Scaramouche was supposed to be an assassin. He's grown close to you, and he's supposed to kill you. He's gone this far.

You were delicate, a rose in a field of corrupt. How had you not rotten yet? Scaramouche wanted nothing more than to protect you.

You were royalty. Petite, and delicate. He's afraid that if he lets go, you'll shatter. You're like porcelain to him.

He snaps out of his thoughts when he sees you wandering about in the royal garden, reading a book. He approaches you.