Dorian is still exhausted with magic he isn't accustomed too, disconnected with a power that does not belong to him—burning with the height of every emotion he experiences, from that raw power and desire to this sinking unhappy bitterness that has been spat back and forth in front of him, using him. (He really just wishes they wouldn't talk about him like he wasn't here.)
And he is neither dethroned king nor raised-up Marchioness. He is not a being of magic, nor a mage of great power. He is just an empty vessel, untitled and unfulfilled, a void where a soul ought to be, and if he could just get it right, reach for love, fill in that emptiness, it would feel better.
But the love is never enough. He needs more and more and more. Dorian can feel the last of the magic slipping away from his fingers and it leaves an aching misery of a void.
So what Dorian does is this: he straightens, though he lets Hermione brace him, because even tired and intoxicated and on the edge of untamed emotion, he is still himself and unbreakable. He looks over them, his unfaltering friend, his tempestuous Servant, and in that glance he claims them both as his. He speaks: "I think that's the end of this."
No fine pronouncements or speeches from Dorian. Just a soft but enunciated decision. An assertion: the game is over, the players are to part. No more of this.
And then Gilgamesh may feel something familiar, although it is also strange. It is, after all, Gilgamesh who most often uses their bond this way. Who most often takes up the link as a vice to hold tight to his Servant. But now, the snake-grip is Dorian's, ravenous and constricting with the last drops of his untempered emotions: I don't care that you don't love me, I don't care what you will care for, wherever you go, I will find you tonight, tonight you're mine, always, you're mine, you're mine and a pull that could almost be physical for the force of it, yanking Gilgamesh to him not in body but in thought and mind.
Dorian glances at Hermione, and just like that: his mood switches to normal. "Can we get a servant with something to drink? I always get thirsty after things like this."
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And he is neither dethroned king nor raised-up Marchioness. He is not a being of magic, nor a mage of great power. He is just an empty vessel, untitled and unfulfilled, a void where a soul ought to be, and if he could just get it right, reach for love, fill in that emptiness, it would feel better.
But the love is never enough. He needs more and more and more. Dorian can feel the last of the magic slipping away from his fingers and it leaves an aching misery of a void.
So what Dorian does is this: he straightens, though he lets Hermione brace him, because even tired and intoxicated and on the edge of untamed emotion, he is still himself and unbreakable. He looks over them, his unfaltering friend, his tempestuous Servant, and in that glance he claims them both as his. He speaks: "I think that's the end of this."
No fine pronouncements or speeches from Dorian. Just a soft but enunciated decision. An assertion: the game is over, the players are to part. No more of this.
And then Gilgamesh may feel something familiar, although it is also strange. It is, after all, Gilgamesh who most often uses their bond this way. Who most often takes up the link as a vice to hold tight to his Servant. But now, the snake-grip is Dorian's, ravenous and constricting with the last drops of his untempered emotions: I don't care that you don't love me, I don't care what you will care for, wherever you go, I will find you tonight, tonight you're mine, always, you're mine, you're mine and a pull that could almost be physical for the force of it, yanking Gilgamesh to him not in body but in thought and mind.
Dorian glances at Hermione, and just like that: his mood switches to normal. "Can we get a servant with something to drink? I always get thirsty after things like this."