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Their home is unbearably hot.
It’s the first thing she notices when she walks in. Partially because it’s impossible not to in the Australian summer, but mostly because Gilgamesh always insisted on running the air as cold as he possibly could. That man always ran hot. A walking furnace she had called him once on a particularly chilly night.
Everything in the house is exactly as they left it — the table laid out to accommodate all of their guests, the washed dishes left to dry in the sink, the kettle still on the stove. She thinks if she were to open the fridge, the leftovers would still be good. It was practically yesterday that he made their family dinner. His last dinner.
The bed is a mess. Wrinkled sheets, pillows on the floor, blanket haphazardly thrown aside. Making the bed in the morning was her one chore. She was usually the last one awake and she knew how much he enjoyed a neat bed, so somewhere over the centuries, she had claimed the responsibility.
The deviant had attacked that morning before she had the chance. And then she had… and then he…
It never got made.
There isn’t a point now. He won’t be coming back to their bed and neither will she. Even if she hadn’t already planned to leave on the Domo, she wouldn’t return to it. It can hardly be their bed without him.
And yet.
She smooths the wrinkles off the sheets, pulls the blanket back into place, and gathers the pillows off the floor. She never understood why he insisted on littering their bed with so many pillows, but she finds herself grateful for them now, each one lingering with his scent. And for a brief moment, she considers letting herself be consumed by it. Crawling into the bed, into what remains of him, and staying until there is nothing left.
That isn’t who she is though. Isn’t what he would want either. So she doesn’t. She puts the final pillow down and leaves the room without another glance. Plans to leave the whole house without another glance.
Except then she spots it on her way out, hanging on the wall by the stove — that stupid apron of his. By god, did she hate that apron. Thought it was the most ridiculous thing he could have ever purchased. But he loved it. His entire face would light up when he put the stupid thing on and suddenly she wouldn’t hate it so much, because how could something that makes him so happy possibly be stupid?
She came here, to their home, to say goodbye. To take one last look before she closing the door and walking away. Because he wouldn’t want her to linger here. He would want her to move on. To move forward. To let go. And she will.
And yet.
She folds the apron and tucks it under her arm and she walks out the door.
She feels his footsteps on the ground a few moments before he appears beside her, two mugs of what currently pass for beer in hand. It’s funny, she thinks, as she takes her drink and sits beside her, the toe of his shoe dipping into the riverbank, he always finds her. She never has to look for him because he’s never far away. Always an arm’s reach away if she ever needs him. Ever wants him.
And though she’s lived an entire life on Olympia, she almost can’t imagine what her life could have been before him.
Gilgamesh takes a deep breath, inhaling the breeze that comes from the river, and says something about how much he loves the water. How peaceful it is here. Even jokes that if one of these deviants were to get the best of him, if he weren’t able to make it back to Olympia, he would want to be set free in a river.
Spread my ashes in the water, he says.
The joke churns something in her gut and she’s suddenly overcome with the (even stronger than usual) urge to hurt something. Because, she realizes then, the thought of something like that happening to him, the thought of being on this otherwise forsaken planet without him, hurts her in a way she didn’t know was possible until then. And in that moment she wants nothing more than to stop the pain.
She doesn’t think about it, doesn’t second guess herself, she just leans in, closing the gap between the two of them, and kisses him as tenderly as she can, willing her lips to say the things she doesn’t know how to articulate.
“You talk too much,” she says, her lips still against his.
His fingers lace between hers and he smiles a little smugly. “Shut me up then.”
Somewhere around the time of the Romans, Phastos built a kitchen aboard the Domo, tucked away in an empty room that was once meant to be a conference room. Over the centuries, usually when he was frustrated by Ajak limiting what else he was allowed to do, Phastos upgraded their kitchen, always keeping it up to date based on what Gilgamesh required.
The night before she prepares to leave with Druig and Makkari, Phastos upgrades the kitchen one last time. And while Thena appreciates the gesture, she doesn’t understand why Phastos thinks they know how to operate an oven, much less have any desire to do so. Still, he insists on giving her a tour of his work, going on and on about what each appliance in a way she’s sure is meant to be helpful but really isn’t. Except then he opens the closet (“Pantry, Thena. It’s a pantry.”) and on the back side of the door there’s a single hook holding Gilgamesh’s apron.
“I saw it when I was cleaning out Makkari’s mess,” Phastos says, wiping the glasses he doesn’t need but insists on wearing. “I thought it deserves a special place. I know if something were to happen to Ben, I…” Phastos trails off, his voice cracking. “I would want… something.”
Thena’s fingers trace the outline of Gilgamesh’s face. “Thank you.”
For a brief moment she’s tempted to bury her face in it, but she doesn’t, knowing that she will only be disappointed. It stopped smelling like him a few days ago. She had buried it between a few stacks of Makkari’s treasures when she’d realized that, unable to part with it but fearing the sight of it would only upset her.
Never has she been so grateful to be wrong.
Gilgamesh always suspected there was something between Druig and Makkari. At least once a century, he would nudge her and silently nod his head to where they would be off in a corner alone. She’d always rolled her eyes, assuming that it was his own lovesickness leading him on, that he only ever saw what he was looking for. But now, being alone with them, she sees it as clear as day.
There is almost a comfort in it, knowing that he was right. Seeing them together, their shoulders bumping when they walk together, their eyes lighting up when they see each other from across the room, reminds her of Gilgamesh. If he were here, he would never stop telling her how he saw it coming nearly four thousand years ago.
Seeing Druig and Makkari, happy and falling in love, gives her so much more than they could ever imagine because it lets her pretend, for just a moment, what it would be like if Gilgamesh were still with her.
There is, however, less comfort in the moments when she is alone with them.
Once, a long time ago, Thena thought she and Makkari were more alike than either of them ever admitted. Because there is an impatience to Makkari that Thena once shared. Makkari was always running off, seeking the next grand treasure or the next fun adventure – chasing excitement the way Thena chased battles. Both of them longing to find their next thrill.
Makkari is still chasing it, and as much as she wishes she could, as much as she tries to pretend she still does, Thena doesn’t know if she can anymore. Being around Makkari reminds Thena of exactly how much of herself she’s lost.
Druig, on the other hand, is just annoying.
“Did it bring you peace?” he asks her once when he’s feeling either particularly brave or stupid. It’s late and they should be in bed but neither of them are. “You said killing the deviant would bring you peace. Did it?”
Thena presses her lips. “It’s not as if we could leave it alive.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
She wonders if he knows about the way Makkari reacted when Ikaris landed on that beach and told them Druig was gone. Just gone, as if he were so insignificant that he could just be gone and that would be the end of it. How when Ikaris said that, Makkari didn’t think about the consequences, didn’t care that Ikaris was so much stronger than her. She just fought back with everything in her.
Would Druig understand if he did? If it was Makkari whose life was just gone before his eyes.
Druig isn’t like them, her and Makkari. He isn’t a fighter. Other than a handful of instances, he never needed to be. It wasn’t what Arishem created him to do. He was designed to help the humans evolve, to teach them how to think. He wasn’t made to fight.
No, she decides, he wouldn’t understand.
“Yes,” she says firmly. “It did.”
It worked because it had to. Because there are only two things Thena has ever known, only two things she has ever been good at: fighting and loving Gilgamesh. And if Gilgamesh was gone that means the only thing she could possibly do was fight and kill that deviant. It was the only thing in her control. The only possible way she could protect Gilgamesh’s name, if nothing else.
So yes, it brings her peace because it has to. Because if it doesn’t then how can she possibly heal? And if she can’t heal, if she stays broken and damaged, then what was the point in him dying to protect her? What was the point in Gilgamesh dying?
It will bring Thena peace because if it doesn’t then she may never know peace again.
Athena, they call her, the goddess of war and wisdom. Wisdom. Sprite’s doing, of course. Revenge for that time Thena ate the last of her pastries nearly a century prior. Annoying little brat is waging a battle that Thena is very seriously considering ending.
Wisdom comes in all sorts of forms, Gilgamesh says, his head comfortably resting on her lap. It suits her.
Of course he thinks that. She rolls her eyes affectionately, the back of her hand caressing his cheek, tracing the cut that came from their sparring session earlier that afternoon. If he were human, she thinks it may scar. She wonders what that would be like, permanently leaving her mark on him.
“You love me far too much to ever see me clearly," she says.
He turns his head so that he kisses her hand, his lips grazing her knuckles. “Is that such a bad thing?”
Yes, she means to say, plans to say. But then he turns his head back and looks at her with those deep, beautiful eyes of his and suddenly she finds words too cumbersome to bother with. She almost thinks he does this on purpose, looks at her with all the warmth those brown eyes can muster, because he must certainly know the effect it has on her.
Idiot, she says instead.
He only laughs and kisses her hand again.
In their weeks of searching for the others, it never occurs to her that the others could find them first. Largely because she assumed they were in danger and in need of rescuing, but also because there would be no reason for the others to find them. When she, Makkari, and Druig left, they assumed the others would just continue their lives on Earth.
Arishem had other plans apparently, shipping them halfway across the universe, leaving them to find their way back to Earth. They’re on their way when the Domo crosses their paths.
Kingo is the first to step onto the Domo, immediately cracking some horrible joke that has Makkari rolling her eyes. Then Phastos, already half way through a complaint about what they’ve done to his lab. Then Sersi, just happy to be away from Arishem and back with her family.
And that should be the end of it, except it isn’t. Because she can sense something else coming. Sersi says something that Thena knows must be important except she doesn’t actually hear a word of it. Because then, in a moment that seems to happen in the blink of an eye but somehow lasts an eternity, someone else walks through.
Gilgamesh.
And just like that, everything stops. There is no one else, just her and him.
Her Gilgamesh.
Gilgamesh standing there with an excited smile, looking at her like she’s the only thing in the world, his warm eyes shining. Did she even realize how much she missed his eyes? How could she have ever known? She never thought she would see them again. Not after…
After he died.
Gilgamesh died.
Which means he can’t be here.
Thena draws her staff and swings with a speed she hasn’t been capable of in centuries. His eyes widen and he holds his arm up, blocking her attack before her blow can strike. Before she can try again, everything shifts and suddenly he’s gone, swept across the room by Makkari.
Makkari whose very real hands are holding onto him. Makkari who can apparently see him too.
Against every instinct in her screaming to attack what must clearly be a trick of her mind, Thena pauses. She looks around the room, at everyone watching her. Looking at her like she’s the one in the wrong right now and not whatever this thing pretending to be Gilgamesh is because it can’t be him.
Sersi takes a step forward, putting herself between Thena and him. Behind her, behind Makkari, the fake Gilgamesh shifts, watching her, as if he’s ready to jump forward at any moment. Thena’s eyes narrow slightly at this moment, drawing a dagger in her other hand in case he makes any movement.
“Explain,” Thena says, her voice low, refusing to look away from the threat. “Quickly.”
Sersi rests an almost shaky hand on Thena’s arm as if she had the power to hold her back, and says, “Arishem.”
The details are still a little unclear, but the gist of it comes down to this: Arishem decided to bring back Gilgamesh.
Technically, it’s a new body, built identical to the previous one, with the same old memories more-or-less downloaded into it. But he is, for all intents and purposes, as far as Arishem is concerned, Gilgamesh.
“It’s really him,” Sersi says gently to her when they’re alone.
“Except it isn’t,” Thena snaps back. “Gilgamesh died.”
Sersi studies her for a moment, opens her mouth, hesitates, then says, “The Mahd Wy’ry shows you our past: How many different planets have we died on? How many times have you seen us die?”
What she means is: How many times has Thena watched Gilgamesh die only for him to come back to life?
“That isn’t the same,” she says, frustrated. “We weren’t going against Arishem all those times. Why would he bring Gilgamesh back after what we did to Tiamut?”
“I don’t know,” Sersi admits. “I don’t understand it either. Arishem didn’t explain. But, Thena, it’s him. He has all of Gilgamesh’s memories. Ask him anything. He’ll tell you.”
Thena shakes her head, wondering how she became the one between them to see this logically — clearly — when she’s supposed to be the rash one. “If Arishem sent him then it has to be a trap.”
Just because he seems to have Gilgamesh’s memories doesn’t mean he’s him. It doesn’t mean Arishem isn’t playing some sort of game with them. What if this imposter turns and attacks one of them?
That last one isn’t fair, she knows, not when she has just as much of a chance of losing control and attacking the rest of them. But in that moment, she doesn’t care about fair. She doesn’t care about Arishem’s mercy. All she cares about is this imposter walking around with Gilgamesh's face, with his voice, masquerading as the one thing she wants more than anything else.
Because she wants him back, so much so that it hurts to think about, and that’s why she knows it cannot be true. Because, after everything, how could she ever believe something this good could just be handed to her? It has to be a trap. Except no one but her can see it.
“I don’t trust him,” Thena says.
“Well, I do,” Sersi says definitively, choosing that moment to stand her ground as their leader. “He’s staying. At least until we get back to Earth.”
And just like that, whether Thena likes it or not, whether she agrees to it or not, the conversation is over. Either Thena accepts it or she just kills him herself, stopping him before he can do anything else. Except for some reason she cannot understand, she knows the others will get in her way. Will get hurt in the crossfire. Which means she has no choice.
Thena turns and walks away from Sersi without another word. Barely makes it to the door before she catches the imposter lingering outside, likely overhearing their entire conversation. Good. Then he knows that she doesn’t believe his story. Knows she doesn’t buy whatever game he thinks he’s playing.
As she walks past him, refusing to acknowledge him, his fingers brush against her arm and she immediately spins on her heel, her sword drawn. He dodges most of the attack, but the edge of her sword scrapes his cheek, leaving a cut across his face. One, based on the bleeding, that will scar.
Thena refuses to feel bad. If this imposter insists on showing his face, on torturing her, then let him suffer too. Let him feel at least a fraction of the pain she’s going through.
“I won’t miss next time,” she says, voice low. “Stay away from me.”
He stares at her for a moment, not even trying to hide the sadness on his face, before he nods slowly. “If that’s what you want.”
It is.
It has to be.
It isn't that they hide what exists between them, it's that they just exist. They aren't like Ikaris and Sersei. There are no longing gazes, no dramatic pining, no grand gestures. That isn't who she is and it isn't who he is either.
That first moment off the Domo, when he took her hand in his, was all it took for them to know. He was hers just as much as he was his own. She belongs to him the way she belongs to herself. Being with him isn't something she does, isn't something she needs to consider, it's simply a part of who she is. It's as natural as breathing.
And yet.
"Do you envy them?" she asks the night Ikaris and Sersei wed, when everyone dances in merriment and celebrates the newlywed’s love in a way no one ever will for them.
She doesn't offer the possibility up if he does envy them, doesn't defend herself, doesn't point out that doing something so grandeur isn't her style. She doesn't need to. He knows her, she knows. So she simply asks.
He smiles, soft and sweet, his fingers wrapping around hers. "My dear, how could I possibly envy them when I have you?"
The hardest part of reuniting with her family is seeing exactly how uncomfortable they are around her.
They do their best to hide it, of course. Do a pretty good job at it too — so much so that if Thena hadn’t fought by their sides for millennia, she may not have noticed. Except she did. For seven thousand years. Which means she knows everything about the way they move, about the way they stand when they’re at peace and when they’re not.
Thena has no doubt that they know she would never intentionally harm them. But she also knows that they know what she’s unintentionally capable of. Better than her, even. So try as hard as they might to seem normal around her, they won’t completely let their guard down around her. Can’t let their guards down around her.
She saw it that first evening when they showed up in her and Gilgamesh's home, watching her out of the corner of their eyes, waiting for her to snap on them. She saw it in the glances Makkari would shoot in her direction when she thought Druig wasn’t watching his back. She sees it now when they’re trapped with her on this ship with no escape in sight for weeks.
She doesn’t blame them. How can she when she would do the same in their position?
But their fear, their worry, their anticipation means that she never once gets to forget what she’s capable of. That she never gets to relax. It means that her guard has to be up at all times, because, even more so than them, she has to be prepared for what she is capable of. Intentional or not.
It wasn’t like that when she had Gilgamesh.
She never forgot what she was capable of then either, but sometimes she could swear that he did. Because despite the number of times she attacked him over the centuries, he never feared her. Perhaps it was because he was always able to stop her, or perhaps it’s because his survival skills became warped over the years. Perhaps it was both. But even though he was the one who most consistently bore the brunt of her attacks, he was the only one who never feared her.
When she was with Gilgamesh, she could just be Thena, not Thena with Mahd Wy’ry.
This new imposter treats her the same way.
He doesn’t stay by her side the way Gilgamesh did — likely because he knows that she will very intentionally stab him if he comes near her — but the times he does unintentionally cross her path, he never tenses up. Never fears what she could do to him. He just looks at her and smiles at her the way Gilgamesh used to and then, sometimes, for just a moment, without thinking about it, she drops her guard.
It makes her hate him even more.
Of all the things the humans create, she thinks the television may be his favorite. He always has the stupid thing on, playing in the background while he cooks or cleans or does whatever other various chore needs to be done around their home. Then, at the end of the day, he sits in front of it some more, rewatching the same six movies he’s become obsessed with.
She finds him asleep on the couch, still upright with an empty beer mug beside him, the television in the background playing a rerun of his favorite Batman movie. She rolls her eyes, but gently taps on his cheeks with her fingers. “Darling, come to bed.”
He groans but doesn’t even open his eyes. “In a minute,” he mumbles before promptly falling back asleep, lightly snoring.
Fine, she decides. She did her part. Let the oaf stay here if that’s what he really wants. What’s it to her if he wakes up with a sore back and crooked neck? He’s doing it to himself, really. She’ll sleep peacefully without him hogging the sheets for once.
She turns on her heel and goes to the bedroom.
A few minutes later she returns with an armful of pillows and blankets.
She tucks the pillow under his neck, though she doubts it will do much good, and curls up beside him, using his chest as a pillow, and pulls the blanket over both of them. Just as she closes her eyes, she feels his arm wrap around her, holding her to him, before his snoring resumes.
The next morning they both wake up from the worst sleep of their lives, with stiff backs and neck pain. He complains about it for hours and when she tells him that will be the last nice thing she ever does for him, he simply laughs and kisses her.
Sometimes Gilgamesh would sing to himself while he cooked.
He didn’t always do it, but at some point over the years, he developed the habit, just tunelessly enjoying the sound of his own voice in the silence. She’d never asked him, but she’d always suspected it had to do with her becoming a less than interesting conversation partner whenever the Mahd Wy’ry grew stronger.
She’d always wondered if it was the silence or the loneliness that haunted him.
Against her will, she thinks about that one evening when she goes to the kitchen and finds the imposter singing to himself as he chops vegetables. Then he turns and grins at her and says something she does not hear, because he is wearing Gilgamesh’s apron. And just like that, any chance of a civil interaction, of a peaceful evening, is gone.
“Take it off,” she says, her voice low and threatening. He studies her for a moment, likely trying to determine if it’s her or the Mahd Wy’ry at play. “The apron. Take it off.”
He looks at her, somewhere between confused and annoyed. “I know you don’t like it, but I always wear this, Thena.”
“It’s not yours,” she snaps, drawing her dagger without thinking. Because she’s too angry to think. It was bad enough when he was just parading around here with his face, claiming his memories, but this? This is the only thing she has left and she won’t let it go. “It’s Gilgamesh’s, not yours. Take. It. Off.”
She feels the vibration a split second before it happens, but of course she isn’t quick enough to stop it. The next thing she knows, she’s on the other side of the room, Makkari once again standing in front of her. Behind Makkari, the others gather, standing between them playing referee in a fight that shouldn’t even need sides.
He looks at her from across the room and for a moment, she thinks he will ignore her. Will claim the one thing she has left and turn back to his meal without another word just to spite her. Because that’s what she wants him to do – needs him to do – so that she has an excuse to do what she should have done when he first stepped aboard the Domo.
Because it’s not what Gilgamesh would do. The real Gilgamesh.
Her Gilgamesh.
He — this imposter, this fake Gilgamesh — smiles at her sadly and it takes everything in her power to focus on her anger and not the way her heart sinks at seeing Gilgamesh’s face like that. He nods at her once, takes off the apron, and hands it to Sersi before he returns to chopping vegetables.
Thena pushes past Makkari and the others, and snatches the apron from Sersi before anyone has the chance to say anything. She turns and leaves and doesn’t look back until she’s in her bedroom, alone with the door slammed shut.
Then, and only then does she let herself collapse, the weight of her own body suddenly so heavy and her legs so weak. She holds onto the apron so tight that she fears she may rip it, but still she refuses to let it go. But when she brings it to her face, desperate for the familiar comfort of the garment, she nearly breaks.
It smells like Gilgamesh.
Later she will think it’s amazing that she made it as long as she did, that the stress of seeing this imposter didn’t push her over the edge sooner. Think it a miracle that every fight she picked with him every time he so much as glanced in her direction didn’t trigger it. Later she will realize how lucky she is that they got as much peace from her as they did.
But she doesn’t think about that then. Because right then she isn’t there on the Domo — she’s on Centuri-Six and the ground is ripping
Thena.
Everyone is going to die. It’s too late. They can’t save them.
Give me your hand.
Everything shifts. It’s dark. She’s in the Amazon. It’s dark.
She can’t move. Gilgamesh is in trouble. She can’t move. He needs help. Why can’t she move? He’s dying. Why can’t she help?
Why can’t she just save him?
Thena.
Gilgamesh?
You’re okay. Give me your hand.
She feels something warm press against her hand, a palm against hers. Gilgamesh. He’s okay. Not dying. Okay. Safe. Alive. Gilgamesh is alive.
Remember, Thena. Remember.
She remembers.
And just like that, slowly but surely, everything falls back to place. The trees fade away, replaced by now fallen piles of Makkari’s treasures. The air shifts from hot and muggy to cool and controlled. And the body in front of her isn’t a cold, lifeless one. It’s one that’s warm like a furnace, radiating with so much love that for just a moment she’s overwhelmed by just how safe she feels.
“Gilgamesh…”
He nods slowly, the smallest yet most reassuring smile at his lips. “It’s me. You’re okay, Thena. I promise.”
He’s right, she realizes, she is okay. She isn’t on Centuri-Six. She isn’t in the Amazon. The deviant is dead. They stopped the Emergence. It’s okay. She’s okay. She didn’t die. Thena is okay. Thena is alive. She survived. And Gilgamesh…
Gilgamesh died.
Thena takes three steps back, a dagger now drawn in the hand that was pressed against his. He looks almost as surprised by her sudden movement as she is. And then, just for a moment, right before her vision blurs from the tears that burn her eyes, she thinks he looks as broken as she feels.
“Stay away from me,” she begs.
She doesn’t wait for his response, already running away as fast as she can.
Sometimes it feels like she doesn’t remember who Thena is, or at least who she used to be, back in the good old days. Because how could someone who is so frail and broken have possibly been a goddess? Humans used to pray to her for strength and now she refuses to even draw her staff in fear that she will inadvertently use it against the one person who still dares to worship her.
She finds Gilgamesh in the kitchen tunelessly singing to himself as he chops some vegetables for their dinner. And though his back is to her, she can tell he’s wearing that hideous apron again, the one she threatened to set on fire the first time he brought it home. He’d simply laughed, not in the slightest phased by her words, and told her she would learn to love it. She hadn’t, but she had learned to love the way his face lit up whenever he wore it.
Now when she thinks of home, she thinks of him in that awful apron.
Sometimes it feels like she doesn’t remember who Thena is, but then she sees him laughing and taking care of her and suddenly she thinks she can remember what it feels like to be Thena because Gilgamesh loves her. She is Thena because he is Gilgamesh and no one else could ever belong to her like this. Because no one else could ever belong to him like this.
Her arms wrap around his waist, hugging his back. “Thank you,” she whispers, kissing his shoulder.
She feels him relax in her arms and he chuckles. She says that now, but he's making stew for dinner.
Thena’s nose wrinkles and she immediately releases him. Stew? Again? What about a pie?
He turns and catches her hand before she can step away, and reminds her that a pie is not dinner. He kisses her hand and though she’s still annoyed about the lack of pie, she smiles.
Sometimes she doesn’t remember what it was like to be Thena. But then she sees him and she thinks she can almost remember. Because the only things Thena could ever be known for were battle and loving Gilgamesh, and if she cannot fight, at least she still has him.
When Sersi comes to Thena, she comes bearing cups of tea and a plate of sandwiches that were very clearly not made by her. For a moment, she considers refusing the food, but Thena is too tired to fight the woman who is technically her leader now, so she begrudgingly accepts her share and Sersi takes a seat beside her.
“Did I ever tell you that Ikaris left me?” she asks, holding her mug between her hands.
Before everything with the Emergence and Ajak’s death, back when Sersi had no idea what was awaiting them, she thought that she would spend the rest of her life with Ikaris because he loved her more than anything. But then one morning she woke up and he was just… gone. No word, no letter, not even so much as a hint. Just gone. As if the last five thousand years hadn’t meant anything to him.
She thought he would come back. Was so sure that he would. Because he promised her that he would be with her until the end. That he was hers. And she believed him. She trusted him. But he never came back. At least not until he knew it was the end.
And even then, in the very end, he left her again. Chose to leave her.
Thena presses her lips, trying to decide on the least offensive way to voice her thoughts. “Yes, well, Ikaris always was a fool.”
Sersi smiles sadly and nods in agreement. “He was. But Gilgamesh isn’t.”
Thena’s eyes narrow. “Don’t.”
But Sersi does. Because in the seven thousand years they spent on Earth, Gilgamesh was never far away from Thena. The rest of them may have never said anything, but that doesn’t mean they never noticed how he was only ever an arm’s length away from her. How he was always by her side the moment she needed him. Not even Mahd Wy’ry and the risk of death could keep him away from her.
When Ajak told them to find their purpose, he chose her.
He never even hesitated.
“Ikaris left me, Thena. But not even death could keep Gilgamesh from choosing you.”
It feels as if the air has been sucked out of the room when all Thena’s trying to do is breathe. And a part of her wants to lash back, to fight back until she gets what she wants, until she’s able to go back to just being left alone. But there’s no air and Thena is alone and suddenly she’s just so tired. Because suddenly she doesn’t know if she can fight anymore. At least not right now. Not about this.
So, instead, she just says, “It isn’t that simple.”
Except that isn’t enough. She doesn’t even need Sersi to say it — it’s obvious from the way she’s looking at her now. “Do you remember what you told me when I doubted myself?” she asks. “When you love something, you protect it. Who are you protecting? Gilgamesh or yourself?”
Gilgamesh, of course. She is protecting her Gilgamesh, the one whose body she held, the one whose ashes she spread, the one who died. And there is no coming back from death. Eternal or not, death is death. You can’t escape that. Which means that this man who has invaded their lives cannot possibly be her Gilgamesh. And if she doesn’t protect the memory of her Gilgamesh then there’s nothing left of him.
Then he’s gone. For good.
Except the words refuse to come out, and she’s left with no choice but to consider Sersi’s.
It’s the day after her latest episode and she still hasn’t quite regained her strength. Gilgamesh is tired too, she knows, but he insists on hanging their laundry up to dry or else it will wrinkle.
The sun is blaring and Thena wants nothing more to be inside their nice cool house, perhaps curled in bed, but she doesn’t trust him not to collapse when she isn’t nearby to catch him. She left him with quite the injury this time and it must hurt, even if he pretends it doesn’t.
His hand appears before her face, interrupting her thoughts, and she looks up to see him smiling at her. Despite the exhaustion, she smiles back, unable to deny him, and gives him her hand so that he can lead them back to their home.
Except for just a moment, she’s back to that first moment when he first offered her his hand, when she first gave him hers. When it was the two of them against the deviants. In that moment, she thinks the two of them could have done anything as long as her hand was in his.
Her fingers tighten around his. “Give me your hand,” she says quietly, urgently, desperately. Hopefully. “The next time I try to hurt you, give me your hand.”
Gilgamesh looks at her for a moment, trying to follow her train of thought without asking for the explanation she is too tired to give him. She thinks he finds it, because a smile tugs at his lips and he nods.
And though she should know better than to trust herself, she feels relieved.
She finds him sitting on the floor, back propped against the wall, fast asleep. Sersi’s mobile device is in his hands, a recording of one of those Godfather movies Gilgamesh loved playing. She doesn’t understand why he bothered even trying to watch something when he knew he would just fall asleep instead. Foolish man.
For a moment, she considers turning and leaving. It isn’t as if she’s particularly thrilled about having this conversation in the first place, and this is the perfect excuse. But his head is tilted forward, his chin pressed against his neck in a way that’s bound to leave him complaining in the morning, and without even stopping to think about it, she places her hand on his head.
He wakes up instantly and looks up at her confused. “I wasn’t asleep,” he insists. She raises a brow. He grins sheepishly. “Okay, I guess I was. But it was only for a moment. This is the best part of the movie.”
Thena rolls her eyes and considers walking out. It’s not like he would care — he has this stupid movie to keep him distracted. But she sought him out for a reason and the warrior in her refuses to cower away. Goddesses do not fear men.
She takes a breath and slides down the wall so that she’s sitting beside him on the floor. He doesn’t miss a beat and immediately holds the device between them so that she too can see the screen. And then, as if she hadn’t just told him to stay away from her a few hours ago, he begins summarizing the plot points of the movie so that she can follow along.
Her Gilgamesh was like that too, always considering her without needing to think about it. Taking care of her wasn’t something he did, it was a part of who he was. It was as natural to him as loving her.
“Why aren’t you mad at me?” she asks suddenly, her voice so soft she’s not even sure he’ll hear her. He does though, finally looking away from the screen and towards her, clearly confused. “If you really are my Gilgamesh, how can you not be mad at me for rejecting you? After all you’ve done for me?”
After all he is still doing for her.
Except he never did what he did because he wanted her to love him. He did it because he couldn’t sit by and just let her suffer alone, because he wanted to take care of her, because he loved her. Because he loves her.
She knows this. But she thinks she needs to hear it. Needs him to prove to her that he really could be Gilgamesh.
Her Gilgamesh.
It’s petty and selfish, but it’s Thena and in seven thousand years the only thing she has ever done consistently was love him. Even when she couldn’t fight, even when she didn’t know who she was anymore, she loved him. It isn’t something she does, it’s something she is. She cannot just love anyone. It has only ever been him.
It can only ever be him.
He shrugs. “How could I be mad at you? You always loved me too much to ever see me clearly,” he teases, his shoulder lightly bumping against hers.
She doesn’t know if it’s her words that he echoes back to her, the words no one else would ever know, or the way he says it, so casually, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, but she feels something inside of her shift. And for the first time since she spread his ashes in the river, the walls she put back up crack.
His thumb brushes against her cheek, and it’s only then that she realizes she’s crying. She catches his hand as he pulls back and holds it in place, trapping it between her own hand and face, suddenly terrified to let him go again. “It’s really you, isn’t it? You came back to me?”
He smiles and something deep inside of her clicks into place, and she can’t describe it but she just knows that this isn’t a trick by Arishem. Even with all of the power in the universe, not even Arishem couldn’t replicate the way he smiles at her.
“I told you,” he says, “I’d do it again. On any planet.”
And just like that, all her walls come crumbling back down. Because she doesn‘t need them anymore. Not when she has Gilgamesh.
Her Gilgamesh.
He holds onto her, helping her balance as she slides into the bath he drew for her.
She relaxes into the hot water, allowing it to soothe the tension in her muscles, not even caring that the heat burns against the various cuts along her body. He hums softly as his fingers work the shampoo into her hair, his fingers draw little circles on his scalp, the gentlest pressure being applied as he massages her. It nearly breaks her, how much care he puts into her when she knows he must be sore and tired and desperate for rest after the havoc she caused today.
“Why do you do it?” she asks, her voice nearly cracking as he rinses the product from her head “Why choose to watch over me?”
He doesn’t say anything and she doesn’t have the strength to repeat herself.
The water’s grown cold by the time he finishes cleaning the dirt and blood from her, but she thinks she almost doesn’t have the strength to care. She hears the water begin to drain and he kisses the top of her newly clean hair before she feels him step back. Wordlessly, she gathers her strength and stands and steps out of the tub and into the towel he has for her.
His arms wrap around her, holding both the towel to her and her against him, not evening caring that she’s soaking his fresh clothes. He rests his forehead against hers and they stay like that for a moment, and then another, both too tired to move.
Finally, when she thinks she may just fall asleep in his arms, he says, “When you love something, you protect it. It is the most natural thing in the world.”
She thinks about that later when he falls asleep curled up against her, his face buried in the crook of her neck, desperately holding onto her as if she might slip away while he sleeps.
Because he’s right, she knows. There isn’t anything she wouldn’t do to protect him.
Tired doesn’t begin to describe the way she feels, the exhaustion from everything, from all of the emotions, sinking down deep into her bones. She should go to bed, she knows. Rest is what she needs more than anything. But she refuses to move, terrified that if she moves the illusion will fall apart and she will lose him again.
“Hey,” he says, his fingers intertwining with his. How she ever let his hand go before, she has no idea. She won’t make the same mistake again. ”Did you see Druig and Makkari?”
She rolls her eyes but smiles. “Yes, darling, you were right. How long have you been waiting to tell me so?”
He smiles softly and for just a moment, she thinks she can see the exhaustion on him too. Feel it radiating off him. He needs sleep as desperately as she does. But yet he refuses to let go of her, as if he’s just as afraid of her slipping away from him again. They really aren’t so different after all. “Since the second day back on the Domo.”
The second day. Because she put him through so much that first day.
With a sad smile, she lifts her other hand and rests it on his cheek, her thumb tracing the cut she gave him that first day. Without Ajak here to heal him, it’s begun to scar. She thinks of their time in Athens, back when she thought they were invincible, back when she first thought about leaving her mark on him. How foolish was she to ever assume a mark had to be physical. That he would ever need a mark to be hers.
“You’ve always been so patient with me,” she says softly. “Thank you.”
Gilgamesh turns his head and kisses the inside of her palm. “My dear,” he says and despite the exhaustion, when he looks at her, his eyes are bright as if there were a fire lit behind them, and just being in his gaze warms something inside of her. “I would wait an eternity for you.”
She knows he would. She realized it that night in Tenochtitlan when he chose to stay by her side because she didn’t want to lose her memories. She wouldn’t have blamed him if he had stood aside as Ajak erased her mind. Because memories or not, there is no doubt she would have fallen in love with him again — it would be practically impossible for her not to when falling in love with him had been as easy as breathing. But he didn’t. He stood by her when no one else dared. Gave up everything so that she could selfishly hold onto her memories.
It’s almost funny, she thinks, the way his love constantly surprises her. The way he can be by her side for millennia and still find ways to love her more than she knew possible. She thought that maybe she understood five hundred years ago when he gave up everything to take care of her, to hold onto her even through the pain. Then later she thought she truly knew when he gave his life for hers, when he used his dying breath to take care of her one last time.
And yet she had no idea, because Sersi was right — not even death could keep him from her. Because there is nothing that will keep him from her. He will always find a new way to surprise her. No matter how many millennia they live together.
“Eternity,” she says, shifting so that she can lay against him, using his chest as a pillow. “I like the sound of that.”
His arm wraps around her, holding her closer to him. “Yeah, me too,” he says. She smiles and her eyes close and she begins to drift to sleep. But just before she can, he asks, “Does that mean I can have my apron back?”
“Only if you bake me a pie,” she says, eyes barely open. “With blueberries.”
He groans. “How am I going to find blueberries in space?”
“Mm,” she hums, falling back to sleep. “You’ll find a way.”
Gilgamesh kisses the top of her head. “I will,” he promises. “For you, I always will.”
She knows.