, and instead, she simply said, "Travel safe… It's dark."
He smiled. A quiet, knowing smile. He inclined his head. And then he was gone.
That night, the King slept alone. His chambers, vast and gilded with treasures of ages past, suddenly felt meaningless—hollow, despite all the gold. Because the one thing that could truly fill the space was missing. The bed, large enough to fit five men, now seemed unbearably empty.
He turned his head to the side, staring at the mountain of pillows beside him, the ones she should be sleeping on. But she wouldn't. He remembered how Arthuria always knocked them all off the bed in the cottage, grumbling that she only needed one. He had teased her about it, calling her stubborn, but now… now, he found himself reaching for a single pillow, pushing the rest aside, as if that would bring her closer. As if that would let him sleep.
It didn't.
Across the distance, in a much smaller space, Arthuria sat awake in her cottage.
The cottage that once felt almost suffocating when she first arrived. Gilgamesh was so tall, so broad, that he made the whole place feel like an ant house. Yet, with him, it had never felt cramped. It had felt like a castle. She thought about the night he had abandoned his grand chambers just to sleep beside her.
It was so un-tyrant-like, almost ridiculous. But it was also… wonderful. And now, without him, the emptiness gnawed at her. She rose from bed, restless, and unlatched the window. A cool breeze slipped through, brushing against her skin as she gazed out into the dark horizon. The first traces of dawn were beginning to rise. For a fleeting moment, she wished it were him. That the sunlight creeping over the hills would take his shape, step into her doorway, and come back to her. But that wasn't fair.
He was the one waiting. Now, it was up to her to meet him halfway.
Later that evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the morning was gray.
A heavy mist clung to the earth, swallowing the sound of shuffling footsteps and muffling the murmurs of those gathered.
The air smelled of rain and damp earth, a fitting scent for the mourning that hung over the ceremony. Arthuria stood at the head of the burial site, dressed in simple black. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, nails pressing into her palms as she stared at the grave before her. Bedivere's grave. Her most loyal knight. Her dearest friend. Gone. She had buried too many. The weight of their memories pressed down on her shoulders like armor she could never take off. Until now.
Gilgamesh had offered her a maiden's dream.
Freedom, Peace, love.
But could she take it? Could she deserve it?
Could she trust him? Could she leave behind Arthur Pendragon? Forever?
The answer wasn't clear, but the pull she felt toward him—toward something more—was undeniable.
[flashback here]
Finally, she sighed, her grip tightening on the hilt of her sword.
"Halfway," she murmured, repeating his words. "Let's see if you mean it, Gil."
The throne room was unusually silent that morning. Gilgamesh sat on his gilded throne, his usual commanding presence dimmed by something unseen. He hadn't spoken a word since dawn, his gaze dull, his energy drained.
Mostly from last night's activities. More so from the absence of one, Arthuria.
The council members, baffled by the king's uncharacteristic lethargy, had been forced to bring their deliberations to the throne room—because the King simply had no will to walk the distance himself. But then—The grand doors groaned open. At first, he barely reacted. But then he felt it. A shift in the air. A pull in his chest. He glanced up. And suddenly, he was alive again. Arthuria walked through the great hall, her steps steady, her gaze unwavering.
She moved with the grace of a ruler, despite having long since cast aside her title as King. Yet, in this moment, she was every bit the legend she had been in her prime. The lords and council members watched in stunned silence. One by one, they fell to their knees. Because they remembered.
They remembered the words their king had once spoken:
You will kneel. And so, they knelt. Confused at first, Arthuria halted mid-stride. She had not come as a ruler, not as the King of Britain—but she understood the weight of the decision before her.
The role she will step into. She had met him halfway.
And he would do the same. The King of Heroes, the man who bowed before no one, moved. Before her astonished gaze, he stepped down from the throne and—before the entire court—knelt. A collective gasp rippled through the hall, echoing against the marble pillars. No one dared to speak, for the sight before them was nothing short of extraordinary. His golden armor gleamed under the sunlight pouring through the high windows, his proud, towering frame bending humbly before her. For the first time, Gilgamesh, King of Uruk, King of Heroes, knelt before another. And then he spoke, his voice steady yet filled with a rare, unguarded earnestness. "I vow," he declared, his golden eyes locked onto hers, "as Gilgamesh Pendragon, to be your husband, the father of our children, your first and last love. " Arthuria's lips parted, the sheer gravity of his words stealing her breath away. "You will want for nothing in this life, not while I draw breath."
Every eye in the room was upon them, yet in that moment, it was as if the world had faded away. His tone softens just slightly. "Do you, Arthuria Pendragon, take me—arrogant man that I am—to have and to hold, to rule beside me, until the end of our days?" Her heart pounded against her ribs. This man, this king—who had once been untouchable, insufferable, impossible—was now hers. Not by conquest, not by fate, but by choice. Her choice. Her throat tightened, but she found her voice, steady despite the whirlwind of emotions surging within her. "I do."
But there was one more thing to do.
The Great Hall of the Imperial Palace was carved from black marble and crowned with gold-veined pillars, stretching higher than any cathedral.
The air was thick with the scent of burning myrrh, and the banners of six nations—Babyloniyah, and the four remaining kingdoms—hung limp in the heavy stillness.
At the head of the hall sat Gilgamesh, radiant in crimson and obsidian armor, the Crown of the Dawn resting lightly against his brow.
At his right hand, Arthuria sat, draped in the Pendragon blue and silver, her face a perfect mask of regal calm.
The kings gathered below were not petty lords or merchant dukes—
They were monarchs.
Men who had once ruled their lands with unquestioned sovereignty.
But today…
Today, they were summoned.
Not as equals.
But as witnesses.
Gilgamesh rose to his full, terrifying height, his voice rolling through the hall like the coming of a storm.
"You are called here not to bargain."
His golden gaze swept over them like the blade of an executioner.
"But to choose."
The kings shifted, hands tightening on the hilts of ceremonial swords.
Even Alexander—the wildest of them, and the only one with any warmth left for Babyloniyah—sat straighter in his seat.
Gilgamesh stepped forward, each word hammering into stone.
"The era of scattered kingdoms is over."
"The era of broken treaties and petty wars—over."
"There will be only One Realm."
The silence that followed was not empty.
It throbbed.
He let it hang for a beat longer before delivering the final blow:
"Because when my heir is born, there will be peace. Unity. And above all, there will be respect. Something I find lacking due to your freedom and spare time."
The kings looked to one another.
Unease rippled through the hall like cracks forming in ancient ice.
Gilgamesh's mouth curved into a slow, dangerous smile."You will retain your titles and remain kings—in name."
He paused, letting that sting. "But you will answer to me….and to that remarkable woman standing over there." His voice lowered, lethal. "Am I clear?"
The room seemed to shrink around them.
Even the torches along the walls guttered lower, as if the very flames feared him.
Finally—
Alexander, sprawled in his seat like a man long past caring for ceremony, raised a hand lazily.
"I'm hardly there anyway. Fuck it." He leaned back, arms crossed, a wicked grin curling his mouth.
"Long live the King."
A few uneasy chuckles.
Some nervous shifting.
The other kings bowed their heads—but the words were hesitant, reluctant, like a prayer muttered by heathens at the gallows.
Gilgamesh chuckled under his breath—a sound like thunder, grinning. "Ah, I almost forgot…"
He turned, voice light but layered with iron.
"I've yet to give my wife a wedding present."
The gathered rulers froze.
He tilted his head at Arthuria, who arched an elegant brow, playing her part effortlessly.
"Tell me, dearest," he said smoothly, "who was the first to write asking for aid… and then turned their back?"
Arthuria tapped a thoughtful finger against her chin.
"Well," she mused aloud, "if my memory serves me correctly, that would be… His Grace Hawing."
All eyes turned.
Hawing blanched, his mouth parting, a soundless protest trembling on his lips.
But before he could utter a single plea, the guards moved.
Without a command. As if the very palace understood:
They seized him and forced him to his knees.
No one disrespects the Queen and walks away unmarked.
Gilgamesh drew his sword in one slow, fluid motion—a whisper of steel—and pressed the edge against the trembling king's neck.
"And what…" he drawled, his voice soft and deadly, "did he say was his reason ?"
Her smile was cold, almost sympathetic.
"He said nothing." A pause. "It was a blank scroll."
He hummed—a low, thoughtful sound—as if debating whether the king's life was even worth the effort it would take to end it.
Hawing's voice broke into the silence, desperate:
"I beg forgiveness, Gilgamesh—please. My wife, my children—"
He tilted his head, almost pitying.
"How do you know," he said softly, dangerously, "that I won't kill them too?"
He pressed the blade just a little harder.
"After all… the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
The room was utterly silent.
The kings gulped.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
Until—
"That's enough, Gil."
Arthuria's voice, steady and sharp, sliced through the bloodlust like a blade through mist.
He stilled.
For a moment, it seemed he might defy even her—
But then, slowly, he withdrew the sword.
The guards yanked Hawing to his feet, dragging him back to his place—alive, but broken.
Gilgamesh sheathed his blade with a sharp, metallic whisper, stepping back toward the throne with all the calm of a god who had reminded his worshippers who ruled the heavens.
"So," he said, smiling thinly, "now that we all have an understanding."
His voice dropped to a thunderous finality:
" Am. I. Clear?"
This time, there was no hesitation.
Every man in the hall dropped to one knee, heads bowed low.
Their voices rose in unison, loud, trembling, and absolute:
"Long live the King!"