It is not that the portrait listens to Gilgamesh. The painting hates him, hates the corrosion he calls, knows the violence he has just now allowed and hates him for that, too. The portrait has no love for what Gilgamesh does or how Gilgamesh uses him.

But the portrait also has no will of its own. Whatever it wants, bones must be brought back together, healing a bloodied hand. Flesh from grow itself back into place, cell by cell, and skin must knit itself together over gaping wounds. Organs heal; intestines move back into place. Blood appears out of nothing and pushes itself through his veins. That the job is completed shortly after Gilgamesh demands it, well. Such is his luck.

Dorian comes to life with a gasp.

"Hermione—"

He pushes himself up, and there they are: red eyes, gold hair. Gilgamesh?

It doesn't matter. Dorian only offers a quick glance at his Servant, surprise turned into dismissal, as he rushes over to Hermione's side. "Hermione, let me see you—" He takes hold of her arms, turns her face to his. "Are you all right? Where are you hurt?" The arrow is still there. When he looks back at Gilgamesh, he is scowling. "Didn't you think to look to this?" His eyes back on Hermione, hands now on her shoulders. "Just stay calm. We can cut it and push it out, and you know healing magic, don't you?"