Despite Asrael’s confidence, Bartholomew still felt uneasy upon hearing the disturbing news that Ingvard would soon be sharing the same air as he did. When last he had seen the man, he had been hung from large flaps of his skin- baring his muscles and ribs for him and his friends to see. He had stood there- in the court, next to the High Inquisitor and smiled a satisfied smirk as he watched the wayward son roar in the unmatched agony. Closing his eyes, he could still hear the droplets of blood striking the Court’s marbled floor to appease the Emperor’s Council- or rather, his father’s Council. Across the table from him, Titus cleared his throat to remind him of his presence. Bartholomew looked to his untouched platter of lunch-time steak-and-gravy before looking up to meet Titus’ pitying smile.

Their lunch-time meeting had been moved to his quarters on Bartholomew’s insistence, as the disturbing news had deprived him of any want to stay with the rest of the Garrison- not even his supposed men.

Titus spoke: “I know the news may come as a shock to you, but I insist I did not consider your-… condition. But truly, there could be no bad blood between you and uncle Ingvald after all these months?” Had Barhtolomew not been used to his family’s disregard for human emotions, he might’ve blinked with outrage and surprise. As it were, he could understand perfectly well how is brother failed to imagine he might still be bitter at the man for carving him up while his men suffered on spikes around him... he was, after all, his father’s son. Before Bartholomew could express his heavily moderated bitterness, Titus shifted on his seat, tapping his golden boot against the slate tiles with apparent impatience. The Duke continued:

“I must say, it is not befitting of you to hold a grudge... they were only settling a score, Bartholomew- surely, you must see that?” Settling a score... he pondered whether his brother would speak so lightly of his torments had he been there to witness the madness with his own eyes. He could see it every time he closed his eyes or whenever Lita dabbed his scars. Bartholomew forced a smile and said: “As much as I wish to forgive them for what they did to me, I find that I cannot so easily turn the other cheek.”

Titus seemed displeased, but as graciously as ever, he bit back any further comment about his brother’s unsightly behavior and the immoralities for which he had been justly punished. Realizing they would not come to an agreement, Titus took a swig of the wine and in the process revealed that, for once, his hair had gone unwashed for the morning, as the night’s grease still lingered in his curls. It was then Bartholomew made an observation...

“Say, brother, it is unusual to see you without Petrus looming over your shoulder...” Titus seemed to agree and took another deep gulp of the wine before setting the fine glass down on the black, solid surface of the polished table with a nod.

“Yes- I believe he had matters to attend to... something about seeing Kerras, I believe. Apparently, he believes Lita infatuated with the man and wishes to investigate it.” Titus snorted a laugh. Bartholomew felt his stomach roil with protest for the second time this day.

“O-oh... p-preposterous. She is a fantastic Purged-…" Bartholomew attempted to not let his unnerve be heard, but thankfully, Titus seemed far more interested in criticizing his lover to observe his brother.

“He is undoubtedly jealous that you’ve chosen her for your Servant... he has always been a jealous little minx, that one. I would not be surprised if he wants all the Sargerrei siblings for himself!” Titus spoke with a poorly concealed pain in his voice. As much as Bartholomew wished to finish this conversation and warn his companions of the unhinged, suspicious pyromancer, his brother would not speak so ill of his lover unless he wished to talk about it.

“Trouble in paradise, Titus?” Bartholomew asked. Whether Titus was as distraught as he seemed or whether it was due to the wine, the wayward brother could see that the Duke wished to say something- something that caught in his mouth every time he tried to open it. Titus finally reached over the table to grab the bottle of wine before raising it to his lips. A greedy gulp later, he tapped the taple with his fingers aggressively and said: “For fifteen years, we’ve been together- always. Ever since the Order gifted him to me, we’ve shared everything, but-… these days... I cannot help but feel as if he is holding something back- as if he is hiding something from me.” Bartholomew had seen the glares directed his way and was more than certain Petrus was holding back a choice, few words about him. Still... he could scarcely implicate himself as party in Titus’ burden.

Bartholomew leaned forward on the table to offer up some of his wisdom- he, more than any other in the Empire, was well accustomed to groveling at a scorned lover’s feet, whereas he imagined his brother would be far from as agreeable. “Well, now... I must say I am surprised. I never would have imagined anything to be wrong between the two of you... has he been shirking his duties?” Titus looked to Bartholomew with confusion before shaking his head to say: “Of course not. He is everything you could ever want from a Purged, but I speak not of his duties, but rather-…" Bartholomew did not need to hear the man speak the word- he knew it the moment he saw his forlorn expression.

As anyone raised in fame and fortune knew; company, alliances and to a degree, even friendships could be bought. But none could buy love and it was that his brother wanted. He would have to watch his words in regards to the topic, naturally, as the wrong word might have him on a cart back to Capita- set for another crucifixion.

Bartholomew cleared his throat once more before suggesting: “If you were to ask for my wisdom, brother... it seems to me you treat Petrus like a Purged, whereas he treats you like something more than his Master. Perhaps... you should follow in his example? An evening without your armor, perhaps- just the two of you, out on a boat beneath the starlit skies- who knows what could happen?” Titus raised his hand to scratch his chin ponderously- as if seriously considering the suggestion. He nodded down at the table.

“Yes, perhaps you are right. Magus or not, he has been my trusted manservant and right hand ever since we came to Pilta... perhaps I should do something extraordinary for him.” Bartholomew uncomfortably shifted on his chair and spoke: “Oh, I believe your company should be enough, Titus. I believe he would enjoy that.” It would also keep him the hell away from Bartholomew’s business. Titus snapped his fingers and said: “Then I shall do just that. If you are headed to Kester’s taven, please- do give Kerras and his associates my best and send Petrus home.” Titus’ smile widened to an unusually warm smirk. “Tell him it is time we finally have a boy’s night out, will you?”. Bartholomew forced a smile- hoping he would get to the tavern before Petrus would inevitably fumble his way down into the cellar.

“It would be my pleasure.” Bartholomew spoke- immediately rising to signal his departure with a swift salute- leaving his redhaired brother to ponder the evening’s entertainment. Turning around, he muttered a few choice curses, before hurrying towards the door.