"Idiot."

Gilgamesh chides Diarmuid with barely any fire left in him, drawing that hand to his face. They truly are foolish words, and they truly are a pair of fools, the two of them. They were prouder than this. They were better than this, or at least Gilgamesh once thought so. Now, after facing this world, after facing the other Saber and the other Lancer, he isn't so sure.

He entered this new year with the highest of hopes, maintained the highest of spirits, but this talk depresses him. It depresses him because it brings reality crashing back down—that they'll both never be as they once were, no matter how brightly they shined, apart or together.

"This was supposed to be your day," Gilgamesh reminds him, in a rare moment of selflessness, "the one day where I, Gilgamesh, King of Heroes, permitted you to stand above me. Don't ruin the mood with such somber eyes. It reflects poor on you, as well, and I won't allow it."

She won't even look at me, she won't even acknowledge me—

"I won't, you know. So consider it an order from me."

I don't want to let go—

"Let go of all that sadness. Together. With me."

...do I really have to let go, Lancer?