[Another truth, another lie. He's happy with what he's accomplished with Hermione tonight; he's not happy with himself. He's happy with a maybe; he's not happy with someone else's no. He's happy she's here; he's not happy she is too, and not as he remembers.
Gilgamesh pushes as he pleases, but he'd be a fool to push much further here. The die's been cast and it shall fall wherever it may. She knows his answer before she ever thinks to ask again. And most importantly...]
Keep it.
[...she'll hold that box. She'll never stop holding that box in her heart, never stop wishing for what she knows she'll never have with him or anyone else. Hermione is a pretty girl, a talented magus, but a woman doomed. Women like Hermione do not fall in love. They obsess over their duties, and in so doing, forget to attend themselves. Their stations arrest them and never let go, and they live in self-imposed cages to their dying breath.
She will die cold and alone, just as never wished for herself, and in that much, Gilgamesh feels the smallest pang of sympathy.
The arms that open to Hermione are warm and friendly in contrast, enveloping and gracious.]
Let me hold you, just for a while. Hair or fur, [teasingly] I will look after you just the same.
It makes her smile. All of this is a bit strange, a little unsettling, but there's something about him that makes her breathe out and relax. He's promised to teach her, to take care of her, an exchange of power and friendship -- and she's debating how much she can trust herself to be around him without wanting to give in to the urge to have companionship with him.
No one has ever made her feel like she was worth marriage before, after all. Even she and Ron had been complicated, strange, and it twists inside of her and makes her pause, wondering, before she nods her head. It's easy to tuck the ring into her pocket, deep into the depths sewn into her dress, before she raises an eyebrow and looks at him. ]
Thank you, Gilgamesh.
[ The idea of being in his arms, though... She pauses, careful, eyes up and down. It's been a long time since she's curled up with anyone, a long time since she let herself be embraced, especially for something as simple as just companionship. She and Harry fell asleep together once, her eyes damp from her own sadness, and since then it's been a rare occurrence. She breathes out, careful, before she moves forward.
Slowly, ever so slowly, careful and trusting, she lets herself slip into his arms.
He's warm. He's there, and he promises to look after her. Had given her a ring to show it. Had promised her friendship, companionship, had been teaching her... And it was. Easy. Nice. ]
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[Another truth, another lie. He's happy with what he's accomplished with Hermione tonight; he's not happy with himself. He's happy with a maybe; he's not happy with someone else's no. He's happy she's here; he's not happy she is too, and not as he remembers.
Gilgamesh pushes as he pleases, but he'd be a fool to push much further here. The die's been cast and it shall fall wherever it may. She knows his answer before she ever thinks to ask again. And most importantly...]
Keep it.
[...she'll hold that box. She'll never stop holding that box in her heart, never stop wishing for what she knows she'll never have with him or anyone else. Hermione is a pretty girl, a talented magus, but a woman doomed. Women like Hermione do not fall in love. They obsess over their duties, and in so doing, forget to attend themselves. Their stations arrest them and never let go, and they live in self-imposed cages to their dying breath.
She will die cold and alone, just as never wished for herself, and in that much, Gilgamesh feels the smallest pang of sympathy.
The arms that open to Hermione are warm and friendly in contrast, enveloping and gracious.]
Let me hold you, just for a while. Hair or fur, [teasingly] I will look after you just the same.
no subject
It makes her smile. All of this is a bit strange, a little unsettling, but there's something about him that makes her breathe out and relax. He's promised to teach her, to take care of her, an exchange of power and friendship -- and she's debating how much she can trust herself to be around him without wanting to give in to the urge to have companionship with him.
No one has ever made her feel like she was worth marriage before, after all. Even she and Ron had been complicated, strange, and it twists inside of her and makes her pause, wondering, before she nods her head. It's easy to tuck the ring into her pocket, deep into the depths sewn into her dress, before she raises an eyebrow and looks at him. ]
Thank you, Gilgamesh.
[ The idea of being in his arms, though... She pauses, careful, eyes up and down. It's been a long time since she's curled up with anyone, a long time since she let herself be embraced, especially for something as simple as just companionship. She and Harry fell asleep together once, her eyes damp from her own sadness, and since then it's been a rare occurrence. She breathes out, careful, before she moves forward.
Slowly, ever so slowly, careful and trusting, she lets herself slip into his arms.
He's warm. He's there, and he promises to look after her. Had given her a ring to show it. Had promised her friendship, companionship, had been teaching her... And it was. Easy. Nice. ]
Just for a little while.