#godscale

     AH, GOOD. GILGAMESH TOO felt attachment towards his kingdom. The older counterpart – that Caster version – had made that rather clear in how they had protected Uruk with steadfast conviction against monsters and the like that wished to scale its walls and devour its citizens, but the man before him was faintly different from them. They were fundamentally the same person, and yet, they also were not. Both were different aspects of history, just as the man that Ozymandias became in old age, was different from the brash and arrogant Pharaoh he was in this present form. Humming softly, he crossed his arms over his chest, walking around the other in deep thought as gold ornaments clinked with each step. His steps were slow, deliberate, and as pensive as his expression.

     ❝It seems you and I have the same thoughts. It feels…right sitting upon that throne looking upon others. Men such as us belong there. That is our place in this world.❞ Perfect kings… There were some that would say there was no such a thing; however, Ozymandias found that laughable. After all, HE was the definition of a perfect king and the pinnacle of perfection. No other could ever hope to attain half of what he represented. ❝They say that the people are the building blocks of a kingdom…which is true. Although, we are the ones who ensure those blocks stay in place and do not topple. It is hard to not feel care for one’s subjects, even when those individuals may at times be ungrateful.❞

* how am I doing // accepting

It me birth

prompt.

there is nothing that blooms in the blighted boulevard of his throat, but a silent scathing question of the very nature of Gilgamesh’s words. The blond speaks as though the pith of killing is left barren; unmarred and untouched by the ravenous roots that surge from the raw yen to live                      to feel one’s skin sear beneath the golden rays of the midsummer’s sun; to taste the sweet, sweet gore of exhilaration upon the rancid rot of their tongues; to behold, in all of its glory, the timeless beauty of the gargantuan greenwood and the azure seas that are capable of bringing millions after millions after millions of men to their knees. Surely, Gilgamesh knows this : killing breeds the selfsame fervour that living births. To kill and to live ... Are they truly independent of the other ?

Reserved!

one word prompt || accepting@godscale

headcanon | starter | drabble

       His blame was misplaced. It took years for him to realize that. He believed Gilgamesh was the sole reason he had failed to succeed in the Holy Grail War, that it was his fault that his Servant had met an inevitable defeat upon that bridge. Sorrow turned to anger, anger faded into fear and resentment; such emotions conflicting to outweigh the other when he tried to rationalize his thoughts. More often than not, he came up empty handed and just as angry and bitter and afraid the day he had been spared by the Golden King. Merciful was what one would have called him if they had witnessed the scene unfolding, but at the time when he had been younger, he would not have described the Archer’s action as an act of mercy. Truly, he hadn’t known why he hadn’t been struck down where he stood. Spewing out some nonsense about being told he were supposed to live on, supposed to survive and speak of his King’s praises for others to know. 

        Maybe it was pity. Perhaps Gilgamesh had pitied him and his existence. He wasn’t a worthy opponent, couldn’t even fight back if he tried. One wave of the Archer’s hand and Waver would have been rendered to no more than dust. That was what feared him the most. That someone was capable of such power and ability, and if he had looked away or faltered upon that bridge, his life could have been snatched from him in no more than a second. There had been various near death experiences in his life, more than enough to count on both hands, but Gilgamesh… Waver remembered him the most. 

       It couldn’t be considered a reunion or some grand return when there was no one waiting for him. Even the Rider he had summoned years ago remembered him in memories that were hazy, a watercolor of once was and had been. It was... lonely. He saw faces in Chaldea, familiar and held with bitter remembrance, but one man drew forth the worst in him. The Caster could never meet his gaze as he had back when he was verging twenty and barely able to cast the simplest of spells. That crimson still pierced him, in his memories, in his nightmares. The further away from the Archer he was, the better his stay in the facility would be. 

       But that wasn’t always the case. Avoidance was impossible when his support was called upon. Leave, act, fight, and return. It was a wash, rinse, and repeat of what was asked of him and every Servant, and he abided by it for no more than the sake of their common goal. Still, when that Golden King stood by him on the same ground, he did not look to him. Words were always brief, only the necessary spoken, yet there were many questions he wanted to ask when they returned from a Singularity. Why had he been spared those years ago? Why had he not killed him? Was it because he thought him not worth the energy? Worth spilling his blood? Or was it for something that couldn’t be put simply? 

WHY AREN’T WE ROLEPLAYING? || ACCEPTING

♧ - I’m like? So lazy? And haven’t like? Replied in like? Forever?

LAUREN I HOPE YOU KNOW THAT I LOVE YOU TOO. I love writing with you even if we each take 20 years to reply, and it’s always so exciting to see you post about your muses, be it a serious headcanon or even just some crack commentary about how they act. You’re an angel, and heck I don’t care if we have 1 or 20 threads going on at the same time because it’s fun writing with you 💗