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."
"There's one in the music room." And softer, as he feels his stomach fall out. "Kelsi found it, months ago." Dorian hides his face in Hermione's hair, and she doesn't know how grateful he is, how glad. How happy he was to see a mutilated corpse of some stranger, and not to find another dead friend. "I'd love to play with you."
Her breathing hitches a little and she nods her head, eyes closed as she presses closer. They're both suffering, she knows that, and it's not fair of her to draw comfort from him when he might need it just as much. Her arms are tight around him, now, tighter, her head tucked under him even as she squeezes her eyes shut. Images flicker and they open again, wary and unfocussed. "Then we'll go one weekend. We can have tea together and then play something, a bit of a change from all the hard work."
"Yes." He kisses the top of her head, and then he says it. He says that terrible thing. "I'm glad. If I had to lose you, too . . . I'm only sorry that you had to suffer it. I wish I could have killed her in your stead."
Something catches in her breathing, a soft, sad noise dropping from her lips and she shakes her head, leaning back to draw him close, their foreheads touching. Her eyes are still damp, her hands a little shaken as she touches his shoulder, drawing soft brushes of her thumb over him. "I'd do it again. For - for you, for my friends, I... I'd do it again. I won't let anyone hurt you if I can help it. I don't care." She does care, of course she does, no matter what she says otherwise, but she wants to pretend that she is cold enough to not feel the agony of it.
Slowly, slowly, Hermione leans close and kisses his cheek, tugging him against her and letting a hand move up and sink into his hair, just holding him gently. "I don't know what I would do if I lost you."
"I swear. I promise." She holds him tighter, just for a moment, before she leans back. "Will you hold me? Just for tonight, I... I need to know you're here."
"I'll stay." And then, softly, murmured so softly into her hair. "Just please don't let my arm become that awful tingling sensation from having you on it."
Perhaps they do not sleep well, but they do sleep. And it is a good rest for Dorian: one of those evenings when you forget, when you wake with not even the memory of the emotion that haunted you. When you are at peace. His face turned to the light of the window, he smiles at the sun.
Then he remembers.
Dorian sees to it that they have breakfast ready for when they are properly put together: food, tea, everything. He waits until Hermione has eaten a little, wanting to see that she is at least a little looked after, before he starts.
"Hermione? There's something else we need to talk about. It's about Gilgamesh."
Hermione doesn't sleep well. She doesn't wake up, comforted by the bracket of Dorian's body, but it feels like she barely slept at all, a few stolen hours even as the morning light draws her out of a doze. When she blinks the sleep from her eyes it's to panic - at least until she reaches out and remembers he's there, that he hasn't left, that nothing has happened to him and that Dorian is safe.
She eats breakfast like she's picking at it, cross-legged on one of the armchairs she had brought in from her tent, tearing off little pieces of toast before she looks over at him. Slowly, something seems to dawn on her and she swallows, putting her food down and pushing her tea to one side before she breathes out.
Dorian has a magical contract with Gilgamesh - he had been there, had been concerned for her... Did he know?
"I didn't say yes!" She says, quickly, before her cheeks go pink. "If - if that's what this is about. I didn't say yes at all."
She stares, her face paling a little before she swallows, scooting back on her chair.
"... This isn't about the proposal, is it?"
She grabs at her tea quickly, leaning over and taking a long drink, as if to distract herself. If she wasn't in trouble before then she is, most certainly, in trouble now.
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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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Perhaps they do not sleep well, but they do sleep. And it is a good rest for Dorian: one of those evenings when you forget, when you wake with not even the memory of the emotion that haunted you. When you are at peace. His face turned to the light of the window, he smiles at the sun.
Then he remembers.
Dorian sees to it that they have breakfast ready for when they are properly put together: food, tea, everything. He waits until Hermione has eaten a little, wanting to see that she is at least a little looked after, before he starts.
"Hermione? There's something else we need to talk about. It's about Gilgamesh."
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She eats breakfast like she's picking at it, cross-legged on one of the armchairs she had brought in from her tent, tearing off little pieces of toast before she looks over at him. Slowly, something seems to dawn on her and she swallows, putting her food down and pushing her tea to one side before she breathes out.
Dorian has a magical contract with Gilgamesh - he had been there, had been concerned for her... Did he know?
"I didn't say yes!" She says, quickly, before her cheeks go pink. "If - if that's what this is about. I didn't say yes at all."
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He asks, "You did not say 'yes' to what?"
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"... This isn't about the proposal, is it?"
She grabs at her tea quickly, leaning over and taking a long drink, as if to distract herself. If she wasn't in trouble before then she is, most certainly, in trouble now.
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