[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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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. ]