Bartholomew lay in his bed with his feet elevated on two pillows. He had learned, from years of experience, that this position offered him the optimal airflow to his posterior, while resting his aching, swollen, tired feet. Two days, he had spent searching the streets- looking under bridges, inside boxes- in every last nook and cranny. At that point, he had been certain that there no more places in which he could look for Petrus- a man whose body he knew would never be found. How could it? Last he had seen it, the broken, armless mess had floated helplessly down the river- dead as the few, brave fish who had chosen to courageously face the filthy mess. He squeezed his eyes shut as he Saw Petrus’ deflated eyes look up at him from his short-term memory. Naturally, seeing Petrus’ crushed face had brought with it older horrors- the gruesome tortures his men had to go through back in Capita-… no. He shook his head to remind himself that there was nothing redeemable about his brother’s lover, save from being just that. His brother’s lover.

Petrus had always been a slippery snake- ever since the Emperor had gifted Titus his lover. The “ever-so-pure" pyromancer had mercilessly bullied- even killed his fellow Purged for even the most minor of offenses. It was only typical that Titus would fall for the man- they were two-of-a-kind. He rolled onto his back- having aired out the crack of his ass and his scrotum and thought back to when he had last seen Titus. Two days past- shortly after arriving back in his chamber, the frantic Duke had returned to hurriedly demand he search for his lost Purged. Bartholomew was somewhat proud of his reaction- the genuine confusion he had so easily feigned, but had been far from pleased as he saw that darkness in Titus’ eyes.

It was a darkness that few- save for his siblings and perhaps his Father knew existed. The same darkness that had made Bartholomew raise an eyebrow as he heard of Titus’ dukedom.

Gentle- almost melancholic taps on the door awoke Bartholomew from his musings. He looked outside to verify that a crescent moon had risen to shed its silver light onto his balcony. With a profound sigh, he sat up on his bedside and grabbed for his sweat-soaked underwear before sliding it on.

“S-Sir... I-… I think you should come...” His Lieutenant- that useless, loveable oaf spoke from beyond the door. But the melancholy and fear in his voice was far from as charming as he had gotten used to.

“Now what?”

Bartholomew’s heart pounded in his ears as he walked up the long, carpeted steps. He had been so distraught by the news that he had forgotten to put his boots on and thus, he felt the small pebbles the soldiers had sullied the carpet with sting the soles of his feet. But it mattered not the least- not when he knew what was coming for him. The tall, ornately carved wooden doors leading up to Titus’ bedroom were closed and guarded by two, distant-facing, uncomfortable soldiers- both of whom seemed to pray to the Gods they could be anywhere but there.

Bartholomew looked to them in turn before muttering: “You are excused. Leave us.” The two guards both released a relieved, deep exhalation before tapping their left pectoral in an honorable salute- wordlessly thanking their General for saving them the discomfort of guarding Titus’ chamber. When the two had finally disappeared down the hall, Bartholomew put a hand on the heavy door, but found that its weight had increased a thousandfold. How could this have happened? How could they have found-… he shook his head and leaned his weight on the door- finally swinging it open to reveal a gut-wrenching, awe-inspiring, terror-inducing sight.

There, on the floor of his chamber, Titus sat on his knees- staring up into the ceiling with his back facing the door- a mistake their father might’ve beaten him for, despite-… Bartholomew’s steps were the heaviest they had ever been as he stepped inside and closed the door in his wake. Titus never once moved- not even to see whose cautious steps were approaching him from behind. Bartholomew closed his eyes as he remembered what the Lieutenant had told him... ‘Found on the riverbed’, ‘the fishermen claimed to have been guided by the Gods themselves’, ‘They knew it was Petrus, despite never having seen him’. This could be nothing short of divine punishment, but what for? For standing up for Titus’ victims? For having dared to act, instead of speaking?

Titus’ fingers held something- something Bartholomew could not properly make out in the dim light of the chamber, but as the wayward brother came closer, he wished he could continue to claim his ignorance. Clad in his golden armor, Titus held pieces of flesh in either hand, but continued to stare up into the ceiling. Just in front of his knees- cold and dead on the slate, lay Petrus’ body. His splayed-open chest had been bloated by the waters and in the cavity that had once held his lungs and heart, only the noxious foam of the river remained. The brown, crackling mass popped in the silence, but as nauseating as the sight and sound was, the smell of his rotting flesh was far worse. The hungry bacteria of the river had reduced much of him to pus already, but most his skin still remained intact.

Bartholomew looked away from the gruesome mess- Petrus' empty orbits and the agape jaw, where Asrael had cut the tongue to study his anatomy.

“P-Petrus... Petrus...” Titus’ voice was faint- cracked. His bright-red hair had taken on a dark sheen in the dim moonlight peering in through the tall windows. What could a brother say in such a situation? What words could possibly ever relieve his pain? Bartholomew braved putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder, but he moved not the least- not even to shrug him off. He simply remained there- holding his heart in his left hand and what was left of his ileum in his right. Titus looked down once more and let loose an ear-piercing, spine-curdling scream, the likes of which Bartholomew had not even heard of his tortured men.

“Titus-”

“Tell me he is alive! Tell me t-that P-Petrus is alive!” Bartholomew bit back a retch- a bodily reaction both to his guilt and to the unsightly olfactory-visual stimulus.

“Titus, please-… come, we must-”

“I will not abandon him!” Titus shrieked and forcefully put Petrus’ innards back into his bared abdomen and chest. The sticky click of Petrus’ ribs against Titus’ gauntleted hands nearly made Bartholomew spill yesterday’s dinner to the floor, but he remained stalwart in his support of his brother. The Duke threw himself at the lifeless corpse- uncaring for the green-and-yellow ooze coming off of his bloated skin and repeated the departed Pyromancer’s name repeatedly- ‘Petrus, Petrus- my Petrus’.

“Brother, please-” Bartholomew began, only for Titus to launch himself off of his beloved to strike his golden elbow into his brother’s silvery breastplate. The Duke stood to his full height and turned to shout at his brother- red-and-bagged-eyed and with a grimace that could murder a man.

“Be silent, you murderer! This was their doing and you allowed it to happen!” Titus reached his goopy hand down for the sword at his hilt and took a step towards Bartholomew, who could do little but take a step back. Before the wayward Sargerrei could speak, Titus continued: “I should have listened to him- I should have listened to my Council... the disappearances- Gerathar's murder was but a warning for me. And you- the captain of my Guard, did nothing to stop them!”

Bartholomew watched as Titus’ hand closed around the blade. Slowly, he began unsheathing the heavy sword to bare its pristinely polished, frighteningly sharp edge. The traitor brother’s hand reflexively hovered towards his own blade, but he paused mid-air to reconsider. This was not what Titus needed- not now... Before the blade could leave the holster in its entirety, the Duke forcefully closed his eyes and brought his filthy, free hand to his face to drag it over his face and groan a pained utterance:

“Get out... get out of my sight, Bart.” Bartholomew opened his mouth to speak, only for Titus to tighten his grip on the hilt again and scream: “Get out! Get the Hell out before I have you pyred in the court, you fiend!” What could a man do to a man so distraught by the loss of a loved one that he would draw his blade on his brother, save for obeying his orders? Before Titus could draw his blade, Bartholomew finally turned to head for the door- his head slightly lower on his shoulders... “What have we done?”

Titus sat down next to his old friend- the one person who had remained constant throughout most of his life. He wished above all he could bring a smile to that crushed jaw- to bring life to those sliced-open eyes, but what good had wishes ever done? He was only in Pilta because of a wish- a wish that had inevitably cost him all that he held dear... He wrapped his arm around his partner and continued to weep into his naked, still-remaining shoulder. Who could do such a heinous thing? What manner of beast could kill a man in such a cruel- such a sadistic manner? Furthermore... who could remain silent about such a thing? Then and there, he was certain of it- whoever had recently upset the law and order of their City had to be responsible for this horror that had befallen him. The kidnappings- Gerathar's murder and now this... it spoke of a symbolic warning- a target on his back. But he would take no warnings- he would not be goaded, not as long as this grief threatened to choke the life from him.

“Lord Duke...” A soft, melodious voice spoke from behind his back. Lita’s feet had been silent as she walked over the floor, but he could tell that she was right behind him- looking down at what he imagined was a pathetic spectacle. In his peripheral view, he could see her white slippers and the unnaturally pale skin just above her ankles, but he remained steadfast in his embrace. He was about to shout at her and insist on her departure, only to fall silent as he considered... she could help him.

“T-take this pain away! M-make me-…" Could he ask such a thing of her? Could he make such a sacrifice and forget all that Petrus had ever been to him? Before he could speak to finish or retract his request, Lita leaned down to touch his golden spaulder and whisper:

“I pray that I could, Lord Duke... but Petrus would not wish it.” As much as he loved the Pyromancer, Titus could not care less for what he would have wanted at a time such as this... not when it felt as if his heart was being torn asunder.

“He would wish for you to take strength from your pain.” Titus’ leaned back on his knees and returned to staring up into the ceiling. “How could I take strength from this!? I cannot imagine ever-… finding the strength to move on...” He muttered. Behind him, Lita bowed down and returned upright with an unseen smile.

As gently and softly as ever, she spoke: “I shall help Bartholomew find the Guilty. Perhaps then you would-” Titus quickly stood up and shook from his stupor to look at the suddenly sullen Purged with a low brow above his blood-shot eyes.

“Bartholomew will be kept out of this! I will find the monsters responsible for this- I will bring them to justice- not him!” He screamed. Lita bowed her head- further concealing his face beneath the hood. Titus cracked his fingers and thumbed the hilt of his blade as he muttered: “But these fiends... these disgusting, dishonorable magi- they hide from me...”

Lita braved taking a step forward to whisper: “But they cannot hide from us... I apologize, Lord Duke, but I’ve a suggestion... I’ve a friend who will help us find not only the strength to go on, but who may assist us in finding the responsible.” Titus’ features softened as he heard talk of a solution- a plan.

“And who is this friend?” Titus feigned reservation, when in truth, Lita had inspired hope in the midst of his dread. The Purged knelt down and let strands of her white hair hung from the rim of her hood as she spoke unto the floor: “A God...”

________________________________________________________________________________

Titus had followed the white robe in silence- up the long, unending stairs, through the sturdy hallways and up to a distant spire- the tallest point in all the Garrison. Up there- at the top of the stairs, she stopped before the sturdy, wooden door and spoke over her shoulder: “My Lord Titus... I ask that you have patience for what I am about to show you. You may have heard-” Titus could hear little for the screaming in his ears. Petrus’ deflated, half-eaten eyes still stared up at him from his freshest memories- the stench still lingered on his open palms... The only force motivating him to move was the sound of the girl’s melodious voice- balm for his burning soul.

“Show me this friend of yours. Stop tarrying- if he can help me find the ones who killed Petrus, then...” Lita signaled her acknowledgement with a nod and swung the door open. The interior was as dark as could be- with every pane of colored glass covered in something dry-… something rotten... something red... something metallic. She knelt down by the door and motioned for Titus to move inside. The Duke in his glorious suit of golden armor kept his chin high as he stepped into the total darkness to see this “friend” of hers.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could discern shapes and colors on the walls and floors. The interior of the large, cylindrical chamber had been smeared with blood, likely several weeks ago, judging by the smell, the cracks in the thin coat and the red-brown dust clinging to the soles of his boots. He found himself reaching for the hilt at his hip as he caught sight of a form on the wall- then another, then another. A total of five men hung on the granite in between the covered panes of glass- pinned to the walls by thick bolts driven through their wrists and ankles.

White runes had been painted on every surface of the room- desecrating this silent corner of his Garrison with unholy magic. He finally drew the blade and turned to face the still-kneeling Lita by the door.

“What have you-” before he could finish, he felt an overwhelming presence from the center of the room. It felt akin to standing before a God- wise and ancient, staring upon him with love and a promise of absolution. Naturally, he turned around to face the benevolent shape, only to find a most unusual object in the middle of the chamber. A tall, silver-faced mirror met his gaze- its reflective surface swirling with something...

An overwhelming sense of peace clouded his senses- relieving him of the agony he had felt a moment previous, softening his grimace and relaxing his muscles. Lita watched him with satisfaction as the golden Titus stepped closer to the mirror to look into the never-ending depths, where, in the distance, he could see a pair of green eyes stare back at him from beyond the veil of existence.