Liquid courage was what Bartholomew needed, though he dreaded both the taste and its effects. His bedchamber had become a safe-haven for adulterers- young and old. Therefore, he sat on his lonesome down in the cellar- in the very room where he had once cradled a woman for hours on end until the time of her death had finally arrived.
They had scrubbed every trace of her from the walls and floor. There was no blood, feces, urine nor seed- nor were there any teeth nor flesh. All she had left behind was a shattered heart and a psychopath child- now in the care of another, far darker creature. He took another greedy gulp of the wine let the bottle roll over the cell floor. He had sat there, only a step or so to the right- running his fingers through her hair while whispering some useless, comforting words to her.
The stone floor hadn’t stung as much back then, nor had it smelled of dust and disuse. Looking back at it, he could scarcely remember any detail, save for her missing eyes and the ajar door. As much as he wished to forgive the common populace for their inhumanity, he found that he could not- not as he sat there. Asrael had been right, they had screamed for her boiling blood, but despite him being correct, as was usual, Bartholomew could not stomach the thought of it being correct. He shambled up to his feet and wiped each corner of his eyes in turn. ‘Get up, you aging sob... you cannot waste the rest of the night feeling sorry for yourself- you have work to do...’ He muttered into his palms and began his wandering- this time, he would have his answers.
By morning, the news had spread of the boat’s disappearance, though none could fathom what had happened to their supplies. Scattered reports spoke of flotsam stuck to Gauja’s northern gate, but the boat itself was nowhere to be seen. Bartholomew heard them, as he wandered through the Garrison- their theories and their talks of treasonous recruits. He had had to stop to listen as one of the Officers planned to have the captain of the cargo barge executed for his lacking performance. The wayward Sargerrei runt leaned against the cold wall and listened as the two stood in the middle of the carpeted corridor and loudly discussed how their wives needed Artigan honey and fresh toiletries and how unacceptable this delay had proven to be... another swig of the wine was all he could do not to laugh aloud at the sheer nerve of these men.
“Naturally, I’ve sounded our report to Titus, but all he said was for me to ‘deal with it’. I must say, I am beginning to question the rationale in sealing ourselves up here, only to be miserable.” The fine Officer spoke. Miserable? Bartholomew’s lips split apart in a genuine grin. This man would claim to be miserable? Peeking around the corner, he could see him- that loose, purple tabard, those far-too-tight pants and the shirt about ready to concede the fight against the rolls of fat that had built beneath its stretched fabric.
“Be quiet, Jermaine! If anyone else had heard you, your head would roll before the end of the hour! Titus has more important concerns right now- we cannot fault him for his absence!” An impatient tapping of a boot signaled that the other man was far from as convinced as his conversational partner.
“And what concerns are these, then? He refuses to talk to any of us- not even Bartholomew has been allowed entry into his chamber since the lockdown. No- if he cannot provide for us, then we will leave. I have had it!” Bartholomew wanted nothing more than to go out there and drag the finely aged officer out to Kester’s tavern and show him what true misery looked like, but thought the better of it. As much as he wished to weaken the Garrison, he could not allow it... this man, of all, should be there for the coup de grace- then he would learn the meaning of misery.
He stepped out from his concealment and watched the two, aged officers rear with a panic at the sight of his maniacal grin. “Feel free to leave, Captain, but I would confer with your darling wife, first... if memory serves me right, you should find her in my quarters.” Bartholomew chuckled, but the cuckold Captain seemed far from bemused.
“B-Bartholomew... I was not-” Bart raised the bottle in the man’s direction and shook his head. “All is well. Take a squadron of men and investigate what happened to the Burgen cargo shipment. You take your men up the wall and request a report from the Stations.” Though neither of the two particularly enjoyed the sound of work, they were ecstatic to see that one again, it seemed they had a General. They tapped their chests at the uncaring gentleman whose determined gaze was locked on the end of the long, carpeted corridor.
“S-Sir Bartholomew. Titus is still not taking requests for visitors-”
“I was not asking, Captain. You’ve your orders- now leave.” Bartholomew spoke sternly as he dropped the bottle to the carpet with a dampened thud- sending them off to make their arbitrary investigations.
The steps leading up the Titus’ chambers were flanked by a pair of nervous men- still armed and armored. To Bartholomew’s surprise, both of them stepped before the tall, metal doors as he ascended the steps- barring his way. He could not see their eyes for the visors, but presumed their stares would not have betrayed any more confidence than their trembling, clattering knees did. “S-Sir, the Inquisitor isn’t taking visitors- not even from you.” Whether it was the wine or whether it was due to the suffering he had seen earlier the day, he imagined his resolve was far stronger than theirs. He stopped just short of the two and commanded: “Let me pass.”
A contest of wills was battled out in a silent war of stares, but this time, Bartholomew would not take no for an answer. The two men hesitantly reached for their hips in what all three knew to be an empty threat, but to no effect. Bartholomew simply continued up the stairs, only to stop as they finally drew forth their clattering blades.
“S-Sir, p-please stay back! Titus specifically said-”
“I do not give a damn what Titus has said! Do you hear that, brother!? If you’ve anything to say to me- come say it, yourself!” Alas... the heavy iron doors remained still and the resulting silence remained only disturbed by the tremoring metal.
The man on the left swallowed drily and continued to plead: “P-please, Bartholomew... I do not want to harm you.” The wayward Sargerrei threw his head back and laughed darkly. “I would not be so worried about little old me, boy. Now, put down that blade and go have breakfast before I kill both of you.” Bartholomew absolutely was one to make idle threats, but this one- both the men knew- was not idle. The darkness in his eyes betrayed that not only was he prepared to move against them, he expected it.
“Grab him!” The man on the right shouted, dropped his blade and lunged forwards- grabbing for Bartholomew’s shoulders. The well-versed duelist had fought enough barfights to have learned that, although nifty when needed, fighting unarmed in heavy armor had its drawbacks. For one, it was far too easy for Bartholomew to take a single step back and twirl out of the man’s grasp, before delivering a kick to the back of his knee. The armored giant fell helplessly forwards and tumbled down the long set of stairs- incapable of stopping himself until he slammed into the far wall.
The ease with which he had made the maneuver in the blink of an eye served to dissuade the second protector- especially as Bartholomew threateningly reached around his back to produce a glinting, silvery dagger.
“H-he will kill me for this, Bartholomew- please...” He pleaded. Bartholomew shook his head and waved the man off. “But it will take at least half an hour until he does so. The choice is yours. Die here- now- or cling to your life for as long as you can, as the people of Pilta have.” The guard swallowed and wordlessly lowered his blade. Bartholomew wished he might’ve seen his expression under that visor- had his words inspired relief? Terror? Or perhaps a well-deserved guilt had taken hold of his features in the narrow frame of time between the holstering of the sword and the hurried sprint back down the stair?
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“I am coming in!” Bartholomew shouted and lay his hands on either door to push them inwards into the reeking cocoon that had once been his brother’s fine quarters.
Had it not been for the lanternlit hall, Titus’ room would’ve seemed like a dark, unending abyss. The sliver of light bleeding in from around Bartholomew’s form illuminated a chamber transformed. Where he and his brother had sat and played countless games of chess, there was now nothing. Every piece of furniture- his bed, the chairs, the dressers, the braziers had all been removed and reduced to little more than scrap metal and splintered wood along the corners of the room. The slate floor and walls had been covered in white scratches, feces and blood- highlighting an intricate webwork of runes unlike anything the wayward Sargerrei had ever seen- even on Asrael’s men.
The stench was worse than even the sewers where he had bedded the three women. Week-old shit, piss, rotting flesh and sweat hung in the air like a corrosive cloud that stung his eyes, nose and lungs. “Titus- what in the Hells...” Bartholomew glanced about the interior of the room in hopes he would see his golden brother, but to no avail. Everywhere he looked, he would find naught but scratched, arcane symbols covered in blood or other bodily fluids- at least until... Though he imagined he should have known better, he narrowed the crack in the door and stepped to the far wall, where the bed had once stood and saw something... green... shriveled... reeking... in place of the bed.
It was little but a pile of maggot-eaten skin containing a pool of liquefied rot, squirming, white grubs and... bones... He took a step back and slipped on a smear of pus- landing him back-down on the cold, sticky, reeking floor. He attempted to scuttle back to his feet, only to slip once more. Only as heavy boots clanged over the floor, did he manage to break free from his disgusted panic and regain his footing. Titus’ strong hand raised Bartholomew to his height.
“Titus- what in the Hells is going on in here!?” Bartholomew spoke as his filthy brother raised him to his feet. The wayward son retched as he saw the Duke-Inquisitor in the dim illumination of the hallway light- the inhumane state of him nearly more than he could handle. His armor was covered in the same, sticky, disgusting materials as the ones wiped across the runes of the walls and floors- his hands were bloody and even in the absence of light, Bartholomew could see that the beds of his nails were as inflamed as the numerous lacerations covering his palms.
His usually pristine face was covered in a chaotic, rusty, two-week-beard- surrounding a reeking, open-mouthed grin. His eyes were greener and more radiant than Asrael’s, his eyelids were puffy and swollen from an immunological response to the filthy environment.
“Barty... my Barty, how did you get in here?” Titus questioned and ran his left, sticky palm along Bartholomew’s cheek. He attempted to bite back a retch, but failed in his efforts. The sight, the smell and the feel of him was simply too much.
“It does not matter, I suppose... Though I do not appreciate your defiance of my orders, I am glad to see you. My Barty...” He spoke dreamily as he continued stroking Bartholomew’s cheek. He leaned close and grabbed the nauseated brother in a tight embrace.
“Titus... what is wrong with you!? What are these symbols? What is that thing in the corner!?” His usual grace had stepped aside to convey his disgust and unnerve. Titus sobbed into Bartholomew’s shirt and whispered:
“I-I... I tried putting him back together- I have seen the fleshmenders do it... but I could not... but He can- He can. All he needs is for me to help him, then he can bring him back!” Bartholomew could smell the rot on Titus’ breath. It dawned on him like a brick to his temple- the rotten pile in the corner, Titus’ reek...
“T-that... that is Petrus?” Titus grabbed the back of Bartholomew’s head and pressed him against his chestplate with a nod.
“Yes- yes, of course. Azazeel will make him beautiful again- he will bring him back to me. This nightmare will soon end- all I need is for Lita to find me the girls and then all will be well. He will help her too, you know. Tell me, Barty, do you need Him, too?” The shock and disgust proved too much for Bartholomew. The demands he had prepared to make of his brother were now but vague outlines at the back of his mind- this man... could not possibly be Titus. This pathetic, ragged man must have stolen his brother’s body- or his mind.
“W-who is... he? Who is Azazeel?” He could feel Titus’ grin against his cheek as he promised:
“Y-you will see Him soon, Bart! You cannot possibly imagine the wonders He has in store for Us. A few days more and we will see him Together...” Bartholomew had his knives holstered at his back. There- in the darkness, it would have been easy for him to reach for them and slip them through the weak-points in his decorative armor... he might’ve buried one on either side of his trachea- he would not even have registered the pain before he’d lie dead on the floor.
But the sobbing mess of a man clinging to him with all his might was still his brother... He had to squeeze his eyes shut to imagine better days- when they visited the Coliseum together as snot-nosed children- those long, forgotten days on horseback... It was nearly impossible to see anything other than the monstrosity embracing him, but by the strength of his will, he could see the bright sun, the flowery meadows and his rusty-haired, once-weakly brother.
“Gods, Titus...” Bartholomew wrapped his arms around Titus in turn and silently begged the Gods for forgiveness for staying his blades. If anything was to be done to Titus, it would have to be by Ingvard’s hands- he would take him away from this madness, back to Capita where the highest classes of the Purged could begin to heal his pained mind. The two parted from their embrace and Bartholomew mustered barely enough strength to conceal the pain it brought him to look at the filthied man.
“W-we should get you cleaned up, Titus. Ingvard will be here soon, yes? We cannot let him see the state of you or of your chambers.” Bartholomew braved a smile, but his brother’s maniacal grin and the prompt shake of his head stripped the power from his timid expression of hope.
“No, no, Ingvard would not understand. I told him we are facing a plague- we cannot have his interference, not now...” Bartholomew felt as if Titus had just twisted a dagger in his gut. If Ingvard was not coming, then chances were that a solution might never be found to his brother’s madness...
The event he had dreaded for so long- the arrival of the man who had sought to his tortures, had somewhere along the way become his only sliver of hope for a semi-peaceful solution to the horrors that had befallen Pilta. Now... even Ingvard was gone.
“Speaking of which, Barty- you, too, must cease interfering. You must go back to your chambers and leave me to make the final preparations.” Titus broke from their embrace to lay his grimy hand atop Bartholomew’s shoulder and smile a crooked grin. The tap at his shoulder sent jolts of pain through his chest- cracking his heart with every tap of his sticky fingers. Bartholomew could no longer stomach being inside the chamber- despite knowing his brother needed him, he hadn’t the strength to push through the agonizing stench and the constant reminder that his brother had been reduced to his current state. He knew what he should do, but he hadn’t the strength to go through with it... he, of all people, who had been so determined to end his Father’s rule could not muster the strength to spill the first droplet of Sargerrei blood... not to him.
As Bartholomew stepped from the room and heard the metal slam shut in his wake, he knew that he had no choice... there was but one, last person he could turn to.
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It had taken Bartholomew the entire day and another three bottles of wine to get through it. Every word had pained him as he jotted down his recounts- from arriving in Pilta, to Titus’ downfall. Creative as he was, he imagined He would know that he had omitted several details- amongst others, everything regarding the necromancer.
When he finally lay the quill down on his desk and looked down at the letter, he could scarcely believe that he had succeeded in going through with it. He looked up at the red stick of wax and again found himself pondering... was this really it? Was there nothing more he could do? With a touch of his seal, this message might end the madness, but in so doing, he would deprive Asrael of his comfortable position and likewise, his brother would be removed from his seat as Duke.
At such a cost, it would only be proper to have the message mean something more. For all he knew, this might cost his brother his life- his freedom, certainly. Why not take the chance to express himself the way only he could? He unfurled the paper and grabbed his quill once more- smiling as he signed the letter with a defiant; “I hate you.”