The scream comes out of her wildly, hoarse and powerful, and it's a guttural noise that tears out of her, rips from her throat and, more than anything, it sounds like a roar. She knows what had happened, the barely there movements, the twisting of Dorian's body, the press of the blade through him into her stomach. It's a nick to her skin and it doesn't register; the pain in her shoulder feels like nothing now, compared to the way that her heart aches and her breathing comes in panicked, terrified breaths.
Dorian is dead. Dorian died, Dorian is gone, he stepped between a blade meant for her, a sword that was intended to cut her down, traitors aren't innocent, and she feels like she's going to be sick. Her hands move, grasping at him, covered in his blood as she shakes his body, the noise of his organs, pierced and cut with the blade, moving along it, making her shake and stare. He's breaking from the inside out but there's nothing there to feel it, nothing and no one there to feel the drop of his blood, to see the stain on her, her clothes, her skin and her face, her hands reaching up to touch his cheeks, leaving bloody wet hand prints against his pale skin.
"No, no, Dorian, please, don't - don't do this, please, please-"
It comes out as a desperate sob, the shaken hand moving to grip at the metal hilt. She did this. This is her fault, she had pushed the blame, she had broken her vow, even months later people still hated her, and with the rising pillar of Caer Scima back she knew that the guilt would leave her broken and hating herself. She hadn't expected this, she hadn't expected the way his head presses against her body.
He's gone, he's gone, and Hermione wails, shifting with bloody hands to nudge him back, the woman not tearing the blade out to let his body drop, pushing it deeper instead. It's a desperate, lost noise, her body shaking as the woman laughs, seeing the horror and the pain on her face, the knowledge that Hermione was suffering as much as she had deserved from the moment she had proven herself to be a traitor of her word, to have worked with the Courts, to hold a Shard and rise against them.
Hermione knows she could push forward, she could end it. She would come back shardless, with nothing but her name and her magic, nothing of her own, and it would be so easy. After everything she had done it would be easy, letting her be free of all the pain - but Dorian had died for her, she had her friends, she had been fighting so hard, she had been pushing to make the world better, to make everything brighter, and the gasping noise that falls from her mouth is a low, angry sound, a growl, deep in her throat. It doesn't sound proper, real, she's too human for that, but something comes over her.
"You killed him!"
She draws the blade out, ignoring the sick sound of flesh against steel, dropping it to one side. When she steps forward it's not a simple movement; partway through it turns into a leap, Hermione's body shifting. She is not simply a woman, she hasn't been for almost a year, and the urge to bite, fight, to punish this person for taking an innocent life, for the blood on her hands and the pressure of it touching her - it overtakes her, twisting her body. The magic she uses to become a lioness, to take her sigil, feels removed from the pressure of the magic of her own world, a Monarch given prize that doesn't take as much power as it might have if she had been an animagus in Hogwarts.
The woman screams as the lioness overcomes her - Hermione isn't a woman any longer. She's a beast, a creature. The figure, the assassin, the murderer, turns to try and run, to twist out of the way and lurch to escape (swordless, bowless, what chance does she have against a winged beast?) but that does nothing more than ignite the instincts that have become a part of Hermione over the last year. A lioness hunts her prey, chases them, and a figure moving to escape does nothing more than prickle at those powerful, intense feelings, a low, curling growl resounding through the forest.
The lioness doesn't remember that Dorian is immortal. A crazed mind doesn't remember that her friend will be back. All she can see is death, agony and pain, instinct telling her to grab, bite, tear, rip apart, punish, destroy this creature for daring to touch him, for daring to even consider, let alone perform, such a horrific act on someone that she adores, that she loves, someone that is hers, her family.
Wings spread, Hermione soars, her claws hitting the woman's shoulder, pulling her back, sinking in to the skin and giving the lioness enough leverage to turn her head, sinking large fangs into the spot along her neck, biting down and tilting her head, twisting at the throat under her. It's not so much a rip as it is a pull, her mouth wrinkling as her teeth sink deeper, deeper, tongue enjoying the taste of the blood in the way only a predator could. She's nothing more than a beast of instinct, wanting to take down her prey, the idea of her pride being threatened making her rage.
Blood drips from her jowls, the flesh clinging to her fangs, to the skin, the twitch of her whiskers, crunching around bone and pressing deeper. Her giant paw moves, scratching at the flesh, digging, making sure that the woman is dead, that the pull of spine, of skin, of muscle and pure flesh had been enough to remove her life. Lions suffocate and her jaw had clutched around the neck, pulling, making sure there was no room for air, no room for anything other than death.
The lioness swallows.
It feels good, like the kill has lifted some of the weight from her heart. It's pure pleasure, the knowledge of a successful hunt, and to a mind burning with instinct and pain, all rationality gone and humanity pushed to one side in a fit of rage and agony, it feels like bliss. No more threat to her pride, no more threat to the people she loves, gone, gone, simply gone, destroyed and ripped apart as punishment for choosing to dare attack someone else that the lioness has chosen to protect.
It's the first time she has ever taken any pleasure in hurting anyone, her lion-mind accepting it and enjoying it, almost purring from the pure excitement and joy of having taken down the creature that tried to escape her punishing call.
Slowly, she turns, face covered in human blood and goes back to Dorian's body. It takes a few minutes for her to calm her panting breathing, her nose nudging his face, decorating it with a print of the shape of her snout, but then she flops, dropping at his side, paw on his shoulder. There's soft snuffling noises from the nose of the lion, his blood under her stomach, on the fur of her hind, staining her like she has rolled in it for her own pleasure.
She turns back like that but, when she does, not even the blood on her face and lips can stop her sobs.
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The scream comes out of her wildly, hoarse and powerful, and it's a guttural noise that tears out of her, rips from her throat and, more than anything, it sounds like a roar. She knows what had happened, the barely there movements, the twisting of Dorian's body, the press of the blade through him into her stomach. It's a nick to her skin and it doesn't register; the pain in her shoulder feels like nothing now, compared to the way that her heart aches and her breathing comes in panicked, terrified breaths.
Dorian is dead. Dorian died, Dorian is gone, he stepped between a blade meant for her, a sword that was intended to cut her down, traitors aren't innocent, and she feels like she's going to be sick. Her hands move, grasping at him, covered in his blood as she shakes his body, the noise of his organs, pierced and cut with the blade, moving along it, making her shake and stare. He's breaking from the inside out but there's nothing there to feel it, nothing and no one there to feel the drop of his blood, to see the stain on her, her clothes, her skin and her face, her hands reaching up to touch his cheeks, leaving bloody wet hand prints against his pale skin.
"No, no, Dorian, please, don't - don't do this, please, please-"
It comes out as a desperate sob, the shaken hand moving to grip at the metal hilt. She did this. This is her fault, she had pushed the blame, she had broken her vow, even months later people still hated her, and with the rising pillar of Caer Scima back she knew that the guilt would leave her broken and hating herself. She hadn't expected this, she hadn't expected the way his head presses against her body.
He's gone, he's gone, and Hermione wails, shifting with bloody hands to nudge him back, the woman not tearing the blade out to let his body drop, pushing it deeper instead. It's a desperate, lost noise, her body shaking as the woman laughs, seeing the horror and the pain on her face, the knowledge that Hermione was suffering as much as she had deserved from the moment she had proven herself to be a traitor of her word, to have worked with the Courts, to hold a Shard and rise against them.
Hermione knows she could push forward, she could end it. She would come back shardless, with nothing but her name and her magic, nothing of her own, and it would be so easy. After everything she had done it would be easy, letting her be free of all the pain - but Dorian had died for her, she had her friends, she had been fighting so hard, she had been pushing to make the world better, to make everything brighter, and the gasping noise that falls from her mouth is a low, angry sound, a growl, deep in her throat. It doesn't sound proper, real, she's too human for that, but something comes over her.
"You killed him!"
She draws the blade out, ignoring the sick sound of flesh against steel, dropping it to one side. When she steps forward it's not a simple movement; partway through it turns into a leap, Hermione's body shifting. She is not simply a woman, she hasn't been for almost a year, and the urge to bite, fight, to punish this person for taking an innocent life, for the blood on her hands and the pressure of it touching her - it overtakes her, twisting her body. The magic she uses to become a lioness, to take her sigil, feels removed from the pressure of the magic of her own world, a Monarch given prize that doesn't take as much power as it might have if she had been an animagus in Hogwarts.
The woman screams as the lioness overcomes her - Hermione isn't a woman any longer. She's a beast, a creature. The figure, the assassin, the murderer, turns to try and run, to twist out of the way and lurch to escape (swordless, bowless, what chance does she have against a winged beast?) but that does nothing more than ignite the instincts that have become a part of Hermione over the last year. A lioness hunts her prey, chases them, and a figure moving to escape does nothing more than prickle at those powerful, intense feelings, a low, curling growl resounding through the forest.
The lioness doesn't remember that Dorian is immortal. A crazed mind doesn't remember that her friend will be back. All she can see is death, agony and pain, instinct telling her to grab, bite, tear, rip apart, punish, destroy this creature for daring to touch him, for daring to even consider, let alone perform, such a horrific act on someone that she adores, that she loves, someone that is hers, her family.
Wings spread, Hermione soars, her claws hitting the woman's shoulder, pulling her back, sinking in to the skin and giving the lioness enough leverage to turn her head, sinking large fangs into the spot along her neck, biting down and tilting her head, twisting at the throat under her. It's not so much a rip as it is a pull, her mouth wrinkling as her teeth sink deeper, deeper, tongue enjoying the taste of the blood in the way only a predator could. She's nothing more than a beast of instinct, wanting to take down her prey, the idea of her pride being threatened making her rage.
Blood drips from her jowls, the flesh clinging to her fangs, to the skin, the twitch of her whiskers, crunching around bone and pressing deeper. Her giant paw moves, scratching at the flesh, digging, making sure that the woman is dead, that the pull of spine, of skin, of muscle and pure flesh had been enough to remove her life. Lions suffocate and her jaw had clutched around the neck, pulling, making sure there was no room for air, no room for anything other than death.
The lioness swallows.
It feels good, like the kill has lifted some of the weight from her heart. It's pure pleasure, the knowledge of a successful hunt, and to a mind burning with instinct and pain, all rationality gone and humanity pushed to one side in a fit of rage and agony, it feels like bliss. No more threat to her pride, no more threat to the people she loves, gone, gone, simply gone, destroyed and ripped apart as punishment for choosing to dare attack someone else that the lioness has chosen to protect.
It's the first time she has ever taken any pleasure in hurting anyone, her lion-mind accepting it and enjoying it, almost purring from the pure excitement and joy of having taken down the creature that tried to escape her punishing call.
Slowly, she turns, face covered in human blood and goes back to Dorian's body. It takes a few minutes for her to calm her panting breathing, her nose nudging his face, decorating it with a print of the shape of her snout, but then she flops, dropping at his side, paw on his shoulder. There's soft snuffling noises from the nose of the lion, his blood under her stomach, on the fur of her hind, staining her like she has rolled in it for her own pleasure.
She turns back like that but, when she does, not even the blood on her face and lips can stop her sobs.