The sun came as quickly as it set.
The sun was shining, and… cesealia and Elizabeth were not here.
Her mother took her shopping with her grandmother. And Arthur was checking the ship for the day.
The events of last night plagued the air, but it was also filled with the past three years of memories at sea, the good and bad.
He closed his eyes and sighed. Because, truthfully, he had wanted to marry Cesealia. So badly
It was she who didn't want to.
She didn't want the connections, the traditions, the weight of court life.
She just wanted them—their life, their ship, their freedom.
And he had agreed.
Because he wanted her more than he wanted a crown on her head.
But now— A presence filled the area.
"Come on,"
A familiar voice broke Arthur out of his thoughts.
Rhyssand.
When did he start popping up like Father? He didn't know.
Arthur looked up to find his brother-in-law smirking, a knowing glint in his golden eyes.
Rhyssand jerked his head toward the exit.
"Let's do the only thing we know how to do in times of distress," he said.
Arthur arched a brow. "Which is?"
Rhyssand grinned.
"Get drunk and spill the tea."
They started with one bottle.
Then another.
Rhyssand, reclining lazily in the captain's chair, swirled his goblet before taking a sip.
"So," he drawled, his golden eyes sharp despite the wine. "What the fuck are you doing, Pendragon?"
Arthur sighed.
At twenty-nine, he was a grown man, a seasoned warrior, a skilled navigator.
And yet.
The love of his life—the mother of his daughter, the woman who had claimed his heart since childhood—refused to marry him.
Even after giving birth to a daughter as gracious as the sun itself.
"Let me guess," Rhys said. "You're trying to convince yourself that it's fine. That it doesn't matter. That Cesealia will stay, even without a title."
Arthur grimaced but said nothing.
Rhyssand smirked. "You are an idiot."
Arthur nodded in conformation, tipped his head back, and downed his drink in one gulp.
They went back and forth, the conversation jumping between drunken confessions and expletives, until, in the end
There was nothing left to spill except words.
Arthur scoffed, "My father hates me. "
Rhyssand watched him carefully before pouring them both another drink. "No, he doesn't."
Arthur said, " He likes you more than me at this present moment."
Rhyssand shook his head. The memories of his father-in-law making him earn his place in the family fall into place, along with his struggles as a parent.
"I Remember When I thought my son hated me."
Arthur listened.
Rhyssand sat on the nursery floor, his head in his hands, his body heavy with exhaustion.
The spoon in his hand dripped with mashed fruit, the small bowl beside him knocked over—a casualty in the latest battle of wills.
Across from him, Callisto sat stubbornly, his arms crossed, his little golden curls an unholy mess, his tiny lips pursed in the deepest scowl a four-month-old could muster.
The boy had made his stance clear:
He did not want to be fed by Rhyssand.
Rhys exhaled through his nose, pinching the bridge between his eyes.
"Callisto, just one bite."
No response.
"Come on, little dove."
His son stared at him with flat disinterest before turning deliberately away.
Rhyssand let out a frustrated sigh and placed the spoon down.
Then, in a final attempt, he tried what always worked for Artizea—he offered his hand. A small act of reassurance.
A silent "I'm here."
Calisto slapped it away.
He stared at his son in disbelief. "Are you serious?"
Nothing.
Not even an ounce of remorse in those golden eyes, so similar to his own.
And then, as if to personally curse him, the boy picked up the bowl of mashed fruit—— and flipped it over.
Rhyssand closed his eyes, counted to ten, and then exhaled deeply.
"Artizea."
His wife, his beloved, his ever-radiant queen, entered the nursery with her usual grace, her arms crossed as she took in the disaster scene before her.
She sighed, "What happened now?"
Rhyssand, still on the floor, gestured vaguely at the mess, then pointed to Callisto.
"Your son," he said, as if disowning him completely, "is impossible."
Artizea sighed, walking over and lifting Calisto effortlessly into her arms.
The moment she touched him, the boy cooed sweetly and nuzzled into her neck.
Rhyssand stared.
Betrayal.
Artizea wiped away the fruit from her son's mouth, kissing his cheek before looking at her husband with a sigh.
"He's just fussy, Rhys."
He stood, brushing mashed fruit off his tunic with a dramatic flick of his wrist.
"No. He's against me. Personally."
Artizea rolled her eyes, bouncing Callisto gently as she looked at Rhys with tired affection.
"You just need to be patient—"
"I am patient!" He groaned, running a hand through his hair. "But he—he doesn't listen to me, he doesn't look for me, and—"
His voice grew tight.
"He doesn't even call me Dad."
Artizea stiffened.
The words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken.
Rhyssand turned away, hands braced against the dresser, breathing heavily.
Behind him, Artizea adjusted Calisto on her hip.
She hesitated—then said softly, "Well, maybe if you were here instead of up there in the clouds, he would call you Dad."
Rhyssand went completely still.
The room felt colder.
His jaw clenched.
Artizea immediately regretted it.
"Rhys," she said quickly, stepping forward. "I didn't mean it like that —"
He was already walking past her.
"I need air," he muttered, voice clipped, and before she could stop him—
He was gone.
He was half-asleep in the recreation section of the palace, utterly drained.
Between handling both his children, a post-pregnant Artizea, and the endless responsibilities of ruling Heaven, exhaustion clung to him like a second skin.
He had barely sat down before sleep threatened to claim him entirely.
That was when the unthinkable happened.
Rhyssand cracked one eye open and saw the king carrying a large jug of rare wine and two glasses.
Without a word, Gil poured them both a drink and handed one to him. Rhyssand took it hesitantly.
He had always thought Gil merely tolerated him, not that he liked him enough to drink with him.
He muttered, "Thank you, Your Grace."
Gil took a sip, then said casually, "Call me Gil from now on."
Rhyssand frowned. "Why?"
Gil chuckled. "Arthuria said I should be nicer."
Rhyssand let out a tired huff.
Gil studied him for a moment before smirking.
"You look like shit."
Rhyssand groaned, rubbing a hand down his face.
"I feel like shit."
Gil was silent for a moment, then laughed—an actual, genuine laugh.
Rhyssand blinked, wondering if he was hallucinating.
"Apologies," Gil finally said, a nostalgic gleam in his eye. " It seems fatherhood isn't as easy for everyone else as it is for me ."
Rhyssand snorted but then sighed, running a hand through his already-messy hair.
"That's not all… My son hates me."
Gil raised a brow. "Hates you? He's a year old."
Rhyssand pointed at him. "EXACTLY my point!"
Gil leaned back. "Be more specific."
Rhyssand groaned. "If I touch him, he cries. If I look away, he cries. Gods forbid he drops his favorite rattle, I'm the one he takes his wrath upon. "
He sighed, taking a deep breath before counting.
"Then Artizea is left to deal with my shitty parenting skills. I promised her we would be a real family and… I can't even get along with my son."
Gil was silent for a moment, then took another sip of his wine.
"When my father died, I was happy."
Rhyssand stiffened at the sudden confession, watching the king carefully.
Gil's expression remained neutral, but there was a weight to his words.
"He took everything that belonged to my mother—hid it or burned it, erased every trace of her. So when I looked at him, lying there, dying slowly… "
Rhyssand watched carefully as his father-in-law opened up to him for the first time.
" I was so fixated on the idea that since I never had a father, I could never be a good one. Then Arthuria came. And then Artizea. Arthur. Eugene. Elaine."
He exhaled slowly. "I'm not the greatest father. But they make me feel like I am. "
Rhyssand stared at him, feeling like he was solving a puzzle he hadn't even realized he was trying to figure out.
Gil looked him dead in the eye. "You need to get the idea out of your head that you need to be the perfect anything—because you will fail. And when you do, you will get tired and frustrated. " He paused. "The one thing I learned about children is…They feel what you feel."
A lightbulb went off in Rhyssand's mind.
He set his goblet down abruptly, pushing to his feet.
Gilgamesh smirked knowingly as Rhyssand turned to him.
"Thanks… Gil."
Then he was gone.
"I preferred, your grace, " he thought.
When Rhyssand arrived at the nursery, he found Seraphina fast asleep in her crib, her small chest rising and falling peacefully.
But Callisto was wide awake, staring at the ceiling with his big, curious eyes.
He left Artizea curled up on the bed, deep in sleep.
He hesitated, then carefully lifted his son into his arms.
Calisto squirmed but didn't cry.
Taking a deep breath, he carried him out onto the balcony as he unfurled his black wings and took to the skies.
Within seconds, they were above the clouds.
He held Callisto close, his son's tiny white wings trembling at the unfamiliar sensation of open air.
"Look," he murmured, pointing at the sky. "The stars are brighter up here."
Callisto blinked, his small hand clenching his father's shirt.
"See those two bright ones?" He continued. "They belong to me and your mother. I made them for us. And now… they will be a reminder for you of our love."
The baby's wings shivered again, but this time in wonder.
Rhyssand took a deep breath.
"I'm sorry, Callisto," he confessed softly. "I've been absent. I let my frustration get the best of me. But I swear to you—I will try to be better."
Slowly, he rested his forehead against his son's.
And for the first time, his son smiled at him.
"Papa"
Rhyssand's heart clenched.
It worked.
"From that moment on, it was 'Dada, Daddy this, Daddy that," Rhyssand said while smirking, thoroughly enjoying his son's favoritism.
" When he learned how to walk, however, things escalated. The child had an uncanny ability to appear out of nowhere like some kind of miniature version of Gilgamesh—" Just as he said it, He turned around to find Callisto standing behind him, wide-eyed and expectant.
He jumped out of his skin with a shuddering breath.
"By the gods, son— "He had gasped once, pressing a hand over his staggering heart. "—Do you wish to kill your only amazing father!"
Calisto just giggled and lifted his arms."Can I have a ride, Daddy!"
"See," Rhyssand looked at Arthur blankly.
Arthur gave a half-smile.
Rhyssand leaned back, rubbing his jaw in thought. "Y'know," he mused, "Artizea once told me a story about your parents. About when your mother first came here."
Arthur arched a brow.
"She had a cottage," Rhyssand continued. "Away from the palace, but still on palace grounds. She was comfortable there. Before she became Queen, she needed that space. And Gil—well, he let her have it."
Arthur stilled. He knew this story.
" Like his unfortunate lovestruck son, he too couldn't convince the fiercesome queen to marry him. "
Something clicked. An idea. It was perfect.
Arthur shot up from his chair. "I've got it."
He quirked a brow. "Oh?"
"I need to talk to my father."
Wasting no time, Arthur bolted.
Rhyssand sat back, watching him go, shaking his head with a smirk before doing stiff.
"Callisto, it's time for bed—"
The boy was nowhere to be found. Then A painful realization came.
"Oh my god…my son is turning into my father-in-law"
The doors to the King's study burst open—without a knock, without a moment's hesitation.
Arthur strode in, filled with purpose, determination, and no regard for formalities.
His father arched a brow, setting down his pen. He had been preparing to summon Arthur himself to finally speak after the events of last night.
But of course, his son had beaten him to it.
"I have a plan," Arthur said, completely out of breath.
For a moment, they just stared at each other.
"You think you have a plan," Gil corrected dryly.
He crossed his arms. "I do have a plan."
The king sighed and leaned back in his chair, motioning for him to continue.
Arthur took a breath. "I want to build a cottage. On palace grounds. Not far, but not too close. A place for a family. My family."
He hesitated before adding, "As for the wedding. I will try my best to convince her." He paused, "But it has to be simple, Dad—just the family. Nothing grand. Nothing political. Just us. I mean it."
He looked at his father, waiting for his response.
Gil studied him.
For the first time in a long time, Arthur wasn't standing in defiance. He wasn't arguing. He wasn't asking. He was simply…telling.
Gil exhaled slowly.
Then he asked, "Why do you think I don't love you, Son?"
Arthur froze.
That wasn't what he expected.
He blinked, the plan momentarily forgotten. "I—I never said that."
Gil's gaze sharpened. "You didn't have to."
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
A beat of silence. A long, heavy, painful silence. And then—finally—He spoke.
"Because you never said it either." His voice was quiet.
Gil didn't flinch. Didn't look away. He was listening attentively
Arthur continued.
"Because when I left, you never called me back. You never wrote. You never checked to see if I was—" He stopped, exhaling sharply, shaking his head.
"You have a way of making us feel like we are more than enough, and at the same time, never enough at all."
Gil remained silent. A long pause. Then, stood.
He walked over to Arthur slowly, and then, before Arthur could react, he placed a firm hand on his son's shoulder.
"Arthur."
Arthur stiffened.
Gil's voice was quiet—but heavy.
"There was never a single moment when I did not love you."
Arthur looked away, jaw tightening.
" Gil continued.
"There was never a single day when I was not proud of you."
Arthur's hands clenched at his sides.
Gil's voice softened. "And there will never be a day when I stop ."
Arthur swallowed. Hard.
Finally, he met his father's gaze.
And for the first time in years—truly, undeniably—he saw it.
Love.
The love that had always been there. In the way Gil trained him. In the way he watched over them, protected them, let them fight their own battles, but never let them fall.
Arthur exhaled a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"…You don't say it often."
Gil smirked. "Would you prefer if I embroidered it on your tunic?"
Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. "I'll pass."
Another beat.
Then, after a moment, Arthur finally sighed and said, Arthur's voice was quiet—but firm.
"Why didn't you write back? "
Gilgamesh didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned away, walking towards his desk.
Arthur watched as his father opened a drawer—one Arthur had never paid attention to before.
Inside… stacks upon stacks of letters. Neatly bound. Worn at the edges. Read over and over again.
"I read them every night," Gil admitted, his voice almost distant. "When I miss you, I start over from the first one."
Arthur's breath hitched.
"That doesn't explain why you didn't—"
Gil walked back to his desk, pulling out a different stack. He set them in Arthur's hands.
Letters. Written by his father.
Unsent.
"What… are these?" Arthur asked, flipping through them. His name was written on every envelope.
"My replies," Gil confessed. "I was being selfish in every one of them."
Arthur's fingers tightened around the pages.
"And this—"
Gil picked up a single letter, different from the rest. The royal seal was still intact.
An official summons.
A letter demanding that Arthur return home immediately.
"I wrote this the week you left."
Arthur stared. For the first time since he left home, he had no words.
Arthur stood beside him quietly for a moment before speaking.
"Did it unsettle you so much… that you were disappointed in me?" he asked softly. "Because of the color of her hair?"
Gilgamesh turned to him, eyes wide with horror.
"Never," he said—the word sharp, immediate, and unwavering. "Never. What you saw wasn't disappointment. It was… happiness. Shock, yes. But happiness."
He looked away, his expression distant.
"I was taken aback because of my father—because I was baffled how someone who looked so much like him… possessed none of his traits."
Arthur swallowed. "What did he do to Grandmother…?"
Gil was silent for a long moment, his gaze drifting upward, as if looking for something beyond the stars.
"Forgive me, son," he said, voice low. "That's a story I wish not to share."
"You hate him that much?"
Gilgamesh shook his head slowly.
"No. Without him… I wouldn't be here. Had I not been who he made me, I may never have met your mother. And she… she would never have given me you. So no. I don't hate him."
He paused, his voice growing gentler.
"I just wish that, with all my insight… I could've seen her. Just once. Known if we liked the same food… or if I inherited any of her habits."
Arthur gave a quiet smile.
"I like to make up stories," he said. "Like you. I tell them to Lizzie all the time."
Gilgamesh blinked, then turned to him, lips twitching.
"Perhaps," Arthur added, "Grandmother did too."
Gilgamesh smiled, soft and distant.
"Perhaps."
He leaned back in his chair, fingers interlaced, watching his son in silence—eyes full of memories never made, and gratitude for the ones still unfolding.
"Now, back to the important stuff."
Arthur waited.
And then—Gil exhaled, slowly.
"I asked you years ago," he said, "if you loved this woman." His gaze burned. "To which you said yes."
Arthur nodded. "I do."
He sighed, " Your mother says I should try dumbing it down for you, so here you go ." His crimson eyes narrowed.
"Love," He said, leaning forward, "is not words. Love is protection. Love is stability. Love is home."
Arthur swallowed.
His father's voice didn't falter.
"You cannot have a home," he said, "without first being a family. The right way. You cannot be worthy of the title father and all that it brings and not be prepared to do whatever it takes to make sure they thrive with and without you ."
Arthur's throat tightened.
Gil continued. "Elizabeth doesn't even know what dangers she faces because of her blood. You've seen what our enemies have done, what they will always do. What makes you think name alone can keep her safe with or without it?"
Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, taking it in.
Every word.
Every truth.
He was correct as always
"You're right," he said quietly, his hands curling into fists. "I failed her. I failed them."
He lifted his gaze, determined."But I won't fail them again."He exhaled."It's why I know this plan will work. It has to."
Gil looked at his son like he was looking at himself 25 years ago. The memory still lingered as he said those same words.
"It's better." He said.
They stood there. Father and son. For a moment, it felt like there was more to say.
But neither of them spoke.
Gil finally sighed, motioning toward the door. "Good luck."
Arthur gave him a small nod before turning to leave.
And then—he heard it.
Soft. Steady. Almost like it wasn't meant to be heard.
"I do love you, son. Never forget that."
Arthur froze.
His head snapped back, but his father didn't look up.
He was still at his desk, eyes fixed on his scrolls, as if the words hadn't even left his mouth.
Arthur swallowed, his throat tight. He couldn't even say it back. Not yet.
He Let The door close behind him.
Gil let out a long, slow sigh.
One child down. Three hundred more to go.