The scream runs down her spine, agonising and familiar. It reminds her of lying on the ground in Malfoy manor, it reminds her of the echo of nightmares in her Visions and the pulse of the Jabberwock that called for her, it reminds her of how Rizhao had cried for her father when the monsters had come, all these times Hermione had failed, all the times where all she had were screams and no power, no relief. She is powerless, the arrow going deeper into her flesh and her arms shaking as she leans back.
Dorian, her mind shouts, Dorian, she has to save Dorian, she has to fight for him, if she can distract for a moment she can grab a potion, she can do something to give him strength, enough for them to get out of here, why hadn't she taught him apparation, they'd be fine -
"Leave him alone." Hermione steps forward, head held high, expression tight, pained and angry. She keeps her eyes glued on the woman, her chest heaving even as she tries to block out all the things she's feeling. "You want me? Take me. But hurt him and - and you will regret ever coming here. You've already taken Adela and she was innocent. Don't hurt someone else when you have the chance to be merciful."
She thinks that all she can hear is the echo of the woman's laughter and another sickening crunch as her shoe twists, a shift of her leg to press the hard edge of a blunt heel against the side of Dorian's head.
This time, he does not scream. Not even as he feels bones crack, skin twist, rip from his face, and the blood—
He is distracted. There is a pain in his hand that is a healing, a feeling of bones shifting, twisting, it makes him feel so sick—
"Traitors aren't innocent," the woman says, or Dorian thinks she must, for he feels he can't really hear her through the sound of his skin and bones. Deaf, but he can see through blood, that sword is still pointed at Hermione—
Dorian pushes, and surprise his advantage, and the woman stumbles and Dorian scrambles to get to his feet, scrambles to get up and get between this woman and Hermione, he can't lose Hermione, his teeth are bared and his hands go for the throat and with just one push, this woman has Dorian pressed against the tree, pressed to Hermione to pin her in place, so that he can feel that arrow.
And so that Hermione can feel the tip of the sword that has just gone through Dorian's gut. So that she can smell his blood, hear the squelch of flesh and organ, taste the poison sickness and feel that moment when Dorian stops fighting. When one little twist, a twist that just leaves a pinprick on Hermione's stomach, churns Dorian's innards in his chest.
She would also feel the sword's cold metal hilt. After all, her hand had been set on it before the blade was pushed.
"Just push a little further," a voice tells Hermione, "and spare the rest of us any more of your mistakes."
The scream comes out of her wildly, hoarse and powerful, and it's a guttural noise that tears out of her, rips from her throat and, more than anything, it sounds like a roar. She knows what had happened, the barely there movements, the twisting of Dorian's body, the press of the blade through him into her stomach. It's a nick to her skin and it doesn't register; the pain in her shoulder feels like nothing now, compared to the way that her heart aches and her breathing comes in panicked, terrified breaths.
Dorian is dead. Dorian died, Dorian is gone, he stepped between a blade meant for her, a sword that was intended to cut her down, traitors aren't innocent, and she feels like she's going to be sick. Her hands move, grasping at him, covered in his blood as she shakes his body, the noise of his organs, pierced and cut with the blade, moving along it, making her shake and stare. He's breaking from the inside out but there's nothing there to feel it, nothing and no one there to feel the drop of his blood, to see the stain on her, her clothes, her skin and her face, her hands reaching up to touch his cheeks, leaving bloody wet hand prints against his pale skin.
"No, no, Dorian, please, don't - don't do this, please, please-"
It comes out as a desperate sob, the shaken hand moving to grip at the metal hilt. She did this. This is her fault, she had pushed the blame, she had broken her vow, even months later people still hated her, and with the rising pillar of Caer Scima back she knew that the guilt would leave her broken and hating herself. She hadn't expected this, she hadn't expected the way his head presses against her body.
He's gone, he's gone, and Hermione wails, shifting with bloody hands to nudge him back, the woman not tearing the blade out to let his body drop, pushing it deeper instead. It's a desperate, lost noise, her body shaking as the woman laughs, seeing the horror and the pain on her face, the knowledge that Hermione was suffering as much as she had deserved from the moment she had proven herself to be a traitor of her word, to have worked with the Courts, to hold a Shard and rise against them.
Hermione knows she could push forward, she could end it. She would come back shardless, with nothing but her name and her magic, nothing of her own, and it would be so easy. After everything she had done it would be easy, letting her be free of all the pain - but Dorian had died for her, she had her friends, she had been fighting so hard, she had been pushing to make the world better, to make everything brighter, and the gasping noise that falls from her mouth is a low, angry sound, a growl, deep in her throat. It doesn't sound proper, real, she's too human for that, but something comes over her.
"You killed him!"
She draws the blade out, ignoring the sick sound of flesh against steel, dropping it to one side. When she steps forward it's not a simple movement; partway through it turns into a leap, Hermione's body shifting. She is not simply a woman, she hasn't been for almost a year, and the urge to bite, fight, to punish this person for taking an innocent life, for the blood on her hands and the pressure of it touching her - it overtakes her, twisting her body. The magic she uses to become a lioness, to take her sigil, feels removed from the pressure of the magic of her own world, a Monarch given prize that doesn't take as much power as it might have if she had been an animagus in Hogwarts.
The woman screams as the lioness overcomes her - Hermione isn't a woman any longer. She's a beast, a creature. The figure, the assassin, the murderer, turns to try and run, to twist out of the way and lurch to escape (swordless, bowless, what chance does she have against a winged beast?) but that does nothing more than ignite the instincts that have become a part of Hermione over the last year. A lioness hunts her prey, chases them, and a figure moving to escape does nothing more than prickle at those powerful, intense feelings, a low, curling growl resounding through the forest.
The lioness doesn't remember that Dorian is immortal. A crazed mind doesn't remember that her friend will be back. All she can see is death, agony and pain, instinct telling her to grab, bite, tear, rip apart, punish, destroy this creature for daring to touch him, for daring to even consider, let alone perform, such a horrific act on someone that she adores, that she loves, someone that is hers, her family.
Wings spread, Hermione soars, her claws hitting the woman's shoulder, pulling her back, sinking in to the skin and giving the lioness enough leverage to turn her head, sinking large fangs into the spot along her neck, biting down and tilting her head, twisting at the throat under her. It's not so much a rip as it is a pull, her mouth wrinkling as her teeth sink deeper, deeper, tongue enjoying the taste of the blood in the way only a predator could. She's nothing more than a beast of instinct, wanting to take down her prey, the idea of her pride being threatened making her rage.
Blood drips from her jowls, the flesh clinging to her fangs, to the skin, the twitch of her whiskers, crunching around bone and pressing deeper. Her giant paw moves, scratching at the flesh, digging, making sure that the woman is dead, that the pull of spine, of skin, of muscle and pure flesh had been enough to remove her life. Lions suffocate and her jaw had clutched around the neck, pulling, making sure there was no room for air, no room for anything other than death.
The lioness swallows.
It feels good, like the kill has lifted some of the weight from her heart. It's pure pleasure, the knowledge of a successful hunt, and to a mind burning with instinct and pain, all rationality gone and humanity pushed to one side in a fit of rage and agony, it feels like bliss. No more threat to her pride, no more threat to the people she loves, gone, gone, simply gone, destroyed and ripped apart as punishment for choosing to dare attack someone else that the lioness has chosen to protect.
It's the first time she has ever taken any pleasure in hurting anyone, her lion-mind accepting it and enjoying it, almost purring from the pure excitement and joy of having taken down the creature that tried to escape her punishing call.
Slowly, she turns, face covered in human blood and goes back to Dorian's body. It takes a few minutes for her to calm her panting breathing, her nose nudging his face, decorating it with a print of the shape of her snout, but then she flops, dropping at his side, paw on his shoulder. There's soft snuffling noises from the nose of the lion, his blood under her stomach, on the fur of her hind, staining her like she has rolled in it for her own pleasure.
She turns back like that but, when she does, not even the blood on her face and lips can stop her sobs.
Edited (I SWEAR I AM SORRY I AM SO SORRY I'M SORRY ) 2015-03-31 23:05 (UTC)
Gilgamesh watches it all happen and and doesn't do a goddamn thing to stop it.
He watches from a distance (so called by the strain in their sacred bond, by the pulse that pounded and the heart that beat with such severity) and doesn't act to prevent a single part of the grisly performance; not Dorian's fall, and not the lionness' crazy charge, either. He just watches, so terribly out of place in that terribly casual jacket, and laughs to himself.
You humans, he thinks, are repulsive to the end.
Only when the dust has settled does Gilgamesh step in, and that uncaring facade melts away. Gilgamesh manifests from pure light before his Master and Marchionness, now turned back to her rightful form, and frowns at them both. First at Dorian, who should've known better, and then at Hermione herself, who knew so very little when it came these bloody affairs.
"Hermione."
He calls out to her, approaching one gentle step at a time. He can practically hear that portrait cackling at this whole ordeal, can sense its amusement from half a world away. Good. It is amusing, the plight of these people. Dorian will find a very sadistic Servant accompanying him all the way home today. Very sadistic, and very smug.
For now, though, damage control must be done. To that end, Gilgamesh tells her only thus:
"He lives. Do not fret. That man—my Master—will not fall to this. Nor shall you."
And then words are no longer necessary. He waits beside her, as that shoulder to lean and to cry on, and to claim his just reward for all this folly.
All she can do is stare at Dorian's body, her hands shaking. She doesn't realise how much blood there is until she stops to look, the lioness instincts to kill and rip apart gone from her now. Her hands are covered in it, from his death to the woman's, her mouth stained with what the lioness had down (what she had done). She's scared to do anything in case she touches more blood, in case the mass of it goes into her more, in case something happens, in case...
She ate her.
Her hands fly to her mouth as a desperate noise escapes her, her stomach churning, bile catching in her throat. She had been a lion but all the times before she had known, she had understood herself, but she had been so scared, so angry, so furious that there was nothing she could do but follow the part of her that was more violent. She shakes, breathing coming in short, sharp, desperate gasps, like she's suffocating, the hysteria settling into her as what she's done settles around her shoulders. Each gasping breath feels like a failure and she doesn't know what to do.
When she hears her name her hands drop, her body scrambling back, more blood against her skin and the fabric of her clothes. She's drenched in it, she thinks, not just Dorian's but the woman's, her skin stained from hands up to her face and mouth, her lips darker from it, like a sickening rouge to make her pretty. She stares at Gilgamesh, feral, for a moment, before her eyes dance back to Dorian and stay there.
Dorian is immortal. She knew, of course, she'd always known, she protected his portrait with magic for him, she'd been there, but - oh, but, but, now it spreads over her like a sickening weight. Dorian would have been fine and she could have done something, anything, but she killed the woman. She did more than kill her; she ripped her apart, destroyed her, claws sinking deep and the joy of the kill making her lioness heart happy.
Body lurching away from Gilgamesh, even now, knowing what she does, Hermione stumbles back, hands dropping into the mud around her, eyes glancing to the woman before she hisses out another sob. The assassin, whatever she was, is nothing, now, head almost severed from her shoulders, throat snapped and spine torn apart under the weight of her teeth. She shakes her head, again and again, her hands turning here and there. Gilgamesh, King of Kings, Dorian's Master, he would understand but she can't, she can't, there's nothing she can do.
"I killed her," she whispers, voice almost lost, a barely there breath. "I didn't know, I was so angry, I - I ate - I think I'm going -" She covers her mouth, desperate to keep herself from vomiting.
She's beautiful. More so than she's ever been, more so than she'll ever be, coming to terms with the horror that is herself. She shakes; she wails; she weeps, she very nearly doubles over and empties her stomach, too. Of course she lost herself in the moment. What did she expect, shifting into such a beast? A kill without consequences, one clean slice and it's over?
She is still young. She is still foolish. And that is why Gilgamesh will never love her.
But you'd never know with the way he closes the gap and kneels to her side, draws a handkerchief from his pocket and raises it to her beautiful face dripping all in red. Without a further word on the matter, he dabs all the evidence dry. Wipes it off, wipes her free of that burden except not really. She ripped her apart, she destroyed her, and now she learned of true consequences, of that terrible burden associated with taking another life.
When he's done, he draws her close, stains be damned, and soothes her with quiet sounds, hushed noises.
"You're going to live, Hermione. You're going to live, and so shall he. Did you forget already? The words I gave you on the day, the will that beats so strongly inside you."
To a clean cheek he presses his hand. Into her hair warm fingers go, offering grip and stability and strength where hers has failed. "You are the magus that faces the world and its demons without fear. You are living. You are well. And you did what was necessary to survive in that world."
That last phrase he emphasizes in particular: you did what was necessary. She'll have nightmares for some time to come, but he can at least plant the seed of rationality within her mind, if only so he gets more glimpses of this beauty in the future.
It's easy to let him clean her up, to wipe the blood from her face, to clear it from her cheeks, her lips. Hermione is afraid to look at herself, to see the blood trapped under her nails, to dare raise her head and thinking about the fact that even her teeth might be stained with it, the way that she had lurched and attacked. She had been nothing more than a primal force, a dangerous one, a dangerous predator, and the gasps of air still haven't quieted. It's like she's having a panic attack with no relief, her eyes still stuck on Dorian.
The image of Adela, swinging in the barely there breeze, makes her grip on to Gilgamesh. Her hand lifts to grab at him, clenching tight around a wrist as his hand touches her, clean, and she watches as the blood on her fingertips passes down to him. She would draw away if she wasn't so desperate for comfort, so helplessly afraid and haunted - if she turned her head she would see the body, she would see bone and flesh torn asunder, she would see what she had caused, and she would be sick.
"I didn't have to kill her," she whispers. "I could have brought her back to the Citadel, asked who sent her, fought to find out more. I was just so angry and my magic, all of it was almost gone, they knew I could have escaped... They took him from me and all I wanted to do was make sure they didn't take anyone else. I couldn't let them hurt anyone else because of me."
She could have stepped forward and let the sword go through her, but Dorian - Dorian had died for her and in that moment, that bleak, awful moment, she hadn't seen anything but his death. It didn't come to mind that he was immortal, that he would wake up and find her crying over his body, that he would see the mess she had made and judge her for it. All that she could think was that someone had killed him and if she didn't find a way to stop it she was going to did as well. He was protecting her.
It's too easy for her to turn, to shift and press herself into Gilgamesh's arms, her forehead against his shoulder as she cries. Her pain is her punishment, her heart is broken inside of her and she doesn't know what else to do other than let it all out with her tears, hitching breathing suffocating her. Gilgamesh is right, Dorian will come back, he is his Master and her best friend, he'll come back whole and with his shard and then she'll never let go of him again.
Gilgamesh holds fast to her when she cries. This isn't the first time he's comforted a woman like this and it's doubtful it will be his last in a world full of tragedy, but none of the words really and truly reach him. Gilgamesh killed with a flick of his wrist, cruelly and thoughtlessly. No sympathy exists for her. No compassion awaits her. People die when they deserve it, and more's the pity for whoever might mourn them.
"You are well, you are both well," he hushes her, repeats it like a mantra as he strokes along her face. He must contain himself. He must keep from breaking into one of those wicked grins. Her agony thrills him and so does Dorian's, an agony he brought upon himself with the knowledge that none of it would matter at all... except for the hell he'd have to pay later to bring his friend back down to earth. Fool.
It's too easy for him to set her aside with hands far too kind. They cannot go on like this forever and he won't abide Dorian lazing about forever, either. So he makes sure she's tended to then rises to his feet, strides to Dorian's corpse that isn't and mutters low for his ears only:
"Wake up. You're upsetting all of us with this pitiful melodrama."
And he doesn't care, not one bit. He'll kick him soon if he keeps lagging behind this way, Hermione be damned.
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?"
All her pain is forgotten as soon as the breath comes back to him. She ignores everything else as the emotion wells up inside of her again, his hands on her arms, alive and real. She's still covered in his blood, of course, but so is he and she shifts, ignoring her own pain to let her fingertips touch the edge of his cheek gently. He is back, he is alive, he was here and he was fine, he's fine, why do all her best friends die and then come back --
"Don't be mad at him, I didn't think either, I was just... I was so scared, Dorian, I forgot, my magic isn't back yet, just..." And she wants to demand that his focus lie on her and no one else, that he gazes at her and doesn't look to the side. She doesn't want him to see what she had done, the mangled and broken body of the woman, spine torn out and chipped at with teeth, flesh torn asunder and left ripped as her claws dragged through it. She doesn't want him to think that she's capable of that even though she knows she is. She doesn't want Dorian to think that she wanted this.
Slowly, her hand moves and rests over his, her breathing still a little heavy, not entirely calm, even as she looks at him.
"Dorian, I'm so sorry. I should have protected you better, you shouldn't have been forced to do that. I never wanted you to die, not because of me." And she's leaning forward, ignoring her pain and touching her forehead to his, basking in the fact that he's alive, that he's okay again, that she can feel how warm and solid he is. It's like centring herself to Dorian Gray, letting him bring her down from the edge of hysteria.
Oh, goody. Romance of the century. At least his task's done, as such as it was.
Gilgamesh glances back at the two and that hush, child attitude dissipates. Now, he just stares with the vaguest sort of annoyance at Dorian, who acts with such concern and compassion when by all accounts he was the cause of everything. Gilgamesh lets him know, too, tugs at his mind as only a Servant can—you idiot, you've made a mess, now I have to go and clean it up.
A showy mess, but a mess Gilgamesh has already grown bored of. Where's the beautiful, bloody lionness? Chased away by this false modesty, and it grates. He doesn't want Dorian here. He's only in the way, playing the pretend friend and doing a much worse job of it by his measure.
"Dorian."
Gilgamesh calls out to him, placidly, plainly, and then immediately slides into an accusation. "You did not employ the Command Spell. Am I not your Servant? Am I not so pledged? I could've protected the both of you."
Not that he would have. But it's always the thought that counts, right, Hermione?
The panicked concern stops. All of him stops, freezes in place, eyes set on a distance behind Hermione. He recognizes his situation, and then he recognizes that he must work through it.
Dorian's voice is soft, almost gentle, as he addresses Gilgamesh. "Please be quiet, Gilgamesh, or come over here to help Hermione with this arrow and the healing of her shoulder. I will not hear your accusations. Or do you think you are the first to try to throw at my feet a fault that is not mine?"
There. That is a King set aside. Dorian glances around, and then he sees the body. His breathing stops again. And, strangely, he understands what happened.
Dorian takes Hermione's hands in his, looks at her eyes and only her eyes. This pain is not his own, and so he has a calm over it only given to those watching a play. "I will whistle for my Ceffyl Dwr, and we'll find a river to wash you off in. We can send guards to retrieve Adela's body and bury her."
Yes, it is a play, theatrical, with a villain and tragic heroine and terrible special effects. Adela's corpse like a prop doll, left behind—and he can survive this. They can both survive this, as they will survive anything.
Hermione knows about their bond, of course, but the accusation doesn't do anything to turn her mind away from Dorian. How could he have called for anyone when there was barely any time to think? She hadn't had a second to try and use her compass, her magic taken from her to block them from just skipping away from the danger. If it hadn't been for the arrow embedded in her none of this would have happened - if the world wasn't so aware of what her powers were...
Slowly, oh so slowly, her eyes lift to look at him and she nods, once, shaken. His hands are warm against her own, his face so earnest and careful, but he is so much calmer than she is. She's seen death, she's come face to face with it before, but there's such a difference between seeing someone die and being the reason why they're dead that it's shaken her to her core, breaking her from the inside out. It's going to take a very long time for her to be able to close her eyes without seeing the woman's body or the flickering echo of Adela's body in the air.
"Okay," she nods her head, slowly. "I don't know how long it will be before my magic comes back. We're going to have to - to investigate this, Dorian, the poison, if it can hurt us..." If it can take her magic, suffocate it, what other things might there be? Would there be something that could hurt her friends, damage them, rip it away from them? She refuses to allow that, the violent part of her anger still blossoming under the blanket of her fear.
Slowly, her gaze turns to Gilgamesh and she softens, barely, just a hint, relaxing in the knowledge that she is safe between the two of them - or, really, she believes she is.
"Thank you for coming, Gilgamesh. For..." And she turns her head away. For cleaning her face of the blood, for standing at her side, for holding her as they waited for Dorian to wake up. Small kindnesses she didn't expect nor deserve in the wake of the horror of what she'd done. Shifting, she moves closer and leans against Dorian (they're both covered in blood, it's not going to make him any messier), resisting the urge to close her eyes and see the crime all over again.
The response from Gilgamesh to Dorian cuts immediately through their connection—don't speak to me that way again, you think I don't know this condescension, you think I don't know this game, YOU THINK WRONG—and then the matter's let go, at least on the surface. Gilgamesh holds grudges. Dorian knows Gilgamesh holds grudges. And so he also knows what awaits him after the return trip, but there's still so much sighing and damned uncertainty floating about that it forces his hand.
Gilgamesh unfurls himself from that lazy state of mind and moves to the pair. His fingers grasp around the wounded shoulder, where the arrow's half-stuck, and he grips firm around it. It wobbles, it burns for a moment longer... and then it just sort of wilts like a flower, the bits and pieces falling away like petals until nothing remains but the blood. A bit of his own energy accompanies the gesture to sink into her skin, and while he's no healer, it can at least do battle with whatever may have infected her. Act as a temporary ward. Boon granted.
That leaves one Dorian Gray to deal with. And one Hermione Granger, who receives a poised nod of acknowledgment; nothing more.
"We're returning to safe territory. Now. It makes no sense to idle about in unfriendly places."
The look he shoots Dorian dares him to disagree. Dares him to find out what will happen if he does.
I don't fear your wounded pride, I don't fear your cruelty, do you believe it matters compared to her? Though his expression does not change, the sentiment holds true. Let Gilgamesh try it. Let Gilgamesh carry his threat through. Dorian holds Hermione's safety, her protection, her well-being above all else.
He sets his arm around Hermione's shoulder and helps pull her up. He doesn't let go. And he tries very hard not to look at what is around them, although the image will be set on his mind forever. "We'll look into it later. Gilgamesh is right."
Dorian whistles, that three-note call that asks for Íde to come down from where she lingers, and he guide Hermione back onto the path, away from Adela's hanging corpse. Down swoops the mist creature, a breath of fresh air and water, glistening in the sunlight. She comes as if out of another world. Dorian suggests that Hermione mount first, and Dorian will ride behind her, so that Hermione does not have to grip with that injured shoulder.
As the pain in her shoulder fades she breathes out; her magic isn't back, not entirely, but the kindness that Gilgamesh had shown her made it feel as though it was trickling back, like drops of liquid from a tap. It wouldn't take more than a few hours, she thinks, and it's marginally less drastic feeling than the influence of the granite at Redgate.
Moving with Dorian is easier than laying herself on the ground covered in blood and even the barely-there trickle of fear that comes with the prospect of flying doesn't seem to rattle her; she's flown before, it makes her uncomfortable, of course, but there are worse things. She's experienced them - torture, pain, loss, death, the worst of all thinking that a part of her had enjoyed it. The lion part, the dangerous part, wanted more, to punish whoever thought they could attack her family and get away with it.
The beast is beautiful, absolutely amazing, and she's caught in a strange twist of awe before she moves and lets herself climb up, settles there and tries not to look down. There's still so much blood all over the lot of them and she can't do anything to clean it up, not in her state. Instead, she turns her attention to the King, her expression tight and unsure before she swallows.
"Thank you, Gilgamesh, for coming and helping." Her hand touches her shoulder again. Her voice is quiet, forlorn, and it's obvious just how tired she is. It's a bone-deep exhaustion and not one that she is likely to recover from any time soon. She doesn't want to be here, now, feeling herself shut down a little, drawing into herself, the doors closing.
Gilgamesh seethes. He grits his teeth and grinds and makes sure Dorian hears every bit of that, too, but he's forced into a truce. Bickering back and forth inside their heads would only remain that way for so long. At this rate, they'd make a mess all over again.
Hermione will recover, this much he's certain of, as a magus would always return to themselves with enough rest. He leaps to follow along as the inhuman creature he is at his core, inhumanly strong and inhumanly swift, turning to regard Dorian one last time through narrowed eyes.
"If you call for me, I will come."
He says it to her but stares at him the whole time that a much clearer message is sent, without words, without thoughts. Gilgamesh is angry, and Dorian has not heard the last of this matter from him.
As their flight takes them out of the forest and away from suitable brush, Gilgamesh assumes the form of a golden wisp and accompanies them the rest of the way. He suspects Dorian will lock himself in with her, whisper lies and lace her with a different sort of venom, but he'll wait for his chance.
For now, he leaves them to each other, his Marchioness and his Master.
Dorian does not concern himself with his Servant. All he cares about is his friend. Íde flies them to the upper rooms of the Citadel, a hallway leading to Hermione's quarters. The first maid who sees them gasps in horror, the laundry falling from her hands. Dorian calls for the guard. He sees to it that they will recover Adela's body for proper funeral rites, and he insists that they recover the body of the attacker as well, including the weapons. Then it is a flurry of activity: calling the maids to bring the Marchioness to her quarters, asking for a servant to bring Dorian's own clothing from the rooms he keeps here, going with Hermione to her rooms and seeing to it that the servants know to be gentle.
Only when they take Hermione to bath, to get the last blood off of her, does he let go of her hand.
In that moment when he is alone, when Hermione is being cared for by other hands, Dorian becomes very still, and very quiet. He lifts a hand that was broken. He sets it to a gut that was punctured.
And then he thinks of what he must do for Hermione next. By the time the maids bring her out, they're both dressed in night clothes. Unconcerned for the gossip, even grateful at the idea that it might blot out the whispers of Hermione's bloodied return, he dismisses the servants and helps Hermione into bed. Once he has her returned to him, he does not let go of her hand.
"Thank you," he tells her. "I am very fortunate to have a friend like you."
It's not easy to ignore the stares of the staff, the way people look at her; this is a war, of course, there is blood and death around them, but having it so close to home, so close to someone who had always been kind to them must be a strange feeling, a fearful one. Her silence in the wake of it doesn't do much to comfort them but they're quick to follow Dorian's commands as easily as they would her; they know that he is her friend, that they are as close as family (close, some whisper, as he leads her to her rooms) and she's tugged away.
She looks distraught as she's taken from Dorian's side, as if he's all that's keeping her together, but a soft word of you must be clean, my lady, for him and she relents.
The bath itself is nothing. She doesn't feel it, she doesn't even care about her own modesty. They wash her and clean her and plait her hair, keeping it out of her face, hands touching her cheeks and softening her gently, trying to draw her out of the stupor she's found herself in. Each whisper of my lady makes her flinch, makes her stomach twist and a tear rolls down her cheek, wiped away by a tender hand and a soft touch, the servants whispering soft comforts to her as she stands.
The pyjamas she has are from home, soft cotton trousers and a light vest, and she dresses almost robotic before she's nudged out back towards her bedroom. As soon as she sees her friend she rushes back to his side, taking his hand and squeezing, tight, letting him guide her. It's hard for her to take her hand away from him, the anchoring knowledge that he is alive and well and that he is fine, he's back and she hasn't lost him. It's easier, after that, to slide into bed and let him join her, to shift and move to wrap herself around him.
"Dorian," she whispers, lifting a hand to touch his cheek. She traces it, slowly, along the bone, the corner of his eye, memorising him before she breathes out and shakes her head. "You saved me. I'm lucky to have you. I don't deserve -" her voice cuts off with a sad little noise, her palm pressed directly to his skin. She cannot put into words how glad she is to have him here, how thankful that he survived, how much she loves him.
"You saved me," he tells her, and his hand finds a place over her palm. "So we're even. Right?" He smiles for her. He doesn't know what is happening in her head, but he knows he wants to protect her from it. He wants to keep her with him, instead of trapped inside her own head.
"I didn't," she says, shaking her head. "I was the one - it was my hand, she made me..." She swallows, shifting closer, staring at him. It's as though she wants to make sure, without doubt, that he is alive and well, that he isn't going anywhere. She knows she's going to have nightmares about this for a long time and keeping her eyes on him will keep those at bay for as long as possible. "I didn't just... Just kill her. I destroyed her - I should've... I..." She shakes her head, tucking herself against him slowly.
"No," he tells her again, and now he takes her hand in hers and squeezes it. "Whatever your hand did, if your will wasn't in it, then it wasn't you."
He breathes, quiet and soft. But breathing even so, as he wraps his arms around her. "I saw the remains." Like a wild animal had savaged it. He understands now what it meant.
Hermione lets herself press against him, his warm body more than enough to keep her warm even as chills of fear and sadness run through her. It takes a moment for her to blink back her tears, fresh despite her stoic, pained calm, and she swallows, slowly. She doesn't want to talk about it, not really, but she feels like if she doesn't she'll end up suffocating on all the words, heavy and thick in her throat, like trying to swallow paste.
"I don't want to close my eyes. When I do I just see her. Not just the woman but Adela, you, all of it. You didn't deserve that and neither did she." The implication that Hermione might have, considering what she had done, goes unsaid, but she breathes out. No one deserved that, surely? No one.
"I love you," she tells him after a few long moments of silence, her hand moving down to grip at his shirt. "Are you going to stay with me tonight? Please?"
"I was planning on it." Pulling her close, setting his hand in her hair. Stroking the way he sometimes he remembered his mother was doing, when he had a nightmare.
"I wish I had a piano here. My mother used to play me to sleep, when I felt awful."
"I taught a friend to play piano once," Hermione says in reply, breathing out. "We were on the run and hiding in an old friend's house and he just kept hitting the keys too hard. No gentleness, that prat, honestly, but he started to pick it up eventually. It was nice to have something to take our mind off the war and all the trouble we were getting ourselves into, even for a little while." She strokes her hand over his back absently. "Maybe I could find us one and we could play together."
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Dorian, her mind shouts, Dorian, she has to save Dorian, she has to fight for him, if she can distract for a moment she can grab a potion, she can do something to give him strength, enough for them to get out of here, why hadn't she taught him apparation, they'd be fine -
"Leave him alone." Hermione steps forward, head held high, expression tight, pained and angry. She keeps her eyes glued on the woman, her chest heaving even as she tries to block out all the things she's feeling. "You want me? Take me. But hurt him and - and you will regret ever coming here. You've already taken Adela and she was innocent. Don't hurt someone else when you have the chance to be merciful."
She thinks that all she can hear is the echo of the woman's laughter and another sickening crunch as her shoe twists, a shift of her leg to press the hard edge of a blunt heel against the side of Dorian's head.
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He is distracted. There is a pain in his hand that is a healing, a feeling of bones shifting, twisting, it makes him feel so sick—
"Traitors aren't innocent," the woman says, or Dorian thinks she must, for he feels he can't really hear her through the sound of his skin and bones. Deaf, but he can see through blood, that sword is still pointed at Hermione—
Dorian pushes, and surprise his advantage, and the woman stumbles and Dorian scrambles to get to his feet, scrambles to get up and get between this woman and Hermione, he can't lose Hermione, his teeth are bared and his hands go for the throat and with just one push, this woman has Dorian pressed against the tree, pressed to Hermione to pin her in place, so that he can feel that arrow.
And so that Hermione can feel the tip of the sword that has just gone through Dorian's gut. So that she can smell his blood, hear the squelch of flesh and organ, taste the poison sickness and feel that moment when Dorian stops fighting. When one little twist, a twist that just leaves a pinprick on Hermione's stomach, churns Dorian's innards in his chest.
She would also feel the sword's cold metal hilt. After all, her hand had been set on it before the blade was pushed.
"Just push a little further," a voice tells Hermione, "and spare the rest of us any more of your mistakes."
Dorian's blood is pooling at Hermione's feet.
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The scream comes out of her wildly, hoarse and powerful, and it's a guttural noise that tears out of her, rips from her throat and, more than anything, it sounds like a roar. She knows what had happened, the barely there movements, the twisting of Dorian's body, the press of the blade through him into her stomach. It's a nick to her skin and it doesn't register; the pain in her shoulder feels like nothing now, compared to the way that her heart aches and her breathing comes in panicked, terrified breaths.
Dorian is dead. Dorian died, Dorian is gone, he stepped between a blade meant for her, a sword that was intended to cut her down, traitors aren't innocent, and she feels like she's going to be sick. Her hands move, grasping at him, covered in his blood as she shakes his body, the noise of his organs, pierced and cut with the blade, moving along it, making her shake and stare. He's breaking from the inside out but there's nothing there to feel it, nothing and no one there to feel the drop of his blood, to see the stain on her, her clothes, her skin and her face, her hands reaching up to touch his cheeks, leaving bloody wet hand prints against his pale skin.
"No, no, Dorian, please, don't - don't do this, please, please-"
It comes out as a desperate sob, the shaken hand moving to grip at the metal hilt. She did this. This is her fault, she had pushed the blame, she had broken her vow, even months later people still hated her, and with the rising pillar of Caer Scima back she knew that the guilt would leave her broken and hating herself. She hadn't expected this, she hadn't expected the way his head presses against her body.
He's gone, he's gone, and Hermione wails, shifting with bloody hands to nudge him back, the woman not tearing the blade out to let his body drop, pushing it deeper instead. It's a desperate, lost noise, her body shaking as the woman laughs, seeing the horror and the pain on her face, the knowledge that Hermione was suffering as much as she had deserved from the moment she had proven herself to be a traitor of her word, to have worked with the Courts, to hold a Shard and rise against them.
Hermione knows she could push forward, she could end it. She would come back shardless, with nothing but her name and her magic, nothing of her own, and it would be so easy. After everything she had done it would be easy, letting her be free of all the pain - but Dorian had died for her, she had her friends, she had been fighting so hard, she had been pushing to make the world better, to make everything brighter, and the gasping noise that falls from her mouth is a low, angry sound, a growl, deep in her throat. It doesn't sound proper, real, she's too human for that, but something comes over her.
"You killed him!"
She draws the blade out, ignoring the sick sound of flesh against steel, dropping it to one side. When she steps forward it's not a simple movement; partway through it turns into a leap, Hermione's body shifting. She is not simply a woman, she hasn't been for almost a year, and the urge to bite, fight, to punish this person for taking an innocent life, for the blood on her hands and the pressure of it touching her - it overtakes her, twisting her body. The magic she uses to become a lioness, to take her sigil, feels removed from the pressure of the magic of her own world, a Monarch given prize that doesn't take as much power as it might have if she had been an animagus in Hogwarts.
The woman screams as the lioness overcomes her - Hermione isn't a woman any longer. She's a beast, a creature. The figure, the assassin, the murderer, turns to try and run, to twist out of the way and lurch to escape (swordless, bowless, what chance does she have against a winged beast?) but that does nothing more than ignite the instincts that have become a part of Hermione over the last year. A lioness hunts her prey, chases them, and a figure moving to escape does nothing more than prickle at those powerful, intense feelings, a low, curling growl resounding through the forest.
The lioness doesn't remember that Dorian is immortal. A crazed mind doesn't remember that her friend will be back. All she can see is death, agony and pain, instinct telling her to grab, bite, tear, rip apart, punish, destroy this creature for daring to touch him, for daring to even consider, let alone perform, such a horrific act on someone that she adores, that she loves, someone that is hers, her family.
Wings spread, Hermione soars, her claws hitting the woman's shoulder, pulling her back, sinking in to the skin and giving the lioness enough leverage to turn her head, sinking large fangs into the spot along her neck, biting down and tilting her head, twisting at the throat under her. It's not so much a rip as it is a pull, her mouth wrinkling as her teeth sink deeper, deeper, tongue enjoying the taste of the blood in the way only a predator could. She's nothing more than a beast of instinct, wanting to take down her prey, the idea of her pride being threatened making her rage.
Blood drips from her jowls, the flesh clinging to her fangs, to the skin, the twitch of her whiskers, crunching around bone and pressing deeper. Her giant paw moves, scratching at the flesh, digging, making sure that the woman is dead, that the pull of spine, of skin, of muscle and pure flesh had been enough to remove her life. Lions suffocate and her jaw had clutched around the neck, pulling, making sure there was no room for air, no room for anything other than death.
The lioness swallows.
It feels good, like the kill has lifted some of the weight from her heart. It's pure pleasure, the knowledge of a successful hunt, and to a mind burning with instinct and pain, all rationality gone and humanity pushed to one side in a fit of rage and agony, it feels like bliss. No more threat to her pride, no more threat to the people she loves, gone, gone, simply gone, destroyed and ripped apart as punishment for choosing to dare attack someone else that the lioness has chosen to protect.
It's the first time she has ever taken any pleasure in hurting anyone, her lion-mind accepting it and enjoying it, almost purring from the pure excitement and joy of having taken down the creature that tried to escape her punishing call.
Slowly, she turns, face covered in human blood and goes back to Dorian's body. It takes a few minutes for her to calm her panting breathing, her nose nudging his face, decorating it with a print of the shape of her snout, but then she flops, dropping at his side, paw on his shoulder. There's soft snuffling noises from the nose of the lion, his blood under her stomach, on the fur of her hind, staining her like she has rolled in it for her own pleasure.
She turns back like that but, when she does, not even the blood on her face and lips can stop her sobs.
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He watches from a distance (so called by the strain in their sacred bond, by the pulse that pounded and the heart that beat with such severity) and doesn't act to prevent a single part of the grisly performance; not Dorian's fall, and not the lionness' crazy charge, either. He just watches, so terribly out of place in that terribly casual jacket, and laughs to himself.
You humans, he thinks, are repulsive to the end.
Only when the dust has settled does Gilgamesh step in, and that uncaring facade melts away. Gilgamesh manifests from pure light before his Master and Marchionness, now turned back to her rightful form, and frowns at them both. First at Dorian, who should've known better, and then at Hermione herself, who knew so very little when it came these bloody affairs.
"Hermione."
He calls out to her, approaching one gentle step at a time. He can practically hear that portrait cackling at this whole ordeal, can sense its amusement from half a world away. Good. It is amusing, the plight of these people. Dorian will find a very sadistic Servant accompanying him all the way home today. Very sadistic, and very smug.
For now, though, damage control must be done. To that end, Gilgamesh tells her only thus:
"He lives. Do not fret. That man—my Master—will not fall to this. Nor shall you."
And then words are no longer necessary. He waits beside her, as that shoulder to lean and to cry on, and to claim his just reward for all this folly.
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She ate her.
Her hands fly to her mouth as a desperate noise escapes her, her stomach churning, bile catching in her throat. She had been a lion but all the times before she had known, she had understood herself, but she had been so scared, so angry, so furious that there was nothing she could do but follow the part of her that was more violent. She shakes, breathing coming in short, sharp, desperate gasps, like she's suffocating, the hysteria settling into her as what she's done settles around her shoulders. Each gasping breath feels like a failure and she doesn't know what to do.
When she hears her name her hands drop, her body scrambling back, more blood against her skin and the fabric of her clothes. She's drenched in it, she thinks, not just Dorian's but the woman's, her skin stained from hands up to her face and mouth, her lips darker from it, like a sickening rouge to make her pretty. She stares at Gilgamesh, feral, for a moment, before her eyes dance back to Dorian and stay there.
Dorian is immortal. She knew, of course, she'd always known, she protected his portrait with magic for him, she'd been there, but - oh, but, but, now it spreads over her like a sickening weight. Dorian would have been fine and she could have done something, anything, but she killed the woman. She did more than kill her; she ripped her apart, destroyed her, claws sinking deep and the joy of the kill making her lioness heart happy.
Body lurching away from Gilgamesh, even now, knowing what she does, Hermione stumbles back, hands dropping into the mud around her, eyes glancing to the woman before she hisses out another sob. The assassin, whatever she was, is nothing, now, head almost severed from her shoulders, throat snapped and spine torn apart under the weight of her teeth. She shakes her head, again and again, her hands turning here and there. Gilgamesh, King of Kings, Dorian's Master, he would understand but she can't, she can't, there's nothing she can do.
"I killed her," she whispers, voice almost lost, a barely there breath. "I didn't know, I was so angry, I - I ate - I think I'm going -" She covers her mouth, desperate to keep herself from vomiting.
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She is still young. She is still foolish. And that is why Gilgamesh will never love her.
But you'd never know with the way he closes the gap and kneels to her side, draws a handkerchief from his pocket and raises it to her beautiful face dripping all in red. Without a further word on the matter, he dabs all the evidence dry. Wipes it off, wipes her free of that burden except not really. She ripped her apart, she destroyed her, and now she learned of true consequences, of that terrible burden associated with taking another life.
When he's done, he draws her close, stains be damned, and soothes her with quiet sounds, hushed noises.
"You're going to live, Hermione. You're going to live, and so shall he. Did you forget already? The words I gave you on the day, the will that beats so strongly inside you."
To a clean cheek he presses his hand. Into her hair warm fingers go, offering grip and stability and strength where hers has failed. "You are the magus that faces the world and its demons without fear. You are living. You are well. And you did what was necessary to survive in that world."
That last phrase he emphasizes in particular: you did what was necessary. She'll have nightmares for some time to come, but he can at least plant the seed of rationality within her mind, if only so he gets more glimpses of this beauty in the future.
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The image of Adela, swinging in the barely there breeze, makes her grip on to Gilgamesh. Her hand lifts to grab at him, clenching tight around a wrist as his hand touches her, clean, and she watches as the blood on her fingertips passes down to him. She would draw away if she wasn't so desperate for comfort, so helplessly afraid and haunted - if she turned her head she would see the body, she would see bone and flesh torn asunder, she would see what she had caused, and she would be sick.
"I didn't have to kill her," she whispers. "I could have brought her back to the Citadel, asked who sent her, fought to find out more. I was just so angry and my magic, all of it was almost gone, they knew I could have escaped... They took him from me and all I wanted to do was make sure they didn't take anyone else. I couldn't let them hurt anyone else because of me."
She could have stepped forward and let the sword go through her, but Dorian - Dorian had died for her and in that moment, that bleak, awful moment, she hadn't seen anything but his death. It didn't come to mind that he was immortal, that he would wake up and find her crying over his body, that he would see the mess she had made and judge her for it. All that she could think was that someone had killed him and if she didn't find a way to stop it she was going to did as well. He was protecting her.
It's too easy for her to turn, to shift and press herself into Gilgamesh's arms, her forehead against his shoulder as she cries. Her pain is her punishment, her heart is broken inside of her and she doesn't know what else to do other than let it all out with her tears, hitching breathing suffocating her. Gilgamesh is right, Dorian will come back, he is his Master and her best friend, he'll come back whole and with his shard and then she'll never let go of him again.
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"You are well, you are both well," he hushes her, repeats it like a mantra as he strokes along her face. He must contain himself. He must keep from breaking into one of those wicked grins. Her agony thrills him and so does Dorian's, an agony he brought upon himself with the knowledge that none of it would matter at all... except for the hell he'd have to pay later to bring his friend back down to earth. Fool.
It's too easy for him to set her aside with hands far too kind. They cannot go on like this forever and he won't abide Dorian lazing about forever, either. So he makes sure she's tended to then rises to his feet, strides to Dorian's corpse that isn't and mutters low for his ears only:
"Wake up. You're upsetting all of us with this pitiful melodrama."
And he doesn't care, not one bit. He'll kick him soon if he keeps lagging behind this way, Hermione be damned.
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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?"
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All her pain is forgotten as soon as the breath comes back to him. She ignores everything else as the emotion wells up inside of her again, his hands on her arms, alive and real. She's still covered in his blood, of course, but so is he and she shifts, ignoring her own pain to let her fingertips touch the edge of his cheek gently. He is back, he is alive, he was here and he was fine, he's fine, why do all her best friends die and then come back --
"Don't be mad at him, I didn't think either, I was just... I was so scared, Dorian, I forgot, my magic isn't back yet, just..." And she wants to demand that his focus lie on her and no one else, that he gazes at her and doesn't look to the side. She doesn't want him to see what she had done, the mangled and broken body of the woman, spine torn out and chipped at with teeth, flesh torn asunder and left ripped as her claws dragged through it. She doesn't want him to think that she's capable of that even though she knows she is. She doesn't want Dorian to think that she wanted this.
Slowly, her hand moves and rests over his, her breathing still a little heavy, not entirely calm, even as she looks at him.
"Dorian, I'm so sorry. I should have protected you better, you shouldn't have been forced to do that. I never wanted you to die, not because of me." And she's leaning forward, ignoring her pain and touching her forehead to his, basking in the fact that he's alive, that he's okay again, that she can feel how warm and solid he is. It's like centring herself to Dorian Gray, letting him bring her down from the edge of hysteria.
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Gilgamesh glances back at the two and that hush, child attitude dissipates. Now, he just stares with the vaguest sort of annoyance at Dorian, who acts with such concern and compassion when by all accounts he was the cause of everything. Gilgamesh lets him know, too, tugs at his mind as only a Servant can—you idiot, you've made a mess, now I have to go and clean it up.
A showy mess, but a mess Gilgamesh has already grown bored of. Where's the beautiful, bloody lionness? Chased away by this false modesty, and it grates. He doesn't want Dorian here. He's only in the way, playing the pretend friend and doing a much worse job of it by his measure.
"Dorian."
Gilgamesh calls out to him, placidly, plainly, and then immediately slides into an accusation. "You did not employ the Command Spell. Am I not your Servant? Am I not so pledged? I could've protected the both of you."
Not that he would have. But it's always the thought that counts, right, Hermione?
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Dorian's voice is soft, almost gentle, as he addresses Gilgamesh. "Please be quiet, Gilgamesh, or come over here to help Hermione with this arrow and the healing of her shoulder. I will not hear your accusations. Or do you think you are the first to try to throw at my feet a fault that is not mine?"
There. That is a King set aside. Dorian glances around, and then he sees the body. His breathing stops again. And, strangely, he understands what happened.
Dorian takes Hermione's hands in his, looks at her eyes and only her eyes. This pain is not his own, and so he has a calm over it only given to those watching a play. "I will whistle for my Ceffyl Dwr, and we'll find a river to wash you off in. We can send guards to retrieve Adela's body and bury her."
Yes, it is a play, theatrical, with a villain and tragic heroine and terrible special effects. Adela's corpse like a prop doll, left behind—and he can survive this. They can both survive this, as they will survive anything.
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Slowly, oh so slowly, her eyes lift to look at him and she nods, once, shaken. His hands are warm against her own, his face so earnest and careful, but he is so much calmer than she is. She's seen death, she's come face to face with it before, but there's such a difference between seeing someone die and being the reason why they're dead that it's shaken her to her core, breaking her from the inside out. It's going to take a very long time for her to be able to close her eyes without seeing the woman's body or the flickering echo of Adela's body in the air.
"Okay," she nods her head, slowly. "I don't know how long it will be before my magic comes back. We're going to have to - to investigate this, Dorian, the poison, if it can hurt us..." If it can take her magic, suffocate it, what other things might there be? Would there be something that could hurt her friends, damage them, rip it away from them? She refuses to allow that, the violent part of her anger still blossoming under the blanket of her fear.
Slowly, her gaze turns to Gilgamesh and she softens, barely, just a hint, relaxing in the knowledge that she is safe between the two of them - or, really, she believes she is.
"Thank you for coming, Gilgamesh. For..." And she turns her head away. For cleaning her face of the blood, for standing at her side, for holding her as they waited for Dorian to wake up. Small kindnesses she didn't expect nor deserve in the wake of the horror of what she'd done. Shifting, she moves closer and leans against Dorian (they're both covered in blood, it's not going to make him any messier), resisting the urge to close her eyes and see the crime all over again.
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Gilgamesh unfurls himself from that lazy state of mind and moves to the pair. His fingers grasp around the wounded shoulder, where the arrow's half-stuck, and he grips firm around it. It wobbles, it burns for a moment longer... and then it just sort of wilts like a flower, the bits and pieces falling away like petals until nothing remains but the blood. A bit of his own energy accompanies the gesture to sink into her skin, and while he's no healer, it can at least do battle with whatever may have infected her. Act as a temporary ward. Boon granted.
That leaves one Dorian Gray to deal with. And one Hermione Granger, who receives a poised nod of acknowledgment; nothing more.
"We're returning to safe territory. Now. It makes no sense to idle about in unfriendly places."
The look he shoots Dorian dares him to disagree. Dares him to find out what will happen if he does.
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He sets his arm around Hermione's shoulder and helps pull her up. He doesn't let go. And he tries very hard not to look at what is around them, although the image will be set on his mind forever. "We'll look into it later. Gilgamesh is right."
Dorian whistles, that three-note call that asks for Íde to come down from where she lingers, and he guide Hermione back onto the path, away from Adela's hanging corpse. Down swoops the mist creature, a breath of fresh air and water, glistening in the sunlight. She comes as if out of another world. Dorian suggests that Hermione mount first, and Dorian will ride behind her, so that Hermione does not have to grip with that injured shoulder.
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Moving with Dorian is easier than laying herself on the ground covered in blood and even the barely-there trickle of fear that comes with the prospect of flying doesn't seem to rattle her; she's flown before, it makes her uncomfortable, of course, but there are worse things. She's experienced them - torture, pain, loss, death, the worst of all thinking that a part of her had enjoyed it. The lion part, the dangerous part, wanted more, to punish whoever thought they could attack her family and get away with it.
The beast is beautiful, absolutely amazing, and she's caught in a strange twist of awe before she moves and lets herself climb up, settles there and tries not to look down. There's still so much blood all over the lot of them and she can't do anything to clean it up, not in her state. Instead, she turns her attention to the King, her expression tight and unsure before she swallows.
"Thank you, Gilgamesh, for coming and helping." Her hand touches her shoulder again. Her voice is quiet, forlorn, and it's obvious just how tired she is. It's a bone-deep exhaustion and not one that she is likely to recover from any time soon. She doesn't want to be here, now, feeling herself shut down a little, drawing into herself, the doors closing.
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Hermione will recover, this much he's certain of, as a magus would always return to themselves with enough rest. He leaps to follow along as the inhuman creature he is at his core, inhumanly strong and inhumanly swift, turning to regard Dorian one last time through narrowed eyes.
"If you call for me, I will come."
He says it to her but stares at him the whole time that a much clearer message is sent, without words, without thoughts. Gilgamesh is angry, and Dorian has not heard the last of this matter from him.
As their flight takes them out of the forest and away from suitable brush, Gilgamesh assumes the form of a golden wisp and accompanies them the rest of the way. He suspects Dorian will lock himself in with her, whisper lies and lace her with a different sort of venom, but he'll wait for his chance.
For now, he leaves them to each other, his Marchioness and his Master.
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Only when they take Hermione to bath, to get the last blood off of her, does he let go of her hand.
In that moment when he is alone, when Hermione is being cared for by other hands, Dorian becomes very still, and very quiet. He lifts a hand that was broken. He sets it to a gut that was punctured.
And then he thinks of what he must do for Hermione next. By the time the maids bring her out, they're both dressed in night clothes. Unconcerned for the gossip, even grateful at the idea that it might blot out the whispers of Hermione's bloodied return, he dismisses the servants and helps Hermione into bed. Once he has her returned to him, he does not let go of her hand.
"Thank you," he tells her. "I am very fortunate to have a friend like you."
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She looks distraught as she's taken from Dorian's side, as if he's all that's keeping her together, but a soft word of you must be clean, my lady, for him and she relents.
The bath itself is nothing. She doesn't feel it, she doesn't even care about her own modesty. They wash her and clean her and plait her hair, keeping it out of her face, hands touching her cheeks and softening her gently, trying to draw her out of the stupor she's found herself in. Each whisper of my lady makes her flinch, makes her stomach twist and a tear rolls down her cheek, wiped away by a tender hand and a soft touch, the servants whispering soft comforts to her as she stands.
The pyjamas she has are from home, soft cotton trousers and a light vest, and she dresses almost robotic before she's nudged out back towards her bedroom. As soon as she sees her friend she rushes back to his side, taking his hand and squeezing, tight, letting him guide her. It's hard for her to take her hand away from him, the anchoring knowledge that he is alive and well and that he is fine, he's back and she hasn't lost him. It's easier, after that, to slide into bed and let him join her, to shift and move to wrap herself around him.
"Dorian," she whispers, lifting a hand to touch his cheek. She traces it, slowly, along the bone, the corner of his eye, memorising him before she breathes out and shakes her head. "You saved me. I'm lucky to have you. I don't deserve -" her voice cuts off with a sad little noise, her palm pressed directly to his skin. She cannot put into words how glad she is to have him here, how thankful that he survived, how much she loves him.
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He breathes, quiet and soft. But breathing even so, as he wraps his arms around her. "I saw the remains." Like a wild animal had savaged it. He understands now what it meant.
"You're my friend, Hermione. Always will be."
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"I don't want to close my eyes. When I do I just see her. Not just the woman but Adela, you, all of it. You didn't deserve that and neither did she." The implication that Hermione might have, considering what she had done, goes unsaid, but she breathes out. No one deserved that, surely? No one.
"I love you," she tells him after a few long moments of silence, her hand moving down to grip at his shirt. "Are you going to stay with me tonight? Please?"
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"I wish I had a piano here. My mother used to play me to sleep, when I felt awful."
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