Here, he knew that there was no longer a home for him in Inferni. Here, he knew that the chasm between his half-brother and himself had widened to an immense distance, a space that would never been bridged or crossed over. Here, the emptiness in his chest grew, and he felt colder. Arkham had never known all the details of Gabriel's past, but the idea that many terrible things had happened had always been there. It showed in the way he stood, the way he spoke, the way he reacted to things. It showed in his scars. Arkham did not believe in destiny or predetermined fate. He did not believe anything was necessary beyond what people judged for themselves.
Do you trust that he'll never tell you to harm your family?
he wondered. It was the only thing he really needed to know, whether Gabriel held his god in higher regard than anything in life. But then again, if it was the former, then he surely believed that any loved one he ended up killing would be taken care of in heaven. Or something. Arkham didn't understand, but decided that he didn't want to. Madmen were not meant to be understood, and to understand was to become mad. He would not be like his many brothers. He wouldn't.