Chapter Text
The palace was quieter than usual that afternoon. She hadn't meant to wander that far. Saber told herself it was out of habit. Mapping exits. Noting patrols. Understanding the layout of place that was….her home. It was a knights instinct.
But the corridor she followed became unfamiliar.
A tall set of doors stood slightly ajar at the end of the hallway. Light spilled through. She could see the flow of fabric in the gentle breeze of open windows. Saber hesitated for a moment before pushing the doors open.
The room itself was large. State use, perhaps—though it had been transformed into something else. Silk and embroidered cloth lay across tables. Needle cushions. Threads of golden were woven into silk. The air smelled faintly of dyes and lined. And in the center….
Saber's steps slowed.
A dress.
It hung from a carved stand, unfinished but unmistakable in what it was. It was elegant. It was royal. The fabric shimmered with quiet wealth. It left no room for armor. It wasn't travel wear. No, this was something else. Something elegant. Something deliberate. It was something meant for a queen.
Her breath caught. And then the memory surface, sharp and unwelcome. Their duel. The ultimatum.
Fight me. If I win, you will marry me.
And she had foolishly accepted that dare. She had accepted it as she did most impossible things. She had accepted it as a challenge and as a battlefield. And for once—she had lost.
Her fingers curled slightly at her side. She hadn't forgotten the terms of that duel. She had simply set them aside. But staring at the dress…
Her dress.
The dress she would wear when she married Gilgamesh.
...she remembered all too clearly why she was here.
She stepped forward slowly. The silk shifted slightly in the breeze from the open window again. It was beautiful in a way that made her uneasy. Her throat tightened. The dress was a reminder of the future she had no chosen. She didn't like that feeling. But worse than that…
Was the curiosity that followed it. Because she didn't turn away from the dress. She touched it. She caressed the soft silk between her fingertips.
A soft sound came from the doorway behind her. Saber lifted her head and turned, her hand instinctively reaching for her blade.
Gilgamesh leaned against the frame. His expression was unreadable. What she could read wasn't teasing nor was it mocking. "So…" He murmured. "You've found it."
Her throat worked again. "This is for me."
"No," he replied evenly. "It is for what comes after your decision."
"My decision?"
He didn't answer. He just stared at her. But she remembered. She knew. And she didn't understand it. She inhaled shakily. "I remember." But… "I gave my word." She said softly.
He stepped into the room, his steps unhurried. The sound of his boots were quiet against the stone.
"You are uneasy," Gilgamesh said just as softly as her own words.
Saber exhaled slowly through her nose, forcing her attention away from the dress and back to him. "This was always the arrangement."
"Yes."
He didn't pressure her. He never had, had he? During the Grail War, perhaps. But since the dual? Words left her. He was the same man who had thrown her into a lake—after she had done the same to him—he was the same man who had stolen her horse after she sabotaged his. He was the same man who laughed as if the world could not touch him.
He was the man who had forced her hand and yet...the same man who was giving her free will. He was waiting...waiting when he didn't have to wait. He was the man who was waiting when patience was not something he was known for.
Her eyes met his. "I am not afraid." She said quietly.
He didn't mock her. "I never said you were." Silence followed, and then— "You are allowed to question it."
Saber looked away. "Why does no one question it?"
Gilgamesh's brow shifted slightly. "Question what?"
"The arrangement," she said. "Us."
He paused. "They do."
"They do?"
"They are simply intelligent enough not to say it aloud."
That earned a faint, reluctant exhale from her. "And the marriage?"
Another pause. Longer this time. "The court assumes it is inevitable," he said. Because it was inevitable.
"And yet it has not happened." She said slowly.
"No."
Saber hesitated. "...why has no one questioned why we have not shared a bed?" He was a King. She was to be his queen. She wasn't foolish enough to think that Gilgamesh wasn't a man of bodily pleasures.
Gilgamesh turned his head slowly towards her. "That, they question more carefully."
Saber frowned slightly. "And?"
"And they are still alive." he replied simply.
That was not an answer so much as it was a boundary. She studied him for a moment. "You could force it." She spoke softly.
"Yes." Gilgamesh's tone changed—softer, perhaps. More dangerous than any command.
Saber surprised herself by her own question. "Why haven't you?"
This time, he did not answer immediately. But his eyes met hers. Eyes that glowed faintly in the darkness. Red. She'd grown used to those eyes.
"Is that what you truly believe I am?" He asked.
"That you would not?" she countered. At one time that was exactly the kind of man she would have taken him for. Especially when he demanded she be his wife.
"I have taken many things in my life," Gilgamesh said slowly. "But what I want from you does not require force."
Saber searched his face. His eyes. Searching for mockery—but she found none. "Then why this?"
"Because I do not wish for you to see this as your prison."
She looked away again. "You are so sure of yourself that I will choose...this.…of my own violation." She had expected they would wed long before now. She had expected he would...their very first night here. And yet weeks had passed.
Her lids lifted when he placed a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face to his. "You did not kneel to me, Artoria." He said. Nothing more.
She stilled. "That is not an answer."
"It is the only one that matters."
She choose her words carefully. "And if I said I would not marry you...you would be humiliated, would you not?"
"I would not be humiliated." Gilgamesh said.
Saber frowned.
But Gilgamesh continued. "Humiliation is what others assign to failure." He waited until her eyes met his. "I do not fail, Artoria."
Her breath caught. It should have sounded arrogant. But it was steady.
And then, because he was Gilgamesh— "But...I would be unamused."
Saber looked away, moving herself away from the finger that held her chin. "You make this sound so simple."
"It is not simple, but it is direct." Gilgamesh corrected her. "You are not here because you were conquered and I am not waiting for you because I lack alternatives."
Her chest tightened.
"We are here because you have not left." And there were so many meanings to those words.
He was so sure...she would choose him.
Saber stared at him, her eyes searching his face. She didn't see a king. She didn't see a legend. She saw….him.
She saw the beauty in the man before her—
Her chest tightened again.
Because his gaze wasn't a challenge or even a conquest. It was the gaze of a man who was simply waiting. He wasn't impatient. He wasn't demanding. He was simply waiting as if he already knew the ending.
Saber exhaled slowly. "This is more complicated than war."
Gilgamesh's expression softened. "Most things are."
"I am still deciding." Saber finally said quietly after a moment.
"I know," he replied just as quietly before he offered her his hand to guide her out towards the open terrace doors. She let him guide her. It was simply becoming second nature to her. She told herself it was practical. But the truth was... his presence was easy to stand next to. Not gentle. It wasn't safe because he was the reason she was here to begin with. But just...steady. A silence stretched between. It was comfortable in a way that was far too quiet. She didn't like it. So she fixed it.
And casually, as if it meant nothing, she said, "I ate the last of your fruit."
Gilgamesh turned his head and looked down at her. One brow lifted. "...my fruit."
"Yes." She murmured.
"The one from the Eastern orchards." He said in a curious tone.
"I believe so." Saber said without missing a beat. Perfectly composed.
Gilgamesh let out a low hum of breath. "You break my heart." There was no real offense in his voice, only lazy accusation wrapped in humor.
Saber glanced at the city light as she let the silence stretch between them again. Uruk truly was a beautiful place. And Gilgamesh...was a good king. She hesitated over her next words. "And if I did agree to marry you...on the next day of your choosing? If I gave you my consent—would that stop the rumors?"
Gilgamesh lowered himself to lean his forearms against the railing as he looked over the lights shining from below. He didn't answer right away.
Saber's fingers tightened over the railing. "I don't want…." She hesitated. "I don't wish you to be mocked for this." Because she knew from his earlier words that Uruk had begun to wonder. Why were they waiting—why didn't the King take what already belonged to him.
She waited for his response, but none came. His expression simply shifted. He wasn't offended but he wasn't amused, either. But he was….attentive.
Saber kept going anyway, because stopping felt worse. "If we did this...would you give me time on our wedding night?" She may have grown to accept his presence, but there were still things…
That made the air change. More focused. Saber looked away from his side profile. She swallowed. "Until I'm ready?" She clarified, somehow managing to keep her voice steady. He didn't have to give her that. He didn't have to give her anything. But she was asking anyways. She was asking for more than he had already given her.
She hated the silence. She hated that he wasn't teasing her now. She hated that he wasn't arrogant. He was letting her question everything.
And when he finally answered, his voice was calm. "Yes."
A single word. A simple answer.
Saber inhaled. Exhaled. She'd expected resistance. She didn't know what to do with the absence of it. "Just like that?"
He turned his head and looked at her finally. "You assume I require immediacy to prove ownership."
"I didn't say that."
"You implied it," he corrected, though not unkindly.
Then, softer—less declarative, more honest than before: "I do not take what is not offered."
Saber went still at that. The words should have reassured her. And in some ways, they did. As if all of his boasting in another time had been nothing but words. And words meant nothing if she gave herself freely.
She looked back out over the city again, trying to settle the strange weight in her chest. "I am not easy." She murmured after a moment.
"I am aware," he replied.
That almost made her huff under her breath. She leaned against the railing and then shook her head. "You should have chosen someone simpler."
Gilgamesh didn't answer right away, but when he did, it wasn't what she expected. And again, there was no mockery. No arrogance. He simply said, "No." Just the single word. No explanation.
Saber frowned slightly. "That's it?"
His voice carried faint amusement again, but gentler than before. "That is sufficient."
She didn't know what to do with that either. So she fell quiet.
And for a while, they simply stood there together—warriors, kings, and something in between neither of them had fully named yet—watching a city that would have spoken loudly about them if it ever dared to look up. Gilgamesh had been right—because she came to him of her own freewill. She did. And when she asked when, he answered, as if that would always have been the answer. Gilgamesh wasn't simply a man who waited. He was a man who planned. And that plan had come to fruitation.
"On the next moon."
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