Bartholomew winced as the white-haired girl dabbed the ointment-smeared ball of cotton against his wounds. He stood before his bench; biting back the never-ending agony of the two monstrous wounds covering most his back. A month had passed since his visit with his father, but the wounds were as agonizing as when the Inquisitors had sliced him up and stripped the so-called wings from his flesh- the sign of a traitor... an incompetent. Every time he blinked; he could see it- that chamber they had prepared for him and the many, tortured men squealing, crying- weeping with the pain wrought upon them by the High Inquisitor and his First Legion.

The white-haired, blue-eyed girl with her loose, white dress danced about the floor behind him- smearing his paper-thin, regenerated skin with the expensive ointment while humming a song- a melody that had once soothed him. Now; it only deepened his pain and darkened the pit at the bottom of his stomach.

“I apologize, Master Bartholomew. Master Titus enjoys this tune, but it seems it saddens you to hear it.” She whispered gently into his back. The two wings of scarred skin extending from his shoulders down to either buttock glistened in their oily magnificence. Around and above them; dozens of candles had been lit to illuminate the lavish bedroom, but not even such a loving atmosphere could melt his frigid, petrified heart. His head shook back and forth.

“It is no more or less than a song for me, Acolyte.” He muttered as she finished her work and reached over to the dresser to grab his white shirt and slide it onto his arms in silence. Bartholomew had always been uncomfortable around the Clergy and his discomfort had only increased in the time following his Punishment. The sights he had seen- the sensations he had felt... it had changed him. He’d have thought he would have a form of kinship to a fellow survivor of the Inquisition’s tortures, but seeing their empty gazes- those emotionless, cold eyes; he only felt more distant from them. Even as she buttoned his shirt with an attentive gaze; he could scarcely identify him and her as being of the same species... was there no bitterness in her? No outrage over what they had done to her? As she continued her work; she made certain never to meet his gaze- none of them ever did.

He could grab her by the neck- pin her against the wall and threaten to rape her, should he wish. Alas; all she would ever do would be to stare at him and accept whatever fate he were to bestow upon her.

Likely sensing the dreary state of his mind, she spoke; “You are plagued by dark thoughts, Sir Bartholomew. The apothecarians may have something to cure whatever ails you. Shall I send for them?”

That apathy- that horrid apathy... he shook his head. “No. And I’d thank you for staying out of my mind, Acolyte.” She continued buttoning his shirt while smiling- pausing only to retrieve his black vest and put it atop his sore shoulders. Before he could dismiss her; a loud knocking on the heavy iron doors leading into his semi-permanent chambers echoed through the large, marbled hall. He knew that knock- that fiercely annoying, frustrating knock... he turned around to see the golden-armored Titus Sargerrei closely followed by his manservant and chaplain- Petrus push the heavy doors aside to stride in as if they owned the place. Then again; they did, didn’t they? Titus was a spitting image of their “honorable” Father in his younger days- that red hair and beard, those deep, blue eyes would always glare down at him whenever he journeyed through an Inquisition facility and passed by their many paintings of the man.

As always; Titus grinned his ignorant, child-like, ignorant smile and raised his arms out wide to proclaim; “What a beautiful morning we’re having- do you not agree, Brother!?” Bartholomew had to draw a deep breath to muster the energy to smile. Petrus stepped up in his white robes and the low-drawn hood to glance at the full plate of their guest’s untouched breakfast at his desk and bowed his head deeply. As always; whatever psychomantic connection the two had diverted Titus’ attention towards the unfinished meal- souring his smile.

Titus had learned not to touch his brother’s shoulders, but in a forgetful moment; he clapped his gauntlets atop him and sighed to say; “You must eat, dearest kin. Father would be cross should you starve to death under my care.” Bartholomew wore his commonplace frown and his low brow as he recovered from his wince with a shake of his head.

He looked up at his golden brother and forced a smile; “I am not hungry... As for our Father; I think he would like nothing more than to see me a malnourished wreck.” Titus usually liked his brother’s off-hand jests, but the recent darkness of some of the things he would say was beginning to worry him. Then again; that was why he had had Lita posted at his bedside, though he was beginning to doubt the Acolyte’s efficacy.

Titus sighed and retracted his hands from his pained brother to look at him with pity; “He is not the crook you paint him out to be, Barty. He can be strict, yes, but he loves all his children. Had any man done as you had, then surely...” He’d kill him- plain and simple. No, not plain... he’d have him bled to the edge of his life and then tortured the rest from him.

Bartholomew looked between Petrus and Titus- the two peas in a pod. Of course he would send him here to wallow in his favored brother’s perfection. The outshoot brother scoffed and reminded his youngest kin; “I never wanted to lead a legion. I do not believe in this crusade-business of his- nor will I ever. He might as well have retired me instead of sending me here to learn from you.” Titus seemed pained to hear it, but took heart in the knowing that his lengthy solitude- the isolation from his family had finally ended. Perhaps, he thought, the man would finally find himself a woman by long and settle down. But first... he needed to get his dear brother out of this lengthy slump of his. The golden soldier walked towards the tall windows and slid apart the long, unending curtains- allowing the blindingly bright sun inside his brother’s abode.

He took a moment to appreciate his garrison’s view on its elevation above the city. Out there; he saw the monstrously wide river of Gauja feed power to the dozens of mills working tirelessly to grind the city’s corn to flour- the lifeblood of their city. Boats traversed up and down the river by the power of numerous acolytes, while horses drew vast shipments of their precious flour along the riverside- headed out to feed his loyal subjects in the periphery beyond the city walls.

Titus set his fists atop his hips and drew a deep breath of the morning air before turning over his shoulder to suggest; “Perhaps, Barty, we should inspire the Duchy today?” Lita nearly took a step back upon sensing the wave of misery following the message. Of all the things Bartholomew wished not to do... inspiring topped his list.