Oh, poor Dorian. For all they're fighting over, it's like he's not even there, like those words don't even exist. Not for Gilgamesh, anyway. All he hears is you're not a king, you're not a ruler, you're not anyone, and his blood runs cold. His rage dries up. He just listens to Hermione go on and on and on until he's laughing, too, and why not? It's all so damn funny he can't help himself.
His armor fades and he smiles from ear to ear. He's not upset. He speaks slowly, soothingly, though his eyes never part from Hermione's, deep and red and if not upset, then madder beyond all belief. This realm has driven him to such lengths.
"That's right," Gilgamesh confesses. "It's all true. No... it's true in part. I'm the King of All That Blooms. I am the child of flowers that throws petals on the primrose path. I am beloved and I am adored even as I grovel on the ground before the likes of you. It's very nice, isn't it? When you're honest with yourself. When you don't hide your hatred. I respect that. It wasn't a lie, what I said before, I never lied, not once. I believe in you, Hermione Granger. I believe you'll go on to do great things, so in the future, don't hold back. I will only accept the finest venom from your tongue."
Gilgamesh's grip loosens and falls away. Dorian is shrugged aside, even as he's addressed directly. "I don't love anything or anyone save for the strength that exists within the human spirit. I won't be happy for anyone or anything, because I hate this world. I hate the people who smile at me and I hate the people who laugh most of all. See? I've always been honest, so I'll tell you something else."
The palm of his hand ghosts along the small of Dorian's back, and he's pushed toward Hermione. Not cruelly; not gently; somewhere in beween. "Dorian Gray broke long before we ever stumbled upon him. Can your friendship change that? Do you understand what I'm doing, what I'm saying? I'll leave it to you to figure out. Whatever the result, I'm sure it'll be fun. In regards to everything, the real truth of the matter is..."
The deepest sort of madness is always reflected in subtlties. Gilgamesh's smile hasn't faded at all. If anything, it only softens, only gains some measure of perverse brightness to it. This man has broken, too, long before anyone in all creation ever even met him.
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His armor fades and he smiles from ear to ear. He's not upset. He speaks slowly, soothingly, though his eyes never part from Hermione's, deep and red and if not upset, then madder beyond all belief. This realm has driven him to such lengths.
"That's right," Gilgamesh confesses. "It's all true. No... it's true in part. I'm the King of All That Blooms. I am the child of flowers that throws petals on the primrose path. I am beloved and I am adored even as I grovel on the ground before the likes of you. It's very nice, isn't it? When you're honest with yourself. When you don't hide your hatred. I respect that. It wasn't a lie, what I said before, I never lied, not once. I believe in you, Hermione Granger. I believe you'll go on to do great things, so in the future, don't hold back. I will only accept the finest venom from your tongue."
Gilgamesh's grip loosens and falls away. Dorian is shrugged aside, even as he's addressed directly. "I don't love anything or anyone save for the strength that exists within the human spirit. I won't be happy for anyone or anything, because I hate this world. I hate the people who smile at me and I hate the people who laugh most of all. See? I've always been honest, so I'll tell you something else."
The palm of his hand ghosts along the small of Dorian's back, and he's pushed toward Hermione. Not cruelly; not gently; somewhere in beween. "Dorian Gray broke long before we ever stumbled upon him. Can your friendship change that? Do you understand what I'm doing, what I'm saying? I'll leave it to you to figure out. Whatever the result, I'm sure it'll be fun. In regards to everything, the real truth of the matter is..."
The deepest sort of madness is always reflected in subtlties. Gilgamesh's smile hasn't faded at all. If anything, it only softens, only gains some measure of perverse brightness to it. This man has broken, too, long before anyone in all creation ever even met him.
"...I don't really care anymore, either."