Bartholomew sat in Titus’ Council-hall, atop the golden chair, amidst the slaughter. On the black slate, men, women- children lay dead around him in piles. All but a single candle of the chandelier above his head had gone out, sparing him the sight of the slaughter. Asrael’s creatures had not been merciful as they murdered their way through the Garrison and even as he sat there, the hungry citizens- citizens he had watched starve, were gnawing on bones- stripping faces clean of flesh and skin. Torn-off appendages lay strewn about the chamber, as they had been all throughout the Garrison and at its center, he- wide-eyed and deathly pale, sat atop his departed, crazed brother’s throne. The city his brother had led to greatness- the city his father had been so proud of, was now naught but a battlefield of madness, only fit to feed Demons inside mirrors and the dead creatures loudly chewing on human flesh all around him.

He stared open-mouthed at the open door as Asrael’s tall, coated form appeared- smiling at him. How he could maintain his freakishly straight back as he heard the crackles of teeth against bone throughout the chamber was beyond Bartholomew.

“I need your opiates. I cannot risk mixing the poison with whatever your... Purged put in the girl-” Bartholomew’s red, glazed eyes, the week-long beard, his ruffled hair, and the agape jaw made the otherwise irkingly handsome man seem unhinged. Asrael narrowed his eyes and questioned:

“What is the matter with you? Do not tell me you’ve smoked it all, already.” Bartholomew maintained his stare and his disheveled appearance as he shook his head.

“Do you remember my dream, Asrael? What I told you I wanted?” The necromancer resisted impatiently tapping his foot and sighed. He had an inkling what this reaction of his pertained to, but to verify, he pulled the creaking chair out, sat down, and prepared to listen to Bartholomew’s musings.

“I-… I wanted to find love. I have plowed my way through the men and women of the Empire, but I’ve yet to find my plump giant... now, I am realizing that even if I were to find her, I would gain nothing from it.” Asrael thumped his fingers against the table. As much as he would have liked to discuss the falseness of ‘love’ on any other day, this was not the morning for it- not after his confusing violation. Not when he was still battling off his own emotions... Thankfully, Bartholomew continued:

“I’ve come to realize something, here- in Pilta, Asrael... I’m surprised it took me so long, but I’ve finally seen it.” Bartholomew’s face contorted into a pained grimace, before continuing: “This world cannot know love. It is impossible. Not as long as there are people like you, my Father, my brother- me, still here to taint the rest of humanity.” Asrael leaned on his fist and watched the hapless Sargerrei go on: “Or perhaps humanity, itself, is tainted. Either way, we powerful men are either destined to spread this madness or fail to stop it. I thought you were right- that stopping this insanity lay in seeking justice for the magi, but-… that is not it, is it?”

Asrael leaned on his fist and watched as Bartholomew concluded: “You are not a warrior of justice. None of us are- we are only in it for our own gain. My brother- as just as few could claim to be, threw away the lives of thousands, all for that drooling cripple. I thought you would be better, but no... you watched it happen- you wished for it to happen. You counted on it.”

Asrael scoffed and waved his hand about the air. “Save me your sentiment, Bart. You knew what you were getting into- you embraced it. You saw the injustice-”

Bartholomew rose to his height and slammed his fists into the desk to shout: “And what of justice!? What even is justice in this world, when both sides would murder the innocent!?” Asrael leaned back on the chair and folded his arms to inform:

“Innocent? You would talk to me of innocence? That mindless husk back in that room- the one your brother painfully sodomized with a belt tied around his mouth- had a shattered mind long before I ever got involved. The deluded wretch thought itself in love with its oppressor. Lita was likewise ruined beyond your comprehension- both of them, little more than children when it happened.” Asrael rose up to glare over the table and continued: “And where was the just and righteous Bartholomew when it all took place? What did you ever do to make reparations? Did you, then, as you do now, go and hide in a dark corner to wallow in your shame and misery?” Asrael could still feel the hot poker- he could smell her burning flesh and hear the searing of her genitalia as this ‘Father’ twisted the metal inside of her.

Bartholomew resumed his distant gazing and seemed to shirk away as Asrael stood up and cruelly judged: “At least I have done something. At least I will continue to do something. And you, Bartholomew? Will you sit there and weep over the lost souls you were too impotent to defend?” The Sargerrei raised his palms to his face and shook his head in his hands. Asrael could certainly understand the high-born General’s hesitance, but something had bothered him, ever since he left him in that room, by the mirror.

A moment’s silence ensued- a moment in which only the gnawing from the corners of the room could be heard. Asrael finally questioned: “What did you see in that mirror, Bartholomew? Why are you so hesitant now, when we’ve finally won our first battle?” A single tremor shook Bart’s body as he heard the question. Without looking out from his palms, the disheveled Sargerrei muttered:

“Either kill me or leave me, Asrael... at this point, I do not care. I’ve had enough.” Asrael gritted his teeth. This hint of a forbidden knowledge only further served to motivate him to push.

“Did you hear me, Asrael!? Kill me or leave me the Hells alone!” Bartholomew roared. He raised the foot upon the throne and kicked it over towards the necromancer, where it tipped a finger’s breadth beside his foot- crushing stone and splintering wood as it crashed to the floor. The echoes of the slam rung between the dark walls as Bartholomew and Asrael stared at one another, one with fierce rage directed at the unjust institution they had come to know as the ‘Empire’, whereas the other maintained an apathetic, bored frown.

Had he been anyone else, Asrael might’ve thought him a danger. Had he been anyone else, Asrael might’ve considered killing him for his insolence and the risk his slipping loyalty pose... but not Bartholomew. Not the impotent, fun-loving, useless Bartholomew... one of the few, good people left in this world- despite his lacking morals.

Asrael scoffed and turned on his heel. “Very well. Sit here and enjoy your misery- you've more than earned it. I suppose I will have to fix Eleanor’s hand without your assistance... perhaps the pain will teach her not to disobey me, next time.” Bartholomew, as everyone else in this rotten Empire, had proven himself untrustworthy, but as with the rest of them, he fell victim to the easily manipulated emotion the common rabble referred to as ‘care’. For little more than a moment, Bartholomew broke from his bout of melancholy and turned in a mutter: “Under my mattress... Take it all- the powder, the pipe. I’ve had it with all of it.”

Despite his exhaustion, Asrael found the strength to smile as he departed- leaving the Sargerrei to fester in his misery.