[She's the most beautiful sort of doll going through those mechanical motions. Move forward, sit, raise the head high, kindness and gentleness, smile just so, answer just right. Even if she'll always lack the proper fortitude for battle, she'll never lack the proper manners for the table. Even if she'll never cut others down with the same casual air as a Servant, she'll maintain her humanity to the end.

If only she knew how many of them would envy her for it. But not Gilgamesh. Not anymore.

Gilgamesh takes the seat across from her and pours her cup first, then his.]

Pivot on the heel, then thrust. Lean your weight onto your dominant foot and use the other to ground your stance.

[Advice offered without asking, and Hermione can therefore rest assured it's earnest. He is no swordsman of Saber's caliber, but he's handled all manner of weaponry before, blades and shields alike. This too he speaks as a Servant, as one born to fight, who lived and died as a being enslaved to the Grail.

Her friends. Her road. Gilgamesh tries not to bristle, eyes flickering to the twin crowns still resting on the windowsill.]

I'm returning to Leathann. Where I am King. Where I am beloved.

[A weaker man's hands would've shaken. A weaker man would've thrown them in her face. He refuses to be that man today.]