–– Poets knew nothing when it came to emotions. Or, the poets Gilgamesh had read about were ignorant, especially when it came to the deepest of emotions, such as hatred and love. They described love as soft, warming and passionate. It was definitely passionate. What he felt back then, and what he felt when talking to her was passionate, as if a fire were burning inside him.
But there was nothing soft about love. There was nothing glorious about it. Because sometimes love ripped his heart into shreds. It wasn’t pleasant falling in love, and the pain only worsened at the thought of her slipping away. Anything was possible. They had been called by their Masters into this era; they didn’t belong here. One of them would disappear.
It only took a certain amount of time, and Gilgamesh was gradually falling into a trap he had successfully avoided and even laughed at for decades.
Saber had grabbed him, stopped him again, but what she said made him pause in his steps. He listened to her, listened to how her she stuttered, how her voice trembled while she spoke. It was anger, but there was something else too that he couldn’t quite place. She wasn’t angry at him.
Gilgamesh dropped his gaze to the ground. Now, that made sense, he supposed, even though the virgins he had slept with didn’t push him away like Saber had. She wants me to slow down. Right?
Love wasn’t warm. It was cold, because away from her, the cold air of the night bit at his skin. Close to her, having her pressed against him, was a luxury. He missed her touch.
… no, there was nothing at all accurate in a poet’s writing.
'Don't be scared.' Gilgamesh lowered his voice to a soft whisper, and he stepped forwards, placing a finger to her lips. 'You don't need to say anything. I get it. You're not ready.' This was a side to him he didn't know existed. Patience was never offered during such intimate moments.
Somehow, though, Saber had earned this honour.
… this respect.
He kissed her forehead, then smiled shortly.
'We don't have to do anything you don't want.'
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