video; Seelie locked

[depicted]

[Dorian Gray has been doing a great deal of growing up. When he addresses the locket, his expression is set firmly, and his famous youth is only in his features. This is war. And he does not wish for death. So he is short, to the point, avoiding all of the excesses of his normal speech patterns.]

I've produced protective stones as a product of my research in warding magic. [He holds up one: a simple stone, with runes carved in, small, lightweight, very portable.] I have made as many as I could as quickly as possible. It will guard the bearer from the first strikes set against them by taking the damage in their stead, but it can only bear so much—up to a broken bone, perhaps, or a deep but non-fatal cut. Still, it is one more chance of survival.

If any wish for one, you may come to me in the library of Caer Glaem, or I can deliver it to you anywhere in Seelie territory.

Comments

[babbylon]

I will come to you.

[A strangely sympathetic response, free of any earlier judgment; Gilgamesh vanishes from view and for now, Dorian speaks to only darkness. But maybe that's more familiar to him than most. If Gilgamesh knows, he hasn't tipped his hand quite yet.]

These distinctions, Seelie and Unseelie, order and chaos, don't suit you well. I find it strange, given that mortals are so base in their desires that they could only ever be one or the other, but you are indecisive.

[And the words he was either dreading would come, or hoping might someday:]

This interests me.

[depicted]

[Gilgamesh's words set fingers crawling down her spine. Not pleasantly.]

I'm afraid I don't know what you mean. Surely no human is ever one thing or another, but carries aspects of each within.

[To distract himself from his discomfort, Dorian rises to his feet; he signals for Ruadán to bring more tea, biscuits and muffin and jams and cucumber sandwiches, to suit the tastes of his guest. He walks through the Magi Workroom, fingers brushing over book spines, as he replies to Gilgamesh.]

video → action;

[babbylon]

[It doesn't matter where he's going, how fast he's going, or any place he might think to hide or conceal himself from the great King. One moment he is alone and the next he simply isn't, greeted by Gilgamesh's face manifesting beside him from nothingness in a full suit of golden armor.

A floating suit of golden armor. He's hovering precariously close to Mr. Kitten without his feet ever touching the ground. Showing off? Maybe just a bit.]

That answer may have fooled someone else. I would think you'd learned not to bait me with mere scraps at this juncture.

[Gilgamesh holds out his hand expectantly. Pretty pebble, please.]

Let us see the fruit of your research. I shall judge it accordingly.

action;

[depicted]

[WHAT THE FUCK, GILGAMESH.

Gilgamesh isn't the only one hovering for a second there, because Dorian jumps, pure shocked terror sending him jolting back.]

Jesus Christ!

[He thinks he may have just had a heart attack. He wonders what would happen if he did. God, but he doesn't want Gilgamesh knowing it. That fear of discovery, the fear of Gilgamesh knowing what he really is: that is enough to get Dorian to calm himself, although both his heart and breathing take a moment to return to normal.]

[So obviously like any kitten, he's going to start hissing because he's scared.]

Welcome, Gilgamesh, do come in and make yourself at home! No need to knock!

[And he shoves the stone into Gilgamesh's hand without ceremony.

The stone in itself is very basically constructed, and much like Dorian himself, it does not contain magic within it. Rather, it links itself onto Gilgamesh as he takes it, as it would link itself to any carrier. Its principle is not to be a magical ward but a scapegoat: it is sent to grab violent energy directed at Gilgamesh and take it onto itself, like a latent program, waiting for the trigger to execute its function. Its very premise is to suffer in Gilgamesh's stead.

Of course, there is magic in this room. While Dorian has left stones like these in the open, there are others, tucked away under a pile of notes. These stones are fewer, and their runes are containment. They are storing pure magic drawn from a gryphon, held in reserve from most of the Seelie army to be distributed only to those who will use their magic to protect.]

[babbylon]

[Gilgamesh doesn't even bother to contain the thick wahaha that follows, swiveling and swerving around on his invisible cushion of air and grinning at poor Dorian's expense. He doesn't even take that hissing and spitting as an offense, so amused he is by the young man's distress and skittish reaction that he forgets to scold him.]

You could never impede me with the likes of any mortal instrument. And you should always expect me, for to come and go as one pleases is the rightful privilege of the King.

[This rock, though... no, it's more of a device, a tool kept in a mage's arsenal. That clamping down startles him, too, though to a much lesser extent. Claiming a spot atop a nearby stack of books, he turns the stone over, this way and that, and then gazes about the room.]

Have you put down territory here? Greater magic flows through these walls. Far greater than yourself.

[depicted]

[The laughing only makes him more hissy, and he'd retort to that maddeningly irritating comment about the privileges of kings (GIlgamesh isn't his king, if anyone has a right to that claim of rulership over him it's Elizabeth of York!) but the other question stops him, confuses him. Territory?]

I don't understand the terminology you're using. This is the Magi's Workroom; all mages serving the Monarchs use it for our work, if we wish. It isn't anyone's territory.

YOU DIDN'T SEE THAT LAST BIT

[babbylon]

[Gilgamesh shakes his head, and elaborates. Thankfully. For once.]

Then it is indeed territory. It is the magic of your will, and the will of others, that defines this space and keeps those who are unwanted out. The flow of magic represents the flow of your very soul, and sends a message to all who stumble upon it. "This is who I am." "This is how I protect myself."

[More to the point, however, Dorian invokes the title of mage when he should clearly not. When Gilgamesh surveys him now, it's with a critical eye. Not necessarily violent, but absolutely inquisitive of secrets he shouldn't know.]

Yet you stand before me a mage with no circuits, no power... and precious little of anything at all.

SURE I DIDN'T

[depicted]

[Dorian is attentive, listening to Gilgamesh and trying to understand his words. One of which is soul.

It is subtle, the change in Dorian: a shift behind the lips as the tongue rises to block airways; a slight readjustment of the shoulders, brought forward a fraction in self protection; a minor drawing back of the muscles of the eyes. Soul. The flow of magic cannot be the flow of his soul, for his is fixed and still, trapped several halls and a fair few floors away. He has no message to give.

Understanding that is why he does not need to ask why he has no circuits, no power, nothing. Dorian knows what is missing, what Aster and Flora realized was missing before. He knows what Gilgamesh is sensing in him—or rather, what he isn't.]

It works differently here. [If there is one thing to be said for Dorian, it is that deception is becoming more and more natural for him. The falsehoods are easy.] I had no magic at home, but here I can learn. So can others. The rules you know are not the same in this place.

[babbylon]

[Mm. One those cases, Gilgamesh notes silently to himself. The second coming of the false priest, who wished for what he couldn't have to replace what he never did. The revelation seems to have quieted Gilgamesh some, and rather than barking back like their first meeting, he considers his words with care.

It's a step up. Not much, in the grander scheme of Gilgamesh's volatile favor, but a step nonetheless.]

He who has nothing always longs for something. And he who has everything also has everything to give, and everything to lose.

[Gilgamesh doesn't call him out directly, but he does ask a fairly direct question that cuts to the quick of the matter.]

That is the treasure you desire, in your heart of hearts? The warmth to fill a hollowness, the warmth that is identity.

[depicted]

[The soul is what is missing, but the heart is what his palm seeks, unconscious, unaware of what he has touched. Cut to the quick indeed, such that he does not guard his answer as he should.]

I am not lacking identity. I have a sense of self that no other does.

[And dreaming, he answers, his voice distant to his own ears. He truly believes what he speaks.]

My knowledge is absolute.

[babbylon]

[And, surprisingly, Gilgamesh doesn't think on his answer, either.]

I believe you.

[These aren't juvenile statements, spat out of spite. To claim absolute knowledge is to claim the domain of Gilgamesh. He can recognize a liar in his own midst and, if less than honest by trade, he speaks the truth in this much. For whatever it might mean, Dorian really and truly does believe that he holds the keys to an infinite kingdom of knowledge.

Gilgamesh acknowledges him, with a tip of his head, letting the stone disappear into his palm.]

Did you still want it? Not a bite. [He may have the privilege of his name, uttered just once.] He of higher ambition, Dorian Gray.

[depicted]

Yes.

[What is 'it' that he wants? Dorian doesn't think to bother to clarify the word, for it hardly matters. Gilgamesh knows better than many just how greedy Dorian is. 'It' is everything, whatever Gilgamesh offers, and wants more.]

I do.

[babbylon]

[There's something to be said about the value of consistency in one's subjects.

As gracefully as he ascended, Gilgamesh drifts to the floor and rests back on his heels. Even with all the armor, it doesn't appear to weigh him down, worn like a second skin upon his form. In contrast to that emptiness, Gilgamesh exists as a creature born of magic—a source of that warmth he referred to, brimming beside him and humming with quiet strength.]

I must confirm a certain truth for myself upon the battlefield. I shall be away for some time.

[Smooth as the sheath of a sword, he slips a hand beneath his chin and mutters by his neck:]

Work on your magic and wait. I reward loyalty in due measure for those who abide my will.

[depicted]

[Gilgamesh is truly beautiful, and Dorian knows what it is to worship and love beauty for its own sake. When he breathes, he breathes in the moment, and all of its sensation: the warmth that hums like the magic answering his call, the skin that sets itself as light pressures on his throat, and a voice that is sound and feeling at once—

And exhale.]

I enjoyed that moment.

[Still dreaming, Dorian turns his palm in the air as if he would grasp a flame. When he closes his fingers, he feels he has caught something.]

Go to your battle. I will remain loyal to that which I love most.

[babbylon]

[Gilgamesh takes the brush-off in better stride, and even chuckles through it. Unfortunately for Dorian, after a while stubbornness only becomes a bigger draw for the King, who has been refused so many times by his intended wife and may yet be refused again. This is the sealing of his fate and the assurance that now he will never be free of the King who comes and goes as he pleases.]

I am the world, and the world loves me.

[And what better sentiment to leave him with? Gilgamesh's hand slides away as though it never were. He looks strangely contented about something.]

So do not love too much in my absence. I'll dislike it, that sort of hedonism to which I am not part.

[depicted]

[Dorian looks up at Gilgamesh, meets those red eyes. In this trance of sensation, submission to a moment now slipping away, he smiles with a sense of satisfaction that he has never worn before.]

You presume too much.

[Dorian is the first to turn—away from Gilgamesh, towards his assorted papers and books. He has work to do. And he is far too prideful to stand around until Gilgamesh vanishes before he gets back to it. That would mean waiting on Gilgamesh, and he won't do that.]