[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
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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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. ]