[Rare it is that Gilgamesh drops riddles and derision for the truth, and rarer still does he feel any form of sympathy for anyone else. That too was reserved for someone very far away, very dear to his heart. But Diarmuid—the honorable Lancer who only ever wished to please his Master—should hear of it eventually, if not from his own lips, then someone nearly as worthy.
The war he helped create. The war that he worsened. Gilgamesh feels no sorrow and no regret over it, but can so declare without an ounce of doubt: Diarmuid deserved a better hand than the one fate dealt him.
Gilgamesh reaches to wrap fingers around Diarmuid's wrist. They will speak of lighter matters, but that solidarity yet remains, as two Servants cast aside from their rightful place in the world. I am here, they say. I am with you.]
You are growing bold, indeed. Not so long ago you flushed when I so much as batted an eyelash at you.
[But Gilgamesh sounds awfully proud of this, encouraging only the finest attitudes in his subjects... or the most depraved.]
no subject
The war he helped create. The war that he worsened. Gilgamesh feels no sorrow and no regret over it, but can so declare without an ounce of doubt: Diarmuid deserved a better hand than the one fate dealt him.
Gilgamesh reaches to wrap fingers around Diarmuid's wrist. They will speak of lighter matters, but that solidarity yet remains, as two Servants cast aside from their rightful place in the world. I am here, they say. I am with you.]
You are growing bold, indeed. Not so long ago you flushed when I so much as batted an eyelash at you.
[But Gilgamesh sounds awfully proud of this, encouraging only the finest attitudes in his subjects... or the most depraved.]