Dear King of Heroes,

Permit me first to greet you cordially in the hopes this message finds you in the best of health. It would give me great pleasure and honor if you were to attend a tournament held by the King of Conquerors and myself on the eve of the 30th. Food and drink shall be served.

I shall be participating for sport, but you may still come should you wish only to observe. Iskandar and Merlin will be there as spectators as well.

If you are inclined to take part, find your way to the east cove by the sea at midnight where us hosts will be waiting.

Arturia

Amusing, how she didn't even bother with a "sincerely" or a "yours truly" to close the letter. In fact, the King of Heroes thought it almost comical. Arturia was a woman who conducted herself with utmost formality. Surely, if this were addressed to anyone but himself, the complimentary close would be present, etched in loopy handwriting above her name.

But, Arturia was a complicated woman. Time and time again, she would leave him baffled, despite the surety that he had long mastered the maze that was the mind of a woman. Now, most mongrels would be discouraged when finally they were faced with a wench that did not succumb so easily, but not Gilgamesh. If anything, the tall walls of the labyrinth to Arturia's heart spurred him on. He forged ahead into her puzzle like a man on a mission, ever looking forward to what awaited him at the end.

Now, now, what ever shall he do?

Iskandar's advice dictated that Gilgamesh ask her to let him in. Literally and figuratively. If, the king supposed, the weight of the choice was given to Arturia, it was less likely that she'd continue to shove him away. Gilgamesh had considered taking the advice, making it as far as the door of the apartment she shared with her brother before realizing this was borderline desperation. That was no way that a king should conduct himself, in courtship or otherwise.

But, having been presented with this little note, delivered to him by his mongrel butler, Iskandar's ideal situation was reversed.

Gilgamesh could depart for the beach and grace the bloody mongrels with his presence. Naturally, he wouldn't bother participating. There was no one alive who could match him, after all. Not even Arturia, though she would entertain him a bit with that sword, of course.

However, if the King of Conquerors was the one arranging the meet, he was sure whatever he had prepared to eat and drink would be lacking, if the swill that he brought with him to the Banquet of Kings was any indication. He could already imagine it: a menu so poorly put together every bite was equivalent to a spoonful of sand.

Then there was the company, which he predicts would be just as bland. Arturia would invite both those Irish mutts and that mongrel mad dog of hers. Iskandar would probably drag his new sex doll with him. The thought of conversing with such dullards was about as exciting as a brick wall. That is to say, not exciting in the slightest.

The incubus wizard, at least, he could count on. Merlin was of minor interest, if only because the spellcaster knew much more than he did about the King of Knights. There was also Arturia's protective brother, who he'd spoken to only briefly. Those two plus Iskandar made for...tolerable company. The bare minimum, but he couldn't really expect much, could he?

The sigh that escaped his lips was long and exaggerated. Arturia was trying to drive him mad, surely. She knew he detested the presence of mongrels; did she send this invitation to mess with him?

Gently, Gilgamesh ran a finger over the loopy 'G' written on the back of the envelope. Judging by the thickness of the line, Arturia must have written this with a fountain pen, one that was expensive and fine enough that it didn't blot the page even once. The paper itself was thick and durable, nothing like the flat white office bond that Merlin always seemed to be scattering about.

No, this invitation certainly wasn't a fluke. She wouldn't have put as much effort into it otherwise. Arturia even slipped tiny lilies of the valley under the simple red wax seal on the front. There was also a thin silk ribbon of red and gold to complete the package.

She wanted him there...albeit reluctantly.

A proud smirk tugged his lips upward. She could explain the why of giving him an invitation herself. Besides, he supposed it wouldn't all be such a boring, tasteless display. Arturia was participating, and she was always a wonder to behold in battle.

So, with a bottle of fine wine that was sure to best whatever the other monarchs had in store, the King of Heroes departed for the beach.

"Diarmuid and…"

The pounding in Diarmuid's ears was so loud, it was like someone had taken an entire marching band and shoved it into his head. Iskandar wasn't any help, his massive fingers chasing the tiny slips of paper around the glass bowl made the man seem like a child hopelessly chasing after guppies in a canal. Part of Diarmuid dreaded the moment the King of Conquerors finally picked a name, the other just wanted this to be over and done with. There was still a low chance he and Lancelot would ever be paired, especially if whoever Lancelot matched with defeated the brooding swordsman.

He gingerly touched the pads of his fingertips to the crescent-shaped wounds hidden in the concave of his palms. He got lucky. Arturia was there the first time he almost lost himself, and Cú had been there the other times. But whatever had been plaguing him was getting stronger, and Diarmuid felt he was fighting a losing battle within him. Sunset-colored eyes snuck over to the long-haired man currently exchanging pleasantries with the King of Knights. Just minutes ago, if Cú wasn't there-if Cú hadn't snapped him out of it-he was sure Lancelot would be bleeding out, with Gáe Dearg lodged right in the middle of his chest.

It was clear that the Frenchman was a catalyst that could send him over the edge, tip the scales in favor of the darkness festering inside. Even now, his nerves simmered with the need for violence like embers of a fire waiting for the wind. Fighting Lancelot was a recipe for disaster if he ever saw one. Suddenly, dark eyes flicked to him and then away, the one moment shared filled with nothing but disgust. It seemed Lancelot might share the same sentiment.

The spear master whispered a silent apology under his breath. Tonight was supposed to be a joyous competition, and here he was sullying the mood with his issues. He should have anticipated that Arturia would invite Lancelot too. After all, Lancelot was a member of her court just like Kay, Bedivere, and Merlin, which was more than he could say for himself, a stranger she met two decades ago.

No, he ought to give himself more credit than that. He mattered to her, that he knew for a fact. She wouldn't have said yes to a month's worth of lunches, dinners, and spars if she thought otherwise.

That said, it was obvious that Lancelot mattered to her too. He couldn't just skewer her former knight, even if Diarmuid knew in his heart that he could never get along with the man. The wounds on his palm began to sting as he picked at them, but the pain kept the desire to rip Lancelot's head from his body at bay. He glanced at Arturia, who had on an expression so soft as she looked up at her knight that it made Diarmuid's chest ache with je...guilt. The muscles at his jaw tensed, his mouth stretched into a thin line. Maybe someday he and Lancelot could settle their score, but tonight he would shove Lancelot's insult to the back of his mind. Tonight, he would keep himself in check.

Avoiding the dark knight was the obvious answer, and he could do that as long as he and the bastard were never matched. If, he contemplated, nervously watching as Iskandar finally picked up a name, his opponent was Lancelot-Diarmuid stole a look at his palms, red with wounds that had only just stopped bleeding-he wasn't sure he could reel it in. The thought shook him to his core.

"Kay?" Iskandar finished, finding the one other scarred knight in the mix of people before him. Kay gave him a smile and raised his hand.

Whatever giant sigh of relief Diarmuid was currently in the middle of was drowned out by a laugh echoing in the cove, coming from one white-haired fashion expert. "Tough luck, Kay, he's a dual-wielder.

"Bollocks! Would you shut your damn trap, you fossil!" Kay retorted, offering a hand to his raven-haired acquaintance. "Arturia told me you're not to be underestimated," he said, pulling Diarmuid to his feet. It was all the knight needed to lift his spirits, all thoughts of Lancelot disappearing like smoke in the wind. Maybe tonight wouldn't be so bad after all.

Kay's comment made him shoot his favorite sparring partner a sly smirk. She rolled her eyes, but the both of them knew it was in good spirits. She was...more expressive of late. It was kind of, well...it-she was-

"Alright, come on then, pretty boy," Kay said, lightly pushing a strangely flustered Diarmuid to their makeshift battleground.

"That all you got, Mr. First Knight of the Fianna?"

Kay fought like a cocky bastard. A cocky bastard that knew what he was doing. Diarmuid jumped to the left, quickly tucking and rolling out of the way just as the sword swung where his body used to be. It pained Diarmuid to admit he was having more difficult of a time than he expected, but his opponent was definitely not what he thought.

Kay cackled like a villain who'd just revealed his master plan, the laugh echoing off the cliffside that walled in the cove. Honestly, that hurt the hell out of Diarmuid's pride.

Seriously, the last time he saw Kay, the man was absolutely shit-faced, beyond wasted, singing several hundred notes off-key with a drunken arm slung around Cú. He thought Arturia was bloody kidding when she said Kay had never lost to her, not really, whatever the hell that meant, but had been far too long since Iskandar had given the get-go and all this duel had been was a messy, childish game of cat and mouse, where Diarmuid was the reluctant prey. But, Diarmuid suspected even Cú-even the bestial Child of Light- would struggle in a battle such as this.

Standing a few meters away, with a smirk so cocky it might have rivaled Gilgamesh's signature curl of lip was the King of Knights' brother, one hand on his waist and the other casually wrapped around what Diarmuid was pretty sure should have been a two-handed sword. Nay, it might have even been a three-handed one, with all that steel weighing it down. But, indeed, Kay was swinging that humongous weapon with an ease that he would have expected from Iskandar or Heracles. Not Kay, who only had an advantage over him with height, and definitely not muscle mass.

Bloody hell.

Diarmuid was used to being the one giving chase. There was no doubt about his speed, nor his strength. He knew he was a force to be reckoned with. But hell, he felt his frustration was justified, especially since this whole time he'd hardly landed a hit. Those that did land were light, enough to hurt but not enough to stagger, evidenced by how his opponent was still standing tall. On the flip-side, Diarmuid's chest was beginning to heave, what with all the dodging he's had to do to avoid that colossal piece of weaponry. All Diarmuid's lunges were met with thick steel, his opponent using the broad weapon like a shield, and because of the weapon's reach, Diarmuid had to put in more effort in his retreat than he ever would have fighting Arturia or even Cú.

There was just no space, no room to attack, no openings.

As Kay once again went on the offensive, he stifled the urge to block for the sake of the structural integrity of his spears, opting to flip to the side instead, flinching just a little when that monster of a sword left a crater where he had been. Diarmuid tried not to let Cú's very discouraging oof deter him from planning his next strike, but when he turned, Kay was already upon him, his weapon halfway through its trajectory. The spear man catapulted himself backward to evade, lightly spraying a few disgruntled audience members with sand.

"Come on, pretty boy. I'm sure you're Arturia's favorite for a reason," Kay goaded, turning to swing his weapon with the inertia. That was the sixth time Kay pushed his buttons. Diarmuid was half-convinced the man was doing it on purpose to distract him, judging by how his embarrassed little sister was now shaking her head and pinching the bridge of her nose. Even the calm, composed Bedivere had on an awkward, strained smile.

But Diarmuid hardly had time to dwell on that when the blade passed his side again, this time nicking his shoulder. Cursing himself for the distraction, he squared himself to face his unexpectedly formidable opponent and his equally unexpected signature blade.

Who could have predicted Kay's weapon of choice was a bloody greatsword ?

And it was no conventional straight blade either, but a monstrous one, with a length up to Kay's neck and what looked like a foot of metal in width. He swore the metal was as thick as two inches, but that couldn't be right. Kay just didn't have the build to wield something so heavy so easily. It barely made sense!

The knight tilted his head just as a disconcerting whoosh gave his hair a windy roller-coaster ride.

Alright, Diarmuid. No more playing around.

Fighting Kay was entirely different from clashing with Cú or Arturia. His blows were heavier than either of theirs, less frequent but bone-shattering. He'd be a fool to block a full force hit. Heck, he'd be a fool to do anything other than parry or dodge. Had Kay been faced with an amateur fighter, he'd be declared the winner in a few successful blows, maybe even just one.

But Diarmuid was no amateur. Diarmuid was first knight, the most capable of his former lord's army. And it wasn't just talent that got him there, he earned that title through blood and sweat. He rose to that position organically, swallowing pride with every defeat, learning from everyone he came across, no matter if friend or foe.

He smiled.

Back at the mats, Cú nudged Arturia. "Our boy here's got a plaaaaaan~ " he drawled, the alcohol in his breath making her flutter her eyelashes and nudge him back.

"Oya? I would certainly like to hear it, if you don't mind telling me more about your brother here, King of Knights!" Iskandar asked. He had a platter of food piled to the heavens in one of his hands, and beside him, his blind date (heh) was sneaking nibbles and bites off his plate.

Arturia resisted the urge to blush at the blatant display of PDA, what with the pair of Riders basically hanging off of each other. She knew they were close, but not that close. Suddenly, Cú's incredibly blasé statement back when they set up the barbecue ("They're fucking," he said, with a deadpan that told Arturia he was frequently at the receiving end of Iskandar's tale of "conquests".) sounded more than believable.

She cleared her throat and returned her attention to her brother, who had just called Diarmuid a cocky bastard, as he spun himself on his heel to build momentum for his next attack.

Arturia would never be as good as Kay with a greatsword. While her mana could make up for the strength needed to lift something so heavy, it was the dramatic drop in speed that she couldn't stand, not to mention how much adjusting she would have to do thanks to her height (or lack thereof).

Hell, even Kay shouldn't have been as good with such a weapon as he was, she contemplated, hearing him tease Diarmuid with a snide comment about his lack of initiative. Another heavy thunk echoed in the small cove as Kay's weapon missed Diarmuid by a hair, but instead of looking discouraged, the latter was grinning like a child given candy on Halloween.

Arturia felt a tiny puff of breath escape her upturned lips. Of course. Of course Diarmuid would figure it out.

"Hey, what's wrong, Diarmuid? Thought you were the Firs-EEE!" Kay's words ended in a high pitched shriek as he backed away from Gae Dearg in the nick of time. "OI! What the fu-"

Diarmuid's longer lance zipped around his form at lightning speed, and it was all Kay could do to drag his blade between himself and the spear before it shattered his ribs. Sparks flew from the contact, its light revealing the former's proud smirk and the latter's distressed countenance.

And then Diarmuid was laughing. "You sly, silver-tongued devil! " he declared, voice filled with mirth. "I can hardly believe it took me this long!"

All was still, nought but the waves and wind for the Servants to hear. Cú looked over at Arturia, who was smiling and shaking her head. Before long, Kay erupted into chuckles.

He broke his weapon away from Diarmuid's, casting the Irish knight backward with new fire burning in his eyes. "So you figured me out, huh?" he asked, obvious mirth in his voice as he lifted the giant blade to his opponent. "No wonder she likes you so much," Kay teased, then immediately dropped into a spin, using his inertia to propel himself forward.

Iskandar raised an eyebrow, wondering why the fight had suddenly took a huge turn. Both fighters were finally going at it, both equally as assertive. Even Cú was staring with questioning eyes as the fight progressed into an incredible struggle between strength and speed.

As the opponents exchanged blows, no longer seeing the need for banter, Arturia watched on with a knowing smile.

See, there was only one real reason Kay was so formidable with such a slow, heavy weapon such as that blue monstrosity in his hands, and Diarmuid was right on target.

Silver-tongued devil.

Kay wasn't as bulky or huge as Iskandar and he never would be. He would never swing that buster sword with the ease that Hercules does no matter how hard he tries. As a result, he had no choice but to adhere to the rules of physics, mastering motion so his strikes were efficient, even if to get his sword moving he had to sacrifice a few precious slivers of time. So, to make up for this weakness, the clever, sharp-minded Kay came up with a solution that fit his natural talents. In those vulnerable moments where he has to build up momentum to swing his sword, he distracts the opponent with the sharpest weapon in his arsenal.

"Bet ya think you're hot stuff in her eyes right now, huh, pretty boy?!"

His tongue.

It was just a simple case of misdirection, but one that Kay knew down to a T. He ingrained the art into every nerve of his body, obsessively sharpening his skill til it was a sharper weapon than his very blade. After all, while sticks and stones battered and bruised the body, words were the only true method to damaging the soul.

Granted, Kay's strategy was most effective against people he knew best, and his current opponent did not fit that criteria. But, luckily for the Round Table Knight, the vast majority of people on Earth had commonalities, like fragile egos and pride that loved flattery and despised ridicule. The former prompted embarrassment, the latter provoked anger. Maybe invoking these emotions seemed insignificant in the grand scheme of things, as they only bought Kay mere fractions of a second, but those miniscule moments were all that he needed. And for those whose pride was not so easily bruised or inflated, Kay still had an innate ability to read emotions, even those buried so deeply they had virtually no chance of ever being unearthed. It was how he could read Arturia, from when they were kids to when she sat lonely, repressing all her feelings on Camelot's bloody throne.

Diarmuid was not immune to these skills. It was easy enough to ascertain his immense pride as a knight, and...well, Kay wasn't sure the man was aware of it, but the guy had a weak spot in the form of hay colored hair and green eyes. Call it brotherly instinct.

Up til now, his way with words gave him the upper hand. Just because the opponent had discovered his tricks didn't mean they'd stop working. There was no chance of that, unless the enemy could find a way to swallow their pride and allow their emotions to pass. Highly unlikely, especially with basically everyone in this gathering.

In the split second Diarmuid flustered, Kay slammed the brunt of his weapon into Diarmuid's side, sending him careening across the makeshift court like a baseball flying wildly out of bounds, spraying sand everywhere as he collided with the ground.

Ah. It seems victory was his.

"There, that should do-"

Gae Buidhe tore through the dust like a missile, leading the charge for Diarmuid before he aimed his staff at Kay's arm.

Shit!

The world seemed to slow as Kay's fingers involuntarily detached from the greatsword's hilt, and he could only watch as Diarmuid's free hand took over. Before Kay could react, Diarmuid did a full one-eighty, mimicking Kay's technique as he flung the bulky weapon out of reach like an oversized throwing knife.

In a flash of energy, Diarmuid whipped back around to finish the rotation, grabbing Kay by the collar and throwing him down on his stomach. As the salty grains of sand filled Kay's mouth, he felt the cool blade of the red spear poking at his bare nape and he quietly raised his hands in surrender.

"Bollo-" Kay hacked into a handkerchief his sister handed him, "Bollocks! Did you have to make me eat sand?!"

Kay was merciless in smacking the tournament's first victor upside the head, much to the latter's chagrin. Between Kay and Cú, Diarmuid was beginning to think he was surrounded by man-children, and the way that Iskandar was happily pounding his back barking congratulations amid boisterous laughter did not help alleviate his worries. At all.

His only comfort was the slight smile all the hubbub brought to the King of Knights' lips. She managed to stay composed as Kay practically threw himself onto her shoulder arguing that his age was to blame for his loss, though everyone knew the comment was half-hearted. He lost to Diarmuid fair and square, and my, was it a spectacle of a battle.

In fact, it was so much of a spectacle it garnered applause-in the form of a slow clap and a familiar, slightly unhinged sounding chuckle.

Like a dog spotting a squirrel, Iskandar was immediately on attention, whipping his head around to find the final king lounging atop the cliff. He bellowed a greeting, but the King of Heroes was much too preoccupied, his ruby eyes locked in a gaze with wide-open emerald ones.

Gilgamesh tossed down the bottle he brought to Iskandar's eager hands, an arrogant smirk crawling up his face when the King of Conquerors sang his praises. He was dimly aware of there being far too many mongrels around for his liking, including three very irate little dogs who stared up at him like the witless fools that they were, Iskandar's woman, and his queen's other lackeys, but he didn't waste his attention on them, no.

There was only one who he would truly honor with his presence willingly. One who would dare have him come down from the higher ground just to accept her welcome.

"Hello, Gilgamesh."

Arturia's voice was so curt and uniform that if he hadn't just seen her utter those words, he'd think they came out of a robot. Polite as always, the King of Knights was holding out her hand for him to shake, a quivering lip the only thing betraying her composure.

To her surprise, he took her hand and shook it, but it was that same surprise that left her unable to avoid what he did next. In a blink, she was pressed flush against him, her ear tickled by his breath, as Gilgamesh eyed every single dog that dared glare up at him moments before.

Savoring the smell of lilies in her hair, he whispered just loud for the mongrels to hear.

"Hello, my dear Arturia."