5 Years Later…
The palace was bathed in the soft glow of the early morning sun, the golden light stretching across the grand halls like fingers reaching for the waking world. Inside the royal chambers, Gilgamesh slept soundly, his arm draped lazily over his wife's waist, her warmth pressed against him. There was peace. And then—
"Farther!" A small weight collided with him, jolting him from his slumber. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut, praying he had imagined the voice. No such luck.
Arthuria stirred beside him, letting out a sleepy sigh."Your shadow is awake," she murmured, her voice thick with exhaustion.
He buried his face into the pillows, grumbling, "Shadows do not exist until the sun is up…"
A giggle answered him. "It is sunrise, Father!"
Little hands grabbed the heavy velvet curtains and yanked them open, spilling golden morning light across the room.
He groaned louder, his body sinking further into the bed as if he could escape the day itself. "It is treasonous to interrupt a king's sleep."
Silence. Then A sharp gasp. He felt the shift in the air before he even turned over. Artizea. His Daughter. Frowning. Arms crossed.
Danger.
"You said a king's word is law."
His other eye cracked open, wary. "Correct…"
"And you promised me I would watch you govern today," she huffed, tiny hands on her hips, "Which means if you don't get up, you would be breaking the law, Father. The law you yourself imposed."
He stared at her, blinking frog-like. Then, slowly turned his head toward Arthuria, who was now shaking with silent laughter. He could practically hear her thoughts. Serves you right. No one else could put him in his place like this. No one except his daughter.
The small child at the foot of their bed giggled again, her crimson eyes shining with delight, her golden hair messy from sleep. At just 4 years old, she was too much like him for his liking. Smug. Fearless. A storm of curiosity and chaos.
He dragged himself up, raking a hand through his golden mess of hair. "Arthur is your problem today," he muttered, voice rough with sleep.
Arthuria yawned, stretching slightly before sinking back into the pillows. "The prince would sleep until lunch if you let him."
Lucky little bastard. Gilgamesh thought upon rolling out of bed, stretching with a sigh before strolling toward the bathing room.
Artizea sped after him like a tiny bloodhound. Without even looking back, he caught her by the hem of her shirt, lifted her clean off the ground, and gently deposited her outside the door. The door shut in her face with finality. Artizea blinked. Then sank dramatically to the floor, arms crossed in righteous outrage.
"Artizea Pendragon," Arthuria grumbled from the bed, "let your father bathe."
Artizea huffed but stayed planted as she waited like a knight in training. When the door finally opened, she promptly landed flat on her back at his feet, staring up with an awoken, beaming smile.
Gilgamesh didn't even blink. He paused, glancing between the balcony and his too-excited daughter. "Well, little king," he mused, "The kingdom awaits."
Artizea's face lit up brighter as she sprinted after him, her small legs moving as fast as they could to match his stride. She followed him exactly like a shadow, tiny bare feet pattering against the marble floors as she walked beside him. No, not walked—marched. Her chin high, steps purposeful, just like she had seen her father do a thousand times before. The moment they entered the halls, guards straightened, servants bowed their heads. But Artizea barely noticed. She was too busy asking a million and one questions.
"So what are we doing today, Father? Council?"
He hummed as if considering.
Artizea gasped, her crimson eyes wide with excitement. "Decapitation?!"
He chuckled, shaking his head. "We don't call it that anymore, little tyrant."
"Oh, right—Executions then!"
He laughed.
The moment His firstborn entered the world, the realm held its breath. The entire kingdom awaited the birth of the heir, the firstborn of the realm. Many wondered who the child would take after the most, whether it be the father, the current king, a force of nature, or the mother, the last of the first kings, and lastly, what gender?
Gilgamesh stepped forward, gaze sharp, waiting to see what fate had given him. And then—red. Crimson eyes, the color of flame and fury, stared back at him from the tiny, wrinkled face of his newborn daughter. A perfect replica of himself. For a brief moment, he felt disappointment. Not because she wasn't strong, not because she wasn't worthy, but because she should have been Arthuria's. He had wanted a daughter who bore her mother's blue eyes, who reflected the woman who had brought his heart to his knees. He scowled as she cried upon holding her.
"Gods in hell…" he grumbled. This is what his life has come to, now.
Arthuria rolled her eyes at him, already regretting all her life choices.
The midwife nervously cleared her throat. "She's… healthy, Your Majesty."
"I can hear that," he cut her off, still analyzing the infant like a puzzle that refused to fit. "She could at least have had her mother's eyes. That was the entire point of this endeavor." But as he looked down at Artizea, who already dared to glare at him as if she were the king, the disappointment faded. This was his daughter. He sighed deeply, placing a gentle kiss on the infant's forehead despite his theatrics. Still, he exhaled and turned to the nurse.
"Next time, I will have my favor."
Arthuria merely smiled, "We shall see."
"We shall see, indeed?" he asked the healer, "Can we try for another?"
Arthuria, still weak from labor, lifted her head just enough to glare at him. "Are you serious?" She was too exhausted to complete the launch of a pillow at his head, but the look in her eyes promised violence.
"If your majesties are certain… then sooner than you may think." The midwife said cautiously.
"Say something smart and your bloodline ends with one," Arthuria said flatly
Gilgamesh smirked, knowing she couldn't chase him down at the moment, and he stayed by his wife's side until the moment she fell asleep from exhaustion. He smiled softly, then shifted his gaze back to his daughter. He had turned to the maid, awkwardly holding the swaddled baby. "Show me how to hold her…?" He had said gruffly, his voice uncharacteristically uncertain.
The maid, patient and understanding, adjusted his arms gently. "Like this, Your Grace. Support her head."
"Ah, let's go for a walk, yes?' He had wandered the gardens and the palace halls, Artizea cradled in his arms. She continued to fuss, her cries echoing in the stillness of the night. Desperate to calm her, he began to speak softly, the words tumbling out unbidden. "When I was a child," he began, his voice low and steady, "My father was… Distant. Stern. And my mother…" He paused, looking out into the paintings through the halls.
Artizea had begun to wail loudly, as if feeling his emotions, building, her tiny fists clenched. But the moment he looked at her, she went silent, and his resolve softened. She had his eyes, bright and full of fire, full of life and defiance, even as a newborn.
"I will make you promise, tonight. One, I will stay true till the end of my days," he whispered, his voice breaking slightly,
Her eyes were wide open, as though she were listening.
"I will never forsake you. Not for anything."
She had smiled at him then, a small, almost imperceptible smile. But it was enough. In that moment, something in him shifted. It was in that moment, as he paced the gardens with her in his arms, that he decided what kind of man he was going to be. Not the kind of father who turned away, but one who would hold her, protect her, and cherish her. No matter what. But fate would not be kind to him next. There were screams once more.
Arthuria.
"My king—!"
Gilgamesh did not wait for explanations. His heart leapt into his throat. He thrust Artizea into a maid's arms. "Take her—NOW." And he ran. He burst into the chamber, breath sharp, chest heaving. "Arthuria—what is the matter?"
Arthuria clutched her stomach, drenched in sweat, gritting her teeth against a pain she could not voice.
"SOMEONE TELL ME WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO MY WIFE—"
"I-it is the babe, your highness," the healer said while inoculating the lower part.
Gilgamesh's blood ran cold. "What about my daughter?"
"Not the princess, your grace. There is—another child…" she whispered.
"What?" he asked in disbelief.
Arthuria screamed once more.
"Your Highness, you must push."
"I can't—" Arthuria gasped, shaking, eyes wild. "I can't—!"
Gilgamesh froze. For a moment. He was in his father's shoes, watching as the healers looked to him to make an impossible choice. One that was not impossible for him to make. He was the reason for his mother's death in childbirth…He would not—could not—repeat that fate. His hesitation immediately snapped back to his wife. He surged forward, shoving the healer aside."Move—before I throw you off my balcony of this castle myself— you incompetent fool."He climbed onto the bed, pulling Arthuria upright into his arms, cradling her against his chest as he lifted her legs. "Hold on to me," he murmured, "Breathe, my love. Breathe."
She tried—gasping, trembling. "Why me…" she whispered, but pain tore the rest away in a scream.
"The babe's head is showing, Your Majesties," the healer stammered, attempting to redeem herself. "It seems to be fairly large—"
Gilgamesh shot her a glare that promised eternal silence if she spoke again.
"This is all your fault…" she groaned through clenched teeth.
He huffed a shake-laughed breath. He lowered his forehead to Arthuria's. "I somehow doubt that. But you may take your anger out on me later—after our children are safe. Yes?"
"Shit—" she breathed, shaking.
"Push, Your Majesty!"
The next minutes were hell itself. Arthuria screamed as Gilgamesh whispered against her temple, and then another cry.
"Congratulations… it is a boy."
Gilgamesh's head snapped up. His eyes narrowed at the newborn in the nurse's trembling hands. She startled under the weight of his glare and rushed forward to present the prince to the queen—nearly stumbling.
"Careful," Arturia hissed, steadying her.
Gilgamesh's gaze pointed at the healer once more. "You are fired."
"No—she is not," Arturia shot back without looking up. "She is the only one I want delivering our next."
Gilgamesh blinked. "You… wish to try again?"
"Four, right?" she asked.
"I would be just as happy with us four, if you wished that as well, Ria."
"I do not wish it," she said, eyes still fixed on the infant. "When I set my mind to something, I must have it. You know that well."
Gilgamesh was at a loss for words; he could only stare at the child lying bundled in royal silks within his wife's embrace. Blue eyes. Bright, sharp, and full of defiance, but he had a cock. The babe's gaze met his, and Gilgamesh swore the gods were mocking him through his son.
"This is personal," he finally muttered. "He's a complete copy of you."
"You think so?" she said with a victorious smile. "In that case, I think the name Arthur suits him better than it did I…" she tilted her head, "Huh, He really does have a big head…"
Gilgamesh chuckled, "So did I," he admitted, then crossed his arms over them both, while staring down at his son as if willing his eyes to change color. He only blinked up at him in infantile disinterest. The gods were laughing at him; he was sure of it. He just stared at the child, his expression unreadable.
Arthuria, already knowing what was coming, didn't even try to hold back her laughter.
"We have been cursed, Arthuria. No doubt by that dreadful sword." He groaned, staring at the child.
Arthuria exhaled shakily behind him, wiping a tear from her eye.
And Gilgamesh whispered, barely audible, "Arthur Pendragon…suits him just fine, indeed."
Back on the West side of the Palace. Arthur's small hand clutched at the fabric of his mother's cloak as they walked through the palace corridors. His steps were quick, eager, trying to match the longer strides of his mother, though his legs were still short. Arthuria glanced down at him, amused but patient. Artizea was off with her Father committing atrocities, so it was just her and Arthur. A rare quiet moment. She listened as his little boots pattered against the stone floors, his tiny fingers grasping her cloak every so often to steady himself.
He had so many questions these days—why the sky was blue, why the wind howled at night, why his father's hair defies gravity. And then— He stopped. His grip on her cloak tightened. His eyes, bright and sharp, gleamed with something new—wonder. Arthuria followed his gaze—and her breath caught. They had unknowingly walked past the chamber where Excalibur rested. The blade sat embedded in stone, untouched, undisturbed.
The torches flickered along the walls, casting their golden steel in rippling light, the runes along its length humming just barely, like a whisper only the sword itself could hear. Arthur took a step toward it. Then another. He pressed his hands against the iron gate that separated him from the sword, his small fingers curling around the bars. His face was awestruck, a child who had only ever known stories finally seeing a legend with his own eyes. And then, a question.
"Mother—why don't you use it anymore?"
His voice was innocent, but Arthuria felt her stomach twist. She did not answer right away.
He turned back to her, his brows furrowed in that serious way of his—far too serious for a boy of three. "The stories say Excalibur is your sword," he said. "So why don't you use it anymore?"
Her lips parted—but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she lowered herself carefully—her pregnancy making the movement slow—and cupped his small face. "Because…" she hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "…It's no longer mine."
Arthur blinked up at her. Confused. Curious. "Then… who does it belong to?"
Arthuria exhaled, her fingers brushing lightly through his golden hair. "One day…" she said quietly, turning back to look at the sword. "Excalibur will choose someone worthy."
Arthur looked back at the sword, his little brows drawing together. "Worthy?"
She nodded. "Someone who can bear the burdens of a leader," she murmured.
He tilted his head slightly, his small hands still gripping the bars. "Did it hurt?" he asked softly.
She blinked, caught off guard.
"When Excalibur left you," he clarified. "Did it hurt?"
She inhaled. For all his youth, Arthur was sharp. He saw the world differently—more than just questions, more than just wonder. She forced a smile, though she knew it wasn't convincing."It's not about the pain," she said gently. "It's about when it's time to let go."
He frowned, not quite understanding. But he would one day. She could already see it—the way he stood, the way he watched, the way his eyes burned with something deeper than childhood curiosity. A boy too young to understand destiny—but who may one day carry it.
Arthur was still looking at Excalibur, his tiny fingers tightening around the iron bars. Even as she led him away, he kept looking back. And deep in the heart of the stone, the sword hummed. Waiting. Watching. For someone to reclaim it.