[Perhaps he went to neither. Gilgamesh's laughter nearly cracks in the middle, at that and at all of it, because it's so very true. It makes him think, do you know of my fellows? as only one who knew a Servant knew the twisted nature of their own existence. Dead, yet alive. Buried, yet transient, between worlds, summoned forever and ever for the sake of one little cup.
Gilgamesh turns on his side to look at her once her story's through, arm propped up and a bittersweet smile replacing that frown. But that might be even worse, really.]
I'm sure he'd appreciate hearing that. Even if it's just wishful thinking.
[It was the worst sort of wishful thinking—believing he was remembered outside dusty books and caves, that is.]
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Gilgamesh turns on his side to look at her once her story's through, arm propped up and a bittersweet smile replacing that frown. But that might be even worse, really.]
I'm sure he'd appreciate hearing that. Even if it's just wishful thinking.
[It was the worst sort of wishful thinking—believing he was remembered outside dusty books and caves, that is.]