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Priscilla     On the day after Christmas (Gilsmas), Gilgamesh gets his second or third visit to Anor Londo. There's a surprising difference in cast since the height of summer. Though the city of the gods high atop the improbably steep ring of mountains remains, and always will, a city of the sun, built as it was by the first and most potent of divine lineages, when it's so close to the winter solstice, the golden cast of everything from the massive stones to the gleaming metals in its construction takes on a sort of pale tone of white gold instead, suffusing everything with a faint glow that aesthetically replaces the drifts of snow that are in extremely short supply, despite the white-capped peaks all around.

    It never seems to quite get below 'brisk', and thus people travel with thick clothes, but without fear of frostbite, and linger outdoors for all of their activities. The charged tingle in the air actually seems somewhat greater since last time, with the definite feeling of being at the center of the world, with the very nexus of all its energies many miles below.

    There is a small --even subtle-- yet very considerable change about it, though, when Gilgamesh notices. Before, the handful of gods visible at any point, usually around only the grandest of dedicated buildings with thirty foot doors and steeples taller than skyscrapers, are now tiny in comparison to the places essentially built for them. The palpable warp and weft of power about them hasn't changed at all, but rather, every single one of them has assumed a vaguely mortal (if impossibly exaggerated) stature and visage.

    There is, of course, no reason they'd do this of their own volition, and especially not just for the sake of it. It even holds true all the way up the multi-lane, differently sized steps of the monolithic citadel-palace at its center, to meet Priscilla at the top, inside the vaulted grant hall and its zigzag staircases and towering pillars. In uncharacteristic fashion, she immediately reaches out and grabs him by the hand, directing him through several halls and staircases, to higher reaches of oversized architecture, rather than splitting off into the periphery webs of denser, smaller, human-sized accommodation.

    She sounds . . . happy to see him, but oddly, if only slightly, tense. "I am gladdened thou came, with such little explanation." she says, walking pretty briskly. "Though I regret that this is not quite the gift that I wouldst wish to give thee in gladness, I believeth, it is an important one. And I hope, one thou shalt appreciate in time."
Gilgamesh      It's a beautiful place, Anor Londo. Even the King of Heroes can appreciate divine architecture without smarm, without comparing it to his own work, without looking down his nose at it. You give credit where it's due. You admire what is beautiful. You appreciate what is good in the world.

     The King of Heroes even got here early just to admire it a little in the winter. He's wearing his usual coat and sweater, a cup of that awful coffee he's come to make part of his routine in hand. He looks for all the world like an uncommonly beautiful tourist - if Anor Londo even has a *concept* of such a thing - as he stops, leaning on what passes for railing to watch the white gold shine. He had no need to hurry. He had no *desire* to hurry. Hurrying was...

     A sip of the coffee. It was black and bitter and disgusting, coffee from the secretary's pool in his palace-skyscraper in Denmark, a coffee he nonetheless had every morning because he felt that it was important for the King to take pride in the exports of his city.

     No one had yet dared to tell him that it wasn't, and he hadn't bothered to look, because, really.

     So he leaned there, drinking his coffee, admiring the view, and thinking of her. He thought of her as he watched the gods in their new stature, in their more mortal forms. The King filed it away in the back of his mind and continued thinking of her, and of her city, and of how it looked so much more beautiful in the chill than it ever had in the sun. He had seen cities of the sun. But so few could make the winter their own.

     Finally, when he had promised to meet her, he made his way up the monolithic stairs. Gilgamesh about to say something when she simply grabs him by the hand and starts dragging him.

     And he just sort of lets himself be dragged. The only sign of anything *like* a reaction to this besides 'just going with it' is his hand tightening around her own, a subtle sign of trust, and an affection transferred solely by touch. Whatever else one might say about the brutal King of All That Is, Was, And Ever Shall Be, he had long since mastered gentle affections - but in this case they aren't for pleasure.

     Of a sort, perhaps, but not the sort he learned them for.

     She says she's glad to see him as they wind up and up and up the halls and stairs. He says nothing at first, but there's a flickering smile on his face.

     "I seem to recall," Gilgamesh says, "That last year's gift wasn't one that ordinary people might call *glad*." The black coat he wears swirls around behind him as he keeps up in stride. On anyone else it would look simply like a very nice coat. On the King it is a royal affair grander than the grandest cloak. "But it was important. I think we can safely say that we are beyond the colorful boxes and presents of those below us, and that ours is a merriment that comes from company and understanding, and not packages and courtesies."

     "Though..." His face colors only slightly as they walk. "Perhaps one day it might be nice, to have what they have. Just once."

     "Just the two of us."

     One can almost hear the pin drop. It's not 'you, me, Enkidu, and Rhongomyniad.' It's not even 'you and me and Enkidu.' It's 'the two of us.'

     "Whatever it is, though it may not be glad, I will accept it gladly."
Priscilla     "Well, thou and I art hardly ordinary people." Priscilla says without hesitation, nor a particular angle to it. It's a statement of fact, delivered in light heartedness, albeit also seriousness. "Indeed, such things art a simple sort of pleasure. Oft appreciated by those who lack the perspective to appreciate aught else, but . . . such does not quite mean that it is beneath those who possess such either. A simple, tactile sort of thing, is quite oft appreciated by anyone, I believeth." That much is simple musing. In agreement, that the two of them can do without, but hardly against the idea that one year in the future they might try something traditional. That it might get to that point of familiarity.

    There's a little pause. Quiet. Considerate. Thoughtful. Even ever so slightly bashful, strange as it is. Before Priscilla speaks again, paused before an open door leading into a deep hall some fifteen storeys up by the citadel's easternmost side, for the long, wide glowing beams through unstained glass mural windows. "That wouldst be . . . an experience I wouldst like to try once, I think. What use is long life if one does not see such things for thineself? And what point is there in a short one if thou endeavours not to fill it?" she says. Soft as her voice is, there is no hiding the faintly warm tone to it. A verbal smile at something thoughtful.

    Still, she pauses before the entry, bracing herself briefly for whatever comes next. She still doesn't explain it. It feels less like keeping Gilgamesh in the dark on purpose, as some kind of surprise, and more by the moment as if there is an unspoken understanding that telling him what to do would be little more than a waste of time. She releases his hand, and leads him in.

    It's clearly a sort of recreational hall, albeit (relatively speaking) a small and private one, finally not for grandiloquent usage of superhuman physiques for uberman pastimes. It's sort of an oversized lounge, if anything, with a fireplace only moderately in use, having no need to light the room, and barely needed for heat with the known insulative properties of thick stone. Braziers filled with crystal slivers that are currently left dark line the wall opposite of the windows, and the columns between them. Exceedingly large paintings done by masterful hands fill the remaining space. Gorgeously polished marble floor is covered here and there with woven rugs of more eastern design than the more Gothic architecture, along with the luxurious upholstery scattered about, around oak or glass tables, currently *mostly* cleared of their charts, books, plates, dissembled projects, slates, and half-finished artworks.

    The only relevant feature at the end is a set of five chairs set up nearest to the fire and a cluster of miniature bookshelves and statuettes, before the actual, life-sized statues of silver knights in alcoves at the far end, alongside one empty pedestal and another containing a grand dedication to someone who is seated in them. Two chairs --basically mini-sofas-- are obviously for Priscilla and Gilgamesh. One remains empty, but two more are occupied.
Priscilla     One by a girl who is considerably 'visibly younger' than Priscilla, in several layers of white dress and a pulled back sort of 'Celtic veil', or perhaps Norse, in the form of very old nobility. There is enough of a family resemblance even without a tail and pale scale markings around the edges of her face near the eyes, albeit a somewhat distant one, given she's more platinum blonde than silver-haired, and the scales are light and washed out lavender, matching her very non-fluffy tail. She is short enough to be kicking her feet back and forth since they don't quite touch the floor while seated.

    The other is occupied by an actually grown woman, who gives the sense of being nebulously older than Priscilla, in the sense of Priscilla always affecting the air of a 'young woman' somewhat past adulthood, whereas this one is visibly at a mature prime. She herself possesses another distinctive family resemblance, of a somewhat different stripe, given to softer features and physique, as well as deep brunette hair, but the same golden eyes, the same tint of facial features, the same disposal towards height, and frankly, since Gilgamesh has seen Priscilla in a swimsuit once, similar statuesque proportions. She doesn't have any draconic features at all. She is also dressed in a sort of 'very old-world feminine royalty' style, but heavily influenced by the availability of silks and gold, in a quasi middle-eastern sense that somehow feels more 'modern', despite technically the Earth history equivalent predating the other fashions on display, and considerably less conservative.

    Priscilla takes a deep, deep breath, and then finally, gestures towards Gilgamesh. "Mother. This is King Gilgamesh. Gilgamesh, this is Gwynevere, Queen of Sunlight, and mine 'step sister' of a sort, young Yorshka. All of the gods, today, at mine request, hath taketh a stature no taller than thine own. So, pray, sit."
Gilgamesh      Gilgamesh is still smiling. He'll probably do that all day. As she considers the possibility of a traditional Christmas, as her tone grows bashful at his suggestion, at his statement, his smile widens a little. It's just a bit teasing. But the conversation passes into the hallways, into her pause, her hesitancy at the vast doors. Though he is historically not a patient man, he is historically a man with enormous self-control, whose excesses are choice of indulgence rather than animalistic lust. Indeed treasures are an instinct to him and little else, a function of what he is. Gilgamesh stands there, smiling, watching her brace.

     The meeting-hall is luxurious. Even he can admit to that, he who carried luxury itself in his endless treasure vault; it is beautiful in the way that other constructions *aren't*, making its purpose known instantly. Crystal silvers. A fireplace, rarely-used but clearly symbolic of the owners of the place and the more gentle aspect of their power. Large paintings and polished marble. Rugs that reminded him of Mesopotamian arts. Oak. Glass.

     He does not whistle. He never whistled at something like this, in a foreign lord's court. That was a crass and simple act for crass and simple dogs, for those who lacked the basic notion of disrespect, or for mocking those who were crass and simple dogs dressed in the garb of royalty as if that clothing and that gilt could disguise their worthless nature. But his eyes flicker with some distant approval. No, it isn't his throne room; no, it isn't the Treasury of Babylon; no, it isn't the vast, magical luxuries of his endless gate, the pleasures that surpass imagination.

     But it doesn't need to be to win his approval. It's quiet. It's simple, excellent in what it does rather than gaudy and bright. It is not here to impress him - it is here to be *used*, luxurious for comfort rather than spectacle. That it is beautiful is a side-effect, not the core.

     He glances at her, and the thought is clear in his eyes.

     How very like you this room is. Beautiful as a side-effect of something more important. Quiet, excellent in purpose. Luxurious.

     ...alright, perhaps only the fur. But still.

     He is introduced to the family in stride. His eyes do not wander when he meets the mother. They do not stare at femininity on display, at treasures mortals have doubtless lusted for. He meets the mother's eyes with his own bright red gaze. His blonde hair is the mark of divinity. His red eyes are the mark of divinity. They meet her own flawlessly until he bows politely. It's not a genuflect, nor a kowtow - it's a simple bow of greeting. The daughter receives the same as he takes her measure, the measure of her attitude, of her mien. The daughter is younger; the mother is older; the two of them are gods and thus that means almost nothing save perhaps for how they saw themselves and their dominions. A warm, loving, bountiful sun for the mother. The daughter...winter's end? Spring? He would doubtless find out.
Gilgamesh      As Priscilla bids him sit, he does. His clothes change as he does so. It's little more than a ripple in the air passing over him before he's no longer in his long coat but in his royal finest - in the outfit that best shows off his strength, that best shows what *he* is. Shirtless. Well-muscled. Red lines along his body, magic circuits and tattoos alike. The golden armor at the bottom. The red sash at his waist. It is an outfit that says to them what they are saying to him - *what* he is.

     His body is the body of a warrior. His armor is the armor of an adventurer-king. His sash is the color of blood. He is not gentle.

     "It is my pleasure indeed to be in your court, Queen of Sunlight, lady Yorshka." His manner is a practiced one, but sincere. The King never lies. His every word is sincere by default. But he's still used to dealing with this sort of thing, to foreign courts and foreign princesses and foreign queens. He's no stumbling fool. And he may be an egomaniac - that much is *obvious*, nobody who isn't an egomaniac wears armor even remotely like that, nor considers their best clothes 'let's just show off how awesome my body is' - but he's an egomaniac who can at least stow it in the presence of foreign royals.

     Or maybe it's just because it's Priscilla. Who knows?
Priscilla     Priscilla relaxes visibly, if even audibly, when Gilgamesh introduces himself, for the fact that, all things considered, he's having a very chill time of it. Of course, Priscilla had expected at least a certain level of respect for the occasion from him simply due to the fact that he has sincerely said he loves her more than once, and she doubted he'd intentionally mess this up, but the extra length he goes to in treating her particular 'hometown' with dignity is . . . reassuring, writ large on her face and posture.

    Changing his clothes up (to less clothes), draws the double responses of a wide-eyed 'wow' from the young girl, and an openly appreciative murmur from Priscilla's mother, not even slightly hiding a rather coy smile. "My, I had heard word, but thou hast found one even more handsome than I had dreamed." Gwynevere says to Priscilla, in the instant, laser targeted way a 'less old' mother does to prod their adult offspring. "Comely and chiseled, a warrior and a king, wealthy and powerful; after all of such time, to think thou wouldst bring home one like *this*. I had never quite expected . . . oh I am very proud of thee~" she teases. It's very, very clear where Priscilla's mode of speaking comes from now. They share the exact same language that just explodes with 'archaic, royal, ancient' like what the most literal classes would write holy and scholarly texts in.

    Priscilla stoically bears embarrassment she had most certainly mentally prepared for. It's also pretty clear that the way she dresses on formal occasions is the local royal way, with a sort of pseudo-norse base cut and style with more 'modern' influences that compare to sumerian designs, all white silk and gold accents and ringlets, save even then her dress looks better fit for colder climes in spirit. "Of course I wouldst be proud to announce nothing less." she squeezes out. "I had hoped that such would surpass thine expectations."

    Gwynevere laughs. It's an easy, mirthful, gold and honey kind of laugh, that can only come from the kind of person who has seldom, if ever, been angry in their life. "Now now, of course a mother wouldst wish and dream only the best for her daughter, but I wouldst hath been gladdened no matter what. Thou hast already been alone for far too long. Longer than any lifetime shouldst be made to." Yorshka mostly just can't seem to contain herself any longer. Gilgamesh gets the impression she's figuratively . . . eleven? Twelve? Well-mannered and naive. She actually has a somewhat different accent, clearly derived from the same base, but probably with some hundreds of years of drift. "Pray how art thee two thirds god?" she all but blurts out, albeit almost *verbally* curtsying in the process. "'tis wondrous strange. My older sister is of course half, for such is the usual way of things, no?"
Priscilla     Gwynevere just places her hand on top of her head to still her excitement a little. She doesn't seem to intend to tell her to knock it off outright. "It is a great pleasure to meet thee, King Gilgamesh." Gwynevere says without reservation. "I hath heard fair little, as mine daughter is likely to keep her silence in most things, but what I hath, I hath intuited a more than high opinion of thee. Wouldst thou tell me some of thineself? If thou wouldst humour, of course. From whence it is that thou hail. Something of its customs. What it is thou do. Thine thoughts for the future."

    As much as that is the extremely fancy-sounding way of asking the usual questions that are the bane of visiting boys, Gilgamesh is clearly pretty lucky. Gwynevere seems to be simply very good at containing how ecstatic she is to finally see the guy Priscilla has apparently talked about more than a few times, in the clear sense of simply being happy something so good has 'happened to her'.
Gilgamesh      It's a mark of the King that, despite *all* evidence to the contrary, *the man actually knows how to stay quiet when it's important*. This isn't *just* a family meeting - it's a meeting of nobles, of a royal family examining what is...essentially a suitor. Sure, he's the god-king of a distant land, the exact sort of...person...that they would be most familiar with. But at the same time he's moving to exceed expectations. There's only a mild bit of preening on his part when Yorksha admires him and Gwynevere describes him; he is, after all, *painfully* aware that he's hot. Lord how he is aware of it. And Lord how he makes sure everyone else is aware of it, too. But he manages to not go into full peacock mode under the praise, thankfully, just sort of sitting there and grinning a 'yeah I know' grin at the exchange between mother and daughter.

     Gwynevere comments on wishing the best for her daughter. Gilgamesh can't resist a wry, "Then luckily your daughter has found the best, as you wished," just slipped in during one of the breaks of dialogue. He knows how to brag, too - how to make it known that he is not *just* a handsome warrior-king but a proud one, that he is not the humble sort of man who rolls over and sits when he's told, that he is not one to subordinate himself. He is a guest here in their court - and a *guest* he is, not a subservient. He is here as an equal. He has no reason to hide it.

     Yorksha asks The Question, and Gwynevere joins, asking him to tell them of himself. He adjusts himself on the couch with practiced ease - he's had one of these for most of his life, even if he prefers his throne. The King of Heroes snaps his fingers.

     A ripple appears in the air in front of them. A small pedestal of gold sets itself down in the middle of the gathering. It glitters with rubies, ringed in silver. The top of it is a dome of diamond.

     It's definitely wealthy and flashy, but it's not until Gilgamesh starts speaking that its true purpose becomes clear.
Gilgamesh      "I am Gilgamesh, King of Heroes, King of Uruk and of Babylon." He uses the short form because it's much more polite here - and it's not an introduction. It's a declaration, to which the golden pedestal responds. Magic flows through it. The diamond dome lights. Above it, an image of Gilgamesh whirls, his golden armor, his slicked-back hair, his egotistical and self-assured grin, the Gate of Babylon open around him.

     So it responds to his voice and gives visual representation.

     The pedestal begins drawing in the air as he speaks. "I was born to Lugalbanda, King of Babylon." An image of the man is drawn in the air - a handsome, proud-looking man, though not nearly as sculpted as Gilgamesh. A more rugged man, brown of hair and of skin, a Babylonian in image, with a fierce and noble beard and sharp eyes like a falcon's. "And of the goddess Rimat-Ninsun, Lady of the Wild Cows, daughter of Anu the Sky." An image of a woman who looks not too dissimilar from Gwynevere - though in a more earthen manner. The goddess is blonde-haired and red-eyed and pale-skinned, just like Gilgamesh, with a...matronly sort of appearance. Fertility is clearly her area of expertise, but there's a dreamlike quality to her face, a sort of waking, wandering wisdom.

     Gilgamesh waves his hand. "But beyond that I was designed. From before my father and mother conceived me I had already been designed by the gods for but one purpose. I was to be King of All That Is, Was, and Ever Shall Be, the Earth and all its treasures and peoples given unto me that I might rule it in the stead of the gods." Here swirls an image of the Earth itself, the shimmering blue marble, before it zooms down onto ziggurats and dark-skinned people going about their work, while the sky flickers overhead with images of the disembodied deities. Between the sky and the people is Gilgamesh himself. "That I might resolve the differences between Human and God, and thereby bind mankind to the gods. To ensure that I had the power to do so, to - as the gods imagined - make me closer to them, my father, Lugalbanda, was ascended."

     There's an image of Lugalbanda climbing a great staircase towards the sky, and as he does so, his skin grows pale, his eyes grow red, his hair goes blonde. "Thereby making me two-thirds god and one-third man, in the hope that that would mean that I would solve disputes more towards the side of the gods than mortals."

     "In my youth, I was hailed as perfection itself." An image of young Gilgamesh appears above the pedestal. He is a handsome youth, a cute youth, a youth who seems completely at odds with the man who sits here. Images of people throwing him up and down in the air fill the room before images of the young King climbing mountains and fighting with swords and spears and facing down giant monsters spin into being.

     "I don't remember much of my youth," Gilgamesh admits, waving his hand to dispel the image, "But I know that it was a..."

     He's about to say *lonely* one, but he cuts himself off. "I know that it was one burdened with the knowledge of my existence from the moment I was born. I, being neither god nor human, stand outside all. I, being perfect, stand apart from all."
Gilgamesh      Gilgamesh waves his hand, and the image vanishes, replaced by an image of the Gate of Babylon - and definitely a real-time one, zooming across the mountains of riches, the unimaginable beauty of endless treasures, the rivers of silver and gemstones and magic. "I gathered all the treasures of the world to myself, owned all the wonders of the land, ventured to every corner of my possession." Images of armies falling under enormous physical might, being tossed aside like ragdolls from the King's bare hands. Images of the King smashing through fortifications, of the King planting his foot upon the back of other lords, of the King laughing over the ruins of other kingdoms. "Those who resisted me found it impossible. Those who swore fealty found me a cruel tyrant who took their sons and daughters, their wives and riches, for my own purposes. I experienced every pleasure the world had to offer."

     "Simply to have something to do."

     The images fade as the King looks up at the sky. "There was no one who could match me. No one who could equal me. And none like me. None who existed in the threshold between worlds."

     He doesn't, again, say it was lonely. But the image that appears from the viewer is one of Gilgamesh sitting on a tall pedestal, looking down at the people and gods below him, forlorn but determined.

     The King waves his hand. "Then I came here to the Multiverse, summoned by fools who sought the perfect king. What else could they have received?" An image of Denmark, of the massive palace where he met Priscilla. It zooms in through the castle.

     "And there I met your daughter."

     The image of Priscilla and Gilgamesh exchanging gifts hangs in the air as Gilgamesh goes quiet.

     "And I thought that she was beautiful, but I did not yet know that I would love her." His eyes are somewhat distant as he stares at the image.
Priscilla     Gilgamesh could have just explained it. It could have been one of those polite, serious conversations between adults. What he does instead is far more impressive and interesting to Priscilla's ill-defined 'step sister', who watches raptly all the way through, getting a far grander and more captivating answer than she could possibly have expected. Even Gwynevere visibly leans forwards, hands clasped together in her lap, to watch the grandiose display of magic and narrative, eagerly invested in the exotic tales of gods from far away, relayed by a certainly gifted teller and speaker.

    When he finishes up, Gywnevere leads sideway in her chair, resting her elbow upon the plush arm, and her cheek against a folded finger. Her eyes don't look Gilgamesh up and down, but rather, straight into his eyes, looking for something there, with a sort of semi-present distance that seems . . . distracted? No, nostalgic; of what, it's impossible to tell. Finally, her perfect lips turn up in a warm smile, and she says, "I see now. It was not simply all of those certainly laudable qualities about thee that attracted mine daughter's attention. I shouldst hath expected, most certainly, that even those wouldst not be enough alone to keep her eye."

    "And yet still, such a hot-blooded and impetuous youth! Then again, I doubt very much that one more lax and pensive wouldst suffice." Oddly, she seems to have little, if anything, to say on the subject of vast treasures beyond imagining, regardless of how incredibly relevant it is in the current context. It seems part of her is still very focused on some memory enough. "And very much so, one whose old purpose lies in arbitrating between humans and the divine. One who wouldst understandeth both the mind of gods and of men. A surpassingly uncommon trait, beyond certainty. Moreso than even the grandest and most skilled of clerics. "

    "Something, I am certain, mine daughter shalt benefit greatly from, not long from now." The smile there is quicker and less open. She doesn't elaborate. Priscilla looks back in quiet confusion, but not confused enough by half to have no idea at all what she means, ambivalently keeping her peace.

    "Ahh, and without even the slightest of hesitation, thou speaketh of her such. Perhaps it shalt do her some good to spend time with one so unabashedly open, hm~?" Priscilla frowns in a relatively unserious way. "Thou knowest full well mother, I wouldst hardly waste mine time with anyone. Even with misguided fixations of the past, this was not so." Gwynevere presses her fingers to her lips and suppresses another laugh. "Yes, yes, of course dear daughter. Still, I am given allowance to be impressed at how the Flames hath illuminated such a straight and perfect path, no?"

    Yorshka sits quietly for a little while, but gets bored enough to butt in again, albeit yet still somehow demurely. "So what it is it that is thine to do in the Mul-ti-verse?" she asks, carefully partitioning out the sound so as not to mispronounce it. "It must be passingly boring for one like thee to sit atop a throne all day, yes?"
Gilgamesh      Gilgamesh meets her eyes with his steady gaze, with his wry, sideways, slightly arrogant grin. He doesn't know her mind but he can at least make an educated guess from the way she speaks. He keeps his thoughts to himself, though, letting her praise him - and wearing plain on his face the pleasure of being praised, and moreso by someone beautiful, and even moreso by someone whose approval he needs to win.

     "I've found passing few priests actually understand either gods or men," Gilgamesh says, his grin twisting only slightly into an irritated grimace. Then his grin is back. He listens to her, and admittedly, his eyebrow rises slightly at her statement, but he doesn't ask for clarification. Gods and prophecies. They go together like Gilgamesh and Enkidu - inseperable concepts written into legend itself.

     Gwynevere says that he speaks of her without the slightest of hesitations. He scoffs slightly. "Of course. I love her. Why should I not say as much? Why should I not say that I wish to marry her? That she is exalted above all others in my eyes?" He just sort of declares this, as if he's mildly annoyed that it should even be commented on, as if it's something he just takes as...an obvious fact. "There are two others in this Multiverse that I love besides her, and I love them dearly."

     "Her, I love desperately."

     His fingers drum on the edge of the couch for a moment as he listens to them talk. Then, he tilts his head at Yorshka's question. There's no patronizing smile, no looking down at her like she's a nuisance. He just sort of carefully considers.

     "I lead."

     He rubs his eyebrows, index finger and thumb. "I lead misbegotten creatures that have yet to understand the road I want them to follow, screaming that tyranny is an ill unto itself and that freedom is a virtue and that I will be deposed. I lead ignorants who proclaim that life itself is sacred, rather than the use of that life, and that the wasting maggots who infest my precious worlds are as important and vital as the greatest of people. I-"

     He cuts himself off and rubs his eyes in the same manner. "I dream of a world where humankind has touched every star in the sky, where gleaming castles of silver and glass rise up to kiss the heavens, where people continue to climb the mountain of perfection towards the apex that is me and continue endlessly to better themselves. And I do what I can to nudge it towards that dream, as a parent to a child - and if necessary I punish it for its poor decisions. Mankind must choose if it is to make that dream worthwhile. But it must be punished when it strays into the worst of its excesses."

     "A test makes no difference if you pass it for them."
Priscilla     Gwynevere smiles, though a little forlornly, at Gilgamesh's dry take on priests of any stripe. "Such is the great difficulty of a human attempting both to interpret the word and will of divinity indirectly, and to set themself apart from their fellow man in doing so. Let it not be said that such a profession is without worth, but indeed, it is one whence it is fair difficult to find upstanding examples of its trade."

    Her laugh is softer, warmer, at the second part. "Thou wouldst be astonished --or perhaps not-- at the lengths to which more 'modern' men go about evading such direct expressions of 'soft' feelings." she says. It's clear by her tone that 'modern' means 'as opposed to a thousand years ago', with maybe some familiarity of Multiversal visitors, and not in the strict 21st century sense. "I am glad."

    When he begins venting, however, an unexpected sort of burgeoning tirade that he cuts himself off on, Yorshka clams up and stuffs her hands in her lap like picking up that she'd said something very inappropriate and upset the adults. Gwynevere, finally, watches him with something approaching concerned, pursing her lips and pressing her thumbs together. Priscilla reaches out a hand, getting as far as "Gilgamesh . . ." before he changes tact by himself, leading to a tense pause.

    "Mine father-" Gwynevere slowly begins, "Though no part human himself, and with nothing to do with them at all, though there were few who ever did not object, loved humanity himself. He saw potential within them that others did not, and yet, just a little, he also didst fear them for it. He saw in them such good that he laboured long and with great difficulty to bring them into his creation --to giveth them a place in this world, such that they might carve out their own paths in its vast, untamed expanse. At the same time, he foresaw a . . . darkness, within them. One which he didst share little of. One which few, if any other, understood as well. Despite this, he was determined that they not be excluded from his vision of his world, despite their perils, their flaws, their fundamental incompleteness."

    "It is humanity's very nature to be born only a partial being, longing for that which they hath not. For strength because they art weak. For community for they art lonely. For leaders for they art afraid. For meaning for they art without direction. Without wishing for these things . . ."

    Priscilla speaks up where there would be an awkward pause otherwise. "Anor Londo hath stood since almost the formation of the world we know. The first city of all. Rather than residing in the realm of the divine, it resides here, at the apex of the earth, at the hub of all creation, far out of reach of any human, yet still, ultimately, within grasp. Over centuries upon centuries, countless brave and dedicated few hath journeyed across the seas of mountains to reach Lordran. Past sheer cliffs, dark catacombs, ancient and unfriendly woods, bottomless lakes, cold peaks, and other places still."

    "Challenged at every step, harried by ancient creatures that thirst for their souls, barred by ruins and enchantments as old. Those who even reach the foot of the mountains must earn passage, in proving their worth through challenges devised by the gods. So many die, and yet still, on they come, seeking to touch the realm of the divine; to either perish to becometh close to gods themselves. Every so oft, a great hero amongst hero succeeds, and joins the city, not as a mere citizen, but as a venerated man or woman of standing."
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    "Mine Grandfather was the one who devised this. It was he who allowed a giant, of all creatures, into his knight generals. It was he who had humans fight side by side with his own against Archdragons. It was he who awarded a traitor amongst his enemy's number a title of nobility and riches. It was he who brokered alliance with witches and the dead as it suited. It is that example, I believeth, that I value most highly. Though humanity didst indeed slip and beginneth to grow complacent with their comfortable lives, in the lands of man beyond the mountains, concerned with their own affairs and things close at hand, used to Lordran as distant myth rather than the promised land . . ."

    "But when finally pressed, at so critical a juncture as the near end of the world, it was not simply one or two amongst them that sought to be worthy. Not a great hero that stood for the best in all humanity. Hundreds, thousands amongst them, put their faith in little but ancient promise and prophecies, stories told to them of perfection and salvation beyond the mountains, and didst place everything they had in it. Despite the darkness within them, and despite the worst of them being shown, in fear and ignorance of the time, without a grand disaster, in the face of a slow, inexorable threat, ignorable for so long as one strained, so many more than thou wouldst imagine sought to be something more. Without desperation, without catastrophe, even perhaps with less than in life, but simply in losing what they were, men *sought* adversity, and it made them strong."

    "I believeth that was the wisdom of mine grandfather. The Great Lord Gwyn. What he saw in them. It is something I hath closely taken after." And then, Gwynevere herself brings back her smile, a little sad, a little proud, a little familiar, knowing a topic they've spoken about when she hears it. She almost continues after Priscilla, in a fashion, with "That those who seeketh adversity be acknowledged, even if they shouldst try only to fail, and that those truly dispossessed be not thrown away, but looked after, because those with nothing will one day seeketh something higher."

    "Even I cannot help but love humanity as mine father did, more dearly and more personally than my daughter hath her own reasons to. More than perhaps I shouldst. It is part of that darkness that compels them to turn inwards and to go in circles, unable to ignore the gnawing, missing pieces of them, but without awareness, and without freedom to seeketh them bravely. Perhaps it is soft of mineself to sayeth so, but I feel as if thou shalt benefit greatly, thineself, as well. For loving a woman who both hates and admires humanity. Who hath cared for them with no true reason to, and who hath exalted those who aspired and fell, whether or not they were able to pick themselves back up."

    "I cannot say for certain, of thine distant lands, but perhaps it is . . . in something likened her words, not as dire as thou wouldst see. Perhaps it is less a lack of spine and spirit, but a lack of freedom, or of knowing. Of being tied down by too many things. Perhaps some deserveth the discipline of a stern father, but perhaps in equal measure others art simply in need of the guidance of a trustful mother. One who believes that they art just as able as any other, if only they can be forgiven, and forgiveth themselves, and be set upon the right path."
Priscilla     Priscilla, reluctantly concludes something she hadn't really said to Gilgamesh at any of these times before, but Gwynevere had seen fit to share. "I do not think it is the nature of humanity to decline to seek adversity. I believeth it not their nature to be content as they art. It is so fundamental, so intrinsic, to the nature of Humanity, to not be enough, and to Want. Not want for mere comfort, but for what they art not. I hath seen . . . all manner of men. Heroic, desperate, kind, despondent, broken, vile, perfectly ordinary, all stripped of what it is that weighs them and released on all the myriad paths ahead of them with only the barest phrase of guidance. I think there is a sickness in the humans thou despair of. I think they art so very unlike all of the humanity that I know. I think of thee not as having failed, but as someone or many men since thee, having done something to them. Of having taken something from them, and restrained them. And I wish thou wouldst not despair of . . . all of them, as wayward children, but perhaps attempt to feel anger on their behalf. The desire and the rage that they themselves shouldst feel, but do not recognize."

    And, finally, "I believeth . . . that if thou were to stay here a while . . . thou wouldst becometh more familiar with the humanity I knoweth, and . . . feel many things for, but respect. And I believeth it wouldst do thee well."
Gilgamesh      Gilgamesh doesn't say anything for a long, long moment. He just looks...tired. Tired of the burden. It's obvious - if he could've quit, if he could've stopped being the King, he might've done so long ago. But he can't. He can no more stop being the King than they can stop being gods. It's what he is for. He's a machine for rule. An entity designed for the sole purpose of being The King, to stand above all else. And it's clearly long before Priscilla says as much openly that he considers it partially his own failure that his worlds have ended up that way. That Earth has gone down the path it has.

     "A cup has no value on its own," he says to Gwynevere in response to her commentary on humans, "It's something that must hold liquid to be complete. The shape of what it could be is there, but the cup has nothing until it's filled, no matter how pretty a shape it may be."

     He listens to Priscilla talk, and there's, again, that flicker in his eyes - that look that he gives her and only her. It's probably plain to Gwynevere and maybe Yorksha that when he's looking at her he's not seeing anything else in the world. The tiredness, the burden, sort of eases off him a little as she speaks, not only because of her words but because...well, he can't be that tired when he's looking at her. He just can't.

     The King who made all the treasures of the world his own has an *irrepressible* energy when he wants something, after all.

     "I think I very much would have liked your grandfather. I can't help but admire that optimism, even if my own has been tested near the breaking point. And I cannot help but notice that this city is indeed surrounded by harshness, but what lies within is a wonder worth struggling for."

     "Once again," he says, "I'm struck by how like your city you are."
Gilgamesh      Gwynevere comments on him loving a woman who both hates and exalts humanity. "I've heard bits and pieces," he says finally, "About Priscilla's time in the Multiverse. Not all of it, I think. But bits and pieces. I've picked up enough to know she has every reason to feel the way she does. And if she did not both hate and exalt them..."

     "I don't know that I could love her so desperately."

     The story of Creation is a familiar one. The King grasped power to strike down the Dragon and push back the darkness to claim the world. The names were different, the details different, but it was Marduk, wasn't it? Tiamat? The monsters of Mother's brood? But unlike Marduk the god of men here was one who shared Gilgamesh's vision. He shakes his head. "You're blessed. You are gods that love humans, gods that care for humans, gods that do not require humans but love them nonetheless. The gods that made me did not care for humans. The gods of Babylon understood that they needed humans, and so sought to bind them to themselves, that the gods may never lose their power. That's the difference, I think. You began from a place of love. I was made to be a lash that simply chose to turn that lash towards human achievement rather than human subservience."

     She says he didn't fail.

     He doesn't say anything at that. But those red eyes flicker once again. It's hard to read. Gwynevere and Yorksha probably don't have the context. They've not met him. Don't know his gazes. Don't know his moods.

     It's gratitude. There for an instant. But glad to hear it from the one person he needs to hear it from.

     And then at the end of it she asks him to stay. He blinks back surprise. He stares at her for a long pause.

     Then he laughs. It's not mocking laughter. Not in the slightest. "You don't need to come up with any reason to make me stay, you know!"

     The King leans forward with a broad, far more energetic, grin. "The very pits of the Underworld would be bright with you around, and I would willingly stay in the grey lands of the dead to see your smile. And you're asking me to stay in luxury, for the sake of not only spending time with you, but among the people you care about? Asking me to stay to restore some of my own optimism in the kingdom of your grandfather? My answer should be obvious."

     "And if you think this is a gift not given in gladness then you clearly haven't yet fully learned my moods. Which is good. A man should have some mystery to him while still in the courting stage."
Priscilla     Of course, Priscilla more than anyone, cannot help but notice the way the King, the way Gilgamesh, looks at her. The subtle retreat of that immense burden in his eyes. The slight glow of joy that comes to him in an era where the things he felt joyful of seem to have passed and rotted away. It has since ceased to quite be flattering, in the way that no doubt most in the Multiverse, even many amongst staid Elites, would wish to feel in his approval, but instead is a sort of faintly, irrepressibly heartwarming, in a sense. That someone should look at Priscilla and feel happy and relieved. It's been a very, very long time, and even back then, it wasn't quite the same. Those people were in need. A smile practically twitches across her face when he compares her to the city. One of genuine, dry, surprised humour.

    Blessed. That's what Gilgamesh says. Though the corner of Priscilla's smile twinges, just slightly, she goes on to say "There art many great reasons that the Great Lord Gwyn is exalted such. That his sons and daughters art loved such. That his Four Knights art admired such. That even his dukes and advisors art distantly appreciated, to say little of his famous battle companions. Wherever he went, ultimately he commanded such loyalty, because ultimately those people were blessed for his designs. It is true."

    "It is a difficult act to follow." she laughs, slightly hollowly. Gwynevere just continues to smile, patiently, if just a little strained. It all seems to be flying over Yorshka's head though. She is here in the capacity of a little adopted sister for sure.

    "Indeed, I supposeth I am." Priscilla answers Gilgamesh's good humour with her own, unmasked and relieved, a tension slipping from her shoulders to be replaced with unveiled warmth --the direct and unclouded rays of a midday sun in winter, bright and warm where they touch the skin, even if everything around them remains snow and chill. "If it pleases thee so much, then all the better. Of course I wouldst not hath asked if there were no accommodations ready, and so, as thou shouldst like."

    Yorshka gasps with the evident enthusiasm eerily similar to a kid who's just learned that their cool uncle is staying for a full week after Christmas. Even Gwynevere herself seems pleased, though by the look of her almost dreamy stare, at seeing her daughter smile like that if anything. "Very well then~" she practically singsongs, a few years below her apparent age. "Thou hast mine approval~"