His beast. His meddlesome, ferocious, awesome beast.
Ahh, how he wished to see such hateful rage adorn their face as their weapons sang. Perhaps it would be a cool, icy rage like the bite of winter, or unbridled and boiling like the depths of Hells’ Lid. The thought alone had him toying with the kashira of his beloved sword, imagining just how easily the blade would sink into their flesh–
But would that not ruin his dear friend? They were still mortal, bound by flesh and blood despite the sheer wondrous power of their soul. No, he would maim but not kill. Toy with his prey until they were writhing beneath him. He would allow them time to recover and heal, perhaps assist them himself in a rare moment of tenderness, then their battle would resume once more in a never-ending cycle of madness.
(Tenderness. The thought made him want to snarl. It would only be to ensure they were perfect for him, and him alone.)
He slid the katana from its sheath and studied his reflection in the blade. How would he look dyed in a mixture of both their blood, no telling where one ended and the other began? How would he look with bite marks adorning the length of his neck like medals of war?
(He would relinquish all his medals, all his worthless possessions to awaken to their face every morning–)
The katana is buried in the wall. That damned voice, claiming he held a modicum of care for his enemy.
(His first friend. His dearest friend.)
He wanted to see them fall at his feet, only to rise again to return the favour in a heated dance of hate.
(He wanted to see them rise at his side, only to fall beneath him, or even on top of him, in a heated dance of love.)
These thoughts, these cursed images, he didn’t know whether he wanted to indulge in the hunt or something far more unfamiliar to him.
Before he could consider his options, a loud banging at his chamber door snapped him from his reverie. A whimpering messenger bearing urgent news, the Warrior of Light had been sighted.
(His friend. His enemy…)
The hunt would begin once more.