[ 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. ]
[It's alright. He already told her as much—they belonged to separate worlds and pursued separate ideals. Friendship and love were too far from him to embrace any longer, outside that single light that burned inside him. Gilgamesh sought other things, darker things, the deaths of his enemies and monarchs turned inside out for their crimes, the rise and fall of the Master that caused this nightmare and ultimate reclaiming of what has been stolen.
Hermione really can't help with any of that. It's a lovely thought for her to express, and she's a lovely creature touching him the way that she does, but it's still a lie. It's still what drove them apart from each other, always would. He's charm and wickedness and a handsome face with an ugly smile and that would never change.
Hermione has only ever been herself in comparison. He envies her terribly for that.
He reddens from the intimacy of that kiss. It doesn't happen often, but that kindness invokes a memory of a child of the earth who once did the same. It softens him. It dulls his sharper edges. And briefly, they look the very same age, the girl who stood before the sun and the young man blinded by his own light.]
Did I mess it up again...?
[Gilgamesh glances back with distaste at their tea and treats, now gone cold. He seems frustrated with himself.]
Maybe I should've just left. Then you could've imagined I said something better, or that I tried a little harder. It's regrettable.
[ She's almost teasing now as she shakes her head, moving to wrap her arms around him again and squeeze, gentle, almost tender in the way that she draws him back against her. Kisses aren't unfamiliar to her, especially considering how close she is to Dorian himself, and she shifts up to hold him a little tighter and close her eyes, just embracing him and letting herself give Gilgamesh this. It's not a gift, it's just natural, a part of their friendship a part of what she is offering him.
He isn't sorry, she's sure of that. He had played a game and he hadn't come up with the outcome he'd wanted, and she can accept that. The reasons he had for wanting her are bleak and personal, selfish in the same way parts of human nature can be... But she has to remind herself that he's not entirely human. He's not just like her. Her hand lifts and curls into the hair at the back of his head, holding him in place before she breathes out and lets herself smile.
Good and bad, right and wrong, it's twisted and strange and confusing inside of her. It's not like she can wave her wand and make him tell her who he really is - at least, not now, not when she has something that's disrupting her potions here. It's only when she leans back and looks at him again that she forces her feelings away, her strange insecurity and her discontent shrugged to the back of her mind so she can look at him. ]
This is better. I don't think you can say anything else better than this, I promise. You've - I'm just Hermione. You don't have to try.
[ Because it's true. All she's ever wanted from her friends is for them to be themselves, to be happy and safe. It's not always possible here, but at least she can try to do it - she can try to bridge the gaps of trust and uncertainty between the people she loves. All they have to do is be there. ]
[He's too weak to this sort of attention now. When first he arrived, he would've thrown her off for the insult—dashed her against the wall, while he was at it—but she hits a vulnerable spot, touching his hair, tracing along his face, and there's the softest sigh on his end that can't be faked. He wants to throw her into his bed instead and curl up against her and fade in her arms. Diarmuid has pulled him back from the very brink with this sort of tenderness; Hermione manages much the same and settles him by unwittingly nudging at what's become instinctual.
He isn't sorry. He'd play the game again, and play to win, if he knew that he could. Maybe he'd still play even if he knew that he'd lose. He isn't human anymore and they can't live like fellows but maybe this is better, maybe just this is fine, and maybe he can have what he wants anyway.
He shifts from his seat to rise, but as he does so he holds her hand tight on its arm. He inclines his chin and catches her by the cheek and kisses her—but only on the very corner of her mouth, only briefly, only a brush. It's almost painfully chaste. Bleak and personal, from the lips of a man who wants to her and to hold her all at once. To have her forever, as he wishes of all his most prized possessions.]
I do like you. I always did. I always will. Just you. Just Hermione.
[He lets go before he oversteps himself, and moves to collect his bag and tuck those crowns safely away. He's smiling to himself, contented.]
[ Questioning how she feels about Gilgamesh isn't easy. She has to face the things he has done, the hurt he has caused, but also the understanding that they'd done so much together. She feels stronger because of him, as if she can hold her head up higher and show herself to be something more than the somewhat nervous witch she had been when she had first entered the Drabwurld, to be a Marchioness through their lessons and the time they spent together. It's hard to ignore that part of him simply because he had tried to use a part of her - but he had been desperate.
It's not forgiveness that Harry or Ron would get but it's something, an understanding that he knows her cracks and can slip his fingers under them, to break her apart with just the right words. He's shown that he can do it before - in the training room, with his patronus - and she's sure he could do it again if he wanted to. Gilgamesh knows Hermione because she had let him, because she was free with her friendship and her affection until proved wrong.
He stands and she hesitates, wondering if she should move, until his hand grips at her and holds her in place. It's startling to remember that he's a little taller than she is, since she had been leant over him to hold him just moments before, but what startles her more is the kiss. The simple intimacy is easier now, thanks to her friendship with Dorian, but this is nothing like those - it's chaste and gentle, a quick thing that she might have missed if she'd blinked. Even so, when he moves away, her hand lifts to touch her lips, wondering as her head turns to follow him.
Just Hermione. Her hand curls and she lets it drop slowly. ]
And I like you. You don't need to be a king or anything more than yourself for that.
[ It wasn't him ranting and bring arrogant that had made her snap, after all; it was the accusation that she'd hurt him, somehow, and she knew just how to make him as upset as she had been. ]
[Gilgamesh chuckles to himself, as if to say is that so? and it's not forgiveness that she gets but it's something. An agreement that they've come to an understanding with each other, that they've seen the worst of each other and know how to get at those tiny little holes and jam fingers in until it hurts. She'd managed it with him, too, manages it again now.
You don't need to be a king.
And that's why Gilgamesh must leave. That's why this isn't a place for him anymore and it was never a home to begin with. He runs his fingers over his beloved crowns, remembers the words he'd always hold dear to his heart from Treun. You are the brightest star of your own sky. You must make them believe.
He looks over his shoulder at her, and that smile's turned a touch bitter.]
I will always be King, Hermione. I was born with a crown upon my head. I must sit upon a throne or else be cursed to languish. But...
[Had he really gone mad, in a different time, in a different place, drowning in the Grail? He shakes his head; no, it's too late for that. He still refuses the idea of it.]
I've never been anything more or less than myself. So I'll just be me, and you'll just be you, and it's fine that way. Right?
[It's fine, courting this silly little girl who he's decided to marry someday anyway in the fondest sort of grudge.]
[ Hermione watches him move and says nothing for a moment, letting her eyes rest on him, curious and wondering. She knows that he has to go and a part of her isn't sorry to see it; her conflicting feelings over him are more than enough for her to want to encourage him to find his own path. She doesn't understand, at least at first, and then he speaks and it dawns on her, little prickles of understanding.
He might not need to be a king but he is one; he sees himself as one because, in his own world, he was one and he rose and he had his crown. It's something she can recognise in herself. She might not be the best witch or the strongest here but she was raised the Brightest of her Age here. That doesn't go away just because of the fact she has slipped into another world.
Walking around, she pushes herself to stand a little taller, reaching to tuck her ring away. ]
You should be you. But more important than that, Gilgamesh...
[ She's careful, almost hesitant, before she breathes out. ]
You should try to be happy. I know the Drabwurld isn't the easiest place to be or live but - there's a lot of happiness to be found here. I'd like you to have that.
[ If he's happier then, perhaps, she will understand him better. She'll know what answers to give him and find a way to slay her own confusion. ]
[Thinking on it more... no, he should remember this. She's looking at him differently now. She answers differently now. What would've provoked an argument before seems to settle into her system, and while it's doubtful they'd ever come to a true understanding with each other, at least they'll part on amenable terms. He's glad for it. He hates her still, but he's glad for the worry to ease some.
It means he can visit her again, sometime, and return to that everlasting promise of maybe, of that ring around her neck.
The crowns disappear into the bag, and with that, nothing else remains in the room. He turns back to her and nods. Nothing more need be said on the matter, as the matter of Gilgamesh's happiness cannot be discussed with anyone. He refuses to consider it even with himself.]
Can I not see her one last time?
[He lets the question dangle for a moment, then clarifies:]
[ A part of her thinks she shouldn't be surprised by the question, considering how their friendship started, but she is. Hermione pauses, considering, feeling something heavy in her chest before she purses her lips, lifting her head to let her eyes roam over him. He was there; he saw the horror that had been done because of her and her anger and he still said such kind words to her. Sometimes it might be easier for her to forget but that wasn't possible.
Her hands curl around one another, finger with finger, tight, as if she's trying to hold herself together. ]
I haven't transformed since... Then.
[ Since the murder. The death and the blood and the memories she can still sometimes see when she closes her eyes. She rises up as a Marchioness as her thoughts drag her down into something a little darker, the understanding of how cruel this world can be dragging at her feet and making her feel ill, the worst kind of sickening sadness. She hasn't turned into a lioness since then because she's had no real need and because she was afraid, afraid of the instincts that had driven her and the burning reminder of the taste of flesh in her mouth.
Her smile is shaky, her hands clenching as she tries to hold herself together. ]
I'm not sure what would happen if I did, that's all.
[Gilgamesh is not entirely without his kinder moments. He can't live in a world of sympathy and softness, but sometimes he can dip his toes in and pretend that he was so good and just once. He can jest that he's a knight and mean it in part. Only kings wore gold, only the most noble wielded it as their standard. He's Seelie. Honor, or at least his personal form of it, still stands above all else.
So his hands come to rest upon hers, and now he's beginning to understand why Dorian greets her in this way, why he adores her with these pleasantly warm touches. More than a symbol of friendship, it forms a bond, a connection deeper than flash, and they are all creatures so desperate for it they could not live without. For Gilgamesh, it's literally his entire existence, what keeps him in the world.
There's power in his grip now. He could harm her. He could help her. He could crush what's left of her dreams or build them back up again. He must decide.]
I have seen despair, Hermione. Despair to swallow a world. But it never claims people like you.
[That's what makes Saber such an aberration. She's a mistake. She must be repaired. Erased. Hermione was different. She wouldn't fall so far.]
You are you. I am me. In our mind and in our memories, we remain ourselves, in spite of everything.
[She won't fall, because even if she did, Gilgamesh would be the only one to push her.]
[ Is it faith in her that Gilgamesh shows or faith in her powers? In the Brightest Witch or the girl behind it? And, more importantly, does it really matter? He believes in her, in her ability to work through the things that drag her down and make her feel weak, and his reasons for believing her seem to pale in the wake of the fact that he does. People have always had faith in her no matter what happened because of her intelligence, her dedication, her stubborn refusal to be anything but her best, but he had seen her at her worst and still saw her.
Her hands turn, fingers sliding through his again, and she squeezes. It's less about offering him comfort and more about taking it for herself this time, claiming it as her own and demanding that she is allowed to keep it no matter what may be ahead.
Slowly, Hermione's thumbs brush over the sides of his hands before she shakes her head. It's almost hilarious that it would be him that she turns for again, just as when they'd first met, the first time they'd been together, her friendliness as he told secrets, but if she did lose herself to the lioness who else would be capable of stopping her before she really, truly hurt them? ]
I'm not going to forget who I am. You're right.
[ Still afraid, true, she steps back, gives herself a little room and closes her eyes. The transformation doesn't require a spell, thanks to the boon, but it still feels like an animagus, turning and twisting as she reshapes her body, lets herself drop down to four legs and allows herself to breathe in more scents, her ears twitching a little. She's clean, of course, no reminder of the death that came at these hands, and Hermione retains most of her mind.
An animagus loses some of their thought, relies more on instinct, and she knows who she is. It's like allowing herself to fight back against the animal side, she thinks, and she raises her head before she trots forward a few steps.
This time, it's her face in Gilgamesh's hands, not her fingers. ]
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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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Hermione really can't help with any of that. It's a lovely thought for her to express, and she's a lovely creature touching him the way that she does, but it's still a lie. It's still what drove them apart from each other, always would. He's charm and wickedness and a handsome face with an ugly smile and that would never change.
Hermione has only ever been herself in comparison. He envies her terribly for that.
He reddens from the intimacy of that kiss. It doesn't happen often, but that kindness invokes a memory of a child of the earth who once did the same. It softens him. It dulls his sharper edges. And briefly, they look the very same age, the girl who stood before the sun and the young man blinded by his own light.]
Did I mess it up again...?
[Gilgamesh glances back with distaste at their tea and treats, now gone cold. He seems frustrated with himself.]
Maybe I should've just left. Then you could've imagined I said something better, or that I tried a little harder. It's regrettable.
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[ She's almost teasing now as she shakes her head, moving to wrap her arms around him again and squeeze, gentle, almost tender in the way that she draws him back against her. Kisses aren't unfamiliar to her, especially considering how close she is to Dorian himself, and she shifts up to hold him a little tighter and close her eyes, just embracing him and letting herself give Gilgamesh this. It's not a gift, it's just natural, a part of their friendship a part of what she is offering him.
He isn't sorry, she's sure of that. He had played a game and he hadn't come up with the outcome he'd wanted, and she can accept that. The reasons he had for wanting her are bleak and personal, selfish in the same way parts of human nature can be... But she has to remind herself that he's not entirely human. He's not just like her. Her hand lifts and curls into the hair at the back of his head, holding him in place before she breathes out and lets herself smile.
Good and bad, right and wrong, it's twisted and strange and confusing inside of her. It's not like she can wave her wand and make him tell her who he really is - at least, not now, not when she has something that's disrupting her potions here. It's only when she leans back and looks at him again that she forces her feelings away, her strange insecurity and her discontent shrugged to the back of her mind so she can look at him. ]
This is better. I don't think you can say anything else better than this, I promise. You've - I'm just Hermione. You don't have to try.
[ Because it's true. All she's ever wanted from her friends is for them to be themselves, to be happy and safe. It's not always possible here, but at least she can try to do it - she can try to bridge the gaps of trust and uncertainty between the people she loves. All they have to do is be there. ]
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He isn't sorry. He'd play the game again, and play to win, if he knew that he could. Maybe he'd still play even if he knew that he'd lose. He isn't human anymore and they can't live like fellows but maybe this is better, maybe just this is fine, and maybe he can have what he wants anyway.
He shifts from his seat to rise, but as he does so he holds her hand tight on its arm. He inclines his chin and catches her by the cheek and kisses her—but only on the very corner of her mouth, only briefly, only a brush. It's almost painfully chaste. Bleak and personal, from the lips of a man who wants to her and to hold her all at once. To have her forever, as he wishes of all his most prized possessions.]
I do like you. I always did. I always will. Just you. Just Hermione.
[He lets go before he oversteps himself, and moves to collect his bag and tuck those crowns safely away. He's smiling to himself, contented.]
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It's not forgiveness that Harry or Ron would get but it's something, an understanding that he knows her cracks and can slip his fingers under them, to break her apart with just the right words. He's shown that he can do it before - in the training room, with his patronus - and she's sure he could do it again if he wanted to. Gilgamesh knows Hermione because she had let him, because she was free with her friendship and her affection until proved wrong.
He stands and she hesitates, wondering if she should move, until his hand grips at her and holds her in place. It's startling to remember that he's a little taller than she is, since she had been leant over him to hold him just moments before, but what startles her more is the kiss. The simple intimacy is easier now, thanks to her friendship with Dorian, but this is nothing like those - it's chaste and gentle, a quick thing that she might have missed if she'd blinked. Even so, when he moves away, her hand lifts to touch her lips, wondering as her head turns to follow him.
Just Hermione. Her hand curls and she lets it drop slowly. ]
And I like you. You don't need to be a king or anything more than yourself for that.
[ It wasn't him ranting and bring arrogant that had made her snap, after all; it was the accusation that she'd hurt him, somehow, and she knew just how to make him as upset as she had been. ]
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You don't need to be a king.
And that's why Gilgamesh must leave. That's why this isn't a place for him anymore and it was never a home to begin with. He runs his fingers over his beloved crowns, remembers the words he'd always hold dear to his heart from Treun. You are the brightest star of your own sky. You must make them believe.
He looks over his shoulder at her, and that smile's turned a touch bitter.]
I will always be King, Hermione. I was born with a crown upon my head. I must sit upon a throne or else be cursed to languish. But...
[Had he really gone mad, in a different time, in a different place, drowning in the Grail? He shakes his head; no, it's too late for that. He still refuses the idea of it.]
I've never been anything more or less than myself. So I'll just be me, and you'll just be you, and it's fine that way. Right?
[It's fine, courting this silly little girl who he's decided to marry someday anyway in the fondest sort of grudge.]
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He might not need to be a king but he is one; he sees himself as one because, in his own world, he was one and he rose and he had his crown. It's something she can recognise in herself. She might not be the best witch or the strongest here but she was raised the Brightest of her Age here. That doesn't go away just because of the fact she has slipped into another world.
Walking around, she pushes herself to stand a little taller, reaching to tuck her ring away. ]
You should be you. But more important than that, Gilgamesh...
[ She's careful, almost hesitant, before she breathes out. ]
You should try to be happy. I know the Drabwurld isn't the easiest place to be or live but - there's a lot of happiness to be found here. I'd like you to have that.
[ If he's happier then, perhaps, she will understand him better. She'll know what answers to give him and find a way to slay her own confusion. ]
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It means he can visit her again, sometime, and return to that everlasting promise of maybe, of that ring around her neck.
The crowns disappear into the bag, and with that, nothing else remains in the room. He turns back to her and nods. Nothing more need be said on the matter, as the matter of Gilgamesh's happiness cannot be discussed with anyone. He refuses to consider it even with himself.]
Can I not see her one last time?
[He lets the question dangle for a moment, then clarifies:]
Or has the snowy white lioness left us forever?
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Her hands curl around one another, finger with finger, tight, as if she's trying to hold herself together. ]
I haven't transformed since... Then.
[ Since the murder. The death and the blood and the memories she can still sometimes see when she closes her eyes. She rises up as a Marchioness as her thoughts drag her down into something a little darker, the understanding of how cruel this world can be dragging at her feet and making her feel ill, the worst kind of sickening sadness. She hasn't turned into a lioness since then because she's had no real need and because she was afraid, afraid of the instincts that had driven her and the burning reminder of the taste of flesh in her mouth.
Her smile is shaky, her hands clenching as she tries to hold herself together. ]
I'm not sure what would happen if I did, that's all.
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So his hands come to rest upon hers, and now he's beginning to understand why Dorian greets her in this way, why he adores her with these pleasantly warm touches. More than a symbol of friendship, it forms a bond, a connection deeper than flash, and they are all creatures so desperate for it they could not live without. For Gilgamesh, it's literally his entire existence, what keeps him in the world.
There's power in his grip now. He could harm her. He could help her. He could crush what's left of her dreams or build them back up again. He must decide.]
I have seen despair, Hermione. Despair to swallow a world. But it never claims people like you.
[That's what makes Saber such an aberration. She's a mistake. She must be repaired. Erased. Hermione was different. She wouldn't fall so far.]
You are you. I am me. In our mind and in our memories, we remain ourselves, in spite of everything.
[She won't fall, because even if she did, Gilgamesh would be the only one to push her.]
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Her hands turn, fingers sliding through his again, and she squeezes. It's less about offering him comfort and more about taking it for herself this time, claiming it as her own and demanding that she is allowed to keep it no matter what may be ahead.
Slowly, Hermione's thumbs brush over the sides of his hands before she shakes her head. It's almost hilarious that it would be him that she turns for again, just as when they'd first met, the first time they'd been together, her friendliness as he told secrets, but if she did lose herself to the lioness who else would be capable of stopping her before she really, truly hurt them? ]
I'm not going to forget who I am. You're right.
[ Still afraid, true, she steps back, gives herself a little room and closes her eyes. The transformation doesn't require a spell, thanks to the boon, but it still feels like an animagus, turning and twisting as she reshapes her body, lets herself drop down to four legs and allows herself to breathe in more scents, her ears twitching a little. She's clean, of course, no reminder of the death that came at these hands, and Hermione retains most of her mind.
An animagus loses some of their thought, relies more on instinct, and she knows who she is. It's like allowing herself to fight back against the animal side, she thinks, and she raises her head before she trots forward a few steps.
This time, it's her face in Gilgamesh's hands, not her fingers. ]
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