RHYSSAND
No, no, no. No. No.
It had been two weeks of this maddening rhythm of suggestions, refusals, offers, mostly denials. The routine should have been exhausting, yet Rhyssand found himself addicted to the silence after and the glances that followed, where he swore he saw something other than hate. His lips twitched at the thought of testing his theories, while he strode through the grand halls of the celestial palace; they were as cold as they looked, as they had always been. His wings tucked tightly against his back, his focus ahead. He could feel their judging gazes upon him, as they waited for him to fail. They wanted him to. But he won't.
Demeter stood near one of the towering windows, his silhouette framed by the soft glow of the heavens beyond. He watched Rhyssand pass to then speak, his voice low but firm. "You are playing a very dangerous game, son."
Rhyssand stopped dead in his tracks, his wings twitched, while his shoulders stiffened as the words sank in. Slowly, he turned, his jaw tightening when he met his father's gaze. There was no mistaking whose bloodline truly dominated the Prince Heir… "Now, you are aware of what I do?" he said, his voice dripping with bitterness.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them was heavy, charged with years of unresolved tension.
Demeter's wings shifted slightly, his eyes narrowing. "I know what you think of me," He said quietly. "But whatever you choose to believe, I have always wanted to protect you—"
Rhyssand scoffed, taking a step closer. "Protect me? You do not get to play the concerned parent now. Not after everything."
"I am telling you this because I know what she is capable of," he hissed in a low voice. "She does not care about you, Rhys."
"And you do?" Rhyssand shot back.
Demeter sighed, "One day, when you are a father yourself, you will then understand my point of view."
"I bet you hoped I would from the engagement I woke up in on a random marrow…just like you." Rhyssand scoffed, "Well, I'm not you, nor do I wish to be." his anger was barely restrained. "Now, if you will excuse me, Your Grace, I have unvoluntary counsel." Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away.
Demeter's shoulders slumped slightly when he stepped back. "Don't say I did not warn you."
Rhyssand stilled for all of a few seconds before stepping through a portal. On the other side of the portal, the chamber doors swung open to the human realm's council room. Rhyssand stepped through, brow raised at the familiar men before him.
"Well, if it isn't the new blood showing up early this time." The Syrian councilman called out.
Rhyssand was caught off guard by our this council interaction with each other so warmly, the city of life was as…cold."I do not believe we have been introduced," he said smoothly.
"Lord Kent of Arkadia," the Arkadian councilman barked.
"Lady Zephaniah of Egypt," the Egyptian councilwoman said with a curt nod.
"And I am Sir Richard of Syria," the Syrian drawled, dipping into a mocking little bow.
"Rhyssan'dsnezhniyah Rimat…" A boldface lie. "Prince of Celestia," he replied.
"I trust we will get along just fine," Richard smirked. "Just stay clear of the king's way and his daughters," he stressed, "and you might just outlive him."
Kent sneered. "You really do have the dumbest things written out on a scroll somewhere, don't you?"
"Do not be ridiculous," Richard said lazily, "You know I borrow half my tough from your sister. Though we do not do much writing when I visit."
"That is it!" Kent roared, lunging.
Richard laughed until he was shoved back, the two men grappling like children.
Rhyssand merely blinked, stepping past them toward his seat. Behind him came the choking sounds of a man's last few seconds of air.
Zephaniah sighed and pried them apart with practiced ease. "—Enough—" she snapped, her dark eyes narrowed, "Keep your blood off the king's floor and manhood in your robes before I be rid of them both for you."
Richard chuckled low, unbothered, "Ah, but what fun it is to taunt the scholar; Z, they take everything so literally."
Kent lunged again, but. Zephaniah's hand slammed into his chest like a stone wall. The women of Egypt were another species, that was to be sure.
GILGAMESH
Then the chamber doors boomed open again. "The King of Babyloniyah," the herald announced.
Every man straightened. Richard adjusted his collar, smirking. Kent clenched and unclenched his fists, then folded his hands behind his back, and. Zephaniah held her chin up high. They smoothed themselves into order, as if nothing had happened. Rhyssand shook his head faintly, lowering himself into his seat. Humans were such strange creatures.
The Queen arrived late, her posture stiff while taking her seat at the long table. She did not acknowledge her husband with a glance or any sign of recognition. It was not just in their private chambers; it affected every moment they shared during the day, even when discussing kingdom matters.
Gilgamesh, who usually took the lead in such meetings, found himself at a loss for interest. He tried to speak to her, to catch her eye and ease the tension, but every attempt was met with nothing but a wall of indifference. When he spoke to the other councilors, Arthuria would respond curtly, her answers sharp and without any warmth, but she was absent, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth.
"My Queen, we require your input on the military reforms," Zephaniah ventured, his voice hesitant when he turned to her.
Arthuria simply nodded, offering no further words.
Gilgamesh watched her, his heart sinking further with each passing minute. She had every right to be upset with him, but to be this cold, this distant, irritated him more than the dark bruise, a vivid reminder of the previous night's duel.
Rhyssand arched a brow; he was unsure of the absence of the Crown Princess, but it was not like he could ask. Well… not like he needed to. His eyes quickly gleamed, then faded. He exhaled with a smirk, then looked around to see the council stiffly in their seats, casting wary glances at their Monarchs. His eyes narrowed to the Syrian man, who shook his head.
Don't.
Despite the king's attempts to maintain his dignity, he realized it was nearly impossible to do so when the swelling made him appear more like a king who had lost a battle. Arthuria 's gaze fixed on the documents before her, though she had yet to address him directly since the duel, the corners of her lips twitched, as though suppressing a smile.
The council members exchanged uncertain looks. No one wanted to be the first to speak.
Gilgamesh's eyes narrowed, his patience thinning with each passing second. Finally, he slammed his hand onto the table, "Speak!" he commanded, his voice echoing off the walls.
The council flinched, some shrinking back in their seats, all but Rhyssand. But before anyone could muster a response, a soft, melodic sound broke through the tension, laughter.
Gilgamesh turned his head sharply, his eyes widening in disbelief. The sound came from none other than his wife, who sat with a hand over her mouth, trying and failing to contain her giggles. "You find this amusing?" He asked, his voice low and incredulous.
Arthuria straightened, attempting to regain her composure. "My most sincere apologies," she said, her tone betraying no remorse. "It is only… It suits you."
He blinked, "It suits me?"
She nodded, "Gives you… character."
For a moment, the room was silent, the council holding their collective breath. Then, to everyone's surprise, the king let out a deep chuckle.
"Character, you say?" he muttered, rubbing his bruised cheek. "I suppose I should thank you for this… gift."
"You are welcome," she replied softly.
12 words… he thought.Arthuria sat calmly for the rest of the session, while Gilgamesh still nursed his bruised cheek, clearly irritated but trying to maintain his dignity. The council, sensing the shift in mood, finally began to relax. Discussions resumed, though the members spoke cautiously. But the tension between the king and queen stayed like that up until the family gathered for dinner.
The children, seated across from their parents, exchanged furtive glances, their lips twitching with suppressed laughter.
Their father caught their strange behavior, "And what is so amusing?"
"Nothing, Father," Arthur said, quickly shoving a cherry into his mouth to stifle his grin.
Finally, Gilgamesh broke the silence, his voice low and deliberate. "You know," he began, dabbing his mouth with a napkin, "defying a king's direct order is punishable by exile… or worse."
All four children froze mid-bite.
Arthur was the first to recover, straightening in his chair. "… we would not know anything about that, Father."
His father's gaze narrowed. "Wouldn't you now?"
The table went silent. The siblings froze, exchanging nervous glances.
Arthur cleared his throat. "I just remembered… Eugene, did not you need help dusting those… books?" Trying his best not to be sucked into his father's gaze, he could not tell if it was because he had inhuman powers or the fact that he was a terrible liar. But he always knows.
He blinked before nodding quickly. "Yes! Dusting! We should go right away." He stood abruptly, grabbing his plate as an afterthought.
"Do you need an extra hand with those books?" Elaine joins in, practically leaping from her seat, following her brothers.
Artizea, left alone, glared at her siblings' retreating backs. She felt her father's gaze settle on her and forced a smile.
"And you ?" he asked
"Well…" She hesitated, her mind racing with possible lies. Then, her eyes lit up with inspiration. "Oh, look, Arthur must have forgotten his… shoe polisher!" Not what was in her mind, but it would have to do, "You know how he loves his shoes shiny. I shall bring it to him at once—"
Before he could respond, Artizea bolted from the table, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. In the hallway, the siblings huddled together, bursting into laughter as soon as they were out of earshot.
Gilgamesh watched as his children filed out, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."
Arthuria set her cup down, the faintest curve touching her lips. "They are your children…" she sang at last.
"Ours." He instantly corrected, he saw the way she fought the thinnest smile.
16 words in one day. That was a grand step from the weeks of silence. Which meant, perhaps, at last he was doing something right. Before he could press his luck, Arthuria rose from her seat.
"You should see to the healers. Get some ointment before it scars," she said, gesturing pointedly to the bruise along his cheek.
"I refuse if it means you will stop looking at it."
Arthuria stilled, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Fine then. Do what you like… You always do, anyway."
Gilgamesh sagged upon the statement, but tried again, "What about you?" he asked.
She rubbed her hands together in silence, then showed him a healed palm.
He sighed in relief.
"Goodnight," she murmured quickly upon rising.
"What will it take, my love?" he pleaded.
Arthuria's gaze softened, then flickered away before slipping from the room.
39 words… he thought.
Moments later, he found himself sitting in his bed chamber, head in his hands, alone. It was so…quiet.Too quiet. It was not just his chambers; it was theirs. Everything had a purpose because she made it a purpose. Down to the way the furniture was placed. to the number of pillows laid on the bed, just as she liked it. Her words echoed in his mind, You are the one who asked me to marry you. He ran his hands over his face, letting out a long, shaken breath. He had pushed her too far that night. Now, while he lay in bed alone, in their chambers that all of a sudden felt far too suffocatingly empty. He closed his eyes, but sleep eluded him. He lay awake, pondering everything he had done wrong, even before they had been man and wife. The uncertainty of what if they never met and of what is to come next, should he let her continue to ponder if he was more trouble than worth, was unbearable. For the answer was simple, he was not.
The silence was broken by the sound of the king's footsteps approaching Arthuria's cottage door. His gaze pierced through the wooden panels. Thirty-nine words simply were not going to cut it. With a deep breath, his heart pounding with determination. His knuckles hovered over the door, he exhausted before meeting contact.
He was ready to face his Wife.