The eyes of the servant were pale green. His skin was pallid, cheek bones high and eye lids were most delicate, almost like a woman's.
He was sent here to run interference, he knew. The box still in his hands, he returned to his master's chambers.
Bartholomew had one purpose in the world. He lived to serve.
Quietly he opened the bedroom door and placed the box upon the table. His master slept soundly.
The regalia of the night's festivities had not disturbed him.
Bartholomew crept out of the room, while Prometheus slept, his lips curled into a thin smile.
Prometheus had stolen treasures, fire and thunder and now was after the main prize. He licked his lips and dreamt of victory.
Outside the door, Bartholomew disappeared once more.
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