How dare you, he wants to say, but doesn't, can't. He never had any knights of his own back at Uruk, he never saw what happened when they got so fired up like this. Usually his attendants just fell in line, just bowed their heads and did whatever they were told, yet Diarmuid... it's strange seeing him this way, after being so complacent.

It's strange, but it seems to fit him. And he'd be remiss to scold him when he's doing exactly what he was told in that spring all those months ago. He can't look away from Diarmuid, so he doesn't. A world full of courts. Raise your own. Show them how this world should be. Correct them.

They are all sentiments that resound strongly with him; he feels more preyed upon than ever with words that pierce further than fangs. They renew and inspire, and perhaps he will still go mad, perhaps there is nothing to be done for him, perhaps he will chase Saber fruitlessly to his grave...

But someone called him King, once, and meant it. And believed it. And he believes it, too.

"I really wanted to win, you know. I'm really... really, really mad."

He cracks a grin through it, though, and Diarmuid can rest his easy knowing he has broken through. Gilgamesh won't forget. Even if he loses himself, he'll remember.

"Upon the grace and glory of my crown, Diarmuid, I forgive your transgression in handing down those orders. Just this once."