[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. ]
[The demand for that comfort is almost greedy, almost desperate, and that's why he likes it. It shows that he's been heard, that she accepts what he's given her yet again—yet again against better judgment. Hermione will never let go of that box. She will never stop wearing that ring, even when it leaves her neck.
She is as good as his, and confirms it when she shifts back to that proud form. In exchange, he bends to her, bows to her as he never would outside this guise, drawing his arms around that snowy white neck and burying his face in her fur.
And so he speaks as he did in Treun, the secret Gilgamesh who kept lions in his palace and wrestled bulls in his spare time and raced across the desert sands, wild and free and happy as he'd never be again. She's clean and calm and captivating and he has no qualms telling her so.]
Beautiful creature. Someday, I shall tell you everything.
[He really would. With his Gate returned, with his crown restored, he'd show her every weapon and wield with all due supremacy the force that could crush their enemies and put an end to the war forever in one fell blow.
He wants to spend more time with her, like in the tent, but knows he shouldn't. Either he goes now or he lingers too long with the Marchioness who has set him free.]
Walk with pride as you are. Look well after the Citadel. In my quarters, down in Leathann, I'll grow peonies for you.
[Of course he would. It is the flower of long life and happy marriage. It also the flower of shame.]
[ It's a little easier, being a lioness, and she remembers why she enjoyed it so much now. She can still think, of course, and she had done it to communicate with Charles when they hunted together, but her more human emotions are dulled and easier to content with. It's like slipping a thin blanket over her feelings and it helps, it makes everything a little bit easier. She's still Hermione, but she's less Hermione.
Hermione doesn't move when his arms wrap around her, turning her head a little to let her jaw hook over his shoulder, wings flexing out and stretching, unused and ignored for so long. The lioness part of her breathes him in, knows the way he smells - not like family, not like a pride, but friend all the same.
She wonders what more he might have to tell her, what other secrets he has and, just as importantly, if she's prepared to know about it.
Hermione doesn't know Gilgamesh entirely, she knows that; she doesn't know everything about him and she's a little afraid to. There's something deep that she can't quite understand, something about his history, what being a king meant; she can't wrap her mind around that now, especially not as a lioness. It's not as simple as that for her right now and she lets out a soft rumble, shifting herself and pressing closer.
A part of her doesn't want him to go. He's one the few people that knows.
Turning her head, her tongue moves and licks over his cheek gently, the best attempt at a kiss goodbye that she can manage like this - and a thank you for the promise of flowers. ]
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no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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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She is as good as his, and confirms it when she shifts back to that proud form. In exchange, he bends to her, bows to her as he never would outside this guise, drawing his arms around that snowy white neck and burying his face in her fur.
And so he speaks as he did in Treun, the secret Gilgamesh who kept lions in his palace and wrestled bulls in his spare time and raced across the desert sands, wild and free and happy as he'd never be again. She's clean and calm and captivating and he has no qualms telling her so.]
Beautiful creature. Someday, I shall tell you everything.
[He really would. With his Gate returned, with his crown restored, he'd show her every weapon and wield with all due supremacy the force that could crush their enemies and put an end to the war forever in one fell blow.
He wants to spend more time with her, like in the tent, but knows he shouldn't. Either he goes now or he lingers too long with the Marchioness who has set him free.]
Walk with pride as you are. Look well after the Citadel. In my quarters, down in Leathann, I'll grow peonies for you.
[Of course he would. It is the flower of long life and happy marriage. It also the flower of shame.]
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Hermione doesn't move when his arms wrap around her, turning her head a little to let her jaw hook over his shoulder, wings flexing out and stretching, unused and ignored for so long. The lioness part of her breathes him in, knows the way he smells - not like family, not like a pride, but friend all the same.
She wonders what more he might have to tell her, what other secrets he has and, just as importantly, if she's prepared to know about it.
Hermione doesn't know Gilgamesh entirely, she knows that; she doesn't know everything about him and she's a little afraid to. There's something deep that she can't quite understand, something about his history, what being a king meant; she can't wrap her mind around that now, especially not as a lioness. It's not as simple as that for her right now and she lets out a soft rumble, shifting herself and pressing closer.
A part of her doesn't want him to go. He's one the few people that knows.
Turning her head, her tongue moves and licks over his cheek gently, the best attempt at a kiss goodbye that she can manage like this - and a thank you for the promise of flowers. ]