The grand chamber of the Babylonian court was filled with the murmurs of foreign dignitaries, warlords, and noble messengers, each representing the rulers of distant kingdoms. Lords who had once dined at the same table as Arthuria. Lords who had laughed, feasted, and boasted of their great alliances.
This time, Gilgamesh sat upon the head of the table, draped in scarlet and gold, his golden eyes cold, unreadable. His fingers tapped idly against the armrest, a slow, deliberate rhythm. A warning. Then, his voice—calm, but carrying the weight of an empire.
"Humor me."
The murmurs died instantly.
"Why," he continued, his gaze sweeping across the room, "did no one assist Britannia when it was clearly under siege?"
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. A few of the messengers shifted uncomfortably. A foreign noble cleared his throat.
"Your Majesty," he began, "the fall of Britannia was… unforeseen. The council had debated, but given the instability—"
"Instability?" Gilgamesh cut in, his voice deceptively smooth.
"Yes, Your Grace. Given the reports that King Arthur was—"
The man hesitated, choosing his next words carefully. "—not who we believed him to be, many feared the conflict would spread into our borders."
The king's lips curled into a smirk. But it was not a kind one. "Ah," he mused, leaning forward slightly. "So, let me understand this correctly. When you thought Britannia was ruled by a man, it was worthy of alliances, respect, and military aid. But when you learned its ruler was a woman—a stronger warrior than all of you combined—you turned your backs?"
The court was deathly silent.
His gaze darkened. "SPEAK," he commanded.
One of them, a diplomat from Gaul, cleared his throat nervously. "Your Majesty, surely you of all people would understand—"
The king stood. The single act sent ice down their spines. His eyes were awakening from crimson into a vermilion. "What I understand is that a lord's oath is worth the same as a common thief… nothing."
A nervous murmur spread among the council members. The messengers could feel the tension in the air, could feel the weight of their kings' betrayal pressing down on them.
"Britannia did not fall because of rebellion."He took another step forward. "It fell because of the cowardice of kings who feared a woman's strength."
The nobles and diplomats averted their eyes, none daring to meet his gaze.
"And now," he continued, a smirk curling at his lips, "you expect to sit in my halls, drink my wine, and act as if this betrayal was justified?"
Goblets were slowly lowered.
"Let me be clear and write this down for your respective Monarchies." His tone dropped, "If Britannia is to rise again, it will do so under my protection." He let the words settle, watching as realization dawned upon them. "And when it does—" His smirk deepened. You. Will. kneel."
After the Conclusion of The Supper. The king found himself in deep thought.
Gilgamesh never did anything without purpose. To the world, he was a tyrant, a man who conquered, ruled, and took what he pleased without question. But a tyrant could also be a protector.
Before his brother Enkidu, Gilgamesh was untouchable. He was the golden king of Uruk — beloved, feared, and cursed in equal measure. Every night was a conquest; every woman, a fleeting distraction. He thought pleasure was proof of power, and devotion a sign of dominion. But power without purpose rots the holder.
It was only after he was taught how to be human that he became Just Gilgamesh, and less tyrant. And when he was left alone once more…
"Brother—"
"Live, Gil… for me…"
"Don't leave me. Don't leave me like Mother—
I command you!"
"You do not decide who gets to live or die, Gil…"
A strained breath.
"…lesson… number twenty…"
"ENKIDU!"
Gilgamesh woke before dawn. The air was still, heavy with incense and silence. Beside him lay his favorite concubine, her breathing soft and steady. He sat up slowly, pressing his hands to his temples from a coming migraine, one of the many to come.
"My king?" she murmured sleepily, stirring as the chill brushed her shoulder. "Is something wrong? Do you wish for anything?"
He exhaled, voice low. "Go back to sleep."
Rising, he wrapped a robe around his shoulders and walked the empty halls. Torches flickered as he passed, shadows bending like ghosts. He paused before a great portrait, his own likeness, painted in splendor, or so the court said, a crown of gold gleaming above his head, is all they saw, not the person wearing it; how could one be so important, yet so useless?
A void was placed where his mother should have been, erased by decree. He reached toward the blank space, fingers grazing the edge of the canvas. For the first time, the silence felt heavier than the crown.
As if judgment was coming
He had returned from his journey a changed man. Still a king, still a man, yet somehow… diminished. Hollowed in the places that had once known laughter, camaraderie, and trust. Then came the dreams. A woman with hair like molten gold, children laughing, sunlight spilling over halls that had never known warmth. Each vision struck him like a blade, cutting deeper than any sword could.
He had vowed: no happiness would ever set foot in his castle. His line would end with him. There were enough others in the kingdom to continue the work of kings and warriors. He had no need of legacy, no need of love. But the more he denied it, the stronger the dreams became — relentless, insistent, haunting him night after night.
He took long, solitary strolls through the palace at night, wandered the gardens, hands brushing over soil and leaves, and he watched as life rose from the earth. Yet nothing bloomed. Not in his hands at least. Not in the soil beneath his feet. Everywhere else, in his kingdom flourished, green and vibrant, alive with laughter and song — except in his own gardens.
It was as if Enkidu had never been present, as if the bond that had defined him, grounded him, had been erased, leaving only a shadow where the light once had been, and a curse had been placed for death to follow him everywhere he went, except to give him the mercy of taking him.
Until he found something worth living for.
The council chamber was silent now, the foreign nobles and messengers having left in uneasy silence. The echoes of his warning still hung in the air. His gaze fixated on the throne, expression unreadable, fingers tapping idly against the armrest in contemplation.
Then, without looking up, he spoke. "Joana."
The royal scribe stepped forward, her hands clasped before her, her golden robes flowing with each step. "Yes, my King?"
"Assemble a rescue party."
Joana blinked, surprised, but she did not question him. "For whom, Your Majesty?"
He exhaled, stepping toward the large map of the known world that stretched across the chamber's center. His fingers traced over Britannia. "The survivors of the city of hope."
Her eyes widened slightly. "If I am to be so bold, my King, these are not your people, why do this?"
He smirked. "They will be, soon."
Joana hesitated, then nodded, "Shall I inform Lady Arthuria?"
His smirk deepened. " No." A pause. "I will."
She bowed. "It will be done, My King."
He knew grief better than most men knew their reflections. When the gods took Enkidu, they did not simply take his friend, his equal. His brother. They took the last shred of his humanity. If the Six Realms thought he was a tyrant now, they could not fathom the monster he had been before. A boy-king of arrogance and cruelty. A ruler untamed, unstoppable. A storm with no calm. But then—Enkidu. The wild man turned brother. The first to challenge him, the first to stand beside him instead of beneath him. The first to change him. And just when he began to open his heart, to understand, to want more than just glory— The gods took him, and they made him watch.
Seven days.Seven agonizing, torturous days. He sat by his brother's side as his once-powerful form wasted away, as the light in his vibrant green eyes dimmed, as the voice that once challenged him weakened into whispers. Until on the seventh day, there was nothing left. No body to bury, no hand to clutch, no proof that he had ever existed.
Just dust.
And the king was alone. Once again.
In that emptiness, Gilgamesh began to cling to that dream, even embrace it. He tore the world apart searching for answers, for revenge, for a way to defy the fate that had taken his friend. But nothing—nothing—ever filled the void that Enkidu left behind. UntilThe dream.
A woman. She had long Golden hair, cascading like silk spun from the sun. Eyes as blue as the sky after the storm. A laugh so pure, so warm, it made something in him ache. He had never seen her before, and yet He knew she was real. And he swore, from the depths of his soul, he would find her. It was the only thing that kept him from falling into ruin.
So he worked.
He rebuilt his kingdom, stronger than before. He rebuilt himself, crafting a version of the man worth enough to stand beside her. He prepared. Because everything had to be perfect.
For her.
And every so often, he would see glimpses of what could be.
Children. He had always hated children. Annoying little creatures, loud and unteachable.
And yet, in his dreams— A family. The mere thought should have made him laugh, scoff, or discard it as nonsense. Yet it filled him with something he could not yet name. Something warm. Something dangerous. Something that scared him more than the gods ever had.
He didn't know who she was.
Only that she existed.
And he knew, with every fiber of his being, that she was meant to be his. For years, he had begged the gods for a sign, for a path that would lead him to her. He had challenged them, mocked them, and defied them with the arrogance of a king who knew he was their equal. But for the first time in his life, he had prayed. For a whisper of fate, a clue, a direction—anything that would lead him to the woman in his dreams. When she had leaned in, her breath warm against his skin, her voice no louder than a whisper. "Arthuria."
And his world stilled. It was her. The woman from his dreams. The golden-haired queen who haunted his nights, who filled his mind with visions of a future he had once thought impossible.
Arthuria.
The name settled into his bones like it had always belonged there, like it had always been waiting for him to hear it from her lips. And now, here she was, in the flesh. She didn't know. Not yet. But she will.
A slow, knowing smirk curled at his lips, his fingers tapping idly against the goblet in his hand.
She had spent her entire life hiding from him, all while convincing the world she was someone she was not. But she could not hide from him anymore.
"Arthuria," he murmured under his breath, savoring the taste of it.
She had no idea what she had just done. No idea what she had given him. Arthuria was to be his wife, which meant Britannia was to be under his dominion; then it was only fair that he look after her remaining subjects. She was his, She just didn't know it yet.
The hidden survivors of Britannia, those who had escaped Mordred's rebellion, those who had fled to the mountains, the forests, the far reaches of the land. They were found within days and given a choice.
"Come to Babyloniayah and live under my protection. You will not be slaves. You will not be prisoners. You will have land, shelter, and a future. And should your King wish to rebuild Britannia, you shall be free to return with her."
Many were suspicious at first. After all, what tyrant offered mercy? But the desperate, the broken, the lost— They had nowhere else to go. And so, they followed. One by one, the remnants of Britannia boarded Babylonian ships, setting sail for a new home, a different fate.