[ Sitting, Hermione watches him with a wary kind of confusion that doesn't really feel right on her shoulders. She's used to being trusting, to putting her faith in people even when it might be misguided, and adapting to the fact that she isn't sure where she can lay that kind of trust is a new concept for her. It's true that at home the lines of good and bad were blurred but she had known who she could trust and, even when her friends had disbelieved her, there had been a small sense of satisfaction in knowing that, most of the time, she was right.
It's harder here, in the Drabwurld, with expectations and clearer lines - at least, initially. The idea of Seelie against Unseelie had seemed so simple two years ago, when the battles were far out of sight and friendships were being made all over the place, but now? There was fighting and discontent, there were dangers everywhere, and she knew that there were people on either side that would be more than happy to see her dead and gone. She'd seen it barely a few months before, her nightmares still a prickle on the edge of her senses at times.
None of this makes knowing how to handle herself around Gilgamesh easier. She trusted Dorian who seemed to trust Gilgamesh, with a strange sort of camaraderie that came from their connection, their relationship, but she doesn't know if she can trust the man himself. After all that had happened between them she isn't sure how to handle herself around him, especially in situations where it was just the two of them.
He doesn't come into the room, despite her invitation, and she frowns as she pushes herself up and grabs her things. She's wary, of course, but there are some things that are obvious; the wand she shoves up her sleeve, the bag she picks up and the ring dangling around her neck. She might not be sure of Gilgamesh but Dorian was - and it was better to have a final lifeline than it was to regret not abusing it, surely. ]
Of course.
[ She isn't afraid of him, strangely enough. For all that he had hurt her and tried to use her he had never attacked her, despite the damning words he had thrown at her face in his anger. Hermione knows she had snapped too and, in her stubbornness, had said something that she didn't entirely mean even if the passion had been the basis of it. It was hard to come to terms with letting her anger get the better of her but it wasn't the first time - and knowing her own stubborn determination she's sure it wouldn't be the last time either. ]
Are you going to eat another dozen lemon cakes?
[ It's a gentle tease, trying to cast away some of the tension as she walks forward. For us, he said, the emphasis obvious, and Hermione knows that she walks to his side like a wary cat, smiling even as she keeps her wits about her. ]
[He was leaving because none of it felt right on his shoulders, either. So used to getting his own way, so accustomed to having his demands fulfilled at the snap of his fingers, Hermione had taken him by surprise. Just as she'd be an apt pupil, she'd proven a fierce lionness in defense of herself. Whereas most would've crumbled beneath his gaze and given way to his sheer strength of will, she pushed back. In fact, she pushed so hard that it might even be said Gilgamesh has yet to find his footing again.
But he knows now that his travels should take him elsewhere. He smiles a little when she joins him, and broader still when she teases like they were companionable again, like the trust was solid and firm instead of a thin red line drawn in the sand. A pretty red ribbon and a pretty red ring.
You're so good at pretending, he notes as they walk along, as his eyes trail to that ring. But have you forgotten yourself because of that? Pretty little magus.]
Dorian suggested a diet. [The dryness to his tone also suggests it went over poorly.] I don't have to eat. It's an indulgence. But I do enjoy tea, and plenty of wine, too. It makes life worth living, those sorts of luxuries.
[He has to wonder about that armor, though. It looked good on her, enviably so, and he can't but poke fun at her in return.]
You were quite the handsome knight just now. I should say I'm surprised you've taken up swordplay, but... it suits you.
[ For all that she might appear a little naive, sometimes, Hermione isn't an idiot; she's the brightest witch of her age, a strong and proud student, and she knows when people are taking note of her. Once, she used to imagine what they might think, if they thought about her blood heritage or the fact that Harry Potter was her best friend, maybe that they dwelled on all the things she had done at his side to try and keep people safe. Here, she thinks Gilgamesh must be looking at the ring she wears around her neck.
It's not proud, exactly, but she knows that he's aware of it just as much as she is, a hyper vigilance that makes her hands twitch to want to go and grab at it, to tuck it under her shirt and keep it out of sight. It's there as a beacon of something that she isn't sure she can explain properly. If she's in trouble he had promised he'd come, even if she knows it would be a token to use as a final, last resort, when she has no other hope and no other means of helping herself. She has more pride than to just use it for the sake of using it and she wonders if he's aware of that.
Her smile is still soft when she looks at him, shaking her head as if the joke they're playing at is utterly ridiculous. ]
He would suggest a diet when we spend enough time together eating jam and scones. [ She can imagine how well that particular debate went and it makes her smile a little brighter. ] If you don't have to then it shouldn't do anything to you, right? And if it does then he can just watch as you run around the training yard for a little while.
[ His returned hit, like a poke of the rapier, makes her cheeks turn a little red even as she holds her head high, denying herself the embarrassment. ]
I've been learning how to duel properly since the tournament in Treun. The Red Hand sent the best teachers to the Citadel and I've been working with them ever since then. I thought it made sense to have the right clothing to protect myself, not just the right skills.
[ She shakes her head. ]
It was a little garish and a bit big for me, I think.
Is that what you were doing? I figured he was suffering the poor Marchioness through more of his poetry again...
[Was this all they could manage with each other now? Polite little quips, back-and-forth, civil glances exchanged in the face of everything else that wasn't. He curses Dorian. He hates Dorian as much as he adores him. If not for him, then...
If not for him, he'd have less than nothing now. Gilgamesh lets the brief rush of anger go. He'd brought this upon himself. Hermione stuck that particular thorn in as far as it could go, far enough he'd never forget it.
She's as endearing as ever, in her quiet sort of way, and he hates that too. He really does hate Hermione Granger, just as he hated Saber. All these beautiful women in his life who defied him at every turn. All these silly little girls he'd fall forever and a half for. He'd choke her with that bloody ring if he could, and at least then it would've been all for him and no one else.
The servants await him outside his door. They look concerned, but he waves them off before they can say much. Hermione will see it firsthand once she enters that the room is nearly empty now. She is a silly girl, and a terribly smart one. She will see it and she will know without a word on the matter.]
I suppose we're a little spoiled, aren't we? Servants, I mean. [His smile turns a touch wry.] Strength is effortless for us. We can win wars all on our own, decimate entire nations, conquer half the world in a matter of days. If we want to protect ourselves, we just do, and that's all there is to it.
[Especially for a King among them, who once possessed a great treasury to fill them all with envy. Once, but no more.]
We don't live like humans. We live only to fight. That's the curse of the Grail, some have said.
I don't suffer his poetry, I enjoy it. It's quite charming.
[ It's strange, she thinks, that they're trying to act as if nothing had happened between them, as if he hadn't hurt her - even if, now, she thinks that she can't really blame him. He had seen the best parts of her, the things that had made her strong and good enough to help at Hogwarts and at Harry's side, and she supposes it's only right that he saw that and picked up on it and wanted to have it. She knows the Drabwurld and as much as it hurt, and stung, she knows that power is everything.
Accepting that is hard. She wants there to be more than just a race for power, a race to push and fight to end a war that she's somehow in the middle of, rising up as a part leader, but she knows that right now things are more than just fighting because it's the right thing to do. It's fighting because there's no other option and that's hard, it's incredibly hard, and she's still not sure how to rationalise that in her head. The blood on her hands feels like a literal stain and she can't do anything to get rid of it.
This is what war does to people and, here, in the Drabwurld, there's nothing she can do to avoid that. She just has to keep trying to keep the people she loves safe.
Hermione smiles at the servants and watches as they leave, a little concerned as her eyes flick over them - and she's right to be concerned, she thinks, as she steps inside and sees the room. It's easy to put the pieces together and she hesitates before she turns back to look at Gilgamesh, a mixture of distrust and confusion prickling over her. ]
I'd like to think that it doesn't have to be that way. That we shouldn't have to live just to fight. What about friendship, and love, those things? They should be important too, shouldn't they? Even for a Servant, even if you don't think you deserve it. But I suppose that it's not the case for everyone, that things aren't so simple. You can't just tick boxes of feelings and make them happen.
[ She shakes her head. She's not naive enough to believe that it's going to be that simple and she hasn't been for years. It reminds her of Voldemort, that had been so without love and so tainted that it made everything he touched just as dark, his inability to love and be happy souring him so desperately. She doesn't want to see that happen to someone she knows. ]
It would be nice to be able to protect people so easily, but I'm sure it comes at a cost.
[They should be important too, shouldn't they? Even for a Servant.
But I'm sure it comes at a cost.
It strikes too raw for him to ignore, and his eyes flicker away as if she's hit him. Perhaps she has, in a way, bringing up friendship and love and all those things he really did understand once upon a time—all those things she doubted of him yet was the very first to show among all mankind.
He'd like to think it doesn't have to be that way, either. That he could still have what he sought from her and she'd still look at him like she believed in the lie of a person he sold to that charming little magus. Lies were only as good as the liars that told them, and the thought of not being good enough rankles.
He's not good enough to just tick boxes off and make it happen anymore. He hasn't been since Enkidu breathed his very last.]
Here.
[Gilgamesh strides ahead of her, to the table that's been prepared. It's lonely and small compared to the emptiness of the room, but the tea wafts a warm and welcoming smell from its tray. A tray beside a plate full of lemon cakes, since she knows him too well for her own good now.
He pulls out her chair and acts cordially for the knightess-in-training. He smiles to keep up the facade. He speaks softly to hide the fact he'd dash her across the floor in an instant to get what he wanted, in love as ever with exactly what he can't have. He's worse than Voldemort could ever be: someone who can't love but clings to the delusion of it anyway, once upon a sunny day in Uruk.]
Catch me up on everything. From every strike of your sword to every dash of your pen. I want to hear.
[ All she can do is walk forward when she's invited, moving forward and letting him sit her, letting herself play the game and the act of formality and politeness. It's been instilled in her for months, now, how to be kind and gentle and hold her head up high, to let herself move and let her back be straight, arms across her lap. It's not like she's in a formal situation now, though, and she relaxes a little.
It's not that she's offering Gilgamesh friendship any more, not in the way she had done easily, no matter how much she believes that he deserves it. It's a little easier to pretend that nothing had happened, at least for now, to ignore the way she feels stung and strange, and to let herself smile and settle and play the game of being allies. A part of her wants to go back to the easygoing friendship they shared, secret sharing and lion talks, settling together as friends that were happy.
It would be nice to get back to that point.
Hermione takes in the table, eyebrows raising as she notes the lemon cakes - her tease had been right, after all - and she breathes in the smell of the tea, letting it calm her even as she turns her head to look at him, to nod and adjust herself to get a little more comfortable. It feels like something they'd done together so long ago but the atmosphere is different, far less teasing and less like playful banter. This is a little more tense, formal and polite, and she nods her head before she begins to speak. ]
It's been very quiet, actually. You saw me trying on the armour? I was testing to see which style worked best with what I wanted to do if I was ever in a fight. I have a shield and some swords, and my rapier, so I thought I should get the last piece of the set as well.
[ It's not quite the dazzling gleam of his armour, of course, but it's not like she needs something so spectacular. ]
Keeping up with friends in letters, making sure my road is safe, that sort of thing. What about you?
[She's the most beautiful sort of doll going through those mechanical motions. Move forward, sit, raise the head high, kindness and gentleness, smile just so, answer just right. Even if she'll always lack the proper fortitude for battle, she'll never lack the proper manners for the table. Even if she'll never cut others down with the same casual air as a Servant, she'll maintain her humanity to the end.
If only she knew how many of them would envy her for it. But not Gilgamesh. Not anymore.
Gilgamesh takes the seat across from her and pours her cup first, then his.]
Pivot on the heel, then thrust. Lean your weight onto your dominant foot and use the other to ground your stance.
[Advice offered without asking, and Hermione can therefore rest assured it's earnest. He is no swordsman of Saber's caliber, but he's handled all manner of weaponry before, blades and shields alike. This too he speaks as a Servant, as one born to fight, who lived and died as a being enslaved to the Grail.
Her friends. Her road. Gilgamesh tries not to bristle, eyes flickering to the twin crowns still resting on the windowsill.]
I'm returning to Leathann. Where I am King. Where I am beloved.
[A weaker man's hands would've shaken. A weaker man would've thrown them in her face. He refuses to be that man today.]
[ Although she doesn't say it, only nods with a smile, she does appreciate the advice. It's the same type of thing Lancelot had told her, the same thing her teachers had been telling her for months. Use her dominant side, focus on that, adjust, use her smaller stature and her ability to move a little faster, if need be, to dodge and move. It made sense; she wasn't the type of person with a great deal of physical strength and she was still learning how to make that work for her, how to actually survive when she had to do something with sword in hand.
Hermione wasn't a warrior, she was a witch, but she felt like the lines were beginning to blur.
Reaching out, she takes her cup, sipping and relaxing for a moment before she turns her head to listen to him.
Something strikes her when he speaks, an echo of a memory, a sudden rush of shame and guilt making her stare, unblinking, watching his face. 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...
She swallows. ]
I've heard that Leathann is quite nice. I'm sure you'll be very comfortable there.
[ And, after a moment's hesitating - ]
And you'll be able to handle any escaped prisoners from last year, too.
They put flowers in my hair and joined my merry company, the children of those streets.
[Yes, he remembers it, too. The words that stung with anger and with hurt. The truest side of the fiercest Marchioness, who hurled all that childishness back in his face and made him suffer for it. But not again. Never again.
She's right to hesitate. She's right to feel guilt. This was her fault.
Even so, he can't find the frustration to blame her for it. Indeed, sipping his tea, shutting his eyes, he appears very much at peace, at the prospect of leaving the place where he's no longer welcome and finding his way home again. He has come to terms with his situation and perhaps he should really be thanking her for that slap in the face—it woke him up in more ways than one.
He still would wish her off the face of the earth, but only with his hand dangling after her, ready to scoop her back up again.]
Do you see them? By the window. They were gifts given to me by people who'd call themselves my friends, but the truth of the matter is...
[Those eyes are strangely soft once they open. Reminiscent of a far away time he'll never reach again. Infinite and boundless, bloody and red.]
...I don't have any here. It must wound them too.
[And he doesn't look the slightest bit sorry for it. Only sorry for the one friend he's left forever behind.]
[ Putting words to how she feels is strange, right now. She does feel guilty, in an awkward, sad sort of way, knowing that this may well have been her fault in part. She had tried to make Gilgamesh feel welcome initially but she had snapped, her anger hitting a point where it linked hands with her frustration and her own pain and she had ripped into him because of it, used him as an emotional punching bag.
There was no denying that he'd earned it, of course, and that he had stepped into the line of fire when he insulted her and accused her with his own rudeness, but that doesn't mean she doesn't feel bad about her own retort. She had stood up for herself in the face of someone that she knew was far more than the mask he put on, something worse, but that was fine. She had seen far worse than Gilgamesh in her time, she told herself, and she quashed her own guilt with her own determination.
Her head turns to look at them, his crowns, and she softens for a moment. ]
They're beautiful.
[ It's instinct, her own nature, that has her reaching over to touch his hand when he continues, something soft inside of her still wanting to see him happy. It was foolish, she knew, but it was her heart that made her strong, not her anger. ]
You do have friends, Gilgamesh. [ A pause, unsure, then - ] You have me.
[The compliment just gets a smooth little smile out of him, like the hazy rays of summer.]
Of course I did. I'm the child of the sun. That's why I favor gold.
[She's right to feel guilty, but Gilgamesh would still chide her for it. Time has passed and tempers have cooled and he's accepted his punishment—not because he wronged in hurting her, but because he wronged in telling such a transparent lie. He wasn't so clever, wasn't so invincible, and he'd lost her hand because of it.
But she never gave back the box. She still wore the ring. She tries to fight off what she has every right to feel, and he notices this, and he wonders if he should pity her in all her loneliness. If he should forgive the pretty Marchioness, bound up in her room by duty and by station, never to prowl the halls as lionness again.
He's reaching for a cake when she's reaching for his hand. This insufferable girl really does get in the way of everything enjoyable.]
I have one. No more, no less.
[Here, he will assert himself. He will tell her what he couldn't back then, that she was wrong, that they all were to judge him so.]
I loved him. That was my story, Hermione. That is the basis of my legend, of my Epic. The strength of friendship you speak of, the power that knows no bounds... it began with me. [More desperately, as when he confessed to it:] I wanted to tell you but couldn't find the time. I wanted you to know.
[ His smile relaxes her, softens the blow, and she hesitates before she nods her head. Gilgamesh is handsome, a little like sunlight sometimes - beautiful to look at but something that leaves you red and raw if you stare or get too close, the after-effects holding on to your skin for weeks after.
He is beautiful, but being around him burns.
It's hard to admit that, maybe, there was something of herself in the way that he spoke, the way that he praised friendship. It might be true that his legend was a start, that maybe his friendship was one of the first, and that is something unique, something amazing, and she can feel how it inspires him. She knows that she feels something similar and she shifts, moving forward, adjusting their hands ever so slightly - her fingers slide between his, slowly, the top of his palm touching against Gilgamesh's, and her thumb brushing over his skin.
It's gentle, soft, careful, and she doesn't want to push. She knows that they have things that they're not going to talk about - the dead weight around her neck, the unapologised words from the training room, his relationship with Dorian, his anger, all of it - but she understands what he's saying. The things that he says, wants, it curls around her and settles because it's like a reflection of her own desires. To have friendship, someone you love, so passionately and powerfully that you would end it all to be at their side to protect them... It's not unfamiliar to her.
Once, she was prepared to walk into a forest filled with Dark Wizards that would torture, maim and kill her, just so Harry wouldn't be alone as he died. She thinks she can understand and, when she speaks, her voice is careful, trying to choose her words properly instead of blurting them out and seeming to be an idiot, a child instead of the woman she knows herself to be. ]
People prize intelligence, you know, and reading, learning. I do, too, I can't really deny that. But friendship is one of the most important things in the entire world. Having friends, having people to love and care about, makes you - anyone - far stronger than they would be if they were alone. There is something really beautiful about it, knowing that there'll be someone there to help you or take care of you whenever you need it, that will love you even in the darkest of times.
[ And then her memory flicks to Dorian and she pauses. She loves him, even knowing his soul, knowing he swings between loving her and wanting to leave her, his own confusion. It's what friendship means to her, tied in with her own natural dedication and stubbornness. ]
I'm glad you told me. And I'm glad you invited me for tea.
[ A breath, a squeeze of her fingers around his, gentle. ]
They're holding hands and it burns. He doesn't want to feel relaxed around her; he doesn't want to soften the blow; he wants it to sting and wants it to go away all at once. He wants to get that image out of his head of a proud young lady posturing in a proud set of armor; he wants to engrave it forever in his memories. He wants to throw her off the edge of the earth and he wants to drown her and set her ablaze and delight in her suffering. She's mortal and foolish and still he wants her all to himself.
He told her back then she could make of his proposal whatever she wished, but now he really would marry this Hermione Granger. For power. For influence. But most importantly for stubbornness, just to say that he could, just to settle that childish score between them.
They're holding hands and she's gentle with him. Too gentle, and he drifts because of it, pictures someone else in her stead. He clings to her too quickly, and it gives away his own loneliness, how both hands wrap around hers. They are strong and protective and all the things he once pretended to be with her.
He's not pretending right now. The light of his mana dances over her skin, settles in. He gifts her strength and fortitude without even thinking about it, as he always would before their lessons. This is the will of the King of Heroes who has been touched by her compassion and reveals himself for the crownless wanderer he's been since he arrived.]
He will always love you more than me.
[It's such a pathetic thing to say. It's his only form of apology, this sad little surrender. His heart sinks.]
And I will always love that small part of you, even from many miles away, where I can do you no harm.
[So much for not talking about it. Gilgamesh just spilled all of it all over the place.]
[ Holding hands is a little like second nature to Hermione now.
When she was scared she would grab at Ron or Harry, wrap herself around them in quick bursts of affection, fingers linked with fingers and arm around arm. She's held hands with so many of her friends here, drawing them close and seeking out the smallest of physical contact to ease the pain, to draw away that loneliness and suffering that can leave you aching and sad when it's time to go to bed. It's not just something to be done in fear or sadness, though, it's something that can be done in comfort and tenderness too and that's what this is.
Her other hand comes, covers his, her fingers settling along across his knuckle as her head lifts to look at him. Hermione's not sure what to make of his expression or the way he looks at her, not knowing what he really thinks about her - some kind of woman that would poison him or stab him in the dark, a stupid mage, all the things he's said compared to all the things she thinks must be lies when he was trying to marry her. She's not foolish enough to believe that all of this is true, but she's starting to get a sense of who Gilgamesh is.
He's honest, for the most part, but there is something like a veil, like he hides what he really thinks with tidbits of truth. It frustrates her because she does, as much as she can, try to be honest, to be careful and sure, to not offer things that might hurt or be untrue, but he doesn't have that kind of concern. She can appreciate the honesty even if she's hurt by it because it's a part of who he is, how she sees him, and she knows that there's not much she can do to change him - because he is his own person, even if he sees himself as a Servant that isn't capable of the same feelings and wants that she is.
Her hands squeeze his and her face sets in determination. ]
And I'm always going to love him. It's not a contest, Gilgamesh. I'm sure the love is different. He's my best friend, not...
[ Her lover. She'd seen the kisses, the secret little things they'd shared, the shift of her own discomfort, and she had been confused. It's none of her business, though, of course; she wasn't engaged to Gilgamesh, despite wearing his ring as a token around her neck, a reminder, like personal baggage and a safety net, and she had no right to comment - especially since she'd kissed Dorian a handful of times. It's not jealousy, exactly, but it's something, that familiar ache and longing for something the same, her own kind, someone to love her that she knows she can love back completely.
A pause, a breath, and she hesitates. ]
And I'll care about you, too, even when you're gone. You still have your compass, after all, and I don't think I'll be rid of you quite yet.
[ He does have a bad habit of popping up at the best and worst times. Gilgamesh has seen her at her best - the proud Marchioness, rising up at a party, in training, in armour - and at her worst - the lioness turned rabid, blood around her mouth and flesh in her stomach; the young girl twisted with new jealousy that she wants to stop down and ignore. She wonders what he thinks of her, really, and then decides that she doesn't want to know. It would be easier that way.
She's still holding his hand. She hasn't let go, and she doesn't intend to, not until he does, her fingers warm, familiar tingles that hark back to lessons that have long since been abandoned. ]
I don't think I can really escape you, can I?
[ It's said as a tease, a gentle poke, but a part of her wonders just how true that is. ]
[I don't want it. I'll throw it away. He'll say it and make her cry. He swears to himself he will but doesn't. Her words are few compared to all those troubled thoughts rolling around in that tenacious little head, but he knows when he's being looked at—truly looked at—and assessed. She's considering him and he doesn't like it. He doesn't like that she cares for him and he doesn't like that she won't make this easy.
Why aren't you yelling? Why aren't you hateful? Why aren't you mad? These are the only things Gilgamesh thinks of in comparison. Maybe he was like that once, just and good and brave for the sake of his friend. He doesn't even remember anymore. He already wants to forget this ever happened.
With her hands in his, he lowers his forehead to them, as if in prayer. It is the greatest display of submission he will allow before anyone. It is the truest sign Gilgamesh no longer holds any lasting spite in this game of theirs, because childishness won't win him the match.]
Don't escape.
[Everyone only ever sees him at his worst. Only the worst is left over. The best was left behind with Enkidu. A weaker man's hands would shake. His do. He isn't weak. He tells himself this again and again and sinks further into the delusion that he can have this woman anytime he wants, the same as he can have Saber.
Saber won't even look at him. The thought of Hermione forgetting him is...]
Don't go. I want to come back. I want to see the lance. I want to remember.
[The real truth of the matter is that Gilgamesh is terrified of being forgotten by anyone.]
[ Hermione knows that she is being lenient with him, that the accusations and the cruelty he had shown her not so long before are still a heavy weight in her mind, that it isn't going to be something she will forget soon, but even as she knows that she is also aware of who she is. She isn't the type of person to be unjustly cruel; she is the type of person to fight for those that can't fight for themselves, that would walk a harder path with dedication and would rise up in defence of her friends and her loved ones because she had the power to help.
Now, before her, is a man she doesn't understand, a man that is sad and broken and she doesn't know how to fix it. She doesn't know if it's her words that hurt him or the fact that he is leaving - or something else, something she can't name or put words to, something that happened a thousand years ago - he is that old, after all, and she would never hope to guess. He's not like trying to figure out what's upset Harry or Ron; teenage boys are not the same as the people she has gotten to know here and that is something new she has to try and begin to understand.
His hands shake and Hermione feels a tug, a pull, something that makes her want to reach out for him. She doesn't want him to suffer, or to be alone, just as much as she doesn't want to be alone herself, a dark part of her thinking that if he can have friends, if he can be cared for even when he can say such awful things, then she can keep hers too. That if they found out her secrets the worst wouldn't come to pass; they'd understand. ]
Gilgamesh.
[ Slowly, she pushes herself up and moves, taking her hands away from his and walking around the table. Hermione is careful with the action, a little unsure and nervous, despite having done something much like this before. It's been a long time since they were close, however, since any time where his arms had been around her and as hers move, slipping around his body and drawing him close, hoping to offer him comfort, she thinks on it and wonders if she is showing more and more weakness in the face of someone that would hurt her all the more for it. ]
It's going to be there. Our lance will be there, okay? I'm not going to go anywhere.
[ She doesn't know if she'll ever be sent home or if she will make it to the end of the war, but she would like to stay. She'd like to see this through and even if she doesn't make it a solemn promise she does do what she can to assure him, to lift a hand to touch the back of his head and rest there, eyes closed for a moment. ]
We'll remember our lessons, won't we? And our dance, in Redgate, and our tea - or the time you ate what felt like two dozen lemon cakes before running around like a monkey in a tower. We're not going to forget that.
[ Is there anyone capable of forgetting Gilgamesh without magical assistance? ]
[He was the strongest of his own era and she the brightest of hers. He fought God and won; she fought the devil and escaped with her life. He wandered the world in his madness and she combed the earth in search of an end to it. They're too alike for his tastes and she's too insightful, too good at stripping him down and humiliating him simply by being herself—too adept at simply bearing the hurt and carrying on anyway. His had destroyed him.
She's getting up and there's that urge to flee again. She's letting go of his hands and he almost pleads no, don't but it's much too late for that, for many things. He doesn't want to suffer or to be alone or to be here at all, frankly, though this disappears as well when arms slip around him and pull him in. There's no heavy armor to get in the way or prickly layers to refuse her. He just accepts it, and this time, she hasn't made a mistake.
This time, her hand is taken to his face and his lips turn to its palm and it is near reverent, his reply, his answer to those words.]
I will remember.
[No longer I want to, but I will. No hidden motive, just raw desire. This is something Hermione can have for herself. This is something she's earned. This is real.]
I will hang on your wall so you may look at me often. Remember that, too. I was good—I was.
[A good king, a good man, a lost cause. This is for the best.]
[ She can't comment on the reality of his goodness, not really. For all that she's seen of him he's swung between marks of A and B, leaving her a little confused and out of sorts when she tries to think about the way she feels about him when she lets herself dwell. She has seen something awful inside of him, something that she has to be faced with, but there's something strange inside of her that she can't really put into words. Hermione has always been the type of person with faith and forgiveness; she had believed in Snape, in Malfoy, in Dumbledore, perhaps when she shouldn't, when she had seen the worst in them, and she thinks it must be the same when she sees Gilgamesh.
Hermione knows what loneliness can do to people. Remus was one example, a man shamed for something he can't control, and Snape was another, twisted in his own anger over mistakes that he had made when he was far younger. Her arms slide around him as easily they did Remus, this time last year, comforting him in his loneliness and his sadness, his regret, just as much as she feels it from Gilgamesh. Hermione is used to fading into the background, into letting herself be support, so being remembered is not something she worries about.
It seems to be so much to him, though, and it tugs at her. It's such a simple desire and it's something she can give him without hurting too much, without losing a part of herself, so why shouldn't she? ]
I'm glad to hear it.
[ She relaxes, lets her hand brush over his cheek, her smile a little shy even as she offers it. Unsure of what to say, she stays silent for a moment, barely enough, before she shakes her head and squeezes him with her arm again. ]
I know you were. It's okay, I won't forget.
[ How can she forget him, forget some of the niceness he has shown her, even as doubts flicker in her mind, when she wears his ring around her neck and has his gift on her wall, a beacon for anyone to understand they're bound in their own way? ]
[There are only awful things now. On a different day, a better day, he would've told her as much. With Dorian, in their private chambers and private moments, he brags of that monster Hermione has witnessed herself. He drives terrible pain into her friend and delights in it. He dreams of a world broken apart and scattered and he drinks in the blood of those foolish enough to offer it to him.
Hermione, however... he can only offer her a ring and a lance. As she reached for his hand, he reaches to close his fingers around that ghost of a promise she wears. Is it a memory? Is it a punishment? Why would she do it to herself? Maybe it's a weight she can't shrug off, either. The weight of a friend who wasn't. The weight of a wish spurned.
She's glad, she's glad and it makes him so mad that he really would choke her with that damn chain if half the Citadel wouldn't hunt down his head on a pike for it. It sounds like the truth and it's risky to believe in. She'll poison his wine, lace his bread with daggers, he swears that she will even as he hangs in her grip as a pitiful creature.]
I lived with a priest, once. He told me I would drown in sin and I laughed at him, because he could not see what I was wading in.
[Telling the truth is the worst sort of sin for Gilgamesh. It only ever gets him into trouble. His hand shifts, into her hair, and his face tilts, into her shoulder, to hide there.]
I can't live like you, Hermione. In that world of humans. In a world of sympathy and softness. It's a world only for you and yours.
[ The sudden lift, the reminder of the ring around her neck, has her pausing. The chain is from the gift he had given her, a soft silver thread of something that unifies them as surely as the ring does, taken from the lance and slid through it to tie it around her neck, like a brand, twined with a golden chain to keep it strong and safe. It's not just a reminder of the fact that Gilgamesh said that he would protect her, of course, it's a little more than that. It's because Dorian had said it made sense to have the protection, in part, but it's also to remind her of the fact that trust, even one earned, can sometimes hurt, and be sharp.
His hand is on the ring and she thinks, for a minute, that she might have stopped breathing. She doesn't want to consider it, she doesn't want him to pay attention to it, to make reference to it. If she can make it she wants him to ignore it, ignore the meaning, pretend that nothing has happened and nothing is important in the fact that it's around her neck. It's there because it's easy, she tells herself, even when she knows it's a lie. The ring means a thousand different things and she has no idea where to start when it comes to expressing that.
As Gilgamesh shifts her hand moves; it's a mirror, his hand in her hair as her hand finds his, stroking along it and breathing out a little, trying to swallow back the onset of too much. Her love fr her friends is so intense it might well be suffocating and this, even knowing what Gilgamesh is, is no different. He was friend first, after all. ]
You're not the only one that's - that's done bad things. I'm not going to say it's okay, but I understand.
[ She has done things, too. Wiped memories, broken into places, hurt people, copied their faces to crawl around and find information, killed to protect herself and her friends. None of it is good, but she did it for a good reason; does that make it better? It's a question she doesn't want to consider but she has to. ]
You could live with us, though. Alongside us. You don't have to be alone.
[ He has Dorian, after all, and her head turns, drawing him tighter, her heart bleeding for what she thinks she sees. ]
[It's a suitably romantic sort of embrace they're caught up in. Arms and hands tangled, emotions strewn every which way. Weights that are too heavy and reminders that are too much. Standing too close to the sun hurts. Staring into it blinds as little else can. Hermione's blinding in her own right, and he's too predatory by nature to ignore the catch in her breath. She'd look so beautiful torn in two. She looks beautiful even now, uncertain, unsteady, as they both are.
He suffocates in her and gladly so. Even knowing what he is, perhaps better than most, she lingers. Just as there was the Boy Who Lived, now there was the Girl, who stood too close to the sun and wore her survival as a prize around her neck. It is an accomplishment no one else can boast of.
The blood gem housed in the ring sings to life with the spreading of his fingers. It answers his call with a silent summon of his magic and shines.]
I can break it.
[An offer to undo, erase, turn back the clock. If she won't give it back by his own order, he can make it like it never even was. The sole kindness he has to spare. Brushing lips over her brow, he mutters beside her ear:]
I would never speak of it again. I would not come back if you willed it so. I would honor that. [Breathily:] Beautiful Marchioness, who heralds over me.
[ The offer strikes her, for a moment, and she gives it due consideration. Her first instinct is to reach up and tug it off, to hand it back - does it mean anything now, the ring, the connection between the two of them? Does the ring have any meaning other than her own pain hanging around her neck as a reminder? It isn't just an echo of her pain... It's an echo of a time when she had been sure that she had been cared for and something had snapped under her. When she had thought there was something good in her hands and it had been ripped away from her, leaving her sad and uncertain.
Gilgamesh has seen so much of her, knows so much about her, and she doesn't know if she can just let go of that. A part of her wants to give up on all of that and shove it in his face, to throw the ring at him and dismiss all of this as the cruel joke she thought it was. To just... Abandon this, to give it all up. It's not that easy, though, to just let her fingers slip away from something that she had been clinging to for so long. The ring around her neck is not as deadly or as dangerous as the locket she had worn in her own world but it had the weight of darkness about it that reminded her of that time.
Her hand lifts, slowly, leaning back as she lets her fingers rest over his, to shake her head. This must be the wrong choice, she's sure of it, even if it is a further gift of protection. What would Dorian say, Remus say, John and Mako and Korra and all her friends that have no idea about half of this, about the mixture of confusion and prickling frustration that she feels when she thinks about him? ]
If I called for you would you still come?
[ It's something she had wondered about. Even wearing the ring, even with the knowledge that he might have meant it in earnest, she hadn't been certain he'd bother any more. ]
If I was in trouble and I asked for you to help would you help me, Gilgamesh? Not because I'm your Marchioness but because we could be friends, once we've learned how to do it. If you don't want that to be what this means then, please, break it. I just don't know what to do about it any more, what I should feel about it.
[ Because he doesn't love her; he wanted her power, her magic, the pulse of something that aches inside of her. ]
[For a moment, he believes Hermione has made her choice. He cannot read her thoughts but he's learned, over time, to read her expressions, the little bits of body language that so defined her. The quirk of a smile, the raise of a brow, that ever so subtle lift to her tone whenever she was so sure of something—which didn't happen as often now, but it left no room for doubt of her ability. She struggles with herself but in that moment, Gilgamesh believes she'll let go of the ring.
She doesn't. She's pulling back and away and only just barely does he keep from clinging to her. The lines between Enkidu and Hermione are blurred, the boundary between the friend that wasn't and the friend that would always be. She asks of him the highest sort of favor, and though he should deny her, he doesn't.
Instead, he takes the tip of his finger and starts to trace over her hand the invisible outline of Command Seals. They are unmistakably Dorian's, the bladed rose that symbolized their pact. He knows she's seen them before. He knows she can put together what this means. They are less than nothing here and now, just hints of mana teased along skin, but true meaning rests in intent rather than reality.]
In another time, and another place, most certainly... you would've been my Master, Hermione Granger.
[I would've pledged myself to you. That is what those words mean. He pulls back, too, looks up at her.]
Feel as though I will protect you. Upon the seals borne by Dorian Gray, if you call for me, I will come.
[ Does Hermione understand what being a Master means? No, she doesn't; she doesn't recognise what the relationship between Dorian and Gilgamesh is, beyond the power they share and the connection that goes far deeper than anything she could possibly hope to imagine. She doesn't know what it means other than the information that she has. It's not enough to grasp the full meaning of what he's saying, of what he means when he tells her that she would have stepped into Dorian's shoes, but she knows that it means something, something important.
The idea of being his Master is a little ridiculous to her, really. She knows about Servants and she knows that they're powerful but there's something they need from their Masters to help; what could she offer him that he doesn't already have? He's so strong, so much braver than she is, and he has power that she can't wrap her mind around. She isn't sure she would be any kind of decent Master to him, other than taking care of him or looking after him. She'd be good to him, she supposes, which - well, Dorian must be too.
When his finger runs over her hand, though, she breathes out, a hesitating little noise, something innocent that feels so intimate. She knows what he's tracing and it's the same thing she knows Dorian has; it's the Seal, the power, something she still doesn't know enough about. Leaning forward, slow, careful, she kisses the top of his head - the same thing she does for Harry, for Ron, for Remus and Dorian. It's friendship and it burns inside of her. ]
I don't think I'd have been the kind of Master you need or want, Gilgamesh, but it's a lovely thought.
[ She breathes out, closing her eyes and nodding, her chest a little tight. Would she call on him? She's not sure. Could she? Perhaps, if the worst comes and she had no fight left. ]
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It's harder here, in the Drabwurld, with expectations and clearer lines - at least, initially. The idea of Seelie against Unseelie had seemed so simple two years ago, when the battles were far out of sight and friendships were being made all over the place, but now? There was fighting and discontent, there were dangers everywhere, and she knew that there were people on either side that would be more than happy to see her dead and gone. She'd seen it barely a few months before, her nightmares still a prickle on the edge of her senses at times.
None of this makes knowing how to handle herself around Gilgamesh easier. She trusted Dorian who seemed to trust Gilgamesh, with a strange sort of camaraderie that came from their connection, their relationship, but she doesn't know if she can trust the man himself. After all that had happened between them she isn't sure how to handle herself around him, especially in situations where it was just the two of them.
He doesn't come into the room, despite her invitation, and she frowns as she pushes herself up and grabs her things. She's wary, of course, but there are some things that are obvious; the wand she shoves up her sleeve, the bag she picks up and the ring dangling around her neck. She might not be sure of Gilgamesh but Dorian was - and it was better to have a final lifeline than it was to regret not abusing it, surely. ]
Of course.
[ She isn't afraid of him, strangely enough. For all that he had hurt her and tried to use her he had never attacked her, despite the damning words he had thrown at her face in his anger. Hermione knows she had snapped too and, in her stubbornness, had said something that she didn't entirely mean even if the passion had been the basis of it. It was hard to come to terms with letting her anger get the better of her but it wasn't the first time - and knowing her own stubborn determination she's sure it wouldn't be the last time either. ]
Are you going to eat another dozen lemon cakes?
[ It's a gentle tease, trying to cast away some of the tension as she walks forward. For us, he said, the emphasis obvious, and Hermione knows that she walks to his side like a wary cat, smiling even as she keeps her wits about her. ]
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But he knows now that his travels should take him elsewhere. He smiles a little when she joins him, and broader still when she teases like they were companionable again, like the trust was solid and firm instead of a thin red line drawn in the sand. A pretty red ribbon and a pretty red ring.
You're so good at pretending, he notes as they walk along, as his eyes trail to that ring. But have you forgotten yourself because of that? Pretty little magus.]
Dorian suggested a diet. [The dryness to his tone also suggests it went over poorly.] I don't have to eat. It's an indulgence. But I do enjoy tea, and plenty of wine, too. It makes life worth living, those sorts of luxuries.
[He has to wonder about that armor, though. It looked good on her, enviably so, and he can't but poke fun at her in return.]
You were quite the handsome knight just now. I should say I'm surprised you've taken up swordplay, but... it suits you.
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It's not proud, exactly, but she knows that he's aware of it just as much as she is, a hyper vigilance that makes her hands twitch to want to go and grab at it, to tuck it under her shirt and keep it out of sight. It's there as a beacon of something that she isn't sure she can explain properly. If she's in trouble he had promised he'd come, even if she knows it would be a token to use as a final, last resort, when she has no other hope and no other means of helping herself. She has more pride than to just use it for the sake of using it and she wonders if he's aware of that.
Her smile is still soft when she looks at him, shaking her head as if the joke they're playing at is utterly ridiculous. ]
He would suggest a diet when we spend enough time together eating jam and scones. [ She can imagine how well that particular debate went and it makes her smile a little brighter. ] If you don't have to then it shouldn't do anything to you, right? And if it does then he can just watch as you run around the training yard for a little while.
[ His returned hit, like a poke of the rapier, makes her cheeks turn a little red even as she holds her head high, denying herself the embarrassment. ]
I've been learning how to duel properly since the tournament in Treun. The Red Hand sent the best teachers to the Citadel and I've been working with them ever since then. I thought it made sense to have the right clothing to protect myself, not just the right skills.
[ She shakes her head. ]
It was a little garish and a bit big for me, I think.
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[Was this all they could manage with each other now? Polite little quips, back-and-forth, civil glances exchanged in the face of everything else that wasn't. He curses Dorian. He hates Dorian as much as he adores him. If not for him, then...
If not for him, he'd have less than nothing now. Gilgamesh lets the brief rush of anger go. He'd brought this upon himself. Hermione stuck that particular thorn in as far as it could go, far enough he'd never forget it.
She's as endearing as ever, in her quiet sort of way, and he hates that too. He really does hate Hermione Granger, just as he hated Saber. All these beautiful women in his life who defied him at every turn. All these silly little girls he'd fall forever and a half for. He'd choke her with that bloody ring if he could, and at least then it would've been all for him and no one else.
The servants await him outside his door. They look concerned, but he waves them off before they can say much. Hermione will see it firsthand once she enters that the room is nearly empty now. She is a silly girl, and a terribly smart one. She will see it and she will know without a word on the matter.]
I suppose we're a little spoiled, aren't we? Servants, I mean. [His smile turns a touch wry.] Strength is effortless for us. We can win wars all on our own, decimate entire nations, conquer half the world in a matter of days. If we want to protect ourselves, we just do, and that's all there is to it.
[Especially for a King among them, who once possessed a great treasury to fill them all with envy. Once, but no more.]
We don't live like humans. We live only to fight. That's the curse of the Grail, some have said.
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[ It's strange, she thinks, that they're trying to act as if nothing had happened between them, as if he hadn't hurt her - even if, now, she thinks that she can't really blame him. He had seen the best parts of her, the things that had made her strong and good enough to help at Hogwarts and at Harry's side, and she supposes it's only right that he saw that and picked up on it and wanted to have it. She knows the Drabwurld and as much as it hurt, and stung, she knows that power is everything.
Accepting that is hard. She wants there to be more than just a race for power, a race to push and fight to end a war that she's somehow in the middle of, rising up as a part leader, but she knows that right now things are more than just fighting because it's the right thing to do. It's fighting because there's no other option and that's hard, it's incredibly hard, and she's still not sure how to rationalise that in her head. The blood on her hands feels like a literal stain and she can't do anything to get rid of it.
This is what war does to people and, here, in the Drabwurld, there's nothing she can do to avoid that. She just has to keep trying to keep the people she loves safe.
Hermione smiles at the servants and watches as they leave, a little concerned as her eyes flick over them - and she's right to be concerned, she thinks, as she steps inside and sees the room. It's easy to put the pieces together and she hesitates before she turns back to look at Gilgamesh, a mixture of distrust and confusion prickling over her. ]
I'd like to think that it doesn't have to be that way. That we shouldn't have to live just to fight. What about friendship, and love, those things? They should be important too, shouldn't they? Even for a Servant, even if you don't think you deserve it. But I suppose that it's not the case for everyone, that things aren't so simple. You can't just tick boxes of feelings and make them happen.
[ She shakes her head. She's not naive enough to believe that it's going to be that simple and she hasn't been for years. It reminds her of Voldemort, that had been so without love and so tainted that it made everything he touched just as dark, his inability to love and be happy souring him so desperately. She doesn't want to see that happen to someone she knows. ]
It would be nice to be able to protect people so easily, but I'm sure it comes at a cost.
[ And - well, here we are. ]
You promised me tea.
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But I'm sure it comes at a cost.
It strikes too raw for him to ignore, and his eyes flicker away as if she's hit him. Perhaps she has, in a way, bringing up friendship and love and all those things he really did understand once upon a time—all those things she doubted of him yet was the very first to show among all mankind.
He'd like to think it doesn't have to be that way, either. That he could still have what he sought from her and she'd still look at him like she believed in the lie of a person he sold to that charming little magus. Lies were only as good as the liars that told them, and the thought of not being good enough rankles.
He's not good enough to just tick boxes off and make it happen anymore. He hasn't been since Enkidu breathed his very last.]
Here.
[Gilgamesh strides ahead of her, to the table that's been prepared. It's lonely and small compared to the emptiness of the room, but the tea wafts a warm and welcoming smell from its tray. A tray beside a plate full of lemon cakes, since she knows him too well for her own good now.
He pulls out her chair and acts cordially for the knightess-in-training. He smiles to keep up the facade. He speaks softly to hide the fact he'd dash her across the floor in an instant to get what he wanted, in love as ever with exactly what he can't have. He's worse than Voldemort could ever be: someone who can't love but clings to the delusion of it anyway, once upon a sunny day in Uruk.]
Catch me up on everything. From every strike of your sword to every dash of your pen. I want to hear.
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It's not that she's offering Gilgamesh friendship any more, not in the way she had done easily, no matter how much she believes that he deserves it. It's a little easier to pretend that nothing had happened, at least for now, to ignore the way she feels stung and strange, and to let herself smile and settle and play the game of being allies. A part of her wants to go back to the easygoing friendship they shared, secret sharing and lion talks, settling together as friends that were happy.
It would be nice to get back to that point.
Hermione takes in the table, eyebrows raising as she notes the lemon cakes - her tease had been right, after all - and she breathes in the smell of the tea, letting it calm her even as she turns her head to look at him, to nod and adjust herself to get a little more comfortable. It feels like something they'd done together so long ago but the atmosphere is different, far less teasing and less like playful banter. This is a little more tense, formal and polite, and she nods her head before she begins to speak. ]
It's been very quiet, actually. You saw me trying on the armour? I was testing to see which style worked best with what I wanted to do if I was ever in a fight. I have a shield and some swords, and my rapier, so I thought I should get the last piece of the set as well.
[ It's not quite the dazzling gleam of his armour, of course, but it's not like she needs something so spectacular. ]
Keeping up with friends in letters, making sure my road is safe, that sort of thing. What about you?
[ She looks around the room, eyebrows raised. ]
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If only she knew how many of them would envy her for it. But not Gilgamesh. Not anymore.
Gilgamesh takes the seat across from her and pours her cup first, then his.]
Pivot on the heel, then thrust. Lean your weight onto your dominant foot and use the other to ground your stance.
[Advice offered without asking, and Hermione can therefore rest assured it's earnest. He is no swordsman of Saber's caliber, but he's handled all manner of weaponry before, blades and shields alike. This too he speaks as a Servant, as one born to fight, who lived and died as a being enslaved to the Grail.
Her friends. Her road. Gilgamesh tries not to bristle, eyes flickering to the twin crowns still resting on the windowsill.]
I'm returning to Leathann. Where I am King. Where I am beloved.
[A weaker man's hands would've shaken. A weaker man would've thrown them in her face. He refuses to be that man today.]
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Hermione wasn't a warrior, she was a witch, but she felt like the lines were beginning to blur.
Reaching out, she takes her cup, sipping and relaxing for a moment before she turns her head to listen to him.
Something strikes her when he speaks, an echo of a memory, a sudden rush of shame and guilt making her stare, unblinking, watching his face. 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...
She swallows. ]
I've heard that Leathann is quite nice. I'm sure you'll be very comfortable there.
[ And, after a moment's hesitating - ]
And you'll be able to handle any escaped prisoners from last year, too.
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[Yes, he remembers it, too. The words that stung with anger and with hurt. The truest side of the fiercest Marchioness, who hurled all that childishness back in his face and made him suffer for it. But not again. Never again.
She's right to hesitate. She's right to feel guilt. This was her fault.
Even so, he can't find the frustration to blame her for it. Indeed, sipping his tea, shutting his eyes, he appears very much at peace, at the prospect of leaving the place where he's no longer welcome and finding his way home again. He has come to terms with his situation and perhaps he should really be thanking her for that slap in the face—it woke him up in more ways than one.
He still would wish her off the face of the earth, but only with his hand dangling after her, ready to scoop her back up again.]
Do you see them? By the window. They were gifts given to me by people who'd call themselves my friends, but the truth of the matter is...
[Those eyes are strangely soft once they open. Reminiscent of a far away time he'll never reach again. Infinite and boundless, bloody and red.]
...I don't have any here. It must wound them too.
[And he doesn't look the slightest bit sorry for it. Only sorry for the one friend he's left forever behind.]
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[ Putting words to how she feels is strange, right now. She does feel guilty, in an awkward, sad sort of way, knowing that this may well have been her fault in part. She had tried to make Gilgamesh feel welcome initially but she had snapped, her anger hitting a point where it linked hands with her frustration and her own pain and she had ripped into him because of it, used him as an emotional punching bag.
There was no denying that he'd earned it, of course, and that he had stepped into the line of fire when he insulted her and accused her with his own rudeness, but that doesn't mean she doesn't feel bad about her own retort. She had stood up for herself in the face of someone that she knew was far more than the mask he put on, something worse, but that was fine. She had seen far worse than Gilgamesh in her time, she told herself, and she quashed her own guilt with her own determination.
Her head turns to look at them, his crowns, and she softens for a moment. ]
They're beautiful.
[ It's instinct, her own nature, that has her reaching over to touch his hand when he continues, something soft inside of her still wanting to see him happy. It was foolish, she knew, but it was her heart that made her strong, not her anger. ]
You do have friends, Gilgamesh. [ A pause, unsure, then - ] You have me.
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Of course I did. I'm the child of the sun. That's why I favor gold.
[She's right to feel guilty, but Gilgamesh would still chide her for it. Time has passed and tempers have cooled and he's accepted his punishment—not because he wronged in hurting her, but because he wronged in telling such a transparent lie. He wasn't so clever, wasn't so invincible, and he'd lost her hand because of it.
But she never gave back the box. She still wore the ring. She tries to fight off what she has every right to feel, and he notices this, and he wonders if he should pity her in all her loneliness. If he should forgive the pretty Marchioness, bound up in her room by duty and by station, never to prowl the halls as lionness again.
He's reaching for a cake when she's reaching for his hand. This insufferable girl really does get in the way of everything enjoyable.]
I have one. No more, no less.
[Here, he will assert himself. He will tell her what he couldn't back then, that she was wrong, that they all were to judge him so.]
I loved him. That was my story, Hermione. That is the basis of my legend, of my Epic. The strength of friendship you speak of, the power that knows no bounds... it began with me. [More desperately, as when he confessed to it:] I wanted to tell you but couldn't find the time. I wanted you to know.
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He is beautiful, but being around him burns.
It's hard to admit that, maybe, there was something of herself in the way that he spoke, the way that he praised friendship. It might be true that his legend was a start, that maybe his friendship was one of the first, and that is something unique, something amazing, and she can feel how it inspires him. She knows that she feels something similar and she shifts, moving forward, adjusting their hands ever so slightly - her fingers slide between his, slowly, the top of his palm touching against Gilgamesh's, and her thumb brushing over his skin.
It's gentle, soft, careful, and she doesn't want to push. She knows that they have things that they're not going to talk about - the dead weight around her neck, the unapologised words from the training room, his relationship with Dorian, his anger, all of it - but she understands what he's saying. The things that he says, wants, it curls around her and settles because it's like a reflection of her own desires. To have friendship, someone you love, so passionately and powerfully that you would end it all to be at their side to protect them... It's not unfamiliar to her.
Once, she was prepared to walk into a forest filled with Dark Wizards that would torture, maim and kill her, just so Harry wouldn't be alone as he died. She thinks she can understand and, when she speaks, her voice is careful, trying to choose her words properly instead of blurting them out and seeming to be an idiot, a child instead of the woman she knows herself to be. ]
People prize intelligence, you know, and reading, learning. I do, too, I can't really deny that. But friendship is one of the most important things in the entire world. Having friends, having people to love and care about, makes you - anyone - far stronger than they would be if they were alone. There is something really beautiful about it, knowing that there'll be someone there to help you or take care of you whenever you need it, that will love you even in the darkest of times.
[ And then her memory flicks to Dorian and she pauses. She loves him, even knowing his soul, knowing he swings between loving her and wanting to leave her, his own confusion. It's what friendship means to her, tied in with her own natural dedication and stubbornness. ]
I'm glad you told me. And I'm glad you invited me for tea.
[ A breath, a squeeze of her fingers around his, gentle. ]
It's something very beautiful.
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They're holding hands and it burns. He doesn't want to feel relaxed around her; he doesn't want to soften the blow; he wants it to sting and wants it to go away all at once. He wants to get that image out of his head of a proud young lady posturing in a proud set of armor; he wants to engrave it forever in his memories. He wants to throw her off the edge of the earth and he wants to drown her and set her ablaze and delight in her suffering. She's mortal and foolish and still he wants her all to himself.
He told her back then she could make of his proposal whatever she wished, but now he really would marry this Hermione Granger. For power. For influence. But most importantly for stubbornness, just to say that he could, just to settle that childish score between them.
They're holding hands and she's gentle with him. Too gentle, and he drifts because of it, pictures someone else in her stead. He clings to her too quickly, and it gives away his own loneliness, how both hands wrap around hers. They are strong and protective and all the things he once pretended to be with her.
He's not pretending right now. The light of his mana dances over her skin, settles in. He gifts her strength and fortitude without even thinking about it, as he always would before their lessons. This is the will of the King of Heroes who has been touched by her compassion and reveals himself for the crownless wanderer he's been since he arrived.]
He will always love you more than me.
[It's such a pathetic thing to say. It's his only form of apology, this sad little surrender. His heart sinks.]
And I will always love that small part of you, even from many miles away, where I can do you no harm.
[So much for not talking about it. Gilgamesh just spilled all of it all over the place.]
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When she was scared she would grab at Ron or Harry, wrap herself around them in quick bursts of affection, fingers linked with fingers and arm around arm. She's held hands with so many of her friends here, drawing them close and seeking out the smallest of physical contact to ease the pain, to draw away that loneliness and suffering that can leave you aching and sad when it's time to go to bed. It's not just something to be done in fear or sadness, though, it's something that can be done in comfort and tenderness too and that's what this is.
Her other hand comes, covers his, her fingers settling along across his knuckle as her head lifts to look at him. Hermione's not sure what to make of his expression or the way he looks at her, not knowing what he really thinks about her - some kind of woman that would poison him or stab him in the dark, a stupid mage, all the things he's said compared to all the things she thinks must be lies when he was trying to marry her. She's not foolish enough to believe that all of this is true, but she's starting to get a sense of who Gilgamesh is.
He's honest, for the most part, but there is something like a veil, like he hides what he really thinks with tidbits of truth. It frustrates her because she does, as much as she can, try to be honest, to be careful and sure, to not offer things that might hurt or be untrue, but he doesn't have that kind of concern. She can appreciate the honesty even if she's hurt by it because it's a part of who he is, how she sees him, and she knows that there's not much she can do to change him - because he is his own person, even if he sees himself as a Servant that isn't capable of the same feelings and wants that she is.
Her hands squeeze his and her face sets in determination. ]
And I'm always going to love him. It's not a contest, Gilgamesh. I'm sure the love is different. He's my best friend, not...
[ Her lover. She'd seen the kisses, the secret little things they'd shared, the shift of her own discomfort, and she had been confused. It's none of her business, though, of course; she wasn't engaged to Gilgamesh, despite wearing his ring as a token around her neck, a reminder, like personal baggage and a safety net, and she had no right to comment - especially since she'd kissed Dorian a handful of times. It's not jealousy, exactly, but it's something, that familiar ache and longing for something the same, her own kind, someone to love her that she knows she can love back completely.
A pause, a breath, and she hesitates. ]
And I'll care about you, too, even when you're gone. You still have your compass, after all, and I don't think I'll be rid of you quite yet.
[ He does have a bad habit of popping up at the best and worst times. Gilgamesh has seen her at her best - the proud Marchioness, rising up at a party, in training, in armour - and at her worst - the lioness turned rabid, blood around her mouth and flesh in her stomach; the young girl twisted with new jealousy that she wants to stop down and ignore. She wonders what he thinks of her, really, and then decides that she doesn't want to know. It would be easier that way.
She's still holding his hand. She hasn't let go, and she doesn't intend to, not until he does, her fingers warm, familiar tingles that hark back to lessons that have long since been abandoned. ]
I don't think I can really escape you, can I?
[ It's said as a tease, a gentle poke, but a part of her wonders just how true that is. ]
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Why aren't you yelling? Why aren't you hateful? Why aren't you mad? These are the only things Gilgamesh thinks of in comparison. Maybe he was like that once, just and good and brave for the sake of his friend. He doesn't even remember anymore. He already wants to forget this ever happened.
With her hands in his, he lowers his forehead to them, as if in prayer. It is the greatest display of submission he will allow before anyone. It is the truest sign Gilgamesh no longer holds any lasting spite in this game of theirs, because childishness won't win him the match.]
Don't escape.
[Everyone only ever sees him at his worst. Only the worst is left over. The best was left behind with Enkidu. A weaker man's hands would shake. His do. He isn't weak. He tells himself this again and again and sinks further into the delusion that he can have this woman anytime he wants, the same as he can have Saber.
Saber won't even look at him. The thought of Hermione forgetting him is...]
Don't go. I want to come back. I want to see the lance. I want to remember.
[The real truth of the matter is that Gilgamesh is terrified of being forgotten by anyone.]
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Now, before her, is a man she doesn't understand, a man that is sad and broken and she doesn't know how to fix it. She doesn't know if it's her words that hurt him or the fact that he is leaving - or something else, something she can't name or put words to, something that happened a thousand years ago - he is that old, after all, and she would never hope to guess. He's not like trying to figure out what's upset Harry or Ron; teenage boys are not the same as the people she has gotten to know here and that is something new she has to try and begin to understand.
His hands shake and Hermione feels a tug, a pull, something that makes her want to reach out for him. She doesn't want him to suffer, or to be alone, just as much as she doesn't want to be alone herself, a dark part of her thinking that if he can have friends, if he can be cared for even when he can say such awful things, then she can keep hers too. That if they found out her secrets the worst wouldn't come to pass; they'd understand. ]
Gilgamesh.
[ Slowly, she pushes herself up and moves, taking her hands away from his and walking around the table. Hermione is careful with the action, a little unsure and nervous, despite having done something much like this before. It's been a long time since they were close, however, since any time where his arms had been around her and as hers move, slipping around his body and drawing him close, hoping to offer him comfort, she thinks on it and wonders if she is showing more and more weakness in the face of someone that would hurt her all the more for it. ]
It's going to be there. Our lance will be there, okay? I'm not going to go anywhere.
[ She doesn't know if she'll ever be sent home or if she will make it to the end of the war, but she would like to stay. She'd like to see this through and even if she doesn't make it a solemn promise she does do what she can to assure him, to lift a hand to touch the back of his head and rest there, eyes closed for a moment. ]
We'll remember our lessons, won't we? And our dance, in Redgate, and our tea - or the time you ate what felt like two dozen lemon cakes before running around like a monkey in a tower. We're not going to forget that.
[ Is there anyone capable of forgetting Gilgamesh without magical assistance? ]
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She's getting up and there's that urge to flee again. She's letting go of his hands and he almost pleads no, don't but it's much too late for that, for many things. He doesn't want to suffer or to be alone or to be here at all, frankly, though this disappears as well when arms slip around him and pull him in. There's no heavy armor to get in the way or prickly layers to refuse her. He just accepts it, and this time, she hasn't made a mistake.
This time, her hand is taken to his face and his lips turn to its palm and it is near reverent, his reply, his answer to those words.]
I will remember.
[No longer I want to, but I will. No hidden motive, just raw desire. This is something Hermione can have for herself. This is something she's earned. This is real.]
I will hang on your wall so you may look at me often. Remember that, too. I was good—I was.
[A good king, a good man, a lost cause. This is for the best.]
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Hermione knows what loneliness can do to people. Remus was one example, a man shamed for something he can't control, and Snape was another, twisted in his own anger over mistakes that he had made when he was far younger. Her arms slide around him as easily they did Remus, this time last year, comforting him in his loneliness and his sadness, his regret, just as much as she feels it from Gilgamesh. Hermione is used to fading into the background, into letting herself be support, so being remembered is not something she worries about.
It seems to be so much to him, though, and it tugs at her. It's such a simple desire and it's something she can give him without hurting too much, without losing a part of herself, so why shouldn't she? ]
I'm glad to hear it.
[ She relaxes, lets her hand brush over his cheek, her smile a little shy even as she offers it. Unsure of what to say, she stays silent for a moment, barely enough, before she shakes her head and squeezes him with her arm again. ]
I know you were. It's okay, I won't forget.
[ How can she forget him, forget some of the niceness he has shown her, even as doubts flicker in her mind, when she wears his ring around her neck and has his gift on her wall, a beacon for anyone to understand they're bound in their own way? ]
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Hermione, however... he can only offer her a ring and a lance. As she reached for his hand, he reaches to close his fingers around that ghost of a promise she wears. Is it a memory? Is it a punishment? Why would she do it to herself? Maybe it's a weight she can't shrug off, either. The weight of a friend who wasn't. The weight of a wish spurned.
She's glad, she's glad and it makes him so mad that he really would choke her with that damn chain if half the Citadel wouldn't hunt down his head on a pike for it. It sounds like the truth and it's risky to believe in. She'll poison his wine, lace his bread with daggers, he swears that she will even as he hangs in her grip as a pitiful creature.]
I lived with a priest, once. He told me I would drown in sin and I laughed at him, because he could not see what I was wading in.
[Telling the truth is the worst sort of sin for Gilgamesh. It only ever gets him into trouble. His hand shifts, into her hair, and his face tilts, into her shoulder, to hide there.]
I can't live like you, Hermione. In that world of humans. In a world of sympathy and softness. It's a world only for you and yours.
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His hand is on the ring and she thinks, for a minute, that she might have stopped breathing. She doesn't want to consider it, she doesn't want him to pay attention to it, to make reference to it. If she can make it she wants him to ignore it, ignore the meaning, pretend that nothing has happened and nothing is important in the fact that it's around her neck. It's there because it's easy, she tells herself, even when she knows it's a lie. The ring means a thousand different things and she has no idea where to start when it comes to expressing that.
As Gilgamesh shifts her hand moves; it's a mirror, his hand in her hair as her hand finds his, stroking along it and breathing out a little, trying to swallow back the onset of too much. Her love fr her friends is so intense it might well be suffocating and this, even knowing what Gilgamesh is, is no different. He was friend first, after all. ]
You're not the only one that's - that's done bad things. I'm not going to say it's okay, but I understand.
[ She has done things, too. Wiped memories, broken into places, hurt people, copied their faces to crawl around and find information, killed to protect herself and her friends. None of it is good, but she did it for a good reason; does that make it better? It's a question she doesn't want to consider but she has to. ]
You could live with us, though. Alongside us. You don't have to be alone.
[ He has Dorian, after all, and her head turns, drawing him tighter, her heart bleeding for what she thinks she sees. ]
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He suffocates in her and gladly so. Even knowing what he is, perhaps better than most, she lingers. Just as there was the Boy Who Lived, now there was the Girl, who stood too close to the sun and wore her survival as a prize around her neck. It is an accomplishment no one else can boast of.
The blood gem housed in the ring sings to life with the spreading of his fingers. It answers his call with a silent summon of his magic and shines.]
I can break it.
[An offer to undo, erase, turn back the clock. If she won't give it back by his own order, he can make it like it never even was. The sole kindness he has to spare. Brushing lips over her brow, he mutters beside her ear:]
I would never speak of it again. I would not come back if you willed it so. I would honor that. [Breathily:] Beautiful Marchioness, who heralds over me.
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Gilgamesh has seen so much of her, knows so much about her, and she doesn't know if she can just let go of that. A part of her wants to give up on all of that and shove it in his face, to throw the ring at him and dismiss all of this as the cruel joke she thought it was. To just... Abandon this, to give it all up. It's not that easy, though, to just let her fingers slip away from something that she had been clinging to for so long. The ring around her neck is not as deadly or as dangerous as the locket she had worn in her own world but it had the weight of darkness about it that reminded her of that time.
Her hand lifts, slowly, leaning back as she lets her fingers rest over his, to shake her head. This must be the wrong choice, she's sure of it, even if it is a further gift of protection. What would Dorian say, Remus say, John and Mako and Korra and all her friends that have no idea about half of this, about the mixture of confusion and prickling frustration that she feels when she thinks about him? ]
If I called for you would you still come?
[ It's something she had wondered about. Even wearing the ring, even with the knowledge that he might have meant it in earnest, she hadn't been certain he'd bother any more. ]
If I was in trouble and I asked for you to help would you help me, Gilgamesh? Not because I'm your Marchioness but because we could be friends, once we've learned how to do it. If you don't want that to be what this means then, please, break it. I just don't know what to do about it any more, what I should feel about it.
[ Because he doesn't love her; he wanted her power, her magic, the pulse of something that aches inside of her. ]
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She doesn't. She's pulling back and away and only just barely does he keep from clinging to her. The lines between Enkidu and Hermione are blurred, the boundary between the friend that wasn't and the friend that would always be. She asks of him the highest sort of favor, and though he should deny her, he doesn't.
Instead, he takes the tip of his finger and starts to trace over her hand the invisible outline of Command Seals. They are unmistakably Dorian's, the bladed rose that symbolized their pact. He knows she's seen them before. He knows she can put together what this means. They are less than nothing here and now, just hints of mana teased along skin, but true meaning rests in intent rather than reality.]
In another time, and another place, most certainly... you would've been my Master, Hermione Granger.
[I would've pledged myself to you. That is what those words mean. He pulls back, too, looks up at her.]
Feel as though I will protect you. Upon the seals borne by Dorian Gray, if you call for me, I will come.
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The idea of being his Master is a little ridiculous to her, really. She knows about Servants and she knows that they're powerful but there's something they need from their Masters to help; what could she offer him that he doesn't already have? He's so strong, so much braver than she is, and he has power that she can't wrap her mind around. She isn't sure she would be any kind of decent Master to him, other than taking care of him or looking after him. She'd be good to him, she supposes, which - well, Dorian must be too.
When his finger runs over her hand, though, she breathes out, a hesitating little noise, something innocent that feels so intimate. She knows what he's tracing and it's the same thing she knows Dorian has; it's the Seal, the power, something she still doesn't know enough about. Leaning forward, slow, careful, she kisses the top of his head - the same thing she does for Harry, for Ron, for Remus and Dorian. It's friendship and it burns inside of her. ]
I don't think I'd have been the kind of Master you need or want, Gilgamesh, but it's a lovely thought.
[ She breathes out, closing her eyes and nodding, her chest a little tight. Would she call on him? She's not sure. Could she? Perhaps, if the worst comes and she had no fight left. ]
Thank you. You don't know what that means to me.
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