#gilart

Bitterness creased his brow. Thousands of years, he’d spent upon this realm. He lived through the years when the elves had not yet established themselves in the great forest, when their kind used to war with the duergar, when houses traded mortals in exchange for coin. He’d spent centuries abolishing the slave trade within his own people, inspiring the dismantling of the practice across the plane, and it was not enough. It never reached where she hailed from. 

A gasp escaped her lips as his fingers moved over her secondary scapulae, feeling where soft skin turned to feathers, where her kind branched off from that of the short-lived humans. It was unnatural, something no amount of evolution could have pushed a human to develop–more proof of the twisted circumstances that bound her to service. 

Arturia pulled back, but he prevented her escape, locking his arms behind her. 

“Gilgamesh.” Her fingers crumpled the fine fabric of his shirt. “You cannot have me. You know that.” 

The elf king responded by drawing her closer to him than before, pressing her to himself so tightly the beads in her garbs imprinted marks onto his skin.

“Is it you that rejects me, Arturia?” he whispered softly, his lips ghosting over her ear. “Or is it your god?”

The man felt goosebumps pepper her skin and she turned away, concealing her countenance. If she meant to hide from him, it was a futile effort. While she could no longer see his face, with his chest pressed to her ear, she could hear the confession he hadn't yet put into words, hammering away at a quickened pace. 

It was one of the few things she feared; that she denied. In the deepest depths of her heart, she hoped that his fascination for her and all his incessant pestering had been fuelled by disgust, or hatred, or something else. She hoped that elves were as shallow and self-important as their dwarven comrades initially made them out to be. But while the king that held her now had been vain, had been supercilious, had been wholly difficult to work with, he was also…more. 

Gilgamesh had sown doubt where she once had unwavering faith. He’d bitterly challenged her ideals when others stayed quiet, pointed out flaws she chose to ignore, spoken into existence words she chose to swallow. All throughout their journey and even now that it had reached its happy end, the metal ring around her neck grew heavier and heavier, as if it could sense her heart beginning to falter. Meanwhile, the elf king planted himself firmly by her side, seeing not her mission, but seeing her. 

It didn’t make sense. Those like her were born to serve their god. It was what they lived for. It was what they died for. They had no purpose other than what was laid out for them. She wasn’t built to feel anything other than what her god ordered. 

But Gilgamesh insisted, placing his pointy ears at center-stage for her attention, and it was that persistence that made her realize that there was a life beyond the words of her creator. Gilgamesh infuriated her, made her laugh, made her shed tears. He pushed her so hard that all the feelings she deemed unnecessary broke free of their confines, and she was forced to face the fact that she was more than her duty. 

“You do not want this. I am bound to his service–” 

He cupped her chin in his hand and lifted her head til his burning gaze met her watery one.

“That is not an answer.” 

He pressed his lips onto hers. 

Gilgamesh didn’t care for the divine and all their whims. The woman in his hands had never turned her sword on anyone or anything without cause. Every day, she insisted she was nothing but a tool; an instrument of her god’s will, but he knew that wasn’t true. 

“Don’t,” she protested weakly, feathers rustling as she pushed him away. “He won’t let you have me, Gil. I–”

He kissed her again, burying his fingers in her hair before her wings could take her from his embrace.

Arturia didn’t choose to be born a thrall, but she accepted that duty because she knew it would help people–people who didn’t deserve her, who would forever see her as an outsider because she was only half-mortal. Because she was born from the lust of their god’s supposedly perfect servants. Because she was an aberration. A mistake. 

“Damn your god,” he cursed, his whispers tickling the fair skin of her collarbones as he left his marks. “I care not what he wants. I want this. I want you.” 

“You cannot think that,” she objected, finding her hands had lost the strength to push the high elf away. His touch felt like fire, warm upon her skin in places she’d never been caressed. She thought she’d see her end without ever having known what it was like: to feel someone crave her, to feel someone lament as his mouth reached the band around her neck, to feel someone want more than anything to break her chains. 

But here this elf king was, selfishly claiming that which was owned by someone else. 

“You are all I can think about, Arturia,” he declared, sealing his truth as he claimed her lips once more. “Night and day, it is you. Always. It will always be you.”

His ruby eyes shone with nothing but the raw, excruciating truth: he loved her. More than anything, more than anyone, he loved her. 

The winged wonder cupped his face in both her hands, gently stroking her thumbs across his cheeks. Her heart pounded loudly against her chest. Her collar burned hot against her skin. Glowing gold tears welled up in her eyes. Did she want this? Could she want this? 

Could she? She asked, feeling herself lean in. 

Their lips had barely touched when her leash snapped taut.