One year passed.
Two years.
Three.
The years were kind to them. They ruled side by side, their bond only growing stronger with time. Though he knew the whispers in the court grew louder with each passing year.
Arthuria sat at the edge of their bed, hands gripping the sheets as she stared down at them. The weight in her chest grew heavier with every breath. She had even taken fertility boosters in secret, hoping that by now—after half a year of secretly trying—she would have something to tell him. Something good. But there was nothing. Their third wedding anniversary had just passed, and instead of giving him the joyful news of an heir, all she had was doubt. What if she could never have children? What if she had deprived him of a family, of a legacy? Her throat tightened, and her vision blurred with unshedtears.
Just as the first one threatened to fall, the chamber doors opened. Gilgamesh stepped in, his eyes immediately narrowing when he saw her face. In an instant, he was at her side, kneeling before her. His hands found hers, thumbs brushing over her fingers as he searched her expression.
"What's wrong?" he asked, voice softer than usual.
She swallowed hard, "I don't think I can have kids…" forcing the words out.
He stilled, his eyes studying her carefully before he asked, "You mean my kids?"
She pulled her hands away, glaring. "No—I want to have your kids!"
A slow exhale left him, as if he had been holding something deep in his chest. His shoulders relaxed slightly. "Well, that's a relief."
She shot him a look. "Gil—this isn't funny."
"You're right, I apologize," he mused, a small, amused smirk tugging at his lips. "Tell me, why would you think such a thing?"
"I stopped taking the tea months ago… it's been half a year. I even took fertility boosters and—"
He cut her off with a low chuckle. "Boosters? I didn't know you were this eager, my love." He slightly tilted his head. "Although it makes perfect sense now in your persistence," She glared, but he only smiled, reaching for her again. This time, he pulled her into his arms, his chin resting against the top of her head. "How about…" he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her temple, "We try not taking anything."
She hesitated. "But—the healers—"
"Fuck the healers," he said smoothly, "If anyone can get the job done, it is your very devoted husband."
She pulled back slightly, eyeing him. "How devoted?"
"Very Persistent." His smirk turned into something far more dangerous. "And persistence… is. Key."
Before she could say another word, his lips crashed into hers, swallowing whatever protests she might have had.
1 month later
The council room was filled with the murmur of discussions, the low hum of voices debating trade policies and territorial disputes. Arthuria sat beside Gilgamesh, her posture poised and regal, fingers interlaced on the polished wood of the long table. It was Lord Faisal who spoke next.
"Your Majesties," he said, addressing Arthuria. "It has not gone unnoticed that three years have passed without an heir. There are growing concerns regarding the queen's fertil…" He didn't get to finish.
The room turned cold.
"Is it your wish to die today, Lord Faisal?" The king's voice was calm, but the weight of it was suffocating.
The council chamber fell into a deafening silence. Unease rippled through the room. The lord in question, whose face had been firm with confidence moments ago, now looked as though his soul had abandoned his body entirely. The tension was thick, suffocating. No one dared breathe. And then, before the silence could stretch any longer, Arthuria spoke.
"Thank you for your concern, my lords," she said, her voice measured and deliberate. "But I am pleased to announce that I am, indeed, with child."
The air shifted when the king turned to her so fast it seemed he had forgotten entirely about the council. His fiery eyes, fierce with rage only moments before, softened. "What?"
She smiled. "Surprise."
The council once sat in stunned silence, realized a wave of congratulations and cheers, but Gilgamesh had already dismissed them with a single wave of his hand. "Leave. All of you."
Chairs immediately scraped against the floor as lords and officials rushed to stand, bowing hastily before filing out of the chamber. The doors shut behind them, sealing away the world beyond.
Before Arthuria could even form another sentence, Gilgamesh was before her, his hands grasping her waist protectively, his forehead pressing against hers as he let out a slow, uneven breath.
"I'm sorry you found out like this—" She barely got the words out before he pulled her into a full embrace. His arms encased her tightly, grounding, steady. Then, ever so slowly, he sank to one knee, leveling himself with her stomach. One of his hands settled over her belly, his fingers splayed gently over the fabric of her gown, reverent, as if the very thought of touching her now carried an entirely new meaning. His breath was unsteady as he rested his forehead against her stomach. And then, he spoke, voice soft. "Hello… my treasures. I've been waiting for you." Arthuria's fingers tangling in his golden hair as her breath shuddered.
It had taken three years. Three years of waiting, of healing, of finding herself again. And now— Now, she had never felt more whole.
The scent of herbs and simmering potions thickened the air as the healer carefully measured out a vial of medicine. His hands trembled slightly—not from the delicate work, but from the weight of his task. Then, a shadow passed over the room, and the flickering candlelight dimmed. Ishtar. The goddess of love, war, and fertility moved with effortless grace, her golden ornaments clinking softly as she stepped into view.
The healer startled so violently that the vial in his hands nearly slipped. He caught it just in time and hastily turned to face her, bowing deeply. "Your divine, holy, gracious—"
"Save it," Ishtar snapped, her voice laced with impatience. "What news?"
The healer straightened, his throat dry. "I—I did as you commanded. The potion was brewed, and the boosters were switched for the ones that prevent pregnancy, just as you requested…" A slow exhale left Ishtar's lips, though there was no relief in it.
"Even with the King's… unpredictable schedule."
Her eyes twitched. "And?" The healer hesitated.
"And… they were working. But—her grace has stopped requesting the boosters."
Silence. The kind of silence that made men sweat, that turned the air into ice despite the heat of the brewing fires.
She took a deep breath, steady and slow. "So, you've failed me."
The healer's body went rigid. "No, please, your grace—I did everything you asked! It's not my fault!"
Her fingers wrapped around his jaw. Her grip was deceptively gentle at first, her nails grazing his skin as she tilted his face toward hers. "Do you have any idea what you've done?" she whispered, her voice silk over steel. "You have just given the most arrogant king to live an heir. And that is not all…" Her eyes flickered, glowing ominously. She inhaled deeply as though drawing in the very essence of the cosmos. Then her lips parted slightly, and the words came with certainty: "I can sense it. The prophecy."
The healer's heart pounded in his chest. "What—what do we do now?" he stammered. "If it returns —"
Ishtar's expression smoothed into something unreadable, her divine presence growing heavier, suffocating. "It is my duty," she said, "as the Queen of the Heavens, to prevent the greater evil from returning."
The healer swallowed hard. "What does that mean?"
A slow smile curled her lips. "It means I have to accelerate my plans."
The healer opened his mouth to ask more, but Ishtar's grip tightened. "What… plans, your grace?" he croaked.
She tilted her head slightly. "None that you're involved in."
Before he could scream, she pulled his soul from his body with a mere flick of her fingers. The healer's lifeless form crumpled to the ground, his mouth still open in a silent plea. Ishtar gazed at the shimmering essence in her grasp for a moment, then closed her fingers around it—crushing it out of existence. Her expression remained impassive as she turned on her heel, stepping over the empty husk of a man. The time for patience was over.
The grand doors of the throne room slammed open, the sound like thunder against stone. A sharp gust of wind howled through the chamber, sending torches flickering and banners rippling in defiance. The golden halls now felt like they stood at the edge of war. Ishtar entered, flanked by two angelic guards. Their black wings stretched ominously behind them, dark as the abyss, a far cry from the celestial purity they once possessed. They were no longer messengers of light but heralds of judgment, and at their head, Ishtar stood like an omen of death.
She had discarded the silken robes of a goddess. Gone were the flowing garments, the golden adornments, the illusion of benevolence. Instead, she was clad in obsidian armor, sculpted to her divine form, edged with silver filigree. A headpiece crowned her, lined with cruel spikes like the thorns of a withered rose. This was no goddess of love. This was the Queen of Heaven in her full wrath. And her wrath was aimed at him. Gilgamesh did not rise from his throne. He did not even flinch. His crimson eyes, burning like embers, met Ishtar's with a gaze so sharp it could cleave through steel. He had anticipated her arrival the moment the healer's soul was shattered—he had known, deep in his bones, that this battle was inevitable. Ishtar's voice rang like a blade drawn from its sheath. "The heir that your queen carries must be terminated." The room turned to ice. The words were absolute, spoken with divine authority, an edict from the heavens themselves. But Gilgamesh only exhaled, slow and measured. "You will do no such thing." His words were not loud, yet they carried the weight of a thousand kings.
The torches burned brighter, their golden glow reflecting off his wrath. His fingers flexed on the armrest of his throne. His gaze shifted, just slightly, to Arthuria. She stood tall, her blue cloak pooling around her like the tide of an ocean storm. His guards stood at attention, awaiting his command. "Protect the Queen," he ordered.
His knights stepped forward without hesitation, shields raised, hands gripping the hilts of their blades. Ishtar scoffed, folding her arms. "You are harboring your destruction, Gil. Do you not understand?" Her voice was almost pitiful. "It is cruel to let this child live only to lock it in a cage." His fingers twitched, barely resisting the urge to conquer another realm. His mind screamed of Enkidu—his truest friend, lost to the hands of the gods. His heart roared at the insult thrown at his wife—his queen. And his blood boiled at the mere suggestion of harming his child. The walls of the throne room trembled under the weight of his fury. Ishtar senses this and decides on a different approach ."Let us have a duel." The challenge was issued before the king could declare war. She smirked. She knew exactly what she was doing. "Whoever wins will state their demands. However—" she tilted her head, golden eyes gleaming. "A decision must be made regardless. Surely, you know this." Gilgamesh's jaw clenched. He knew. And so, the battle began.
The arena roared with anticipation. The sky above Uruk was split between night and day, as if the heavens themselves could not decide whether to witness this duel in the light of justice or the shadows of vengeance. Gilgamesh stood on one end, his golden armor gleaming, his crimson cloak billowing with every gust of wind. The Gates of Babylon hovered behind him, an endless treasury of divine relics, ready to be unleashed at his command. Ishtar stood on the other end, spear in hand, her black wings spread wide, a war goddess in her truest form. The duel was as violent as it was beautiful. The king's projectiles rained from the sky, each one a weapon of legend, each one crafted to slay gods. Ishtar met them in kind, dodging with a grace that defied logic, her movements fluid as the stars she commanded. When she struck, it was like a meteor crashing upon the earth, shattering stone, splitting air. But Gilgamesh did not falter. A Pendragon does not yield. With every attack, he pressed forward. With every evasion, he grew sharper, faster, deadlier.
He had fought gods before. He had slain divine beasts, crushed demonic kings, and defied fate itself. Ishtar was formidable, but she was not above him. In the end, he won. His blade was at her throat, his foot pressing her down against the shattered remains of the battlefield. Blood painted the dust beneath them, and the Queen of Heaven, for all her might, lay defeated at his mercy. For a long moment, he stared down at her. He could have killed her. For Enkidu. For the insult against his wife. For his child. But he did not. Arthuria had changed him. And she needed him.
His Family needed him. So, instead, he lowered his blade—slowly, deliberately—and stepped back. His voice, when he spoke, was absolute. "I will have the prison worked on. Should the time come, and disaster falls upon us all, it will be my burden to bear. But my family's lives are not yours to take. Not anymore ." His crimson gaze bore into her, as if daring her to object."Or I will kill you. Your son. And everything you hold dear. Am I making myself clear?"
Ishtar lay there for a moment, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. Then, finally, "Crystal."
He turned to walk away. The duel was over. His family was safe. But just as he stepped toward the exit, Ishtar called out one last time.
"Would you like to know the gender?"
He froze. A long silence stretched between them. "No," he said.
She studied him for a moment before she laughed, the sound ringing through the chamber like wind chimes in a storm. She dragged herself up, trying to regain any dignity she had left, her voice barely a whisper. "You may be the King of the human realm now, but you are not the King of Fate." Then, in a blink, she was gone.
Arthuria, who had been spectating from afar, let out a slow breath, rubbing her stomach absentmindedly. "She's wrong," she whispered.
He turned to her then, his eyes no longer hard with fury, but soft with something deeper. "I Will Protect You and Our Family."
"We should think of plans, just in case…" she whispered.
No matter what the gods said—
No matter what prophecy foretold—
No matter what the stars themselves had already written—
This was their fate.
And they would not let the world decide their family's destiny.