The walk back to the cottage was a silent one. And when they reached the steps, Arthuria broke the silence first.
"I assume you're here to try again."
He said nothing at first, his gaze sweeping over the humble surroundings. The firelight danced across his iris, but for once, he seemed out of place—too grand, too powerful for such a modest setting.
When she received no response, she sighed, setting the ladle down. "If you've come for an answer, it hasn't changed. I'm not going with you, nor will I marry you." Her words were calm but firm, each one landing with the weight of finality. She looked at him fully now, her expression unyielding. "Even if I entertained such a ridiculous notion, you lack any of the qualities I would want in a husband."
His eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint sparking in their golden depths. A challenge. "And what qualities are those?" he asked, his voice low, deliberate.
"For starters," she began, entertaining the notion as she met his gaze without flinching. "Kindness, not completely devoid of empathy. Do you even understand that a woman is a living being? A soul?" She leaned back, folding her arms. "Do you even know what love is?"
Her words hung in the air like a challenge, sharp and cutting. For a moment, there was silence between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire.
And a memory ignited.
He had been just Four Years Old.
The hall was alight with celebration.
Goblets clashed together in cheers, golden platters overflowed with the richest meats and wines, and the laughter of lords and kings echoed through the grand chamber.
It was a feast fit for a god, for a kingdom, for a future ruler.
For him.
Gilgamesh sat in his gilded chair at the high table, his small hands resting on his lap, his expression unreadable. Tonight was his name day, a grand banquet to honor the next heir—the future king of Uruk.
Yet, he was silent.
Across from him, his father—the King—roared with laughter, his deep voice booming as he clapped a lord on the back.
"Of course not!" the king bellowed in response to a jest. "I have too many concubines to count! Besides, the deed is already done. What need have I to remarry?"
More laughter erupted. More toasts were made.
But the crown prince's small hands curled into fists.
He had never met his mother. He had never heard of her, either. Only a portrait on the castle walls gave him any hint of her existence.
The servants were forbidden to speak of her, to answer his questions.
And when he did ask, they had merely bowed their heads, their mouths set in tight lines.
And so, he had learned nothing.
The feast went on, but he did not eat.
Six years later..The King Laid on death's doorstep.
The scent of blood and medicine tainted the air.
The once-mighty king, the ruler of Uruk, the weight of his wounds pressing the last breath from his body.
At 10 years of age, the Crown Prince stood at his bedside.
The lords whispered in hushed tones behind him, awaiting the last words of their ruler.
"Carry on the legacy, Son."
That was what his father should have said.
But instead, his voice rasped through cracked lips, heavy with desperation,
"Make sure the people remember me. The Greatest King there was ."
Gil didn't flinch. He didn't weep. He didn't reach for the dying man's hand.
He merely stared. "No."
His father's eyes fluttered open, clouded with confusion.
He leaned in, his golden gaze like a sharpened blade.
" I will make sure you are erased from history," he said, each word deliberate, final. "No one will remember you. Not even me."
The king struggled to speak, a choked sound rising from his throat.
"Unless you answer me this."
His father wheezed.
"Who was. My. mother?"
Silence. A long, dragging silence that stretched as the life left the man's body.
Then, with the last of his strength, the king forced out a single word: "Whore."
The king was dead.
The lords entered the chamber moments later, heads bowed in solemnity. Then, one by one, they kneeled.
"Long live the king."
But Gil did not revel in his status. He merely turned away from the corpse.
When the healers arrived to prepare the body for burial, they asked, "Your Majesty, shall we arrange the burial rites?"
"No."
They blinked, glancing at one another in uncertainty. "Your Majesty?"
"Get rid of him."
The lords stirred uneasily. "Your Majesty, that is against tradition—"
"Then change it!" He snapped, his voice thunderous, unyielding. "I am the king now. I said… get rid of him."
No one dared to protest.
And so it was done.
The king's body disappeared in the dead of night, never seen again, and with it, his name, his songs, his portraits. Every image, remove every inscription.
He would be nothing.
Seven years later, there was only the weight of the crown, the endless duty, and the quiet halls of the palace.
Sirdui, the palace scribe, just above sixteen, entered his chambers one morning, her scrolls in hand. She bowed respectfully before speaking.
"The people are waiting for a statement as to why the late king's funeral was conducted outside of tradition, Your Majesty."
He ignored her.
She hesitated, then dared to take another step closer. "Your Majesty… may I speak freely?"
He exhaled sharply. "What?"
"I know what you truly wish to ask."
His Crimson eyes snapped toward her.
"Your mother," she said.
A beat of silence.
"You know of her?"
She nodded. "Her name was Ninsun. "
The name rang unfamiliar.
"She was a lower celestial," the scribe continued, "who agreed to a political marriage with the late king. A divine bloodline was valuable, and so she was sent to Uruk."
He did not interrupt, though his jaw clenched.
"She lived for mere minutes after giving birth to you, your grace," she said softly. "But the maids who witnessed her final moments said she held you in her arms… and they could see—— "
"See what?" He snapped.
"That she loved you."
A strange feeling settled in his chest.
For years, he had wondered if his mother had been real, if she had ever cared for him, if he had simply been a burden to a woman forced into marriage.
But now, there was this. A moment—a truth, however fleeting.
He turned away, his voice quiet. "Thank you. That will be all."
She bowed.
Love—he thought. It was unknown to him.
"You're right," he said finally, his tone quieter than she expected. "I don't know what love is."
He took a step closer, his gaze gleaming in the dim light.
"But neither do you."
She froze, his words cutting deeper than she anticipated. She straightened, her gaze faltering ever so slightly as he continued.
"You were born to play a role, just as I was," he said, his voice soft but unrelenting. "Unlike me, you were forged into what a perfect king should be, but that role has left you empty. "
Silence.
"And now I see your sword—Excalibur, isn't it?—placed aside, out of Sight and Mind. Does that also mean you've forsaken your title of King?"
"It does," she said quietly, her gaze lowering for a moment before meeting his again.
He regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then—
"Then what does that make you now ?" his lips curved into a faint, almost amused smile. " What do you want in this new life you find yourself in? "
Her jaw tightened as she watched him, the tension between them palpable.
She had never encountered a man so maddeningly self-assured, so unapologetically arrogant.
"You should have let me die."
Her voice was hoarse, quiet, yet sharp enough to pierce through the space between them.
It was not a plea, nor was it a cry of surrender. But a question.
Why didn't you leave me to die? He stared at her, his eyes dark with something she couldn't name—not anger, not grief, but something deeper, something dangerous. "You think death is your punishment?" he asked, his voice cold, steady, like a blade pressing against her throat. "If death were the simple answer to the torment you've cursed me with, I'd have gladly taken my own life." She stilled. For all she had known about him, Gilgamesh had always spoken with arrogance, with certainty, with that insufferable confidence that he alone was above all else.
But there was no arrogance in his voice now. Only raw, unguarded honesty. "I have cursed you with nothing!" she spat, her breath unsteady. "You were the one who brought me here!" But he wasn't listening. Or rather, he was, but he had already decided the truth of the matter. "I don't know what's worse," he murmured, his voice softer now, almost defeated, "seeing you from afar or seeing you up close."She clenched her fists. Was that what this was? The sight of her disgusted him so much that he couldn't stand to be near her. Was this just another punishment for a sin she did not remember committing? Fine. She could give as much as she took. "Then why look at all?" she started, her voice rising, the words cutting through the air like daggers. "If it causes them both so much pain.Then why—"Because—"
"Because what!" The single word stopped her cold. His gaze burned into her, fierce, unrelenting. "Because…" he repeated, stepping forward. "It is because you exist that it hurts." The breath in her lungs vanished. His confession was like fire and ruin, something scorching, something devastating. "Because every time I see you, I am reminded that I am alive and that is the cruelest fate of all for a man like me."
She paused, breath trembling. "Why endure it?"
He smiled—
A raw, broken thing, all pride burned to ash.
And he answered, voice rough and certain. "Because I deserve it "
Silence fell between them, thick with everything unsaid. For the first time since their paths had crossed, Arthuria felt afraid—not of him, not of battle, not of fate—but of what she might say in return.
The air between them crackled—not with anger now, but something heavier.
Older. Gilgamesh's smile faded, replaced by something almost… weary. "You want to know why?" he said at last, voice rougher than she had ever heard it.
Arthuria said nothing.
Only waited.
"When I was a child," he began, low and hollow, "I vowed never to become my father."
A humorless chuckle escaped him.
"And yet… I was His shadow. In every way that mattered."
He didn't look at her when he said it.
Almost like he was ashamed to let her see it.
"After my mother died—" he stopped himself, throat tightening, "—there was no love left in the palace. Only conquest. Indulgence. Victory at any cost."
He swallowed hard, as if the words physically hurt.
"I became the king of everything… and the master of nothing."
A bitter edge crept into his voice.
"I took what I wanted. Who I wanted. I thought it was my right. I thought it made me powerful."
He finally met her eyes then—and she saw it.
The boy who had been forced to wear a crown too early.
The boy who had no mother to mourn him and no father to guide him.
"Until Enkidu," he whispered."My oldest friend. My truest enemy. He…"
Gilgamesh's jaw flexed.
"He stared into my soul once, and I saw what I had become. Not a king. Not a man. But A monster. "
He shook his head slowly.
"After that… I stopped."
The confession hung between them, raw and unsheltered.
Arthuria felt something shift in her chest—a crack she hadn't permitted. And for the first time, her voice softened, almost against her will.
"I understand," she said quietly.
He arched a brow, a flicker of self-mocking amusement rising.
"Do you?"
She nodded.
"My father," she said, the words heavy like stones, "was the worst king to ever hold Excalibur."
He stilled.
It was not an accusation. Not self-pity. Just a fact.
"When the sword chose me," she continued, "he sent me away."
A ghost of a smile touched her mouth—but it was sharp, sad.
"Said he didn't want to witness my struggles."
She breathed out, slow and uneven.
"But it was too late. He couldn't wed me off. He had already told the kingdom he had a son—Arthur Pendragon." Her fists tightened at her sides. "He didn't want me to fail… because it would reflect his lies." A long pause. "But the truth was… he was already dying. Not from sickness. Not from any curse." Her voice dropped to a whisper."But from the consequences of his actions."
Gilgamesh said nothing. He didn't have to. Because he understood.
They both did.
Two graves already half-dug by the men who should have loved them. They stood there in the fading light, the ghosts of their fathers heavy on their shoulders. But neither spoke of their mothers. Neither dared. Some griefs were too old, too sacred, too unspeakable.
"You never answered my question, what do you want, Arthuria?" he asked, his voice low and deliberate. Her icy blue eyes softened for a moment, a fleeting vulnerability crossing her face. She hesitated, then spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "Freedom. Peace. Maybe even— love." He repeated her words, savoring them like a foreign delicacy. "Freedom. Peace. Love."
A genuine smile—a rare sight—graced his lips. "Meet me halfway." "There's nothing I want from you, Gil," she said firmly, though her voice wavered slightly, betraying her resolve. He chuckled, "Then let me make you an offer you can't refuse." Her brow furrowed in suspicion. "And what would that be?" He stepped closer, closing the distance between them in a way that felt both deliberate and predatory.
"I'll take your name," he said smoothly. " I will raise it from the debts of the forgotten; your legacy will be our legacy." The sheer audacity of his statement left her momentarily stunned. Before she could form a retort, she found herself staggering back, her hips bumping against the edge of the table behind her.
He leaned forward, planting one hand on the table beside her, trapping her in place. His eyes burned into hers, a song of ice and fire as her frosty blue gaze clashed with his molten red.
"Gil—" she began, but her voice faltered when his free hand found her waist, grounding her against him.
Her breath hitched as he leaned in, his lips grazing the curve of her neck.
The kiss was deliberate, slow, leaving a mark that burned in its wake.
Her fingers instinctively gripped the edge of the table, her resolve unraveling as his scent—smoky and intoxicating—surrounded her.
"What will it be, Arthuria?" he murmured against her skin, his deep voice sending a shiver down her spine.
Her lips parted, but no words came. She wanted to speak, to push him away—or maybe pull him closer—but she was frozen, trapped in a web of conflicting desires.
Satisfied with her silence, he pulled back, his red eyes gleaming with amusement and triumph. Slowly, he released her waist, stepping away as though he hadn't just left her world spinning.
Without a word, he turned toward the door.
"Where are you going?" she blurted, her voice sharper than she intended.
He paused, glancing over his shoulder with a devilish smirk. "Arrogant I may be, Arthuria, but I won't take your virginity in a cottage." His gaze swept over her, lingering just long enough to make her feel exposed. "Even I have standards."
Her cheeks flushed, and she pushed herself off the table, storming after him. "Bastard—you did that on purpose!"
He stopped in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame as he turned to face her. "Perhaps," he said, his smirk widening. "I'll be hearing from you soon."
"Never," she spat, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
He chuckled, the sound infuriatingly smooth. "If you say so," he added with a small bow, before stepping out into the cool night air.
She slammed the door behind him, her heart pounding in her chest.
"Infuriating man," she muttered,
Pacing the small room as her cheeks burned with a mix of frustration and something she refused to name.
She peeked outside.
Watching him walk away from the cottage, his smirk never leaving his face.
He had planted a seed, and he knew—sooner or later—She would come to him.
Her voice trembled with frustration as she called after him, her heart pounding in her chest.
"How did you know?" she demanded, gripping the edge of the doorframe to steady herself.
He stopped in his tracks, his golden figure illuminated by the pale moonlight.
"How did you know I was a virgin?"
He didn't turn immediately, letting the tension hang in the air before finally facing her.
The shadows carved sharp angles into his features, his molten red eyes glinting like embers in the darkness.
"Because," he said, his voice low and commanding, each word laced with a dangerous certainty, "you've been waiting for me."
Her breath hitched, her composure unraveling as he stepped closer, the weight of his presence pulling her in like gravity.
He moved slowly, deliberately, until he was just close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from him. His eyes bore into hers, unyielding and impossibly sure.
"Every step you've taken," he continued, his voice a rich, velvety growl, "every path you've chosen… it has all led you to me."
Her lips parted, but no words came. The conviction in his tone, the sheer force of his belief, was intoxicating—terrifying, even.
She wanted to argue, to deny his words, but something about the way he looked at her left her rooted in place, utterly speechless.
"I am a king," he said, his tone dark and imperious, as if the very world itself bent to his will. He leaned in slightly, his lips hovering near her ear. "Therefore, if I say it is so, then it must be."
The air between them crackled with unspoken tension. For a moment, it felt as though the universe had stopped spinning, caught in the gravity of his declaration.
Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, her heart racing in defiance of her own will.
He finally pulled back, a faint, knowing smirk tugging at his lips.
"Sweet dreams," he said, his voice softening into something dangerously close to a caress.
And then he turned, leaving her standing there in the doorway, her fingers trembling as she clung to the wood for support.
She watched him disappear into the night, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and fury.
"Arrogant bastard," she muttered under her breath, slamming the door shut.
But even as she stormed back inside, his words echoed in her mind, refusing to let her go.