Gilgamesh is very used to spending his days idly doing whatever pleased him best; he works when he wants to, plays when he wants to, and looks for things to interest him in-between the few things that he counts as obligations. he's been in a holding pattern, frittering his days away, practicing with his odd new powers and finding ways to color his time
and Samuel Kovac has been dying beside him, in silence.
he's noticed, of course. how couldn't he notice the changes? it's been a slow, subtle enough change that it's been like a frog in a boiling pot of water--and every time Sampo laughed it off, said that work was slow but good, the fire went up a little higher, the water got a little hotter, and Gil had tried very, very hard not to notice.
he can still feel the cold on his back, hours later. the chill lingers and soaks into his magical facsimile of skin; he holds onto the feeling in the same way a penitent man brings a flogger down on his own back--it's a reminder as much as it is a punishment as much as it is a focus.
Sampo is not okay.
and Gilgamesh is not okay because Sampo is not okay.
for all that he's spent his life feeling like he is a solitary entity standing apart from the rest of the world, lonely on his throne--in this age of mortal men, so many terrible mortal, terribly frail men have done their level best to chain him down to his humanity, to keep him from staring lonely and empty towards the stars. they've plead so sweetly with him, proclaiming themselves his friends, his family, wearing these blessed titles with such innocent joy without realizing the terrible consequences that come with bearing the load of the King's humanity.
in another life, the King wept bitterly as Enkidu washed away in his hands, clay turning to mud and slipping back to the loam under the uncaring eyes of the gods.
in this life, Gilgamesh has already wept for Samuel Kovac once.
if he loses him a second time
if it is truly his fault this time
he is going to walk into hell to drag Sampo back, and then he's going to burn the world down to start the Garden anew starting with that blasted shop and its 'caveat emptor' marketing philosophy. he is going to rage and grieve and rip until the newborn pit inside of him begins to feel whole again, and whatever happens in the meantime will be his bloody corpse-laden burden to bear--
and then Sampo pulls him away from the worst case scenario with his heavy, comfortable presence; less cold this time, for better or worse. he looks up after he relaxes his jaw and breathes out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in with the tight little ball in the center of his chest, the pupils of his eyes pulled to slits as he considers Sampo Koski--Samuel Kovac--as the man perches on him like the world's saddest parrot, all tired smiles that don't reach his eyes and bed-mussed hair. ]
I am still incandescently furious with you. [ he says, in a conversational tone that he's carefully bled of all of his feelings, acquiescing to letting Sampo sit on him by uncrossing his legs even if he doesn't bring his arms up to embrace him.
he's angry at himself, too, but Sampo gets to deal with the front-facing problem, and not the inside thoughts ones. ]
no subject
Gilgamesh is very used to spending his days idly doing whatever pleased him best; he works when he wants to, plays when he wants to, and looks for things to interest him in-between the few things that he counts as obligations. he's been in a holding pattern, frittering his days away, practicing with his odd new powers and finding ways to color his time
and Samuel Kovac has been dying beside him, in silence.
he's noticed, of course. how couldn't he notice the changes? it's been a slow, subtle enough change that it's been like a frog in a boiling pot of water--and every time Sampo laughed it off, said that work was slow but good, the fire went up a little higher, the water got a little hotter, and Gil had tried very, very hard not to notice.
he can still feel the cold on his back, hours later. the chill lingers and soaks into his magical facsimile of skin; he holds onto the feeling in the same way a penitent man brings a flogger down on his own back--it's a reminder as much as it is a punishment as much as it is a focus.
Sampo is not okay.
and Gilgamesh is not okay because Sampo is not okay.
for all that he's spent his life feeling like he is a solitary entity standing apart from the rest of the world, lonely on his throne--in this age of mortal men, so many terrible mortal, terribly frail men have done their level best to chain him down to his humanity, to keep him from staring lonely and empty towards the stars. they've plead so sweetly with him, proclaiming themselves his friends, his family, wearing these blessed titles with such innocent joy without realizing the terrible consequences that come with bearing the load of the King's humanity.
in another life, the King wept bitterly as Enkidu washed away in his hands, clay turning to mud and slipping back to the loam under the uncaring eyes of the gods.
in this life, Gilgamesh has already wept for Samuel Kovac once.
if he loses him a second time
if it is truly his fault this timehe is going to walk into hell to drag Sampo back, and then he's going to burn the world down to start the Garden anew starting with that blasted shop and its 'caveat emptor' marketing philosophy. he is going to rage and grieve and rip until the newborn pit inside of him begins to feel whole again, and whatever happens in the meantime will be his bloody corpse-laden burden to bear--
and then Sampo pulls him away from the worst case scenario with his heavy, comfortable presence; less cold this time, for better or worse. he looks up after he relaxes his jaw and breathes out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in with the tight little ball in the center of his chest, the pupils of his eyes pulled to slits as he considers Sampo Koski--Samuel Kovac--as the man perches on him like the world's saddest parrot, all tired smiles that don't reach his eyes and bed-mussed hair. ]
I am still incandescently furious with you. [ he says, in a conversational tone that he's carefully bled of all of his feelings, acquiescing to letting Sampo sit on him by uncrossing his legs even if he doesn't bring his arms up to embrace him.
he's angry at himself, too, but Sampo gets to deal with the front-facing problem, and not the inside thoughts ones. ]