[ 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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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. ]