Hermione paces her rooms, smoothing a hand down her shirt and jeans as she hesitates, looking here and there. She knows that the guards won't announce Dorian, he'll just be allowed in (as per her orders, only people she names are allowed to come in without having the request put forward first) and she's nervous, on edge, unsure about what to expect with him now. It hadn't been too long since their almost falling out, since the moment that she had seen his soul, and she was suffering for it.
It's not just that she was worried that she would miss the old Dorian, the one she had known for so long, but it was the fear that he would leave her again, an ache in the depth of her heart that made her want to swallow her tongue and keep herself silent. Hermione doesn't want to say something that might go on to upset him or make him feel more uncomfortable around her than he already does.
Finally, she forces herself to sit down, reheating the tea with a quick muttered spell and moving to put out the things they'd need; some freshly made bits of toast and crumpets, her hand brushing over the metal tray before she breathes out.
"Stop being an idiot, Hermione Granger. It's just tea."
There wasn't any harm in tea, and also, he had been promised jam. Even so, there is a . . . knot, when he thinks on it. When he thinks on what this means. There is something that eats away at his sense of who he is, of what he does. How he relates to people.
The love that he once bore for her simply isn't something he is capable of now. That part of him is gone.
Except that the love remains.
He doesn't fret over clothing, no need to, and he nods at the guards as they let him past even as they observe again how strange he has been, how different, how changed. (There are rumours of a bodysnatcher.) But that easy confident sort of trips over itself a little there as he steps in and sees Hermione.
Her head turns to look at him as soon as he's inside and her expression softens. It's strange to think that he is almost identical to the man that she had known for so long, to think that he hadn't changed in his features even as his spirit had developed. He's lived so long and with so much pain that it makes her ache to comfort him, ignoring the wounds in her own chest as she moves forward.
Standing, she smiles softly; she doesn't dare offer a hug of welcome or anything of the sort. Instead, she just nods at the chair opposite her, moving to turn over the two cups and start to pour.
"Come and sit down. I got us some toast and some crumpets, or something like it, and we might even be able to beg a few muffins once we're done, as a treat."
Pretend everything is normal. That's the best thing to do.
"Do we have to beg for muffins?" Look at that pout. It may well be the same boy she knew, sulking about not getting a treat immediately, except that the manner with which he drops into the seat is totally changed. For the better maybe—more confident, more self-possessed.
But less in earnest eagerness, at least here and now.
"Thanks for this," he says, looking down at his teacup. "I'm certain this isn't easy on you."
"I don't think a Marchioness really has to beg for anything, but we can at least ask politely." Something warm settles in her chest and her eyes flick here and there, taking him in and watching him. Sometimes she thinks he really is just like the young boy that she still loved, even now, but then he shifts; he is still that boy, of course, that man, just grown up and far more damaged from the world itself.
He speaks, though, and Hermione hesitates, careful before she shakes her head.
"You say that like it's a trial for me," she replies, pushing his tea over and nudging at the small pot of honey. "I get to be with my best friend. It's not exactly torture."
"Not exactly, no," he answers. The way he takes his tea has changed: that is an awful lot of honey he is adding. What can he say? It's the 1980s.
"If it is a comfort, the, ah . . . uncertainty is something you're alone in, even if it's different. Sometimes I'm not certain if I knew you last week or a hundred years ago."
Stirring the honey in to make it melt. He is trying with her.
[ Hermione hasn't, admittedly, spent a lot of time in and out of the rooms of the rest of the Council; she's been busy doing her own work, working hard to try and make and do things for the Seelie cause as much as she can while remaining somewhat neutral. The last few months have been harder, though, and she has been drawing into herself a little more, each movement she makes careful and steady. She has lost so much in the span of a year that she isn't sure what to do but try to aggressively protect as many other people as she possibly can.
That is what brings her to Kayneth's rooms, hovering outside for a few moments with a little box in her hand, the metal inside of it familiar; her magic had imbued it with power and protection, as well as a means to communicate, and she's careful as she lifts a hand to knock.
She likes Kayneth and she's closer to him than she is others on the council itself so she's looking forward to spending a little time with him, chatting and finally handing over the gift she has. They might even be able to talk about books. ]
[hell yes, books. Kayneth admittedly isn't reading at the moment, but he is writing down a few notes on account of getting an interesting request fairly recently... after all, it's best to get some ideas together before getting down to business.
He is, however, not actually opposed to interruptions at this point, so he's fairly pleasant when he arrives at the door... and ah! It's someone he likes, too.]
Ah, good afternoon, Marchioness Granger. To what do I owe this visit?
[ She brightens easily, her expression softening before she offers him a quick, awkward curtsey. Marquis and Marchioness they both might be but she supposes there has to be some kind of formality about it, especially in public. ]
I have a gift for you, actually, and I was hoping to ask a few questions?
[...and he didn't even tell anyone it was his birthday this month! What a pleasant surprise.]
You've got rather impeccable timing, actually. Well, I have no issue with any of that, and I was just about to suggest that we get some tea... so come on in and make yourself comfortable, then.
[ She steps inside and does as he asks, moving to sit down in a chair. As soon as she catches his attention again she holds out the small box, her expression bright. ]
Here.
[ Inside is a compass, with all the charms and enchantments Hermione put on all the others with the communication spells written into it as well. It's decorated with swirls of blue, though, and has a small 'K' on the back. ]
"So . . ." Dorian scratches the back of his neck. He glances down. Then he glances back up again. "Do both of these need a happy memory?"
He begins to think it was a mistake. Train in the use of his shard: yes, it seemed like a good idea. It seemed useful to know how to activate it, if he had it in there. To have that strength and agility to support him, to be less hindered, less limited by humanity. And when Hermione also suggested some of his magical training, it did not seem strange to add that in as well. But now that he is here, before her, faced with the prospect of performing these feats . . .
Let's just say Dorian Gray hasn't had performance anxiety in a long time, but the day has come.
"That's how I learned," Hermione confirms with a nod of her head. "A happy memory, something that fills you up and makes you feel unstoppable. It's like... Calling for the power inside of you, like using your happiness to ask for it's help. That's what I learned with Lancelot; focusing on the things that make you stronger, the things that make you happiest, and using that to fuel you."
She's standing opposite him, dressed from her duelling lesson, wand in hand as she adjusts her stance to look over at Dorian, her smile fond and gentle. Her thumb brushes over the edge of the wood before she breathes out, her free hand coming to press over her chest, almost absently, as if the glow from her shard was visible somehow.
"It's a little difficult at first but you'll get the hang of it."
Can his happy memory be how good Hermione looks in that outfit? In fact, to distract from the attempt to search for that, he shakes his head and says, "You look very fetching today, Hermione."
A smile flashes across his lips. "In fact, if you weren't teaching me, I'd offer to tell you just how beautiful you look in those clothes by assisting you in removing them."
The red of her blush strikes her cheeks rather like a slap and Hermione stands, for a moment, shocked, before she shakes her head and coughs. She should be used to this, she supposes, but at the same time...
"And I would respond by telling you that comments like that are more than enough to get you hexed into next Tuesday, no matter how much I might like you." Her eyebrow raises, shaking it off as nothing more than a tease, before she steps forward. Admittedly, she's still pink-cheeked, a little smile creeping on the edges of her lips before she shakes her head, trying to ignore it all.
"Now, if we can focus..." It's been a little hard lately, she can admit, to draw upon her shard power, but she breathes out. "When I first learned to do this it was in a dream, so it was a little hazy, but I thought of my friends and home. That's what made me happiest."
He likes the way she blushes, how cute it is, the way she threatens to hex him. It's sweet, and at least there, he smiles. But when she asks him to focus . . .
He takes a seat. And yes, he sits like a prince, like a king on his throne or a cat on its perch. But his smile is somewhere else, somewhere far away. He is not looking at her, even when his voice, melodious and sweet, slips down into the shadow registers of its velvet tones.
"Friends and home, hm? I suspect it's a little different when you've reached my age, when you've lived this long and seen time pass by. Every memory of someone I've loved? It contains the memory thought of death that followed. Every triumph contains its fading. Every purity holds its corruption.
"Nothing stays a happy memory over a hundred years. Everything just turns . . . grey. Bittersweet. So you see, that pretty blush on your cheek now is my best chance. I haven't lost it yet."
She hesitates, her expression sliding from sheepish embarrassment to something soft before she nods her head and walks over. It's easy for her to kneel, to settle in front of him and reach for his hands, her fingers brushing over his without hesitation; this is natural for her. Dorian is hurting, even if it might just be something that haunts him eternally, and she intends to do what she can to help it, to make it better.
"Then think of me. Think about jam and toast, and - and fighting together, and how much I love you, and how happy you make me. You know I'm not going anywhere any time soon, so you're not going to lose it. You can use me to make yourself stronger, Dorian Gray."
Squeezing his hands, she rises to her feet and tugs a little, her expression soft, wanting to draw him up to follow her, to help him take this step forward in his magical education. It's the least she can do, really.
"Stand with me, hold my hand, and we'll do this together."
[It's a relatively quiet day at the Citadel. Most are out and about enjoying the spring weather, jousting in the courtyard or getting some last minute construction done on various walls and spires. Most aren't twiddling their thumbs away indoors, but neither Hermione nor Gilgamesh fall under the category of most.
Gilgamesh has spent most of his day packing. Servants could do it, he's sure, yet he waves them off whenever they offer, glance at him with concerned expressions. He packs it all in that magical bag she gave him, and smiles when his fingers touch the gifts she gave him. He hadn't lied in at least one sense. He'd fallen for her potential, for the promise in those words I definitely can whenever he challenged her to try something new.
But lessons were far away from here, or so seemed that way. He does accept the servants' offer to make tea. He's no good at that sort of thing. He's no good at the kindness of domesticity, even as he seeks to extend it.
Gilgamesh sets his bag in the corner and takes to the halls on four legs. He takes the familiar path to Hermione's room and, finding the door ajar, nudges it open a bit.
[ Things have been a lot quieter over the last few months; Hermione is truly settled in her role now, as much as she could be as she learns the ropes, and she knows that she has to adjust, to get herself better prepared for what she thinks is going to be ahead. There's going to be wars, battles, and she's been patrolling the road she was in charge of protecting, creating and enforcing law and order upon.
What she needed was to prepare herself for that, which wasn't entirely easy.
She had her rapier, she had enough money to commission a sword, if she wanted, and she had a shield and some beautiful dress like armours, as well as her cloaks, but she needs a little more than that. The armour she is trying on isn't hers, but it's a design that she might adopt if she does go ahead and commission her own, trying to get a sense for what feels right and what is comfortable; she's not a professional when it comes to this, even if she is trying to do what she can to learn and adapt.
The noise of the door draws the attention of her and the people attending her and she hesitates for a moment, unsure, before she nods her head and gives the people around her a quiet dismissal. They move around her, quickly and precisely, and they unstrap the leather under the metal, peeling it off and drawing it away, leaving her in the light leathers underneath. When the armour is on the stand to one side, waiting for her to go back to it, she turns her head over to Gilgamesh and offers him a smile, watching the door open as the servants trail out.
She wonders what he wants; she isn't sure if she can trust him coming to speak to her and she's careful, letting her eyes flick over the canine figure before she goes and sits, pushing hair out of her face. ]
It's not his place anymore. It's not his Citadel anymore, it's not his Marchioness who greets him anymore. This wasn't a room for him anymore and this wasn't a girl he could spend time with anymore—at least not after today. Today, he'll say his final goodbyes and leave her behind along with that lance still hanging on her wall.
He's glad she hasn't taken it down. Maybe she'll remember him anyway.
Gilgamesh lowers his ears, a deferential "blink and you'll miss it" sort of gesture, then returns to his usual form. He wears the dark robes of a magister, long hair tied back in a braid with a pretty red ribbon. Their roles are reversed here; she looks knightly and fair, while he looked better at home in the halls of Hogwarts than a military fixture.]
I had some tea prepared for us. In my room, if you'd oblige me.
[For us. He makes a note of stressing that from the doorway, but only from the doorway.]
May we spend some time together? I wish to speak with you.
[ Sitting, Hermione watches him with a wary kind of confusion that doesn't really feel right on her shoulders. She's used to being trusting, to putting her faith in people even when it might be misguided, and adapting to the fact that she isn't sure where she can lay that kind of trust is a new concept for her. It's true that at home the lines of good and bad were blurred but she had known who she could trust and, even when her friends had disbelieved her, there had been a small sense of satisfaction in knowing that, most of the time, she was right.
It's harder here, in the Drabwurld, with expectations and clearer lines - at least, initially. The idea of Seelie against Unseelie had seemed so simple two years ago, when the battles were far out of sight and friendships were being made all over the place, but now? There was fighting and discontent, there were dangers everywhere, and she knew that there were people on either side that would be more than happy to see her dead and gone. She'd seen it barely a few months before, her nightmares still a prickle on the edge of her senses at times.
None of this makes knowing how to handle herself around Gilgamesh easier. She trusted Dorian who seemed to trust Gilgamesh, with a strange sort of camaraderie that came from their connection, their relationship, but she doesn't know if she can trust the man himself. After all that had happened between them she isn't sure how to handle herself around him, especially in situations where it was just the two of them.
He doesn't come into the room, despite her invitation, and she frowns as she pushes herself up and grabs her things. She's wary, of course, but there are some things that are obvious; the wand she shoves up her sleeve, the bag she picks up and the ring dangling around her neck. She might not be sure of Gilgamesh but Dorian was - and it was better to have a final lifeline than it was to regret not abusing it, surely. ]
Of course.
[ She isn't afraid of him, strangely enough. For all that he had hurt her and tried to use her he had never attacked her, despite the damning words he had thrown at her face in his anger. Hermione knows she had snapped too and, in her stubbornness, had said something that she didn't entirely mean even if the passion had been the basis of it. It was hard to come to terms with letting her anger get the better of her but it wasn't the first time - and knowing her own stubborn determination she's sure it wouldn't be the last time either. ]
Are you going to eat another dozen lemon cakes?
[ It's a gentle tease, trying to cast away some of the tension as she walks forward. For us, he said, the emphasis obvious, and Hermione knows that she walks to his side like a wary cat, smiling even as she keeps her wits about her. ]
[He was leaving because none of it felt right on his shoulders, either. So used to getting his own way, so accustomed to having his demands fulfilled at the snap of his fingers, Hermione had taken him by surprise. Just as she'd be an apt pupil, she'd proven a fierce lionness in defense of herself. Whereas most would've crumbled beneath his gaze and given way to his sheer strength of will, she pushed back. In fact, she pushed so hard that it might even be said Gilgamesh has yet to find his footing again.
But he knows now that his travels should take him elsewhere. He smiles a little when she joins him, and broader still when she teases like they were companionable again, like the trust was solid and firm instead of a thin red line drawn in the sand. A pretty red ribbon and a pretty red ring.
You're so good at pretending, he notes as they walk along, as his eyes trail to that ring. But have you forgotten yourself because of that? Pretty little magus.]
Dorian suggested a diet. [The dryness to his tone also suggests it went over poorly.] I don't have to eat. It's an indulgence. But I do enjoy tea, and plenty of wine, too. It makes life worth living, those sorts of luxuries.
[He has to wonder about that armor, though. It looked good on her, enviably so, and he can't but poke fun at her in return.]
You were quite the handsome knight just now. I should say I'm surprised you've taken up swordplay, but... it suits you.
[ For all that she might appear a little naive, sometimes, Hermione isn't an idiot; she's the brightest witch of her age, a strong and proud student, and she knows when people are taking note of her. Once, she used to imagine what they might think, if they thought about her blood heritage or the fact that Harry Potter was her best friend, maybe that they dwelled on all the things she had done at his side to try and keep people safe. Here, she thinks Gilgamesh must be looking at the ring she wears around her neck.
It's not proud, exactly, but she knows that he's aware of it just as much as she is, a hyper vigilance that makes her hands twitch to want to go and grab at it, to tuck it under her shirt and keep it out of sight. It's there as a beacon of something that she isn't sure she can explain properly. If she's in trouble he had promised he'd come, even if she knows it would be a token to use as a final, last resort, when she has no other hope and no other means of helping herself. She has more pride than to just use it for the sake of using it and she wonders if he's aware of that.
Her smile is still soft when she looks at him, shaking her head as if the joke they're playing at is utterly ridiculous. ]
He would suggest a diet when we spend enough time together eating jam and scones. [ She can imagine how well that particular debate went and it makes her smile a little brighter. ] If you don't have to then it shouldn't do anything to you, right? And if it does then he can just watch as you run around the training yard for a little while.
[ His returned hit, like a poke of the rapier, makes her cheeks turn a little red even as she holds her head high, denying herself the embarrassment. ]
I've been learning how to duel properly since the tournament in Treun. The Red Hand sent the best teachers to the Citadel and I've been working with them ever since then. I thought it made sense to have the right clothing to protect myself, not just the right skills.
[ She shakes her head. ]
It was a little garish and a bit big for me, I think.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
SPRING (2702)
first week of march; the citadel.
It's not just that she was worried that she would miss the old Dorian, the one she had known for so long, but it was the fear that he would leave her again, an ache in the depth of her heart that made her want to swallow her tongue and keep herself silent. Hermione doesn't want to say something that might go on to upset him or make him feel more uncomfortable around her than he already does.
Finally, she forces herself to sit down, reheating the tea with a quick muttered spell and moving to put out the things they'd need; some freshly made bits of toast and crumpets, her hand brushing over the metal tray before she breathes out.
"Stop being an idiot, Hermione Granger. It's just tea."
no subject
The love that he once bore for her simply isn't something he is capable of now. That part of him is gone.
Except that the love remains.
He doesn't fret over clothing, no need to, and he nods at the guards as they let him past even as they observe again how strange he has been, how different, how changed. (There are rumours of a bodysnatcher.) But that easy confident sort of trips over itself a little there as he steps in and sees Hermione.
"I, uh. Am here."
Nailed it.
no subject
Standing, she smiles softly; she doesn't dare offer a hug of welcome or anything of the sort. Instead, she just nods at the chair opposite her, moving to turn over the two cups and start to pour.
"Come and sit down. I got us some toast and some crumpets, or something like it, and we might even be able to beg a few muffins once we're done, as a treat."
Pretend everything is normal. That's the best thing to do.
no subject
But less in earnest eagerness, at least here and now.
"Thanks for this," he says, looking down at his teacup. "I'm certain this isn't easy on you."
no subject
He speaks, though, and Hermione hesitates, careful before she shakes her head.
"You say that like it's a trial for me," she replies, pushing his tea over and nudging at the small pot of honey. "I get to be with my best friend. It's not exactly torture."
no subject
"If it is a comfort, the, ah . . . uncertainty is something you're alone in, even if it's different. Sometimes I'm not certain if I knew you last week or a hundred years ago."
Stirring the honey in to make it melt. He is trying with her.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
april; the citadel.
That is what brings her to Kayneth's rooms, hovering outside for a few moments with a little box in her hand, the metal inside of it familiar; her magic had imbued it with power and protection, as well as a means to communicate, and she's careful as she lifts a hand to knock.
She likes Kayneth and she's closer to him than she is others on the council itself so she's looking forward to spending a little time with him, chatting and finally handing over the gift she has. They might even be able to talk about books. ]
no subject
He is, however, not actually opposed to interruptions at this point, so he's fairly pleasant when he arrives at the door... and ah! It's someone he likes, too.]
Ah, good afternoon, Marchioness Granger. To what do I owe this visit?
no subject
I have a gift for you, actually, and I was hoping to ask a few questions?
[ Glancing back down the hall she hesitates. ]
Maybe we can have some tea?
no subject
[...and he didn't even tell anyone it was his birthday this month! What a pleasant surprise.]
You've got rather impeccable timing, actually. Well, I have no issue with any of that, and I was just about to suggest that we get some tea... so come on in and make yourself comfortable, then.
no subject
[ She steps inside and does as he asks, moving to sit down in a chair. As soon as she catches his attention again she holds out the small box, her expression bright. ]
Here.
[ Inside is a compass, with all the charms and enchantments Hermione put on all the others with the communication spells written into it as well. It's decorated with swirls of blue, though, and has a small 'K' on the back. ]
no subject
[He opens the box and takes the compass out, looking over it approvingly.]
It's a magical artifact of some sort, I presume...? Or a device, I suppose, given that it looks reasonably new.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
MARCH TRAINING
He begins to think it was a mistake. Train in the use of his shard: yes, it seemed like a good idea. It seemed useful to know how to activate it, if he had it in there. To have that strength and agility to support him, to be less hindered, less limited by humanity. And when Hermione also suggested some of his magical training, it did not seem strange to add that in as well. But now that he is here, before her, faced with the prospect of performing these feats . . .
Let's just say Dorian Gray hasn't had performance anxiety in a long time, but the day has come.
that icon is really cute
She's standing opposite him, dressed from her duelling lesson, wand in hand as she adjusts her stance to look over at Dorian, her smile fond and gentle. Her thumb brushes over the edge of the wood before she breathes out, her free hand coming to press over her chest, almost absently, as if the glow from her shard was visible somehow.
"It's a little difficult at first but you'll get the hang of it."
dweeb icons
A smile flashes across his lips. "In fact, if you weren't teaching me, I'd offer to tell you just how beautiful you look in those clothes by assisting you in removing them."
no subject
"And I would respond by telling you that comments like that are more than enough to get you hexed into next Tuesday, no matter how much I might like you." Her eyebrow raises, shaking it off as nothing more than a tease, before she steps forward. Admittedly, she's still pink-cheeked, a little smile creeping on the edges of her lips before she shakes her head, trying to ignore it all.
"Now, if we can focus..." It's been a little hard lately, she can admit, to draw upon her shard power, but she breathes out. "When I first learned to do this it was in a dream, so it was a little hazy, but I thought of my friends and home. That's what made me happiest."
no subject
He takes a seat. And yes, he sits like a prince, like a king on his throne or a cat on its perch. But his smile is somewhere else, somewhere far away. He is not looking at her, even when his voice, melodious and sweet, slips down into the shadow registers of its velvet tones.
"Friends and home, hm? I suspect it's a little different when you've reached my age, when you've lived this long and seen time pass by. Every memory of someone I've loved? It contains the memory thought of death that followed. Every triumph contains its fading. Every purity holds its corruption.
"Nothing stays a happy memory over a hundred years. Everything just turns . . . grey. Bittersweet. So you see, that pretty blush on your cheek now is my best chance. I haven't lost it yet."
no subject
"Then think of me. Think about jam and toast, and - and fighting together, and how much I love you, and how happy you make me. You know I'm not going anywhere any time soon, so you're not going to lose it. You can use me to make yourself stronger, Dorian Gray."
Squeezing his hands, she rises to her feet and tugs a little, her expression soft, wanting to draw him up to follow her, to help him take this step forward in his magical education. It's the least she can do, really.
"Stand with me, hold my hand, and we'll do this together."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
late april 2,702; the citadel
Gilgamesh has spent most of his day packing. Servants could do it, he's sure, yet he waves them off whenever they offer, glance at him with concerned expressions. He packs it all in that magical bag she gave him, and smiles when his fingers touch the gifts she gave him. He hadn't lied in at least one sense. He'd fallen for her potential, for the promise in those words I definitely can whenever he challenged her to try something new.
But lessons were far away from here, or so seemed that way. He does accept the servants' offer to make tea. He's no good at that sort of thing. He's no good at the kindness of domesticity, even as he seeks to extend it.
Gilgamesh sets his bag in the corner and takes to the halls on four legs. He takes the familiar path to Hermione's room and, finding the door ajar, nudges it open a bit.
...oh. She's trying on armor. Well, she's fully clothed. It's fine.
Gilgamesh snuffles a little to get her attention. She's seen him like this before, so that's fine, too.]
no subject
What she needed was to prepare herself for that, which wasn't entirely easy.
She had her rapier, she had enough money to commission a sword, if she wanted, and she had a shield and some beautiful dress like armours, as well as her cloaks, but she needs a little more than that. The armour she is trying on isn't hers, but it's a design that she might adopt if she does go ahead and commission her own, trying to get a sense for what feels right and what is comfortable; she's not a professional when it comes to this, even if she is trying to do what she can to learn and adapt.
The noise of the door draws the attention of her and the people attending her and she hesitates for a moment, unsure, before she nods her head and gives the people around her a quiet dismissal. They move around her, quickly and precisely, and they unstrap the leather under the metal, peeling it off and drawing it away, leaving her in the light leathers underneath. When the armour is on the stand to one side, waiting for her to go back to it, she turns her head over to Gilgamesh and offers him a smile, watching the door open as the servants trail out.
She wonders what he wants; she isn't sure if she can trust him coming to speak to her and she's careful, letting her eyes flick over the canine figure before she goes and sits, pushing hair out of her face. ]
Come on in, Gilgamesh.
no subject
It's not his place anymore. It's not his Citadel anymore, it's not his Marchioness who greets him anymore. This wasn't a room for him anymore and this wasn't a girl he could spend time with anymore—at least not after today. Today, he'll say his final goodbyes and leave her behind along with that lance still hanging on her wall.
He's glad she hasn't taken it down. Maybe she'll remember him anyway.
Gilgamesh lowers his ears, a deferential "blink and you'll miss it" sort of gesture, then returns to his usual form. He wears the dark robes of a magister, long hair tied back in a braid with a pretty red ribbon. Their roles are reversed here; she looks knightly and fair, while he looked better at home in the halls of Hogwarts than a military fixture.]
I had some tea prepared for us. In my room, if you'd oblige me.
[For us. He makes a note of stressing that from the doorway, but only from the doorway.]
May we spend some time together? I wish to speak with you.
no subject
It's harder here, in the Drabwurld, with expectations and clearer lines - at least, initially. The idea of Seelie against Unseelie had seemed so simple two years ago, when the battles were far out of sight and friendships were being made all over the place, but now? There was fighting and discontent, there were dangers everywhere, and she knew that there were people on either side that would be more than happy to see her dead and gone. She'd seen it barely a few months before, her nightmares still a prickle on the edge of her senses at times.
None of this makes knowing how to handle herself around Gilgamesh easier. She trusted Dorian who seemed to trust Gilgamesh, with a strange sort of camaraderie that came from their connection, their relationship, but she doesn't know if she can trust the man himself. After all that had happened between them she isn't sure how to handle herself around him, especially in situations where it was just the two of them.
He doesn't come into the room, despite her invitation, and she frowns as she pushes herself up and grabs her things. She's wary, of course, but there are some things that are obvious; the wand she shoves up her sleeve, the bag she picks up and the ring dangling around her neck. She might not be sure of Gilgamesh but Dorian was - and it was better to have a final lifeline than it was to regret not abusing it, surely. ]
Of course.
[ She isn't afraid of him, strangely enough. For all that he had hurt her and tried to use her he had never attacked her, despite the damning words he had thrown at her face in his anger. Hermione knows she had snapped too and, in her stubbornness, had said something that she didn't entirely mean even if the passion had been the basis of it. It was hard to come to terms with letting her anger get the better of her but it wasn't the first time - and knowing her own stubborn determination she's sure it wouldn't be the last time either. ]
Are you going to eat another dozen lemon cakes?
[ It's a gentle tease, trying to cast away some of the tension as she walks forward. For us, he said, the emphasis obvious, and Hermione knows that she walks to his side like a wary cat, smiling even as she keeps her wits about her. ]
no subject
But he knows now that his travels should take him elsewhere. He smiles a little when she joins him, and broader still when she teases like they were companionable again, like the trust was solid and firm instead of a thin red line drawn in the sand. A pretty red ribbon and a pretty red ring.
You're so good at pretending, he notes as they walk along, as his eyes trail to that ring. But have you forgotten yourself because of that? Pretty little magus.]
Dorian suggested a diet. [The dryness to his tone also suggests it went over poorly.] I don't have to eat. It's an indulgence. But I do enjoy tea, and plenty of wine, too. It makes life worth living, those sorts of luxuries.
[He has to wonder about that armor, though. It looked good on her, enviably so, and he can't but poke fun at her in return.]
You were quite the handsome knight just now. I should say I'm surprised you've taken up swordplay, but... it suits you.
no subject
It's not proud, exactly, but she knows that he's aware of it just as much as she is, a hyper vigilance that makes her hands twitch to want to go and grab at it, to tuck it under her shirt and keep it out of sight. It's there as a beacon of something that she isn't sure she can explain properly. If she's in trouble he had promised he'd come, even if she knows it would be a token to use as a final, last resort, when she has no other hope and no other means of helping herself. She has more pride than to just use it for the sake of using it and she wonders if he's aware of that.
Her smile is still soft when she looks at him, shaking her head as if the joke they're playing at is utterly ridiculous. ]
He would suggest a diet when we spend enough time together eating jam and scones. [ She can imagine how well that particular debate went and it makes her smile a little brighter. ] If you don't have to then it shouldn't do anything to you, right? And if it does then he can just watch as you run around the training yard for a little while.
[ His returned hit, like a poke of the rapier, makes her cheeks turn a little red even as she holds her head high, denying herself the embarrassment. ]
I've been learning how to duel properly since the tournament in Treun. The Red Hand sent the best teachers to the Citadel and I've been working with them ever since then. I thought it made sense to have the right clothing to protect myself, not just the right skills.
[ She shakes her head. ]
It was a little garish and a bit big for me, I think.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)