[Gilgamesh lets go of Diarmuid and distances himself from the man, several paces, far enough to establish their imaginary lines in the sand. Even though he's readying himself for battle, that respect for Diarmuid yet remains, shall always remain. He has not forgotten his fealty. He has not forgotten the lips that touched his hand or the promises sworn beneath the sacred tree—their tree. When this world dies, Diarmuid lives. Gilgamesh's decision hasn't changed one bit.

Though Ea howls to greet its opponent, Gilgamesh's expression is strangely soft. Reminiscent. Kind. They will fight as Servants, but they will not fight as mortal foes. It's important to remind him of this.]

Be at peace, Diarmuid. I spare your life this day. I swear it upon the grace and glory of my crown.

[And that's a very serious vow, indeed. Gilgamesh too assumes an appropriate stance himself, Ea wielded like a spear in his grip.]

One touch. One touch from this sword, and it's over. You yield. I yield likewise to the point of your lance. Therefore, it's a contest of speed, elegance, and grace, just as you were instructed.

[Can you do it? His eyes dare it of Diarmuid. He may be courting, but he's also challenging him in a way they both know down to their bones. This is what Servants were made for. This is the honorable duel Diarmuid had wanted all along.]

Come at me when you're ready. I won't hold back in any other regard.