Gilgamesh watches it all happen and and doesn't do a goddamn thing to stop it.

He watches from a distance (so called by the strain in their sacred bond, by the pulse that pounded and the heart that beat with such severity) and doesn't act to prevent a single part of the grisly performance; not Dorian's fall, and not the lionness' crazy charge, either. He just watches, so terribly out of place in that terribly casual jacket, and laughs to himself.

You humans, he thinks, are repulsive to the end.

Only when the dust has settled does Gilgamesh step in, and that uncaring facade melts away. Gilgamesh manifests from pure light before his Master and Marchionness, now turned back to her rightful form, and frowns at them both. First at Dorian, who should've known better, and then at Hermione herself, who knew so very little when it came these bloody affairs.

"Hermione."

He calls out to her, approaching one gentle step at a time. He can practically hear that portrait cackling at this whole ordeal, can sense its amusement from half a world away. Good. It is amusing, the plight of these people. Dorian will find a very sadistic Servant accompanying him all the way home today. Very sadistic, and very smug.

For now, though, damage control must be done. To that end, Gilgamesh tells her only thus:

"He lives. Do not fret. That man—my Master—will not fall to this. Nor shall you."

And then words are no longer necessary. He waits beside her, as that shoulder to lean and to cry on, and to claim his just reward for all this folly.