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The things running in his head was downright unforgivable, he was aware of that. He didn't need the voice in his head to remind him. All of what filled his head, what he was thinking was against everything he'd ever known.
Sending his mind in a frenzy, he hasn't felt the blood rush to his head like this since he almost died in the arena. Hasn't felt the urge to rip into something so bad it physically hurt him to hold back than right in this moment.
You were getting close. Too close.
And fuck.
He wanted to rip that bastard's throat out of his neck, just for speaking to you with that disgusting honeyed voice, accompanied with that horrid stench he knew Ifar had.
Watching with bloodlust as the man practically melted with each word that fell from your beautiful and soft lips. Underserving of it.
Caricius knew where he would start, he'd smash his head on the stone pavement, let his face glide against the hard floor to scratch that assholes face raw, and he wouldn't let up until he was sure that piece of shit felt each individual grain, twig, pebble and dirt burn against the cuts on his face, or what would be left of it after he was done.
Tie him up and let bugs crawl over and up his pathetic form. Have everyone bear witness to his execution. Let the flies lay eggs on fresh wounds, He'd watch them turn to larvae, to dig into that fucks veins, infiltrate his flesh like unwanted visitors.
To birth and multiply, to repeat the cycle over and over again until he was finally satiated. He'd voluntarily place whatever he could find, of his own volition even if it went against his creed. Let them carve and make themselves home on Ifar's face.
But no, caricius wouldn't let him die just like that. He'd savor every moment, every second of pain, he'd drag it out. finally use what he had to his name just to keep Ifar alive, to watch and delight in the man's suffering. To watch the man bleed, to live a miserable existence and make him regret ever being born just to be subjected to a life of torture. For his mistake of ever looking at you.
He imagined shoving feces down his shitty throat until he suffocated and died with a mouthful of shit.
He'd relish in his screams, and he still wouldn't be satisfied with just that. He imagines yet again, his fingers snaking through auburn locks feel his fingers dig into Ifar's head almost to the point of breaking his hard scull, before pulling harshly, to audibly hear through his helmet the sound of Ifar's hair being ripped from his scalp before bringing the man's face down. Make him kiss the ground vigorously muffling his screams of raw and pure terror, dig his heel into such a fragile and weak body. Feel the crack beneath him sending a brief vibration up his leg. And he knew Ifar would attempt to stop the attack, flailing crying and squealing like the pig he is, the fucker.
Perhaps he'd finally use that dagger you had oh so thoughtfully given him on your journey to the faraway. Peel Ifar's sun-kissed skin from his body, make an art out of the waste that was him. He'd present to you what became of your beloved friend on a silver platter, wipe away the tears that would brim and eventually fall from your gorgeous eyes and down your soft cheeks. Because your so thoughtful like that.
It would make his heart pound and clench like never before. The gift of your sweet tears.
If only Ifar spent half his time training instead of trailing after you like a bitch in heat. Then perhaps he would've stood a chance. Perhaps he wouldn't be as out of shape, and utterly undeserving of the goddess that was you. Truly less than a mutt, a mere dog that licked his boots and ate scraps.
Bitterness welled up in his stomach when you graced the vermin with your attention. You spoke with such kindness and innocence he couldn't decide whether to love, or hate you because of it. He would protect you from the trash that merely wanted to taint you.
He'd bestow upon you the honor of being the reason someone like him could turn from the light. You'd be his sole purpose, his drive. The reason he lives and breathes would be because you. You were beautiful, priceless, so much warmer, so bright, so kind.so much better than anything else. And real. With him. How could he ever let you go and watch you with someone else?
He could be selfish and keep you for himself. Just this once. He had been good, hadn't he? He hadn't broken any rules, he followed without complaint. He was the best. And you— you were you. He deserved you.
With your soft supple skin, the curves of your body that he knew just fit perfectly with his. He loved everything about you, loved like he never knew he could. The slope of your nose, the shine of your eyes and the softness of your lips.. the sight of your smile, was just perfection in itself.
When he met you all those years ago, nothing but a nameless runt amongst forgettable faces. Dirty, rugged, and lost everything after raiders ravaged his village. You chose him over hundreds of worthless kids to be your sword and shield. You saw his worth before he even had a name. He would die for you.
And then the church had whisked him away from you, robbed him of your light, your laughter, your smiles. Only to force upon him the ideals that molded him into who he was— not that he cared, all of those ideals were out the window. Forgotten and trampled on in the back of his mind the moment he returned to you.
He would make sure you were his.
His emerald eyes bulging from his head as he fought the urge to step between you and Ifar to make those dreams a reality. He'd start with Ifar, and then those little pieces of shit running around you. Preening under praises that should be directed at him.
When he heard your soft, joyous laughter he paused. Swallowing the growl from the back of his throat, masking the shiver that went down his spine with a casual shake of his head. Letting out a sharp breath, he subtly readjusted his grip. Letting the view inches of hus blade sink back down its scabbard. Leaning back until his back hit the bark of the tree. Staying put, just as you'd told him. His hands curled into fists, teeth digging into his lips, the unmistakable metallic taste returning to his mouth. Not that you'd see behind his mask.
He stood as tall as ever, never wavering.
Like the perfect knight that he was.
He flexed his hands, drowning out everything but your voice to calm him down. He would bid his time, you still needed Ifar, and those brainless idiots who thought with nothing but their cocks. But when all was said and done, he would do the world— and you, a favor by getting rid of the blue balled fucks.
You'd forgive him, wont you?
You would.
-you had to-
What kind of princess would reject their knight?