[Gilgamesh leans back. Warm contact he can get in spades at night, but camaraderie? Sympathy? A sense of togetherness, of completeness? That is much harder to come by, thanks to his own stubborn ways. Perhaps the harp truly was a blessing in disguise to allow for this to happen.]

Saber opposed me. Berserker offended me. Assassin and Caster fell to their own foolishness; Rider died before my very eyes, that clumsy idiot. But you... someone like you...

[Someone like you, who died in misery, choking on their own blood. Gilgamesh does not weep over the deaths of foes, but it was wrong. It resounds now, in his heart: it was wrong.]

I don't really understand at all. What you were doing in our war. Why you obeyed those summons. Why did we not meet sooner? Even if you weren't a King, maybe it would've been nice to drink together, on that stage with the rest of us. Maybe.