Hermione's expression tightens. She isn't stupid enough to think that Dorian won't go with Gilgamesh and she huffs a little; if she was six or seven years younger than she might stomp her foot and he deliberately obtuse about the matter but she manages to resist, breathing out and ignoring the sting of something. Gilgamesh can do and say whatever he likes as far as she's concerned because one thing is most important to her: she doesn't care. Not in this moment, not in this brief moment, because she knows that she loves Dorian and Dorian loves her.
She steps between them for a moment, turning her back to Gilgamesh, before she smiles at Dorian.
"We can practice any time you like now that you've got the first bit done. We can do it here or in my rooms, wherever it's most comfortable for you. You know how to get in touch with me." Without anyone else being able to. That's what their mirrors are for; no one else knows about them, as far as she's aware, and it's a bit of a network for the both of them. Her smiles is soft, sweet, and her hand finds his and squeezes.
Dorian is her grounding point and she doesn't care that she's being a little rude; all she does is smile, squeeze his hand and nod her head, dropping her fingertips and shifting before she heads to the side of the room. Her bag and cloak are there and she pulls them on, deliberately letting herself ignore anything to do with Gilgamesh. She has no reason to try and be nice to him now -- just as much as he appears to have no more reason to be nice to her.
A little laugh at the ridiculousness, almost incredulity. Why would Gilgamesh say something so obvious? "I'm in love with her too."
There are more consequences to getting Dorian high than just making him suggestible.
He obeys the command, of course, follows his longing to its satiation, to Gilgamesh and his comforts and pleasures and company. Normally, Dorian is at least a little discrete in Hermione's company, but there is no discretion now in the arm he wraps around Gilgamesh's neck, in the kiss he takes from Gilgamesh's mouth. There is no sense of shame or self-awareness in the way he lets his body melt against his Servant's.
Also: there is no letting go of Hermione's hand. Resting most of himself against Gilgamesh, he turns his head to her, smiles with a serenity that suggests the loss of a few cognitive faculties. Even so, it is a smile full of love.
"Join us, Hermione. Please? The servants will bring us candied fruits and wonderful wine and we can lay in satin and talk of all the beautiful things in the world. We'll dress in flowing robes and sit under a canopy, and look on the sand that is our kingdom. Sands are always full of treasures, you know."
Not that Dorian has ever been ruler of a kingdom of sand.
Things Gilgamesh didn't expect to happen: any of that. Well, he expected some of that, more specifically Hermione to keep huffing up a storm, but he'd been under the (apparently mistaken) presumption that Dorian would settle into a natural calm again and leave this loftier mood behind.
Except now it's been made even worse and he's left red-faced in the wake of it, not from the kiss or the contact but from that unfathomable suggestion that makes his stomach turn. A switch is thrown, a limiter released, and...
"Absolutely not!" Gilgamesh barks, all composure falling away in a single breath. "She'll just shove poison in my wine and lace my fruit with daggers and she'll laugh while I choke! Witch of a woman! Awful sorceress! She'll sick that lion on me for sure!"
And to Hermione... oh, to Hermione, who he no longer ignores but boasts at with full force, "He loves me the most so he's spending the most time with me! I decided! Myself, Gilgamesh, King of Heroes, without which none of this splendor would even be possible! You understand?! Don't think I don't know what you're up to! Pouting like that all along!"
Jab, jab, jab goes his finger, and finally:
"It isn't cute at all! I don't like it and I won't fall for it!"
But maybe Dorian would right now. Dorian probably would right now. He holds onto him possessively and seethes from head to toe.
Hermione had been about to reply to Dorian, about to go back to his side and very gently tell him thank you but no, thank you, she's sure Gilgamesh would rather have his company, when he starts. It all comes out at as a rush, something exploding from inside Gilgamesh, and she stares for a second, her eyes widening for a little, here and there, before she lifts a hand and covers her mouth.
She can't laugh. No, she can't, surely, it would be so rude, but at the same time...
The laughter bubbles out of her, her hands smothering it as best as she can, her eyes moving between Gilgamesh and Dorian before she has to turn her head away so she can fight it. She isn't even angry, since the idea of it is all so ridiculous - as if Hermione Granger would do anything like that, as if she would poison anyone or set a patronus on someone, as if her magic, her lion, could even do that to him.
When she gets herself under control she moves, pretending that her turning away had only been to sort out the fastening on her cloak, adjusting the weight of her rapier at her side before she steps forward, holds her head high. She isn't, in this moment, the shy creature she'd been up to now; she is the Marchioness, the Protectress, and she just gives Gilgamesh a wry smile.
"It's very nice to see what you really think of me," she says, finally. "It's incredible that you think that I'm the type of person to poison you, to laugh at you while you're hurt. If you remember, Gilgamesh, I was the one that sat with you while you were upset. You are the person that tried to use me, the person that tried to use my position to hurt me, to make me your plaything, and just because I won't stand for it you get angry with me? I won't and I don't care what you say about me, but don't try to use Dorian's feelings as some kind of tool."
She glances at her friend before she swallows, her hands on her hips.
"I am not here to be cute. I am not here to pander to you, to pout or do anything, especially not with a king that doesn't have any kind of crown. You're not my king, Gilgamesh, and you are not my ruler. I am yours, I am Marchioness of this Citadel and I am Dorian's friend, before all of that. I am a witch, I am a sorceress, and I am proud of that and nothing you can say will change that, but it's very cute that you think that you throwing a fit is going to make a difference."
Breathing out, she hesitates before she looks over at Dorian, leaning over to kiss his cheek.
"Apparently, I don't love you as much as he does, so would you like me to give you a little space? It's your choice, Dorian, and I don't intend to make it for you."
Dorian doesn't really understand why it all went sour. He doesn't understands Gilgamesh's seething possessiveness. Both of them seem to have the wrong idea about love, and it makes no sense to him when he feels he has been very clear about it from the start.
Gilgamesh makes loud pronouncements, and Hermione makes firm speeches. But Dorian answers them both with a voice still as sweet and simple as a flute. "Gilgamesh doesn't love me. He will not take me as a friend."
Yet he leans back back into Gilgamesh's grip, accepting the comfort of it. "And Hermione doesn't crave your blood. She is not a beast."
He thought he already made his choice, and he doesn't see why no one will listen to it. So, almost pouting, he concludes, "You each offer to me a different kind of happiness, so I should like to have both of you at once." And, that sad expression growing in strength, he adds, "You both make me happy."
Oh, poor Dorian. For all they're fighting over, it's like he's not even there, like those words don't even exist. Not for Gilgamesh, anyway. All he hears is you're not a king, you're not a ruler, you're not anyone, and his blood runs cold. His rage dries up. He just listens to Hermione go on and on and on until he's laughing, too, and why not? It's all so damn funny he can't help himself.
His armor fades and he smiles from ear to ear. He's not upset. He speaks slowly, soothingly, though his eyes never part from Hermione's, deep and red and if not upset, then madder beyond all belief. This realm has driven him to such lengths.
"That's right," Gilgamesh confesses. "It's all true. No... it's true in part. I'm the King of All That Blooms. I am the child of flowers that throws petals on the primrose path. I am beloved and I am adored even as I grovel on the ground before the likes of you. It's very nice, isn't it? When you're honest with yourself. When you don't hide your hatred. I respect that. It wasn't a lie, what I said before, I never lied, not once. I believe in you, Hermione Granger. I believe you'll go on to do great things, so in the future, don't hold back. I will only accept the finest venom from your tongue."
Gilgamesh's grip loosens and falls away. Dorian is shrugged aside, even as he's addressed directly. "I don't love anything or anyone save for the strength that exists within the human spirit. I won't be happy for anyone or anything, because I hate this world. I hate the people who smile at me and I hate the people who laugh most of all. See? I've always been honest, so I'll tell you something else."
The palm of his hand ghosts along the small of Dorian's back, and he's pushed toward Hermione. Not cruelly; not gently; somewhere in beween. "Dorian Gray broke long before we ever stumbled upon him. Can your friendship change that? Do you understand what I'm doing, what I'm saying? I'll leave it to you to figure out. Whatever the result, I'm sure it'll be fun. In regards to everything, the real truth of the matter is..."
The deepest sort of madness is always reflected in subtlties. Gilgamesh's smile hasn't faded at all. If anything, it only softens, only gains some measure of perverse brightness to it. This man has broken, too, long before anyone in all creation ever even met him.
A part of her twists, wondering if this is what he had wanted all along. Gilgamesh had always wanted to see more of her, to see something different inside of her, more than just the girl turned woman she had slowly become. He wants venom from her and she had given it to him, pushed to the edge with all the pent up emotions that she hadn't dared express; she had been so afraid, so hurt and wounded, and she shifts, uncomfortable, the weight of her regret sinking into her.
This wasn't her, was it? She wasn't the kind of person to be so mean... Except when she snapped. She had hit Malfoy, she had hexed Marietta Edgecombe (though she had deserved it, the traitor), she had trapped Rita in a jar... She swallows, pushing her own thoughts down into the back of her mind and she ignores it, her breathing soft.
She steps up as soon as Dorian is pushed close to her, her arms slipping around him easily. Her eyes are narrowed at Gilgamesh for a moment before she squeezes him, tilting her head to kiss his cheek, to draw him closer, her hand lifting to stroke through his hand, thumb brushing over his jaw. She's careful with him, the love deep inside of her brimming up to the surface as Gilgamesh speaks.
"You make me happy too," she whispers to him, quiet and careful. "I know I tell you that all the time but I never stop meaning it. You're one of the best people I've ever met in my entire life - you're amazing, Dorian, and I'm glad that you're my friend." She leans against him, turning her eyes to Gilgamesh, her lips pressed tight together before she shifts, tucking herself against Dorian a little more - as if to protect him from the cruelty she can see in this golden king, as if her body would be enough to defend him when Dorian kisses him, holds him, longs for him.
Gilgamesh doesn't love Dorian, but Hermione does. She would do anything for him, even tolerate the strange discomfort and uncertainty she feels in Gilgamesh's company.
"But you don't understand, Gilgamesh. That's your undoing. There are so many things in this world, so many amazing things, but nothing is as powerful as love and friendship. That's what makes a patronus, that's what makes magic so pure and amazing accessible to us. You don't know anything about me, Gilgamesh. You don't know anything about who I am or what I want - and what I want is for Dorian to be himself." She breathes out. "I don't want him to change. I want him to be happy, whatever that means to him."
Her head turns and she tucks herself against Dorian a little more before she moves back, giving him the room to step back if he wants.
"I love him. And that is more important to me than anything else." She hesitates before she swallows. "And I could have loved you, too, if you had been honest with me from the very beginning. That was your mistake, not mine, and I would have done what I could to make you happy as well. You failed and you not caring? That's something you'll have to work on, live with. Because you could be happy here."
Dorian is still exhausted with magic he isn't accustomed too, disconnected with a power that does not belong to him—burning with the height of every emotion he experiences, from that raw power and desire to this sinking unhappy bitterness that has been spat back and forth in front of him, using him. (He really just wishes they wouldn't talk about him like he wasn't here.)
And he is neither dethroned king nor raised-up Marchioness. He is not a being of magic, nor a mage of great power. He is just an empty vessel, untitled and unfulfilled, a void where a soul ought to be, and if he could just get it right, reach for love, fill in that emptiness, it would feel better.
But the love is never enough. He needs more and more and more. Dorian can feel the last of the magic slipping away from his fingers and it leaves an aching misery of a void.
So what Dorian does is this: he straightens, though he lets Hermione brace him, because even tired and intoxicated and on the edge of untamed emotion, he is still himself and unbreakable. He looks over them, his unfaltering friend, his tempestuous Servant, and in that glance he claims them both as his. He speaks: "I think that's the end of this."
No fine pronouncements or speeches from Dorian. Just a soft but enunciated decision. An assertion: the game is over, the players are to part. No more of this.
And then Gilgamesh may feel something familiar, although it is also strange. It is, after all, Gilgamesh who most often uses their bond this way. Who most often takes up the link as a vice to hold tight to his Servant. But now, the snake-grip is Dorian's, ravenous and constricting with the last drops of his untempered emotions: I don't care that you don't love me, I don't care what you will care for, wherever you go, I will find you tonight, tonight you're mine, always, you're mine, you're mine and a pull that could almost be physical for the force of it, yanking Gilgamesh to him not in body but in thought and mind.
Dorian glances at Hermione, and just like that: his mood switches to normal. "Can we get a servant with something to drink? I always get thirsty after things like this."
"I'd be quite happy watching this world burn, I think."
And that is, indeed, the end of it. Bitter eyes cast towards Hermione for stealing his treasure away, and then he's moving on, moving past—at least until Dorian seizes upon his thoughts with such force Gilgamesh stumbles, isn't even allowed a graceful exit. More than anything Hermione has said, this puts him in true pain, and his face twists to reflect it.
"No."
Gilgamesh refuses the command. He refuses his Master and fires back, though blissfully keeps it in the realm of thoughts... for now. Bound this way, he has no choice but to abide Dorian until he lets go.
Your meddling has consequences. Look what it has done. Yet if you've truly no regrets, then it won't matter.
I won't come to you. Burn a Seal if it is your wish. But I won't come. Not this time.
Bed her instead, this vixen, this friend of yours. You may enjoy my company again when I give you permission, and not a moment sooner.
Dorian pulls; Gilgamesh pushes back, twice as hard, yanking on him in every feasible way, delivering the words that aren't, what he knows will sting.
There is something, Hermione thinks, that is between the two of them that she really can't touch. Their bond is something invisible, something powerful, and as much as she loathes the idea of it that familiar, ire inducing envy prickles at her senses before she shoves it away, focusses instead on her friend, letting thoughts of Gilgamesh disappear for now. He has done nothing today that would make her consider anything positive towards him, even if she had stepped forward and held her ground. She had been honest with him; he could have become so important, so special to her, but...
He had made his choice. She has to make hers.
It's eerie, the difference between how Dorian handles himself in the wake of Gilgamesh and the way he treats her. For all that he had been sure that their friendship would be over he is as kind to her as he had ever been, even as his mood dips into melancholy and sadness, even when she has to confirm her friendship and her love for him on occasion. The easy nature of his bond with Gilgamesh frustrates her if only because she wants it for herself; not necessarily with Dorian, but something like it. It's been a long time since Ron, a long time since she dared let herself hope, everything too busy and too dangerous in this world for her to think that anyone would want that with her.
She forces herself to smile, though, to be as much herself as possible in the wake of Dorian's switch. She nods her head, hesitant before deciding not to reach for his hand or his embrace. She feels prickly, as if she's on the edge of another outburst, not sure of herself. None of today had gone like she planned and the guilt twists in her stomach - she upset Dorian, she upset Gilgamesh, and there is going to be talk. She's sure of that.
"Of course. I'll go and ask, if you want to stay here, or we can go somewhere else."
Her lips purse for a moment, her expression tense, before she finally gathers herself and holds her head high.
"I'm sorry for arguing with him. You love him and you care about him and I should be more respectful of that."
It doesn't hit its mark, that brutal strike, because the man he lashes out at is not the boy whom he contracted with. Dorian lets go, but only for the moment. Only because he can't hunt down Gilgamesh with his full resources when Hermione is near. Dorian lets go and releases Gilgamesh to flee, but he makes it clear:
I do not reject you. I accept and embrace you. Always. Rejection? Dorian has faced rejection. And he has changed its mind, over and over and over. I will call for you. And if you don't come, then I will come for you. My King of Kings, don't think you can shake me off so easily. I am not the man you chose because I surrender so easily as that.
And yet when Dorian looks at Hermione, he is almost himself again. The Dorian that Hermione knows. "Don't put it on yourself, Hermione. Frankly, I can't hold for him something he'll never give me, and no one should have to abide by what he demands." Except Dorian. With a brightened smile, he takes her hand. "Take me inside before I swoon? Or people won't believe I'm not a Victorian anymore."
Hermione is all but ethereal, incorporeal, intangible and false. They no longer exist to each other. All that exists, all that Gilgamesh hears is every bold, embittered word, every refusal of his rejection, every statement that would speak to defiance and one sentiment above the rest: this isn't over.
Yet Gilgamesh commits a fatal error and assumes that it is. He turns from Dorian and says nothing more, leaving the same way he entered—as a measly ball of light to carry his spirit far from here.
They are fated souls. As usual, they've much to think on for later. For now, Gilgamesh wishes to think of everything except for Dorian Gray.
Hermione watches Gilgamesh go, her expression tight before she breathes out and shakes her head. He isn't important any more - not right now, in this moment, and he is something she'll have to think more about later. She might even have to apologise, which makes her feel a little uncomfortable. Right now, though, she has Dorian, and she turns to him.
"Let's go, then." She smiles, reaching for his hand and taking it. "I can't let anyone think that you're a Victorian, not with how different you've grown. We have to keep up your reputation, don't we, Mr. Gray?"
She steps forward, leading him out, careful to keep her hand in his and her expression gentle, not wanting to antagonise him more than she already has.
"Don't we just," he agrees, walking with her. And then, with one squeeze of her hand, he leans over to add, "It's all right." In a stage whisper: "He's a bit of a whining bitch sometimes."
Dorian has already decided what he will do next. But that plan will only work when sundown comes. For now, for this moment, he is content to set it aside and enjoy the company of a friend in pleasantness—to drink tea, to sit together, to discuss when their next practice will be. All while planning to hunt down a wild, wounded thing and use unnatural force to make it listen.
Truly, they were all broken here. But each of them was mad in their own particular way.
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She steps between them for a moment, turning her back to Gilgamesh, before she smiles at Dorian.
"We can practice any time you like now that you've got the first bit done. We can do it here or in my rooms, wherever it's most comfortable for you. You know how to get in touch with me." Without anyone else being able to. That's what their mirrors are for; no one else knows about them, as far as she's aware, and it's a bit of a network for the both of them. Her smiles is soft, sweet, and her hand finds his and squeezes.
Dorian is her grounding point and she doesn't care that she's being a little rude; all she does is smile, squeeze his hand and nod her head, dropping her fingertips and shifting before she heads to the side of the room. Her bag and cloak are there and she pulls them on, deliberately letting herself ignore anything to do with Gilgamesh. She has no reason to try and be nice to him now -- just as much as he appears to have no more reason to be nice to her.
His desperation had obviously worn thin.
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There are more consequences to getting Dorian high than just making him suggestible.
He obeys the command, of course, follows his longing to its satiation, to Gilgamesh and his comforts and pleasures and company. Normally, Dorian is at least a little discrete in Hermione's company, but there is no discretion now in the arm he wraps around Gilgamesh's neck, in the kiss he takes from Gilgamesh's mouth. There is no sense of shame or self-awareness in the way he lets his body melt against his Servant's.
Also: there is no letting go of Hermione's hand. Resting most of himself against Gilgamesh, he turns his head to her, smiles with a serenity that suggests the loss of a few cognitive faculties. Even so, it is a smile full of love.
"Join us, Hermione. Please? The servants will bring us candied fruits and wonderful wine and we can lay in satin and talk of all the beautiful things in the world. We'll dress in flowing robes and sit under a canopy, and look on the sand that is our kingdom. Sands are always full of treasures, you know."
Not that Dorian has ever been ruler of a kingdom of sand.
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Things Gilgamesh didn't expect to happen: any of that. Well, he expected some of that, more specifically Hermione to keep huffing up a storm, but he'd been under the (apparently mistaken) presumption that Dorian would settle into a natural calm again and leave this loftier mood behind.
Except now it's been made even worse and he's left red-faced in the wake of it, not from the kiss or the contact but from that unfathomable suggestion that makes his stomach turn. A switch is thrown, a limiter released, and...
"Absolutely not!" Gilgamesh barks, all composure falling away in a single breath. "She'll just shove poison in my wine and lace my fruit with daggers and she'll laugh while I choke! Witch of a woman! Awful sorceress! She'll sick that lion on me for sure!"
And to Hermione... oh, to Hermione, who he no longer ignores but boasts at with full force, "He loves me the most so he's spending the most time with me! I decided! Myself, Gilgamesh, King of Heroes, without which none of this splendor would even be possible! You understand?! Don't think I don't know what you're up to! Pouting like that all along!"
Jab, jab, jab goes his finger, and finally:
"It isn't cute at all! I don't like it and I won't fall for it!"
But maybe Dorian would right now. Dorian probably would right now. He holds onto him possessively and seethes from head to toe.
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She can't laugh. No, she can't, surely, it would be so rude, but at the same time...
The laughter bubbles out of her, her hands smothering it as best as she can, her eyes moving between Gilgamesh and Dorian before she has to turn her head away so she can fight it. She isn't even angry, since the idea of it is all so ridiculous - as if Hermione Granger would do anything like that, as if she would poison anyone or set a patronus on someone, as if her magic, her lion, could even do that to him.
When she gets herself under control she moves, pretending that her turning away had only been to sort out the fastening on her cloak, adjusting the weight of her rapier at her side before she steps forward, holds her head high. She isn't, in this moment, the shy creature she'd been up to now; she is the Marchioness, the Protectress, and she just gives Gilgamesh a wry smile.
"It's very nice to see what you really think of me," she says, finally. "It's incredible that you think that I'm the type of person to poison you, to laugh at you while you're hurt. If you remember, Gilgamesh, I was the one that sat with you while you were upset. You are the person that tried to use me, the person that tried to use my position to hurt me, to make me your plaything, and just because I won't stand for it you get angry with me? I won't and I don't care what you say about me, but don't try to use Dorian's feelings as some kind of tool."
She glances at her friend before she swallows, her hands on her hips.
"I am not here to be cute. I am not here to pander to you, to pout or do anything, especially not with a king that doesn't have any kind of crown. You're not my king, Gilgamesh, and you are not my ruler. I am yours, I am Marchioness of this Citadel and I am Dorian's friend, before all of that. I am a witch, I am a sorceress, and I am proud of that and nothing you can say will change that, but it's very cute that you think that you throwing a fit is going to make a difference."
Breathing out, she hesitates before she looks over at Dorian, leaning over to kiss his cheek.
"Apparently, I don't love you as much as he does, so would you like me to give you a little space? It's your choice, Dorian, and I don't intend to make it for you."
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Gilgamesh makes loud pronouncements, and Hermione makes firm speeches. But Dorian answers them both with a voice still as sweet and simple as a flute. "Gilgamesh doesn't love me. He will not take me as a friend."
Yet he leans back back into Gilgamesh's grip, accepting the comfort of it. "And Hermione doesn't crave your blood. She is not a beast."
He thought he already made his choice, and he doesn't see why no one will listen to it. So, almost pouting, he concludes, "You each offer to me a different kind of happiness, so I should like to have both of you at once." And, that sad expression growing in strength, he adds, "You both make me happy."
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His armor fades and he smiles from ear to ear. He's not upset. He speaks slowly, soothingly, though his eyes never part from Hermione's, deep and red and if not upset, then madder beyond all belief. This realm has driven him to such lengths.
"That's right," Gilgamesh confesses. "It's all true. No... it's true in part. I'm the King of All That Blooms. I am the child of flowers that throws petals on the primrose path. I am beloved and I am adored even as I grovel on the ground before the likes of you. It's very nice, isn't it? When you're honest with yourself. When you don't hide your hatred. I respect that. It wasn't a lie, what I said before, I never lied, not once. I believe in you, Hermione Granger. I believe you'll go on to do great things, so in the future, don't hold back. I will only accept the finest venom from your tongue."
Gilgamesh's grip loosens and falls away. Dorian is shrugged aside, even as he's addressed directly. "I don't love anything or anyone save for the strength that exists within the human spirit. I won't be happy for anyone or anything, because I hate this world. I hate the people who smile at me and I hate the people who laugh most of all. See? I've always been honest, so I'll tell you something else."
The palm of his hand ghosts along the small of Dorian's back, and he's pushed toward Hermione. Not cruelly; not gently; somewhere in beween. "Dorian Gray broke long before we ever stumbled upon him. Can your friendship change that? Do you understand what I'm doing, what I'm saying? I'll leave it to you to figure out. Whatever the result, I'm sure it'll be fun. In regards to everything, the real truth of the matter is..."
The deepest sort of madness is always reflected in subtlties. Gilgamesh's smile hasn't faded at all. If anything, it only softens, only gains some measure of perverse brightness to it. This man has broken, too, long before anyone in all creation ever even met him.
"...I don't really care anymore, either."
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A part of her twists, wondering if this is what he had wanted all along. Gilgamesh had always wanted to see more of her, to see something different inside of her, more than just the girl turned woman she had slowly become. He wants venom from her and she had given it to him, pushed to the edge with all the pent up emotions that she hadn't dared express; she had been so afraid, so hurt and wounded, and she shifts, uncomfortable, the weight of her regret sinking into her.
This wasn't her, was it? She wasn't the kind of person to be so mean... Except when she snapped. She had hit Malfoy, she had hexed Marietta Edgecombe (though she had deserved it, the traitor), she had trapped Rita in a jar... She swallows, pushing her own thoughts down into the back of her mind and she ignores it, her breathing soft.
She steps up as soon as Dorian is pushed close to her, her arms slipping around him easily. Her eyes are narrowed at Gilgamesh for a moment before she squeezes him, tilting her head to kiss his cheek, to draw him closer, her hand lifting to stroke through his hand, thumb brushing over his jaw. She's careful with him, the love deep inside of her brimming up to the surface as Gilgamesh speaks.
"You make me happy too," she whispers to him, quiet and careful. "I know I tell you that all the time but I never stop meaning it. You're one of the best people I've ever met in my entire life - you're amazing, Dorian, and I'm glad that you're my friend." She leans against him, turning her eyes to Gilgamesh, her lips pressed tight together before she shifts, tucking herself against Dorian a little more - as if to protect him from the cruelty she can see in this golden king, as if her body would be enough to defend him when Dorian kisses him, holds him, longs for him.
Gilgamesh doesn't love Dorian, but Hermione does. She would do anything for him, even tolerate the strange discomfort and uncertainty she feels in Gilgamesh's company.
"But you don't understand, Gilgamesh. That's your undoing. There are so many things in this world, so many amazing things, but nothing is as powerful as love and friendship. That's what makes a patronus, that's what makes magic so pure and amazing accessible to us. You don't know anything about me, Gilgamesh. You don't know anything about who I am or what I want - and what I want is for Dorian to be himself." She breathes out. "I don't want him to change. I want him to be happy, whatever that means to him."
Her head turns and she tucks herself against Dorian a little more before she moves back, giving him the room to step back if he wants.
"I love him. And that is more important to me than anything else." She hesitates before she swallows. "And I could have loved you, too, if you had been honest with me from the very beginning. That was your mistake, not mine, and I would have done what I could to make you happy as well. You failed and you not caring? That's something you'll have to work on, live with. Because you could be happy here."
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And he is neither dethroned king nor raised-up Marchioness. He is not a being of magic, nor a mage of great power. He is just an empty vessel, untitled and unfulfilled, a void where a soul ought to be, and if he could just get it right, reach for love, fill in that emptiness, it would feel better.
But the love is never enough. He needs more and more and more. Dorian can feel the last of the magic slipping away from his fingers and it leaves an aching misery of a void.
So what Dorian does is this: he straightens, though he lets Hermione brace him, because even tired and intoxicated and on the edge of untamed emotion, he is still himself and unbreakable. He looks over them, his unfaltering friend, his tempestuous Servant, and in that glance he claims them both as his. He speaks: "I think that's the end of this."
No fine pronouncements or speeches from Dorian. Just a soft but enunciated decision. An assertion: the game is over, the players are to part. No more of this.
And then Gilgamesh may feel something familiar, although it is also strange. It is, after all, Gilgamesh who most often uses their bond this way. Who most often takes up the link as a vice to hold tight to his Servant. But now, the snake-grip is Dorian's, ravenous and constricting with the last drops of his untempered emotions: I don't care that you don't love me, I don't care what you will care for, wherever you go, I will find you tonight, tonight you're mine, always, you're mine, you're mine and a pull that could almost be physical for the force of it, yanking Gilgamesh to him not in body but in thought and mind.
Dorian glances at Hermione, and just like that: his mood switches to normal. "Can we get a servant with something to drink? I always get thirsty after things like this."
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And that is, indeed, the end of it. Bitter eyes cast towards Hermione for stealing his treasure away, and then he's moving on, moving past—at least until Dorian seizes upon his thoughts with such force Gilgamesh stumbles, isn't even allowed a graceful exit. More than anything Hermione has said, this puts him in true pain, and his face twists to reflect it.
"No."
Gilgamesh refuses the command. He refuses his Master and fires back, though blissfully keeps it in the realm of thoughts... for now. Bound this way, he has no choice but to abide Dorian until he lets go.
Your meddling has consequences. Look what it has done. Yet if you've truly no regrets, then it won't matter.
I won't come to you. Burn a Seal if it is your wish. But I won't come. Not this time.
Bed her instead, this vixen, this friend of yours. You may enjoy my company again when I give you permission, and not a moment sooner.
Dorian pulls; Gilgamesh pushes back, twice as hard, yanking on him in every feasible way, delivering the words that aren't, what he knows will sting.
I reject you, Dorian Gray.
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He had made his choice. She has to make hers.
It's eerie, the difference between how Dorian handles himself in the wake of Gilgamesh and the way he treats her. For all that he had been sure that their friendship would be over he is as kind to her as he had ever been, even as his mood dips into melancholy and sadness, even when she has to confirm her friendship and her love for him on occasion. The easy nature of his bond with Gilgamesh frustrates her if only because she wants it for herself; not necessarily with Dorian, but something like it. It's been a long time since Ron, a long time since she dared let herself hope, everything too busy and too dangerous in this world for her to think that anyone would want that with her.
She forces herself to smile, though, to be as much herself as possible in the wake of Dorian's switch. She nods her head, hesitant before deciding not to reach for his hand or his embrace. She feels prickly, as if she's on the edge of another outburst, not sure of herself. None of today had gone like she planned and the guilt twists in her stomach - she upset Dorian, she upset Gilgamesh, and there is going to be talk. She's sure of that.
"Of course. I'll go and ask, if you want to stay here, or we can go somewhere else."
Her lips purse for a moment, her expression tense, before she finally gathers herself and holds her head high.
"I'm sorry for arguing with him. You love him and you care about him and I should be more respectful of that."
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I do not reject you. I accept and embrace you. Always. Rejection? Dorian has faced rejection. And he has changed its mind, over and over and over. I will call for you. And if you don't come, then I will come for you. My King of Kings, don't think you can shake me off so easily. I am not the man you chose because I surrender so easily as that.
And yet when Dorian looks at Hermione, he is almost himself again. The Dorian that Hermione knows. "Don't put it on yourself, Hermione. Frankly, I can't hold for him something he'll never give me, and no one should have to abide by what he demands." Except Dorian. With a brightened smile, he takes her hand. "Take me inside before I swoon? Or people won't believe I'm not a Victorian anymore."
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Yet Gilgamesh commits a fatal error and assumes that it is. He turns from Dorian and says nothing more, leaving the same way he entered—as a measly ball of light to carry his spirit far from here.
They are fated souls. As usual, they've much to think on for later. For now, Gilgamesh wishes to think of everything except for Dorian Gray.
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"Let's go, then." She smiles, reaching for his hand and taking it. "I can't let anyone think that you're a Victorian, not with how different you've grown. We have to keep up your reputation, don't we, Mr. Gray?"
She steps forward, leading him out, careful to keep her hand in his and her expression gentle, not wanting to antagonise him more than she already has.
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Dorian has already decided what he will do next. But that plan will only work when sundown comes. For now, for this moment, he is content to set it aside and enjoy the company of a friend in pleasantness—to drink tea, to sit together, to discuss when their next practice will be. All while planning to hunt down a wild, wounded thing and use unnatural force to make it listen.
Truly, they were all broken here. But each of them was mad in their own particular way.