As the last of Arthuria's belongings had been moved from her cottage to the castle, something about it unsettled her. She had expected to be placed in the king's chambers with her husband, yet she was led somewhere else entirely—a chamber she had never seen before. She stopped one of the castle servants.
"What is this place?" she asked.
"The queen's chambers, Your Majesty." Ashe frowned.
"Was there a queen's chambers before?" The servant hesitated, then lowered her voice as if revealing a great secret.
"There wasn't, Your Majesty. The king ordered its construction shortly after you arrived. He oversaw every detail himself."
Arthuria stood there, stunned. He had been preparing this for her all along? To be separated? Even after she had chosen him? She didn't know what compelled her, but before she could second-guess herself, she made her way to Gil's chambers. She pushed open the doors without hesitation. He was draped in a robe, seated at his desk, crimson eyes flicking up from a stack of letters. He tilted his head, catching the serious look on her face. "Arthuria"
"I don't understand," she said breathlessly, "Why separate rooms?"
"You disapprove?" he asked, a smirk teasing his lips, though his tone was more curious than amused.
"Try confused."
His brows furrowed slightly. "You are the queen. Queens deserve their own space."
She folded her arms. "Your mother didn't have her own space."
His expression shifted at that. Something flickered in his eyes—something quiet, something unreadable. "My mother…"he started, then stopped. A long silence stretched between them before he finally said, "My mother died while giving birth to me."
Arthuria froze. For all the years she had known Gilgamesh, for all his stories of conquest, of gods and kings, he had never once spoken of his mother.
"Even so," he continued, his voice softer now, "She didn't stay in the king's chambers. He only used them for… consummation and other industries."
Arthuria's lips parted slightly, but no words came. "Apologies," she finally murmured.
He gave a small, almost wistful smile. "It's fine."
A quiet stretched between them before Arthuria found herself asking, "Then where did she stay?"
He hesitated for only a moment. "Before she had me, she was either in the Celestial Realm or… The Cottage."
Arthuria's breath hitched.
"It was her cottage," he admitted, his voice lower now. "She loved it there, or so I was told, away from the stress of the court and my Father."
Arthuria clenched her fists at her sides. He had given her that same cottage. A place where she could be herself, where she wasn't bound by duty. So that's where the paints came from. And yet, she had left it behind, just as his mother had before her.
She watched as Gilgamesh resumed his task, but outstretched his hand, she stepped closer and took his hand and pressed a kiss to her palm.
"So… both our parents are dead."
Gilgamesh didn't look at her, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Convenient. No one left to object."
She huffed a faint laugh, though it felt more like a question."Would they have?"
At that, he turned his head, the sharpness in his eyes dulling. "My father? Most definitely. He's most likely rolling in his grave as we speak," he grinned, then paused. "But my mother…" He glanced out the window again, "If the title I do know her by is true, then she would've been over the moon to see me happy, and to know that I'm nothing like him."
Arthuria smiled, just a little. It didn't quite reach her eyes, but it tried.
Gilgamesh shifted closer, gaze narrowing slightly. "And yours?"
Arthuria tilted her head back, resting it against the cold stone wall behind her. "My father would've made me a concubine first, had he been blessed with an actual son." Her tone was factual, as if reading from a long-forgotten page. "My mother… she would've agreed, the woman had no backbone."
He frowned, "What happened to her?"
"Suicide is—was… Norther's honor code…"
Gilgamesh nodded once, slowly. The word hung in the air, weighty and clean.
"You're father?' she added.
"Too much wine."
Arthuria's lips twitched. She fought it, or at least tried to. She pressed them into a thin line and closed her eyes in silent prayer.
"Don't you dare," Gilgamesh warned, smirking.
But it was too late. A chuckle spilled out of her before she could stop it. It was so contagious, he joined in.
"From now on," she said, her voice steady but soft, "we do everything together, not just politically. You and me. Promise on my garden."
He watched her for a long moment, his eyes searching hers. He told her the very same thing in this very room. Just months ago. And then, ever so slowly, he nodded. "I promise on your garden…"
Their hands tangled together, his thumb tracing the back of hers absently. Still, she was too quiet. Too still. He turned slightly toward her, concern threading through her voice.
"What is it?"
"Why do I have the feeling you're hiding something else from me?"
He stared at their joined hands, then lifted his gaze to hers—something raw and hesitant burning behind those crimson eyes."Tell me what bothers you, my lioness."
"I thought you said the child couldn't be yours."
Gilgamesh blinked—paused, as if the words had to pass through several layers of memory before striking truth. Then his brow furrowed. "Ah… allow me to explain—"
"There's no need," she interrupted coolly.
He chuckled. "So why ask if not for the answer you seek?"
Her eyes lifted now—sharp as Excalibur. "You're right. I shouldn't have, I won't."
Gilgamesh leaned back with a long, slow sigh, his gaze fixed on the carved ceiling as if it might offer salvation. "Arthuria…"
"—At least you married her off to a lord to protect the child's future," she said, tone too even to be casual. "A noble gesture."
He raised a brow, more amused than defensive. "Well. Don't you have it all figured out? I wonder where you get your source."
"I even heard you caressed her stomach." Her lips twitched upward—but it wasn't a smile. "It was so… fatherly."
That earned a real chuckle from Gil—gravelly, sardonic, and most definitely not amused. "Arthuria," he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "It's not my child." Then, more softly, "But I am the reason she's pregnant."
That stopped her.
She stilled, brows knitting, lips slightly parted. "…What?"
Gilgamesh looked away then—just briefly, as if the truth had weight. "When I dismissed my concubines… they had nowhere to go. Most turned to the brothels. Being the king's former favorite, she was whispered about. People assumed she was diseased, or… used up. Useless. Tainted." He exhaled. "So yes. I gave her a title, a marriage, and protection. Because I am the reason her value was taken from her. I am the reason people saw her as broken. So I gave her a new life. Not because I loved her. But because I was unfair." He looked back at Arthuria then, eyes firm. "Does that answer your question?"
She studied him for a long moment—her anger tempered, if not gone. Finally, she said quietly. "It does."
"Good, because there is something else I need to tell you." He said.
"What?"
He smiled—small, bitter. "I'm a hypocrite," he said, voice rough, "and a terrible person."
She blinked, arching a brow. "That's your great secret?"
He huffed, a short, almost unwilling laugh, shaking his head."I mean it—"
She cut him off, teasing: "So you do have a bastard, then?"
He groaned low in his throat. "Arthuria— I do not have—"
"I was only joking."
Before she could say more, he leaned in and kissed her—brief but firm—silencing her protests. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers."Will you listen to me now?" he murmured, breath ghosting against her lips. "Or after I make a glorious mess of you?"
She didn't speak, which he took as permission, but now is not the time.
He sat back slightly, swallowing hard, the weight of it all pressing down.
"I mocked you," he began quietly, "For hiding behind the name Arthur…"
A long pause. His throat tightened painfully. "…but I was hiding behind mine too."
Arthuria's breath caught, her fingers stilling in his.
Her voice came soft, careful: "Then…tell me your name, your real name."
He smiled then closed his eyes, as if steeling himself against the blow of memory.
When he spoke again, it was barely a whisper.
"Gilgamesshia. Albion"
The name dropped between them like a blade.
Sharp. Final.
Arthuria stared at him, stunned. Gilgamesshiah, The gods' design. She swallowed. "Why hide it?" she asked quietly.
He exhaled, slow and heavy. "Because it's not who I am." He shook his head, voice breaking at the edges."Not who I want to be. Not who I want you to see."
The pain was raw—older than wars, older than crowns.
So he told her.
All of it.
About his father.
About his mother's erasure.
About the gods who tried to forge him into a weapon wrapped in silk.
About the day he severed himself from the heavens and burned the bridges meant to chain him.
Everything.
When he finished, the fire had sunk low, and the shadows of their pasts flickered against the walls.
He looked away, shame clenching his jaw.
"Sometimes I feel like I bring nothing but death and pain to my door…" He laughed bitterly under his breath. "So when you said your father died for the consequences of his actions…"
A pause.
"I couldn't have been any better."
Before he could retreat deeper into his own self-loathing, Arthuria reached out and cupped his face in her hands.
Firm. Sure.
She forced him to look at her.
Her voice was fierce when she said it:
"You are nothing like him, Gil."
He stared at her, the weight of centuries trapped behind his eyes.
She leaned closer, her forehead resting against his.
"You're not your father."
His hands rose to cradle her wrists, anchoring himself in the warmth of her touch.
And in the quiet that followed, he whispered back:
"Neither are you."
His crimson eyes burned as he took in the sight of her —Breathtaking.
"Say it." She said
His fingers traced the curve of her cheek, her jaw. "Say what?"
"What you wrote in the letter."
He closed his eyes and took a breath. Not to steel himself. But to truly face her.
With every kiss, every lingering touch, he spoke the words again, just as he had written them, but this time, they were not mere ink on parchment.
They were true.
"I had a friend once," he murmured, his lips trailing from her temple down to her cheek.
A lingering kiss.
"He was very dear to me." Another, softer still.
"When he was taken from me, when I watched him die, I was lost for many years."
His lips ghosted over her eyelids, the tip of her nose.
"Until one night."
A kiss on her jaw.
"One night, I had a dream."
Another at her throat that made her shiver beneath him.
"A woman so pure. So beautiful."
His lips brushed her ear, his breath hot against her skin.
"Sandy blonde hair…"
His fingers curled into the strands, twisting them between his fingertips.
"Milky white skin…"
His hands traced the length of her bare shoulders, slow, reverent.
"Sapphire shore eyes."
Their gazes locked, his red flames meeting her endless blue sea. And then he leaned in, closer, lower, his voice dropping to a whisper against her ear.
"And I prayed," he murmured, "begged those same gods to grant me the mercy of learning her name."
A soft bite against the shell of her ear made her gasp, her fingers digging into his back.
He chuckled, low and knowing.
"It felt something like that."
She was breathless, but she needed to hear it.
"What was her name?"
His smirk softened, something dangerously close to devotion flickering in his gaze.
He brushed his lips against hers, hovering, waiting, savoring.
And then, in a voice like an oath, a decree, a sealing of fate itself—
"Arthuria."
And then he kissed her. Truly kissed her. Not as a man who had won a battle.
The dagger trembled between them, its point catching the firelight. She held it to his chest, and his brows knit—not in fear, but in something close to reverence. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out, the inner heat of his palm setting the blade's edge aglow.
"It is only fair," she murmured, voice deep and even. "And with our name…"
"Do you wish to bleed out from a name as long as mine?" he asked,
"I've endured worse," she replied, leaning into the steel as though offering himself to it.
He took the dagger from her hand and set it aside, then guided her down onto his lap. Her hand braced against his shoulder as his fingers found the laces at her back, slowly, painstakingly undoing them. The threads slackened, baring her spine inch by inch to the warm air. In the mirror beyond, his eyes flicked up—and for a heartbeat, he saw the weight of his past atrocities staring back. But this moment, he swore, he would endure.
She flinched at every touch, each one slightly painful, yet threaded with something dangerously exhilarating. He felt her shudder against him; his own leg bounced beneath her in restraint, unsure if what pulsed in his veins was the need to soothe her pain or devour it whole.
When it was done—when her mark was carved and the ritual complete—he spread his hand over the wound, sealing it instantly with a flash of heat.
"Look at us," he said.
She tilted her head to the mirror. Their reflection stared back—two creatures bound by blood and vow, name and scar.
"I've been good…" he whispered. "Reward me."
He slid a hand down between them, cupping her, and she flinched.
"Dirty," she breathed.
"Wife," he snarled, the word a growl and a vow all at once.
She shivered under the sudden pressure of his hands. He tilted her chin up, his thumb dragging along her jaw until her eyes met his.
"I wish my reward here," he said.
She bit her lip as he slid into her, the sound of her exhale spilling hot against his shoulder. His rhythm was slow at first, teeth grazing the curve of her neck as his eyes locked on the mirror—the mark, his name, glowing faintly against her skin like a brand of starlight.
Something in him snapped. With a guttural sound, he flipped her onto the dresser, one leg draped over his shoulder. He no longer wanted to see his name through the mirror—he wanted to see it, raw and unbroken, as he moved above her.
"I'll buy everything back," she giggled, breathless, "With my own money—" she teased.
The sound and treacherous statement sent him further from sanity. The next moment, he knew nothing but red—
Gilgamesh awoke to the quiet hush of dawn, the golden glow of morning spilling through the curtains.
For a moment, he simply lay there, his gaze tracing the figure beside him—proof that yesterday had not been a dream.
Arthuria was still asleep, her breathing slow and steady. And to his surprise, she had returned the pillows he once thought she would disdain. It was amusing.
But he wouldn't question it. Her hair, longer than when they had first met, spilled across the sheets. He remembered her saying she planned to cut it soon. His fingers instinctively tangled in the golden strands, brushing them behind her ear with a careful touch. As if sensing his presence, her sapphire eyes fluttered open, still hazy with sleep. "Hello," she murmured. "Hello," he echoed, a slow smile forming on his lips. She blinked up at him, drowsy but content. He let his fingers trail down the length of her hair again before speaking."Must you cut it?" She raised a brow, amused. "You don't like it?" "I love it," he admitted. "I just want you to be free. You can let it grow as long as you desire." She studied him for a moment, his golden eyes warm in the morning light. Then, she smiled. "You don't have to hide anymore," he told her softly. A promise lingered in his words, a promise that she was no longer bound by the expectations of others. And so, she made her promise. To never cut it again.
Arthuria lay curled against Gilgamesh, her head tucked beneath his jaw, their bare skin tangled in silk sheets.
Her fingertips traced lazy lines across his chest as his hand rested tenderly over her stomach.
They hadn't spoken in a while—not because there was nothing to say, but because silence, in this moment, was its language.
Then—
"There's one more dream I didn't tell you about," Gil said softly, his voice still laced with the haze of sleep and satisfaction.
Arthuria blinked up at him, curious.
"Oh? And what's that?"
He leaned forward and pressed a kiss just above her navel, then rested his forehead there—gentle, reverent.
"When I said you'll have my child, I wasn't simply saying it ."
She huffed a little laugh, brushing his hair back.
"Correction— you said: many."
He smiled against her skin, "And I meant every word."
She sighed, mock-exasperated, but her fingers still combed through his hair.
"So, you dreamed about them?"
"Mhm."
"And how many little monarchs are we talking?"
He looked up at her, full of mischief and certainty.
"Four."
"Four?!" she gasped, sitting up halfway, eyes wide.
He grinned wider, arms locking around her waist.
"But what do I know, I'm just the King."
She rolled her eyes and melted back into him.
"Fine."
A pause.
"What are they like?"
His expression softened. "That, I do not know. Nor would I want to."
She looked at him, surprised.
He reached up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing just under her eye.
"I want to spend every second, hour, and day… learning them. Teaching them. Failing sometimes.
Getting back up. Again. Knowing what it means to be a good father to them…and a true husband to you."
Her eyes stung, but she blinked the feeling away and nodded.
"Then I'll try my best to be a good wife."A breath.
"And a good mother, too."
He pulled her back into his arms, while cupping her face with. The gentleness of a man like him wasn't supposed to carry.
"You…" he whispered, brushing his lips against her ear,
"You just have to worry about letting me love you the way you deserve, and when you look me in the eyes and tell me you're ready…"
She forgot how to breathe as a tear slid from her cheek.
He brushed it away, still cupping her face.
"My lioness…" he whispered, resting his forehead against hers. "We will do it together. Just like everything else. Just as we promised ."
She swallowed hard.
Because he wasn't pushing her.
He never pushed her.
He waited.
She looked at him—looked— and smiled.
Because in that moment, she knew—he truly loved her.
Not for what she could give him.
Not for who she was before him.
But because beneath all the armor…he was right. She was a woman. Who needed the man he became?
For her.
With a shaky nod, she said. "I will."
Then—he smiled.
Smiled.
He leaned in and kissed her—slow, reverent, like she was something holy.
Something to be worshiped.
Like she'd just said yes to a future he'd only dared to dream of.
Their lips parted, laughter spilling between them like sunlight through clouds.
Then—
She pushed him back onto the bed, breathless with mischief, her hair tumoring over her shoulders like a silken storm.
He let out a warm, surprised chuckle as his back met the mattress.
And now she was on top of him again.
Crowned not in gold—but in trust.
He laughed again, this time lower, rougher—devoted.
She leaned down, brushing her nose against his, voice soft but sultry:
"We can still try… in vain."
He stared up at her.
Gods.
He loved this woman.
He loved this woman.
She made him want to be soft. Made him want to surrender.
His hands, once cradling her sides, fell back against the sheets.
Open.
Unclenched.
He gave her everything.
Control.
Power.
Him.
"Then have your victory, my queen," he whispered, voice thick with awe.
"For the rest of my life, I'm yours for the taking."
That night, it was just the two.
But they dreamed of a family that would change history.