The necromancer would have his answers- not from Bartholomew, but from the source itself. For now, he would collect information- piecing it together would come afterward, when this horrific day had come to an end. Then, he would decide what to do about Lita and his two fools. As he stepped down the corridors- past the dying lanterns, he imagined that, by morning, all of them would have been added to his army, but not now- not when Titus had the answers he sought.
He followed the droplets of blood that had trickled from Titus’ golden armor to stain the carpet- through the twisting corridors until finally, the red carpet led him to a slightly-agape door. A guest room, by the looks of it- one in which grunts and muffled screams of pain could be heard echoing through the dusty chamber. Asrael lay a hand atop the cold, metal door and swung it open- exciting the creaky hinges to produce uncomfortable metallic shrieks... but his discomfort was only now beginning.
The room was unimpressive- a desk, tall windows that allowed the light to illuminate the two naked bodies next to the bed, and, of course, the red silk of the bed, itself. Asrael locked eyes with the soulless, mindless husk of the reconstructed Petrus and felt his mind spin as more questions dawned upon him. He had cut him open- sliced off his arm and bared every last one of his abdominal organs to study their unique anatomy. His autopsy was undeniable- the proof was attached to Asrael’s right shoulder, but there he was- in his thin, slender form- slung over the bed as Titus’ muscled form thrust against his backside. The good duke had a belt strapped around Petrus’ head and into his mouth to stop him from screaming, but to no avail- his reflexive screams were still ear-achingly loud.
“Petrus- Petrus! My beloved- remember me!” Titus spoke in between his grunts. Asrael reached behind his back to retrieve the silver knife and fidgeted it in his hands as Titus reached his crescendo- roaring as Petrus’ pained form jerked in a contortion of pain.
Titus leaned down to see that Petrus remained unresponsive- not even relieved that it was all over... he would always smile up at his master whenever their love-making had concluded, but now, he was as limp as could be- drooling into the belt while writhing on the sheets. Titus released the man’s supple buttocks from his hand and turned him over to grab him by the shoulders and shake the limp, mindless husk and shout:
“Damn you, Petrus! Please- talk to me! Say something- tell me how you love me! Tell me how you have missed me!” For a moment, Asrael thought Petrus had heard his ‘Master’, but no. The twitch of his legs was only a maneuver to increase his intraabdominal pressure to spray the sheets with Titus’ seed. The naked Titus fell to his knees and gripped his face to weep into his hands.
“No... no- what is this cruel jest?” Asrael stepped close- close enough to taste the fecal, sweaty odor in the air and lock eyes with the strabismic, distant pyromancer. The man had frightened him – once, but as he stared down at the husk’s empty expression, his bleeding lips and the rolling tongue against the belt, he could scarcely believe it the same man. Had it not been for his odd features- the unimpressive, castrated genitals and his round, feminine chin, he might not have thought him similar, as something profound was lacking from the foolish magus.
Asrael reached his hand out to touch Petrus’ small, flabby, hairless abdomen and reached inside him- paining the wretch with his magical intrusions, only to verify:
“There is no core. His body is here, but his mind and soul are nowhere close to his physical form.” Asrael informed the red-haired man weeping on the floor. If Titus had heard him, he made no sign to signal his understanding.
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The necromancer retracted his hand and looked down on the pathetic husk... even in death, Titus sought to enunciate his supposed ‘supremacy’ over the magus- someone he supposedly loved... Asrael’s sense of not understanding the emotion grew with his every encounter with the phenomenon, but this... this was not even a mockery of the word- this was blasphemy. Titus- this man’s lover had sacrificed hundreds of lives to bring him back, only to violate his physical body and weep. He found it oddly symbolic for how their Inquisition had treated the magi- having once condemned them to their deaths, but now, they acted as slaves as the Purged. Asrael had cursed these wretches for their servility- for their treason against their own, but now, having seen Lita’s suffering, it had begun to dawn on him that they were far from as pathetic as Asrael had made them out to be. Their tortures rivaled his own, yet they’d found the strength not only to serve their masters but to sacrifice every trace of their old selves- all for survival. Titus... Gustav... the people of Pilta- this was what they would have done to him, had he been weakly enough.
“P-please... you can fix him, can you not, good Sir Kerras? L-Lita speaks highly of you- even Azazeel has mentioned you!” Asrael turned towards Titus with a disheartening grin.
“Fix him? Have you not fixed him enough, Titus?” Asrael spat down on the naked, crazed man on the red carpet. Titus seemed disbelieving- as if none had spoken to him with such spite, further irking the necromancer, as he realized... he hadn’t even been there to hear his prisoners protest as he unleashed his men upon them before setting them to the pyres. Titus had never been there as Petrus toiled away in the dark in his infernal limbo- waiting... wishing... that they would open his cell’s door to kill him, yet he claimed to love this man. He could not hold his tongue from asking;
“Did Petrus ever tell you of how they Purged him? Did you even ask?” Titus continued to gaze at the necromancer with confusion.
“What Petrus went through was necessary to purge him of the Evil that taints all the magi- he did it gladly! He did it all for me!” Asrael nearly struck out for the man shouting at him from his knees. He had been there as they tortured Lita- he had felt the hot poker inserted into his non-existent vagina to sear his reproductive organs. Suffering through that hellish agony was no feat of altruism- it was survival- nothing more... nothing less. Titus watched as Asrael’s features softened as the confusion lessened and an answer appeared before him. Calmly, he questioned:
“You truly believe that, Titus? Do you really think that Petrus had you in mind when they cut off his testicles and cursed him to suffer in the presence of you simpletons?”
“He did all of it for me! Our meeting was predestined by the Divines-” As Asrael watched the pathetic, naked man sobbing on the red carpet, he came to a realization that filled him with a momentary sense of peace. He cut the madman off and calmly continued:
“Your delusions will never end, will they? Nothing short of experiencing his torment might make you think otherwise?” He could see that Titus was losing his calm- as expressed by his tremoring, red eyebrows, and the trembling frown, but before the Duke could voice a protest, Asrael continued his conclusion: “There truly is no convincing you... You discarded fifty of your ‘common people’ for this soulless husk, yet you insist that you are somehow more worthy than us.”
Asrael’s frown turned to a maniacal grin that cooled the reeking atmosphere of the dark room as he continued: “Then there is no reason to hesitate. You- and your people- are so deluded that it has become a sickness. For years, it has spread uncontrollably, but now, Titus, it will end. I’ve been shown my true purpose- I've been shown the cure for this plague you’ve become... and it was beautiful.” Asrael’s feet were inaudible over the moans of the mindless body kneeling over the bed’s edge- leaking blood, slime, and his master’s seed from his savaged, unlubricated rectum. Titus rose up to demand:
“No! Kerras, please- come back! Azazeel said you had power! Lita said-” But Asrael’s black coat swung out the door, where he disappeared back down the hallway- headed back towards Lita’s chamber, where he would continue to refine his Magnum Opus- safe in the knowledge that the day had finally come.