All she can do is stare at Dorian's body, her hands shaking. She doesn't realise how much blood there is until she stops to look, the lioness instincts to kill and rip apart gone from her now. Her hands are covered in it, from his death to the woman's, her mouth stained with what the lioness had down (what she had done). She's scared to do anything in case she touches more blood, in case the mass of it goes into her more, in case something happens, in case...
She ate her.
Her hands fly to her mouth as a desperate noise escapes her, her stomach churning, bile catching in her throat. She had been a lion but all the times before she had known, she had understood herself, but she had been so scared, so angry, so furious that there was nothing she could do but follow the part of her that was more violent. She shakes, breathing coming in short, sharp, desperate gasps, like she's suffocating, the hysteria settling into her as what she's done settles around her shoulders. Each gasping breath feels like a failure and she doesn't know what to do.
When she hears her name her hands drop, her body scrambling back, more blood against her skin and the fabric of her clothes. She's drenched in it, she thinks, not just Dorian's but the woman's, her skin stained from hands up to her face and mouth, her lips darker from it, like a sickening rouge to make her pretty. She stares at Gilgamesh, feral, for a moment, before her eyes dance back to Dorian and stay there.
Dorian is immortal. She knew, of course, she'd always known, she protected his portrait with magic for him, she'd been there, but - oh, but, but, now it spreads over her like a sickening weight. Dorian would have been fine and she could have done something, anything, but she killed the woman. She did more than kill her; she ripped her apart, destroyed her, claws sinking deep and the joy of the kill making her lioness heart happy.
Body lurching away from Gilgamesh, even now, knowing what she does, Hermione stumbles back, hands dropping into the mud around her, eyes glancing to the woman before she hisses out another sob. The assassin, whatever she was, is nothing, now, head almost severed from her shoulders, throat snapped and spine torn apart under the weight of her teeth. She shakes her head, again and again, her hands turning here and there. Gilgamesh, King of Kings, Dorian's Master, he would understand but she can't, she can't, there's nothing she can do.
"I killed her," she whispers, voice almost lost, a barely there breath. "I didn't know, I was so angry, I - I ate - I think I'm going -" She covers her mouth, desperate to keep herself from vomiting.
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She ate her.
Her hands fly to her mouth as a desperate noise escapes her, her stomach churning, bile catching in her throat. She had been a lion but all the times before she had known, she had understood herself, but she had been so scared, so angry, so furious that there was nothing she could do but follow the part of her that was more violent. She shakes, breathing coming in short, sharp, desperate gasps, like she's suffocating, the hysteria settling into her as what she's done settles around her shoulders. Each gasping breath feels like a failure and she doesn't know what to do.
When she hears her name her hands drop, her body scrambling back, more blood against her skin and the fabric of her clothes. She's drenched in it, she thinks, not just Dorian's but the woman's, her skin stained from hands up to her face and mouth, her lips darker from it, like a sickening rouge to make her pretty. She stares at Gilgamesh, feral, for a moment, before her eyes dance back to Dorian and stay there.
Dorian is immortal. She knew, of course, she'd always known, she protected his portrait with magic for him, she'd been there, but - oh, but, but, now it spreads over her like a sickening weight. Dorian would have been fine and she could have done something, anything, but she killed the woman. She did more than kill her; she ripped her apart, destroyed her, claws sinking deep and the joy of the kill making her lioness heart happy.
Body lurching away from Gilgamesh, even now, knowing what she does, Hermione stumbles back, hands dropping into the mud around her, eyes glancing to the woman before she hisses out another sob. The assassin, whatever she was, is nothing, now, head almost severed from her shoulders, throat snapped and spine torn apart under the weight of her teeth. She shakes her head, again and again, her hands turning here and there. Gilgamesh, King of Kings, Dorian's Master, he would understand but she can't, she can't, there's nothing she can do.
"I killed her," she whispers, voice almost lost, a barely there breath. "I didn't know, I was so angry, I - I ate - I think I'm going -" She covers her mouth, desperate to keep herself from vomiting.