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Chapter Text

Dunwall could nearly pass for beautiful, when viewed from the rooftops at night. It still stunk of burning whale oil and ripe sea air and sewer, but the moonlight filtering through the patchy clouds overhead cast shadows like the ocean upon the city, drowning it in watery patterns. It would always be a melancholic place full of filth and crawling with rats – both those who scurry on all fours and those who walk upon two, dressed in finery and flitting from party to party in drunken, blissful ignorance. Yet it still managed to draw one in; enticing in the chaos and darkness and rankness it held to its breast like winning cards in Nancy, beloved and secret. Corvo would never dare call it idyllic, or even pleasant, but it could possibly be construed as appealing, if one held one’s breath.

He took a deep breath anyway, in through his nose, and shifted on the slate roof tiles as the stench of the city settled on the back of his tongue. Even the odor and the salt air was more amenable than the stillness of the Tower at this time of night, when there was nothing to keep his restless heart from its tangents and longings. Longings for the sunlit shores of Karnaca, for Jessamine and the distance she was duty bound to keep, for his daughter who could never even call him “father” or fall laughing into his arms. He had found ways to spare himself, and midnight escapades into the city seemed by far the lesser vice when indulging in Jessamine’s occasional whiskey and tobacco habit was not a viable option.

A quiet racket in the alley below drew Corvo’s drifting attentions, and he leant over the gutter to glance down curiously, hoping to spy some entertainment; perhaps a young couple’s midnight tryst or the remnants of a drunken bar fight. Instead, a broad, bulky figure was lowering a limp-limbed noble to the pavement as a woman looked on, seemingly unperturbed when the man wiped a bloody blade on his victim’s velvet jacket.

“Does he have it on him?” the woman asked, peering around her companion’s shoulder as he rummaged in the noble’s pockets.

“It’s here,” he replied, voice like gravel ground into cobblestones. Retrieving a letter and tucking it inside his own red coat, he stood, but did not turn to face her. “Back to base. Full report by morning.”

“Master Daud,” she acknowledged with a fist over her heart.

Corvo thought she seemed discontented with the instruction, with the way her fists curled into the hem of the fine jacket that didn't quite fit her properly, as if borrowed from an elder sister. Still, considering the current circumstances, Corvo doubted such an assumption to be correct. He shifted to see around the ductwork he had used to scramble up to the roof from the fire escape, and when his boot scraped lightly on the slate tile, the man in the alley tensed, suddenly aware.

The man – Daud, apparently – turned and bared his teeth. “Go. Now.”

“Yes, sir,” she conceded, before vanishing in a flutter of shadow.

Startling so badly that he nearly put his hand through a gap in the gutter, Corvo sucked in a panicked breath as he came a fraction too close to toppling headfirst onto the pavement below. When he raised his gaze, the man in the red coat was crouched on the roof of the building across from his own, unsheathed knife dangling in his hand, misleadingly nonchalant.

“You’re a long way from home, bodyguard,” Daud said, with the casual confidence of a man who has already won a fight he had yet to have. “If you plan on alerting the Watch, you may want to get moving.”

“Who was he?”

When Corvo made no move to depart, Daud sighed, clearly disgruntled, and the moonlight made the silver-slick scar along his face look like mercury dripping down his cheek. “Doesn’t matter.”

The assassin’s frown was well practiced, and it amused Corvo despite his raised hackles, as he imagined that it is the same long suffering expression that he often wore himself when Emily disregarded her studies in favor of pranks and daydreams. He only permitted his amusement for a brief moment, as Daud shifted on his perch, a dangerous brand of frustration brewing in his unblinking gaze. It was, frankly, a wonder that he had yet to run Corvo through like a rat on a spit. His posture was loose and fighting-ready, shoulders broad and muscular arms straining against the confines of his coat. Daud would kill him in an instant, and could likely do so with only minor inconvenience, Corvo knew without thought – but he had not. Not yet, at least. Perhaps he felt the same sense of morbid fascination that kept Corvo crouched on the roofline, unmoving in the face of a notorious wanted killer; or perhaps the Royal Protector’s death would merely be troublesome if it came without the promise of coin.

“What quarrel did you have with that man?” Corvo asked with an aborted nod to the corpse in the alley below, slowing his movement when Daud’s grip tightened instinctively on his blade, same as his own.

“The quarrel was not mine,” Daud replied, and Corvo could hear his patience fraying like strands splitting in a thread.

Corvo hummed to himself simply when Daud neglected to elaborate, the assassin’s scarred face neutral save the aborted twitch of what might have been a snarl of disapproval. Frowning down at the pavement once more, Corvo debated alerting the City Watch, but current circumstance was too damning for his own good, and he quickly abandoned the notion. Should the Royal Protector of Empress Jessamine Kaldwin, First of Her Name, be found skulking around on rooftops in the middle of the night in the accidental company of a wanted heretical assassin who would surely use whatever mystical gift he possessed to vanish like smoke, the situation would raise more questions than he was prepared to answer. Resigning to the absurdity of coincidence, Corvo studied Daud once more, who had inexplicably remained unmoved in the long moments since he last spoke.

There was something primal in Daud’s presence, something that made one’s stomach churn and hair stand on end in frightful awe, like standing beneath the belly of a trussed up leviathan on a whaling ship. It resonated in Corvo as well, as something outside of prey looking its killer in the face.

Corvo met Daud’s steely gaze. “You’re a witch?”

“No.”

“Are you certain?”

Daud snorted at that, and Corvo ventured that to be as close to expressing amusement as he ever came. “More certain than you.”

Several long moments passed in awkward, creaky silence while Corvo filtered through the myriad questions that rattled behind his schooled expression, debating which would be least likely have him end up with a heretic’s sword in his throat. But the stillness of the night was broken by a harsh gust of wind that tore between the crowded buildings, howling like some Pandyssian beast. The mottled shadows of the clouds creeping overhead plunged Corvo into isolated darkness that struck with a brutal chill. He squinted against the momentary gale, wrinkling his nose to the stench of whale oil refineries and vomit and salt, the ocean air not sweet like he remembered of Karnaca.

His distraction was sliced short by Daud’s voice, prominent and coarse and not hindered by any distance between them. Corvo glanced up at the man towering over him, red coat caught in the wind, and his pulse throbbed in his throat, wariness flooding his body like adrenaline despite his carefully neutral stare.

“Go back to your Tower, Royal Protector, before this city eats you alive,” Daud grated, looking derisively down at Corvo.

And before any coherent thought could pass from Corvo’s brain to his lips, the assassin was gone in a rush of peeling shadows. Rising to his feet with a reprehensible lack of grace, Corvo gazed out across the rooftops in search of a flutter of crimson in the dark, seeing nothing but chimneys spouting smoke into the stillness of the night. With the rush of astonishment still singing in his veins, like the dizzy headiness of white tobacco inhaled too sharply, a guttural farce of a laugh punched out of his belly, harsh and unpracticed.

Daud was by far the most interesting security threat he had yet had the misfortune of encountering, and Corvo was loathe to say that he nearly enjoyed the man’s crass brutality, for he knew that it lie dormant within his own self as well. It was a trait he passed to Emily, in one way or another, as she shared his instinctual knack for fighting and for all things morbidly fascinating; and Corvo could not help but think that if given the chance, Emily would adore Daud. In his presence she would feel the same wretched stirring in her belly that her father could feel now, writhing like eels in a bucket, wanting for a fight with a persistence that he had not felt since the Blade Verbena. It was the sickening combination of fear and awe and primitive instinct that made one swing at shadows in the dark, fighting an enemy beyond comprehension. He allowed himself to savor the old familiarity of it for a moment, before schooling himself back into his usual cold discipline. The Royal Protector was boasted as the most skilled fighter in the Isles, after all, though suddenly Corvo felt as if that title had been challenged, not with violence, but with an even more telling lack thereof.

Daud – the Knife of Dunwall, the heretic, Corvo gathered from the wildly inaccurate wanted posters pasted like wallpaper all over the city – was dangerous. It was a great benefit that Corvo now had an accurate face to put to the name, as scarred and dangerously stately as it was, and he decided that it would be pertinent to keep a close watch on him. A very close watch.

Armed with a new directive, Corvo swung down onto the fire escape, starting once more back to the heartless, stony edifice of Dunwall Tower.

The Watch guards at the gates saluted lazily as he passed through the first checkpoint unhindered, his back brutally straight and long stride full of purpose. It was an innocent deception that kept their questions at bay, even if Corvo knew well of the whispers they shared about him in the locker rooms over irredeemably bitter cups of coffee. Attano was out again last night; you think he’s grown bored of giving it to the Empress? one would ask, too eager. Void, no. If anything she’s tired of having some dark-skinned savage between her legs and finally put him in his place, another would reply. His place should be in a gutter somewhere. The Empress deserves a proper Gristolian man at her side, a third would chime in as he proudly puffed his chest. Or at her back, someone else would growl suggestively, drawing loud guffaws and jeers from his companions.

Corvo never needed to hear any more, he knew what was said in parlors over tea as often as in back alleys, passed between friends like the last cigar. Years ago it was hurtful and riled him in defense of Jessamine’s honor, but his Empress was made of tougher stuff than himself, and she had quickly put an end to his snarling indignation. It merely took one snide comment from a noble in Parliament early in her reign to prove that she was forged of steel, and Corvo quickly ceased to feel insulted on her behalf. There were still times when it wore her thin and she sought comfort in his whispered offers of violence against her abusers – silken, murderous words pressed into her hair, against her skin, falling from his lips like whale song with the promise of depravity. Jessamine never accepted, even if the offer riled her to drag her nails along his scalp and sink her teeth into his lip and dig her heels into his back. It was the only violence she could manage, but it was enough to set her free if only for a little while, even if it left her mortified and appalled with herself in the morning.

The thought of her mettle was often the only thing that kept him from snarling at the smirks that were shared as he passed; like the pointed glances the guards now bored into his back, his footsteps light but steady on the carpeted floor. Corvo wandered past Emily’s room on the way to his own and found it quiet, though he couldn't resist the urge to duck inside.

The governess seated in the corner glanced up from the book in her lap, offering a soft greeting. He nodded in response, taking quiet steps to Emily’s bedside and admiring her sleeping form with a gentle exasperation that he never would have fathomed he would have the chance to know. Sprawled in the center of the bed with her mouth hanging open, she had managed to kick her blankets off in her sleep, and he tugged the wayward linens back up to her chin. Emily snorted in half-hearted protest and flopped gracelessly onto her side, and Corvo sighed as he turned to leave.

“Her Highness was persistent that we read before bed and asked for you, but she was asleep as soon as she touched the pillow,” the governess offered in a conspiratorial whisper, halting his escape. “We never even made it so far as choosing a story.”

Corvo shook his head in wry amusement, musing that he never had minded that the governesses entertained scandalous theories regarding Emily’s parentage behind the backs of himself and Jessamine. It made them lenient when his mask of professional concern for Emily lost enough of its opacity for his fatherly worry to shine through. They never seemed to mind, sometimes treating him like some poor thing to be coddled, even if they would never show such tenderness to Emily. Corvo assumed that it was simply the curse of the governess to be nervous in nature, contradictory, and overbearing.

“Good night,” he offered in lieu of a reply, slipping out the door and into the hall.

The crack beneath Jessamine’s bedroom door was dark, but flickering light shone tellingly from underneath the door of her office, and Corvo knocked softly in a distinctive rhythm. Her beckoning answer was nearly instantaneous, and her smile was weary when he granted himself entrance.

“Corvo,” she hummed as he leant over the back of her chair, pressing his cheek against hers sweetly. “Have you been out?”

There was faint teasing accusation in the question, so Corvo chose to ignore it. “What are you working on?”

“Documents. Regarding the plague.”

“Nasty business.”

“Undoubtedly.”

They fell into an easy silence, swaying together as Jessamine perused a stack of reports, the quiet familiar and unburdened. Their relationship had changed in recent years, the heat and passion smothered by duty and the invisible strain it imposed upon their shared parenthood. While their bond was still strong, the love still ever-present and tangible, it manifested now in friendship, a companionship not physical, but dire in the absence of anything else. Perhaps they were closer now, with Emily between them, even with the rigor of youth and desire long faded.

“You seem pleased with yourself,” Jessamine broke the quiet, setting her pen aside. “What trouble have you caused?”

“Trouble?”

Jessamine pursed her lips and leant to study him over her shoulder, and Corvo did his utmost to look passive and unassuming, his Royal Protector's blank façade sliding seamlessly into place. There must have been something in his gaze that she could still pick out from his pretending, because she sighed and rubbed at her tired eyes with one finger, lightly smudging her makeup.

“Corvo, my dear, you have reeked of smugness since you walked through that door.”

At his dissatisfied frown, she waved him over to one of the plush chairs on the opposite side of her absurdly expansive desk. Conceding to sit, Corvo still squirmed uncomfortably until he was perched on the very edge of the seat, close enough to rest his elbows on the desktop. Excessive comfort had never ceased to sit ill in his belly, especially given the tendency of his peers to languish in the spoils of the Empress's favor. Corvo had always felt that comfort bred complacency that allowed for trouble, and when his sole purpose for living was preserving the life of the Empress of the Isles, he would rather endure discomfort than allow any such trouble to befall Jessamine.

“Tell me,” she said, offering her hand. He took it gently and they both pretended that her words were not an order, but he had never been capable of refusing her anything, and so he sighed and hung his head, resting his cheek against his bicep. Jessamine idly rubbed some warmth back into his fingers, chasing off the winter chill, and waited for him to find his voice.

“I met someone interesting tonight, while I was… on patrol.”

Jessamine pursed her lips at him, but allowed the lie. “Someone interesting? A good sort of interesting or a bad sort of interesting?”

“Both? I think?”

“Oh?” her voice lilted curiously, a hint of suggestiveness in the arch of her brow. “Well you know, Corvo, it's what, 25 Ice? There’s just five months until Fugue.”

“Void, Jess,” he huffed. “No, no. You know I wouldn't—”

“Corvo,” she interrupted gently, slender fingers tapping against the callouses on his palm, counting out a rhythm only she knew. Her smile was pitying, and it made Corvo’s stomach churn.

“Jess.”

“Twenty years you’ve been in Dunwall, and you’ve not had one friend aside from me. You haven’t even tried, my love,” she reminded him, patting at the back of his hand. “You’ve shut yourself away inside the Tower and sold yourself to duty; you’ve convinced yourself that’s all you need. I know that’s why you disappear in the dead of night. You’re looking for something and you don’t even realize what it is.”

Corvo groaned, leaning back in his chair and pulling his hand free to rub at the stubble along his jaw. Jessamine’s gaze was forceful and pointed on the side of his face, and he rocked his head back against the chair, studying the ceiling in avoidance of the accusation he knew was true. He was stubbornly silent for a long while, until eventually her patience wore thin.

“Tell me,” Jessamine suggested again, and when Corvo dropped his gaze she was smiling at him softly, dark hair removed from its severe twist and spilling over her shoulder.

Groaning, he sat up to straighten his shoulders and pointedly ignored her pleased smirk.

“I was on a rooftop in the Distillery District, watching Bottle Street—,” he began.

“Bottle Street, again?” Jessamine tutted. “One day some thug will see you and knock you right down onto someone’s balcony.”

“Jess,” Corvo warned before continuing, her impatient frown scarcely affecting his pace. “There was a man pulling his knife from a noble’s chest, and a woman looking on. A subordinate of his, I’d wager.”

Jessamine’s eyes had gone wide with horrified astonishment, and her voice dropped low and serious when she next spoke. “An assassination? Who was the victim?”

“I do not know. They stole a letter from his coat.”

“Who was the killer?”

“Daud.”

“The Knife of Dunwall,” she breathed. Daud was an urban legend in his own right, he and his Whalers the sort of ghost story told to keep children on their best behavior, despite the tangible carnage strewn haplessly in his wake. It was not uncommon for the name of the Knife to be whispered like a curse; and he might as well have been one, given the way it tumbled like a gasp from the Empress’s lips. “Did you see his face? The Watch has been hoping for a proper description to put on the wanted posters for years, yet no one has seen him plain; nor the faces of his heretic mob, for that matter.”

“I did see. We spoke, though but briefly.”

The breath that Jessamine sucked through her teeth bode for a scolding, and Corvo loosened his shoulders in apparent nonchalance.

“Corvo, you foolish man, you confronted him?”

“Not intentionally, I assure you,” he grumbled in reply, averting his gaze in embarrassment. “He could have killed me if he wanted to, with those Void powers of his, could have nudged me right off that roof. But he didn’t, Jess.”

“Perhaps. But what if you’ve made yourself a target?” she pleaded, leaning across the desk to grasp his hands once more. “He may yet come for you.”

“And I will defend you to my last.”

“It’s not me that I’m concerned about, Corvo!”

Corvo shrank into his silence, rattled by her outburst and the weary sigh she pulled from her bones. Truthfully, he had not considered his own wellbeing in years, only that of his charges, of Emily and his beloved Empress. He attempted to muse on the thought, but it felt ill-fitted like overlarge shoes or gloves cut too small, and so he dismissed it with a startling urgency while attempting his best to appear properly scolded.

Still, Daud had not set his blade to Corvo’s flesh, and Corvo felt that perhaps there was something there to be exploited, some modicum of indifference that would keep the Knife at bay. It was utterly impossible for a man like Daud to not have intelligence on every gang and wayward noble, every foreigner and highwayman in Dunwall; it was intelligence that Corvo himself could use, given the Spymaster’s propensity for secrecy even within the ranks of the Empress’s most trusted advisors. Ignorance would not permit Corvo to keep Jessamine safe, and Burrow’s derision for low-born Serkonans in positions of prominence would not allow that snake of a man to acknowledge such an oversight. Daud could be useful, and Corvo told Jessamine as much, though he neglected to mention the tingle of morbid enjoyment he felt in the man’s company.

“Considering his occupation, he’s likely one of the most well informed men in Dunwall. The potential in such an alliance is incredible.”

The Empress sighed, heavy and conceding, and met his gaze. “Just be careful, Corvo. Men like that are volatile, and if the rumors are true an army of shadows kills at his behest.”

“On my honor. Though I admit that ‘volatile’ does not seem fitting,” Corvo grinned mildly, immensely pleased with himself, and Jessamine narrowed her gaze in suspicion.

Leaning forward once more, she searched his face for something with the determination of a wolfhound on the scent.

“Tell me.”

*****

Daud managed to make an obscene racket as he returned to his quarters, his boots heavy and clanging against the scaffolds that teetered over the Flooded District. He could see Billie slinking about in his office awaiting his return, and he nearly groaned at the sight of her there, inescapable. Thomas was by her side, leaning against a low bookshelf and glaring absently at nothing – his presence a blessing from the Outsider if he ever deigned to bestow one – as Daud clambered in through the window with practiced ease.

“Sir,” Thomas said, straightening and nodding brusquely.

Daud grunted dismissively in response as he shed his gear in clattering flurry of overzealous distaste, blades and bullets rolling asunder as they struck the battered floor. His typically foul mood was more bitter than usual, and he could not bear to tolerate any catalysts to worsening it. Not after the Royal Protector’s unnerving, quiet defiance.

“Get out.”

“It seems Galia was successful. Looks like Hampton’s little wife will be sitting pretty now that the cheating bastard is gone,” Billie interjected, unmoving as she folded her arms over her chest. “Shame about the witness.”

“What?” Thomas choked, blue eyes wide with concern. “Master Daud… I’ll see to it, if you wish. Give the order, sir.”

“You wouldn’t stand a chance against him, boy,” Daud snapped as his fist bore down on the top of his cluttered desk. “Even unmarked, he’s out of your league.”

Thomas shrank a bit at the blatant criticism, unfair as it may have been, but his spine remained as unerringly rigid as ever. If he had not had the misfortune of falling into the Whalers’ ranks, Daud thought absently, Thomas would have made a spectacular soldier, an officer, even. Ribbons and medals upon his breast would have suited him more than oiled leather and glassy-eyed masks and murder for profit, though his talent for death was greater than most his age. Daud nearly felt a flicker of remorse for the dejection painted across the young man’s face, but he quashed the sensation like a rat in a pantry.

“Who?” Billie asked, and the shift in topic allowed a bit of the scarlet embarrassment drip out of Thomas’s cheeks.

Rubbing at his brow, Daud leaned against his desk. “The Royal Protector. Sitting up on a damn rooftop.”

“Oh,” Thomas breathed unhelpfully.

Daud could feel Billie’s searching gaze heavy against the side of his face, scrutinizing and plucking away little bits of his patience as pills from wool. It was apparent that whatever she saw there was disappointing, at best, and she sighed before speaking once more.

“You could have killed him yourself, Daud. Having the Royal Protector gone would make our lives much easier when we take that job. If he's as impressive as you seem to think he is, it’ll be easier to get to the Empress with him out of the way.”

“I haven't accepted anything yet, Lurk,” he growled in reply, eyes going narrow in frustration.

Lifting one shoulder dismissively, Billie watched him with the sort of gaze that made one’s spine tingle when there was a dark doorway at one’s back. Daud struggled to ignore her as he shuffled through papers on his desk, looking for the evening’s missive from Rulfio on the progress of Sokolov’s latest security prototypes, before deciding to get whatever it was Lurk wanted with him over and through.

“Thomas, you’re dismissed,” Daud said on the tail end of a sigh, frowning when the young man straightened at being addressed. “I have an assignment for you tomorrow. See me after morning patrols.”

“Yes, sir,” Thomas nodded, apparently pleased that he was no longer the target of Daud’s derision. His gaze lingered for a long moment, studying something in the weary planes of Daud’s scarred face before bowing with a crisp salute. “Goodnight, Master.”

Grunting and waving a dismissive hand, Daud turned to Billie as soon as Thomas had vanished in a billow of the Void. “Spit it out, Lurk.”

“It’s not like you to spare a witness, Daud, let alone not notice one hovering right above your head, regardless of who it might be,” she began, cocking one hip to the side as she forged bluntly onward like a blood ox in a stampede. “You may have some purpose, but from where I stand, leaving the only man on this bloody rock capable of posing a threat to us alive when he practically dropped into your lap is just foolish. Though, as always, I defer to your judgement.”

She finished grandly, voice dripping with the type of pointed, challenging insubordination that Daud typically valued in her as his second in command, but now it merely left him gritting his teeth until his jaw creaked ominously. Billie had grown more brazenly oppositional in recent months, in small increments between broad bouts of stoic acceptance of his every order. It flagged something suspicious in the back of his mind that he quashed violently, chalking her fickleness up to testing the limits of her power as his most trusted agent and nothing more.

“Tell me, Lurk,” he replied, voice harsher than intended but sufficient to make her straighten her spine on instinct. “If we were to accept a commission to, say, murder an Empress, would it not be more foolish to disregard the opportunity to wring information from that same Empress’s bodyguard?”

Billie shrugged one shoulder again, feigning indifference, but Daud could tell from the taut line of her jaw that she had understood him perfectly well. It was not often that he would mince words and languish in excessive discussion, but occasionally it was immensely satisfying to turn the tables on those who would. The novices thought they knew him, thought he was predictable the same as Billie did. Yet he was in his position for a reason, had held Dunwall hostage under the heel of his boot for years, and any who would forget would be reminded with a reprimand at best and a knife to the neck at worst.

“If you plan on wearing that color,” Daud gestured at her crimson coat, sneering, “then you had damn well start thinking and earn it. Now get out of my office.”

“As you wish, sir,” Billie replied with less insolence than before but with a healthy new helping of bitterness, vanishing after a weak salute.

Alone, Daud groaned and slumped back in his chair, rubbing his gloved hands over his face as the weight of silence threatened to drag him through the floorboards and into the murky waters of Rudshore below. Perhaps electing to spare the Royal Protector was foolish, especially considering that he had done so with the end of requiring himself to actually spend time with the man, to seek him out. He would not be too difficult to find, as reports had come from Aedan, Quinn, and Vladko that the Royal Protector had been seen skulking around various districts during the underbelly of the night. What drew him out of the safety of the Tower and away from the Empress’s side Daud had yet to reconcile, but it was a fortunate coincidence that they had stumbled upon each other. And stumbled they had, as the Royal Protector looked about as stunned by the oversight as Daud had felt, at least judging from what little he could decipher from the little fractures in his carefully crafted stoicism.

Still, there was a curious glimmer in those whiskey warm eyes of his, a promise of violence and a quiet confidence that reminded Daud of teenage back alley brawls in Batista, from when he cut his knuckles on teeth and had yet held no assassin’s blade. It was remarkable and infuriating that the Royal Protector did not so much as flinch when faced with the Knife, holding his gaze like a challenge that sat low in Daud’s gut. He had grown weary in recent years, but the Royal Protector’s defiance had woken him somehow, rattling something loose in his placidly complacent head. He would be trouble, and Daud knew it even as he dug his own grave out from under his feet.

Corvo Attano.

Damn him to the Void.

Chapter Text

            Three nights later, Daud awoke in the Void after less than an hour of meager, restless sleep. His limbs were heavy, and his joints were stiff, and the eerie pressure in his ears that so often accompanied his submersion in the vast, watery nothingness made him stretch his jaw on instinct, hoping for a bit of crackling relief.

            “Damn it,” he grumbled and swung his feet over the edge of his bed, which dangled at present out the absent wall of the Chamber of Commerce, held aloft only by the Void’s absence of logic and the good grace of the Outsider himself.

            The deity being conspicuously absent, Daud stepped barefoot out into the Void, flitting from obsidian stone to obsidian stone, following the path the god had laid out for him. A whale drifted just above his head as he stopped to let his energy replenish, groaning out a mournful lullaby in its isolation, and Daud scarcely resisted the urge to drag his fingers along its exposed ivory belly. They had never come so close before, having always hovered just beyond reach in a taunting gesture too reminiscent of the Outsider to be something as meager as suspicion or instinct. Why the change was imparted now was a mystery, or perhaps a shadow of foreboding, and Daud found he had neither the inclination nor patience for either. Not now. Not after nearly five years of the Outsider’s indifference beyond the sanctity of his shrines.

            Moving forward, a large island of stone broke the monotony of those that trailed behind him, and Daud studied the scene that had been arranged upon it for his scrutiny. Two figures sat on either side of a large desk littered with papers, their hands clasped in the middle in a gesture of tender familiarity. The woman’s fingers were pale and slight against the man’s broad palm – Corvo Attano’s broad palm, Daud realized with a frown of bafflement – and she wore a smile tinted with familiar exasperation and the heavy sort of weariness that should have been too great for her slender shoulders. Empress Jessamine Kaldwin, he concluded, looked far younger when her finery was disheveled and her hair fell loose from its severe twists, spilling over her shoulders in great waves like those that kissed along the beaches of Serkonos, dark and tender. She was human, for the instant that she lay ensconced in the Outsider’s cruel illusion, not just a face on a poster pasted across the walls of the Empire. It had never occurred to Daud that she may be anything else.

            Unable to resist the curiosity that bubbled in his gut like a hot pang of irritation, Daud stepped around the Empress’s high-backed chair, studying the papers on the desktop. It was far more disorganized than he would have expected, with leaning stacks of folios nearly slithering to the floor and random missives laid out in no comprehensible order. Something told him that it was not merely the chaos of the Void that made it so; perhaps it was the coy grin on the Empress’s youthfully crinkled face or the careless smudge of kohl by her eye.

            Daud frowned. It was easier to think of potential targets as sleazy coin mongers and wife beaters, as high-browed politicos with too much ego to stuff in a fifty-gallon barrel. Burrows had painted a convincing image of the Empress as such: sniveling and weak willed, dragging Dunwall into the gutter. Not that Daud particularly cared for the opinions of his buyers nor considered the humanity of those finished on his blade, since his was such a cyclical industry. Targets were targets, and coin was coin. Those who hired him were sure to taste their own medicine by his hands soon enough, and he was an uncaring physician.

            Being as he was a thorough snoop, if nothing else, Daud picked up a loose leaf of paper with the imperial seal stamped in the corner which detailed the growing troubles of the rat plague upon Dunwall, as written by some aristocrat who had scarcely suffered its evils at all. Those in their sheltered mansions knew little of the plague aside from the suffering they saw in the streets and shunned like the Outsider. Two of his novices, not yet fifteen, had already been lost to the rat disease. It would have been a long cruel death, and Daud deluded himself that the poison he had put in each of their elixirs had been the far gentler fate. They had begged him for release, clutching at his sleeves with too-thin, spidery hands. He had tried to be gentle, patting at their cheeks and speaking softly and wiping away tears already tinged pink with blood, but only so much gentleness could come from a man whose entire self was built around the lives he had taken. And these were just two more.

            Thomas had been livid when he had learned the truth, his stoicism fracturing into hurt and betrayal that shone salty around the rims of his too young, too blue eyes. It was easy to ignore Thomas’s age – as he was barely a month into his twenty seventh year – in the face of his brutal professionalism and distance on the job, but the Whalers were his weakness, the family he had never quite known, and he loved them dearly. But he still did not betray his master’s desire for discretion. Daud had done his best to keep what he’d done from all the Whalers save Montgomery, who had reluctantly handed over the vial of toxin with a pitying expression. It rankled Daud to know that the physician’s pity was not for those boys who had fallen ill. Daud’s own feeble pity for his Whalers had forced his hand; it would have been far greater suffering for them to watch their youngest suffer and fade than to light pyres in the wake of their passing.

            Baring his teeth at the now crumpled missive in his hand, Daud tossed it aside, snatching up another that had been laid out beneath the first. This one was blank save for the violent scrawl of THE WOLF IS AT THE DOOR repeated unendingly like a punished school child’s written lines, and that paper too crunched in his fist.

            “You’ve had your fun, black eyed bastard!” he shouted into the Void, turning his back on the scene so that his anger would reach every corner of the wretched nothingness. “Show yourself!”

            “What an interesting friend you’ve made, Daud,” the Outsider’s voice came from everywhere at once before focusing into a single source. Daud spun on his heel, donning a prepared scowl for the deity who was sitting casually on the edge of the Empress’s desk and rifling through her papers as if perusing the daily mail. “The personal bodyguard of the Empress of the Isles, who slinks around on rooftops and moonlights as, what? A voyeur, by your estimation?”

            “What do you want?”

            “My, such a warm welcome from an old friend. You’ve grown more sour, Daud,” the Outsider observed derisively. “Sour, like rotten fruit.”

            “And you’re no less of a prick,” he snarled in return, folding his arms across his chest. “Why am I here? I thought I had finally managed to lose your favor.”

            The Outsider stood, fluttering into a mass of inky ambiguity for an instant before reappearing behind the chair that Attano occupied, one pale hand resting lightly on the bodyguard’s shoulder. His fingers traced a seam on Attano’s coat with an apparent reverence that would have turned Daud’s stomach, had he not been so consumed by being once more in the presence of the deity after so many years. It was an eerie sensation, to watch the Outsider carefully study another with those oil-slick eyes, as if he was a philosopher observing the writhing of some specimen. Suddenly Daud became acutely aware that the Outsider used to look at him with such fascination, back when he was a skinny brat fist fighting his way from meal to meal and shanking grown men in alleys to gain a morsel of approval from a master he despised. It wasn’t long after that before he succumbed to another master, spilling blood in reverence of a boy with a black gaze who bolstered his aspirations of greatness with ghostly whispers as he slept. Everything about them both had changed since then, even if the Outsider had scarcely changed at all.

“You lost my interest, perhaps, but not my favor,” the Outsider continued, finally lifting his gaze from Attano’s face. “You grew redundant over the years, having lost what drove you after gaining notoriety as the Knife.  But now it seems you may be toeing the edge of some very intriguing territory.”

Daud growled, hands falling to his sides in fists. “Do you know what the word “succinct” means? Get on with it, whatever this is supposed to be.”

Once more the Outsider vanished, only to reappear chest to chest with Daud, vitriol lining his young face and the Void around them churning like the sea in a rising storm. It irked Daud that he had to look up to meet the god’s gaze, yet it was some small comfort to know that the Outsider only made it so in an attempt to assert his dominance. But Daud knew death and damnation like old friends; he was their silver sword, and he no longer feared men nor beasts nor gods.

            “The world is at a tipping point, Daud, and you are one of the weights that will throw the balance,” the Outsider said, voice barely above a grave whisper even as it echoed all around them. “Some weights are pawns, casualties of those who have already chosen a side. Others still have choices to make. This is bigger than your pride or reputation, Knife of Dunwall. So, I will only say this once: choose wisely.”

            Daud was jerked violently out of the Void, waking in a cold sweat and sprawling from his mattress to the dusty floor of the Chamber of Commerce. Regaining his bearings, he let his head thump to the musky boards and rubbed his hands over his face.

            “Fish fucker,” he growled to the room, and snarled at the echo of laughter that floated through on the cold breeze that slipped through a shattered window.

            Restless, and being as he was not so dense as to ignore the Outsider’s less than subtle insistence, Daud rose and dressed, knife at his hip and bandolier across his chest. His charms seemed to hum louder with his recent excursion into the Void, and his joints seemed more nimble for it, even if he knew it would not last.

The air was crisp and cool as he set off across Rudshore, nodding to his sentries and doing all he could to play at having some set destination in mind. He had not wandered out into the city for anything outside of a job in ages, and it would nearly have been liberating to freely wander if he was not so readily yielding to the Outsider’s insistence. When the Outsider was involved, it suited Daud much more to be contrary on principle, just to watch the deity bare his fangs in frustration. As dearly as the Outsider liked to pretend that he was a soulless god, a god without feeling that languished in indifference, Daud knew he felt as deeply as the ocean was wide, only playing at impassivity to spare himself some disappointment at the failures of his chosen. And they were all destined to disappoint as soon as that mark burned into their skin. Daud knew, for he himself was surely as much a failure as the others, even though he still lived and had yet to succumb to the madness of the Void. The Outsider would surely have preferred him to fall to a blade or into the sickness of his own head – at least it would be more entertaining than the monotony Daud had provided him with this last decade.

“The Outsider can fuck right off,” Daud muttered to himself as he picked through Rudshore, the once viciously gleaming district now derelict after a year of plague and a few months of submersion in flood water. Its abandonment couldn’t have been more fortuitous for himself, he mused while he slipped through the Gate and past the Watch, even if it was so devastating for the rest of the city. He had long since grown weary of leaving his men scattered in abandoned apartments all over Dunwall; it was inconvenient, and dangerous.

It was never dull to venture out into Dunwall at this time of night, when the clouds obscured the city’s sin in shadow and the moon was dim and uncaring. Daud had always mused that it was how Sokolov must have felt when he finally disembarked his ill-fated ship and stepped onto the red cliffs of Pandyssia: it might have been foolish, and it certainly wasn’t safe, but at least it would be an adventure.

He kept to the tallest buildings, boots light on the slate roofs as he meandered above the city, watching Dunwall writhe beneath him like maggots in a wound. It was a filthy city, the fester constantly cut clean by the City Watch and the Overseers – diligent, shining scalpels that only introduced more rot, poisoning the blood of Gristol from the inside out. Daud knew he was just as filthy. He was a grimy knife held by surgeons with discerning eyes who excised the worst of the city so that more favorable terrors could fill the voids. Like maggots upon diseased flesh, a monstrosity one knew was always better than a monstrosity one didn't. It should have bothered him, but filth was good for business.  

It was nearly midnight by the time he had crossed Kaldwin’s Bridge and heaved himself up the spindly sides of the clocktower, pulled through the city by the burning of his mark like he was following a bonecharm. He made himself comfortable, slinging one arm around the steel of a truss while he sipped on a remedy and scanned the rooftops below. Light spilled from the Boyle Estate down the street, flooding the avenue like the expensive wine the fine people inside drank until they spilled it down their coat fronts. Daud had attended once – not that anyone present had known at the time, at least not until they found the corpse – and was not inclined to do so again. The excess made him ill, nearly as ill as the aching of his stomach during lean winters.

The beautiful people milled about below, flashing gilded invitations from inside gilded jackets, and the spectacle nearly distracted him from the shadow sprawled along the edge of a roof two houses down. The shadow was reclined back on one hand, feet kicking idly in the empty space below the eaves. Daud knew it wasn’t one of his and given the persistent sizzling of the ink on the back of his hand, he begrudgingly conceded that he must have found his mark.

Attano was entirely oblivious when Daud transversed onto the ridgeline behind him, landing softly in a crouch on the balls of his feet. He had to smooth the grin from his lips at the glaringly pink ribbon tying back Attano’s dark hair, most of which had clearly escaped its bonds much earlier in the evening. He was crunching loudly on an apple and humming some old Serkonan song that made Daud’s palms itch with memory, the melody out of tune with the tinny audiograph recordings drifting up from the party below.

“Attano,” Daud said casually, grunting with amusement when the Lord Protector flinched hard enough for his apple to fly from his grasp, bouncing off his thigh before plummeting to the ground. Its waxy skin gleamed merrily in the lantern glow as it fell, punctuating its demise with cheery insult. Daud stepped to the edge of the roof to watch it splatter onto the cobblestone in a pitiful puddle, barely addressing the glare he earned.

“You again,” Attano growled, seething with adrenaline. “I wasn’t finished with that.”

Daud snorted and folded his arms. “That could have been you, if I wished it.”

“If you are going to push me off a roof, then I wish you’d get on with it,” he snapped in reply. His fingers were wrapped around the hilt of his knife, confidently settled into the well-worn grooves on the grip.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Daud told him honestly.

“Because no one’s paid you to, yet?”

Daud smirked down at him but said nothing, silently marveling at the display of emotion. Attano seemed about as stone faced as men came, perfectly suited for the discretion needed from a glorified bodyguard. But it seemed instead that he was a more perfect bodyguard than he seemed, with all that ferocity so carefully subdued beneath artful blankness. His temper could be dangerous, but also so very useful to Daud’s ends.

“Very well, assassin… heretic,” Attano hissed to Daud’s silence, his mask slipping back into place even as the wariness would not leave his eyes.

With practiced grace, Daud dropped to a crouch by Attano’s side, smoothly drawing his blade to lay against the Royal Protector’s tanned throat. He grinned as he felt Attano’s knife against his own collar.

“I was a killer long before I was a heretic; black magic just made me better at it,” Daud purred, watching Attano’s pulse throb evenly, coolly beneath his skin. “If there was a price on your head, you’d have been dead three nights ago. If you were an Overseer, your brothers would be blackening your mask by morning. But seeing as neither is the case, there is no need for either of us to have a blade at the other’s throat.”

Daud slowly withdrew and sheathed his weapon, doing his utmost to project the quiet confidence of a man who posed no threat, feigning friendliness and approachability best as he could. He must have been marginally successful, as Attano withdrew his blade to lay it across his lap, though his hold on the hilt never gentled. It was about as Daud expected; he had never been especially adept at infiltration, at gaining the confidence of a target to extract information before putting a knife in their breast. Thomas was more suited to it, with his disarming good looks and genuine, enchanting charm. But such missions always wore Thomas thin and weary, and so Daud frequently opted for Kieron instead, whose beguiling Morleyan roguishness and steady brutality brewed into a deadliness that rivaled Daud’s own. It was difficult not to talk to Kieron, after all, since the giddy brute never stopped talking himself.

Daud had sucked in a deep breath, fortifying himself for what was sure to be an unbearably awkward batch of small talk, when Attano spoke again.

“Who is your target tonight, assassin, if it is not me?”

“No one,” Daud lied as he settled to dangle his feet over the edge of the roof.

“You lie.”

“I do not.”

“Then why are you here? What do you want?”

Daud sighed, grinding his teeth. He had always harped to his Whalers that the most important ingredient in a successful lie was the truth, and he hated himself now for knowing that he was right.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted, omitting the Outsider’s part in everything. “So, I came to climb the clocktower.”

Attano’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, clearly unsatisfied with the answer. Either he was more discerning than Daud had given him credit for, or Daud was more out of practice than he’d thought. There was a faint clicking from Attano tapping his thumb against the hilt of his knife, and Daud fought the urge to glance down at those callus-worn hands.

“Climb the clocktower?”

Daud grumbled, growing impatient. “Yes, Void.”

Attano actually laughed at that, a short burst of breathless, bitter mirth that split his face in a wry smile. The realization that Attano was a striking man, all tan cheekbones and jawline and thin lips pulling over accented words, made Daud implausibly angry for an instant, a bubble of heat searing in his chest. Attano was Serkonos incarnate, the island’s golden child, and it irked to see him under Gristol’s heartless moonlight.

“And what keeps a wanted assassin – a known heretic – up at night?” Attano asked, his grin smoothing back into blankness like wake from a long-passed ship.

“Heretic business,” Daud said, before continuing, only to be difficult. “What keeps the Lord Protector up at night?”

“Lord Protector business,” he answered drily.

They fell into silence again, watching as drunken partygoers were herded into waiting railcars by butlers with impossible capacities for patience. Song still echoed up from below, some bastardized version of a Serkonan melody undoubtedly commandeered by a Gristolian composer with the intention of elevating it for enjoyment by polite society. The song was too structured now, too prim; it lacked the chaos of a Serkonan street performance, lacked the heat, the passion, the sex. Daud gritted his teeth and tried not to scoff. He was still young when he left Karnaca, but he remembered sweltering summer nights and dust and the press of bodies in time with a tango more vividly than he recalled his mother’s voice. It was offensive, truly.

Attano’s scoff drew Daud’s attention, and he watched as the Royal Protector leaned back on his hands, blade still balanced on his thighs.

“A Gristolian tango,” he griped.

“No such thing,” Daud replied, unable to keep the venom from his voice.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Attano’s lips, and Daud made an effort to frown back at him. He disliked Attano’s gaze on the side of his face – assessing, appraising, prying a blade into any little crack to get a look inside, as if Daud were some riverkrust bearing the prospect of a pearl. Eventually his consideration slid back to the street below, where some drunken high-born was examining the demised apple on the street like it had fallen from the heavens. Daud was grateful for the respite, and he rolled his shoulders subtly to ease the tautness along his spine.

“You speak as if you are Serkonan,” Attano commented idly after the song had swollen to a rather disappointing crescendo.

“Well I’m not from Gristol,” Daud said, feeling like he was conceding too much.

“A Serkonan must tango, if you are one.”

“I will not,” Daud said as he rose to his feet, finally losing his patience under the scrutiny.

After taking a few steps up the roofline, Daud paused, turning back to Attano; he was still lazily swinging his feet, something like smugness on his face as he pointedly kept his attention on the Boyle manor below. That lopsided pink bow was still clutching at his hair, and Daud's suspicions as to Princess Emily's parentage seemed to gain stronger footing. Corvo Attano was an anomaly, a mystery to rival those dreadful Tyvian murder novels that Galia always read, and he irked Daud beyond comprehension. Still, there was some bizarre appeal to Attano, regardless of how infuriating he could be and his glaring lack of self preservation. Daud didn't understand it, but Attano made him feel like he understood very little. He watched him for a long moment, studying his strong slender build under his well cut coat, the surety in his ease of posture, the dark line of muscle in his neck. Daud sighed, weary.

Digging into the small pack at his hip, Daud dug out an apple he had swiped the day before, dusted it on his coat hem, and dropped it into Attano’s lap. Attano grunted in surprise. He stared at it for a long moment, before turning to glare at Daud with one eyebrow artfully raised.

“It’s not poisoned.”

Unswayed, Attano continued staring with a bitterly indifferent sort of incredulity even as Daud sighed, collected the apple, took an obnoxiously large bite, and dropped it back in Attano’s lap. He hummed, picking up the apple to study it even as Daud turned away.

“Careful, noble Lord Protector. It may not be poisoned, but it is stolen,” Daud commented smugly.

He could hear the smile in Attano’s self-satisfied voice when he finally spoke, punctuated by the crunch of teeth piercing the apple’s flesh.

“Don’t worry. So was the other one.”

Daud snarled and clenched his left fist. Damn Corvo Attano to the Void.

*****

            Corvo was smiling when he let himself into Jessamine’s bedroom at one o’clock in the morning. He knew he was smiling, and he knew he must have looked mad with fever with how hot he was beneath his coat, given it was a week into the Month of Hearths and the weather was still bitterly cold. He tried to care. He failed.

            “Corvo!” Jessamine startled, closing her book and uncurling from her seat by the fire as she turned, wide-eyed, to gawk at him. “What’s going on? Is Emily alright?”

            “Emily is fine,” he assured her, his words too fast and too breathy. “I’ve just returned. From the Estate District.”

            Jessamine looked disappointed, frowning at him in that muted imperious way that she saved for when she was worried about him. It stalled him for a moment as he read the lines on her face like a map, guiding him towards the realization of his foolishness. Despite his greater years, Jessamine was always the more reasonable of them both, ever ready to temper his anger or loneliness or sorrow so he wouldn’t tear himself apart. She had always carried the greater burden, and she carried the burden of Corvo Attano as well, despite how desperately he strove to make it otherwise.

            Excitement flagging, he moved to kneel by her side, reaching to smooth her blankets back across her lap. “I’m sorry, Jess. I know how you dislike it.”

            “Come now, Corvo,” she cooed, her cool hand alighting against his flushed cheek. “You were so pleased with something, more than I’ve seen in ages. Tell me, my love.”

            “It is nothing.”

            “Corvo.”

            Slender fingers closed around his own, too tight, nearly forceful, and he rested his cheek against her knee, smothering the smile that began to grow unbidden on his lips against the blankets.

            “I met him again, in the Estate District.”

            “Who?”

            “Him.”

            Jessamine seemed puzzled for a long moment, and then all at once understanding descended upon her expression as sunlight through clouds. She was so beautiful, so joyous for his every victory, and Corvo knew he loved her dearly despite the passion that had long since died between them. She was his dearest friend, the mother of his child, his empress – and he adored her as all three, even as mischief crept into her eyes.

            “The Knife?” she asked innocently, a wry smile on her lips when he nodded confirmation. “Did he threaten you with a bloody demise, this time?”

            “It was… mutual.”

            “Careful, Corvo.”

            Corvo sighed, dropping his head atop their joined hands.

“I am, Jess. I will be. It is important that I get to know what he knows – he’s probably the most well informed man in Dunwall, if not Gristol,” he argued, trying to defend himself. “I have to earn his favor, his confidence. I’m trying to keep you safe. I’m doing the duty you charged me with.”

“That may be so. But if you end up with your neck slit from ear to ear, who will protect me then? Who will protect Emily?”

Appalled by the thought, Corvo recoiled, studying Jessamine’s expression with betrayal painted across his features.

“I trust you, Corvo,” she continued, more gently. “I don’t trust him. Just don’t do anything foolish.”

Corvo pressed his lips to her knuckles, a promise. Jessamine seemed satisfied with the silent declaration, and straightened in her seat.

“So how was the Knife of Dunwall this evening?”

“He was… pleasant,” Corvo huffed on a laugh, smile returning. “He made clear that the was no threat, and then we sat. Just sat, listening to the terrible “Serkonan” music the Boyles like to play.”

“Oh?”

“He’s… he’s Serkonan, Jess. The first Serkonan I’ve met in Dunwall. In twenty years, Jess,” his voice was rising in relief again, smile wider than he had known it since the day Emily was born. “He is a murderer and a heretic and an ass, but he’s Serkonan.”

It was a great, sagging relief to consider, one that made him giddy and dizzy and desirous for the presence of a coarse, dangerous man who would rather tip him off a rooftop than reminisce about sunny Serkonan shores. It was an echo of home, no matter how distant.  For all his time in Gristol, Corvo had only ever been in the presence of the Dunwall elite; he knew there were Serkonans in Gristol, in Dunwall, even, but it was not within his breadth to pursue those connections. It would draw too much focus from his duties and would shame Jessamine even further than his glaring heritage already did. Truthfully, the long-subdued loneliness and longing for home had scarcely occurred to him for years, but now he could not be free of it.

“I’m glad for you.” His smile must have been contagious, as Jessamine was now grinning down at him like she knew something he did not. “You may convince yourself that this is your duty, but you clearly like the man. He may be a murderer and a heretic and an ass and dangerous, but from the way you speak of him, Corvo, I must ask: is he handsome?”

Corvo spluttered unattractively, flushing deeper than he had since Jessamine had asked if he would bed her mere months after her eighteenth birthday. She had been as direct and brutal then as she was now, uncaring of his modesty. He chuckled awkwardly against her fists, nuzzling her fingers.

“Most would not say so,” he admitted. “But he is… distinguished. Dark hair and grey eyes, with a bearing that nearly makes you ill. You’re not certain if you should be afraid or otherwise.”

Jessamine stood, humming to herself, considering, as she moved to her small desk to rifle through the drawers. Her mischievous smirk returned when she found what she was searching for – an audiograph card – and waggled it at him suggestively.

“These things may be so, but does he tango?”

She inserted the card with a click, and sensual Serkonan guitar floated on tinny strains from the speakers. Corvo closed his eyes and smiled. It sounded like sunset on a Serkonan summer night, like sweltering heat, and dust and sex, and Corvo idly wondered if such music reminded Daud of the same things. He grinned up at his empress when she threaded her hands into his hair, pulling free the ribbon that Emily had tied for him after dinner, her fingers curling into a fist at his nape.

“Dance with me, Corvo,” she said, teasing with a smirk. “You may need the practice.”

Chapter Text

Daud didn’t wake until nearly nine the next morning, somehow impossibly exhausted from his encounter with the Royal Protector the night before. The Outsider had been benevolent to let him sleep through the night this time, even if echoing strands of Serkonan guitar did filter into his otherwise dark, formless dreams. Small mercies, or perhaps mere convenient concessions, were all the benevolence the Outsider would grant him.

            He had left Attano in a huff, unreasonably irritated with the man despite the trickle of satisfaction he had felt while in his company. Attano was a box with no seams, impossible to look inside and wooden and stalwart on each face. But the more Daud studied, the more he saw. Regardless of Attano’s status as the Empress’s stone-faced confidant and premier protection detail, the brief time Daud had spent with him – watching him, just him, not the shadow cast by the Empress’s glow – the more he understood how the Empress could have taken him as a lover. Attano was clever, not just icily so as was so common with people who knew precisely how clever they were, but clever and witty. He was funny, Daud was loath to admit, though in that coy, sarcastic sort of way that would make any high born Gristolian bitter with envy. There was no denying that Attano was also a prime asshole, and smartass to boot, but Daud was self-aware enough to know that the only reason he hated Corvo Attano was because they were exactly alike. Attano, however, pulled off the routine with considerably more charm.

            Daud had watched him from a rooftop several houses down, astounded as Attano dropped from an eave to a balcony, breaking and entering via an unlocked window before reappearing on the sill of another window two stories below, and climbing a trellis down to the street. Rulfio had been so brazen and nimble when he was a younger man, but Attano was at least fifteen years beyond the age at which Rulfio had decided that he’d fallen into a dumpster for the last time. They had to be near the same age now, indicating that Attano was either more competent in illegal entry than Daud had assumed, or he was a damned reckless idiot. Incapable of deciding between the two, Daud just assumed that it was some unholy combination of both.

            The streets had been quiet for Dunwall under the cloak of night, even in the biting cold of Hearths, so Attano had moved quickly back towards the Tower as Daud followed, unseen, high above. He had watched Attano’s spine straighten like iron on an anvil as he came within view of the outermost City Watch guard post, saw the moment when the grin he had scarcely noticed slipped from Attano’s face. It was jarring how different he looked in that moment – so cold, so expressionless, so stern. His blankness ran deeper than the icy wall of wariness he had raised upon their first meeting. At least then the danger in his eyes had kept him from looking so much like a corpse sapped of life as he had when he stepped through the Tower gates. Daud’s skin crawled to watch him, to watch his blatant indifference at the sniggering whispers of the guards behind his retreating back, wanting more than anything to see the man who had held a blade to the throat of Dunwall’s most feared assassin and sneered in the face of death. That man did not show, even after the Tower doors shut behind him, and Daud had to sit a long while atop the water lock in fury at the enigma of Corvo Attano.

            Daud had trudged furiously back to Rudshore, draining all the remedies he had left in his pack just so he didn’t have to stop and think about how unreasonably rattled he was. By the time he managed to clatter into his quarters in the Chamber of Commerce and stumble up the stairs, the Void singing in his ears from mana depletion, it was three hours until sunrise. He fell asleep face down on his lumpy bed, made lumpier by the bandolier still slung across his chest, and when he awoke, he could only be glad that he’d managed to set his sword aside on the chest down by his still-booted feet. Void, he was a mess.

            “Damn boss, ye look like shite,” Jenkins greeted him cheerily once he’d managed to drag himself to the mess for a cup of the tar that the Whalers seemed content to call coffee. “Did Fugue come early this year?”

            “Reconnaissance,” Daud grumbled in reply.

            Jenkins hummed, as if some thought was managing to rattle about in that big, empty head of his while he slid a half-cold carafe back over a lit burner. Morleyan and boasting the most assaulting red hair Daud had ever had the misfortune of seeing, Jenkins was easily the brawniest of the Whalers, with a long scar across one cheek and a right hook that could put a blood ox in the dirt on the first blow. But he had no taste for violence, and yet still possessed an uncanny ability to dissuade those who did by merely standing around with his arms folded and frowning at passerby. Jenkins wasn’t bright, not clever and knife-edge brutal like Kieron and Killian – his cousins by blood – but Daud gave him a job in the kitchen anyway, regardless of his happy penchant for cooking abhorrent Morleyan cuisine.

            “I kept a plate for you, boss. Blood sausage and the last of the figs, just the way ye like,” Jenkins said proudly, gesturing to a cloth covered plate tucked surreptitiously between two towering stacks of pots and pans. “Rinaldo said there’d be a merchant ship comin’ in from Cullero next week, probably have a few crates worth swipin’. We’re running low on greens and liquor, again.”

            Daud picked idly at his breakfast with the only clean fork he could find as the coffee started burbling angrily on the stovetop. Jenkins was quick with a chipped teacup and saucer, grinning like he was pleased with himself regardless of how unnecessary the gesture truly was. Nodding his thanks, Daud polished off his meal and collected the whole coffee ensemble carefully, balancing it in one palm.

            “I’ll have Rinaldo and Galia on a scouting run for supplies tonight. And I’ll send Akila in to help with these damn dishes.”

            “Thank ye, boss,” Jenkins chimed, smiling broadly enough that Daud could see the jagged edge of the tooth he chipped on his first transversal. Daud wasn’t certain why that memory had come so vividly; it meant nothing.

            Waving off the sentiment, Daud wove back towards the Chamber of Commerce, nudging open the glass doors with his hip, his hands occupied with the dainty weight of the cup in one palm and a roll of Dunwall Tower schematics from the archives in the other. The papers consumed most of the floor behind his desk, and he studied them as he sipped at his surprisingly palatable coffee. Jenkins must have been generous enough to give him a dollop of honey to cut the bitterness; Daud hadn’t even noticed.

            The fwip of a transversal behind him heralded Leonid, who was flapping a thin stack of papers at Daud’s back irritably. He looked passively unimpressed with the hour of Daud’s awakening, likely having been waiting to deliver his report since sunrise. Slender but towering in height, he blocked out what little light was filtering through the windows as he stood pointedly in front of Daud, offering a salute with a fistful of papers still in his grasp.

            “Report from Tower surveillance, sir,” he said, glaring out from beneath brows that were always too heavy over his eyes. “Mine and Thomas’s. He completed it after he was relieved at eight.”

            “At eight? He was to be relieved by Billie at sunrise.”

            “She never showed. I sent Misha in her place.”

            Hot frustration curled, serpentine, in Daud’s chest and he slammed his coffee down on the nearest desk, the porcelain rattling precariously. Leonid’s fingers twitched around his papers, leaving miniscule creases that he smoothed out against his chest, looking even more displeased at Daud’s outburst than he had at his tardiness. Though Leonid was not quite Tyvian enough to express his distaste to Daud directly in the clipped words which he so plainly preferred, he did muster a spectacular glare that Daud met with a scowl of his own.

            “I’ll see to those,” Daud seethed, snatching the reports away. “Where is Thomas?”

            “Resting, sir.”

            “Wake him. I need to see him and Kieron, now. Tell your squad that if Billie returns, she is to see me immediately. Who is away from Rudshore now?”

            “Fisher has Desmond and Little Tom away on a supply run for Montgomery; Dodge and Javier are in the Estate District; and Galia took a few of the girls to Draper’s for the day in civilian clothes. She said she had your permission, sir.”

            “She did,” Daud admitted, thinking through the day’s rotation schedules. He felt disoriented and lagging from how late he had slept, as if the world had carried on without him and left him weeks behind. It should have been Billie’s duty, as his lieutenant, to ready the Whaler’s patrols for the day in his absence; she had not, but they were organized anyway, and that pulled some of the tension from Daud’s spine. “Kieron’s squad isn’t in the Estate District as well?”

            Leonid frowned for a moment, the blue of his eyes too vivid against his dark brows and pale skin livid with sleepless shadows. “They left, early this morning, but their mark and his protection detail left for court at the Tower, so Kieron sent his novices back and stayed to watch the house himself.”

            The impossibility of how foolish even the brightest of his Whalers could be always astounded Daud, and he kneaded at his temples as he leaned heavily against his desk. Despite being the most disciplined fighting force in Dunwall – rivaled narrowly only by the Abbey’s Warfare Overseers – it was spectacular how inadvertently insubordinate his men could be. He was grateful that they were more loyal and obedient than the City Watch, but he often feared that he was too forgiving, too soft. The vague inklings of affection that he daren’t acknowledge made him blind and weak. He was a stronger leader before, when the Whalers were few and his network minimal, but time had made him complacent. Daud knew some among them thought so, he knew they even felt secure enough to whisper such little betrayals amongst themselves when they thought he could not hear. He could hardly blame them for it; Daud thought the same of himself.

            “Dismissed, Leonid. Summon Thomas and Killian. Inform me if Billie graces us with her presence.”

            The salute he received could be generously called willful, but Daud had not the time to complain before Leonid was gone in a flutter, the shadows of the Void billowing in his place like feathers shed by a murder of crows. Suddenly wearier than he had been when he fell into bed that morning, Daud sunk down onto the bottom step of the staircase up to his quarters, kneading his eyes with the heels of his palms.

            It felt as if Dunwall was shrinking around his shoulders while its problems grew too big; bigger than he could handle, bigger than the Overseers could handle, bigger than the Watch could handle, and certainly bigger than anyone in a position of power could handle without their status bleeding out from beneath their feet. The rat plague was eating the city alive, descending brick by brick into the type of anxious fugue that desperation had driven into Morley during the four-year famine. Daud had seen the last vile months of it as a boy of no more than eleven, after he was taken from his mother in the belly of a ship that smelled like salt and the same desperation. He’d seen gaunt, mindless men tilling fields of dirt which had nothing to yield, he saw wild-eyed women bartering their screeching babes for moldy scraps of bread. He would see the same here in Dunwall, he knew; but this time the tears shining on hollow cheeks would be streaming red.

            The tension, the impending wave that no levee could break was making the city mad before the plague could even seep fully into its veins. Their contracts had increased wildly in volume and urgency, as if the nobles knew that their heirs and competitors and business partners would snatch up every coin they had before they were cold in their graves, and so elected to put their enemies in the ground first. They knew nothing, or at least had no concept of reality beyond their tea parties and bank accounts and who said what about whom at so-and-so’s soiree. They knew not, cared not that before long there’d be too many graves to fill and no one to dig them. No matter how dogged the Empress was in finding some solution, despite her optimism, everything was still going to go to shit until she came to terms with the reality of it all. And perhaps that was why Burrows had sent him that letter. It wasn’t the typical command with a target, a time, and a hefty sum; this time it was the order to watch, listen, and wait for some vague request that may or may not come. But Burrows was afraid of something this time, as if he knew some secret was under threat. Typically, the Spymaster’s instructions for target elimination were meticulously plotted, brooking no space for improvisation or adaptation on the part of the Whalers. He had docked Daud’s pay before on some such technicality. This time Burrows had given no such instruction, had hardly given any instruction at all aside from reconnaissance on the Tower, but Daud felt he knew what the order would be when it came. An Empress’s blood ran golden into an assassin’s palm.

            “Master Daud?”

            Daud nearly flinched, not aware that Thomas had slipped into the office through the front door. He had trained the young man too well, it seemed; damn, he was quiet.

            “Thomas,” Daud began, studying him for a long moment. Thomas was still mussed from sleep, his sandy hair spiked wild and ragged and deep shadows painted beneath his too blue eyes. It was perhaps the least composed Daud had ever seen him, with his trousers only tucked properly into one boot and his shirt hanging open at the collar, exposing the long scar that traversed his clavicle and stretched down across his chest. Daud remembered that scar well. He remembered carrying a bloody, teary eyed boy back to base after killing his mother’s noble employers on a contract. The blond, blue eyed house maid had been irrelevant collateral at the time. The boy, beaten black and blue and bloody by the master of the house – and the boy’s father, Daud suspected – refused to meet the same fate.

            “Where’s Killian? Leonid was to summon both of you.”

            “From what I gathered, sir,” Thomas said, straightening his spine on instinct, “Killian went to the Estate District after Kieron to, and I quote: ‘either drag that stupid arse back here or to replace his squad.’ Unquote.”

            Daud groaned, closing his eyes and shaking his head in exasperation as he dragged a hand down his face. He would need to think of some create discipline measures for the twins, since any punishment that they were assigned together they always ended enjoying far more than they should. Just another problem.

            “Thomas, we have a problem. And you have an assignment”

            “What is it, sir? Grant the order and I’m yours to command.”

            Thomas was a good man, a good soldier, a good killer – as mutually exclusive as those things seemed to be in the mind of any sane individual. Daud felt in his bones that Thomas’s obedience was never granted in concession, and never in reluctant, sarcastic deference as some Whalers’ always seemed to be. He could trust Thomas with the worst of himself in a way that he had felt eroding between himself and Billie in recent weeks. Daud still trusted Billie with his life, with his back and his exposed throat, even if it was foolish to do so. Sometimes he wondered if he had trained her too well, so well that he would never see her coming – he wondered if he’d trained his men so well that he wouldn’t see any of them coming. But not Thomas; the boy was too genuine, he loved Daud too much for betrayal even in the worst of circumstances. Daud knew that if trusting Thomas ended with a blade in his chest, then he would damn well deserve it.

            He frowned and steepled his fingers against his chin, the leather scratching against day old stubble as he watched Thomas, with his blue eyes so earnest and eager. “This problem is a who, not a what,” Daud said at length. “Its name is Corvo Attano. And your assignment is to meet him. Unarmed.”

*****

            Corvo Attano was having a terrible morning. It certainly had not begun as a terrible morning. It began with Jessamine curled against his back, with one of her bony elbows wedged between her chest and the meaty muscle along Corvo’s spine, and her frigid toes tucked against the backs of his calves. They had stayed up late, swaying to Serkonan music on audiographs played nearly too softly to hear, drinking whiskey and laughing against each other’s cheeks.

            “You know I love you,” Corvo had whispered against her crown, grinning like he had when he’d left Daud hours before.

“I know,” Jessamine had grinned back, butting her nose against his chin. “And I love you. You are my dearest friend, Corvo, and the father of my child. How could I not?”

“Easily, I suppose. I’m unpleasant…”

She nodded sagely.

“Dour…”

“Indeed.”

“And foreign.”

“Lest we forget,” Jessamine huffed, meeting his fond gaze. “Ah, but no sternness or foreignness or inability to behave as anything but a soldier could have persuaded me against my pursuit of the handsomest man in the Empire. If you could have seen yourself, Corvo, at the first moment you stepped into this palace. So young and coltish, but with the promise of a man in the set of your shoulders. I'd never seen skin so tan, or eyes like whiskey.”

Corvo had snorted an ugly laugh, holding her close as they danced idly across the carpet. “I caught my own reflection in a window and saw nothing of the sort. I saw a scrawny boy, ill from eating Theodanis’s too-rich food on the ship from Karnaca and trying his best to look like he wasn’t terrified. But then I saw you, and you were a bullheaded girl with all the confidence I was pretending to have.”

“I still am,” Jessamine smiled slyly, pleased with herself.

Corvo could feel his mirth grow soft and tender, and he brushed a few wild strands of dark hair from her brow, smoothing his coarse palm down her cheek. “You still are.”

Her hand had alighted on his, her fingers curling between his own, and she grinned against the thumb he pressed along her lip.

“You’re a good man, Corvo Attano,” Jessamine said. “And I still see that terrified boy in you, sometimes. But only when you’re looking at your daughter.”

Corvo laughed, his quiet reverie broken in favor of something brighter and warmer, something that felt less like a betrayal of her affection than whatever his inane fondness for the Knife of Dunwall was. It was just loneliness and nostalgic reminiscence for a home he had not seen in twenty years, Corvo knew that; and he knew how kind it was of Jessamine to indulge him in his pitiful attempt to escape that loneliness. Daud – the Knife of Dunwall – was an enemy of the state, he was a resource to be tapped. And if Corvo was to lose his focus each time Daud did something relatively endearing, then he would end up dead and with no benefit to show for it. But it was too easy to insert a young, unscarred, scowling Daud into memories of swiping fruit from street vendors with Beatrici, or sword fighting with sticks in Batista alleyways, or sitting on the beach to count up the take after picking the pockets of Grand Guardsmen at the Dockyards. Corvo could feel down to his bones that beneath that icy exterior and purposely unaccented words, Daud had once been a raggedy Serkonan street kid that still remembered the sun and surf and the taste of dust.

“You are thinking of him, aren’t you?” Jessamine had asked, and it wasn’t until she spoke that Corvo realized the audiograph had clicked into silence. He didn’t say a word, but she knew his thoughts anyway. “Come to bed and tell me, then.”

They had laid side by side, so close in her massive bed, and whispered beneath the blankets about Karnaca and Dunwall and the secrets to be learned from the Knife of Dunwall. Corvo had tried his best to keep the discussion to matters of state, of means of extracting information and what information would need to be offered in return, as he knew Daud well enough already to be certain that the man would offer nothing freely. Jessamine was quick to derail his efforts, asking prying questions that could nearly have passed as innocent if not for the mischievous crinkles at the corners of her eyes. He did not remember falling asleep, but the sun had long been up when he woke to Jessamine’s breaths tickling the back of his neck and voices outside the bedroom door.

“Lady Emily, please,” came a muffled plea, some poor maid or governess tasked with stopping an unstoppable force. “Her Majesty is surely resting still, and her handmaid will be called for once she is ready to rise.”

“Stand aside, this is a matter of national importance,” came the imperious reply, and Corvo smirked without bothering to open his eyes.

“Do you hear your daughter?” Jessamine mumbled between his shoulder blades, her forehead thumping wearily against the warm, bare skin of his back.

“She sounds far more like your daughter, this morning,” he replied, patting consolingly at the slender hand that had snaked around his waist. “Where do you think she gets it from?”

Swatting at his arm, she withdrew to sit up in the center of the mattress, brushing her tangled hair from her face with a sigh. Corvo snorted but rolled onto his stomach, crossing his arms beneath his too-soft pillow and bracing for impact.

“Come in, Emily,” Jessamine called loudly towards the hall.

The door burst open with no preamble as Emily cast a smug glance over her shoulder through the final sliver of open doorway before it slammed resolutely shut. She was already dressed for the day in her white lace and finery, with a ribbon in her hair, but she seemed unconcerned with any creases her outfit might receive as she barreled into the side of the bed. She had hauled herself onto the mattress before Jessamine cleared her throat and looked pointedly at Emily’s shoe-clad feet. Emily worked her tongue against her lip in concentration as she toed off her shoes, which struck the floor with a graceless clatter, and she continued her conquest for the center of the mattress and the slender space between Corvo and where Jessamine had sunk back into the pillows. Corvo was little more than an obstacle in her path, and he grunted as a skinny knee dug into his spine. Satisfied with her pursuit, Emily flopped onto her back, snuggling thoughtlessly into the warmth of Corvo’s side.

“Good morning, mother. Good morning, father,” she said casually. “I missed you at breakfast. Were you on patrol again, Corvo?”

“Good morning, Emily,” he replied, muffled by his half-hearted attempt to smother himself in a pillow. He had taken knife wounds that hurt less than Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin’s bony joints skewering him in the back. “Yes, I was on patrol. I had an important meeting and didn’t get back until late.”

“Were you meeting a spy?”

“Doesn’t that seem a bit more like Spymaster Burrows’ job?” Jessamine asked. Corvo could see her smirk from the single eye he had deigned to crack open.

Emily frowned up at the ceiling. “I suppose it does.”

“And I suppose I have a meeting of my own,” Jessamine scolded, glancing at the tall clock standing against the wall like a sentinel. “In about forty-five minutes. And you have lessons in about fifteen, Emily.”

Emily pouted and knocked her socked toes together, looking very much like she would prefer to fuse herself with the mattress than suffer through another lecture on the cultural and economic consequences of naval warfare conducted during the Morley Insurrection. Despite his unwavering desire for his daughter to be more educated than himself and to be prepared for her ascension to the throne, Corvo could hardly blame her. He, too, would rather meld with an inanimate piece of furniture than listen to some pompous natural philosopher wax poetic about war and its consequences. It was all theoretical to them; they had never put a blade through a man, and new nothing of consequences earned or instigated.

“Can’t I stay with Corvo today?” Emily complained.

“Well what is it you think he’s going to be doing? He’s coming to Parliament with me,” Jessamine informed her, amused despite her waning patience.

Frowning, Emily twisted onto her side, clasping Corvo’s bicep in her too-small hands. “Daddy,” she whined, scrabbling for purchase in her argument.

“That’s enough, Emily. Go to your lessons,” Corvo finally scolded, pulling away to sit up on the edge of the bed. It wounded him to act like a parent, when he usually only permitted himself distance. It always seemed as if the only time he was allowed to be her father was when he was reprimanding her for simply being a child – for calling her father her father, as was a child’s right. And in those fragile, sickly moments all the pleasant ones seemed further than Karnaca.

He could feel her shifting dejectedly behind him and sliding off the bed, her socked feet thumping softly on the wooden floor. Emily fetched her shoes diligently and went to the door, pausing with her hand on the knob to turn and study him for a long moment, her face pink with remorse.

“I’m sorry I called you that, Corvo. I know I’m not supposed to,” Emily told him. “Are… are you angry?”

“No, Emily,” he gusted, suddenly weary. “No, I’m not angry. But we all have jobs to do, and yours is to obey your mother and go to your lessons.”

“I understand. I love you, Corvo.”

“And I you, mi corazoncita,” he replied, mustering a gentle smile.

Emily grinned in return – she always loved it when he spoke Serkonan, loved to hear his now muted accent slide back into its rightful place – and she slipped out the door, giving her adoration to her mother as she went. Sighing, Corvo drug his hands over his face and fisted them in his hair, clenching shut his eyes when Jessamine’s fingers alighted delicately on his back, her arms sliding around his waist as she nestled close. He could feel her lips at the base of his neck as she spoke, and it made his chest clench painfully, his shoulders taut.

“Corvo, cariño, do not punish yourself. Emily understands.”

“Does she, Jess?” he snapped. “I don’t want my daughter to resent me for not being able to be her father.”

“She never would.”

Corvo huffed, hanging his head. “You sound so sure.”

“Because I am. Come, we have business to attend to. Some are pressing for legislation to protect the finances of the elite from the plague. They fear an economic downturn and argue that by granting the wealthy a reprieve on taxes they will be able to save their money for reinvestment when the plague has gone, thereby triumphantly saving the poor of the Empire,” Jessamine spat, climbing out of bed and crossing to her wardrobe. “They believe themselves just and generous.”

“They are afraid of no longer being above the plague,” Corvo finally conceded, following Jessamine to her wardrobe and digging out the spare shirt and trousers he always kept there.

He dressed quickly, wordlessly, helping Jessamine pin up her hair while she drew on her kohl with a steady hand. It never ceased to be jarring, seeing her soft and supple and so utterly herself one moment and watching her become the stern Empress of the Isles in the next. The Empress was not the Jessamine that Corvo knew, even if she was one and the same to those who knew no better or cared not about the difference. But her severity and angularity and high collared façade never failed to make Corvo straighten his spine on instinct, in deference. It set him apart from her by leagues, not in body but in spirit. The masks they wore complemented each other as perfectly as they did themselves, but it was nothing but a falsehood for the protection of everything that lie beneath.

They ate breakfast in their customary spots on opposite sides of Jessamine’s desk, barely speaking as they each read through reports and letters. It was quiet, and so familiar, like last night and that morning had been; familiar in a way that had been long learned and less frequent in recent years. Corvo frowned at her when she stood to attend to her duties, and she smiled down at him with a warmth that belied her posture. She was already rebuilding her walls for the morning, her spine going straight and her shoulders falling back in a casual sort of regality, already bracing for the vicious nobility before she’d even left her rooms. Together they trudged down to meet Parliament, and the room was already in an uproar when they entered, the hagfish in a frenzy as they cannibalized each other.

The guard announced the Empress’s presence in a bellowing voice and the din was muted for a long moment, the silence heavy enough for Jessamine’s heels clacking on the floor to refocus the room so she get a foothold in the conversation. She only ever needed an instant to do so.

“They’re out for blood today, sir,” the guard muttered to Corvo. Captain Liam Galloway, Corvo thought his name was. He was one of the few who showed much respect to Corvo’s station, often addressing him politely, though with the customary amount of suspicion, even if that suspicion did not bubble over into resentment as it did with most of the Watch.

“Tell me.”

“The Pendleton twins are in an uproar, wanting to liquidate their finances immediately. They claim it’s to protect their fortune from the ravages of the plague, but I suspect they really want to have enough pocket change for whoring their way through this mess, in case everything goes south,” Galloway told him curtly, pausing to look at him askance when Corvo raised a curious brow. “Begging your pardon, sir.”

Corvo waved a dismissive hand, gaze turning to study the room. “Who else?”

“Timsh is siding with the Pendletons, as is Lord Alderdice. Estermont is in opposition, it seems – he thinks it’ll be more detrimental to the economy much faster than the plague. Brisby appears to be in opposition as well, Void knows why,” Galloway dutifully recited, sounding exhausted by the end of it all. “The rest are divided between decided, undecided, and decided but too cowardly to say so out loud, sir.”

A mere few months with plague eating at the city and the nobility were already eager to feed Dunwall to the rats to save their own hides. Some seemed too impassioned, others too quiet to be anything but scheming, and Corvo determined to keep them all within his sights. Luckily, he knew of someone who knew everything, and who commanded an army of shadows who were already accustomed to spying on Parliamentarians and their ilk. He would pose a few names to Daud in hopes of wringing out some information, next he saw him.

"Is that all?"

"All I could gather, sir."

Sighing as he folded his hands behind his back, Corvo nodded to the Captain and followed Jessamine to take his place behind her seat at the head of the table. He loomed, ramrod straight and unwavering as the court resumed bickering at a noticeably more reasonable volume, though tempers were just as hot. The aristocracy would snap and swarm at Jessamine’s ankles like the writhing pit of rats that they were, but they would only grow so vocal, so violent whilst Corvo was present. He was the wolfhound at his master’s heel, loyal to a fault with discerning jaws and a taste for rodents. They feared to be bitten, but they were too quick to forget that Jessamine had jaws of her own. Despite her spectacular training, her pedigree, Corvo knew she would sink her teeth into them far sooner than he ever would, and he loved her for it.

“Gentlemen,” she silenced them with a jarring bark, her smile too sharp and vicious to be complacent. “Shall we begin?”

Chapter Text

            Galia had sniffed out whatever was going on between Master Daud and the Royal Protector within days of their second meeting, foaming at the mouth like a wolfhound on the scent with the scandalousness of it all. Rinaldo had mocked her for her lasciviousness, grinning with his teeth so very white against his dark skin, eyes crinkling up at the corners as he informed her that those Tyvian bodice rippers she always read were turning her dirty-minded. Or at least more so, he conceded when she cocked one hip, unimpressed.

            “Come on, boys!” Galia ranted, a bottle of gin clasped in one fist as she gestured broadly, nearly clipping Jordan in the forehead. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed he’s acting strange.”

            “Watch where you’re swinging that thing, Fleet,” Jordan scolded, affronted at her absent-minded attempt to mar his pretty face. “And stop trying to find… romance… or whatever in every interaction between two people. Especially not Master Daud and the Royal fucking Protector.”

            Rinaldo guffawed, his laughter loud and belly-deep, curling in on himself where he lounged against a crate and kicked the heel of one boot gleefully against the rooftop.

            “You’re only saying that because you’re mad that she keeps pointing out the fact that you and Killian have been dancing around each other for years! Ever since you tried to pickpocket his brother and nearly got slaughtered for it!” Rinaldo wheezed.

            Galia sighed winsomely, clasping her hands and batting her eyelashes at nothing.

            “Who knew?” she teased, faking infatuation. “I always thought love at first sight meant falling in love at the sight of their face, not the sight of their fist about to break your nose.”

            “Fuck! Off!” Jordan seethed, stretching to kick at her ankles even as she flitted away like a dancer. Rinaldo roared, rubbing the giddy tears from his eyes.

            “Hey, hey,” Galia reprimanded, shoving an imperious finger in Jordan’s face. “Since you and Killian get off on fights so much, I wonder if you could get the Overseers to marry you if you started a brawl in Holger Square?”

            Jordan made an affronted noise not unlike a cat stuck in a sewer grate, and Rinaldo leapt to his feet, reaching for Galia as if they were star crossed lovers.

            “There’s an idea! A gunfight, how romantic!”

            “I, Jordan Walsh,” Galia recited dutifully, playing at tearful, ugly sobs. “Take thee, Killian O’Malley….”

            Waltzing about on the rooftop, she and Rinaldo ignored Jordan’s ire, too consumed by their farce and trying to breathe through their childish laughter.

            “In sickness and in health….” Rinaldo chimed.

            “In black eyes and blue balls….” Galia finished nobly.

            Jordan seethed, growling at the betrayal of his two dearest friends, and turned to stalk away. He made it as far as the parapet, his fist glowing with the Void, before he hurried back to where they had all been sitting, swiped Galia’s bottle of gin, and hurled it over the rooftop and into the waters of Rudshore with a lame kerplunk. Apparently satisfied, he flashed his winningest viper grin at Galia, who stared back at him slack-jawed.

            “That was my last bottle!” she shouted at his retreating back.

            “I know!” he replied cheerfully and vanished in a gust of the Void.

            “Poked the saber-toothed bear,” Rinaldo said unhelpfully, shrugging. “At least you didn’t say it in front of los diablos rojos, even if it was true. Killian would have gutted you for talking about Jordan, and Kieron would have gutted you for talking about Killian.”

            “Shut up, Rinaldo.”

            Pouting, she leaned over the edge of the roof and stared down at the murky water below, searching for her lost bottle of gin as if formulating a rescue mission. A figure was passing on one of the elevated causeways below, and Galia turned to wave Rinaldo to her side, her earlier mirth restored. Rinaldo, never one to deny his curiosity, traipsed over and followed her pointing finger, his brows creeping up with amusement.

            “Speaking of people who won’t admit they’re in love…” Galia teased, turning to muffle her giggling in Rinaldo’s shoulder.

            He shifted, nudging her away with a scolding shush that was too colored with his own smothered laughter to hold much threat. Not that it would have been heeded anyway, they had been friends too long for her to actually mind him outside of an assignment, even if he was still her superior in rank if nothing else.

            “No, this one will admit it, but the object of his affections just refuses to hear it,” Rinaldo said, jutting his chin at the unwitting passerby.

            With a sigh, Galia rested her chin in her hand, tilting her head in thought.

            “How painful,” she concluded after a moment.

            Rinaldo nodded in agreement.

            “Well,” he said. “If it’s any consolation, at least it’s only painful for him. Meanwhile, whatever bullshit Jordan and Killian are playing at is Void damned agony for everyone around them.”

            Galia laughed, loud and assaulting. She teetered when Rinaldo shoved at her shoulder again, but soon his gaze turned considering as he watched the lone figure navigate the scaffolds straddling the flood waters under their perch. Soon Galia quieted as well, her joy lost to his contemplation.

            “At least he’s considerate about his suffering,” Rinaldo eventually said, the teasing drained from his voice and replaced by gentle pity.

            Far below them, Thomas stepped out of the night and into Daud’s office.

-----

            “Thomas,” Daud greeted idly, not looking up from the report in his hand.

            He was dressed down for the evening, stripped free of his weapons and coat and gloves, leaning against his desk with his white shirt tucked into his trousers and sleeves shoved haphazardly to his elbows. He had a glass of whiskey clutched in one hand, and when he raised it to his lips the facets of the crystal cast amber shapes against the skin of his chest where one too many buttons were undone. It took Thomas a beat too long to swallow and pull his gaze away, and Daud was studying him curiously when he finally murmured out a greeting. Apparently unbothered, he turned back to his report.

            Thomas clenched his eyes shut and eased the breath he’d been holding out through his teeth, berating himself for acting such a besotted fool.

            “Sir,” he finally managed, even if sounded a little wobbly. “You said you needed to see me. About Attano.”

            “I haven’t forgotten,” Daud scolded mildly, still engrossed in the papers in his hand.

            “Of course,” Thomas murmured, glancing away before deciding to allow himself a few meagre moments to study the Knife of Dunwall until he was deemed important enough to attend to.

            There was little else that Thomas savored more than the sight of Daud at ease, loose limbed and languid, free of the burdens of his occupation and released of the monikers he carried like an emperor’s cloak – the Knife, the Wolf, assassin, Master. These moments were sweet, even in the bitter ache of Thomas’s wanting, and he held them dearer than the last bite of Bastillian peach before a long winter or the satisfaction of a clean kill. It seemed so rare, to see him this way, and Thomas wondered if any of the others knew this Knife, all soft edges and dull blade. He hoped, in a secret bitter place in the cavern of his chest, that maybe he was the only one. That maybe he was special.

            He wasn’t, he knew. He was another tool at Daud’s disposal, even if he was honed with greater care than some of the rest. Still, during the darkest of nights, when the world was too quiet and the Mark on his hand throbbed with the distance between them, the thought soothed his yearning into something that stung less than salt in a wound.

            A crinkling of papers and Thomas jolted, gaze snapped from its wandering over the expanse of Daud’s broad chest and up to the depth of those grey eyes, which watched him inscrutably.

            “I’ve had novices watching Attano from a distance these last few weeks. Tracking his movements, looking for patterns,” Daud offered after a long moment.

            “Are there any?”

            “He seems to follow the gangs. At first it was a few nights per week, now its every night. He’s more reliable than the damn Clocktower.”

            “He’s getting desperate.”

            Daud grunted in affirmation, folding his arms over his chest and drumming his fingers against his elbow.

            “We’ve been letting him see us. Knowing Attano, he’s going mad trying to catch up,” he said, expression edging into amused.

It was a good look on him, even if Thomas felt the acid pang of jealousy bubble stupidly in his belly. There was a familiarity in his words that did not belong, that settled like an ill-fitting coat into something unaccountable and vaguely unpleasant.

“Jordan and Misha have been letting the novices make a game of it,” Daud continued. “By now, he’s probably livid and ready to get his hands on me.”

The turn of phrase made Thomas’s jaw tick tight with spite for a moment.

“When?” Thomas asked, tone a shade too clipped, and Daud frowned sternly but allowed the small insubordination.

“Tomorrow. A detour during the warehouse job.”

“What am I to do, sir?”

“Nothing,” Daud said. “Let him see you. Follow my orders. No matter his actions, you must not react. He won’t go for you, it’s me he’s after. Attano is careful, he won’t be reckless.”

“Master Daud…”

“Nothing, am I understood?”

Thomas nodded, murmuring his affirmation. Seemingly satisfied, Daud collected his glass of whiskey and waved him away, but Thomas remained for a moment too long, uncertain and swaying a bit on his feet. Daud glanced back up from the papers of his desk, perplexed by his lingering presence, so accustomed to Thomas’s subservient promptness that he looked vaguely irritated by this development.

            “Why me? Why not Billie or one of the others?” Thomas asked, genuinely uncertain.

            “You should know why,” Daud replied in his languid gravel drawl, his lower lip teasing the edge of his glass like a sin.

            Something about it made Thomas’s stomach twist tight and wanting, pulse going too quick as if Daud’s words meant something deeper than they truly did. Void knows Thomas was not a religious man, but he could list the Strictures his thoughts were violating and thought that perhaps a little bit of religion could save him from the self-flagellation of loving Daud.

            “I don’t,” he blurted, a little breathless. “I don’t know why.”

            Daud set his glass back on the desk with a clatter, sighing like he was disappointed. It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did.

            “You’re the only one I can trust to handle this diplomatically,” Daud told him. “Everyone else is too hair-trigger, and Attano is a resource, not a target.”

            “I understand.”

            With a strange expression glinting in his stone-grey eyes, Daud stepped around the desk and walked up into Thomas’s space. He tried not to rock back on his heels, tried not to let on that he was terrified that Daud could hear his pulse thundering in his throat like a wolfhound smelling weakness. There was a heavy moment of stillness, and Thomas let his eyes dart across Daud’s face, from the cut of his jaw to the creases between his brows to the scar slicing fierce and terrible down is cheek. He was beautiful, in all his ragged ferocity. Thomas dare not breathe until Daud took half a step back, a beast abandoning unworthy prey.

            “It is a risk, presenting yourself to him unarmed. I know this,” Daud said at length, tone cold and pragmatic. “But I trust him to pose no threat so long as you show the same courtesy.”

            Nodding, Thomas watched Daud watch him for a long moment.

            “Do you trust me, Thomas?”

            “Always,” he breathed in reply, and it felt as if his heart had been waiting for that question for a million years.

            I’ve trusted you with my life since the day we met. And I’d give you my life if you asked. I’d give you everything, he wanted to say. He remained quiet.

            “Good,” Daud said brusquely, finally scattering the fog of whatever tension had settled over them. “You’re dismissed.”

            “Goodnight, sir,” Thomas offered solemnly, pressing his fist over his aching heart in a salute before turning to the door.

            And if Daud murmured a soft “goodnight, Thomas” in return, it was easier to pretend he hadn’t heard.

-----

Corvo was tiptoeing down the ridgeline of a low roof on the northern edge of the Estate District, where the houses began to grow less grand and more reasonable, distilling into the homes of the common populace and dotted with small shops. The air was just barely getting warmer, slowly but surely given the time of year, but Corvo was hot in the chest with frustration and embarrassment. He had been climbing around on rooftops for nearly two hours, heading north from the Tower and searching for a flutter of crimson in the dark, for the pale glow of the mark on Daud’s hand gleaming through his gloves. Thus far, he had seen nothing. For weeks, he had seen nothing but the far-off flap of leather coats, the glinting eyes of whaling masks in the moonlight. Daud was taunting him, playing like a wolfhound with a rat, and Corvo was playing right along.

            It was infuriating in the same way chasing pirates had been during his days with the Grand Guard; pinpricks on maps with confirmed sightings of strongholds, and then nothing but the flutter of an unreachable sail on the horizon, the enemy long gone. Regardless of how high he climbed, or how hard he glared into the shadows to determine if each indication of movement was a skulking figure or a trick of the light, there was no sign of Daud. Corvo had a decent supposition of what his masked men looked like, if the wanted posters pasted all over the city were even reminiscent of accurate, but still nothing. Flustered, he dropped onto his haunches along the peak of the roof, huffing like a child. Daud seemed to find Corvo so easily, while Corvo was cursed to stumble around in the dark, lost.

            “Does he have a sixth sense or something?” he complained, watching the clouds tumble over themselves overhead.

            “I do,” came the grating reply, and Corvo turned so quickly that his boots slipped on a loose slate and he fell, barely managing to catch himself by hooking one elbow over the ridge of the roof. His knife was clutched in his free hand, and Daud was watching him with an unimpressed sort of exasperation, his eyes oil-slick black from lid to lid. Daud offered no assistance; either he was too intrigued with the potential of Corvo falling to his death or knew damn well that any offer of help would be rejected. Corvo would prefer either to being hoisted to safety like a pup by the scruff in the jaws of the Knife of Dunwall. “Easy there, bodyguard.”

            “Damn you!” Corvo bit out as he dragged himself back up into a crouch.

            Daud blinked and the blackness drained from his eyes, leaving them as Corvo knew them to be – grey and distant and depthless.

“Good evening,” he returned casually. “Were you seeking me out?”

            “No,” Corvo spat, indignant.

            “Very well.”

            Daud stood, apparently indifferent, and closed his left fist. The characteristic glow seeped through the leather of his glove, and in an instant a billow of black smoke had Corvo startling back again, only for a figure to appear beside Daud, clad in a slick navy coat and wearing a whaling mask. At least that part of the description on the wanted posters was accurate, Corvo thought, considering. The new figure had no blade at their belt, and it was plain enough to be noticeable. Too obvious, even. Corvo narrowed his eyes.

            “Well, if there’s nothing else, enjoy your evening, Lord Protector,” Daud said with false grandeur. “Let’s go, Thomas.”

            “Sir,” the figure – Thomas – answered diligently.

They both clenched their fists, and a sudden well of panic within Corvo began to overflow. He had spent the better part of a month stalking around looking for Daud, and now here he was. It would be foolish to let him and one of his men vanish into the night without wringing any information from them. Corvo stammered a bit, stalling and searching for words, before he blurted: “Who’re you murdering tonight?”

Thomas jerked his head towards Corvo so quickly it looked painful, but Daud was slower to address him, the shadow of a smirk pulling at his scarred lips. Corvo was instantly livid; he had done exactly what Daud had wanted him to do.

“No murder tonight. Sorry to disappoint,” Daud drawled, voice scratchy with smugness. “Just a bit of thievery.”

They stared at each other for too long, until Thomas was looking between them both and growing fidgety – as disciplined and controlled as the man seemed to be, his confused nervousness was still showing despite his mask. The rapid tapping of his fingers against the meat of his thumb seemed far too natural and mindless to be an act. If there had been a knife at his belt – as there should have been – surely his fingers would have been rattling out a nervous rhythm on its hilt instead. Corvo decided that he liked him for it.

Daud’s amused, assessing stare turned considering for a moment, and Corvo could tell that his next words were not part of whatever game he had intended to play: “Want to come?”

“Sir!” Thomas blurted, sucking in breath in a heady wheeze through his mask as if he’d taken a blow to the gut. “Master, I must insist.”

“Come now, Thomas,” Daud continued, and his easy reprimand must have been precisely as out of character as Corvo expected it to be, as Thomas flinched like he had been expecting far worse. “The Lord Protector is more adept in illegal entry than you’d suspect. And given our target, I doubt he’d be much opposed to learning what information we intend to steal from him.”

Corvo narrowed his gaze, bitterly irritated with himself for being so readily intrigued. “Who?” he asked anyway.

Daud grinned, smug and too charming for the danger imparted in the glinting white of his teeth, and nodded in approval.

“Tonight’s target is shipping magnate Charlington Ludd, importer of the fine and exotic,” Daud began, folding his arms across his chest and settling once more into his typical stoniness. “The one who contracted us takes issue with the monopoly he’s built, apparently, and wants a list of his suppliers, buyers, and investors. His records are kept in his office at his storage facility nearby.”

“Ludd provides spices to the Tower,” Corvo interjected, rising from his crouch to join Daud and Thomas further down the roof.

Thomas seemed to tense at his proximity, his glassy gaze raking over Corvo suspiciously behind his mask, but he eased somewhat once Corvo remembered himself and finally sheathed the blade still held firm in his grip. Apparently contented, Thomas folded his hands behind his back. He had the bearing of a soldier, as if he perhaps had been one who had somehow fallen in with Daud some time ago, if the wiry strength of his assassin’s frame and lack of soldier’s bulk was any indication. Corvo mused that he could have even been an officer, given his stance and natural concession to authority, but his voice seemed young despite its depth.

Daud hummed, watching Corvo watch Thomas watch him, and Corvo turned his glare on the assassin, growing irritated with his unabashedly assessing gaze.

“Ludd is insufferable enough, and a past client of mine,” Daud said, cocking one dark brow at Corvo, unimpressed with his irritation. “Though I intend to do my job and leave, Ludd may also have interests in arms dealing, which might pique your interest. You coming, Attano?"

“Yes,” Corvo breathed, eyes wide. “I’ll go.”

The approving smirk that Daud cast him made him feel like prey, sent dangerous heat down the back of his neck, made him sweat until he could feel his hair curling against his nape. That accent, so startling and dripping from Daud’s lips like honey and Serkonan wine, those words, rumbling with a heady trill like the plates of the earth moving beneath his feet, his name in his native tongue left Corvo feeling unmoored and drowning. His breath came sharp through his teeth and settled in his chest, a fist cool and vicious clenching his lungs, and he realized the inexplicable want in his belly as abruptly as he had with Jessamine decades ago. It scared him like the Void. He nearly lost his footing again.

Daud was gracious enough – or maybe cruel enough – to disregard the color on Corvo’s cheeks, turning instead to glance down at the expanse of the Old Waterfront sprawling out to the north. What sparing light that pried its way through the heavy Dunwall clouds cast the breadth of Daud’s shoulders on the rooftop, licked in highlights along the oiled darkness of his hair, poured the shadows of his lashes in fingery smudges against his cheeks. Corvo stared, watched the press of Daud’s chest against his bandolier with each deep breath. Watched his brows huddle thoughtfully over his eyes. Fixated on the tongue that wet his lips.

Void damn it. Jessamine was right.

“Master Daud,” Thomas finally interjected, clearing his throat awkwardly as Corvo flinched like a startled wolfhound. “We should be moving.”

Daud nodded, folding his fists behind his back. “Thomas, give the Lord Protector your mask and head to the nearest cache to collect a spare as well as a blade. Misha reported some hired security around the compound, no more than ten poorly armed men. We should make it in and out with little trouble and no casualties, but I want you prepared.”

“Sir,” Thomas conceded as Corvo began to protest.

“I don’t need a mask. I have no intention of being seen,” he complained, glancing between them both as Thomas released the buckles on his mask.

Thomas was young, not long past twenty-five, and had the sort of strikingly beautiful face that made mouths water. He was all cheekbones and pale skin and light eyes, with sandy blond hair that tickled his brow but was clipped short from his nape. Dark tendrils of wiry tattoos curled up from his collar along his spine and wound around his throat, kissing against the underside of his jaw. Corvo frowned at the mask he offered, turning back to Daud with a livid huff.

“Take the mask and leave your coat here, Lord Protector,” Daud insisted, still apparently apathetic towards Corvo’s frustration. “It’ll save us all a fair deal of trouble. Especially you. Especially your Empress.”

Bitter, Corvo snatched the mask from Thomas’s hand and shrugged out of his coat, draping it in a graceless puddle against the side of a chimney and hoping it would stay there. The mask fit well, but he felt too much like a horse with blinders on its bridle, doomed to following the long ridges left in the earth by the plow. A glassy gleam off the lenses of the mask blinded him to all but the violent crimson of Daud’s coat in the gloom, and Corvo speculated that Daud wore red for that very reason. He was easily the most visible thing in the dismal Dunwall darkness when he wanted to be, visible to both his men and his enemies alike – a smear of bloody scarlet in the shadows, the last thing many saw before their own blood stained the streets like rainwater. Corvo wondered how many of the Whalers’ lives had been saved by that red coat. Corvo wondered how many times it had heralded another life’s end.

“Meet us in fifteen, Thomas,” Daud ordered, and Thomas vanished in a flutter like ash falling from burning paper. Corvo managed not to twitch in his surprise, but his arms still went stiff against his ribs.

“Let’s go, Knife,” Corvo spat impatiently.

Daud cast him a glance that was too calculating to be anything but trouble and reached out to fold his big hand around Corvo’s wrist.

“You’re not going to like this,” he said like a threat, and then the world flew out from beneath Corvo’s feet.

Corvo stumbled, leaned against a parapet that certainly wasn’t there a moment ago, and nearly retched. As soon as he had his bearings, he had the muzzle of his pistol pressed firmly into the hollow of Daud’s throat, hidden beneath his high collar. Daud looked too composed to be anything but taunting, and Corvo swallowed the sour spit on the back of his tongue, breaths coming in heavy gasps.

“What did you do?”

“A transversal, one of the Outsider’s gifts,” Daud told him, the knife-edge rumble of his voice teetering between irritation and smug amusement.

As he nudged Corvo’s pistol away from his throat with the cool indifference of someone who was far too accustomed to being held at gunpoint, Corvo seethed, livid that the most emotion the assassin had ever shown was at Corvo’s expense. Throat tightening with sudden, inexplicable anger, Corvo cocked the hammer of his firearm and shoved it back into Daud’s chest. Daud sighed.

“This is the only coat I have that doesn’t have at least one bullet hole in it. I’d like to keep it that way, if you please.”

“It’ll be the last coat you’ll ever need if you try that again, assassin,” Corvo hissed, each venomous word spilling from his mouth as he bared his teeth like a beast behind his mask. He was sure that the ventilator only made his heaving breaths louder to Daud’s ears, and that made him even angrier.

Daud licked his lips, snarling, and leaned into the barrel of the gun. Corvo realized with the shock of a slap that he wanted that tongue between his teeth.

“Don’t waste my time, Lord Protector. You want this,” Daud growled, primitive and dangerous. “Stop your posturing and take my hand.”

He didn’t pause for Corvo to think, simply walked to the edge of the roof and held his hand out behind him, waiting. Apparently indifferent, he explained his expectation with the breadth of his back, never sparing a glance to Corvo. He knew Corvo would comply.

“Fuck you,” Corvo muttered. He clasped Daud’s wrist anyway.

Daud’s eyes flicked to him, just a quick, icy appraisal, before looking forward again. He raised his left hand and said, in a voice much more forgiving than before, “Take a deep breath.”

Corvo’s lungs filled, the air cool and smoggy on his tongue, and the earth unraveled once more. As much as he still hated it, he was less disoriented when he stumbled onto the next roof, his free hand clutched in the lapel of Daud’s jacket. Daud looked as if he was going to complain, but he just curled his lip at Corvo’s cursing and said, “Again.”

By the fifth transversal, Corvo was able to keep pace with Daud, quickly regaining his bearings and breathing through the next. He was still vaguely nauseated, like his first time at sea, but he deluded himself into thinking that he could feel the world collapsing, coiling like a spring with each clench of Daud’s fist before it unfurled again beneath his feet. It was a far simpler and faster mode of transportation than Corvo would like to admit, taking mere minutes to span the several blocks between where they’d begun and where Thomas sat waiting for them, kneeling on a balcony.

Thomas stood when they dropped lightly to the balcony rail, offering them a polite nod. He seemed much more at ease with the new mask concealing his face and a blade at his belt, Corvo mused.

“Four men patrolling the exterior, four men on the warehouse floor, and two by the office door, though one of them was asleep as of five minutes ago. All lightly armed – pistols and the odd dagger, but little else,” he rattled off efficiently, gesturing at entry points. “Two high windows, one above ductwork and one concealed by crates. One rear door near the office with adequate concealment, good lines of sight. Locked.”

Corvo raised his brows under the smothering confines of his mask, impressed. Thomas was thorough and precise, if nothing else, and Corvo simultaneously wished the City Watch could boast of such efficient officers while also dreaded what the rest of the Whalers were like, if they were anything like Thomas. Daud smirked at him sideways, stirring an odd brew of envy and righteous anger hot in his belly.

“Simple enough,” Daud commented lazily, turning back to Thomas. “You’re on the wharf side entrance, we’ll take the front and side door. Non-lethal. Handle the office guard and we’ll take the rest.”

“Sir,” Thomas confirmed with a salute and vanished with the Void.

Turning to Corvo, Daud offered a wicked grin that left him eager and itching for a fight.

“Do try not to kill anyone, Attano,” he teased, holding out his arm for Corvo to grasp as if he were a lady at a society party. “Shall we?”

Corvo bared his teeth behind his mask, sucked in a deep breath, and took the Knife of Dunwall’s hand.

Chapter Text

            Getting into the warehouse was so easy that, by Daud’s estimation, hiring security had been a colossal waste of coin. He and Attano dispatched their share of the guard easily enough, moving together to strike with a synchronized ease that Daud had not felt with another aside from Billie in decades. He knew without thinking how Attano would move, how he would attack, how he would parry and weave to avoid a blow, as familiar as breathing. And as Daud stood watching Attano drop the last guard to the floor from the violent embrace of a Tyvian chokehold, it seemed he could taste the adrenaline of a Karnacan street fight, could feel the dust and sweat on his skin. Then Attano met his gaze through the glass lenses of his borrowed Whaler’s mask, a trickle of another man’s blood staining the leather, and it seemed that the entire great breadth of the world narrowed down to them two and a dingy warehouse floor and the breath that Daud could not quite catch.

            But in a moment Attano was moving, lunging towards him with a knife in his grip, until one of his broad hands fell against Daud’s shoulder and shoved him away. A piercing wail, and Attano was plunging his blade into the shoulder of a straggler guard whose iron pipe had scarcely missed the back of Daud’s head. With a graceless stumble Daud recovered and managed to unload his last two sleep darts into the guard’s flank, dropping him before Attano could put his knife in his throat.

            His quarry defeated, Attano turned on Daud with a growl that resonated eerily from his respirator, and shoved his knife back into the sheath at his thigh.

            “I told you not to kill anyone,” Daud snapped, still reeling and breathless.

It had been a joke, when he’d said it on the balcony, but after what he had just seen, perhaps it was good that he’d said it at all. Attano had moved like an animal, all lithe speed and lethality, and there was a startling bloodlust in the rigid set of his shoulders that should have raised Daud’s hackles like an Overseer’s wolfhound catching the scent of the Void. He had not expected such ready violence from the Royal Protector, but the new knowledge was valuable and oddly enticing.

“I didn’t,” Attano bit back harshly, his claws not yet retracted and his fangs not yet put away.

“You would have,” Daud countered, tone dropping low as if he was scolding one of his own men.

“Yes, I would have,” Attano replied bluntly, and the candor of the statement felt rather like a lungful of the Wrenhaven to Daud’s composure. “What were you doing? You nearly took a Void damned pipe to the skull and you were, what? Standing there staring at me?”

“Yes.”

The confession came unbidden, and it must have surprised Attano as much as it surprised Daud, because he jerked back, spine straightening. Attano started a few sentences before falling silent again with a shaking, wheezing exhale, and Daud floundered to save himself by plowing onward, frigid stoicism settled once more in place.

“Let’s go. Thomas should be waiting for us.”

Shoving past, Daud made his way through the towering crates with purposeful strides, searching for Thomas and Ludd’s office. He could hear Attano trudging along behind him, muttering something uncouth and tasteless about him in Serkonan, but the sight of Thomas pacing outside of the office door, mask in hand and a distraught expression on his face, had him quickening his pace.

“What is it?”

“Master Daud,” Thomas started, pausing to bite at his lip. He must have been worrying at it for some time, because the tender skin was red and starting to purple around the indents of his teeth. “There’s something else… something besides the documents.”

“Spit it out,” he snapped, growing impatient as the looming presence of Corvo Attano stepped up behind him.

Thomas cast a nervous glance at Attano, dropping his voice to a whisper. The quiet terror in Thomas’s eyes – a glimmer of some ancient and inscrutable memory – had Daud’s stomach turning in concern, as if whatever secret Thomas held would escape to crack open his bones and lick out the marrow.

“There’s a child, sir. I found him chained in a room hidden by a bookshelf. He’s… on the transaction register. Listed as an item for personal pleasure.”

There was a moment of long, heavy silence between the three of them, fragile and ready to shatter like a window pane with a suspicious crack. Daud held his breath high in his chest, watching Attano out of the corner of his eye, but more focused on how rattled Thomas clearly was about the whole thing. There was a dark, lost glaze over those blue eyes that seemed to stare for miles, one that Daud had not seen since he’d collected him as a boy, beaten black and blue from the basement of a target who lie lifeless upstairs in his plush office chair. At the time, neither he nor Montgomery had much hope that the child would survive the brutal, festering wound carved across his chest by the ire of his own now-dead father, but the physician had worked her magic and saved the boy’s life. A life that the child had dedicated to Daud every day since. Thomas was, perhaps, the greatest miracle Daud had ever witnessed outside of the Void.

It was Attano who snapped the silence as if it were an arm in the maw of a wolfhound, tearing off his Whalers’ mask with a snarl that would have sounded like a cornered animal had Daud not been so distracted by the way Thomas flinched. He shoved himself between them, pushing Attano away with a hand on his chest and turning to face Thomas. Perhaps it was unwise to put his back to the Royal Protector, whose greater height was bearing down on him and making his hair stand on end, but he inherently trusted Attano not to shank him in the heat of his misplaced fury.

“Who was the buyer?” Attano asked, nearly feral in his intensity. “Who?”

“Not now, Attano,” Daud snapped, silently urging Thomas to keep his darting eyes away from the Royal Protector.

“By the Void, tell me.”

“Eyes on me, Thomas,” Daud said softly, and Thomas snapped his gaze to Daud’s, desperate for an order to follow.

“Master Daud…”

“I know,” he murmured, settling a heavy hand on the back of Thomas’s neck, thumb kneading into his nape for a moment before drawing away. “Go fetch the Royal Protector’s things. Wait outside when you return.”

“Sir.”

Thomas nearly bolted, skittish like Daud had never seen him before. Typically he was so stoic, quietly morose but never shaken, a bastion of calm in the face of any job. But something about the boy, chained and neglected and kept as a pet for another man’s pleasure, had rattled something loose in Thomas that neither he nor Daud had been prepared for.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Attano hissed, so close that Daud could feel his hot, heaving breaths against the back of his neck. “Are you just going to leave the child, assassin?”

Whirling into Attano’s space, Daud scarcely resisted the urge to strike him for that assumption. “Of course not,” he spat instead. “I’m a killer, but not a monster. The boy will come with me, if he wills it.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll make arrangements for him. Elsewhere.”

“What does that mean?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“It is my concern, heretic.”

“Name-calling, Attano? Really?” Daud tutted, some of the fight leaving him as exhaustion took its place. “If he chooses to follow me, he’ll be treated by a physician, educated, and taught to defend himself. The Mark is offered, not forced. This life – the life of an assassin –is offered, not forced. He’ll choose his own way. And what would the Tower offer him, Royal Protector? A post as a kitchen boy, where the cooks will beat him in the pantry when the maids aren’t looking? Don’t flatter yourself that the Tower would save him where I couldn’t. No one will lay a hand on him with me.”

Attano stared at him for the span of several deep breaths, his jaw clenched but some of the righteous malice fading from his gaze as if he was seeing Daud for the first time. Not for the first time, Daud felt the sudden, sinking realization of Attano’s closeness, of the knife so readily at hand, of the fearsome feline strength in his frame wound too tight. Daud was powerful, with the Mark seared into the back of his hand and the brutish strength of a thick body and a life spent fighting for scraps of bread and coin. But Attano… Corvo Attano was something else entirely. Beneath that civilized, easy charm and his knife edge wit, Attano was riddled with a bloodlust that Daud had not known since he was young and newly Marked. For Daud, killing was a promise of coin, a transaction hardly worth considering like buying bread at market. Daud feared that for Attano, should the beast that lie fettered and suppressed by his cultured life within the Tower get a taste of blood, killing would become a sport.

“Attano,” Daud said, and the Royal Protector’s gaze snapped from his mouth to his eyes. “Can you keep your head long enough to talk to the boy? Or need I do it alone?”

“Of course I’m coming,” Attano said, apparently offended that any other option had even been considered.

“Then you had best wipe the savagery off your face, bodyguard. Te ves como un asesino. That’s my job.”

Attano snarled, shoving the whaling mask in his brutal grip against Daud’s chest and shoving past, stalking into the office. With a sigh, Daud rubbed some of the tacky, half-dried blood from the glass lens of Thomas’s mask before turning to follow Attano, idly hoping to keep him out of trouble. Oddly enough, Attano was waiting for him outside of the hidden bookcase door, his expression smoothed into something almost neutral.

Daud stepped close, rapping his knuckles against Attano’s chest, though the bodyguard hardly responded aside from a silent baring of teeth.

“Whatever you see, stay calm,” Daud told him sternly, too familiar with the process of fishing shattered children out of bad situations to be ready for the worst. “The last thing the kid will need is you snapping like a beast at an enemy who isn’t even here. We’ll deal with the rest. Later.”

Attano seemed disgruntled, but Daud ignored his indignation in favor of taking a long breath and stepping into the room, only to duck back when an empty tin cup came hurtling at his head.

“You here for a quick fuck too, you old bastard?!” the boy shouted, feral with fear that made his voice shake against his will. His accent was heavy Serkonan. “I’ll bite your dick off!”

“Easy, kid,” Daud soothed as he stepped back inside, just stern enough to get the boy’s attention. “I’m planning on getting you out of here, if you’ll stop throwing silverware at me.”

A wooden bowl and a flimsy tin spoon clattered against the wall just shy of Daud’s shoulder, but the boy soon went still and quiet, his heaving breaths making his thin frame tremble with each gusting exhale. The kid was thin, dangerously so, with tanned skin and wild dark curls framing his sallow cheeks mottled with healing bruises in sickly green and purple, and his hazel eyes promised violence if anyone stepped too close. A heavy shackle, bolted into the stone floor, hung around a skinny ankle rubbed red and raw from fighting against his binds, and his wrists were an angry crimson from ropes not long removed. The loose shirt he wore was stained with splatters of blood and Void knew what else, and it draped across his narrow frame, revealing too much, though the boy seemed too concerned with staying alive to be mindful of his own modesty.

Daud studied him for a long moment, something vile and nauseous churning in his gut at the sight of finger-print bruises along the boy’s bare thighs. He hated this sort of thing. He hated that the kid looked like Attano – all tan Serkonan skin and dark curls and a gaze that would cut to the bone.

“What’s your name, kid?” Daud asked, dropping into a crouch, shoulders relaxed and hands open.

“Fuck you, that’s my name!” the boy snarled in reply, though he shrank back at the looming form of Attano filling the doorway behind Daud.

“Your name, little one,” Attano insisted in steady, rolling Serkonan, though his deep voice had gone soft and gentle enough to make the kid’s ferocity crack and his eyes go watery.

Daud knew he wouldn’t be able to handle the look on Attano’s face, so he kept his gaze on the kid instead.

“I... my name is Aeolos,” the boy finally admitted in Serkonan, jaw slack and tears rolling down his dirty cheeks.

“Aeolos. I'm Corvo, and this is Daud,” Attano told him kindly. “We’re here to help.”

“I know you,” Aeolos said, scrubbing the dampness from his face and squinting suspiciously at Attano.

Daud glanced over at Corvo, who simply nodded and raised a hushing finger to his lips, a tenderly conspiratorial smile making the apples of his cheeks bunch and his eyes crease at the corners. The sight felt like a knife wound to the gut, and Daud snapped his gaze back to Aeolos, who was looking between the two of them as if he was hallucinating. Daud wondered if perhaps he was hallucinating as well, seeing Attano shift from the bloodthirsty powerhouse of mere minutes ago to this soft, smiling man with tender eyes and laugh-lines shrugging around his lips. Attano made him dizzy, left him unmoored and so desperately wanting to understand, though understanding this man would surely be as impossible as knowing the Void. Suddenly, Daud was brutally reminded that Corvo Attano was far more dangerous than just the weapon he was meant to be. His charm, switched on and off as easily as a whale-oil lamp, could be as lethal as any blade. And Daud found he was close to getting cut.

“Do you know who he is?” Attano asked, jabbing his thumb at Daud.

Shaking his head, Aeolos studied Daud for a long moment before returning to the comfort of Attano’s gentle smile.

“Have you ever heard of the Knife of Dunwall?” Attano prodded.

“The Knife of Dunwall is a ghost story, like the Moth King or the Knocker at the Window,” Aeolos snarled, disbelieving. “It’s not real.”

“I assure you, I am very much real,” Daud informed him, rising to his feet.

“And if you think anything will be able to get through him to hurt you,” Attano continued seamlessly, still smiling gently, so gently. “He’d have to prove you wrong.”

Aeolos watched them, wide eyed and horrified. The boy flinched when Daud began unbuckling his bandolier to shrug out of his coat, and the looming terror in Aeolos’s eyes made him slow his motions. Scrambling back against the wall, suddenly ready for a fight, Aeolos bared his teeth, prepared to take a bite out of whoever intended to lay a hand on him until Daud cautiously handed the boy his coat. Daud could see the fight drain out of him as he realized that the fight was over, truly over, and Aeolos’s narrow frame crumpled a bit in empty-hearted relief.

“Put that on. You’ll freeze out there.”

Aeolos eyed Daud, though his gaze was a bit glassy and unfocused. Daud hated that he knew the looks too well.

“Where are you taking me?”

“He’ll take you somewhere safe, away from here,” Attano interjected, and Aeolos turned to him like a flower looking to the sun, desperate for his gentle warmth. Moments like these reminded Daud that Attano was, in fact, a father. “No one will touch you again.”

Glassy eyes went wet with tears, but this time Aeolos was too dazed to wipe them away. “You promise?”

“I promise,” Daud insisted, holding his coat out once more. “Come now. Vamos.”

Aeolos snatched it away, holding it to his chest and shivering into the remnants of Daud’s body heat. “What will I have to do?”

“Nothing,” Daud said, frowning at Aeolos’s doubtful expression. “You’ll have to sit down to a meal. You’ll have to let my physician get you healthy. Then you can do whatever you want. I won’t stop you.”

“And if I want him to die? The one who did this? Him and his friends?”

The boy’s tone was soft, seething with the kind of righteous hatred that made one’s blood run hot and set one’s thoughts to such vicious focus as a wolfhound on the scent. Daud knew that hatred well. Hatred he could handle. Hatred he could train into a Whaler.

“As I said, whatever you want.”

He turned away, stepping outside to summon Jordan while Attano helped the boy shrug into the overlarge coat, fastening up all the buttons and picking the lock on the shackle around his ankle, murmuring in that gently saccharine tone all the while. Jordan appeared in a flutter of shadow, dropping to one knee in salute, though he scuttled back with a colorful curse at the glimpse of Attano filling the doorway with the breadth of his shoulders. A knife was soon in Attano’s hand, a snarl wiping the kindness from his face, and Daud had to step between them, frowning at the Royal Protector like he was disappointed. He was, if only a little.

“Mask off, Jordan,” Daud warned, trying to keep his tone level. “Both of you stand down.”

“Master Daud…” Jordan began, hand flitting up to his mask obediently but pausing in the face of caution.

“Mask off, now. Attano, stand down.”

Jordan made a horrid, startled gurgle at the use of the Royal Protector’s name, but Daud ignored him, stepping close to Attano and carefully closing his fingers around Attano’s grip on his blade. Another shocked gasp from Jordan, this time not filtered by the respirator of his mask, and Daud closed his hand tighter around Attano’s in a futile attempt to get his attention. Attano was set on Jordan, a predator with weak prey in its sights and the smell of fear on its tongue.

“You’re scaring the kid, Attano,” Daud tried.

“Master Daud, what…?”

Attano growled at Jordan’s weak attempt to gain a grasp on the situation, and Daud felt the sound in his belly, pulling back to his spine and making his hair stand on end.

“Corvo,” he tried again, softly, and this time Attano’s gaze snapped down to him, his eyes a little too wide. “Stand down.”

Slowly Attano returned his knife to its sheath and shifted to allow the slack-jawed Aeolos to peek out from where he had been shoved protectively behind Attano’s back, assessing the newcomer.

“Jordan,” Daud managed after a long, slow breath. He was exhausted. More so than if he had been outnumbered by Warfare Overseers seven to one, armed with nothing but a single bullet and a rusty kitchen knife. Corvo Attano made everything difficult. “Jordan, this is Aeolos. He’ll be coming back with us. Aeolos, this is Jordan. He’s stupid, but harmless.”

Aeolos cocked a shocked eyebrow at Daud, but eyed Jordan warily, still clinging to the back of Attano’s shirt. After a long moment, Attano caught Daud’s gaze, and in that long, searching look sought out a promise that the child would be safe with him, with his men, and offered a silent threat that tragedy would befall him should the boy be harmed. Daud hardly knew how to respond to such scrutiny, but left his expression open and as guileless as he could manage until Attano seemed satisfied.

“Aeolos,” Attano began, turning to the boy and crouching down to his level. “Jordan is going to take you to Daud’s people. They will take care of you, I promise.”

“You’re not coming?” Aeolos asked, suddenly sounding horrified and uncertain.

“Not this time, no. I’m sorry.”

“But… but you were about to stab him! Now you’re going to… going to leave me with him?!”

“Jordan startled me is all. You’ll be fine, I swear it." Attano switched to Serkonan, noting the way the boy seemed to settle at the familiar tongue. "I promise?”

“Fine,” Aeolos relented, eyes going teary once more. His fingers twisted in Attano’s shirtsleeves, reluctant to let go.

“Come on, kiddo,” Jordan said gently as he offered his hand. Daud saw Attano go tense at his approach, but eventually allowed the proximity. “We’ll get you cleaned up and fed and comfortable in some proper clothes. And Dr. Montgomery will look you over, she’ll see you healthy in no time. Come on. You’re safe now.”

Jordan smiled, all gentle charisma and square-jawed beauty, his long hair nearly escaping from where it was half-tied and spilling from his hood, now pushed back from his head. Aeolos finally took Jordan’s hand, casting a last glance at Attano, who managed a reassuring smile despite his lingering suspicion, and soon the pair was gone.

Daud had hoped that Jordan’s charm would put Attano at ease, but instead they had each been so startled by the appearance of the other that the situation had nearly gone sideways. Attano had eventually calmed, though he was now prowling around the room like an animal in a cage, looking for an unsuspecting victim to sink his teeth into. Unfortunately, Daud suspected that he would be said victim. With a grumble he stepped into Attano’s path.

“You sent him off with a stranger!” Attano snarled, and Daud was relieved at least that they were getting straight to the point.

“A stranger to you, maybe. But Jordan is a trusted lieutenant. The boy will be fine with him.”

“Why not send him with Thomas?” he demanded instead, and Daud felt his expression grow steely as he grew weary of Attano’s temper.

“Thomas has had enough for tonight.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Attano snapped.

“It means that I found Thomas much like this, beaten and half-dead by the hands of his father and his father’s lusty friends,” Daud replied, his anger hot enough to grow chilly across his skin and drop his voice low.

It was almost satisfying to watch Attano go still, his face losing a bit of color as the pieces dropped into place. Daud understood that Attano needed somewhere to let the monster out, weary from keeping it caged and quiet within the Tower for years, for decades. But he would not allow Attano’s beast to have its feral romp at the expense of his Whalers. And certainly not at the expense of Thomas. If Attano really wanted to sink his spiteful teeth into something he could take a bite out of Daud. Otherwise, there were plenty of Hatters and Bottle Street Boys about, gleefully taking advantage of the chaos left in the wake of the slowly spreading Plague.

“I… I didn’t know,” Attano finally said, and he sounded more like himself, more like the Corvo Attano that Daud had met on a rooftop in the Estate District eating a stolen apple, than he had all night. Some of the fight dropped out of his shoulders, and he seemed so… tired.

“How could you have known?” Daud asked dismissively, seeing well when a battle was finished and won.

            Turning back towards Ludd’s office, Daud rifled through the documents tucked in drawers and squirreled away in poorly hidden safes, taking what he needed to earn his pay for the job at hand while Attano shuffled aimlessly through papers, looking thoroughly scolded. Eventually he had collected all that was necessary, including a list of the bastards who had paid handsomely for a taste of the young Serkonan boy chained in the closet, and left the warehouse to find Thomas. Attano stayed close and accepted his coat back from Thomas’s unsteady hands, though he resolutely did not meet the younger man’s gaze, for which Thomas seemed thoroughly relieved if the soft slump of his shoulders was any indication.

            “Go home and rest,” Daud told him, attempting to gentle his tone. “I’ll see that your morning patrol is covered for tomorrow.”

            “Sir, that’s not necessary…”

            “Thomas,” Daud ordered, and Thomas’s spine snapped straight, suddenly at attention. “Do as you are told. Now go.”

            With a crisp salute and an overwhelming air of gratitude, Thomas vanished in a flutter of the Void. Now alone, Daud turned to Attano. There was clearly something he wanted to say, but it seemed trapped behind his teeth, and so Daud folded his arms and waited.

            He was bone-tired and weary, and the winter cold cut like teeth through his shirt and stung his face. The night had begun as planned and had almost immediately taken a hard left into the territory of “Void-damned disaster”, though Daud imagined that it mostly was his own fault. Inviting Attano along on the job had been an impulse, a stark deviation from the initial goal of Thomas meeting Attano and then parting ways. Thomas had warned him against it, always having more sense than most. But he had wanted to see how Attano would respond to one of his Whalers, and while he had gotten what he wanted, he had also gotten so much more. Daud now held knowledge of the Royal Protector, of his strengths and weaknesses, of the buttons to push to send him spiraling into something violent and vicious.

            But Daud now also knew how those hazel eyes would clear from their glassy fervor at the sound of his name, at the gentle whisper of Corvo. He knew the sensation of those broad hands shoving him out of harm’s way, knew the vile satisfaction in Attano’s posture when his blade found its target. He knew so much; he was armed with knowledge and had data on the most acclaimed fighter in the Empire. And still, it didn’t feel like an advantage, not like he’d hoped. Instead it felt intimate, like something to be held close to the chest. It felt like using any of his new-found knowledge would be a betrayal of some fragile new trust between them. He hated the weakness of it.

“Daud,” Attano eventually murmured, voice dangerously quiet. Daud realized with a not unpleasant shudder that it was the first time the Royal Protector had said his name. “Would you be willing to accept a contract from the Crown?”

“From the Crown, no,” Daud replied. “But from you, yes.”

“From me, then.”

Watching Attano clench his fists against his thighs, his jaw working angrily and painting rippling shadows down the tanned planes of his neck, Daud could see the animal barely kept at bay. He knew what Attano was going to request and was planning on doing the deed himself on principle, but he could also see the itch beneath the Royal Protector’s skin that craved to have Ludd’s blood beneath his own fingernails.

“I want Ludd dead. I don’t care how.”

The gaze Attano sent him was intense, and Daud nodded, nearly breathless with the odd warmth in his belly, and clenched his left fist.

“Consider it done.”

*****

Killian folded his arms across his chest and leaned his head back against the wall as he lounged on his creaking mattress, watching Jordan pace a rut into the floorboards of his room. He had been upset since he’d returned from Daud’s summons, carrying a skinny kid wrapped in their Master’s coat with sunken cheeks and violence and fear and so much hatred in his eyes, and Killian had coaxed Jordan back to his room as soon as he was given leave by Montgomery. The physician had been disgruntled at having been woken, as she always was, but her gaze went soft and knowing as she took the boy into her care and dismissed Jordan with instructions to fetch Anatole. The set of her jaw plainly promised that she was unwilling to deal with Jordan’s fretting.

Jordan had been pacing around since, his hands knotted into his loose hair, and Killian couldn’t help but feel useless at the sight of him working himself into a frenzy. So he remained silent and stalwart, knowing that words of comfort would do nothing to soothe him, and waited for Jordan to wear himself out.

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” he huffed, nearly hysterical and edging on breathless. “If Master Daud was summoning me even though he already had Thomas with him, I figured it couldn’t be good, right? But the last thing I expected was to transverse in, glance up from a salute, and have the Royal fucking Protector bearing down on me with a Void-damned knife in his hand! And Daud telling me to take off my mask! Corvo Attano knows my face, Killian! I’m fucked if he ever catches sight of me again!”

Grimacing, Killian cocked his head in sympathy. He had seen the man fight, once, when some radicals attacked the Empress’s convoy while moving through the city. He had seen the quiet madness in his eyes, so much like Kieron before a fight. He had seen how that bloodlust had done nothing to taint the accuracy of his movements with an edge of chaos, as it so often did with others. Killian thought that perhaps that was the scariest bit about Corvo Attano. He had a hard time trusting a man who could rein in his own anarchy with such brutal, ruthless control.

“He didn’t come after ye, did he?” Killian asked, curious and not a little protective.

“I fucking thought he was going to!” Jordan shouted, hands abandoning pulling at his hair to drag over his face instead. “I thought he was going to rip me apart with his teeth! Scared the shit out of me! I fell on my ass like a Void-damned novice! And then Daud talked to him all sweet and quiet, like how the Overseers talk to their hounds, and he just… stopped!”

“Stopped?” Killian echoed.

He was starting to wonder if he should return to Montgomery to have her check Jordan for a head injury. This whole tale sounded too ridiculous, even for Jordan’s quick thinking silver tongue. Killian had seen him lie his way out of bar tabs, and even that seemed less absurd than whatever this was.

“Just stopped,” Jordan repeated, finally going still. His hands dropped limply to his sides, and Killian watched the shock drain out of him and sputter like the last drops of whale oil in a tank. “Master Daud was… so close. And Attano just went quiet. And then he turned back to the kid and was so gentle, murmuring in Serkonan all soft, kind like he hadn’t been fucking rabid five seconds before.”

Jordan’s shoulders slumped that last little bit, and Killian finally opened his arms. Shuffling over, Jordan crawled up his chest and settled, exhausted, and Killian could feel the weight of him bearing down against his body, his warm breaths against his collar, and sighed.

“He’s a monster,” Jordan murmured into Killian’s throat, weary but still rattled.

A tender kiss pressed against his crown had Jordan going boneless, and Killian hummed old Morleyan drinking songs as he combed his fingers through the mess Jordan had made of his hair, twining the curls around his thumb. It didn’t take long for Jordan’s breaths to go slow and steady, finally relaxing at the silent promise that Killian would keep watch, and Killian pulled him closer, arms snug around his back. They had hardly discussed the kid – Aeolos – but it was a small mercy. Neither of them could handle such things with grace, not like Daud or Javier or Montgomery, and Killian knew that Jordan would be subdued and morose for a few days until the kid’s health started to improve. It would be worse for Thomas, he thought, remembering the stories that Javier had told him about when Thomas was found, about how they were preparing for a child’s funeral and wishing his father’s death had not been so swift. Poor Thomas. He was a good man, he didn’t deserve that. No one did.

He knocked his head back against the wall, grunting as loose crumbles of plaster fell into his red hair and he had to shake them free. Killian was angry with Daud for dragging Jordan into his mess with the Royal Protector, for summoning him to slaughter with little more than an order to stand down in the face of one of the most dangerous men in the Empire. Jordan was no coward, but Killian could only imagine the fear he had felt, watching their Master get cozy with Corvo fucking Attano while the man had stared him down with murder in his eyes. Little could have prepared him for that, he was sure. The Whalers had been whispering about Daud and the Royal Protector ever since Galia had come back to Rudshore absolutely giddy with the news that the two had held some sort of tete-a-tete on a rooftop in the Distillery District and no one had died. She had said that she watched them from behind a chimney a few buildings over and had seen something between them, though she could never put what it was into words that anyone else besides maybe Rinaldo could understand.

Killian had suspected that the something was just the promise of mutual destruction, that Galia was just being a gossip and desperate for anything interesting to stir up murmurs among their ranks. But after hearing Jordan’s account of the night, Killian wondered if perhaps Galia wasn’t wrong, for once. He imagined that after hearing what he had heard, even Misha would be suspicious of something between Daud and the Royal Protector, no matter how absolutely absurd the thought seemed. Daud had never shown interest in anyone that way, as stalwart and barren as the coast of Tyvia, even keeping to base during Fugue so that his Whalers could venture out into the city and enjoy themselves. The mere prospect of Daud and something with Corvo Attano made Killian uneasy for reasons he could not understand, no matter what that something implied. What it was, Void only knew, but perhaps it was something after all.

None of the Whalers really knew what Daud’s plans were for the Royal Protector, though they all had heard him talk about reconnaissance and "knowledge is power". Killian was beginning to suspect that Daud’s plans were changing, spinning out of his control. But whatever it was that Daud was trying to accomplish, Killian hoped to the Void that he knew what he was doing.

Chapter Text

Corvo had been exhausted by the time he stumbled back into his room in the Tower, muscles aching from the tension they had held since Daud had ambushed him on the rooftop. Folding into a graceless slump on the floor in front of the fireplace, he nudged lazily at the tinder in the grate until it finally caught, beginning its noble task of burning the Dunwall chill out of the air and leaving him at least a little less miserable. He felt too cold after leaving Daud, when the rage of finding Aeolos had finally bled into pitying resignation. What had been done to the boy had been done, and nothing could erase the terror in his eyes, all red-rimmed and determined not to cry. The rest was in Daud’s hands now.

Corvo found that he was not worried for the child. Not anymore.

He had been on edge all night, with the sudden appearance of Daud and then the sudden appearance of Thomas, which felt not so much like a trap as a test. It felt like Daud was wading into his waters, testing the current to see how deep he could press his luck before getting swept away. Corvo disliked it, disliked how easily he fell into Daud’s games, wrenched about by the assassin’s whims and his own spite at the venomous pleasure he felt seep into his veins at the sight of Daud’s smug grin, pulled a little lopsided by the scar tearing down his face. He hated how his spine wanted to snap straight at the growling orders Daud spat, like he was once more a novice in the Grand Guard, so easily cowed at the bark of a superior officer. Corvo had responded with anger, baring his teeth and snarling like an animal, tension building upon tension until he thought he would snap like over-tempered steel, all sharp edges and violence. And yet Daud never backed down, even with a pistol to his throat or with that broad, unprotected back left defenseless to Corvo’s whims.

It felt good.

It made Corvo hungry.

And then the new intruder had appeared to take the child away, and Corvo had sunk into the protective chaos in his chest, planted his feet in the deep mud of it, elated with the lack of decorum and lack of scorn and the freedom of just a little madness. And Daud had stepped close, all angry diplomacy, and his broad hand was on Corvo’s, and Corvo wanted to bite his own name off Daud’s tongue, taste the sound of it and see if Daud would bite back.

There had been no retribution in those depthless grey eyes, no threat, only the quiet order to settle, a firm but unpunishing hand on his reins guiding him down. It was pathetic how Corvo had crumpled, his righteous anger fizzling into a shaky gust of a sigh that had fallen from his lips, conceding to Daud’s command.

Abandoning the beast in his chest that thirsted for action, for violence, for blood, was easier with guidance. It was easier to chain the animal away in the dark when he didn’t have to do it alone. Corvo knew he didn’t have the discipline to do it himself, too weak to the allure of a fight or the warmth of the anger that had no cause. Jessamine had helped him tame the monster for years, with her stern grace and the persistent, unyielding expectation of decorum within the Tower. She made it hibernate, go quiet for ages and ages and ages, unseen and unheard. But it was different with Daud. Daud did not suppress it but instead let it loose, let it run and tear at whatever it wished so long as it respected the boundaries of its tether, a leash wrapped firmly in Daud’s unbending fist. With Jessamine the animal was silent. With Daud it purred.

He liked it. He liked Daud. He hated that he liked Daud.

Corvo grunted as he flopped back to lay on the floor, staring at the patterns of flickering shadows cast by the ornate plaster upon the ceiling. These rooms were too fine for him, far finer than anything he could have dreamed of during his red dust childhood in Karnaca. Everything Jessamine gave him was a luxury he didn’t deserve, and whatever it was he had with Daud felt the same. A luxury, this time one that could very well get him killed.

He stared at the ceiling. He sighed.

“Idiota,” Corvo griped to the plaster.

“Why are you on the floor?” a voice asked from the other side of the room.

Corvo started with a jolt, scrambling to his feet and hand flying to the empty sheath at his hip, his blade already retired for the evening. Unarmed but still thrumming with some of his earlier adrenaline, he whirled to face the intruder only to find Emily sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him and swinging her feet.

“Emily,” he gusted, deflating. “What are you doing in here?”

“I heard you come back from patrol. Miss Kinney left to make herself a cup of tea, so I decided to sneak out and come see you,” Emily told him, picking at a fraying bit of lace on the sleeve of her nightgown.

“How…” Corvo began, feeling a bit concussed. “How did you get in? I didn’t hear the door?”

Emily smirked, clearly proud of herself, and leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially.

“I crawled through the vents.”

“You what?” Corvo huffed, laughing despite himself.

Moments like these proved that Emily Kaldwin couldn’t possibly be any more his daughter than she was, and he adored her for it. She was a menace and would continue to be a menace for the rest of her natural life and perhaps even beyond, Corvo was certain. Though he could not take all the credit for creating this monster; her mother, a menace of an altogether different variety, was equally culpable.

“Come here, mija,” Corvo chuckled in Serkonan as he sank into the couch.

He could hear Emily bounding across the room, bare feet thudding on the hardwood floor before a knobby weight dropped into his lap. Grunting at the impact, he shifted so that her craggy seat bones weren’t skewering his thigh and grabbed a blanket to throw over her legs. Immediately Emily buried her toes in the woolen throw and shrank down against Corvo’s warmth, resting her face against his chest.

“You managed to sneak out, but the real test will be to sneak back in. No vents this time,” Corvo teased, smirking against her hair when she made a disgruntled sound.

“But you sneak out all the time, Corvo!”

“I’m not sneaking. I’m on business.”

“Patrol?”

Corvo hummed, watching as Emily played with his hand, pressing her palm against his before carefully assessing each of his fingers. He wasn’t entirely sure what she was trying to accomplish by doing so, but her expression was serious, so he assumed that it was somehow either very important or very scientific. Void only knew which.

“Did you go see your friend tonight?”

“Friend?”

“Yeah, mother said you have a friend that you visit sometimes. I don’t remember his name, though.”

Breath caught in Corvo’s chest for a long moment, muscles going tight and nervous. Had Jessamine mentioned Daud to Emily? Surely not. Jessamine had been so concerned about even allowing Corvo to sneak out into the dark Dunwall night to meet Daud, it was impossible that she had mentioned him so casually to their daughter. They trusted Emily, of course they did, but if she accidentally let slip that the Royal Protector was having midnight trysts with the Knife of Dunwall, Outsider only knew what sort of chaos would erupt within the Tower. There were too many eager ears, even among their most trusted guards and servants, to allow the name Daud to be freely spoken within the Tower walls.

“David!” Emily exclaimed suddenly, waggling one of Corvo’s fingers with a victorious grin. “Mother said his name was David. Did you go visit David tonight, Corvo?”

Heaving a great sigh of relief, Corvo tried to swallow his heart from where it was pounding in his throat, anxious and thudding with quiet terror. He pressed a kiss to Emily’s messy hair, feeling a yawning cavern of guilt open in his belly for doubting Jessamine so readily.

“I did.”

Emily hummed, slouching deeper into Corvo’s arms and weaving their fingers together. Her hands were so small, so delicate, so fragile in his own.

“Maybe next time he could come here,” Emily suggested.

Corvo nearly laughed at the thought of Daud standing in the entry hall of Dunwall Tower, looking exceptionally disgruntled and scowling at everything that moved in an effort to pretend that he wasn’t about to crawl out of his skin.

“I don’t know if he would like that,” Corvo replied, smiling. “He doesn’t like people very much. He doesn’t even like me.”

“Of course he likes you! You’re friends, right?”

“Something like that,” he said, contemplative.

Truthfully, Corvo didn’t know what they were. He knew what they were supposed to be, knew that Daud was meant to be a source of information and nothing else, but that was far too simple now. Now, Daud was a source of information, a source of entertainment, an unyielding fortress against which Corvo could hurl his splintered anger, a handler to manage the monster and soothe it down from its aching violence. Corvo wasn’t certain when he had put so much of himself upon Daud’s broad shoulders, but he was suddenly filled with the unstoppable longing to give and give and give until he was an empty husk, until Daud held his everything in the palms of his hands. It was a dizzying, sickening realization, a desire so spectacularly unreasonable and unwise and dangerous that Corvo should have been shocked by it. He wasn’t.

They hardly knew each other, but Corvo felt like he already knew Daud like he knew the scars on his own hands, each cut and jagged edge so readily remembered and called to mind without much thought. It felt like Daud had taken a piece of him that first night they met, but Corvo had taken a piece of Daud as well, held close and careful despite the impossible unknown of what it would mean. The recollection of broad hands atop his own, of a steady grey gaze at gunpoint, of a grin tugged crooked by a scarred cheek, of a red coat around the shoulders of a crying child, forced Corvo to admit that he knew what he wanted it to mean. He wanted and wanted and wanted.

“Emily?” Corvo whispered, trying to think about anything but the Knife of Dunwall. “Mi corazoncita?”

Emily grumbled and pulled his hand closer to her chest, wrenching his wrist painfully, but settled quickly as her breaths steadied into a restful neutral. Corvo smiled into her hair, carefully collecting her in his arms and carrying her back to her rooms. The governess posted outside her door was startled to see her charge asleep in the embrace of the Lord Protector and most decidedly not sleeping quietly in her rooms, and she quickly rose from her chair to fret about the indecorous nature of it all. Corvo hushed her with a shake of his head and deposited Emily back into her own bed, brushing the wild tangle of hair from her face. For a moment she fussed, threatening to wake, before falling quiet once again. Satisfied, Corvo excused himself for the night.

As he readied himself for bed, he thought about Jessamine, about Daud, about the differences between them. He thought about they each made him smile too much, how they made his belly pull tight with desire, how the warmth in his chest felt like a kettle about to boil over. It was different, with each of them, as much as it was the same. His affection for Jessamine was old and worn, like a well-loved coat, a little too ancient and threadbare to be of everyday use but still so adored that it would never be cast aside. With Daud it was the giddy joy of a new sword at his hip, all lethal and razor sharp and gleaming with untested potential, powerful with the temptation to touch and try and toe its limits. He mused on the absurdity of feeling… whatever this was, for an assassin, one of the most dangerous men in the Empire, who consorted with the Outsider and commanded an army of shadows with a clench of his fist.

Desperate to put it out of his mind, Corvo slept, so very tired from the events of the evening, but suffered restless dreams of pillars of black stone and whale song. He did not know what to make of them when he woke, the taste of sea water bitter and briny on his tongue. For several days he remained diligently within the walls of the Tower, dancing around Jessamine’s questions like the steps of a tango, and dreamt of dark places and ocean depths that terrified him like drowning. He was exhausted and edgy, claustrophobic within the confines of the castle, skin itching like he was going to outgrow it. Even the brief moments of respite, when he and Emily snuck off to spar with sticks in the far corners of the garden where the Spymaster could not see to offer his sour-faced disapproval, Corvo was easily unfocused by shadows that seemed too dark and strangely loud slap of the Wrenhaven against the Tower buttresses.

“You’re distracted, Corvo,” Emily told him bluntly after she managed to thwack him in the wrist with her wooden weapon, too concerned to gloat over her little victory.

“Sorry,” he replied dully, dragging one hand across his eyes. “I’m fine.”

He was so, so tired.

“You haven’t been going out to visit your friend the last few days,” she informed him, keenly observant as always. “Maybe you should talk to him and you’ll feel better.”

Sighing, he frowned as she sat gracelessly in the shade of a tall, aggressively pruned rose bush and patted the grass beside her. Reluctantly he sat, if only looking for an excuse to stretch out his aching back and roll his shoulders, trying to rid himself of the invisible weight that had settled there in recent days.

“Maybe you’re right, clever girl,” he said, just to watch Emily preen at the praise. “But we argued last time we met. I doubt he wants to see me.”

It wasn’t exactly the truth, skimming over far too many of his own transgressions and utterly disregarding the rather impressive patience Daud had shown in the face of Corvo’s snarling, but it was true enough. Daud had been livid in his defense of Thomas and had seemed even more disgruntled when Corvo had apologetically recoiled, and Corvo had been kicking himself for his crassness for days. Thomas had not deserved his scorn and judgement, and it spoke highly of Daud that he had been so quick to his lieutenant's defense. Still, they had parted with some timid amicability, both too incensed by the treatment Aeolos had suffered to disagree on the handling of Charlington Ludd.

“Maybe you should apologize,” Emily told him, voice airy as if it would be the easiest thing in the world. As if Corvo had not nigh on killed a man, had not strutted around snarling like a feral beast or nearly turned his blade on one of Daud’s own Whalers, his violence only suppressed by Daud’s steadying hand.

“I think you’re right again.”

“Of course I am!” she chirped.

“Then I’ll apologize,” Corvo said as he creaked his way to his feet, hoping that he would even be able to find Daud in the vast topography of Dunwall’s rooftops. “But for now, let’s get you cleaned up for afternoon lessons, your highness.”

Emily scowled at him and bolted.

*****

            Drapers Ward had taken a strange turn in recent months, Daud mused as he sat high above the Riverfront watching a few members of Lizzie Stride’s lot mill around on the docks. It was trapped in a liminal state between pretentious and perilous, the rich having yet to abandon their finery and the gangs sweeping in to fill the ever-growing voids left by the Plague as it gnawed its way through the city like a rat. As the wealthy barricaded themselves behind bars of bullion and coin purses, hoping their money would keep them safe, the doleful greedy were doing what they did best and bleeding the nobility dry. Each foothold lost by Dunwall’s elite was gleefully repurposed by its seedy underbelly, and Drapers Ward was no exception.

            Now the rich were growing desperate, turning to Daud, the worst of the worst, to rout out the Dead Eels or the Hatters or whatever other band of scum had taken their place. It was straightforward work, despite the tough talking that the gangs spewed like steam from a leaky pipe. Even if Lizzie Stride were almost a friend, Daud would happily put a knife in a few of her men if it meant a quick bag of coin. Gangsters were laughably easy to take out, and too dumb to learn to look up.

            Billie appeared with a soft fwip behind him, returned from scouting the Geezer’s place further into Drapers from the Riverfront. The old bastard had sunk the claws of his Hatters deep into the meat of Drapers Ward, managing to scrounge up some legitimate business model and convincing the noble fools of the district to tolerate his thugs in the name of mutual benefit. Still, he and his boys must have only been so successful at playing nice, because someone had taken out an open hit on Hatters as well as Dead Eels. The presence of gangs in Drapers Ward might not have been good for the business of the rich prat paying Daud to murder thugs, but it certainly was good business for Daud.

            “I took out a few of the Geezer’s boys,” Billie informed him flatly. “Threw in a few bottles of river krust acid, and now they’re frothing at the mouth for Dead Eel blood.”

            Daud grunted, satisfied. It was easier to trick the opposing factions into killing each other rather than doing all the hard work himself, especially when the client didn’t care who did the killing, so long as the thugs were dead. Work smarter not harder, the old bastard who had trained him had always said.

            “And another thing,” she added, too casual to be anything but scheming. “He is here.”

            “What are you talking about, Lurk?” Daud snapped, too tired and stretched thin for her games.

            “Attano. He’s here. A few blocks over, watching the Hatters from a rooftop. And looking for you, I’d wager.”

            Daud’s shoulders went stiff, and he barely caught himself from whirling around to crane his neck for a glimpse of the Lord Protector. Billie cocked her head like she was smirking at him from under her mask, watching and categorizing and judging his movements, the twitch of his jaw speaking to her like words across a page. It would not do to betray himself to her; she was already keeping a tally of his faults in the back of her mind as if she were going to take him to court. She had always done so, he knew, and it had kept him honest and single-minded in more situations than he cared admit. But as of late her scrutiny had seemed more cruel, more malicious, and Daud had begun watching her more closely in turn, instincts rankled.

Nothing in particular had caught his attention, aside from her tendency to slip away from Rudshore for hours at a time and a general cageyness that was not especially odd. In truth, Daud assumed that Billie had found some pretty, soft-bodied woman to enjoy a tryst with, and he could not find it in himself to be too bitter about her temporary abandonment, so long as her duties and loyalties were unaffected. He did not deny his Whalers romance or sex or whatever it was they found with others outside their ranks, even if he did frown upon it. Depriving them would only foster bitterness, and he didn’t care who they fucked so long as the Whalers’ secrets stayed secrets, their location undisclosed and their ranks closed tight. Though, he had considered banning relations between Whalers after the fiasco that ensued when Kieron found out that his twin brother had been sleeping with Jordan for months. Jordan had almost ended up with a kitchen knife in his spine while Killian tried to talk down a near-rabid Kieron, who had been firmly restrained by Jenkins despite his livid struggling. Disaster barely averted, Daud had been forced to scold them all like some bedraggled parent, doling out punishments severe enough to spook the rest of the Whalers into temporary celibacy. He offered no warning to Montgomery and Javier, however, who were both old and wise enough after more than a decade of unofficial marriage to simply smile knowingly at his suffering and the antics of the younger Whalers.

Despite the cavorting of her peers, Billie had remained closed off to desires of the heart and the flesh since Daud had taken her in, the ages old yearning for her lost Deirdre keeping her focused on her work. If she had fallen in with another who could soften the blow, Daud would not deny her. Though, perhaps, it was too much to expect the same courtesy in turn.

“Go back to base,” Daud told her sternly, turning his back on her scrutiny.

He could hear Billie shifting, the grind of her boots against the rooftop and the bright leather-on-leather squeal of her folding her arms across her chest. Suddenly livid with her insubordination, Daud whirled to face her, angrily reaching out with pull and dragging her bodily the few feet between them until they stood chest to chest, her shoulders taut and ready for a fight. He had never been forced to manhandle Billie to assert himself or remind her of her place, and the fact that he had to now made his breath heave harshly through his clenched teeth.

“Whatever it is, get it out now,” he hissed, voice low and dangerous. “I’m tired of this.”

Billie sucked a deep inhale that wheezed slightly through her respirator, the shifting creak of her leather coat betraying the spark of anxiety that held her tense against him.

“Sir.”

“Fucking speak up!” Daud roared, and she nearly flinched.

“Whatever this is, with Attano, its dangerous,” Billie finally said, her tone steely as she found her spine. “You’ll end up dead because of him, sir. And the rest of us will follow, torn apart by Overseer hounds or Watchmen’s bullets on his order.”

Scoffing, Daud shoved her away. The accusation was absurd. He didn’t think Attano would turn on him easily; too much had already happened between them, too much shared anger and shared blood, too many weaknesses seen through the chinks in their armor. They were bound, somehow, twined together in some Void-damned tango that lilted dangerously like curiosity and want and knife-edge trust. They had run a mission together, fought back-to-back as seamlessly as the Wrenhaven running into the ocean; Attano had met Thomas, had met Jordan; Attano had weeks to reveal him to the Watch or the Abbey and had not. If Attano betrayed him now, Daud knew with an acid-burn surety that the wound of it would run deeper than he cared to admit.

            Daud had no doubt that Billie was not the only Whaler questioning his aims and methods, his sanity, even. There were whispers that filtered amongst their ranks like the vapors that cloaked Rudshore in eerie, noxious tendrils, poisoning his Whalers’ commitment. It was fear, uncertainty that let the rumors bloom open with the vile vigor of Brigmore roses, though there were always those unquestioningly loyal enough to prune the blossoms of discontent without prejudice. Thomas, Javier, Montgomery, Rinaldo, Jenkins and the O’Malley twins, Jordan, Misha, Fleet, Dodge; these he knew would not betray him, would willingly follow him to the grave no matter how lost or misguided he became. With them everything he built would survive, even if Dunwall crumbled around their shoulders. With them, he was never alone. And they certainly would not abandon him because of Corvo fucking Attano, regardless of how doubtful or fearful they were of Daud’s intentions.

            It was disappointing that his confidence in Billie being one of those select few was beginning to waver. Frustrated, Daud drew a deep breath.

            “Corvo Attano is none of your concern, Lurk. My intentions are none of your concern,” he snapped, the edge of his voice dulled with tired displeasure. “Your purpose is to follow orders, not question them. If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”

            “Yes, sir,” Billie conceded, though the deference was reluctantly pried out of her like a rotten tooth.

            “Out of my sight,” Daud hissed, waving her away and heaving a great sigh when she finally vanished in an inky billow.

            A few quick transversals and he could see Attano sitting with his legs dangling over the edge of a rooftop, like he had been in the Estate District so many long weeks ago. But now Attano was hunched in on himself, hands folded and elbows on his knees, and Daud hated how vulnerable he looked, those broad shoulders curled into something self-conscious and fragile, those vibrant eyes downcast and solemn. An unpleasant concern squirmed in his belly, though he fought away the worry that rose in his chest like floodwater, determined not to abandon his caution in favor of fretting over Corvo Attano. Daud pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders in the face of the bracing wind and sat, knees creaking as he settled beside the Royal Protector.

            Attano cast a quick glance at him but said nothing about Daud’s company, and Daud tucked his hands between his thighs to warm his fingers. Sitting in not unpleasant silence, Daud felt Attano’s gaze flow like molten Tyvian ore along the tops of his thighs, lingering, before flitting up to his face and back down to the street below. Some of the Hatters were dragging bolts of corpse shrouds into an alley to swaddle up their members who had fallen to Billie’s attack, cursing and swearing and picking the pockets of the dead all the while. Attano must have watched her strike, must have seen her flit about in black whirls of the Void like a specter in the dark, but he seemed unbothered by the display. He seemed too preoccupied with whatever inner turmoil was plaguing his thoughts.

            “How is the boy? Aeolos?” Attano asked after several long minutes.

            “Better. My physician, Montgomery, has kept a close eye on him. She says he’ll physically recover soon enough, with enough warm meals and sleep.”

            “And mentally?”

            Daud was quiet for a while, though he could feel Attano’s concern like a physical thing, throbbing in the air between them like a heartbeat. He sighed.

            “She doesn’t know. He wakes screaming in the night, striking out when we try to soothe him. He calms more quickly when the women see to him, rather than the men. Thomas attempted to wake him from a nightmare and received a shattered bottle to the face for his trouble.”

            “Ah,” Attano said, despondent.

            “He will be fine,” Daud assured.

            Plenty of the novices had suffered terrors in their dreams when they first joined Daud’s ranks. Eventually, though, they learned to be far more dangerous than any monster in the night.

            “He will be fine,” Daud repeated.

            “And Thomas?” Attano asked, voice fragile and brows knitted tight with worry.

            “What about Thomas?”

            “Is he… alright?”

            Daud turned to study the dejection painted across Attano’s face, the sleepless shadows pressed deep beneath his eyes and the unkempt chaos in his thick, wild curls. He was genuinely worried for Aeolos and for Thomas, maybe even for Jordan, who had unwittingly walked into a warzone when last they met. This Corvo Attano was so very different than the Corvo Attano who fought alongside Daud like a typhoon embodied, a bloodthirsty whirlwind ready to shred the world for its injustice. Daud found he preferred that Corvo Attano; at least he had some life burning in his eyes.

            “Thomas is fine. He’s strong, and the hurt is very old,” Daud gently said.

            Attano swallowed. “Will you apologize to him? For me? I was unthinking and cruel with my words. He didn’t deserve it.”

            “No, he didn’t,” Daud agreed, solemn.

            A wet gust of wind, heavy and cold with the threat of rain, whistled through Drapers Ward, carrying dark clouds that blotted out what little light the smirking arc of the moon deigned to offer. The stench of the Wrenhaven’s brackish water stunk like sea salt and industry, and Daud thought the air reeked like one of the Outsider’s shrines. Beside him, Attano shrunk deeper into his coat, his shoulders hunching up towards his ears.

            “I hate Dunwall this time of year,” Attano eventually said, sounding weary to the bone.

            “I hate Dunwall most times of year,” Daud agreed, lamenting, offering Attano a wry shrug when their eyes finally met. “Business may be good, but Dunwall is a soggy, dreary shithole. I’d rather be anywhere else.”

            “Even Tyvia? Knee-deep in snow?” Attano teased warmly, a bit of his typical liveliness curving the corner of his mouth. Daud tried not to feel too relieved.

            “Even Tyvia,” Daud admitted. “Have you ever been to Samara, Attano?”

            The Royal Protector shook his head, gaze now fixed on Daud’s face with a quiet sort of wonder like a child waiting with bated breath for a story to be told.

            “Samara is settled in a crevice between two mountain ranges that pin it close on either side, the cliffs so steep that it seems like they’ll snap shut on the city like jaws. The place is buried in snow and darkness most of the year, but the buildings are painted bright with flowers and vines and animals, all red and blue and yellow.”

            Attano nodded slightly, eager and urging, and Daud nearly smiled, sinking into the memory with a fondness that he had not felt even when he’d lived it.

            “This time of year, during the beginning of Seeds, the sun rises for the first time since the start of winter. When the sun finally rises over the range to the east, the snow shines like glass and the black mountains turn purple and gold. It is the purest daylight you’ve ever seen,” Daud said, almost wistful.

            “It sounds beautiful,” Attano whispered, voice heavy with something that Daud could feel in his gut but couldn’t name.

His hazel eyes, rich and shining with something like longing, roamed across the topography of Daud’s face, following the crooked ridge of his nose, the sprawling river of the scar along his cheek, settling on the valley of his lips. Daud watched Attano in turn, mapped the heavy lines of his brows settled low over those crucible eyes, discovered a paper-thin scar slicing through the shadowy stubble on his chin. Attano was beautiful, Daud realized with the searing, agonizing warmth of whiskey settling in his belly, burning on the way down and equally as hard to swallow. Even more astonishing, however, was the realization that Daud thought that Attano was beautiful, beyond the academic constraints of aesthetic symmetry. Daud thought that Attano was beautiful.

The realization was about as surprising as a pipe wrench to the back of the head, and he scarcely had time to process it before Attano leaned close, coarse fingers tugging on the bandolier across Daud’s chest, and pressed their lips together. Startled, Daud nearly pulled away, but then Attano made a sweet, wanting noise in the back of his throat that sent a searing thrill down Daud’s spine. He gasped, and Attano, sensing weakness, licked into his mouth with a timid tenderness that left his hands fumbling for the front of the Royal Protector’s coat, holding them in an uncertain limbo.

Attano kissed like a lover, like a warm Serkonan night and the giddy fizz of Padilla pear soda, sweet and teasing and carefully confident. Unmoored and far out of his depth but desperately wanting, Daud responded with violence, sinking his teeth into Attano’s lower lip and drinking in the whining sigh he earned. But Attano refused to allow Daud to lose himself to fear and the newness of it all, and in a bizarre reversal of their previous meeting, Attano eased Daud with gentle kisses, with soothing presses of his tongue that coaxed a quiet eagerness from him that he couldn’t remember having felt before. Falling into the guiding hand of Corvo Attano was one of the easiest things he had ever done.

After a moment, Attano’s broad hand found the back of Daud’s neck and twined into the hair at his nape, and returning to himself, Daud panicked and shoved him away. There was a short, breathless moment when Attano looked as if he would lose his balance and topple from the rooftop, but as soon as he regained his balance Daud was up and ready to bolt.

“Daud!” Attano called after him, reaching and desperate.

The soft agony in his breathless voice made Daud pause, chest heaving, to turn back to face him. He could feel his cheeks burning an embarrassed scarlet, and he drug a hand through his hair with a growl.

“What the fuck was that, Attano?!”

“I…”

“Void dammit!”

“I don’t know!” Attano blurted, wounded. “I’m sorry!”

The rooftop seemed to go quiet and still between them, the cold air fogging with their gasping breaths, and Attano looked devastated when he finally averted his gaze, fingers curling uselessly into the slate shingles.

“I’m sorry, Daud. I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I shouldn’t have.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Daud snapped back, still flustered.

His harsh tone seemed to cut Attano like a knife, and Daud immediately felt guilt bubble into his chest. It was unfair to condemn Attano’s want when Daud wanted just the same, but the horror of his uncertainty rooted him in place. He didn’t want people like he wanted Attano; he had never wanted someone like he wanted Attano, and he hardly knew what to do with himself. So Daud did the only thing he knew to do and forced the confusion and desire down deep, tossing it into the waters of his apathy and indifference like a stone and waiting for the ripples to fade.

“It’s fine,” he eventually conceded.

“Don’t hold this against me,” Attano said, clearly growing impatient with Daud’s refusal to engage.

“I told you it’s fine.”

“At least give my apologies to Thomas like I asked, since you seem determined not to accept mine now,” Attano barked, rising from his perch and walking up the roof.

His gaze was heavy, nearly challenging, when it met Daud’s, and Daud sank into the livid bonfire in his eyes with a pleased familiarity. This he could manage.

“Tell him yourself,” he snapped back, equally combative.

“What?”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Daud asked, folding his arms now that they had strayed back into familiar territory. “You want to fight. You want to run jobs with my men. You want to be let off your leash knowing that there will be someone to snap your muzzle back on at the end of the night. Isn’t that right, Lord Protector?”

Attano snarled, his imposing height looming over Daud’s greater bulk, and Daud felt a wicked thrill at the thought of those vicious teeth sinking into his lip, of that cruel mouth on his own and the taste of whiskey on his tongue. He knew how it would feel, knew how the weight of Attano’s hand on the back of his neck would make his belly go tight, and he felt drunk with the heady power of it. Backlit by the eerie fish-scale silver light of the moon, Attano looked more animal than man with that wild, irresistible snarl curling his lips, and Daud wanted this as badly as he wanted Attano’s earlier tenderness. Corvo Attano was multitudes within a single man.

“Let the hound out of it’s cage,” Daud whispered spitefully, and he could nearly feel the heat of Attano’s proximity through his coat. “Legal District, rooftop near Crows Court. Two nights from now. I’ll give you something to sink your teeth into, Corvo.”

*****

            Montgomery shifted on her mattress, discontent and unable to sleep. Javier was snoring lightly beside her, and she was careful not to wake him as she slipped from the bed, shrugging on his coat and tugging on her boots.

            “Adelaide?” Javier slurred, reaching out for the hollow echo of her warmth beneath the blankets. “Addie, what are you doing?”

            “Going to check on the boy,” she whispered with a kiss to his cheek. “Go back to sleep, my love.”

            “Hurry back, mi amada.”

            Ducking out of their little apartment high above the waters of Rudshore, Montgomery wound her way down the breezeways to her modest clinic, pulling Javier’s coat tight around her shoulders to banish the chill. The beds in the clinic were all gratefully empty, save for the one currently occupied by the child that Jordan had carried in several nights before, battered and bruised and shaking like a leaf in a gale. All was quiet, for now, the boy sleeping soundly under the influence of the draught that Montgomery had given him to soothe the tormented stirrings of his mind in the night.

            “How is he?” Montgomery asked Misha, who had taken the evening’s shift to monitor the child, without glancing to her chair in the corner.

            “He’s quiet,” answered a deep, decidedly non-feminine voice, and Montgomery whirled to find Daud in Misha’s chair, arms folded pensively across his broad chest.

            “Master Daud!” she whispered, as loud as the nighttime silence would allow.

            Pressing a hand over her heart, Montgomery wheezed out a startled breath and settled her hands disapprovingly on her wide hips, frowning at Daud with all the disappointed rage of a nursemaid. She assessed Aeolos in a huff, finding his face slack in untroubled sleep, for once.

            “What are you doing up here?” Montgomery asked, sinking into the empty seat to Daud’s right with a quiet grunt. “Hiding from Billie?”

            The frown he shot her direction would have stung like toxins in her blood, were she not so familiar with his bitter, ornery disposition. She was surprised to see him outside of the security of his rooms given the rage he had been in upon returning to Rudshore, tearing through the base berating those Whalers who found themselves in his path and itching to sink his teeth into something soft and undeserving. There had been shouting in his office, and the shattering of glass, but Montgomery had not bothered to tend to him. Daud was a grown man despite the intensity of this apparent tantrum. Instead, she had gathered Javier and ushered him off to bed, leaving Daud to his own devices.

            “I see,” she replied knowingly to his silence. “Did you see the Royal Protector this evening?”

            Goading him on the subject was a dangerous game, but considering the way his irritation suddenly turned inward, Montgomery felt bolstered into prying, if only a little. She had heard the whispers among the other Whalers, especially among those incorrigible gossips Jordan, Galia, and Rinaldo. But she had also seen the tension slowly unwinding from Daud’s shoulders, a soft blanket of timid contentment softening his hard edges after each meeting with Corvo Attano. She understood. She had felt the same, cloying ease when she and Javier had begun closing the distance between them all those years ago.

            “Do you want to talk about it?” Montgomery offered, bracing for his inevitable rejection.

            Instead, Daud grew pensive for several long moments before sighing, resigned.

            “Adelaide,” he began, sounding weary.

            She watched him for a few breaths, brushing her big, greying blond curls from her face when they fell loose from their hasty pins. His jaw was tight, the little bits of silver at his temples seeming so very bright in the light of the lantern between them, which cast the shadows under his eyes in a deep, angry purple. When he said nothing, she sighed and patted his shoulder. He looked so tired.

            “He is special, isn’t he?” she prodded, gentle.

            Daud lolled his head back to stare blankly at the ceiling, before clenching his eyes shut and hissing a breath between his gritted teeth. Suddenly he stood, gaze carefully averted, and made for the door.

            “Goodnight, Adelaide.”

            “Goodnight, Daud,” she echoed to his retreating back.

            Corvo Attano must be special, indeed.

Chapter Text

Corvo busted into her bedroom as if there was a wolfhound nipping at his heels, slamming the door behind him and leaning against the jamb, wildly out of breath. Jessamine watched his chest heave, his eyes closed tight, and wormed back into the blouse that she had half shrugged off before Corvo made his grand entrance. Suspecting that something rather dramatic and likely wholly absurd was afoot, she buttoned a single button on her blouse to keep the chill from licking along her bare skin and sighed.

“Good evening, Corvo, how was your night?” she asked sardonically, arching a wry brow at his dramatics.

Corvo thumped his head violently back against the door, gritting his teeth. He knocked his head against the door again, clearly a punishment, and Jessamine frowned with concern.

“I fucked up, Jess,” Corvo lamented, finally cracking his eyes open to look at her, and he looked so unbearably lost that her stomach clenched painfully.

"Cariño,” she whispered, reaching for him. “What happened?”

Dragging his hands over his face, Corvo slithered pitifully to the floor, resting his arms on his knees and hanging his head like a man sentenced to the gallows. Jessamine stepped cautiously closer, kneeling to slide her hand up his arm and to his shoulder, gently brushing a few wild curls behind his ear. His temples glistened with sweat as if he had sprinted to the Tower, and he held each breath high in his chest, pulling his coat tight across his broad shoulders. A gusting sigh rushed out of him, trembling.

“You’re going to kill me.”

“Corvo, darling, whatever it is, we can handle it. Just tell me,” Jessamine said softly, framing his face with her hands and pulling him up to meet her gaze.

He was still so handsome, Jessamine thought idly, pressing her thumb into the hairline scar along his sculpted chin, sliding her finger beneath his thin lips. Those whiskey warm eyes fluttered up to hers, depthless with ages of affection and grief and so much anger, his brows crumpling together, distressed. She wanted to lean in, pull the worry from him with her hands and tongue and teeth, taste the uneasiness draining from his body and he sank into hers. It had been so long since they had lain together in more than just sleep, the physicality of their affection having long since passed happily into memory. Foolishly, she denied that she still wanted him on some lonely nights, craving the old days when her frustration with the office of Empress would spill into aggressive romps that left her boneless and sated. But those days lie firmly in the past; now she and Corvo existed as parents, as partners, not lovers. And they were content.

Jessamine pressed a kiss to his brow, nuzzling her cheek against his dark curls, and felt him take a deep, cautious breath.

"I kissed the Knife of Dunwall,” he blurted suddenly.

Astounded, Jessamine leaned back to study his devastated expression, smushing his cheeks between her hands, and laughed, loud and jolting. Corvo looked absolutely betrayed by her braying amusement and pulled away with a shake of his head.

“It’s not funny, Jess!”

“Oh, but it is! It’s easily the funniest thing I’ve heard all day!” Jessamine swallowed her laugher, leaning in close to whisper against his lips. “So how was it?”

“It was…” Corvo stumbled, breath catching in his throat. “It was like going home.”

“Oh,” she sing-songed, knowing. “That good, eh?”

“Jess, please.”

She waved his concern away and tried to school her expression into something less easily construed as mocking, but her lips curled up at the corners regardless, delighted.

“I believe there is a great deal you need to tell me, my dear,” Jessamine teased.

Corvo seemed to wilt at the order. He had been avoiding the topic of Daud for days, and the only reason Jessamine had not gone mad with worry was the fact that Corvo was whole and hale. Something had happened, this she knew, but he had been as airtight as a river krust on the subject, deftly avoiding her attempts at interrogation. After he returned one evening exhausted and clearly shaken, apparently having turned on Emily as if she were an assassin in his quarters, Jessamine had questioned him relentlessly the next morning. Dark shadows had bloomed beneath his dim eyes, but she had been thwarted in her efforts to ask about Daud. She let the topic lie for a few days, and when she blatantly brought Daud up in later conversation Corvo looked as if he were about to climb the walls like a cat in a bathtub, desperate for escape but floundering pitifully.

Yet the way he talked about the kiss – like going home – Jessamine knew he was struggling with the hole he had been so ardently digging for himself. He needed to talk, she could sense it like a dam about to burst, and Jessamine desperately wanted to listen.

Rising to her feet, Jessamine curled her fingers in a gentle beckoning to follow, moving to her dresser to collect her ivory comb and sitting on the sofa near the fireplace, sure to leave plenty of room for Corvo to settle behind her. She need only wait a few moments before he was sinking into the cushions with a defeated sigh and taking the delicate comb in his sword-worn hand, slowly working it through her hair with tender diligence. It was always easiest for him to speak his mind when he was relieved of the decorous pressure of eye contact, at least when speaking of delicate matters, and mindless tasks kept his hands from their incessant fidgeting. After several minutes, during which Jessamine’s eyes had drifted blissfully shut, Corvo spoke.

“I ran a mission with the Knife and his Whalers,” he began, the timbre of his voice low and resonating and cautious. “I met him on a rooftop, and he invited me along to break into Charlington Ludd’s warehouse, looking for a list of clients for a rival, I think.”

“Ludd? The exotic imports dealer?”

Corvo hummed, and Jessamine could feel him twisting his fingers idly in her hair. She would have to brush it again before she retired for the night.

“It was supposed to be quick, all non-lethal,” Corvo paused, took a deep breath. “Fighting alongside someone has never felt like that, before. Like I knew where Daud would be before he even moved, like dancing, like instinct. I could be free to move and fight and lose myself in the rush of it all, and he just let me. But he could make me settle with a gesture or a word. I wanted to be good for him, Jessamine.”

Jessamine felt a consuming desire stirring low in her belly, serpentine and so very hot, an echo of Corvo’s own yearning for this man she had never met seeping through her skin with each warm breath sighed against her spine. She could feel Corvo’s anticipation, his longing to taste the madness that rested ever teasing on the back of his tongue and not be scolded for it. Daud offered these things to Corvo, it seemed, and Jessamine could sense his aching longing for the Knife’s approval in his every breathy word. It stirred a lust in her that she could not explain, a primal satisfaction in seeing the desire of the one she cared for so dearly.

“Void, Corvo,” she whispered.

“We found something in Ludd’s office,” Corvo continued, breathless.

“Under the table transactions?” Jessamine asked, searching through what little she knew of Charlington Ludd. “If I remember correctly, I believe his taxes had been under suspicion in the past, and maybe an issue with some of his import paperwork—”

“There was a child, chained in a hidden room,” Corvo interrupted, and Jessamine snapped her jaw shut with a deafening clack in the eerie silence between them. She didn’t breathe, neither did Corvo, his body having gone steel-tense behind her.

“A child…?”

“Listed as an item for personal pleasure in the transaction register. Chained, starving, assaulted, near mad with fear. A boy, Jessamine, bought by a monster so that he and his friends could have something young and tender to fuck.”

Corvo was seething, breaths coming hard between his teeth, body hot and livid with the force of his anger. The coil of horror in Jessamine’s belly slithered and threatened to crawl up her throat, and she brought a hand up to cover her mouth, her fingers trembling against her pursed lips.

“Human trafficking,” she whispered, and she didn’t recognize the sound of her own reedy, fragile voice.

“Human trafficking,” Corvo confirmed, biting off the accented words with the jagged violence of a broken bone. “And more, most likely. Daud will know. He stole some papers.”

“And where is the child now?”

“Safe, with Daud,” he replied, a hint of trustful relief grinding away the knife-edge agony in his voice.

The heavy thump of Corvo’s head dropping to her shoulder jostled Jessamine back to herself, and she held tightly to the broad hands that slid around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. His strong breadth behind her was comforting, so broad and strong and smelling like salt air and chimney smoke. Jessamine had always taken solace from Corvo’s size and stoic dependability, standing between her and the world like the stone walls rising tall and fierce around Dunwall Tower. He had always seemed so invincible, capable of anything, but now she saw the little fissures in his confidence. It was terrifying, it was also inevitable. No one could be as stalwart as Corvo always seemed to be, but Jessamine could also see the patches that Daud was pressing onto Corvo’s fractures, whether either of them knew it or not. Daud offered Corvo something that she could not, though she didn’t understand it. She imagined that it was the ties of shared heritage, maybe of anger, and certainly of the sticky binds of blood in the creases of a sword hand. There was an understanding there that she could not fathom, an understanding that she could never offer of herself. And if Daud soothed the cracks in the deepest, darkest, most dangerous parts of Corvo’s soul, then she would never begrudge him that comfort.

“You trust him, don’t you?” Jessamine asked, twisting in his arms to murmur against his jaw, sweet and sultry.

Corvo took a deep breath, his chest rising and pressing her into the nearly bruising grip he had on her hips, his broad, coarse hands snaking under her shirt to splay across her lower back. He met her gaze, dark eyes heavy and intent, wanting for something that she could not begin to comprehend. Wanting for Daud, and what he could offer.

“I want to,” Corvo breathed. “I want to, Jessamine.”

She leaned up to kiss him, quick though perhaps too open-mouthed and wanting, and he sighed, burying his face in her shoulder. The muscles along his back were still bow-string tight, and she stroked the knuckles of one hand down his spine, burying her fingers in his hair with the other.

“He’s going to kill Ludd for me,” Corvo murmured, muffled against the delicate wing of her collarbone. “He probably would have done it anyway, but I asked and he said he would do it. For me.”

“You know I can’t approve of it, Corvo.”

“I’m not asking you to, Jess. It will be done. It’s out of both of our hands now.”

"Daud will do the deed himself?”

“Yes.”

Sighing, resigned, Jessamine combed her fingers through his thick, windswept curls, unweaving the tangles with careful tugs. He grunted when she pulled a little too hard on a stubborn knot, and she kissed his temple in apology.

“It seems to me that you aren’t the only one feeling something,” she said, thoughtful. “For him to let you into his world like he did.”

“I don't know,” Corvo murmured in weary Serkonan. “Maybe.”

“’Maybe’?” Jessamine scoffed, her voice twisting with amusement. “I certainly think so.”

“He… he did let me meet two of his lieutenants,” Corvo offered, and Jessamine thought that he seemed buoyed by her encouragement.

“See?”

“Thomas, and… and another, Jordan, I think. I saw their faces, even.”

“He trusts you in return.”

“Or is trying to lull me into thinking that he does,” Corvo muttered, bitter.

“Don’t be so pessimistic, Corvo.”

She tugged his face away from her neck by her grip on his hair, and he frowned down at her, petulant. The warble of laughter that fell from her lips was entirely unbidden, but it lifted her heart like the bubbles in a bottle of Serkonan sparkling wine. She loved him so dearly, this foolish, wonderful man.

“You still haven’t told me about the kiss,” she teased.

“Yes, I did!”

“Oh, barely. Come on, tell me, how was it?”

“He tried to push me off a roof,” Corvo said flatly.

“He what?” Jessamine chortled, astonished with the absurdity of it all. Whatever it was that Corvo shared with Daud, she doubted that she’d ever truly grasp it. Jessamine covered her mouth with one hand, smiling behind her fingers.

“I kissed him, and after a moment he kissed me back, then he tried to push me off the roof,” Corvo said, plainly annoyed with her giddiness. “He kisses like he’s fighting for his life.”

Unable to hold herself to her own standards of decorum, Jessamine burst into fits, grinning at Corvo’s disgruntled expression. He had not looked so betrayed and wholly unamused since Emily had tricked him with a bottle of ink above the door and a string tied to the knob; his face had been a blotchy, ink-stained purple for days. Now, however, his cheeks were stained scarlet with embarrassment.

“How badly did you startle him, if that’s how he responded?” she chuckled.

“I… it wasn’t my intention,” Corvo whispered, guilty and dejected. “He was talking about Tyvia, about the first sunrise after the winter dark. His eyes went soft and distant, and I couldn’t look away. He was so….”

“Beautiful?” Jessamine offered, lips curving into a gentle smile, understanding. “Beautiful like you are right now, talking about him.”

She brushed an unruly curl behind his ear, trailing her thumb over his cheekbone, reverent.

“You are allowed to like him, Corvo,” she honestly told him. “It doesn’t have to be subterfuge or a transaction – information for information. It can be just you and him. It’s okay.”

“I don’t know, Jess.”

“When will you see him again?”

“Night after next,” Corvo admitted reluctantly. “Another job, I think.”

“Well,” Jessamine said, leaning back to dust off her hands as if she had just finished loading crates down at the dockyards. “That’s that, then.”

“That’s what?”

She smiled in the face of Corvo’s confusion. His brow wrinkled tightly with suspicion, hazel eyes narrowed, and she rubbed at the creases on his forehead with one knuckle, laughing.

“Corvo, my dear,” she said slowly, grinning slyly like a cat. “You have a date.”

*****

“Hey, Tom? Master Daud needs you.”

Thomas looked up from his book, one gloved finger marking his page. He sighed, voiding his hiding place as exposed; it was impossible to get a moment to oneself among the Whalers. Akila stood in the narrow gap between the bookcases that typically did so well to conceal him from the others, the towering shelves making her seem all the more slender. Her pale eyes were too bright in her narrow face, the waves of her long hair too artfully arranged, and Thomas squirmed a bit under her yearning scrutiny. She was young, eighteen and barely beyond a girl, a novice both in the hierarchy among the Whalers and in life, though her gaze always followed him with the wants of a woman. It made his skin itch uncomfortably, her dogged persistence and awkward flirtation, and he handled the unwanted attention with far less grace than Jordan and his coltish smile.

“Thank you, Akila,” Thomas offered diplomatically, though her face lit up with unfettered adoration all the same.

As he stood to see to Daud’s summons, Akila remained planted firmly in the path of his escape, twisting a strand of her hair around her finger, and fluttering her lashes against her pinked cheeks. Fumbling, he struggled to find some gentle fault to scold her with, trying not to grimace at her tenacity. Galia would be proud of her relentlessness, he mused reluctantly.

“Akila…” he began, though she quickly interrupted him.

“Tom, so I was wondering… could I… I mean, you’re scheduled to patrol with Yuri tomorrow night, right? Well, I thought it would be better for them to patrol with Rinaldo, since, you know, Yuri doesn’t ever get sent to the Rust District. And since I’m set to patrol with Rinaldo and Yuri is set to patrol with you, we could, you know, switch. And I could go with you… instead.”

Thomas nodded reluctantly in the face of her sprawling argument, uncomfortable and eager to retreat to the relative safety of Daud’s office.

“Oh, well, Akila, I don’t have any control over patrol schedules,” he lied, gritting his teeth at her disappointed frown. “Though, maybe I could ask Master Daud to send you out with Jordan? He’s assigned to the Civil Services District for now.”

Akila seemed to light up at the possibility, knowing that the relative calm of the Civil Services District would offer plenty of time for talking, for flirting, for attempted romance. Thomas was immensely grateful that Jordan was beautiful enough to catch the eye of most teenage girls, with his long hair and devilish charm and sculpted jaw. Jordan’s remarkable ability to flirt harmlessly with any sentient creature capable of converting oxygen to carbon dioxide had liberated Thomas from innumerable awkward situations while on assignment. Thomas knew he would owe Jordan a bottle of that brandy he liked, after subjecting him to this.

Her bashful smile and fluttering lashes had Thomas’s hackles rising, but gratefully they were interrupted before Akila could speak again.

“Akila! Hey, Akila, we gotta— oh, hi Big Tom,” Anatole called as she poked her head into the gap between the bookcases, her wild curls filling the narrow space. Seeing Thomas, she smiled and waved cheerily, full lips pulling around her grin.

“Hi, Anatole,” he waved back, relieved.

“Akila, we gotta go or Misha’s gonna leave without us,” Anatole insisted, waving Akila out of the nook. Akila went to complain, to remain behind with Thomas, but Anatole grabbed her by the sleeve of her grey coat and dragged her bodily between the gap in the bookcases, grinning all the while. “Come on, come on, come on! Get your mask! Let’s go!”

“Um, bye Tom!” Akila managed to eke out before she was shoved toward the Archive exit.

Anatole ducked back between the bookcases of his hiding place with a smug, knowing grin, and Thomas folded his hands in gratefulness, mouthing a silent thank you. Laughing, she waved his gratitude away.

“Bye Tom,” she sing-songed teasingly as she retreated from his glower.

“Thomas,” he insolently corrected after the novices had already vanished on the black wings of the Void.

With a sigh, he marked his place in the book since forgotten in his hand, tucking a scrap of paper – an old report from a long dead target – into its mildewed pages and setting it aside on his chair. If Daud was summoning him now, so early, after the absolute bedlam that had ensued upon his return to Rudshore two nights before, Thomas assumed that there was some variety of Corvo Attano related problem to be dealt with. Corvo Attano was trouble and had been since that first night, when Daud had come home more flustered than Thomas had seen him in years. But Daud had largely kept the issue of Corvo Attano between himself and Thomas, excluding Billie, though she was hardly around often enough to mind, recently. Thomas was grateful for it, his wanting heart soothed by the budding closeness between himself and his Master.

Still, Daud had been so livid after his last meeting with the Royal Protector that Thomas, and any Whaler with a sense of self preservation, had kept their distance since. He had torn into Rudshore like a rabid hound, snarling at novices on midnight patrol and dispersing the masters gathered in their downtime, drinking whiskey on a roof. Jordan had been flirting loudly with Dodge, laughing, and leaning close into Dodge's space, while Rinaldo plucked deftly at his guitar and Javier struggled to bribe the ever-stoic Leonid to dancing with Galia. Montgomery leaned back against a chimney, fondly watching her husband torment his Tyvian colleague as she chatted with Misha and the twins. She held Killian’s hand in her own, her soft, pudgy fingers tracing the boxer’s scars on his knuckles and soothing his jealousy at Jordan’s apparent betrayal. Thomas had watched them all, silent and isolated from the group at large but content to bask in their radiating happiness.

But then Daud had returned, seething with unjustified anger, and their amusement had died with the bottle of brandy that he had shot out of Javier’s hand with a bolt from his wrist bow. All had been quiet for several long moments, only the lapping waters licking at the feet of the Chamber of Commerce disrupting the silence. Then Daud had erupted, shouting and berating them for their lack of diligence despite all patrols being thoroughly covered, ranting that Aeolos had been left alone despite being under Misha’s watchful eye, smashing bottles and storming off to his quarters. The gathered group scattered quickly in awkward silence, muttering dejectedly, and bidding each other goodnight, but Thomas had slipped into the Chamber against his better judgement, concern puddling oily in his belly.

Daud had been pacing around his office, breathing hard through clenched teeth and clearly distressed, when Thomas had at last gathered the courage to glance through the fractured glass of the office door. The torment painted across Daud’s features like spilled ink made his chest clench painfully, and Thomas had slipped one hand into his jacket over his heart, willing the foolish muscle to cease its tortured pounding. He could not have helped Daud, he knew; there was nothing to offer of himself that could steal away whatever prowling agony now besieged the man he adored more than life itself. At the commotion inside the office, a clattering of shattered glass and fluttering papers and a visceral, animal yell torn from Daud’s throat, Thomas had slid down the wall to the floor, forehead pressed to his huddled knees. He had felt weak, useless, undeserving of the coarse-edged care that Daud had always shown him. It had always been so easy for Daud to save him, and Thomas could do nothing in return. Only a single wall had separated him from the one he loved in silence from afar, and yet he was helpless in the face of Daud’s despair, unable to even discern its cause.

Worthless. Worthless.

Now crossing onto the breezeway that led to Daud’s office, Thomas paused to place his hand on the back of his neck, closing his eyes. The memory of Daud’s strong hand pressing there, weaving Thomas’s fraying nerves back together from the brink of panicked tears, so heavy and gentler than anything, made his breath stutter in his chest. Daud had fought away Thomas’s fear, a candle to the encroaching darkness when moments before he had been trapped between the snarling glare of Corvo Attano and the knowledge of a child chained, so horridly familiar. The mere grounding force of Daud’s hand had saved him. Daud had always saved him.

Thomas thought of it now, desperate and yearning, and tilted his face up to the sky. It was a rare, sun-speckled day in Dunwall, and the warmth of daylight against his skin nearly dispersed the ice-water sensation of unrequited adoration that lived in his belly. He struggled against it, always, always, grateful that he was even permitted the closeness that he had with Daud, meagre as it was to his aching heart. But the current was strong, and his longing so deep.

“Thomas!”

Blinking away his somber thoughts, he turned to see Kieron and Killian waving him down, their bootsteps clanging on the corrugated metal of the breezeway. The twins slid to a halt, elbowing at each other when one nearly knocked the other off the scaffold, before coming to some sort of truce and turning back to Thomas, grinning. They were identical, both broad shouldered and thick chested and green-eyed with pale red hair, and so roguishly Morleyan that it would almost be charming if they weren’t so dangerous. Thankfully, they had taken pity on their fellow Whalers in recent years, and Kieron had taken to maintaining a thick, close-cropped beard while Killian was clean shaven. Kieron also had a razor-thin scar along his hairline from earning a bottle of brandy to the head two Fugues past, but few besides Thomas, Daud, and Jenkins minded enough to notice.

“What’s the matter?” Thomas asked, growing nervous in the face of their apparent glee. Javier had not dubbed the pair los diablos rojos for nothing.

“Did ye pair Jordan up with Akila, mate?” Kieron asked, nearly trembling with poorly repressed excitement.

“Yes? I mean no. I have to speak to Master Daud about it,” Thomas said carefully. “Wait, how do you even know that?”

The twins laughed and tittered between themselves in Morleyan, each foreign word rolling off their tongues like the green hills of their home country, leaving Thomas confounded. He could understand why Kieron would revel in Jordan’s suffering, given his abject hatred of the fact that Jordan was sleeping with his brother, but it seemed odd for Killian to so happily savor his sometimes-lover’s misfortune. They bickered and refused to call themselves what they were, but Killian held such deep, unequivocal affection for Jordan that even Kieron managed to subvert his dislike of the situation to preserve his brother’s happiness.

“Brilliant.”

“Perfect.”

“Legendary,” they said in quick succession.

Thomas frowned. “What are you two up to?”

“Not a thing,” Kieron said with a flippant gesture.

“Nothing at all,” Killian echoed.

“Akila will do the work for us.”

“Flirting where it’s not wanted.”

“Giving him a taste of his own medicine.”

“And Jordan will learn his lesson.”

“About flirting and making fool of himself,” Kieron finished.

Killian’s gaze flickered away, clearly wounded by something that Jordan had done – most likely his brazen flirtation with Dodge – and Thomas recognized the longing tightness at the corners of his eyes. It was plain that Killian had tried and failed to be angry about the slight, but hurt had still managed to burrow deep beneath his freckled skin and put down roots. Feeling a dejected sort of camaraderie, Thomas reached out to grasp Killian’s upper arm with a woefully understanding smile, offering his support in solidarity. The thick muscles beneath his hand were tense and unhappy. Killian was a good man, and Thomas simply hoped that Jordan had not well and truly ruined a good thing, this time.

“I’ll talk to Daud,” Thomas promised them.

Kieron smiled with a sharp-edged glee that suggested he was enjoying the prospect of Jordan’s misfortune far more than he should, but Killian just nodded weakly and patted Thomas’s hand on his arm.

“Thanks, mate,” Killian offered as he turned away, Kieron close on his heels.

Thomas watched them go, watched Kieron loop a strong arm around Killian’s shoulder in an effort to jostle the defeat out of his brother by force. Killian batted him away harmlessly, but there was the ghost of a smile pinching the corner of his mouth, and Kieron laughed full and hearty and knocked his forehead against his brother’s temple. Something jealous and lonely coiled between Thomas’s lungs, always so bitter, and he turned away to seek out Daud.

Ducking through a window and into the hallway, he could hear tense voices from inside Daud’s office, quiet but cutting like a Tyvian blade. Just as he reached for the door, Billie came bursting out of the office, livid. Thomas tried to twist out of her war path, but her shoulder clipped his and she turned on him with the eerily placid snarl she had so precisely cultivated over the years. It made his skin crawl.

“He’s hopeless,” she growled, and Thomas raised his brows, startled. “The old man’s fucking lost the plot.”

“What?” he asked, feeling like a hagfish in a whirlpool, but Billie had already stormed away with a pull of the Void.

“Thomas!” Daud shouted, making him flinch.

His pulse was heavy in his throat, heart puling its whimpering worry in his veins, but he straightened his shoulders and entered the office, falling into parade rest with a prim salute despite his trembling fingers. Hardly anyone had seen or spoken to Daud since the chaos two nights before, and Thomas suspected that Billie being the first was likely in no one’s best interest. He was nervous. He had not been nervous around Daud in years.

Daud was hunched over his desk, strewn with a half-crumpled map of Dunwall and an array of papers. The office as a whole was far less disturbed than Thomas had been expecting, save for a few cabinet drawers lying cracked and broken in a tidy pile alongside a kaleidoscope of shattered glass. There was a knife embedded in the upholstery of a chair, its stuffing spilling out like entrails, though it seemed that Daud’s anger had run out of steam before he had finished gutting it. Everything was almost – almost – normal, and that perhaps unsettled Thomas most of all. He kept his eyes lowered, his mouth shut, and waited.

The silence seemed to last for an age as he studied a deeply gouged scuff in the floor just beyond his boots, when eventually another pair of boots materialized in his line of sight. He straightened his spine, kept his gaze on the mark in the hardwoods.

“Thomas,” Daud said softly. He sounded exhausted.

“Sir.”

“Thomas,” Daud repeated, seeming to balance on the edge of disappointed. “I need you to meet Attano tonight. Give him a mask and take him with you on the Timsh job.”

“Yes, sir.”

Daud watched him for several moments before speaking: “What, no questions?”

“No, sir.”

“It would, perhaps, be wise to ask.”

“It is not my place to question,” Thomas said, shifting his weight and risking a brief glance. “I trust that if there is something I need to know, you will tell me.”

“But you do have questions,” Daud prompted, as if trying to goad him into insubordination.

At last Thomas raised his chin, straightened his spine, and met Daud’s gaze. He expected an icy challenge to be settled in those steel grey eyes but found himself distracted instead by the deep-pressed shadows that had settled below them, the weariness creased into the tired lines of Daud’s face. Something had worn him thin in recent days, some great concern grinding him down like powdered bone in one of Granny Rags’ Void damned concoctions. He was splintered, somehow, all jagged edges that ached to be healed but hissed and fought with agonized spite at each attempt. Thomas would stitch him back together piece by grating piece, if Daud would only let him.

The clenching of his heart had Thomas pulling his lip between his teeth, glancing away awkwardly.

“Of course I do, sir,” he slowly replied. “But they are immaterial.”

“Humor me,” Daud said, clipped and forceful.

“Attano loses himself to violence so quickly,” Thomas carefully began, waiting for retribution that never came. “You were able to settle him, but I don’t know if I can. I can’t control him, sir. He’s dangerous to the operation and himself. To us.”

Daud nodded, apparently satisfied with the assessment. His boots clicked heavily on the wooden floor as he circled like a hagfish at the scent of blood, waiting for weakness. But when he stopped, nearly toe to toe with Thomas, his dour expression had twisted up into something softer, nearly amused. It pulled the breath from Thomas’s lungs, left them hollow and flat and desperately wanting.

“You’re right,” Daud told him glibly. “But Attano won’t lay a finger on you. You’re safe to show him your back.”

“I…” Thomas started, tried again. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. Neither does he. But he asked me to convey his apologies to you for his crude comments, last time. He was quite distraught.”

“To me? Why?”

Daud folded his arms across his chest with a shrug, paused to contemplate for a long moment, then sighed, dragging a hand down his face. There was a secret held close behind his teeth, Thomas could see it squirming on the tip of his tongue, leaving him looking conflicted. Daud swallowed it down, remained silent, though his brows pulled dark and heavy over eyes that skittered away from Thomas’s as if afraid to give himself away. For a man who was always so direct, ever keen to spit in the face of conflict and dare it to come back for more, seeing Daud withering had anxiety surging in Thomas’s chest, hot like bile.

“During the Ludd job,” Daud confessed, straightening his spine. “He was angry that I sent the boy with Jordan, not with you. He refused to respect my decision, demanded to know why I let you leave. And I told him.”

Thomas pulled a slow, stuttering breath between his teeth, watched Daud for a long moment before ducking his head and looking away, ashamed. “Oh.”

It was a long time before either of them spoke again, and Thomas could feel the shame of weakness stinging behind his eyes, making him feel small and insignificant and worthless in the massive shadow cast by Daud and his reputation. He clenched his fists behind his back, digging his fingernails brutally into the skin of his palms, a punishment for his many, many flaws.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, throat a little too tight.

“Thomas. Thomas, look at me.”

Reluctantly he met Daud’s gaze, eyes flicking across his scarred face to avoid the edge of softness there that clenched his heart with longing.

“You’ve done nothing wrong. None of us could have known about the boy. But I spoke out of turn, bore your past to him when it wasn’t my place. I should be the one apologizing,” Daud insisted, though his tender kindness was eerily foreboding. Thomas didn’t like it.

“Please don’t, sir.”

“Very well,” Daud nodded, stepping back.

Thomas felt like he could breathe again, the space between them easing the pressure of Daud’s presence from off his chest, a sweetly bitter relief. He wanted to close the distance again on his own terms, to fold his arms around Daud’s thick chest, breathe the scent of the Void from his collar, plead like a child for comfort, for touch. Instead, he clenched his fists, breathed slow and deep, shoved away the desire.

“If I lose control of Attano, what should I do?” Thomas asked in a weak attempt to wrestle the conversation back to neutral ground.

“Hit him with a sleep dart and leave him somewhere safe,” Daud replied, at ease once more. “If he compromises you, return to base. If not, finish the assignment.”

“Understood, sir.”

With a short gesture from Daud, Thomas turned to retreat with a salute, though his fingers had scarcely touched the doorknob before Daud spoke again, voice soft. Thomas felt his shoulders go tight, suddenly anxious.

“And thank you, Thomas. For the other night,” Daud said carefully. “I knew you were in the hallway.”

“What happened isn’t my business, sir,” Thomas clenched his eyes shut and took a shaking breath. “But I didn’t want you to be alone.”

He didn’t wait for a response before he escaped into the hall, transversing out of the Chamber of Commerce and back to his room, pacing around and pulling at his short-cropped hair. How foolish he was, to say something so brazenly forward to Daud after having invaded his privacy during that moment of weakness two nights ago. Yet Daud had thanked him for the intrusion, for huddling against the wall with tears on his face, listening to the man he loved rage and rip himself apart. It was soft, it was caring. Even offering an apology for spilling Thomas’s tragedies to Attano was wildly out of character, but Thomas relished the gentleness even as the other Whalers spoke scathingly of their leader’s weakness. He would hold it close to his heart, as he did not expect such tender words from Daud again.

Unwilling to waste himself by worrying about Daud or fretting about his assignment with Attano, Thomas spent his day training with the novices, consulting with Javier about an upgrade to his wrist bow, and helping Jenkins inventory their provisions. Jenkins was always a pleasant diversion, so happy and clueless and dimly content, unconcerned with the greater politics of Dunwall and with the Whalers’ dirty work. All Jenkins truly cared about was keeping everyone fed, keeping spirits high and bellies full even in the darkest times. Even when Thomas had slinked into the kitchen in search of a distraction, Jenkins had smiled gently and made him a cup of tea before putting him to work chopping vegetables and kneading bread. By the time the sun was setting behind the encroaching clouds, Thomas was warm with serenity, his arms pleasantly tired from idle work. He thanked Jenkins for his kindness, took the proffered sandwich, and set off towards the Legal District and Corvo Attano.

By the time Thomas landed, crouching, on one of the quaint rooftops looming over Crows Court, the sky had long since gone dark with night, the clouds pulled over the sky like a quilt across the sleeping denizens of Dunwall. Those still awake and milling about the streets were up to no good, much like himself, but he remained high overhead and out of sight of anyone looking to start trouble. Over the next rooftop and around the corner lie Lackrow Boulevard, and the chaotic revelry of the Hatters rose and twined with the grumblings of the Watch officers stationed at the outpost across the road. Two enemies, settled in cautious truce, ready to unite against Thomas at the drop of one of their gaudy hats.

Settling in to wait for Attano to make an appearance, Thomas leaned back against a chimney stack, the coarse brick pressing unpleasantly across his shoulders. He shifted the bag thrown over his shoulder, checked its contents one last time, hoping that the coat he had swiped from storage would suit Attano’s frame. The man was tall, absurdly broad through the back but narrow at the waist, and Thomas hoped that his guess on sizing had been even remotely correct. After all, he had been a bit too consumed with other matters last they met to ogle the Lord Protector overmuch. Though, he admitted, there was a great deal to ogle. Even if Thomas was perhaps misguidedly devoted to Daud, he certainly was not blind.

A shadow slinking between two houses caught his attention, and he watched with rapt interest as the figure climbed up atop a dumpster before clambering with admirable grace onto some snaking ductwork. Creeping low along the pipes, the shadow found a suitable balcony to leap to before performing a rather dignified maneuver using the railing, a table, and a half-withered flowerbox to swing up onto the roof. Landing on steady feet, Corvo Attano rose and dusted off his coat two houses over from where Thomas stood, dumbfounded. Most of the Whalers were not so nimble nor fearless, even with the safeguard of the Void at their fingertips. Attano was either well-practiced or, more likely given what Thomas knew of the man, crazier than a Serkonan gazelle.

Taking a deep, bracing breath, Thomas transversed the distance between them, landing a few paces up the roof from Attano. He apparently had grown familiar with the sound of their transversals, as he did not flinch, but instead turned to face Thomas casually.

“I half expected you not—” Attano began, though his hand flew cautiously to the sword at his waist when he was greeted not by Daud, but rather the blank, glassy stare of Thomas’s mask. Remembering himself, Thomas showed his empty hands before reaching up to the straps behind his head.

“Lord Attano,” he offered carefully, keeping his movements slow. “Master Daud was indisposed. He sent me in his place.”

“Thomas?” Attano asked, seeming to deflate a bit upon seeing his uncovered face.

“Yes, sir.”

Thomas could feel Attano’s eyes on him despite the dark, appraising and vigilant. He was an imposing man, cutting a striking silhouette against the sickly silver glow of Dunwall at night. Despite the ever-present hum of the Void singing beneath his skin, Thomas straightened his shoulders in an effort not to shrink under Attano’s careful scrutiny. It felt less critical and more curious, now, as he picked his way up the roof to stand at Thomas’s side, a respectfully cautious distance between them. Attano towered over him, and when he spoke Thomas had to tilt his chin up to meet his gaze.

“I thought, perhaps, that Daud would… never mind,” Attano sighed, disgruntled.

He looked truly displeased, perhaps even hurt by Daud’s absence, and being himself one so often plagued with longing, Thomas took pity on him, hoping that this little kindness would not return to spite him.

“Master Daud has had…” Tomas tried, swallowed, started again. “Master Daud has been distant… under a great deal of strain.”

To his surprise, Attano snorted a short laugh, dragging one big hand through his unbound hair with a frustrated groan.

“Pendejo. Por qué eres tan estúpido, Daud? Fue solo un beso,” Attano spat unmaliciously.

Thomas startled at the words, and though he was unclear of their exact meaning, he had heard Rinaldo and Javier sling a few of them at each other just prior to fists being thrown often enough to guess. Daud and Attano had spoken Serkonan when last they’d all been together, but it sounded so different falling like water from his tongue. It was different than the few words Daud muttered here and there in his growling, raspy voice, long ago purged of its native accent. With Attano, Serkonan sounded like a missing piece settling into place, the roll and trill of it so well suited to the way his thin lips pressed and parted with each word. After hearing it, Thomas suspected that Gristolian would always sound wrong in Attano’s mouth, just to the left of what was right and proper.

It took Thomas too long to realize that he was gaping dumbly at Attano, and he clacked his jaw shut audibly, embarrassed. The Royal Protector was smirking at him, sly and alluring and dangerous, and Thomas could feel heat rising to his pale cheeks and sprawling across the back of his neck. He hated that he had removed his mask, hated that Attano could see the way he flicked his gaze away, back, away again, hated the way Attano was studying his face like he was hungry. It was undeniable that Attano was a beautiful man of hard edges and tan skin and coarse ruggedness that was unbearably familiar to Thomas’s thudding heart, even if the thought alone felt like a betrayal of his affection for Daud. Eventually Attano must have taken pity on him, because he turned away towards the twisting innards of the Legal District, folding his arms over his chest.

“Daud’s foul mood is likely my own fault,” he said honestly, halfway between teasing and too genuine. “You can blame me for it, Thomas, if it makes him any easier to tolerate. I don’t mind.”

Thomas watched the way his coat pulled tight across his shoulders when he shrugged, and swallowed. He wished that Daud had sent anyone, literally anyone else on this assignment, but he was here, struggling, while Jordan and Misha and Killian and everyone else better suited to handling Corvo Attano was on night leave or traipsing through the Estate District. There must be a reason Daud had sent him, Thomas attempted to rationalize. There had to be.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Lord Attano.”

“Thomas, call me Corvo. Por favor,” Attano prompted, and the tease of Serkonan felt too coyly intentional. In an instant his demeanor turned stern and focused. “What’s the job?”

Thomas straightened, unmoored by the way Corvo shifted from banter to business, as abrupt and lethal as a bolt released from a crossbow. Jarred, it took him a long moment to remember that he was here for a reason.

“Our client wants some documents stolen from her uncle, Barrister Arnold Timsh. There’s a will locked in a trunk in his private office, though he keeps the key on his person at all times. We steal the key, take the will and whatever useful information we find, and plant a document with evidence of fraud in a folio of papers to be delivered the Empress for Parliament business. We trust that once she finds it, she will take necessary measures to dispose of Timsh for his niece, finding much more evidence in the process.”

Corvo looked absolutely livid for a moment, sneering, and Thomas felt his belly go tight with fear at the expression. His hand moved to the sword at his waist cautiously, waiting for Corvo to respond.

“Using my Empress to do your dirty work?” he snapped before turning to glare out over the rooftops of the Legal District once more.

“I assure you the fraud is all real. We’ve had surveillance on Timsh for months.”

“Timsh is a snake, a problem even for Her Majesty,” Corvo frowned, apparently satisfied that the Empress would not be embroiled in anything untoward.

“And he’ll be dealt with legitimately, even if the investigation is begun through manipulation. There will be nothing to imply the Empress is complicit in any way, Lord Attano,” Thomas promised, though Corvo’s shoulders had unwound and his glare had eased back into his placid neutral.

“Corvo,” he reminded Thomas gently.

“Corvo,” Thomas echoed, tasting the name on his tongue with a flush blooming high on his cheeks. “Right.”

“Well, shall we?” Corvo asked.

“Yes, sir. But first…” Thomas dug into the bag at his side, drawing out the mask, coat, and spare wrist bow he had brought along. “You’ll want these. I guessed at your size, so I hope it will fit.”

Corvo frowned as Thomas dropped everything into his unwilling hands.

“Really?”

“I’m afraid so, sir. Your uniform is recognizable and given that this is a non-lethal assignment with the risk of witnesses, I thought it would be safest. For you, and for Her Majesty.”

Despite his disgruntled glare, Corvo began shrugging out of his coat and pulling on the Whaler’s jacket, complaining softly about the stink of oiled leather. It suited him, though, fit like a particularly well-cut glove, and Thomas stared for a moment too long. Corvo caught him looking, smirked, and resumed settling the uniform around his shoulders with an easy confidence that Thomas couldn’t help but envy and admire. The grey of the leather was striking against the rich tan of Attano’s neck, enough to dampen Thomas’s personal amusement at the sight of the legendary Corvo Attano wearing novice colors. He helped settle the wrist bow on Corvo’s forearm, provided brief instruction on how not to shoot oneself in the hand, and offered up the spare mask. Corvo grimaced, but accepted it reluctantly, tightening the straps around his head and pulling up his hood.

“I don’t know how you wear these fucking things,” he griped, voice hollow and wavering through the respirator.

Glad to be hidden once more behind his own mask, Thomas huffed a short laugh that echoed oddly in the silence of the night.

“You get used to it,” Thomas commiserated.

Reaching back to offer his hand, Thomas shifted as Corvo grasped his wrist, and they were off across the rooftops in fits and starts, vanishing and reappearing in dark flutters of the Void. It took Corvo a few transversals to settle into Thomas’s rhythm, still more careful and forgiving than Daud’s, and soon enough they were running stride for stride, breath for breath. Quickly Corvo grew steadier on the landings, no longer gasping nauseously under his mask at the foreign tear of the Void through his bones.

“Trust me?” Thomas asked, a little breathless.

At Corvo’s nod, they leapt from the eaves, the cobblestone streets of Dunwall racing up to meet them before vanishing with the Void, and the slate of another rooftop safely kissing the soles of their boots. Corvo laughed wildly, a touch manic, and Thomas grinned beneath his mask. He could not recall the last time he managed to have such fun, feeling like he had as a teenager set loose upon the world with the Void singing in his blood and Daud at his side. Daud never laughed like Corvo, never smiled with anything other than vicious satisfaction at a job well done. Thomas suspected that he was beginning to understand why Corvo Attano had managed to rattle something raw and altogether human loose in Daud; Corvo Attano’s humanity was infectious. Thomas laughed as they jumped, giddy and foolhardy, from another rooftop.

When they reached the heart of the district, Legal Plaza, they settled on an apartment balcony across from the Timsh Estate to catch their breath and formulate a plan. Thomas yanked off his mask to drink down one of those vile blue elixirs, grateful for the fresh air as he panted at the bitter taste. After a few moments, he could feel his nerves alighting with the Void once more, some of his strength returning, and pulled his mask back down over his face. Corvo was watching him carefully.

“The plague has not been kind to this place,” Corvo said idly, leaning back to knock his fist against the door of the abandoned apartment behind them. Thomas could hear a rune singing its melancholy lament inside, but he ignored it, vowing to claim it after their work was done.

“It has not been kind to anyone, not even the nobility,” Thomas replied. “But fear is good for business.”

“I suppose so,” Corvo agreed.

Rising, Thomas used his Dark Vision to assess the estate, noting three guards patrolling the third floor and a maid idly dusting furniture on the floor above. What glimpses he could manage of the lower floors offered the phantasmal shapes of guards and nobles and lawyers milling about, though no sign of Timsh. Conferring with Corvo one last time, they transversed to the opposite balcony, slipped in the door, and dispatched the guards with sleep darts and one particularly vicious Tyvian chokehold courtesy of the Royal Protector. Thomas was nearly startled by how silently forceful Corvo’s movements were, though he knew that he should not have been. He had seen the man fight, had seen him turn thirsty for violence and move through the darkness like he was kissed by the Void. Daud would have scolded him for underestimating the Royal Protector, for allowing complacency to dull his wariness, but it would have been a lesson in contradictions; Daud was too comfortable with Corvo to preach such things without proving himself a hypocrite.

After dumping the guards callously in a small service closet and checking for unexpected guests, they took to Timsh’s files like rats to a corpse, scanning documents for tasty morsels, taking what they wanted and leaving such damning tidbits behind. Satisfied, Corvo studied the locked chest in the corner – their ultimate goal – and folded his arms over his chest.

“Do you see Timsh? With your heretic’s sight?” he asked, succumbing to his sticky fingers and tucking a few coins in his pocket.

Thomas tried not to laugh at the thought of the stately Lord Protector swiping petty cash from corrupt barristers, despite having the full treasury of the Crown to draw upon at whim. Books about Corvo Attano told that he grew up poor, struggling to survive in the silver-dust slums of Karnaca, and Thomas suspected that old habits indeed died hard.

“Downstairs, though there’s a great deal of traffic. I can see the key on his belt, but we’d risk being spotted.”

Corvo grunted and walked off, out into the hall, with Thomas trailing bewildered behind him.

“Lord Attano!” Thomas whispered as forcefully as he could manage without drawing attention. “Lord Attano, where are you going? Corvo!”

“Upstairs,” he replied casually, finding the stairwell and climbing the steps. “Surely there’s something of interest up here.”

Thomas scuttled up behind him, heart throbbing in his throat, and frantically scanning ahead with his Void Gaze in search of threats. There were none, only the same maid from before milling about and pretending to do her chores, though there was an odd, motionless figure in the room at the top of the stairs that made his stomach turn queasy. He stopped, staring at the door as Corvo dosed the maid with a sleep dart and settled her gently on Timsh’s bed. Soon Corvo was behind him, that towering frame caging him in, and Thomas felt his palms go sweaty with a quiet, creeping sort of fear that would almost seem benign if he could not feel the thrum of the Void from beyond.

“What is it?” Corvo asked, almost gentle.

Thomas flinched when Corvo settled a big, warm hand on his shoulder. Corvo jerked away, chastised, before carefully replacing his fingers, then his palm, and Thomas suddenly felt bizarrely safe, bolstered against what lie beyond the door.

“There’s something odd in there,” he admitted, though the sound of footsteps on the stairs startled him into action, tugging Corvo into the dreadful room and out of sight.

The footsteps passed into the office, and Thomas could see the glow of the key hanging on Timsh’s belt. As he turned to speak to Corvo, he found the man staring intently into the face of a woman, carved from marble, with aristocratic cheekbones and slender hands and roses curing around her shoulders. The statue reeked of the Void, and after a moment, it spoke.

“Corvo Attano,” the statue said, voice raspy and derisive. Corvo jolted, startled, and Thomas held his breath. “And you, touched with the Void but without a mark of your own. One of Daud’s men, then.”

“What?” Thomas stammered breathlessly as Corvo stepped in front of him, unyielding and protective. “Who are you? What are you?”

“Who I am is none of your concern,” the statue sneered. “I should kill you now, but my sisters respected Daud once upon a time, so I won’t cull one of his pups, for their sakes. He’s meddlesome and will only bring trouble.”

“What do you want?” Corvo snapped, vicious, and Thomas shuddered behind him.

“I want you to stay out of my business, Lord Protector. The fact that you don’t know who I am tells me a great deal,” she barked in reply. “Stay away. Great things are afoot, and we all must play our part.”

The icy pale marble stilled once more, inert, and the spirit in the stone was gone. For a long moment only the sound of Corvo’s heavy breathing broke the silence, echoing so ghostly and warped through his mask. Thomas activated his Void Gaze once more, holding his breath, but the glow of life had faded from the statue leaving it grey and dead. He sighed thickly through his teeth, the heat of adrenaline still fading from his veins.

“Mierda,” Corvo hissed. “What the fuck was that?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

“The Outsider’s doing?” Corvo asked, suspicious.

“Not directly. Likely another Marked, like Daud.”

“There are more?”

“A few. I don’t know how many.”

Despite the mask, Corvo easily conveyed how unsatisfied he was with Thomas’s vague and wholly unhelpful answer. Though he wanted to defend himself, wanted to declare that the other Marked were wise enough to give Daud an appropriately wide berth, Thomas held his tongue.

“Me cago en esto,” he muttered as he turned to the door. “Vamos, lets get the key and get out of here.”

Nodding numbly and casting a last wary glance at the statue, now silent and still, he followed Corvo out into the hall. They crept to the door, leaning to catch a glimpse of Timsh. The barrister was leaning over an audiograph machine, speaking as the device clacked and punched his recording into the card it chewed.

“—Pendletons are with me. With this wretched plague, Dunwall is sinking even further into the sewers. Even if our taxes are raised, the Crown will never have the funds to stop the spread. But if the nobles can liquidize our fortunes and offer loans to the Crown, we’ll have that bitch Jessamine on a leash with her hands tied. Our will shall become the will of the Empress, and we’ll save ourselves from ruin.”

Thomas heard Corvo growl, low and rumbling in his chest, and the Royal Protector was moving before he could react. Timsh startled with a frantic yelp, tripping over his own feet and sprawling on the floor, drowned helplessly in Corvo’s imposing shadow. With a deft flick of his wrist, Corvo armed his wrist bow with a bolt.

“Corvo, no!” Thomas shouted, too loud, scrambling to his feet.

“Long live the Empress,” Corvo said, frigid and dark as the Void, and fired.

The bolt struck true, thudding into Timsh’s forehead, and the barrister’s corpse slumped to the floor with a gaping mouth and wide, unseeing eyes. Corvo said nothing and Thomas watched helplessly as he bent to retrieve the key at Timsh’s waist, deliberate and plainly unfazed. Thomas was well accustomed to death, a skilled killer himself, but something about the way the Lord Protector so casually loosed the bolt, callous and calculated, felt fundamentally wrong in a way he couldn’t explain. He had seen Corvo turn nearly rabid with bloodlust, also knew the teasing warmth of his smile; yet this was different and Thomas didn’t know why. The many faces of Corvo Attano left him unbalanced, rattled. He felt that he was beginning to understand Daud a bit better, now.

“Let’s go, Thomas,” Corvo said when he headed into the hall and down the stairs, some of the nonchalance seeping back into his voice as he left the tidy corpse of Arnold Timsh behind.

Thomas followed blindly, feeling as if the night was slipping from his hands and pouring into Corvo’s. He was supposed to be in control, minding the Lord Protector and keeping him out of trouble. He was failing. And now Corvo was retrieving the will from the trunk in Timsh’s office and pressing it into Thomas’s chest like they did this every night.

“Thomas?” Corvo murmured, settling one broad hand against the side of Thomas’s neck over the tattoos that twined beneath his collar, his thumb pressing into Thomas’s cheek at the edge of the mask.

Thomas flinched back, but immediately mourned the loss.

“Let’s go, I need to report to Daud,” he said mechanically, crossing to the balcony and holding out a hand for Corvo.

Corvo followed with a sigh, plainly flustered, but just before their fingers met a shout came from the top of the stairs.

“What the—?! Guards, to me!”

The officer rushed them, drawing his pistol, and Thomas roughly grabbed Corvo’s wrist and transversed blindly to the roof of the adjacent apartment.

“Impossible! Witchcraft!”

As soon as he felt the slate of the roof beneath his boots a shot rang out and Thomas stumbled, an impact like a punch throttling the outside of his thigh. Slipping, he lost his grip on Corvo, and the Lord Protector fell to the balcony below with a startled shout, the back of his head cracking sickly against the floor.

“Corvo! Shit, shit!” Thomas swore, dropping down to collect him in has arms and transversing up and over the rooftop.

He moved, unstopping and stumbling with weakness until his mana ran out, and he slumped against a chimney with Corvo limp and unconscious across his lap. There was a slender gash on the back of his head that was bleeding profusely, matting into the thick curls of his hair. Thomas pulled their masks off and scrounged a clean bit of cloth from the pockets on his bandolier, pressing it fervently to the wound, hoping to stop the bleeding.

“Shit, no, Corvo, come on!” he whispered into the silence. “Fuck, wake up!”

Corvo’s eyes fluttered behind their lids, his breath coming short but thankfully predictable. A gust of timid relief heaved from Thomas’s chest, and he moved to stand, to rush them back to Rudshore and into Montgomery’s care, but his leg buckled and gave out, wet with sluggish blood. The pain came next, bright and searing, but he held on to his awareness and tied his last strip of cloth around the wound, draining an elixir before carefully dripping dribbles of it onto Corvo’s tongue, careful not to choke him.

He wouldn’t make it much further without too-quickly draining his entire stock of elixirs, and they had scarcely made it past the borders of the Distillery District. The entire breadth of Dunwall sprawled out between them and Rudshore, and Thomas felt the distance had never been greater.

Desperate, he yanked on his connection to the Void, felt the echo of his master’s mark burn searing against the back of his hand.

Daud, please, he cried silently into the space between them. Daud, I need you. Please, help me!

Thomas rocked his head back against the chimney, despairing and growing woozy, and through the Void, Daud pulled back.

Chapter Text

The desperate burning of the Mark on his hand woke Daud from a fitful slumber as he dreamt of a place like the Void as seen through a half-melted window, all warped and crooked and a little too bright. The whales were silent, eerie, and though he expected the Outsider to appear at any moment, he was grateful that he had been awoken before the black-eyed bastard had managed to make an entrance. Not that he would have been permitted to wake if the Outsider were truly intent on holding court.

Scrambling out of bed, hand alight with searing pain, Daud tugged on his boots and grabbed his sword, disregarding his gloves and coat and pistol in order to pursue the dragging summons that reeled him in like a harpooned whale. He could feel it was Thomas, could feel the quiet sunshine warmth of his Arcane Bond fluttering pitifully in his ribcage. As he tore out of Rudshore and crossed the rooftops of Dunwall that reached for the grimy sky like rotten teeth, Daud tried not to conjure images of what had happened to earn such a desperate summons from Thomas, unreasonably afraid that thinking would bear them into being. It had been years since Thomas had flung a frantic plea for help across their Bond; he was too skilled, too strong to fall so easily now that he had long since grown into himself. Nothing about the assignment should have been particularly taxing – their intelligence would have prepared them for that – but there was still one rogue variable: Corvo Attano.

Thomas should have been perfectly capable of managing Corvo fucking Attano. Attano had been softer to Thomas when he was in his right mind, trusting; it was unlikely that he had turned on Thomas out of malice. The risk that Attano had gone off the deep end was not an impossibility, yet even so, Thomas could dispatch Attano with only minor difficulty, Daud was certain. But Thomas had been cautious, perhaps even afraid of the chained animal that lived in Attano’s chest, so eager to gnaw through its binds and loose itself upon the world.

Daud was beginning to suspect he had made a mistake in sending them out together. A mistake that could have been easily avoided, had he been less self-absorbed and petulant.

Sprinting across the rooftops to allow his mana to recharge, Daud crossed into the eastern edge of the Distillery District. Thomas was close, now, but the pull on his Bond was weak and waning. He transversed atop a roofline pocked with chimneys and nearly slipped on the slate as he skidded to a stop at the call of his name. Thomas was huddled against a chimney stack, clutching a limp Attano to his chest and desperately trying to shield him from the early drops of rainfall.

“Thomas,” Daud snapped, harsher than he intended, and bent to kneel by his side.

Thomas’s face was wet with the salty grime of agonized sweat, his cheeks pale and his short hair clinging to his forehead. He clutched at Attano pitifully, holding a blood-soaked rag to the back of the Royal Protector’s head. Attano was conscious, at least, though his eyes were glassy and unfocused, moving too slowly across Thomas’s face.

“Master Daud, I can’t carry him, I can’t,” Thomas said frantically, and Daud could see how Corvo felt his panic, his breath quickening as he attempted to squirm free in his disorientation.

“That’s enough, Thomas,” Daud warned, growing hot with alarm as he pressed his fingers below Attano’s jaw. A steady but stuttering thrum pulsed under his fingertips even as Corvo tried to pull away from the touch, and Daud slumped, relieved. Digging an elixir out of his pocket, he coaxed Thomas to drink.

“What happened? Slowly.”

“We were leaving the estate, and a guard spotted us,” Thomas heaved a great breath that sounded like it ached all the way down to his bones. “I transversed us from the balcony to a roof across the street, but the guard loosed a shot and grazed my leg. I stumbled and his… his hand slipped, and he fell to the balcony. He hit his head… I—I could hear it. He lost consciousness for about ten minutes?”

“Thomas,” Daud said, trying to keep him from spiraling. “He’ll be fine. He’s tough.”

He could see Thomas’s panic rising, swelling like a wave on the shore, drowning logic and sense in favor of blank-minded fear. Thomas had improved so much over the years, fighting away his insecurities with reason and tamping down the voracious whispers in his head that preyed upon his every perceived fault like a school of hagfish. He was always slightly melancholy, prone to fits of despondency during the darkest months of the year, but Daud had not seen him succumb to his anxieties so completely in ages. It made his heart clench in his chest. Daud thought that Thomas was beyond this, well-rooted in reality and not prone to losses of control. Though perhaps Thomas was merely a fine actor, tricking even himself into believing the lie.

“Corvo?” Daud murmured gently, waiting for Attano’s attention to settle on him. “Corvo, do you remember what happened?”

His words slurred together a little as he spoke, tripping over his accent. “We were in the… the Legal District. There was a… statue? It talked. I don’t know? Where…? Daud, my fucking head hurts. I’m so… so tired.”

“Alright, alright,” Daud said to keep him from getting even more frustrated, brushing a few strands of hair out of Attano’s face and smoothing one hand over his thick curls. Corvo sighed at the touch, eyes fluttering shut. Daud’s hand came away sticky with blood.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Thomas repeated, the words coasting on the crests of his too-quick breaths. His shoulders were tensing up towards his ears, back hunched as he curled over Corvo protectively.

“Thomas!” Daud barked as he grasped Thomas’s jaw, lifting his glassy-eyed gaze from Attano’s prone form. “He’s fine. You’re fine. You were right to call for me.”

The pressure of Daud’s bare hand against his cheek seemed to rattle Thomas free of himself, and he shuddered bodily, the air draining from his lungs like bilge water. He clutched at Daud’s arm, fingers closing tight and desperate around his wrist, and turned his face into Daud’s palm. Taking pity in him, Daud rubbed his thumb against Thomas’s cheek, and with a shaking sigh Thomas closed his eyes tight.

“Master Daud,” he whined, so fragile.

Daud fought away the churning in his belly at the chipped-china edge to his voice and allowed the lingering heat of adrenaline stoke him into motion. He folded a few mana elixirs into Thomas’s hand and stood, hoisting Attano into his arms. Corvo complained in a wordless whine, wanting to struggle but quickly losing the fight to his exhaustion. Attano’s shoulders were broad and Daud had to adjust his grip, thinking that it was wholly ridiculous for someone built of nothing but bones and lean muscle to weigh so much.

“On your feet, Thomas,” he shifted Corvo’s limp form in his grasp to close his left fist. Misha appeared a moment later.

“Master Daud,” she saluted, though her attention quickly shifted to the Royal Protector cradled in Daud’s arms and Thomas struggling to heave himself to his feet, fingertips buried in the joints between the chimney’s ancient bricks. “Void, boy! What have you done to yourself?!”

“Got shot,” Thomas growled against the pain in his leg, sighing his gratitude when Misha rushed to steady him. “Almost killed the Lord Protector.”

“Been busy, I see,” she teased.

“Help him back to base,” Daud told her, already stepping away. “I’ll meet you there.”

He could hear Misha muttering questions about the decision to, apparently, take Corvo back to Rudshore, but Daud was more unsettled by the way Thomas so easily returned to his typical disinterest, as if he had not been ready to fling himself into the Wrenhaven in panic mere moments before. It coaxed him to wonder what else about Thomas he had missed, what else Thomas hid from him. Any secrets Thomas held would not hold reek of insubordination or disloyalty – Daud knew that unequivocally – but he couldn’t help but wonder if the little lies ate away at Thomas like acid to glass and left him fragile.

Once Misha and Thomas had vanished, reappearing several buildings over and stumbling together when Thomas’s knee buckled under the strain of his wounded thigh, Daud sighed and glanced down to Attano held close in his arms. Corvo’s eyelids were fluttering, trying to stay open, and the way his focus was glazed over and stumbling made Daud a little queasy; Corvo’s gaze was supposed to be keen, observant, not half lost in the Void. Montgomery would know how to deal with him, so Daud stepped to the edge of the roof and transversed.

Corvo yelped, his fumbling hands clutching at Daud’s shoulder and the collar of his shirt, sure to leave crooked bruises splayed across his skin. Groaning, his head was turned into Daud’s chest, his breathing heavy enough to dampen the cloth of his shirt with desperate, woozy humidity. It was going to be a long trek back to Rudshore.

“You okay?” Daud asked despite knowing damn well the answer.

“No,” Corvo muttered in reply. Daud could feel his lips moving against his chest.

“Just like last time, remember? Deep breaths,” he reminded as gently as he could, content when Corvo filled his lungs just as the Void began to hum in their ears. “Good, again.”

The next transversal was smoother, and the next, and the next as they stumbled into a careful rhythm, Daud whispering quiet encouragements into Corvo’s hair each time the man went a little too stiff in his arms. Daud knew that Corvo was hurting, having suffered enough blows to the head himself to sympathize with the nausea and confusion and the aching in his skull. He tried to be gentle, tried to keep to the darkness and away from the glaring lights on the streets below, but he could only do so much. Still, Corvo was nearly silent the entire time, gritting his teeth, and Daud had to half-rouse him on occasion to be sure he hadn’t blacked out or gone permanently into the Void. They made it just past Kaldwin’s Bridge before Corvo started slapping at Daud’s shoulder, threatening to writhe out of his hold.

“Dammit, Attano!” Daud scolded, digging his fingers into Corvo’s flesh to keep him still.

“Gonna be sick, gonna be sick, Daud. Down, down, down!”

Hurriedly Daud dropped onto a balcony and set Corvo down as gently as he could in the face of his frantic squirming. Corvo scrambled to his hands and knees and proceeded to vomit into the watering can of some poor gardener who would have a dreadful surprise when they watered their flowers the next morning. Cautious to not overwhelm him, Daud knelt behind Corvo and ran a soothing hand up his back as he coughed, pressing careful circles into his shoulders and smoothing his hair back from his face. After a long while of gasping and displeased groans, Corvo rocked backwards and sat heavily on the balcony floor, leaning back into Daud’s chest. His head lolled onto Daud’s shoulder, his eyes were tightly shut, and his brow was damp with sweat, the unpleasant reek of sickness rich in the air.

Despite how dearly Daud wanted to flee, to escape the closeness, he could not help but appreciate the open display of trust as Corvo exposed the weakest parts of himself. It made a contented warmth that he despised with his entire being settle in his chest, worming its way between his ribs like a parasite and coiling around his heart. Corvo Attano would be his undoing, he realized as he folded an elixir into Corvo’s hand and brushed a strand of hair from his cheek. However, he reasoned delusionally, there were worse ways to die.

Corvo sipped some elixir, rinsed his mouth, and leaned forward to spit it out onto some poor, unwitting plant in the flowerbox beside them. He grimaced, unwilling to suffer the taste, but Daud closed his hand around Corvo’s and raised the vial to his lips.

“Come on, drink. Let it do its work,” Daud scolded softly, suddenly awed by the way Corvo shuddered when his breath ghosted against his neck. “Corvo, drink.”

Reluctantly Corvo drained the rest of the vial, and Daud, feeling bolstered by his compliance, whispered against his shoulder: “Good boy.”

Corvo whined, one hand closing into a fist where it rested atop Daud’s thigh, and turned his face into Daud’s neck, breathing deep. It was empowering, but deeply inappropriate to feel a throb of foreign desire pulsing in his belly, and Daud forced it away, both wildly uncertain about what to do with the feeling and concerned about getting Corvo into Montgomery’s care. With a fortifying breath, Daud shifted to gather Corvo into his arms once more, heaving him up despite his grumbles of protest.

“You have no right to be so damn heavy,” he griped, transversing back up onto the roof and setting a course for base.

Corvo was panting illy by the time they crossed Rudshore Gate, but Rinaldo and Leonid were waiting there to meet them, and Daud had never been so relieved to see his Whalers, even if he refused to admit it. Leonid stood back, watching the Lord Protector with an appropriate degree of Tyvian wariness, while Rinaldo stepped up to offer assistance. Daud was beginning to grow sore and out of breath, his mana barely having time to replenish between each transversal, the single elixir he had kept for himself and not handed over to Thomas long since consumed.

“Master Daud!” Rinaldo rushed over, bewildered. “When Thomas said you were bringing him here, I thought Thomas had been the one that was concussed!”

“Volume, Rinaldo,” Daud scolded softly when Corvo flinched and turned his face into Daud’s chest.

“Oh!” Rinaldo chirped, equally loud, before Leonid slapped the back of his head in warning and he dropped into a horrible half whisper. “Sorry! Sorry!”

“Is Montgomery ready for him?” Daud asked, pushing past his Whalers and stepping onto the breezeway that led up and over the flood waters towards the physician’s makeshift clinic, by now well established in a former broker’s office.

“Yes, sir,” Leonid promptly said, as pragmatic as ever. “Thomas said the Lord Protector would need stitches, at least. He was starting to get hysterical, so she put him down for the night to rest.”

“Like sedating a blood ox, she said,” Rinaldo chimed unhelpfully, doggedly persisting on their heels. “She said it took less drugs to knock Jenkins out that time he cut his face.”

“Rinaldo,” Daud warned, too on edge to tolerate much of Rinaldo’s apparently unending vivacity. “Run ahead and tell everyone masks off. Everyone.”

“Why?”

“Void dammit, Rinaldo, follow orders and keep your fucking mouth shut. Now go,” Daud snarled, unreasonably livid.

He could hear Rinaldo stammer a chastised affirmative and the soft fwip of his departing transversal, but Daud was more concerned with the way Corvo was going taut in his arms, likely overwhelmed by the sounds and strangeness of the Flooded District. Certainly it was wretched to be muddy-minded, ill, and surrounded by unfamiliar faces and too much disorienting newness. Daud considered putting Corvo down, pushing to see if he could manage to walk the rest of the way, but the few times they had stopped to rest he had seemed so unbalanced, like vertigo would topple him at any moment. The last thing Daud needed was to let the freshly concussed Lord Protector fall headfirst like a drunkard into the flood waters and drown. So Corvo would be forced to suffer the indignity of being carried like a bride up to Montgomery’s clinic. Not that Daud suspected he much minded; Corvo seemed as content as he possibly could be in the cradle of Daud’s arms.

When they reached the clinic, Daud nudged the door open with his boot, and Montgomery, ever the physician, quickly ushered them into a somewhat more secluded room and gestured to an empty bed. One room over Thomas was asleep but intact, watched over by Anatole as they passed, and Daud was comforted to see that he was more or less well, considering the circumstances. Corvo tried to cling to him as he set him down on the edge of the lumpy mattress, but Daud carefully pried his fingers away, whispering in soothing Serkonan all the while.

“Attano. Corvo, listen to me. Look at me,” Daud murmured sternly, and Corvo’s glassy eyes slowly settled on his face, quickly drifting. “Montgomery is going to patch you up. Behave, do you hear me?"

Corvo groaned, eyes slipping shut, and Daud snapped his fingers to jolt him back to attention. "Be good. You hear me?” Daud asked in disgruntled Serkonan.

Corvo frowned, but picked up the switch easily enough. Daud wondered if speaking was easier for Corvo in his native tongue; he imagined that wrangling a concussed brain into translating was more effort than it was worth.

“Daud… I don’t…? Where is this? What’s going on?”

Montgomery entered the room with a tray full of bandages and suture kits and cloths which she set on a low table near the bed, and Corvo immediately began to shy away, more like a panicked animal than Daud had ever seen him. Typically, he would be snarling and squaring up in the face of his fear, but now he looked small and young and oddly fragile despite his large frame. It made Daud feel as if his ribs were trying to close around his heart, squeezing the breath from his lungs and sending his pulse galloping too fast. He tried to back away, to give Montgomery space to work, but Corvo was reaching out for him, eyes wide and horrified like he’d been betrayed and led into a trap, and Daud surged forward again. Fingers closing around Corvo’s in a bruising grip, he allowed Corvo to claw at him and pull him desperately close without rebuke.

“Lord Attano,” Montgomery was saying, a little distant even to Daud’s ears. “Lord Attano, I’m Adelaide Montgomery, Daud’s physician. Can I treat your wounds?”

Corvo ignored her, gaze fixed frantically on Daud.

“D... don't... don't leave me here. Daud, please,” Corvo pleaded instead.

“I won't. I'm not going anywhere,” Daud swore. “Let her look after you. You're alright.”

Corvo was tense but compliant as Montgomery tested his reflexes and memory and waved an assaulting lantern in front of his eyes, distracting him with a gentle interrogation while Anatole cleaned and sutured the wound on the back of his head. He hardly reacted as the needle pierced his skin, pulled tight, pierced again, only the slight ticking of his jaw and the trembling death grip on Daud’s hand any indication of discomfort. By the end of it all, Corvo looked exhausted, slumping slightly and struggling to keep his eyes open. Daud wanted to let him sleep, but was a bit too anxious about the possibility of Corvo closing his eyes only to never open them again to allow it. So he pestered Corvo with foolish little questions to keep his eyes from fluttering shut for too long; questions about his favorite Serkonan wines, about his thoughts on the best beach in Karnaca, about his preferred sword oil, about the things he hated most about Dunwall. Corvo did his best to answer, weariness slurring his words and stumbling a little to recall the thoughts he wanted to mind, head still tangled around itself like knotted string. At least he seemed to have settled back into himself a bit, his responses cutting with an edge of sarcasm even as exhaustion and the concussion stunted the delivery. Daud was relieved by that, at least; he’d known men who’d taken blows to the head and had lost themselves entirely, personalities eaten away by aggression and delusion.

After a long while Montgomery returned with a clean shirt – too large to be one of Javier’s, Killian’s maybe, or perhaps one of Daud’s own – and gently coaxed Corvo into exchanging it for the bloodstained rag still clinging to his shoulders. He was too fatigued to be anything but obedient, and Daud pointedly looked away from Corvo’s bare chest, his tan skin marked with dusky silver scars from a long, hard life. A fighter’s life. And because of Daud, now he would carry one more.

“Are you going to stay with him?” Montgomery asked as she gently manhandled Corvo down onto the pitiful pillow.

Daud flinched at her attention, tired and distracted. “I didn’t think… I… yes.”

“Good,” she replied. “He needs to be checked every hour or two. Just make sure his breathing his normal, but let him sleep. If something seems wrong, wake him and call for me immediately. I’ll send someone to relieve you in a few hours.”

“No. No need,” he waved her away. “Keep everyone out. I don’t want him to become an exhibit.”

“Are you sure? You’ve had a long night.”

Daud sighed, dropping heavily into a rickety chair by the window and digging a half-crumpled cigarette out of his pocket. “Why does everyone insist on questioning orders tonight?”

“Will you eat, at least, oh mighty Knife of Dunwall?”

“Coffee,” Daud scowled at her, unimpressed with her goading.

“Stubborn old goat,” Montgomery scolded as she slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her with a carefully quiet click.

Finding that his matches had gone missing in the course of the evening, or perhaps had been forgotten entirely in his quarters after Thomas’s summons, Daud grumbled and abandoned his seat, crossing to the lantern beside Corvo’s bed. He lit his cigarette before extinguishing the lantern entirely, hoping to offer Corvo a little relief from the inevitable headache he’d have when next he woke. Trudging back to his chair, he could hear the restless rustle of linens from the bed and a disoriented grunt.

“Daud?” Corvo slurred, a tint of rising panic hugging the edge of his voice.

“I’m here,” Daud promised. “Sleep, Attano.”

Corvo’s breaths evened into sleep before Daud had even sat back down, and he sighed, suddenly so very tired. He rocked his head back against the wall, trying not to think about the way Corvo had leaned his head back against his shoulder on the balcony, boneless and weak. The night, as a whole, had been a Void damned clusterfuck, and Daud was completely certain that the event most in need of critical analysis was not the moment when he discovered that he wretchedly enjoyed the pressure of Corvo’s back against his chest. But it had been sweet, the forced closeness settling in beneath his discomfort and displeasure to wrap warm and readily permissible around his bones. Shaking his head and closing his eyes, he stubbornly decided to think about anything else.

He needed to talk to Thomas in the morning, to get the full explanation of what exactly had gone wrong without the chaos-edged nonsensicalness of Corvo’s concussed recollection or Thomas’s own panic. The assignment should have been simple enough, in and out, no bloodshed; not the death errand it nearly became. It should have been a straightforward theft and exchange, tame enough to keep Corvo from having that deadly switch flipped, clean and leaving no casualties. Daud reminded himself that he did not yet know the facts, was ignorant of how the job had gone before everything went sideways. There was no use in dwelling on what should have happened, not even the Outsider could change that. Regardless, in the morning Thomas would have answers and Corvo would likely remember even less. He would deal with it then.

Corvo snuffled a little in his sleep, and Daud tilted his head to watch him with his Void Gaze. He was loose limbed and lax, and daud wondered with a lazy idleness what it would be like to share a bed with him. Would he run hot, making summer nights nearly unbearable? Would he press close in his sleep, strong arms draped over waists and breath tickling against napes? The Empress would know, Daud thought with a white flare of jealousy that he hated, and he punched himself hard in the thigh to sort himself out before letting his head roll back against the wall in defeat.

He had to be ill, to be mulling such foreign thoughts. Simply because Corvo reeled him in like a hagfish on a line with his good humor and charm and a lightning-crackle kindredness that Daud could not explain, it meant nothing. It had to mean nothing, else Daud was about to wade into deep, dark, foreign waters. He feared that if he waded much further, he’d forget how to swim. He wondered, dread cold in his belly, if Corvo would let him drown.

He couldn’t even discern when Attano had become Corvo. Maybe he was already in too deep.

Desperate for anything to focus on that wasn’t his apparent impending doom, Daud closed his eyes and tried to focus on the low rush of the Void that usually plagued him during long, restless nights, wanting to fall into its meditative rhythm. But tonight, it was discordant and a little too distant, like the damn Outsider was taunting him with his weakness. So he focused instead on the steady in-out of Corvo’s breathing, the soft rush of it in the oppressive darkness, and let himself fall slowly into a trance that soothed more completely than the thrum of the Void, reaching deep to quiet his very soul.

He existed to Corvo’s rhythm for some indeterminate amount of time, the world going quieter than he could ever remember it, until his focus was interrupted by the cautious click of the door as it squealed open. Daud kept his eyes closed, head leaned back as there was the soft clatter of a cup being set on the windowsill beside him, the bracing scent of Jenkin’s terrible coffee flooding his senses. He never quite imagined that a smell could be strong enough to make him deaf, but he found that he lost the steady pattern of Corvo’s breathing for several long moments. Jenkins’s glaring inability to make decent coffee was powerful, indeed.

The soft footsteps of the visitor did not retreat back towards the door, however, instead creeping over to the side of Corvo’s bed. Unreasonably livid, Daud opened his eyes to find Desmond, a chubby teenage novice with a penchant for causing trouble and starting fights he couldn’t finish – particularly with Akila, Anatole, and Yuri – leaning over to steal a glance at the Royal Protector. Desmond reached out, as if to touch Corvo, and Daud could feel something protectively primal snap within him like a broken bone, and he snarled.

“Touch him, boy, and you’ll lose the hand,” he hissed, and when Desmond whirled wide-eyed to face him, Daud caught him with his tethering and dragged him, writhing, into his grasp. He curled his fist into the collar of Desmond’s shirt, holding him just high enough that the boy’s toes were skittering as they tried to find purchase on the floor. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Sir, I…” Desmond stuttered, and Daud could see his eyes going a little watery. Good.

“Use your fucking words, boy, or I’ll take your tongue, too.”

“I… we… we heard that the Royal Protector was here! Lit—Little Tom and Yuri said it was oxshit and dared me to come see! I ain’t never seen a noble up close before!”

“Keep your fucking voice down,” Daud warned, soft and deadly. “If you wake him this will end poorly for you.”

“Ye—yes, sir!” he whispered frantically in response.

Daud could see beads of nervous sweat rolling down his child-soft cheeks, and thought spitefully that the fear of the Knife of Dunwall was the least he deserved. Leaning forward in his chair, Daud let the boy’s feet settle back onto the floor, and Desmond whimpered, eyes closing tight with terror.

“If you insist on being useless, I will give you something to make yourself useful by,” Daud said slowly, letting Desmond’s fear build upon itself. “Find Misha, tell her to go to Dunwall Tower to inform the Empress of what has happened. You will not speak to the others about the Royal Protector, you will not start rumors, you will not disturb the Royal Protector again. Disobey me and I will tear my mark from your hand and cast you into the Wrenhaven. Am I clear?”

“Y—yes Master Daud sir,” Desmond stammered, trembling in Daud’s grasp.

“Out of my sight.”

Desmond scuttled off like a crab escaping a Serkonan banded kingfisher, glancing over his shoulder as if Daud would give chase until he made it through the door. Daud sighed, frustrated that both his rest, and nearly Corvo’s, had been disturbed, and relegated himself to staying awake and playing sentinel until morning. He could hardly condemn their curiosity. Even he himself was curious about Corvo, and that curiosity had landed him precisely in this situation; with a concussed Lord Protector asleep in the makeshift clinic of his rather secret base brimming with supernatural assassins and flanked in by the plague. It was about as far from ideal as any situation could possibly be, and yet Daud found himself settling into the chaos instead of fighting to swim upstream. The fact that he was… fond… of Corvo Attano was likely the reason for all of it, anyway, and that was his own fault. As opposed as he was to accepting blame, even when he deserved it, it was becoming increasingly apparent that there was no possible way to spin this catastrophe that didn’t end up with him in the center.

Sighing, Daud reached for his coffee and watched Corvo sleep through his Void Gaze. It was going to be a long night.

*****

Misha cursed Daud as she scrambled up out of a sewer and into the garden adjacent to Dunwall Tower, angrily wondering why he couldn’t have sent Billie instead. Or better yet, sent them together; that Misha certainly wouldn’t have complained about.

Focusing back on her task, she crouched, concealed, and watched the Tower guardsmen wander idly about, occasionally congregating to talk about liquor and promotions and vile, misogynistic things that made her temper flare. She would have to have a discussion with the Royal Protector about Tower security when she returned to Rudshore. There was no doubt that the Royal Protector himself did an admirable job of keeping the Empress safe, and Misha was certain that the guardsmen played at diligence when Attano was nearby. But when he was away, it seemed that they spent all their time slacking, thinking about jerking off, and making jokes at Attano’s expense. Misha imagined that they had not been forced to face him in hand-to-hand combat to earn their bars, unlike the Whalers. She had seen Attano fight, years ago, and knew that those guardsmen wouldn’t be nearly so cocksure if they’d had to challenge him. If Daud had ever learned that one of his Whalers was so lackadaisical on patrol, he would tan their hides and wear them as boots. She respected Daud for that.

She saw an opportunity and transversed into the cover of some bushes before sidling up to one of the Tower walls, all sheer stone and cold authority. From there it was easy enough to shimmy up a drainpipe and onto a wide ledge that ran beneath the second floor windows; the architecture of this place was prime for breaking and entering, she thought with disappointed amusement.

For a while she inched along the ledge, peeking in windows as she looked for the Empress’s chambers. It was difficult not to chuckle to herself; she had not peeked in windows looking for a woman since she’d last cased a house to make sure her lover’s husband wasn’t home. That had been a long time ago, but finding herself doing it now in search of an Empress was one of the most amusingly Tyvian things she had done in ages.

Eventually she came upon a likely room with a large desk strewn with papers, a smoldering fireplace, and an absurdly large bed containing a single lump with dark hair fanned over the too-white pillows. As she carefully lifted the window sash, she muttered to herself.

“Feels like I’m living in one of Galia’s smutty books.”

Her boots thumped quietly onto the carpeted floor, and she stood watching the Empress if the Isles sleep for several long moments as she considered how to proceed. Sighing, she tiptoed to the end of the bed.

“Your Majesty,” she whispered, trying not to startle her awake. “Your Majesty, wake up. Empress Jessamine.”

“Not now, Emily,” the Empress muttered groggily as she shifted lower in her blankets.

Misha snorted. “Your Majesty, please wake up. It’s important.”

With a heavy sigh of defeat, the Empress of the Isles cracked open one blurry eye, but when she saw Misha standing there in full Whaler gear she jolted awake and stuffed her hand under the pillow beside her with a wild look at in her eyes. The next thing Misha knew there was a pistol pointed at her head.

“Whoa, дерьмо! Easy, easy!” Misha held her hands up in surrender, startled beneath her mask. “I’m not here to hurt you, Your Majesty! I just have a message. From Daud.”

The Empress’s gaze was dark, assessing, dangerous, and she said nothing, but Misha could see the way her chest rose and fell with panicked breaths. Carefully, Misha decided to proceed.

“He sent me to tell you that the Lord Protector has had an accident.”

Eyes steely, the Empress pulled back the hammer of the pistol with her thumb. Misha quickly raised her hands again, waving them with an edge of giddy nervousness.

“He’s fine! I swear, he’ll be fine! Daud’s physician is seeing to him.”

“What happened?” the Empress eventually asked, voice as carefully neutral as she could make it, though Misha could still see the worry pulling at her lips.

“He took a fall and knocked his head, I don’t exactly know how,” she told her. “Daud brought him back to base and he’s being looked after. Our physician may want to keep him for a while to make sure there’s no lasting effects, but he’ll be returned to you in one piece.”

“How long?”

“A few days, I imagine,” Misha said honestly. “You’ll likely want to find an excuse to cover for his absence. Your Majesty.”

The Empress went quiet for a long moment, biting her lip in thought in a way that made her look so young, so much softer than the posters and portraits and the statue that watched from the façade of the Chamber of Commerce. Misha found her to be a beautiful woman like this, her dark hair loose and curling down her back, one pale shoulder exposed as the deep neckline of her night dress slipped to one side. After a time, the Empress lowered the pistol to her lap, though she kept her finger resting against the trigger guard. The Lord Protector was indeed invested in her safety, it seemed. She was a force to be reckoned with.

“What’s your name?” she asked at length.

“Uh, Misha, ma’am.”

“And you’re one of Daud’s lieutenants?”

“One of his masters, yes.”

The Empress nodded like it meant something, though Misha wasn’t entirely sure what. With a sigh gusting with fond irritation, the Empress rolled her shoulders and tilted her head, assessing.

“And Daud is with him? Corvo’s not alone?”

“Master Daud hasn’t left him,” Misha laughed awkwardly. “Hasn’t let anyone near. One of the novices came too close, and, well, he won’t be forgetting that lesson any time soon.”

To Misha’s surprise, a wickedly victorious grin spread across the Empress’s face. She was fighting a burst of laughter, her shoulders shaking and the muscles in her cheeks jumping, but eventually she cleared her throat and tried to look appropriately imperious once more.

“Well,” she said, feigning casualness. “It didn’t work out quite as I’d hoped, but at least now they’ll be forced to spend time together.”

“I’m sorry?” Misha coughed, blindsided.

“Oh, come now, Misha, don’t pretend you haven’t noticed a change in your master,” the Empress scolded as she smoothed the blankets over her lap with the hand not still clutching the pistol. “Corvo has been equally insufferable, all because they’re playing at spy games when really they want to be staring longingly into each other’s eyes. It’s pathetic, really. Men are worthless.”

Misha couldn’t agree more on that final sentiment, but she was a little too unmoored by the revelation that Jessamine Kaldwin, Empress of the Isles, was playing matchmaker between her own Royal Protector and the most infamous assassin in Gristol. It seemed dangerous that Attano had been reporting Daud’s movements back to the Empress, yet it was becoming apparent that she wasn’t especially concerned about what Daud was doing outside of his interactions with her bodyguard. Misha, and everyone else in the Empire thought that the Empress and Corvo Attano were a couple, raising a child together outside of the bonds of marriage. Clearly, the public knew far less about the Empress’s love life than they believed they did. Misha didn’t want to pry, it wasn’t her place, but she was unbearably curious.

“Tell me,” the Empress was saying. “Did Daud return about two nights ago completely out of sorts?”

“He… yes?” Misha managed, confused.

“Just as I thought,” she continued, smug with the confirmation. “Corvo is a good enough kisser to rattle even the Knife of Dunwall.”

“What?!” Misha blurted far too loudly, feeling as if she’d just been slapped in the face.

Attano kissed Daud? Attano kissed Daud? It was a miracle the man wasn’t dead after pulling a stunt like that. Truthfully, the only way Attano would have survived such a foolhardy advance was if Daud had actually enjoyed it, which seemed entirely inconceivable. The evidence pointed to it being true, though. Fucking Void, Corvo Attano was a madman.

“I don’t need to know Daud to know that he would never be truly prepared for what he was getting himself into. No one is ever really ready for Corvo Attano,” the Empress said, though the content curl at the corners of her mouth was wistful and fond. “Misha, will you do something for me?”

“Uh, yes, Your Majesty?”

“Will you tell Daud to stop being such a soggy fucking cockchafer and admit that the fondness is mutual? It’ll spare all of us a great deal of trouble.”

The Empress’s smile was sweet and magnanimous, as benignly regal as the one she wore when touring orphanages and soup kitchens in the poorest parts of the city. Misha’s eyes were wide with shock behind her mask, gaping like a fish until she reminded herself to nod. To hear the Empress swearing like a dockworker made Misha realize that Jessamine Kaldwin was her kind of woman.

“Also,” she added, her voice dropping into something low and dangerous, the kind of tone that started wars; or ended them. “Inform Daud that Corvo is to be returned to me by the end of the week, unharmed. And if he hurts Corvo in any way, I will bring every Overseer in Whitechapel down upon his heretic head and wipe him from Dunwall’s memory without so much as a grease spot to be found. Am I understood?”

“Perfectly,” Misha whispered in awe. She did not mention that the Empress didn’t know where their base was hidden, but Misha suspected that somehow she would find a way to overcome that minor obstacle.

“Excellent,” the Empress smiled, gesturing back to the open window. “And please close the window on your way out; it’s chilly tonight.”

Still reeling, Misha nodded and made her exit, tiptoeing back along the ledge and transversing her way across the grounds and back into the streets of Dunwall. She hoped that Daud would be as wise in navigating his relationship with the Lord Protector as she knew him to be, lest he break Attano’s heart and bring the wrath of the Empress and the Abbey to Rudshore. Still, this had been a night of wild revelations: the absurdity of Attano and Daud, the delightful frankness of the Empress, the fragility of the Tower’s defenses.

As Misha picked her way back to Rudshore, over Kaldwin’s Bridge and deep into the Flooded District, she thought about the job order from Burrows that had been sitting, unanswered, on Daud’s desk for months. She wondered about the future of the Whalers, the future of Daud, the future of Dunwall, and the future of the populace being eaten alive by the ever-creeping spread of the rat plague. Misha feared that there was no future wherein one of those things did not crumble and fall. She hoped that Daud would find a solution. She knew he could not.

*****

Corvo woke with a gasp to the sensation of falling, a throbbing agony in his skull, and the pin-prick unpleasantness of the rogue coils of a bare-bones mattress stabbing into his flank. He was nauseated, his head swimming, but as he leaned over the edge of the mattress to vomit, he found that a convenient pail was already sitting at his bedside. Relieved but exhausted after purging himself, Corvo sat up, dragging his legs over the edge of the mattress and steadying himself with trembling arms.

He glanced around, completely ignorant of where he was or how he had gotten there. The room was the run-down wraith of what used to be a splendidly appointed office, with dark shelves lining the walls and faded green wallpaper peeling in the corners. There were two more metal-framed beds against the wall, both empty, and windows that stared out into the grey fog of Dunwall just before sunrise. Just as he moved to stand, the half-closed door swung open, revealing an inhumanly large man with red hair so horribly vivid that it made Corvo’s headache flare, carrying a tray with food and water.

"Oi!” the man boomed, as startled to see Corvo sitting up as Corvo was to see him. “Back in bed, you, or Master Daud’ll have me hide! Montgomery, he’s awake!”

Bewildered, Corvo shuffled back against the headboard as the man approached, carefully placing the tray on the rickety table at his bedside and leaning over to study Corvo like he was an exhibit at the Royal Conservatory. The appraisal didn’t seem malicious, only curious, but the red-headed colossus loomed over Corvo all the same. He smiled, broad and cheery and pulling at the jagged scar that scrawled from the bridge of his nose across his cheekbone, slicing through the constellation of freckles under his eyes. One of his front teeth was chipped.

“Jenkins, give the poor man some air!” a female voice snapped from the doorway, though she kept her words noticeably quiet.

“I was just checking on ‘im,” Jenkins grumbled as he backed away, and Corvo finally felt like he had the space to fill his lungs again.

“No one would want to wake up in a strange place to your ugly mug,” the woman scolded as she pushed past Jenkins, though there was a teasing fondness in her tone that kept the words from cutting too deep. “Fetch Daud for me, dear.”

Jenkins nodded but slinked away with a dejected slump to his shoulders, and the woman turned on Corvo, hands on her hips. She was a short, middle-aged woman just on the underfed side of portly, with happy creases around her eyes and blond hair gone half grey tied up in a sloppy knot on the top of her head. The sleeves of her white shirt were pushed up to her elbows like she meant business, and the plaid of her trousers made Corvo’s vision go a little fuzzy.

“Good morning, Lord Attano. I’m Adelaide Montgomery, Daud’s physician. We met last night, but I daresay you won’t remember that,” Montgomery greeted jovially, approaching the side of the bed slowly and with her hands plainly visible. “How are you feeling? You earned yourself quite the bump on the head.”

"I…” Corvo tried, swallowed, tried again. “Where am I? What happened? I don’t quite remember…?”

“You’re in Rudshore, at Daud’s base. You’re safe, and Her Majesty has been informed of your predicament. As for what happened, I can’t say I’m entirely sure. Daud said something about the Legal District and Thomas dropping you off a roof. He was quite upset, you know,” she chuckled kindly.

Corvo sat up with a jolt, head throbbing in revolt. “Thomas! Is he okay?!”

“He’s perfectly fine. All stitched up and sleeping off a sedative next door. I thought it best to separate you, as the novices tend to swarm the poor man whenever he’s feeling the least bit poorly and I thought you’d need the space,” Montgomery reassured. “Enough about him, how are you? Any dizziness, pain, double vision? I see that nausea has been an issue.”

Flushing with embarrassment, Corvo glanced away from her prying eyes, having all but forgotten about the soiled pail by his bedside.

“Oh, come now, Lord Attano,” she teased with a crooked grin. “I’ve been a physician for almost thirty years and have tended to this rugged lot for nearly fifteen; if you think that you being sick after cracking your skull will bother me, you’re sorely mistaken. So, let’s try this again, shall we? How do you feel?”

“Uh, woozy. Headache. I still don’t… remember much,” Corvo conceded. He sighed, exhausted. “Tired.”

“All to be expected,” Montgomery replied, apparently not overly concerned. She stepped closer, careful. “May I?”

Corvo nodded, reluctant. She plucked the small whale oil lantern from the side table, holding it close to his face, waving it in front of one eye, then the other. The light made pain boil to life in his skull, and he tried to grimace and wrench away, but she grasped his chin with a deceptively powerful grip. It made sense that she be strong, Corvo mused as he struggled to keep his eyes open; she was used to wrestling heretic assassins into treatment, he was no match for her, concussed as he was.

"I know it hurts, Lord Attano. Bear with me,” she murmured, so very gentle. “Pupils are dilating as they should, that’s good. Tilt your chin down for me?”

A bit nervous to have his unguarded spine exposed, Corvo leaned down, compliant with her insistent urging as she unwrapped the bandage around his head. It was absurd to be concerned about an ambush now, after he had been sleeping in Daud’s den of heretics for Void knew how long, but as his sense slowly returned it seemed only appropriate to be wary. Montgomery had to rise up on her toes to prod the tender back of Corvo’s skull, and her rather ample bosom squished benignly into his forehead. Corvo would have laughed at the ridiculousness of it all if he weren’t so nauseated and in ever imminent danger of puking on her practical shoes. When she was finished prodding at what he assumed was a fresh set of sutures on the back of his head, she patted his shoulder and he straightened, groaning against the soreness in his neck.

Daud was watching them from the doorway, arms folded across his thick chest and shoulder propped against the jamb.

“Not dead, I see,” Daud commented idly, prowling into the room like a predator.

“Don’t sound so disappointed,” Corvo sniped back, even if he was impossibly glad to see the scar-faced bastard. Daud’s presence made some of the tension shrug from his shoulders, immeasurably relieved to find a buoy of familiarity in this storm-tossed sea of absurdity and strangeness.

Daud ignored him, but there was a miniscule hitch in his lips that could have been a smile in a past life. “How is he?”

“Concussed,” Montgomery replied.

“I could have told you that,” Daud rebuked, the ghost of a smile gone.

“Then why’d you ask?” Montgomery snapped with no bite. “The headache and nausea should fade, Lord Attano, and you will likely just be sore from the fall and the sutures. You’re sure to be tired, and I’d like to keep you here for a day or two before sending you back to the Tower, just to watch for any changes.”

Corvo opened his mouth to complain, or perhaps to thank her for her care, but Daud spoke over him, expression twisted into its customary scowl.

“Cause trouble here, Corvo, and I’ll kill you.”

Corvo smirked, even if it was a little weak in the face of his aching head. “If you keep saying that and not following through, I’ll have to call you a tease.”

Montgomery snorted an ugly bark of laughter, smile splitting her round cheeks as she glanced back of Daud, who had gone stiff and livid. Corvo could see the muscle ticking furiously in his jaw, a faint tint of flush creeping above his collar, rosy and delicious. Eventually Daud bared his teeth and turned on his heel, took two steps, and vanished in an inky flutter. Snorting at his dramatics, Montgomery coaxed Corvo back down into bed before sitting on the edge of the mattress. He watched her, curious but so very tired, eyelids already heavy and burning.

“He’ll be back, don’t you mind.”

“I wasn’t,” Corvo said.

“He’s hardly left your side, you know,” Montgomery told him, a little wistful. “Back and forth between you and Thomas all night, driving me mad. Not asking questions, just sitting there in silence. I finally had to call Javier to force him to go eat something before I killed him myself. You must be special, Lord Protector.”

“I… no,” Corvo managed, suddenly much more awake than he had been moments before. “No, I’m not.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself, Lord Attano,” Montgomery said as she tapped at the side of her nose like she knew something he didn’t.

“Corvo, please.”

“Corvo, then,” she allowed. “You’ve thrown Daud off his axis, Corvo. He’ll spin out of control for a while before he settles again. But settle he will. Just give him time to sort himself out. For all his intelligence and power, he’s terrible at this sort of thing.”

“You know him well.”

Montgomery laughed, smile wide and warm. “I’ve been with that stubborn blood ox longer than any of the other Whalers; at least longer than any who haven’t gone forever into the Void. I know him well, and I know that no one has ever rattled him like you have.”

Corvo watched as she lowered her eyes to her lap, twisted her hands together in thought. She obviously cared for Daud, cared for his wellbeing, and likely knew all of the little weaknesses that Corvo had been ignorantly picking at. Her gaze was harder when she looked up to him again, and he could sense the tendrils of the Void within her, licking and dark.

“I hope you know the power you have, Corvo,” she said, his name feeling like a threat as it fell from her tongue. “Power not only over Daud, but over us as well, over our lives. He’s the bedrock of us. Do you understand?”

“I do,” he whispered in reply, sobered.

Nodding solemnly, Montgomery patted his wrist, and he could see the faint grey echo of Daud’s Mark on the back of her left hand, barely visible. It was clear that Daud’s followers cared for him, likely far more than he knew or understood. Corvo didn’t wasn’t to disturb it, as the thought seemed rather like throwing stones at a bloodfly nest, but the prize of earning Daud’s favor for himself had been growing more tempting by the day. Jessamine’s teasing had bolstered him to some degree, forced him to study the facts like reports spread out on a pinboard and linked with scarlet string. The facts were these: Corvo was fond of Daud, even if he hardly understood the attraction himself; Daud tolerated him and perhaps even enjoyed his company; Corvo trusted Daud at his back; Corvo wanted to please Daud, wanted to behave for him as often as he wanted to challenge him. The evidence was damning, and Corvo vowed to hold it all close to his chest.

“Good,” she smiled. “Get some rest, Corvo. You need sleep to heal. And try to eat something if you feel brave enough to stomach Jenkins’s cooking.”

“Thank you,” he offered after she was already halfway to the door. “For trusting me with him.”

Montgomery tipped her head at him, quietly regal, and left him in the dark, alone. Sleep, when it greeted him, settled heavy upon him like the sinking of an old ship, stinking like seawater and groaning with echoes of whale song.

Chapter Text

Jordan was thrilled to see Thomas in such good spirits after the madness of the night before, even if he did have the look of a wrung-out dish rag about him. There were shadows under his eyes, likely from the wretched combination of blood loss, sedatives, and anxiety, but otherwise he seemed well enough. Well enough, at least, to tolerate a gaggle of novices sitting around his sickbed and throwing Nancy cards down atop his blanketed legs.

“You know better, Tom, don’t confuse him,” Thomas was scolding, ever the fair and magnanimous referee. “Aeolos, the trick is always played same suit, higher trump, different trump, different suit, in that order.”

Aeolos nodded, pretending that he wasn’t entirely overwhelmed. He glanced down at the splay of cards in his hand, over to Thomas, and back to his hand before leaning over to let Thomas choose a card for him instead. Thomas smiled gently and plucked a card, dropped it onto his knees. Anatole groaned to Aeolos’s right, and Thomas smirked a little devilishly at her. Yuri was glancing between their cards and Anatole with the brutally calm sort of expression they wore during training, while Desmond provided unceasing and entirely unhelpful commentary over their shoulder. Little Tom was admirably pretending that he was not trying to intentionally confuse Aeolos for his own benefit.

Jordan folded his hands behind his head as he watched them play, rocking back onto the rear legs of his rickety chair. It was an understatement to say that he was relieved that Thomas was relatively unhurt after his misadventure with the Royal Protector; Thomas was a good man, a good friend, and the Whalers – especially Daud – would be poorer off without him. Still, the fact that Daud had dragged both Thomas and Lord Attano back to Rudshore had yet to wholly settle, and continued to surprise him each time he thought about it. Jordan had been floored by the way Daud and Attano had interacted that night in Ludd’s warehouse, but bringing that man so deep into the fold seemed treacherous. He trusted Daud, he had to, yet the thought that Daud was so keen to trust one of the most dangerous men in the Empire was grating on everyone’s uneasy nerves. The Whalers had been twitching at each strange sound or shifting shadow on patrol for weeks, constantly waiting for the City Watch to descend upon them at Attano’s order.

Of course, they had talked about it amongst themselves, inadvertently falling into disparate factions – those whose faith in Daud remained unsoiled, and those who thought the Old Knife was starting to crack. Jordan was planted firmly in the former camp, along with a number of the other Masters: Thomas, Rinaldo, the twins, Montgomery, Javier, Galia, Misha. Leonid seemed loyal but wary, as did Dodge, but both owed Daud too much to lose all faith in him so easily. Besides, after hearing Misha’s retelling of her meeting with the Empress, Jordan was more certain than ever that Attano was not just scheming and squirming into Daud’s good graces if only to get close enough to put a knife in his back.

Suddenly realizing that Thomas had likely not heard the tale since waking up, Jordan grinned and reached to smack Thomas in the arm with the backs of his fingers.

“Did anyone tell you about Misha meeting the Empress?” he asked, giddy and eager to spread gossip. Thomas stared at him, a little aghast, and shook his head. “Okay, so, Daud sent Misha to talk to the Empress, right? So that she’d know her Lord Protector wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere or whatever. Anyway, Misha was explaining that Attano was safe, with Daud, blah blah, and the Empress goes: ‘at least now they have to spend time together’. Naturally, Misha doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about, and then the Empress tells her that Attano told her that he fuckin’ kissed Daud! Can you believe that shit?!”

Thomas went a little grey in the face, looking very much like he’d begun bleeding from a gunshot wound all over again, his eyes wide with shock and a little glassy. “He… what?” Thomas stammered, clearly unable to process the information.

“I know!” Jordan exclaimed, just quiet enough to not distract the novices from their game. “Not only can I not believe that Attano isn’t dead after trying some stupid shit like that, but now the fucking Empress of the Isles is recruiting Misha to help her play matchmaker for Daud and Attano. She told Misha that Daud needed to man up and admit that he’s got it as bad for Attano as Attano does for him.”

“I… they….” Thomas tried, failed.

Laughing, Jordan proceeded with his favorite part of the whole story. “The Empress even called Daud a ‘soggy fucking cockchafer’!”

There was a wet splutter from the doorway, and Corvo Attano was coughing into a half-empty glass of water and struggling to keep himself from falling over with a death grip on the doorframe. At the sight of him, Desmond’s face went bloodless and the boy bolted, out the opposite door with an uncoordinated transversal and a yelp. Jordan couldn’t begin to fathom what that was about, but surely it would be entertaining to find out.

“Lord Attano!” Anatole exclaimed, as surprised as the rest of them, and threw her cards face down onto Thomas’s legs as she rose and rushed to his side. “Lord Attano, you should have called for someone!”

Clearing his throat, Attano waved off her concern with a soft look that suggested that he was trying very hard not to flinch in the presence of so many strangers at once, hapless in a strange place and recently injured. Remembering herself, Anatole took a few steps back, and Attano seemed to relax a little, his gaze scanning the rest of the gathered Whalers. Taking advantage of the distraction, Little Tom tried to sneak a glance at Anatole’s forgotten cards, and Jordan kicked him in the ankle.

On the creaking bed, Thomas was trying to shift free of the blankets, tossing playing cards all over and ruining the game, and when Attano noticed him amongst the group he rushed over, stumbling and still somewhat unbalanced. The novices scattered from his path like a rat swarm, fleeing cautiously to Jordan’s side. He settled his chair back on all four feet to watch the display, patting idly at Yuri’s hip when they sidled close.

“Thomas!” Attano gusted, sounding nearly pained and dropping to his knees beside the bed with a grunt of pain.

“Corvo!” Thomas wheezed as his hands flew to the Royal Protector’s shoulders. “Corvo, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. Void, I nearly killed you.”

Attano grasped his elbows, his big hands splaying in a soothingly desperate grip as his thumbs rubbed thoughtlessly over Thomas’s biceps. Jordan watched as Attano looked Thomas over, saw the way his eyes fell, entranced, to the coils of tattoos that writhed across Thomas’s chest, exposed by the unfastened buttons at the collar of the loose linen shirt he wore. Remembering himself, Attano’s gaze snapped back up to Thomas’s face, and Jordan found himself even more dumbfounded by the Lord Protector than he ever had been. This was a wildly different man than the one he had met that night weeks ago, and the familiar gentleness that Attano offered Thomas sent Jordan’s heart thudding anxiously.

“No, don't worry. I'm fine, see?” Attano was saying in low, rolling Serkonan, and Jordan felt Aeolos perk up a little by his side.

The boy had been asking about Attano with a wary sort of longing, quietly desperate to see the man who would have gone head-to-head with every noble, civilian, or guardsman in Dunwall with such perverted predilections for his sake, and likely won. Jordan had heard Aeolos talking quietly with Daud in their shared native tongue, and while he could not understand what they were saying, he had heard Attano’s name often enough to fathom a guess. Daud had been more tender in those moments than Jordan had ever seen him, and it made him wonder if such softness had always been buried within the Old Knife or if his dealings with a particular Lord Protector had planted it there. But given the wildly conflicting impressions he had gathered of Corvo Attano, Jordan could not begin to fathom a guess at which was true.

“It’s not okay, Void, I could have killed you, Corvo!” Thomas’s voice was growing wretchedly loud and watery, and Jordan decided it was time for the novices to leave.

He nudged them out, though they were still trying to peek back and watch the show with wide, astounded eyes. Before he shut the door, Jordan could hear Attano speaking gently to Thomas, saw him reaching up to wipe tears from Thomas’s face.

“Thomas, everything’s alright. I’ve had bumps on the head before. And letting go of my hand because you got shot is certainly nothing I could blame you for. What if I’d drug you down with me? Neither of us would have made it out. Everything’s fine, lindo, don’t worry.”

Leaning against the closed door and feeling distinctly like he had intruded upon something intimate, Jordan looked down to the novices who were crowded around him in a half circle, expectant. They blinked at him innocently, too aware that he was often the bearer of delightfully juicy gossip, but he shook his head, trying to look disapproving.

“No, no, no,” he said, as much to himself as to them. “You all heard Master Daud’s order. No gossip, no rumors, no troubling Lord Attano.”

“Speak for yourself, chismoso,” Aeolos spat under his breath, livid at being kept away from the man he had built into a hero in his own mind. Aeolos was still timid and shy and fearfully on edge around most who weren’t Jordan, Thomas, Daud, Montgomery, or the other novices, but his sharp, witty personality had been slowly creeping out into the light as of late. It made Jordan incredibly happy to see it.

Unable to argue with the scathing criticism, Jordan waved the group away with a self-conscious grimace. “Go on, then. Don’t you lot have lessons with Dodge soon anyway?”

The novices groaned dramatically but slowly began to transverse away, likely in an effort to find new places to hide from Dodge and their wretched lectures on grammar and syntax, whatever that was. Finally alone, Jordan tilted his head back against the door and closed his eyes. Attano still made him nervous, the memory of the predator in him making Jordan’s heartbeat spike frantically, but everyone around him seemed so enamored with the Royal Protector that he felt like the odd man out. Maybe he had caught Attano on a bad day last time, Jordan thought a little madly; maybe he was actually the man who whispered to Thomas in Serkonan and wiped the tears from his face. Maybe that was the real Attano. Maybe the real Attano was a whirlwind amalgam of both. He didn’t know.

But he knew what he needed to do now, and yet he dreaded it all the same.

Corvo Attano had been like a Pandyssian volcano ever since he had stumbled accidentally into their lives; always shaking the ground and making the Whalers lose their footing, rattling Daud into a landside of stone and melted earth that set tempers ablaze and left their Master scorched and turned around in his own head. If Daud genuinely liked the man, Jordan certainly would never begrudge him the opportunity to find happiness, maybe even love, with another. Jordan knew that it was a difficult, wonderful, beautiful thing that managed to make life in their crumbling, rotten world somehow so much easier and so much harder all at once. Especially in their profession. Jordan could not number the times that he had felt his heart in his throat, sick with nauseated fear that Killian would be lost to him after a careless mistake or a job gone sideways. Daud certainly understood it, even if he had never known the agony of it himself, and Jordan supposed that some of Daud’s reluctant aggression towards the thought of opening himself to Attano had a large part to do with the fear of that fear. Daud was never afraid, but his desire for self-preservation was impossibly strong, built from a life of loss and death and bitter betrayal. Jordan had seen it in him for years, had seen the way that Daud was only too eager to impart cruelty upon himself in order to avoid what he knew would be a far more devastating injury of the heart. Jordan had seen it in the way Daud had gently fed two novices sick with the plague poison so that his Whalers wouldn’t have to watch them waste away. No one was supposed to know about that, but Jordan did.

They were fools, the both of them, so similar in their wretched denials of good things in order to preserve the status quo and avoid impending, inevitable heartache. It was the same brutal logic that forced Jordan to keep the full depths of his adoration of Killian locked behind his teeth, even as it threatened to spill out in a frantic declaration of I love you whenever Killian looked hurt by his feigned indifference. He was cruel, he knew that; but he was also afraid, so, so afraid. Jordan could not condemn Daud’s idiocy. After all, they were one and the same: frightened, stunted children wounding good, kind men for their own protection. And it was not just Attano; Daud was torturing Thomas too, and he didn’t even know it.

Overwhelmed, guilty, and a little sad, Jordan shoved away from the door with a sigh and rubbed his hands over his face. He tried to paste some of his typical good-natured slyness back across his expression and left the infirmary, certain that Thomas and Attano would be safe in each other’s company. Considering the way they had clung to each other, Jordan couldn’t help but wonder if there was something uncertain and wanting brewing there as well, and quietly dreaded the chaos such a development would bring. It was not his place, he reminded himself sternly. They were grown men and they would have to figure it out themselves, even if the Whalers would be forced to suffer through it all. He was a hypocrite, but the tumultuous uncertainty of it all made him want to crawl into Killian’s arms, warm and kind and safe. He was a fool, indeed.

Rolling his shoulders and bolstering himself, Jordan turned towards the Chamber of Commerce. It was time Daud knew that Attano was awake.

*****

It had been an exceptionally long time since Daud had seen Billie so animated about anything, and he tried to stand firm and indifferent as she paced furiously around his office, her biting words grating out from between clenched teeth. Occasionally she would stop to glare at him, then would turn away to continue her striding with a growl as if she were disgusted by the mere sight of him. Even despite the circumstances, if was some sort of relief for her to be so invested in him; she had been so distant in recent weeks, and it had made Daud untenably nervous.

"—and then what?!” she was snarling, gesturing threateningly at Daud without even looking at him. “We just send the Lord Protector home to the Tower with a ‘thank you, come again soon’?! He’ll have the Overseers mobilized against us within days! You’ve let the fox into the henhouse, old man, and it will end with all of us dead.”

“I know him,” Daud spat in reply, content to allow her to slander him but unreasonably protective of Corvo’s honor. “He won’t betray me.”

“Of course he will! He’s the Empress’s fucking lap dog! He’s just like the rest of them! He’s not different or special or whatever it is he’s convinced you of.”

At that, Daud’s simmering frustration boiled out of control, anger rushing hot into his chest like steam, and he was surging into Billie’s space, halting her pacing, and snarling at her face to face. He wanted to strike her, to feel the satisfying sting of his palm against her cheek, but he had never hit her out of anger. He refused to begin now.

“Do not believe yourself so secure as to have free rein to speak your mind, Lurk. Remember your place,” Daud whispered brutally. “You are speaking of things you do not understand.”

She laughed, cruel and undaunted, and her breath was warm against the underside of his throat with their closeness. Daud sneered down at her, the tension in his jaw making his head ache with each torturous throb of his pulse.

“And you do understand?” Billie taunted. “You are so ignorant in these things that he’s hardly had to try to win your favor.”

It felt remarkably as if she had plunged a knife between his ribs, twisting it with each word. For a moment he was a little winded, surprised that Billie would mention such things, but she was right. He was ignorant; whatever it was that Corvo had awoken in him, it was new and entirely foreign. Corvo was a worldly man, a man who had won the heart of an Empress and sired her daughter. Daud was but a fool whose treacherous heart went warm with the smallest suggestion of fondness from the other man. But Corvo was not cruel, and had been so careful with Daud, and had been respectful of the fearful boundaries that Daud had set. Corvo would not manipulate him. Even without evidence, even with the blatant possibility in Billie’s words, Daud knew that truth within the marrow of the bones.

“How dare you,” Daud breathed, sounding more wounded than he wanted her to hear.

“Face it, Daud,” Billie whispered, low and cutting. “Everything you think you feel for him is a manipulation. It’s a game he’s playing, a game he’s winning. Attano is a killer, just like us. The moment he sees that you’ve lost yourself in your weakness for him, he will tear you apart. And you’ll drag all of us down with you.”

“Get out,” he was panting, lungs too tight to draw a full breath. “Get out!”

Billie took one step back, then another, watching him with a disappointed sort of malice in her dark gaze. Daud felt as if she could see right through him, like she would pull his innards out across the floor and read divinations from his suffering, and he roared in horrified rage, sweeping glasses and reports and stray bullets from the surface of his desk with a crash. Billie vanished with the Void, seeming very much like she had proven her point, but Daud’s ire remained. The anger was animalistic, feral and frightened, and he wanted Corvo. He wanted Corvo to drag the panicked ire from his blood with that low, accented voice of his, wanted those big hands pressing down against his shoulders and holding him fast to the earth. He wanted Corvo holding his reins, drawing him back into himself.

A ragged gasp that sounded too much like a sob stuttered from his throat and Daud slid down onto the floor, back pressed firm against his desk. Void, Billie was right. He was so far gone, too busy trying to sort through the newness of his feelings to realize the truth of it all.

But there was another truth as well. The truth of Corvo’s smile, the way he laughed so gently at Daud’s expense. The truth of the faraway look in his eyes when he watched Daud talk, the truth of his pulse hammering hot and desperate into the kiss they shared, the truth of the agony in Corvo’s eyes at Daud’s panicked rejection. Corvo Attano was one of the most genuine men that Daud had ever known, baring himself a little at a time to Daud’s scrutiny, revealing all the beautiful, ugly, violent realities of himself. And in all that Daud had seen, he had never found Corvo wanting.

That, perhaps, was the issue at the heart of it all.

Daud sighed, suddenly exhausted, and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to fight back the pain blooming in his skull. He was tired, so tired. He was tired of second guessing himself, of feeling like a stone battered in the rapids of his own thoughts and emotions. Always he had been discerning, cautious of others and their intentions, too determined to survive to allow anyone the chance to get close enough to put him down. Yet now there was a colossal blind spot in the shape of Corvo Attano, blocking out his logic like the moon eclipsing the sun, leaving him drowning in darkness and sightless to the world around him. He had never doubted his intuition – both his mother and his master after her had taught him not to – and his gut told him that Corvo was genuine. Perhaps they had begun this farce each with the intention of personal advancement, with the aim of wringing valuable knowledge and weaknesses out of the other, but those goals had crumbled almost immediately.

For Daud, they had withered as soon as Corvo had taken his hand on that rooftop the night they found Aeolos. An offer of blind trust in Daud even after he had surprised Corvo with a transversal and no warning. But still, Corvo had taken Daud’s hand, had breathed long and deep on Daud’s instruction, and allowed Daud to drag him through the Void once more. If that was not genuine, Daud did not know what was. Corvo had put his life in Daud’s hands, in the most literal sense, and had willingly done so again and again with no request for reciprocation. There was no exchange, no tit for tat; only Corvo and Daud and something shared between them that transcended suspicion.

Billie was right, Daud was ignorant of many things. Ignorant of the workings of the heart, ignorant of the wantings of the flesh. Still, his intuition had never failed him. And what was intuition but a feeling, an emotion buried so deep that it carved itself onto one’s bones like the cruel scratchings on a rune, equally strong in its pull and force of intention. He would not deny it, like he had never declined to follow the whale song hum of the offerings at the Outsider’s shrines. There may be little to be gained, but it was equally likely that the whole world would open up at his feet if he followed the twining of that thread. All it would take was a little effort and a little faith, and a misguided willingness to bare himself to a force greater than he that he did not understand.

Daud had done it before with the Outsider. He wanted to do it again for Corvo Attano. He wasn’t sure if he could.

A timid knock at the door drew Daud from his labyrinthine thoughts, and it took him a long moment to dig himself out of the pit he’d fallen into. He dragged himself up off the floor and fell instead into his chair, plucking a discarded and abused report from the ground so he’d look somewhat less like a madman lording self-importantly over an empty desk. He was precisely that, he knew, but he need not advertise it to his men.

“Enter,” he called, and his voice was a bit ruined from raging at Billie. He paid it no mind.

Jordan leaned his head in, not quite brave enough as of late to saunter brazenly into Daud’s office like he was usually accustomed.

“Enter, I said,” Daud repeated, and Jordan slinked inside, chastised. “What is it, Jordan?”

“It’s Attano, sir.”

“Is he dead, dying, or otherwise maimed?”

“Um… no?” Jordan stumbled, clearly confused.

“Then I need not see to him.”

Opening his mouth to speak before closing it again, Jordan looked rather aghast, his eyebrows contorted into a wild expression of his misunderstanding. Daud watched him, nerves thoroughly grated.

“I thought…” Jordan began haltingly.

“Thought what, dare I ask?”

“I…” he bolstered himself, growing angry and straightening his spine. “I thought that maybe you wouldn’t abandon the man you have such fondness for to fend for himself in a den of heretics. Sir.”

Daud reeled back like he’d been struck. “Excuse me?”

Jordan balled his fists and groaned with frustration, leaning his head back to glare at the ceiling before plodding over to Daud’s desk.

“Master Daud, I hope you know how much I respect you. How much all of us respect you,” Jordan said, and his voice was shaking a little like he was afraid of the consequences. “But if you care for Attano at all, don’t force him to be alone here. Don’t do that to him. I think he’s a kind man, but I know he’s a man capable of feeling so much anger. You brought him here, and he allowed you to in good faith because he wants to trust you. Don’t cast him aside and give him a reason to resent you.”

“Are you quite finished?” Daud asked, low and dangerous.

“No, actually,” Jordan plowed on, hands trembling. “He likes you, sir. I heard about how he clung to you last night, I saw how eager he was to mind you during the Ludd job. Whether or not you feel the same, it doesn’t make what he feels any less real. If you keep trying to pretend it doesn’t exist, you’ll end up torturing him and yourself. It’s cruel.”

“You say this like it matters.”

“It does matter!” Jordan exploded. “If you like each other, it matters!”

His face contorted like he was in physical pain, and he deflated with a weary sigh. Daud watched him for a long moment, wondering if Jordan was actually speaking to Daud or more to himself. The relationship between Jordan and Killian was no secret, the troubles between them even less so, and Daud had watched them both hurt because of what they felt for each other for years now. He had seen Jordan’s anger each time he forced himself to push Killian away, for reasons that Daud could not fathom and simultaneously understood with crippling intimacy. He had seen Killian sitting alone on rooftops in the company of a half-empty whiskey bottle, staring out misty eyed and hurting over the waters of Rudshore. Those two were soulmates and he saw how they suffered under the thumb of love. If that was what Jordan was urging him to subject himself to, Daud knew that he should reject it flat out.

Still, he had also seen the way they smiled at each other, the tangible joy in their laughter and the giddy little secrets they shared like a bottle of wine passed back and forth between kisses. Daud wondered what it was like, to bask in such closeness with another. But Jordan and Killian were young men, with only a fraction of their lives yet lived and still foolhardy enough with youth to survive the agony of hurting each other only to mend the wounds with love and sex. Daud was getting old, the burdens he carried too heavy, and he was still too ignorant of such affections to be tolerated by one so much more experienced. The temptation of sharing the load of those burdens was enticing, the potential of easing his yoke such a delectable possibility. But he had nothing to offer in return. Corvo would not want him. Corvo shouldn’t want him. There was no merit in loving Daud.

Something wretched must have crossed his face, because Jordan went soft and pitying, his voice falling low and weary and so unbearably kind.

“Master Daud, I know I’m a hypocrite, but Void, there is nothing better in this life than giving yourself up to someone who is willing to give themselves back to you. Its…” he laughed a little wetly, smile wide and redness lining his eyes. “It’s terrifying.”

“Then why do it?”

“Because if its real, they will catch you if you fall. They will dig you out of the rubble of your own idiocy until their hands bleed, even if they’re angrier than they’ve ever been. They will share the burden; help you carry it until their own shoulders crack under the strain. Its terrifying, yes, but there’s no greater freedom than being known.”

Daud watch Jordan for a long moment, a little wide eyed. He had never heard the young man be so eloquent, or so straightforward. Jordan had just cracked open his chest to offer Daud a glimpse of his soul, a small, glittering look into the softest, weakest depths of himself. It was harrowing, to know the abyss of feeling within another, and Daud feared that he would never be able to bear the full extent of it.

Jordan smiled like he could read Daud’s thoughts. “It’s not a burden if it’s them. It’s an honor.”

“Dangerous,” Daud whispered, feeling unreasonably forthcoming in the face of Jordan’s sincerity. “I’m dangerous. I’ve nothing to offer.”

“I know I’m a stupid cur of a man, but Killian makes me better. I don’t know what he sees in me, but I guess that’s the thing of it. You never really know,” he shrugged, a little wistful. “It just is. You and them. It’s everything. It’s all you need.”

There was something fragile and beautiful and joyous in Jordan’s eyes, and Daud felt wretchedly like he was seeing a bit of him that wasn’t his to see. He cast his gaze aside, staring at the empty surface of his desk and feeling equally as blank and useless. It was jarring to receive such brutal wisdom from someone that Daud knew to be foolish and flirtatious and more prone to thoughtless action than careful consideration of the consequences. But Daud realized that, in this, he had to yield to Jordan’s expertise. None of it was what Daud had wanted to hear, just like he had not wanted to hear what Billie had to say, but Jordan’s words felt far closer to the truth and Daud wanted to cling desperately to them like they would save him from drowning, even as they drug him under.

“Master Daud,” Jordan said gently, smile wavering a bit. “Just… don’t give up on him yet. Don’t give up on either of them.”

“’Either of them’?”

Jordan shook his head sadly, taking a step back and turning to the door. “Attano is in the infirmary, doing his best to drag Thomas out of his own head. He could likely use your help, sir.”

“Jordan Walsh, you answer me!” Daud snapped, but Jordan had already vanished with the Void. “Insubordinate brat.”

Sighing, Daud shoved himself reluctantly from his chair, feeling very much as if he had just taken a beating. If two of his subordinates ever found it pertinent to berate him in the same day again, he was quite sure that he would end the affair with at least one corpse on his hands in need of urgent disposal. He felt wrung out, lifeless and twisted around himself, and was not especially keen on repeating the endeavor. It was exhausting, letting others into his life. He wasn’t sure if he could handle much more of it.

Facing Corvo now seemed much more daunting than it had a few hours ago, when his chief concerns were making sure Corvo survived his head injury and keeping himself from turning redder than a Morley apple whenever the bastard said something suggestive like he had early that morning. Montgomery had come to tease Daud about it later, on the weak premise of making sure he had managed to not combust from embarrassment. He nearly had, damn her, but he need not admit it. To the Void with Corvo Attano and the hungry edge of his smile that made Daud’s blood go hot with something he did not understand.

He attempted to bolster himself with squared shoulders and an impassive expression as he ducked out of his office window and crossed the catwalks towards the infirmary, determined not to use the powers of the Void in an effort to buy himself time to clear his head. As he walked, he could see Little Tom and Desmond laughing and skittering across a rooftop, likely hiding from Dodge’s ire and avoiding their lecture on the sciences. Though he could hardly blame them – Whalen Bly was not known to be an especially engaging instructor – he still shouted up at the novices and watched their faces go blank with horror at being caught.

“Boys! To lessons!” he boomed. They wilted and retreated with chastised mumbles of yes, Master Daud. Dodge would have them writing lines as punishment, he was certain.

Daud was halfway to the infirmary when Montgomery rushed up to meet him, looking harried and exhausted.

“Thank the Void, I thought I’d have to hunt you down,” she panted, a few wild strands of hair clinging to her face, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat.

“What’s happened?” he asked, suddenly on edge. “Attano?”

“No, Thomas,” she heaved, already turning back the way she came. “He was inconsolable after Lord Attano woke – guilt, I think. Lord Attano had managed to settle him, but Anatole, foolish girl, offered a sedative to calm his nerves. Predictably, Thomas went ballistic.”

“Void damn it!” Daud snapped, picking up his pace. “She should know better. She should know. He hasn’t hurt himself?”

“Not when I’d left. Corvo was trying to get him under control. We’d be lucky if he hasn’t collapsed from hyperventilation by the time we get there.”

“Fucking Void. Fuck!” Daud swore, angry so that he didn’t have to look his own fear in the face. “What was Anatole thinking?!”

“I think she saw me sedate him last night, not realizing that I certainly didn’t tell him that one of those medications wasn’t for the pain. She was trying to be helpful, Daud. She wasn’t trying to cause any of this.”

“Tell that to Thomas!”

Montgomery remained silent at that, her full lips tightly pursed, and followed him up the steps into the clinic. Daud felt like he was on a war path, out for blood, but he knew very well that there would be a very different sort of battlefield waiting for him at the end. As he shouldered through the front door, casting a vicious glare at Anatole huddled in the corner with tears in her eyes, he could hear Corvo speaking softly over the wheezing panic of Thomas’s frantic breaths in the next room. Corvo was trying, Daud knew he was trying, but Thomas could be a pipe bomb like this, combusting at the wrong touch. With the powers of the Void at his fingertips, Thomas was dangerous, especially when the only one he truly wanted to wound was himself. Daud had nearly been collateral himself once before, long ago. He still wore the deep, ragged scar across his chest, right over his heart.

Daud slowed his steps as he nudged open the door, and Corvo’s gaze snapped wild and desperate to him from where he knelt on the floor beside Thomas’s bed, nearly between his knees. Thomas was hunched over, hands buried into his hair and tugging cruelly at the strands, breaths leaving him too quickly in painful wheezes occasionally broken with sobs. Normally he would be pacing, frenzied, thumping his fist violently into his thigh with each step, but wounded as he was, he was forced to sit there, helpless, as he threatened to tremble right out of his skin.

“Daud,” Corvo whispered, impossibly relieved.

Thomas’s breath caught for a moment at the sound of his name, and Daud settled carefully on the bed beside him, careful not to touch.

“Come back, Thomas,” he whispered. “Facts: you’re in Rudshore, you’re safe. No one can hurt you here. He’s dead. He’s dead. You’re in Rudshore. You’re safe. He’s dead.”

“Daud,” Thomas sniffled, so broken, and he reached out to clench Daud’s knee, another shattered sob wrenching free of his throat. “Daud.”

“Good boy, come back. Good boy,” Daud murmured, placing his hand on the back of Thomas’s neck and pressing him down, urging him to breathe with his head between his knees.

The routine was old and well-practiced, though Daud had not had to use it in years. Daud thought they had outgrown it; he was wrong.

Corvo was watching him with slack-jawed awe on his face, clearly shaken by all that had happened. He looked as if he wanted to say something, to ask a question, to beg for some explanation, to be of use, but Daud shook his head solemnly and raised a silencing finger to his lips. Corvo eased back instantly in understanding. Daud was grateful.

For a long while they watched Thomas settle back into his own bones, his shoulders still wracked with occasional shudders but his breaths falling into a steadier, slower rhythm. His fingers were still curled viciously into Daud’s knee, but Daud was well accustomed to the bruises that would be left behind. They had not bothered him in ages, if ever; they were just short-lived battle scars that he carried on behalf of another, paling by far in comparison to the damage Thomas had been known to inflict upon himself. It seemed that Thomas’s injury and Corvo’s presence had prevented Montgomery from having to stitch him up again. Daud had never been grateful for one of his Whalers to come home with a gunshot wound, be he supposed there was a first time for everything. It was better than needing to wipe Thomas’s blood from between the floorboards.

Kneading his thumb into Thomas’s nape, Daud kept his breathing carefully level until Thomas slumped a little with a sigh, finally exhausted. Corvo glanced back and forth between them, looking absolutely agonized. Daud ignored him.

“Are you back with me?” he carefully asked.

“Yes,” Thomas slurred, sounding weary and a little drunk.

“Good,” Daud praised gently, slowly pulling Thomas back upright, but not yet removing his hand.

Thomas groaned a little, weak, and lulled his head back into Daud’s grip, eyes shut tight and panting. The late afternoon light was slanting violently in through the windows, and the golden glow cast the dark circles beneath Thomas’s eyes in a heavy, unforgiving shade of terracotta. He looked ill, Daud thought morosely, trying not to think about how much Thomas was carrying on his own. Thomas had always been prone to fits of wild panic, cursed with a mind plagued with darkness and sorrow with no source, ever tormented with thoughts that tore at him like a pack of rats, gnawing him helpless down to the bone. Daud knew grief and sorrow, but they had always passed with enough time and distraction. He wouldn’t consider himself a happy man, but Thomas lived with sadness like it was his shadow, treading on his heels and forcing him to cling to what brief bouts of happiness managed to slip through the cracks.

Daud could not imagine it. He suspected that very few could.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas said to Corvo, glancing down at him with hooded eyes rimmed in red. “I’m sorry.”

“No, pobrecito, you’ve done nothing wrong,” Corvo countered emphatically as he reached for Thomas’s hands. “Nothing at all.”

Thomas clenched Corvo’s fingers tightly, desperate for his words to be true, but Daud could see the denial building on his tongue, and he shook him lightly by the nape.

“None of that, Thomas,” Daud gently warned.

There was an anxious moment when Thomas hiccupped, breath gasping a little too fast, but he settled before the panic could claw back into his chest, grappling between his ribs. Daud watched Corvo’s shoulders go taut with concern before relaxing again. He was still holding tight to Thomas’s hands, his thumbs rubbing rhythmically over pale white knuckles, back and forth, back and forth, soothing and so very kind. It was a relief that he was so willing to hold his tongue, to mind the questions that were certainly burning in his throat all because Daud had requested restraint with a subtle shake of his head. Bless Corvo Attano, Daud thought idly.

“Thomas,” Daud began slowly, knowing his question would land poorly. “Have you been taking your magnesium? Don’t lie to me.”

“I…” he tried, chewed his lip, shook his head.

“How long?”

“Two months, maybe more.”

“Void, Thomas,” Daud sighed, suddenly aware of how close Thomas had been to an episode like this, and for how long. They were lucky, Daud reluctantly conceded, that it had not been worse. Daud had found him with wounds torn through his wrists once before, and he didn’t think he’d be able to handle it again. Losing a Whaler to the job was one thing; losing a Whaler to their own hand was another entirely.

“It’s difficult enough for Montgomery to get supplies for everyone, I can’t ask her to go out of her way to track a supplement down for me,” Thomas was saying, eyes growing wet again as he tried to defend himself. “Let alone prepare doses. She doesn’t have that sort of time, and I can’t ask her to waste it on me.”

“She’s a physician! It’s her fucking job!” Daud snapped, too frustrated and horrified to mind the tears wetting Thomas’s blotchy cheeks. “Void dammit, Thomas, let us help you!”

“Daud,” Corvo warned softly, though his glare was cutting and protective.

“No,” Daud hissed in reply, rising from the bed and trying to avoid the way Thomas watched him walk away, wounded. “You have no place in this, Attano.”

“If this is how you respond, then maybe I should.”

They scowled at each other, both rising to Thomas’s defense, but Daud could feel himself starting to wither, the flame of his feigned anger dying out and the cold gale of fear blowing in behind it, worry sweeping in on the wings of weakness. Corvo looked like he understood the taut pull of Daud’s shoulders, but there was a threat in his level glare that promised violence for violence, a silent oath that he would sink his teeth into Daud’s neck if he treated Thomas cruelly out of fear. Gritting his teeth until his jaw creaked ominously, Daud took a step back in concession. He didn’t want to hurt Thomas any more than Thomas was already hurting himself, but the molten hot agony of fear and anger was sparking in the crucible of his chest, and he didn’t know how else to relieve the strain.

“You’re not to be alone,” Daud eventually threatened Thomas, fists clenched by his sides. “I won’t let you…” he began, swallowed. “I won’t let you.”

As he swept out of the room, pretending that he wasn’t running away, Daud tried to ignore the sound of Thomas calling out for him, voice fragile as broken glass. Thomas would be fine. Corvo was with him, he would be fine.

*****

The sun had long since set by the time Corvo managed to set out into Rudshore in search of Daud. He was exhausted, the throbbing pain in his head having returned after the brief respite he earned upon waking the second time, but Thomas was finally settled and fed, sleeping soundly under Montgomery’s watchful eye. For a while Thomas had startled awake each time he felt the pull of sleep too strongly, fighting and frantic. Corvo had hushed him and held his hands tight, promising that he was just tired, urging him to rest with the lilting murmurs of Serkonan lullabies that he hardly remembered the words to. Eventually the demands of his weary body won out, and Montgomery had dismissed Corvo with an artless order to drink a remedy and find something to eat. Corvo found that he did not have the strength to defy her.

After a while of aimless wandering, Corvo had stumbled into the mess, only to be greeted by the looming, grinning bulk of Jenkins, who forced him into a creaky chair and served up an obscene amount of mediocre food. Jenkins had a happy penchant for idle chatter, it seemed, but Corvo was content enough to listen as he struggled to satisfy the long-denied aching of his stomach. When he finally leaned back in his chair, which groaned woodenly at the strain, Jenkins offered another simple, cloth-covered plate with a bashful smile, providing Corvo with the most likely place that he could find Daud, hidden and ruminating. Corvo was certain to thank him as he collected the plate and turned to leave, and Jenkins beamed at the gratitude.

True enough, Daud was sat precisely where Jenkins said he’d be, high up on a parapet with his legs dangling over the edge, moodily plucking bits of crumbling mortar from between the bricks and letting them drop into the water below with a morose kerplunk. Corvo found himself overwhelmed with a frustrating sort of fondness, and he settled in beside Daud, placing the plate between them.

“Is it a requirement that you strong, silent types must brood on rooftops?” Corvo teased, trying to wring a bit of the tension from Daud’s shoulders. “Or is it merely personal preference?”

“Speak for yourself,” Daud sniped back, but it sounded a little rough-edged and weak. “How is Thomas?”

Corvo sighed. “Sleeping, finally. Montgomery is with him.”

“Good,” Daud deflated, relieved.

“Will you tell me what happened?” he ventured cautiously, hoping that Daud would not feign anger and flee. “If not, will you at least eat something? Please?”

Daud glared obstinate and silent out over the Flooded District for a few long minutes, watching the flitting shadows of his Whalers on patrol, but eventually conceded and lifted one corner of the cloth covering the plate as if whatever was beneath would bite him. Corvo smiled privately to himself, following the way Daud picked at the bread and cheese and sliced apple Jenkins had so kindly made. After they had lingered in placid silence for some time, fingers brushing as they shared bits of apple and half-stale bread, Daud drew in a deep breath, held it, and finally spoke.

“Thomas…” he tried, awkward. “His mind is troubled, his thoughts always turning against him. There is sorrow there, like I cannot imagine. It hunts him within his own head, drives him to madness that urges him to harm himself. Sometimes it’s just on the surface, like punishment – bruises from his own fists, cuts along his hips, tattoos. A few times it was deeper, with more intent. I found him, once, almost gone for good.”

Corvo nodded, careful and commiserating. “My mother was the same, after my father died. The grief was supposed to fade with time, the doctors said, but it never did. Maybe it had always been there, but I was too young to see it. She never attacked herself, but the pain was there, buried deep. I don’t know if she could have explained it, if I’d asked.”

“He can’t explain it. He hardly understands it himself. I imagine that even without what happened in his past, he would still be this way,” Daud sighed. “But the fear… he was kept sedated when he was… taken, as a boy. So he couldn’t struggle. Couldn’t fight back. He refuses drugs and ether even now, suffers though surgery and setting bones to avoid it.”

Corvo felt a little queasy, looking away as he pondered the amount of terror that would force a man to endure such agony so as to escape memories of the past. The afternoon’s chaos suddenly made a great deal more sense, even as it churned his stomach. Poor Thomas, Corvo thought, not pitying but wretchedly awed at his strength.

Daud tilted his face up to stare at the smoggy clouds over the city, his gaze settling on each brief pocket of starlight that tore through the creeping grim shadows. Corvo could see the sadness within him as well, settled deep from old loss and new fear, better managed but still so very real. It was a cavern reflected in himself, as well. He couldn’t help but wonder if he could be the candle flame dropped into Daud’s darkness, a flickering boon to whatever beasts haunted him from the abyss. He would be that candle flame, if Daud would let him.

“You care for him, don’t you?” Corvo pried softly, watching the way Daud’s jaw tensed and his brows pulled low over cobblestone grey eyes.

He wanted to reach out, to smooth away the creases of long-held concern with his thumb, wanted to know if Daud would sigh and crumple into his touch the way Corvo wanted him to. It was selfish, he knew, but he ventured that his wants could only be so selfish if he was willing to pour himself out at Daud’s feet if it would raise his spirits for even a moment.

“You’re a good man, Daud,” Corvo whispered to his silence. “Not a kind man, and not a gentle man. But I see you. You’re a good man.”

An agonized breath leaked slow and lingering from between Daud’s teeth, and he hung his head, looking smaller and more defeated than Corvo had yet seen him.

“You’re a fool, Corvo.”

“Perhaps. But a truth for a truth seems a fair enough trade.”

Corvo smiled crookedly at Daud, hair falling loosely into his face. Daud shook his head, a little fragile but wry with timid amusement at Corvo’s expense. That was fine; Corvo was perfectly satisfied to play the fool if it served as the lifeline that would drag Daud out of the depths of his own self-made torment. He was discovering, day by day, that he would do a great deal for Daud if the stubborn man would just let him.

“Fair enough,” Daud echoed, cautiously content.

Grinning, Corvo reached over to settle his hand atop Daud’s, slow and permitting any rejection. But Daud’s fingers simply flexed, a little uncertain, and finally went pliant when Corvo folded their palms together, fingers woven tight and inseparable. When Daud breathed a controlled, trembling sigh, Corvo brushed his thumb over the rumbling ridges of Daud’s gloved knuckles, imagining the ugly scars from back alley boxing that surely splayed across his skin, hard-earned and beautiful in their violence. Corvo wanted to raise those knuckles to his lips, to pull the glove away with his teeth and taste the marks carved into Daud’s skin from years of death and dark, dishonorable work. He wondered if Daud would let him, in time.

But for now, this was enough. Daud’s hand in his, clinging and reluctantly desperate. It was a start, Corvo mused, incandescently happy even in the unfortunate stain of their circumstances. This was enough, and Corvo laughed up at the dismal Dunwall sky. Daud scowled at him, and yes, this was certainly enough.

Chapter Text

Considering that he had woken up in beds not his own twice in two days, Corvo was relieved to find that at least this time he was not immediately beset by a colossal Morleyan man upon gaining consciousness; it was an improvement, at least. As was the rather weighty pile of quilts that pressed him bodily into the lumpy mattress, a pleasant boon against the chill of the early morning air. This time, as he reluctantly swung his legs out from under the blankets and curled his toes against the cold floor, he was greeted by the acid-earth scent of steam curling from a fresh cup of coffee perched on a chest at the foot of the bed. Another vast improvement. He picked up the cup, balancing it carefully on the chipped saucer, and closed his eyes as he breathed in the aroma before taking a slow sip.

The coffee was sweetened with a little honey that would surely make the last sip saccharine as candy, and Corvo appreciated the gesture, though he would have been content with just the fatty luxury of a splash of cream. It did not go unnoticed that the honey was certainly a luxury not spared for his sake, for it was unlikely that the Whalers, holed up in a sodden relic like Rudshore, had such easy access to finery as the Tower’s cooks. He hoped that it was a gesture of acceptance, of kindness, and not simply an accommodation that they believed he expected. His title was misleading; he was no lord, not in the ways the nobility believed it mattered, and he did not wish to be treated as such by the Whalers, with unneeded deference. Those he had met thus far had been kind, patient with his blundering through their home, and though he was certain they had been sharing whispers about him amongst themselves, he had not been treated with disdain like a rat in a pantry. He was grateful, and thought that the next time he came to their base he would bring some gifts from the Tower; sweets or books or spices or the latest music on audiograph cards. He would have to bring something for Thomas, to raise his spirits. And for Daud, too, something special and to his tastes.

Corvo felt confident that he would be back here, no matter how presumptuous it may have been to assume there would be a next time.

Speaking of Daud, Corvo was surprised that the assassin had yet to make an appearance. After all, he was so very fond of lurking in dark corners and watching Corvo with those knife-grey eyes that made his skin go hot. Setting the coffee aside, he glanced around, saw the looming towers of filing cabinets and the railing looking down into the office below, and the recollection that he had slept in Daud’s bed startled him out of his pleasant reverie like a gunshot to the back of the head. With a graceless tumble he scrambled off the mattress, dragging half the blankets onto the floor in a weak effort to extricate himself. The clothes he wore were not his own, all loose linen with too few laces tied, and Corvo tried not to trip over his own feet, struggling to swallow his pounding heart back into his chest where it belonged. Its incessant throbbing in his throat made him feel like he was dying.

“Lord Attano?” a voice that was decidedly not Daud’s called from downstairs, and Corvo was not certain if he should be glad that Daud was apparently absent or concerned about yet another stranger loitering nearby while he slept. “Lord Attano, are you alright?”

Corvo scuttled to the railing so he could peer down into the office below, and found a petite woman with a shock of short-cropped blond hair staring up at him with poorly hidden amusement on her slender face. He likely looked frightful, his curls wild with the humidity of Rudshore and probably flattened to one side of his head from sleep. At least he was relatively well rested considering the lingering exhaustion of injury, and perhaps that was enough to keep him from looking so much like a walker of the Dawn Patrol. A little self-conscious, he dragged his fingers through his hair, trying to make himself a bit more presentable.

“I’m… yes?” he managed, voice rough with sleep and the lingering blurred edges of panic. “Daud? Um… where’s Daud?”

Another Whaler emerged from beneath the balcony, no doubt curious as to the commotion. They were donning novice grey, as opposed to the blond woman’s navy, and their mask was set firmly in place beneath their hood. Corvo’s gaze flicked over them, assessing the threat, but the first Whaler slapped at the new arrival’s hip with a warning to remove their mask else face Daud’s ire. Beneath was a tall, slim-faced girl, not quite old enough to be considered a woman, with long hair slicked back into a tight knot at her nape. She was batting her eyelashes bashfully up at him, and Corvo had the manic thought that if she did not cease and desist, wearing her mask against Daud’s orders would be the far lesser sin in her master’s eyes. It was best, perhaps, that Corvo keep his awkward amusement to himself, lest he accidentally bring Daud down upon the girl’s head.

“Master Daud left a short while ago,” the blond woman told him. “He said to let you sleep, Lord Attano, and that he’d return later.”

“Corvo, please,” he corrected for what seemed like the eightieth time in the last few days.

“Corvo, then,” she replied easily. “I’m Galia, one of Daud’s masters. This is Akila.”

“Lord Attano,” Akila said grandly, offering something that was likely meant to be a curtsey, but looked more like a foal learning to stand. She was lean and lanky, and these afflictions lent little aid to her grace. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh, stop,” Galia scoffed. “The classier you try to sound, the dumber you get. Leave the poor man alone.”

“He’s a lord!” Akila fussed in reply, her fists planting themselves on her narrow hips and failing to convey the sternness Corvo was sure she was aiming for.

“Please, the title isn’t necessary,” Corvo tried to soothe, but the words came out awkward and embarrassed instead. “I rather dislike it, actually.”

Both women snapped to glare at him as if he were intruding on their argument rather than existing as the cause of it, and he raised his hands in surrender, backing away from the railing to collect his abandoned coffee. It scarcely held any warmth now, but he closed his hands around it anyway and tried not to listen as they bickered below, instead taking a moment to study Daud’s quarters.

There were books stacked all over in haphazard piles, teetering, and one careless nudge away from toppling to the floor. Pinned to the walls were wanted posters, schematics, and portraits, some marked through with a vibrant red X that Corvo need not question the purpose of. He felt that he vaguely recognized a few of the faces that had been crossed off, and likely crossed out of the mortal plane; lesser nobles, merchants, criminals that the Watch had long since failed to apprehend. Corvo supposed that he should feel some sort of repulsion at the sight of Daud’s many victims – because that was what they were, in truth – but instead he felt a ghoulish sort of pride, a low thrum of arousal at the reminder of Daud’s inexcusable, undeniable competence. There were few things that made Corvo’s blood run so hot as skill.

Draining the rest of his coffee, Corvo closed his teeth lightly against the rim of the cup, wanting and a little too distracted. He sighed and scolded himself, clacking his teeth once against the porcelain before setting it aside, a little unsure what to do with himself.

A brisk breeze cut through one of the windows and licked straight through his thin clothes, drawing his attention away from his vile admiration as he shuddered down to his bones and frowned at the cold. His boots were ordered neatly at the foot of the bed, so he stuffed his feet into them without much thought, forgoing the buckles entirely. The leather was cold and unforgiving but warmed quickly, and Corvo glanced around for something else to fight off the chill, given his own coat was still languishing, abandoned, on some rooftop at the edge of the Legal District. Idly, he hoped what he would see that coat again; it was a favorite, a birthday gift from Jessamine, perfectly well worn and heavy enough to stave off the persistent wet of Dunwall that ever threatened to soak into his very bones. He had not returned to his homeland in nearly two decades, but his body had never quite managed to forget the warmth of the Serkonan sun.

Luckily, there was a coat draped over the back of a nearby chair that he supposed would do. It was thick wool, dyed a deep, bloody red – undeniably Daud’s – and Corvo shrugged it on without much thought of the consequences. Despite their differences in build, Daud being shorter but thick with powerful, meaty muscle, it fit remarkably well, and Corvo tugged it tight around himself, content with the warmth. Dangerously, the damn thing smelled like Daud, like sea salt and cigarette smoke and the soft musk of a stolen cologne that Corvo inexplicably wanted to taste on Daud’s neck. He closed his eyes as he breathed deep, held the scent in his lungs until it soaked into his soul, and exhaled slowly, reluctantly, desperate for more. Daud would likely gut him if he saw him, disgusted by the way Corvo’s lashes fluttered wantonly against his cheeks at the comfort of Daud’s coat around his shoulders. He would gut him while complaining about the loss of a perfectly good jacket, spoiled by blood and the lingering reek of a Lord Protector’s wanting.

An awkward cough from behind him startled Corvo out of his longing lament, and he whirled around to find Galia stood halfway up the stairs and watching him with a knowing look on her angular face. Flushed with embarrassment, Corvo smoothed Daud’s coat over his chest, struggling to look casual despite already having been caught.

“I sent Akila off to ask Jenkins to make you something,” she said calmly, a smile licking at the edge of her words. “I thought you might be hungry.”

“Ah, yes, thank you,” Corvo managed after a silence that lasted a breath too long.

“I see you found your coffee,” Galia offered, gesturing to the empty cup like she was trying to jostle him loose from the net he’d tangled himself in. “Master Daud wasn’t sure how you took it, so he made it the way he likes best. It’s closer to lunch time than breakfast, but it’s the thought that counts, I guess.”

“Daud made it?”

Corvo looked at the innocuous little cup like it was plated in gold. Perhaps he would have taken more time to savor the drink if he had known Daud had made it, he thought, idle and saccharine and stupid. Coffee was coffee, in truth, but the aftertaste of it now seemed sweeter on his tongue.

Galia laughed, good natured and teasing. “If Jenkins had made it, you wouldn’t be able to taste anything for a week. Master Daud did you a kindness.”

“I suppose I should be grateful, then,” Corvo replied, his attempt at humor sounding more brittle than he intended. He grimaced at himself. “Where did Daud go, anyway?”

“He didn’t say,” Galia shrugged like she was used to her master’s infuriating cageyness, though Corvo supposed she likely was. After a moment she rallied, waving for him to follow as she trotted down the stairs. “Well come on, then. Master Daud will have my hide if he gets back and I haven’t fed you yet. He gave me instructions, you know.”

Corvo grinned as he trailed after her, but briefly turned back to collect his empty coffee cup as an afterthought. “Did he now?”

“Sure, he did!” she laughed brightly, ticking the list off on her fingers as she spoke. “We were to let you sleep as late as you needed, and we weren’t to wake you under any circumstances. No masks while you were around. Once you woke, you had to be fed. After you ate, you had to drink another remedy – sorry about that one, by the way. He warned me that you’d probably try to talk your way out of it, so don’t even try, Lord Protector, because I have permission to send Montgomery after you.”

“Damn him,” Corvo grumbled under his breath.

Twirling on the balls of her feet to face him, Galia grinned sweetly, hands folded behind her as she walked backwards between the towering shelves of the Archives. Idly, Corvo wondered if Daud’s Void powers gave them eyes in the backs of their heads; though perhaps she had the precise combination of cocky and familiar with her surroundings that made her invulnerable to the books that had made homes in crooked piles on the floor. For a long moment she studied him, bright blue eyes scanning from his shoulders stretching the seams of Daud’s coat down to his sockless feet crammed into his boots and back up to the shadows pressed into the hollows of his eyes. Corvo almost wished she was wearing her mask, because no matter how much he hated the things at least he wouldn’t have to watch her watch him. He felt like he was being sized up, appraised, and ultimately found unworthy of her master’s affections.

Eventually she shrugged and turned her back to him once more. It was an immeasurable relief, and Corvo tried not to deflate with pulse-pounding relief.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Galia said after a while. “He wants to make sure you get home in one piece.”

“Right,” Corvo muttered, a little dejected.

“And,” she added almost as an afterthought. “He likes you.”

She must have heard the cup in his hand clatter against its saucer as he flailed to keep from dropping them to the moldering floor, because she glanced back at him, grinning and teasingly shrewd.

“Master Daud was very much a gentleman last night, or so Rinaldo said,” Galia informed him haughtily. “He said you looked exhausted, sitting with Master Daud and dozing against his shoulder, so Master Daud put you to bed in his own quarters. Rinaldo said that Master Daud stayed up, keeping watch from his chair in case you woke up disoriented. Said he only left twice, once to check on Thomas and once to make you coffee. It was all very romantic.”

Corvo’s cheeks were aflame with embarrassment, and he hid his face beneath the fall of his hair, watching his boots as they walked.

“It sounds like this Rinaldo says a lot,” Corvo growled defensively.

Galia cackled, a cutely ugly sound that she punctuated with a snort. “Oh, yes. Rinaldo always has something to say. We Whalers love gossip, you see, and you’ve been the talk of Rudshore for about a month, probably since the start of Hearths.”

“What?”

“I was there you know, the night you two met,” Galia informed, voice gone a little dreamy with recollection. “The both of you on that rooftop, windswept in the moonlight, looking like the cover of a two-coin smut novel. The tension.”

She gestured with her fingers pinched together like a Bastillian chef, and Corvo tried not to smirk even as the memory of Daud that night turned something hot and hungry in his belly. Limned in cloud-cut starlight, scarlet coat pulled tight against his thick frame by the gusting breeze, Daud had been a sight to behold, terrible and beautiful. In hindsight, Corvo had known then what he wanted Daud to be, even if the path to the fruition of his desires had been dark and twisting beneath his feet. But here he was, sleeping in Daud’s bed and melting into the warm scent of his coat like bathwater, given free rein within his den of heretics and treated like an honored guest. Perhaps larceny, a spontaneous murder, and head injury was not how he thought he would find himself precisely where he wanted to be, but Corvo found that since they had all survived the ordeal, he undoubtedly wouldn’t complain.

“So, you’re the one to blame for the gossip,” he prompted when he realized that he had been quiet for too long.

“Well, Jordan certainly didn’t help,” Galia chuckled. “You really rattled him during the Ludd job. We all thought Killian was going to end up on a war path against you for scaring his man like that. Now that’s a fight I’d pay good coin to see: Lord Corvo Attano, winner of the Blade Verbena and Royal Protector to Empress Jessamine Kaldwin versus the angriest heretic in Gristol.”

She gestured broadly, as if she could see the advertisement writing itself before her eyes; a prize fight to put the hound cages to shame.

“I just assumed that Daud was the angriest heretic in Gristol.”

“Maybe he used to be,” she corrected a little wistfully. “But it seems like since you showed up the Old Knife has dulled a little.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Of course it is. Opening yourself up to someone is always dangerous. Still, Master Daud knows the difference between a risk and a gamble. You just have to convince him that you’re a risk worth taking.”

Corvo had nothing to say to that, but something heavy and oddly permanent was trying to settle into his chest, coiling around his heart and cracking open his ribs like tree roots through pavement. The awkward, agonizing pain of new affection was something he knew, something he understood from living through the horrifying, heart-pounding fear of taking a blind step into another’s arms and praying that there would still be a floor underfoot. He had survived it with Jessamine, knew the wrench of momentary freefall before affections were returned, knew the pillow soft landing that awaited below. Suddenly it occurred to him that, perhaps, Daud did not.

It was a harrowing thought, one that suggested that he should perhaps proceed with caution. Daud deserved to know that he would not be abandoned to freefall – not with Corvo. But Corvo would have to prove to him that it was safe, a calculated risk, and bear his own tender insides to Daud first. Daud was too pragmatic, too suspicious to expose his own weakness without receiving a payment of weakness in advance.

“Enough deep talk, let’s eat!” Galia chirped, apparently shaking herself free of the weight of their conversation as she tugged him into the dining hall.

Corvo had barely registered the place the night before, exhausted and starving as he had been, the pressure of his concern for Thomas blinding him to his surroundings. It was little more than what appeared to have once been an apartment above a gaggle of law offices below, the barristers’ desks having been liberally reappropriated to serve as dining tables lined up in long rows end-to-end. Jenkins had set up shop in the apartment’s kitchen, any number of questionable things bubbling away in large pot on the stove. He waved cheerily to Corvo with a broad grin, that one chipped tooth cutting comically across the line of his smile, and Corvo gladly waved back.

Galia settled them down at an empty table, easily ignoring the strained, cautious looks they earned from her fellow Whalers. There were fewer gathered in the mess than he expected, though it was perhaps still too early for lunch hour. It was a relief, in truth. A cluster of Whalers that Corvo did not recognize were huddled around their plates on the far side of the room, clearly talking about him, and he tried not to mind the rather cutting glares two of them were sending his way. The two scowling men were near mirror-images of each other, both boasting soft red hair and vibrant green eyes, though one wore a well-trimmed beard that concealed his broad, square jawline. The third man bore a scheming, beguiling smile that was too ready to distract from the lean, vicious muscle concealed beneath his leather coat, the richness of his dark skin betraying him as Serkonan born.

“Who are they?” Corvo asked Galia curiously, when the trio’s scrutiny had finally begun to rankle.

Galia glanced over her shoulder and snorted dismissively, turning back to the bowl of mysterious whale-meat stew that Jenkins had graciously brought them and sopping up the broth with flatbread.

“Trouble,” she answered simply, unhelpfully.

Corvo hummed warily and nursed his fresh cup of coffee reluctantly. Galia was right, Daud had done him a kindness it brewing the first cup himself. After a long while of silently commiserating with his reflection in the dark surface of the drink, Corvo stiffened when the dark-skinned man shoved back from his table and stalked towards their own. He moved with a calculated sort of casualness that made the hair on Corvo’s neck stand on end, and Corvo suddenly wished he was armed.

“Oh no,” Galia commented idly.

The man stopped just next to Corvo’s chair, spent a long moment assessing him with a critical glare, and then abruptly stuck his hand out to shake, a wide smile splitting his face and making his eyes scrunch up at the corners. Corvo blinked at him, startled.

“Hi, I’m Rinaldo! Nice to meet you Mister Attano Lord Protector sir!”

*****

“The bastard wanted to kill Jordan,” Killian was hissing bitterly, a fist clenched white-knuckled on the table top.

“Maybe Jordan deserved it,” Kieron spat in return, though he was still glaring at Attano in solidarity as if he had insulted their mother.

Rinaldo frowned, sucking on his spoon and tapping it against his teeth. He didn’t know the man, and the last time he had met him Attano had been bleeding from a headwound, but Rinaldo figured he couldn’t be too terrible if Daud favored him so much. Now, he just looked tired and appropriately edgy, having been abandoned by Daud and left to fend for himself in their den of thieves.

“Maybe he was just having a bad night that time,” Rinaldo speculated, earning himself livid glares from the twins. “I’m just saying! Jordan said that the whole situation was tense. Apparently Attano was about to protect Daud like a wolfhound. Plus, Aeolos worships the ground he walks on, so he can only be so bad.”

Rinaldo was curious. He had spent a great deal of time starting rumors about Master Daud and the Royal Protector, and his opportunity to confirm if his hare-brained theories were correct was sitting a few tables away, staring despondently at himself in a cup of Jenkins’s wretched coffee. No matter what it was that Jordan had seen in the man that night, none of that dark-eyed monster was in Attano now. Attano’s shoulders were creeping slowly towards his shoulders the longer they whispered about him, and it appeared that Galia was doing nothing to put him at ease. It was kind of pitiful, like watching a hound come to realize that he was about to be sent into the fighting ring.

“I’m gonna talk to him,” Rinaldo declared.

“No ye ain’t!” Kieron snapped.

“Are ye fuckin’ daft?!” Killian scolded.

“What’s the big deal?” Rinaldo asked, perplexed. “We’re all dying to know what he’s like, and Thomas has been shut up like a river krust since yesterday, won’t say a word. He’s just sitting there, what’s the harm?”

“He’s the Royal fuckin’ Protector!”

“So? The boss is all friendly with him,” Rinaldo argued.

“Aye, and Daud can get shanked if he wants to. But I’d rather not have me fuckin’ head on a pike in front of Dunwall Tower,” Killian snarled, though it sounded very much like Jordan had instilled a healthy fear of Corvo Attano in him.

Luckily, Rinaldo was an idiot.

“I’m gonna talk to him.”

“Get back here, Escobar!” the twins were growling when Rinaldo stood abruptly, nearly sending his chair toppling to the floor in his conviction.

As he approached, Attano began to look like a cornered animal, like he would bite if he was pressed much further. Rinaldo stopped perhaps too close, certainly well within striking range, and took a long moment to look properly at the Royal Protector.

He was a handsome man, all tan skin and dark curls, with a long sharp nose and thin lips and eyes that shifted like liquor in a glass. There was something undeniably, robustly Serkonan about him, as was only appropriate given he was Karnaca’s golden child. Rinaldo had wanted to be Corvo Attano as a foolhardy teenager, convinced that if he fought enough brawlers in dusty alleys he would also be able to win the Blade Verbena. He learned quickly, however, that such skill was surely beyond his scope, and quickly turned to working as a runner between the black market dealers instead. He was far better suited to shadows and smooth-talking than he ever would have been to sharp-pressed uniforms and discipline. It wasn’t until he met Daud and earned his arcane mark that he felt as if he had the power to compete with the winners of the Blade Verbena. Ironically, though, in joining Daud and settling more completely into his criminal life, a uniform and discipline was what he got.

Satisfied that Attano would not tear his throat out with his teeth, as Jordan had repeatedly suggested he might, Rinaldo grinned and extended his hand.

“Hi, I’m Rinaldo!” he chirped, a little starstruck. “Nice to meet you Mister Attano Lord Protector sir!”

Attano gawped at him for a long moment as if he’d been hit in the head with a pipe wrench, before slowly taking Rinaldo’s hand and shaking it once, firmly. He had a swordsman’s callouses, hard and thick across his palms, and Rinaldo respected him for it. It seemed like a cushy life in the Tower hadn’t made him soft.

“Corvo,” Attano replied slowly. “Not… whatever you just said.”

Galia barked an unattractive laugh, but Rinaldo ignored her, taking it upon himself to claim the seat next to Attano as if he’d been invited to join them. Attano ducked back, his face contorting in a quick flicker of confused-surprised-affronted before settling once more into a carefully practiced neutral. If Attano’s baseline was the stern, cold-hearted expression he currently wore, it was no wonder that thoughts of him kept Jordan from sleeping well at night. It also made Daud’s apparent fascination – affection? – for him all the more confounding. Corvo Attano was a river krust closed tight, and suddenly Rinaldo felt very much like a Wrenhaven otter, eager to pry him open.

“So, how are you enjoying your stay in the Flooded District, Corvo?

“It’s… wet,” Attano replied carefully.

Rinaldo laughed from his belly, genuinely delighted with the response. Attano was funny, whether he meant to be or not, though Rinaldo suspected that he had to be at least a little witty to keep Daud’s attention for so long. Daud was a smart man, after all, even with Attano was apparently turning him stupid. Still, Rinaldo couldn’t judge; love made fools of most men, if love it was.

After a log while of trying to wring conversation out of Attano to poor result, Rinaldo ended up launching into a one-sided lecture about the Whalers he was closest to, watching with glee as Attano slowly softened with each anecdote. He told him about Jordan, about how he was recruited into the Whalers after nearly being beaten to death for trying to pickpocket Kieron, and accidentally finding the love of his life in Killian in the process – not that Jordan would admit it. He told Attano about the twins, los diablos rojos, who were Jenkins’s cousins by blood on their mothers’ side or something, Morleyan family trees always confused him anyway. He won a chuckle when he told Dodge’s story, about how their name was actually Whalen Bly and how Daud brought them on after failing to complete a contract for their life on behalf of a jealous employer whose wife had fallen for the tutor; how they earned the nickname because they'd dodged Daud’s bullet. Attano was engrossed by Misha, who had fled Tyvia after her choffer of a husband found out she was having an affair with the neighbor’s wife, and by Leonid, who had allegedly escaped a Tyvian prison but was too boring to tell the story properly. And his eyes went soft when Rinaldo spoke of Javier and Montgomery, a Serkonan Grand Guard defector and a physician who had poisoned her way out of an abusive marriage, only to find love together among a band of heretical assassins.

By the end of it all, Rinaldo had coaxed Attano into a proper conversation, and they were both grinning as they spoke with bitter fondness of childhoods in Karnaca, of dust and Padilla pear sodas on summer afternoons and nighttime dancing in the square at the end of a long week. They griped about Dunwall, slipping in and out of trilling Serkonan as they rambled, complaining about the damp and the cold and the bland, tasteless food. It was delightful to trade memories of home with someone closer to his age; Rinaldo loved to reminisce with Javier, but the nearly two decades of difference in their ages made shared experiences difficult to conjure, and Daud rarely spoke of his childhood. With Attano, memories felt nearly mutual, and Rinaldo found himself smiling and laughing with enjoyment as they talked.

Galia was watching them contently, chin in her hand, and eventually the twins even slunk over to distract her with idle chat about this assignment or that, or who was scheduled on patrol with whom. Rinaldo paid them little mind, too enraptured by the sunshine warmth of the real Corvo Attano, unguarded by protective suspicion and unfamiliarity. Attano was soft-spoken but brutally witty, his clever mind an apparently endless supply of sharp-edged humor and careful consideration. It was no wonder that Attano was touted as a master tactician, even as many doubted his intelligence based solely on the merit of his heritage. It was also no wonder that Daud was so infatuated with the man; he was engaging, shrewd, competent, strikingly beautiful. Quickly, Rinaldo found that he truly liked Attano and enjoyed his company, and idly hoped that Daud would refrain from ruining whatever it was they had so that Attano may visit Rudshore again.

Whalers filed in and out of the mess for lunch, and eventually for dinner, casting them strange, confounded glances as they sat down to eat, granting Attano a wide berth. At some point the sun had started creeping down and Jordan had made a rather grand appearance, which wilted pitifully at the sight of Attano sat among them. Attano had made a stilted attempt at apology for the night of the Ludd job, and Rinaldo had gleefully dug a bottle of Orbon rum out of the stash that Jenkins never managed to hide well enough. They drank together, Javier eventually drawn to the smell of rum like a wolfhound to a bone charm, and before long Rinaldo was attempting to teach Jordan the lyrics to old Serkonan songs, falling into hysterics at his abysmal pronunciation. Attano was smiling meekly as he watched them, having grown quieter as the crowd amassed, but still apparently content enough to enjoy their antics.

Daud had still not returned from his morning errand out into Dunwall, and bolstered by his absence and the false confidence of rum, Rinaldo stood abruptly, slamming his hands down on the table. Everyone flinched and fell silent, bewildered.

“Corvo!” he announced loudly, jabbing a finger in Attano’s face. “How do you feel about dancing?”

Attano blinked at him for a few breaths before a sly, crooked grin pulled his expression a little drunkenly lopsided, but there was a hungry heat in his gaze that made Rinaldo’s mouth go dry.

“I'm from Serkonos. What do you think?” Attano responded smoothly in Serkonan.

Rinaldo matched his grin, elated. “Javier! Go get your guitar. I have an idea.”

*****

Daud did not return to Rudshore until well after dark, tired and frustrated and a little sore, eager to look in on Thomas and reluctantly concerned about how Corvo had fared unsupervised amongst the Whalers for the day. Corvo was a tenacious, adaptable man, not easily deterred by derision or threat of bodily harm. If he were not, Daud imagined with a stupid snort of what he refused to call fond amusement, he never would have tolerated – or survived – Daud beyond their first meeting. If Corvo Attano was a more sensible man, none of them would be in their current predicament.

The term predicament, perhaps, was unjust. Certainly if Corvo Attano was a more sensible man Thomas would not have a bullet wound in his leg, the Empress would not be without her Royal Protector, and Daud would have been able to sleep in his own damn bed last night. Of course, he could have slept in his own bed, could have relegated Corvo to a sick bed in Montgomery’s infirmary where he belonged. But Corvo had been so heavy as he dozed against Daud’s shoulder, shadows deep as the Void beneath his eyes, and Daud had quickly admitted defeat. Besides, he would never turn down an opportunity to complain at a later date.

It was a special sort of eerie privilege to have the Lord Protector press his face into Daud’s chest when he hoisted him into his arms, to have him cling blearily as he was settled beneath the blankets, to keep guard and watch him sleep. The ratty armchair near his bed was a good enough place to sit with a lit cigarette dangling forgotten between his bare fingers, the hand Corvo had held – the left – curling and uncurling into anxious fists. He was too tired to sleep, his Mark still burning from the press of Corvo’s palm against it. His pulse had spiked at the touch, throbbing in his ears, loud enough that he was sure Corvo would hear it and mock him for his juvenile terror. Slowly it had quieted into something strong but steady, and Corvo had woven their fingers together as if it were as natural as flowers in spring, and Daud’s throat had gone thick with some emotion that he tried to swallow back into his belly.

Daud had wanted to crawl into Corvo’s ribcage, let the rhythm of his heart dictate the rhythm of Daud’s own, let each breath sighed between Corvo’s lips drag away his fear and uncertainty and the quiet dread that his world was beginning to fall apart. Everything he knew, the very foundations that supported the world he had built for himself had been jostled since Corvo had nearly toppled into his life. He was drifting, unmoored, questioned and doubted with traitorous whispers from the lips of his own men, desperate to straighten his spine and put a blade into the heart of his growing weakness. But that blade would cut deep, would cut Corvo, and Daud found his hands trembling like a child’s before he could land the blow. He feared, despite his raging hatred for that same fear, that wounding Corvo would break him.

It’s terrifying, Jordan had told him, and he’d be damned if it wasn’t.

So he had sat, thinking such solemn thoughts, until the cigarette burned down to ashes and singed the tips of his sword-rough fingers. He had watched the rise and fall of Corvo’s breath, sinking willingly into his rhythm, and layered heavier quilts across his legs when he shivered in his sleep against the chill. There was the acrid scent of ocean spray in the air, and Daud hoped idly that the Outsider was not darkening his dreams. It was quiet, almost peaceful. But eventually Corvo had turned over and nearly moaned his name in the middle of the night, and Daud had quickly retreated downstairs to his office, far enough away to pretend he would not be able to hear. There he had sulked until just before dawn, when he finally left to make sure Thomas had slept through the night. Rinaldo was patrolling on the breezeways, making a poor effort at pretending he had not been privy to Daud’s suffering by spying through the Chamber’s windows, and he held his hands up defensively under the weight of a well-earned glare.

Daud had looked in on Thomas, looked in on Aeolos, looked in on the patrols. He had wandered to the kitchens to bother Jenkins for eggs and toast and figs, had eaten alone in the ramshackle dining hall, and abruptly found himself with little else to do besides return to his quarters and watch Corvo sleep. He had only managed to suffer the silence for a few hours, his mind too easily drawn from the book in his hand to Corvo’s each snuffling breath, feeling the great wide expanse of the world shrinking down to the soft wheeze of in-out, in-out upstairs in his bed. It was untenable torture, and so he finally dressed for the day and woke a grumbling Galia, assigning her to serve as Corvo’s minder so that he could make a graceless escape from Rudshore. Even bitter with lingering sleep, she had smirked at him, sly and knowing as he rattled off a rather self-explanatory set of guidelines regarding how not to kill the Lord Protector. She had saluted him with a kindly mocking yes, sir, and he had prepared to flee the scorching embarrassment creeping up the back of his neck.

He could not remark why, but before escaping into greater Dunwall he had slunk back into the kitchens like a thief to brew a fresh cup of coffee, sweetened with honey the way he liked. Though he wished to explain it away in some manner condescending or otherwise cruel, he still settled the cup on the trunk at the end of his bed for Corvo, knowing in his heart it was a kindness that he wanted to offer. And if he brushed a wild curl away from Corvo’s brow as he slept, well, no one else had to know.

But now, as he trudged past the refinery and back into the heart of Rudshore, he ached to spit in the face of his affection for Corvo Attano. The bastard had made a far grander mess of the Timsh job than he could have imagined, and the seething frustration built by a day’s worth of cleaning up messes like a nursemaid made it too easy to forget that he liked the son of a bitch, for whatever Void-forsaken reason. He had even gone to hunt down Corvo’s coat from a random rooftop outside the Legal District, but after the events of the day was feeling inclined to drop the damn thing into the floodwaters out of spite. After everything, Daud was determined to drag Corvo back to the Tower by his scruffy head and deposit him back on the Empress’s doorstep. Let him be her problem again, Daud thought uncharitably.

There was a jovial commotion echoing from the roof of a building not far ahead, and Daud, already unhappy and itching to shout at someone, transversed the distance, landing in the middle of what appeared to be an impromptu party. The most troublesome Whalers were all congregated, perched on crates and propped against crooked chimneys, the better part of their stockpile of liquor divided amongst them. Javier was picking some racy jaunt on his guitar alongside the tinny whirrings of an audiograph player he had scrounged from Void knows where, an old Serkonan song that Daud remembered from hot summer nights and the thirsty sultriness of Fugue in Karnaca. Jordan and Killian were tangled together, Killian’s broad hands sneaking beneath his lover’s shirt while Jordan whispered something unrepentantly filthy in his ear. Jenkins was losing at dice against Misha and Galia, who were tittering in sly Tyvian at his expense, and even Dodge had made an appearance, loosened from their prim snobbishness by half a bottle of brandy.

Most notably, however, Rinaldo and Corvo were leaned in close, smiling against each other’s cheeks as they stomped out a lively flamenco, wrists rolling as they spun apart, clapping along to Javier’s rhythm. Rinaldo gestured broadly as if waving a wide skirt around his hips, and Corvo threw his head back to laugh, nearly losing the beat before they surged back together. A few of the older novices were watching them whirl and press seductively close, staring rapt at the two men moving as if choreographed. Daud knew better, knew the musical thrum of a Serkonan’s heart and the dances that swam in their blood, knew the spitfire instinct of footwork engrained as deeply as the dust in Batista. Rinaldo and Corvo were beautiful together, shifting and twirling as if sewn together with threads spun of shared heritage and southern sun and lust. They were watching each other, intent, fiery, eyes going hooded and hungry whenever they stepped close, and Daud could see Rinaldo’s gaze falling to Corvo’s lips. It was natural; they were perfect. There was no room for Daud there, and he came to comprehend that thought with a shameful, jealous rage that made his throat tight.

He took a step back, ready to retreat, but the audiograph clicked off and Javier strummed his final notes, and Corvo accidentally caught his gaze. Void, he was striking, his smile broad and his cheeks pink with pleasant exertion as he reached up to comb his sweaty hair away from his face, body drawn tight with the lingering passion of the dance. His smile widened, impossibly, when he saw Daud. Then he was rushing in close, one big hand splayed across Daud’s chest and curling into the lapel of his coat.

“Daud, come dance with me,” Corvo breathed, ecstatic, tugging at him insistently.

“You’re drunk,” Daud observed accusingly.

Corvo laughed, leaning in like he was going to press his smile into Daud’s neck, before stopping just short. “You have some catching up do.”

His breath against Daud’s throat, warm with liquor and the excitement of dancing, made embarrassed heat flare in Daud’s blood, though he fought the feeling away with the comfortable anger of his confounded frustration. Shoving away, Daud bared his teeth, but Corvo’s smile stretched slyly across his face even as he stumbled back, grin turning animal and hungry.

“You were having your fun with Rinaldo, so leave me be, Attano.”

“Don’t be that way, Daud,” Corvo scolded sweetly. “Come join us. Rinaldo and I were having such a nice time.”

“And I’ve spent my day cleaning up your fucking mess!” Daud spat, flinging Corvo’s rescued coat at him. He caught it against his chest, barely, one sleeve flopping over his shoulder in an awkward embrace.

“I won’t apologize for killing him. Timsh was a piece of shit. Good riddance.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Then what is?”

Daud was silent for a long moment, chest heaving as he tried and failed to look away from the dazzling figure Corvo cut in his own scarlet coat, tan skin flushed in the moonlight and Void-dark hair curling against his brow. Timsh being dead wasn’t the point, not really. The point was that Daud had been away from Rudshore – away from Corvo – for an entire day, meanwhile the Whalers received the privilege of basking in the Lord Protector’s company. Still, Daud would rather pull his own teeth from his skull than admit to his childish, irrational jealousy in front of any of them.

“Oh, I get it,” Corvo drawled, accent rolling freely under the liberating lull of alcohol as he cast his newly recovered coat aside and sidled close again He had switched to low, sultry Serkonan when he spoke again. “Are you jealous of Rinaldo, Daud? You don't need to be. He's not the one I want.”

Daud heard Javier spluttering and choking on his drink, saw Rinaldo’s eyes go wide like he had a gun to his head, could feel the wheezy jolt of his own breath stuttering in his throat. A few of the Whalers drunkenly transversed away when Corvo stroked his hand along Daud’s chest once more, and he could hear them landing gracelessly and stumbling with slurred curses at their own inebriation when they nearly missed their marks. Served them right, he thought rudely.

He could only focus on his shock for so long before the distraction of Corvo’s touch threw him violently back into his own body. Breath catching, he imagined the closeness was likely a close approximation of how it felt to get shoved through a Wall of Light, all crackling electricity and a searing heat that could almost be pleasant if it weren’t stained with the agony of one’s demise. He was dying, Daud thought as Corvo’s hand ghosted up the side of his neck, fingers dipping beneath his collar and thumb stroking under his jaw to press against his chin. Surely the specimens Sokolov had kept at the Academy had suffered less than this, he ruminated as his eyes slipped shut with a shivering exhale.

“Is that why you’re so angry with me, Daud?” Corvo murmured lowly, words careful and far more sober than he expected. “Do you want me all to yourself? Well, you have me. But you don’t know what you want, do you?”

Daud held his breath in his chest until it grew hot and agonizing, finally letting it hiss out between his teeth, ribs closing around his lungs like a temple collapsing atop its own forgotten altar. He couldn’t feel the chill of the air, couldn’t hear the lazy lapping of the floodwaters below; he could only feel the lingering press of Corvo’s fingertips against his chest, his neck, his jaw, could only see the terrified longing in Corvo’s honey-gold eyes. He was not the only one who was unmoored and afraid, Daud realized, the thought immeasurably comforting.

“I don’t know,” he whispered at last, saw the way Corvo’s gaze followed the movement of his lips. “I’m not….”

Nodding, Corvo took a step back, his hand lingering against Daud's skin, but eventually turned away with a conviction that stung like betrayal. It seemed as if the great expanse of the Void was yawning open between them, and Daud would have nearly staggered after him if his boots had not felt like they had been nailed to the floor. With a sigh Corvo selected a bottle of rum from the collection the Whalers had hauled up to the rooftop before swiping a few audiograph cards from beside the battered old player and turning back to Daud.

“I think we need to talk,” he said carefully, as if Daud was a skittish animal liable to bolt. It was, perhaps, not an unfair observation.

Reluctantly, Daud nodded and gestured to the Chamber of Commerce sitting stark and stalwart across the way, before transversing off, knowing that Corvo would follow. It was cruel to abandon him, and surely Corvo would be peeved by the time he made it to the office, but Daud needed a moment to settle himself, to pace a rut into the floorboards and compose the lie that his fear was frustration. Clambering up the stairs to his quarters, he shed his bandolier and knife, a weak facsimile of his usual routine, and tried to pretend his hands weren’t shaking. No one but Corvo Attano could rattle him so easily. What normally would be considered an inconvenient distraction to be quickly culled had settled into his muscles, into his bones, into his head, and Daud knew with an ever-rising panic that Corvo Attano was as inevitable as the tides. Even if he were to be shunned now, pushed away with all the cruel cleanliness of well-executed kill, Daud imagined that the memories of that smile would haunt him like ghosts.

By the time Corvo slipped in through the office door, he had managed to scrounge up two glasses and Daud had smoked through the last of his cigarettes in a desperate attempt to occupy his restless hands. Corvo arched a wry, knowing brow at the smoldering remains lying discarded in the chipped teacup that Daud used as an ashtray, looking like he wanted to make some smart-assed comment about the Strictures. He refrained, generously, and clacked the two glasses down on Daud’s desk, pouring them each a substantial portion.

Of course Corvo would drink rum, Daud thought idly as he watched the pale liquor slosh in the crystal when he was handed a glass, making a concerted effort to avoid Corvo’s gaze. His attempts would accomplish nothing in the realm of avoidance, he knew; Corvo was too obstinate to let difficult things lie when he felt vindicated in his pursuits, as he clearly did now. Daud wasn’t sure when such knowledge had become so natural, as if knowing Corvo was second nature, instinct, requiring no thought. It was a terrifying concept to ponder, so he didn’t.

The sudden click of his audiograph machine and the swelling rise of a slow, sultry Serkonan tune jolted Daud from his thoughts, and he watched as Corvo took a long drink of his rum before abandoning it on the desktop. Daud’s was still clutched, forgotten, in his hand, but Corvo stepped close and nudged a finger against the underside of Daud’s glass, urging him to drink. He did, swallowing the saccharine burn at Corvo’s gentle prompting, too distracted by the hooded, yearning look in Corvo’s eyes to complain when his own drink was also placed on the desk and forgotten. Then Corvo’s hands were on him, one splayed against his hip and the other pressing warm and insistent against the back of his neck, and he was dragged into a lazy, swaying dance in the middle of his office floor. Daud went along willingly, lost in the undertow of Corvo’s presence, his warmth, his bright, blood amber gaze roaming unhindered across his face like he could pry Daud open and lick out his marrow. Without realizing, Daud found his own hands reaching out, sliding along Corvo’s lower back beneath his own coat, clutching and nearly desperate.

“I thought we were talking, not dancing,” he accused, a little breathless.

Corvo’s rumbling chuckle drew him closer, made his lungs stutter pitifully. “As if you’d be able to stand still and chat. I know you better than that, Daud.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Of course I do,” Corvo murmured, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Besides, dancing keeps a man honest. It is too difficult to remember steps and invent lies at the same time. One of the two will eventually falter, and you’ll betray yourself.”

“You think I’ll lie?”

“I think you’ll want to.”

Daud was struck silent for a long while, words drying bitterly on his tongue, but he allowed the gentle insistence of Corvo’s hands to coax him into swaying to the soft rhythm of the music. The accusation was true, no matter how dearly he wanted to deny it, but any such rejection would simply give Corvo ammunition to use against him. Instead, his traitorous body rocked into familiar steps, the distant memory of dancing with his mother in their kitchen as a boy carving cracks into his defenses and softening his reluctance. He was so tired of being contrary. It was so easy to fall to Corvo’s whims, weak and willing.

“You shouldn’t have been drinking,” Daud accused flatly, frowning when Corvo’s fingers flexed guiltily against his hip. “You’re still not well, you need to rest.”

“I’m well enough,” Corvo replied, though rather than the defensiveness Daud expected, he sounded fond. “Besides, if I had been resting instead of causing trouble, I never would have earned the honor of dancing with the Knife of Dunwall.”

A short glare revealed that Corvo was smiling down at him, looking impossibly pleased with himself. Daud snorted derisively and shoved Corvo away, a feeble effort at escape, but Corvo simply rocked a few precise, light-footed steps and pressed close again, on hand finding Daud’s and the other alighting against his spine. Unbidden, Daud arched away from the touch, accidentally forcing their hips together. His breath stuttered when Corvo hummed hungrily, low and rumbling in his chest as he settled Daud’s hands back on his hips.

“What are you trying to accomplish, Attano?” Daud snapped softer than he intended, voice cracking awkwardly like some love-struck waif.

“I’m just being selfish,” he replied, a little fragile. “I just wanted a moment where we weren’t the Lord Protector and the Knife of Dunwall. I know that after all that’s happened, you’re just as likely to want me dead as you are to want me around, but before you hand down your judgement, I just wanted to be… us. For a little while.”

It was absurd that Corvo would believe that he could be cast so easily aside, tossed away like so much trash after Daud had cared for him, held him close when he was wounded, kept vigil at his bedside through the night. It was absurd to believe that after all the worry, the fear, Daud would be capable of parting with him so simply. He may be a cold-blooded killer, an assassin, but Daud was not heartless, no matter how dearly he wished he could be; it certainly would make this easier. Daud wanted to rebel and shove Corvo away for even thinking the thought, but instead he pulled him a little closer, fists closing in the back of his shirt. How dare he, Daud thought indignantly. How dare he, when Daud had already offered up so much of himself to Corvo’s whims? Did he truly think that the glimpses he’d seen of Daud’s pitiful, weak underbelly were so cheap that he would be able to part with the pieces of himself that were already in Corvo’s hands?

Daud found himself inexplicably angry, but the hurt of it ran so much deeper, like the chasm of the ocean compared to the Wrenhaven’s fast-flowing channels. The hurt was by far the less familiar sensation, and by far the more frightening.

The end of one song and the start of another jolted Daud back to the moment, the husky, desperate voice of a woman singing through the tinny speakers that sent a chill down his spine, and he resisted the hopeless want to lean closer to Corvo’s warmth.

Dices que fui yo, y no que yo, the song lilted, slow and haunting. Que nunca te amé de verdad, qué rabia me da….

“Do you honestly think I won’t be the Knife? That you can crack me open and find something different? Something better?” Daud said instead, hoarse and dangerously brittle.

“No,” Corvo whispered like the word was drawn from the depths of his soul, echoing with a veracity that was frightening in its conviction. “But I don’t want you to hide yourself from me. Not anymore.

He drew a slow breath, drifting into Daud's space and murmuring in soft Serkonan: "Whatever you are, I want to see you.”

Breath leaving him in a stammering gasp, Daud closed his eyes, tilting his chin up when Corvo leant to rest their foreheads together, gentle and intimate. His hands were trembling against Corvo’s flanks, but after a moment Corvo trailed his fingers down the lengths of Daud’s arms, touch whispering over his coat sleeves and alighting, tender but searing hot against the skin of his wrists. Corvo was careful, deliberate as he pulled Daud’s gloves away, letting them fall forgotten to the floor. Daud was too distracted by the coarse warmth of Corvo’s fingers tangling with his own to mind anything besides the frantic stumbling of his own breaths against Corvo’s jaw. The distance between them seemed immense and yet impossibly small, and Daud wanted to close it, to flee, to stay perfectly still and allow Corvo to do as he will. But then Corvo was rocking one leg between Daud’s, urging him into the first slow steps of a bachata.

“Dance with me,” Corvo whispered, and Daud imagined that he could taste Serkonan spice and silver dust on his words.

He pressed up, suddenly overcome with the desire to lick the accent from Corvo’s lips, but Corvo just chuckled low and teasing, stepping away to sway his hips and pull Daud into a slow spin. Disappointed, Daud reluctantly followed Corvo’s lead, driven breathless again when the turn ended in them pressed chest to chest, Corvo’s hand settling on the back of his neck. They swayed together, hips slotted close, and Daud swore he could smell his own cologne on Corvo’s flushed skin. It made his mouth dry, his pulse pounding loud enough to nearly smother the music in his ears. Closing his eyes, Daud followed Corvo blind, shuddering when a warm hand came to caress his jaw, Corvo’s thumb pressing gently along the scar that carved down his face. The mark was long healed, but still tender enough to steal his breath. No one had ever touched him like this, he realized, the thought drifting to him as slow and hazy as white tobacco smoke.

“You don’t realize how beautiful you are, do you?” Corvo murmured, saccharine but so painfully honest.

Daud clenched his eyes shut, mortified by the pathetic welling of feeling that made his throat go tight and thick with emotion. Damn Corvo Attano.

“Look at me, Daud,” Corvo urged as he swept his thumb over Daud’s cheek. “Look at me.”

“You’re drunk,” Daud censured weakly, though his eyes still fluttered open at the order.

Immediately he wished he had kept them shut, because Corvo was gazing down at him like the answers to the world’s oldest questions were in his eyes, as if he wanted to fold Daud up like a letter from a long-lost lover and keep him the pocket over his heart. The look wasn’t hungry, it wasn’t lustful; it was fragile with timid hope, gleaming with a longing that Daud couldn’t begin to parse. There was too much that he didn’t understand, and it left him vulnerable. There was a hole in his world in the shape of Corvo Attano, but the darkness promised answers if he could just let go, give in.

“I’m not drunk,” Corvo whispered as he turned Daud so they could sway together, back to chest. “I’m scared that you’ll disappear.”

Weak-kneed, Daud heaved a sigh that sounded unnervingly like a moan and rocked his head back against Corvo’s shoulder. Apparently emboldened, Corvo pressed his lips to Daud’s neck and inhaled deep, as if it would be his final breath, his arms folding around Daud’s waist to pull him closer like they could melt into one battered, broken mess, held together by something they were too afraid to name. Hands trembling, Daud reached up to thread his fingers into Corvo’s wild curls, the touch trailing lower along his jaw, against his throat.

“You’re heart is pounding,” Daud softly observed.

“Of course it is,” came the husky reply that caressed like fingertips down Daud’s collar.

“Are you afraid of me?”

Corvo was silent for a long moment, breathing slow and hot, before he answered: “Yes.”

Daud turned in his arms, rocking back into their careful rhythm, and understood from the low, haunted hunch of Corvo’s brows over his too-bright eyes what he meant. There was no fear of injury or death; they were far beyond that now. This fear was deeper, coiled around his heart, same as the fear that made Daud’s throat go tight whenever they were too near, too familiar, too intimate.

“Good,” Daud whispered in a cautious attempt at levity, and Corvo huffed a soft laugh, gently knocking their foreheads together with a smile.

The music was swelling to a lonesome crest, the woman’s melancholy voice causing something dark and aching to curdle in Daud’s belly, and he pressed a little closer to Corvo, reaching up to grasp desperately at his nape. Corvo sighed, eyes closing, hands splaying across Daud’s waist as the song slowly faded into the desolate, whirring click of the audiograph machine.

“Can I kiss you?” Corvo asked carefully, as if anticipating the rejection to sting like salt in a wound. Daud went stiff in his arms, but Corvo continued, desperate. “I fucked up, last time. Let me… let me do it right, just once. Please.”

Daud’s breaths were coming too fast, like prey before a predator, taking too long to respond. But Corvo stood quietly, bracing for whatever rebuff he thought would come, his thumbs brushing gently along Daud’s hips and the bridge of his nose nuzzling longingly against Daud’s. He didn’t presume, didn’t take what he wanted, and Daud could feel the grief in him as Corvo began to respectfully pull away.

“Yes,” Daud managed, breathless and willing, tensing his arms to keep Corvo near.

Corvo gusted a desperate sound and ducked down to press their lips together, parting too soon to pant hotly against Daud’s jaw. His eyes were closed like he was in agony as Daud watched him struggle, before finally taking pity on him and twining his fingers into Corvo’s hair and pulling him up again, holding him close.

This time it was slow, lingering, and Daud felt the delicious, horrifying desperation of it all the way down to his bones, Corvo’s eagerness splitting open something within him that surged up like well water, shaken and longing. He sighed against Corvo’s lips, suddenly no longer afraid despite his pounding heart, and he knew it was but a temporary boon, a momentary bravery brought on by the first tender taste of reciprocity. But then Corvo was parting his lips, licking lightly against Daud’s tongue, and there was a pitiful, keening sound crawling up Daud’s throat that he had never made before. Corvo groaned at his enthusiasm, too wanting to allow Daud to feel ashamed, and Daud shuddered into the tightening embrace.

He had been kissed before, always these sad, obligatory things used as a gateway to sex that he never particularly wanted or enjoyed. They were always distant presses of lips, a despondent meeting of tongues that he only put enough effort into so as to avoid the disparaging frowns of his partners. For years he had stumbled through it all, trying to convince himself that he should want what he did not truly desire, unable to comprehend why the world seemed so driven by the carnal yearnings that he viewed largely with apathy. Intimacy, sex, all of it could be pleasurable in the weak-willed sort of moderation that his lifestyle allowed, though he made no real effort to seek it out. But with Corvo, as with so many things when it came to Corvo, he began to understand, even as he floundered in his incompetent unknowing.

Corvo was patient, guiding him slowly and offering encouraging hums of approval when Daud willingly ceded to his whims, open and wanting. Though when Daud finally found his footing, his budding confidence urged him to twist the hand buried in Corvo’s hair into a fist, only to earn an animal whine of pleasure at the action. It was a rattling, empowering sensation to have Corvo buckling against him, his mouth falling open as he gasped Daud’s name against his lips. Holding Corvo’s pleasure in his hand was much like the rush of earning the Outsider’s mark; heat seared through his body and a chasm of undeniable strength cracked open in his chest, delicious and all-consuming.

The greatest pleasure, perhaps, was that Corvo was willing to let him take and take and take, reveling in Daud’s selfishness as if it were his own delight.

“Void, Corvo,” Daud groaned into an open-mouth kiss that tasted like rum and desire.

A sudden throb of brittle emotion welled in his chest when Corvo held his face in his big hands like Daud was a precious thing, his kisses going soft and chaste as they breathed the same air. The tenderness was bound to break him, Daud knew; he could feel the stones built up around his heart cracking like meager tiles. And yet, he felt no urge to flee. Instead, he held fast to Corvo’s wrists, desperate to keep him near, to swallow down everything he would offer even if it was poison. He wanted to stay, and that scared him most of all.

“Corvo,” he wheezed, too fragile.

“I’ve got you,” Corvo assured, kissing the corners of Daud’s mouth and trailing soft lips along the mangled line of his scar. “I’ve got you, it’s okay.”

Daud twisted his hands in the back of Corvo’s shirt, so warm under the weight of his own coat, and sighed when their foreheads met again. Corvo was petting along his temples, fingers tracing the lines of jaw like he would break with too much pressure, like some valuable artifact too precious to waste. It was impossible not to shudder at the caress, and Daud’s breaths stuttered against Corvo’s lips as he was held together by the press of their closeness and the tender touch of those broad, killer’s hands. Daud knew what Corvo’s hands were capable of, could feel the coarse ridges of hard-won callouses against his skin, but it was easy to fall trusting into their gentle grasp. Everything seemed so easy, with Corvo.

“Thank you,” Corvo said after a long while.

Glancing up to meet Corvo’s gaze, Daud struggled not to tumble head-first and drunken into the whiskey-warmth of those striking eyes, always so open and honest.

“For what?” his voice was wrecked.

“Fort trusting me,” Corvo replied, and titled his head to steal another chaste, lingering kiss that Daud tried to pursue with a rumble of pleasure.

“Now what?” Daud asked, anxious but too willing to drift into Corvo’s orbit.

“You need to rest,” Corvo told him as he pressed his thumb along the shadows beneath Daud’s eyes. “I know you haven’t slept.”

It was true, he had hardly slept in days, but Daud was too displeased with Corvo’s warm-hearted smugness to admit to his growing exhaustion. The emotional exertion of finding Corvo and Thomas wounded on a rooftop, helplessly watching Thomas’s agony, and pouring himself out at Corvo’s feet had wrung him dry. He was tired, so tired; tired down to his marrow. But a part of him wanted to be looked after, to be minded and scolded simply because someone cared and not because his performance was lacking. Such a thing had not occurred in earnest since he was a child in Karnaca, he reckoned, and it was becoming harder to convince himself that he simply had not needed it, that he was too powerful, too strong, too resolute. Lately, though, it looked more and more like it was just because he was a cruel man, forever unloved.

Corvo seemed determined to convince him otherwise.

“Please sleep,” Corvo begged, moving to extricate himself from Daud’s grasp.

“You’re leaving?”

Chuckling, Corvo leaned in to steal another soft kiss. Daud sighed into the pressure like a man in the desert tasting water.

“I’m not a fool,” Corvo said. “I won’t ask for too much.”

At Daud’s grumble of displeasure, Corvo shook his head, expression fond.

“Goodnight, Daud.”

With a final, lingering kiss that threatened to turn heated once more, Corvo pulled away, pressing his lips to Daud’s brow before turning to the door. Daud watched him leave, breath coming fast and high in his chest, and if he slumped down onto the staircase up to his quarters with his head in his hands, no one had to know. It was becoming a regular occurrence for Corvo to tear him apart and stitch him back together, over and over and over. Before long, Daud wasn’t sure if he’d be able to recognize himself. He wasn’t sure if that was a bad thing.

Void, he needed a fucking cigarette.

Fumbling in his pocket and finding his stash depleted, he thought of the pack he had stowed away in the pocket of his other jacket, just in case. He dragged himself to his feet with a groan, took two steps up the stairs, and froze.

“That bastard stole my coat.”

Chapter Text

Thomas startled awake when the door screeched open, flailing for his knife on the bedside table and only managing to knock a glass of water on the floor instead. The intruder flinched in the backlit glow of the doorway, which was on the wrong side of the room – not his room, Thomas remembered belatedly, the infirmary – before they forced the door open with conviction despite it’s wretched squealing. They filled the doorway with impenetrable shadow, towering height and broad shoulders blocking Thomas’s exit, not that he would have managed to make it out on his own with the sutures still holding his leg together.

“Sorry, sorry,” the figured whispered as they carefully closed the door, and the rippling accent of that voice made Thomas’s pulse slow, exhausted with defeat.

“Corvo?”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Corvo said softly, sounding regretful. “You need your rest.”

“What are you doing here? I thought you’d found other quarters. With… with Daud.”

It was agony to say it, the grief that had been sitting in his chest all day bubbling up and out, choppy with betrayal that he shouldn’t feel. Daud owed him nothing, and Thomas’s absurd, excruciating longing for him would surely be an inconvenient discovery should Daud ever come to know of it. But the truth of it was planted deep in his heart like dock pilings in Wrenhaven muck, and his feelings would surely rot away before they were ever pried free. Thomas was condemned to it, he knew. He was resigned to his suffering, aware that happiness would ever slip out of his grasp; but he would not deny Daud his own, with Corvo or anyone else. Neither could he resent Corvo, who knew nothing of his yearning and surely felt yearning of his own.

“Oh, um, no,” Corvo managed awkwardly after a pause, his silhouette reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. “Daud was being kind… last night. He needs to rest. I think it’s been days since he slept.”

“Daud is never kind,” Thomas hissed, a little angry with Corvo’s dismissiveness. He was so ignorant to the gifts he’d been given.

“I… you’re right,” he admitted, and he sounded so tired.

A flare of guilt made Thomas’s brow pull tight with wretchedness. It was too easy to forget that he was not the only one struggling with their affection for Daud; surely Corvo had also suffered his stubborn dismissiveness, though it seemed that Daud was beginning to soften for him at last, hard leather bending with oil. Thomas didn’t want to be jealous. He was.

“You don’t have to sleep here,” Thomas tried to be gentle, less accusing, but it still sounded sour from his lips. “I’m certain we can find you somewhere more comfortable to stay.”

“You don’t want me to stay?” Corvo sounded wounded.

“I… that’s not it at all.”

“I don’t sleep well in strange places, and now I’m not so exhausted to not notice,” Corvo admitted. “But with you, I thought, maybe….”

Thomas melted a little, the fight leaving him in a rush. He understood, Void, he understood. And Corvo did not deserve his misplaced derision. He had done nothing wrong, he had not stolen Daud away because Daud was never Thomas’s to begin with, no matter how desperately he wished otherwise. Corvo was innocent in all of it, and Thomas should be glad that he brought Daud at least some contentment, which had been so conspicuously absent for so very long. Daud used to take pleasure in a job well done, or a fight with a keen opponent, but it all seemed rote now, and Thomas could see how the magnificence of the Knife of Dunwall had dimmed over the years. He was beginning to glow again, timidly, and Thomas suspected he had Corvo to thank for it.

“Drag the other bed over,” Thomas eventually said, gesturing to the empty bed shoved up against the far wall.

Corvo seemed revitalized, moving gracefully through the dark to haul the bedframe groaning across the floor until it was pressed close to Thomas’s. It was close, closer than Thomas had slept to another in nearly a decade, since he had been promoted to master and earned private quarters of his own. A throb of anxious anticipation pulsed in his chest, but he settled back against his pillows, watching Corvo as his eyes slowly adjusted to the dark.

“I hope no one sleeps downstairs,” Corvo mused, grinning and clearly entertained by the prospect.

“Only Rinaldo and the twins,” Thomas replied, amusement coloring his voice, unbidden.

“Shit,” Corvo swore, though he didn’t sound overly concerned as he kicked off his boots. “The twins hate me enough already, I’ve discovered.”

“Oh? What gives you that impressi—” Thomas began, suddenly able to make out the color of Corvo’s coat in the dimness. It was a deep crimson, trimmed in midnight black, and it hung a little too loosely around his waist despite the somewhat narrow fit through the shoulders. Thomas knew, without thinking, that there would be a rumpled pack of cigarettes in the front right pocket, and a carefully mended tear along the left flank. It was a cruel shock to see Corvo wearing Daud’s coat, and Thomas’s heart twisted painfully.

“Thomas?” Corvo murmured, sounding concerned.

“Ah, sorry, it’s nothing,” he managed.

Corvo, apparently satisfied, turned to shrug out of the coat, draping it reverently across the back of a nearby chair. He somehow had acquired some loose pants that were a little too short at the ankles, and a soft linen shirt that fit just too snugly that the ties down half of the front were left unbound, exposing a deep sliver of rich copper skin darkened with hair. Thomas tried not to look at him, turned his gaze back to the ceiling, but the creaking of the other mattress drew him back, startled despite the inevitability of Corvo lying down to sleep. He had settled on his side, one arm shoved under the threadbare pillow beneath his head, and he was watching Thomas carefully, assessing but not critical. His shirt had fallen open impossibly further, and Thomas’s gaze followed the sharp line of his clavicle, fell into the shadow at the hollow of his neck, traced the cut of his throat to his jaw. Corvo could nearly look obscene if he weren’t so benignly genuine. It made heat creep up Thomas’s neck.

“Are you sure this is okay?” Corvo asked in a whisper, and they were close enough that Thomas imagined he could feel the words across his skin. “I can go somewhere else, Thomas. It’s alright. If you aren’t comfortable, I want you to tell me.”

“I’m fine,” Thomas insisted, suddenly feeling a little fragile.

Corvo cared, and the care was real despite them hardly knowing one another. Perhaps that was why Thomas’s heart was pulsing with giddy nervousness and not with dread; in his mind, Corvo was a protector, Corvo was safe. This man had seen his weakness, held him together as he fell apart, defended him in the face of Daud’s callous fear, and Thomas had not felt so cared for in ages. Corvo was more generous with his concern than Daud had ever been, more explicit about his worry, and it was easy to crumble beneath the soothing lull of his attention. Thomas had already seen many sides of Corvo Attano – the killer, the protector, the man, the monster, the broken bird, the unbreachable bastion – and inexplicably, he would overlook all of them if Corvo would just lie here beside him and let him sleep. He could forgive anything, even the slow, agonizing torture of a broken heart affected by Corvo winning Daud. Corvo was too decent a man to be condemned by such things.

“If you’re sure,” Corvo said carefully, shuffling deeper into the blankets.

“I heard a ruckus,” Thomas conspicuously tried to change the subject. “Sounded like Javier playing, and Rinaldo up to no good.”

“You'd be correct,” Corvo chuckled breathlessly, grinning. “We may have gotten into the rum.”

“Oh no, you too?”

“I like Rinaldo,” he hummed, and his voice was hoarse and alluring, muted by the dark. “I think we could be friends… maybe.”

Thomas glanced at him, and the fragile uncertainty carved into the moonlit lines of his face was a little heartbreaking. The Whalers offered companionship, a crookedly cobbled family of killers that were always eager to drag Thomas out of his typical sullen solitude, often against his will. But they kept him afloat, somehow. Corvo had the Empress, and Princess Emily, and his duty to the Crown, but that could be the extent of his circle. Perhaps there were others, but something about his well-concealed shyness and apparent desire to be wanted made Thomas suspect otherwise.

“You don't have many of those, do you?” Thomas asked carefully, kindly. “Friends?”

“I…” Corvo puffed up a little, wanting to be indignant, but quickly deflated. “No. No, I don’t. I don’t know how to do… this, anymore.”

He gestured vaguely, his free hand sneaking out from under the blankets to prove his point before quickly retreating. The ratty hem of the quilt ended up wrapped around his fist as he tugged it up to his chin, looking disgruntled. Or perhaps sad. It was hard to tell with Corvo, sometimes, Thomas thought with a frown; he could be so open, generous with his wit and his smile, but the soft bits of himself were too readily hidden, concealed behind iron gates that would snap shut and leave him blank, unreadable. Thomas was grateful to have been honored with seeing so much of Corvo already. It seemed like a tribute he didn’t deserve.

“It has been a long time, hasn’t it?” Thomas asked gently, and there it was, a flicker of loneliness that made Corvo’s eyes dart away from his face, ashamed.

Corvo shook his head. “There is a Watch Captain, Curnow, that I could consider a friend. But we rarely meet outside of an official capacity. And a Tower Guard, Galloway. He is honest, and doesn’t condemn me for my heritage, like the rest.”

Thomas laughed, but it wheezed a little sadly. “I don’t think showing basic human decency should be considered exceptional, Corvo. Regardless of your heritage, you are capable, and vastly more intelligent than Dunwall’s inbred lot. You earned your position on your merits and should be treated appropriately, no matter your native tongue or the color of your skin.”

“A scathing review of the Dunwall elite,” Corvo huffed, and there was a sharpness in the corners of his smile that held the edge of something hungry, animal, and made Thomas’s belly go tight. “My position is not conducive to the development of friendships.”

“Neither is Daud’s. It is a lonely fate.”

“Daud is lonely, but he is not alone,” Corvo said reverently. “He is lucky to have you.”

Thomas bit his lip and swallowed the sorrow trying to crawl up his throat and escape. “I’m not so sure. I fear I am more trouble than I’m worth.”

He tried to laugh, to hide the fear he held at the truth of those words, but Corvo was watching him so carefully, brows pulled low and distraught, and suddenly there were tears on Thomas’s face, hot and salty. Gasping, mortified, he tried to rub the dampness from his cheeks and turn away, but the movement rippled pain along his wounded thigh, and he slumped back down in defeat, breathing heavily.

“Thomas,” Corvo whispered, so gentle, and his hand was against Thomas’s jaw, fingers cold but palm so impossibly warm as he titled his face to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas mumbled wetly, and he was horrified by his weakness. How much of his wretched, pitiable self would Corvo have to see?

“Shh. No,querido, it's alright.”

“He will cast me aside,” Thomas sobbed, losing control.

Void, it was a relief to say it out loud, to turn his fear into words and release them like doves, free to do as they will.

“He wouldn’t dare,” Corvo soothed with knife-edge conviction. “He wouldn’t dare.”

And then he was dragging Thomas closer into his warmth, as near as the crease between their mattresses would allow. Thomas couldn’t help but cling to him, hands gripping too tight around Corvo’s strong arms, fingernails undoubtedly leaving cruel crescents in his skin. But Corvo accepted the abuse with grace, held Thomas against the warm breadth of his chest and whispered soothing murmurs of Serkonan into his hair. Not a word of it he understood, but the rhythmic trill of it, the way that Corvo’s low, husky voice seemed so right in his native tongue offered impossible comfort, invited a quiet longing for a place that Thomas had never been.

They lay tangled together as Thomas’s weeping turned to shallow breaths turned to bone-deep exhaustion, and Corvo never moved, idly combing his finger through Thomas’s hair and humming something unfamiliar under his breath. Thomas’s head was pillowed on Corvo’s bicep, and the poor man’s fingers were surely going numb, though the comforting warmth of being tucked against Corvo’s side dissuaded him from moving. Corvo’s eyes were closed when Thomas glanced up to watch him, and he was beautiful, so at ease.

“Feeling better?” Corvo asked, eyes still shut and fingers still buried in Thomas’s hair.

“I… yes,” Thomas managed, swallowing around the soreness in his throat. “I’m sorry.”

Corvo’s eyes fluttered open with that, frowning down at him. “Don’t be.”

“But I—”

“Thomas,” Corvo began, voice stern but gaze impossibly soft. Thomas felt his eyes stinging once more. “I understand. I understand the pain of loving someone who is superior in rank, who you see as superior in every way, far out of your grasp. I understand.”

Thomas stared up at him, wide-eyed, words dying on his tongue. But Corvo’s smile was gentle and sad, and he leaned up on one elbow to brush the pad of his thumb along Thomas’s cheek, drying his tears.

“You love him, don’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Thomas admitted, a mournful whisper that he hated. “For us, with the way we live, love is a fairytale meant to coax children to sleep. It doesn’t exist.”

With a slow shake of his head, Corvo trailed his hand down Thomas’s neck, touch feather light, and pressed it heavy over his heart. Thomas could feel his pulse pounding, his breath stumbling frantically from his lips, and he wondered how easy it would be to fall willing into Corvo, to forget Daud and his aching, lonely heart for just a little while.

“You feel it, here?” Corvo murmured, palm warm and heavy against Thomas’s chest. “Not the pain, the fear – that’s in your mind. But the love? It’s here. I know you understand.”

“I do.”

“You will let him make you suffer in his ignorance?”

“If it will make him happy, I will suffer death.”

A wretched, gutted expression tore across Corvo’s face, so devastated that Thomas felt guilt well up in the back of his throat, pressing against all of the apologies and pleas against abandonment that sat tepid and stagnant on his tongue. What could Corvo offer in salvation, if Thomas wept and clung to him like a child? Surely a kinder dismissal than Daud would ever offer, but little more. Corvo had Daud, and Daud had Corvo. Corvo, who was strong and noble and so beautiful, who was not so ignorant to the bonds of the heart and the flesh as Thomas. Thomas, who had denied himself to others with pitiful, foolish hope that Daud would choose to love him in all the ways it mattered. It had always been a stupid dream, and though Thomas had always known its folly he could never let the dream die.

If he gave himself away, learned how to make Daud happy, maybe he would be wanted. Maybe Daud wouldn’t cast him aside like rotten fruit.

“Querido,” Corvo whispered, and while the word held no meaning to Thomas, he could feel the gravity of it in the solemn weight of Corvo’s voice. “You are far too exceptional to throw your life away for anyone. Eres un milagro. Daud sees it, I know he does, but you cannot place your worth in how you think he perceives you.”

Thomas was silent for a long while, eyes blurring with tears scarcely held at bay and breaths coming just short enough to make him dizzy. Or perhaps the dizziness was a mere side effect from enduring the full attention of Corvo Attano, with his kind words and tender gaze and blazing warm touch; it was no wonder he always left Daud reeling. After some time Corvo settled back against the bed, Thomas’s head still cradled against his shoulder, and for once Thomas did not feel so selfish in seeking out affection or basking in touch, It was freely offered with Corvo, a depthless ocean of comfort that demanded nothing in return. Thomas felt safe, unjudged, unthreatened. He felt that if he could have this, for a night or a lifetime, he could be a happier man.

“It’s no wonder Daud is so taken with you,” Thomas eventually whispered into the darkness.

Corvo’s breaths had gone steady, but not deep enough for sleep, and his chest rumbled with a chuckle against Thomas’s cheek.

“You’re mistaken,” Corvo said, amused but gentle. “He’s being held against his will.”

“And what fine captivity it must be,” he replied, though it sounded far more flirtatious than intended.

It was easy to fall into such banter with Corvo, always lighthearted and alluring, but Thomas feared that there was some truth behind the sentiment on his own end. There had been something, on that rooftop in the Legal District, when Corvo had smiled a cutting grin that rattled him down to his bones, a delectable dissonance. And the bolstering weight of Corvo’s hand in his, the giddy heat as they leapt from rooftops like teenagers, laughing and sprinting between chimneys to the same heartbeat rhythm. And his patience in the face of Thomas’s wretched tears, soft Serkonan slipping from his mouth like undeserved praise, gentle and soothing. Even now, the ease with which Thomas settled against his lean bulk, wrung out but cautiously contented and welcomed without criticism or grievance, it was all exceptional. Corvo was exceptional, and Thomas could feel that foolish muscle in his chest twisting and wanting like it did for Daud. He fought the feeling, weakly, afraid to doom himself to another unrealized longing.

Again Corvo chuckled tiredly, sweet and breathy, as he tilted his head, the bridge of his strong nose nudging Thomas’s brow. “If Daud has managed not to fall for you, I can’t imagine what I could have to offer. He must be blind. Or stupid.”

“Corvo…” Thomas began, heart pounding in his throat.

“Probably stupid,” Corvo teased around a yawn. “Sleep, Thomas.”

He stayed quiet for several long moments, listening to Corvo’s breaths slow, but an unfounded anxiety began wearing him thin and he clutched at Corvo’s arm, nearly frantic.

“Corvo….”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t… you won’t leave?”

“No. I’m here. I won’t leave.”

A sigh of relief shuddered free of his chest like a whaling ship trundling out of port, and Thomas turned his face into Corvo’s shoulder, breathing deep. He smelled like one of them now, like the weakly-scented lye soap the Whalers used, edged with the permeating musk of Rudshore’s rotten reek and something a little different, rich and deep and faintly familiar. It was pleasant, like he belonged, but Thomas nearly missed the way Corvo had smelled when they were crumpled together against a chimney in the rain, waiting for Daud. His hair had carried the expensive scent of Serkonan oranges and salt and spice, and Thomas longed for the subtle luxury of it. But basking in Corvo’s warmth was luxury enough. It was more than he deserved.

“Thank you,” Thomas whispered, but Corvo was already asleep.

*****

Montgomery tiptoed along the breezeway to the large platform straddling Jessamine Boulevard, trying and failing to not spill her drink. There was cajoling laughter up ahead, and the rattle and scrape of good-natured sparring shook the scaffolding enough to make her tea slosh scalding over her fingers. She swore and sucked her burned knuckles into her mouth as she joined the ruckus, settling next to Javier on a crate. Misha and Galia were beside him, grinning and lobbing rude comments at Jordan, who was in the midst of being flung bodily onto his back over the shoulder of the Lord Protector.

She smiled as Corvo laughed and reached down to pull Jordan to his feet, patting kindly at his shoulder, though Jordan was wearing an expression rather like he had just suffered a frying pan to the face. Killian was seething quietly on the far side of the little clearing they had made, his thick thighs so tense against the box he was straddling it was a miracle the wood had not begun to creak under the strain. Poor man, Montgomery thought idly; he had managed to fall in love with the most unabashed flirt in Dunwall and was so determined to die of emotional constipation that he had never seen fit to discuss it. Some things she could not cure, and stupidity was one of them.

“Corvo, sit down of you get lightheaded,” she called sweetly, grinning behind her teacup. “If you get knocked in the skull again, you're on your own.”

He waved her away but looked appropriately chastised. There was no possible way she would have been able to keep the man idle any longer, she knew; he and Daud were far too alike in that regard, stubborn and foolish and bullheaded as blood oxen. Still, if Corvo insisted on risking another injury that would have to be explained to the Empress, at least Misha was present to bear witness to the tragedy. The Empress had apparently seemed fond enough of her that Misha would turn a fetching shade of scarlet whenever Her Majesty was mentioned in conversation.  Affection was a funny thing, Montgomery mused contentedly, patting at Javier's thigh. His thick hand closed over hers even as he continued to make childish wagers with Galia over who would be the first to grapple Corvo to the ground.

“Leonid, maybe,” Galia was saying, insistent. “He's fast enough to use Attano's momentum against him.”

“No way,” Misha countered. “Old stick-in-the-mud doesn't have half the raw power that Attano does. Besides, Leonid is only fast after he's made a decision; he doesn't trust his instincts enough to react without thinking first.”

“I'm with Misha on this one, mija. Attano's senses are too sharp for taking your time. Otherwise, you'll end up like Jordan,” Javier snorted, gesturing to where Jordan was slouched, shell-shocked, against Killian.

“Killian, then.”

Misha and Javier hummed in unison, considering.

“Killian has the brute force and is stocky enough to be a challenge for Attano's height,” Misha pondered. “Besides, Killian is so angry he would eat Attano's guts like noodles if he had the chance.”

Javier jolted with violent laughter, jostling Montgomery enough to slosh her tea onto the collar of her shirt, though he kissed the back of her hand in apology when she shot him a nasty glare. He was lucky she loved him.

“Sure, maybe,” he said, turning back to Galia. “But Killian only fights his best when he's with Kieron, otherwise he spends too much time watching his own back.”

“True,” Galia pouted, dropping her chin into her hand. “I bet Misha could take him. I’ve seen you wrestle those thick-necked Bottle Street Boys to the ground like there was money on the fight.”

“Oh Void, no,” Misha huffed her reedy laugh, swaying when Galia shoved her with her shoulder. “Those brutes are big, but stupid. They think swinging pipe wrenches at Dead Eels counts as combat training. No. Attano is a monster. I don't want to fight him.”

“He’s too scary for someone with a smile like that,” Galia bemoaned.

Montgomery’s cheek twitched with a suppressed chuckle, watching Corvo smile that southern sunshine grin of his and glance up at the window into Daud’s chambers when he thought no one could see. How many people got to see that smile in earnest? Very few, she mused. It was far more likely that the joy that now painted his face so bright and warm as sunrise died under the oppression of duty and the expectations foisted upon him by the elitist swine that came and went from the Tower like flies to rotting fruit. There was so much life in Corvo that it was a pity that he had been ground into something harsh and heartless beneath Dunwall’s boot. Montgomery was glad, at least, that his wariness around the Whalers had begun to fade. She was also glad that he and Daud had managed at least some sort of discussion last night, and to happy result, if Corvo’s infectious giddiness and Daud’s dampened unpleasantness were any indication. She would be disappointed to see Corvo go, no matter how inevitable the conclusion loomed, but it was a great consolation to see him being himself with such ease around them. It likely didn’t happen often that he could just be himself, and Montgomery rather doubted he even knew who he was anymore.

“No, Attano’s skilled, and you’re too eager to forget that one need not have the Outsider’s gifts to be a killer,” Javier corrected. “He and Daud cut their teeth on the same mean streets. Daud became an assassin, Attano became a soldier. Different, but dangerous all the same. Just because he gets paraded around Dunwall Tower like a show pony doesn’t mean he’s soft, and if you think he is, then I volunteer you to go next.”

“No, thank you!” Galia barked, waving her hands in front of her defensively.

Amused but too invested at the subject at hand, Misha dropped her voice to a whisper and pressed on. “Besides, Jordan and Thomas said that sometimes Attano's eyes glaze over. Kind of how wolfhounds get before they turn on their masters. And then it's like the Void is in him and he's hard to stop. Scary.”

“Mind yourself, Misha,” Montgomery scolded. “It's not like you to gossip.”

Galia chuckled with a lupine grin. “That's my job.”

“Corvo is a good man, and Daud seems to trust him. So does Thomas,” Montgomery continued, a little affronted on Corvo's behalf. “That should be enough to speak for his character.”

“I like him,” Misha defended carefully. “I just know that I don't want to end up on his bad side.”

“Damn right,” Galia guffawed. “Though I'd be more than happy to end up on his back side, if only for the view.”

“Galia!” Montgomery exclaimed, scandalized.

“What?” she shrugged, feigning innocence. “I'm not blind. Look at him, he's gorgeous. No wonder Master Daud wants to climb him like a tree. Misha thinks he's sexy and she doesn't even like men!”

Misha nodded with shrug, not denying the accusation.

“Even if he is handsome,” Montgomery insisted imperiously. “Corvo is a gentleman. You shouldn't speak so crudely about him.”

“Corvo this, Corvo that,” Galia scoffed with a mocking gesture, but she quickly leaned in, conspiratorial. “Do you have the hots for Lord Attano, Montgomery?”

“Hush, you,” she scolded, finally laughing.

“Am I being replaced?” Javier muttered despondently.

“Of course not, my dear,” Montgomery soothed, pressing her teacup into his hands. “One Serkonan is more than enough.”

Pouting like he was fifteen rather than over fifty, Javier took a sip of the tea, though he immediately spluttered like he'd bitten into something rotten. He looked at Montgomery like she had betrayed him, but she was unimpressed with his dramatics.

“What is this swill?” he demanded. “Swamp water?”

“It's herbal,” she corrected calmly.

“Herbal? Void, are you trying to poison me, Addie?”

She smiled at him sweetly and reached to pat his cheek. How she adored this ridiculous man.

“My darling,” she crooned. “If I were going to poison you, you would never taste it coming. I've poisoned a husband before, and I can do it again.”

Javier's gaze went a little distant as it drifted down to her lips, and Montgomery could feel her smile pulling into something sly and dangerous. With a deft flick of his wrist, he had cast the cooling tea from the cup and sent it spattering across Galia's boots, and was leaning in to seal their lips together in a forceful kiss. Montgomery grinned into the press of it, laughing as she reached to grasp the back of his neck, and Void she loved him, loved the way his hands fell to her lips like he adored her every pudgy curve. Maybe he did, truly. It said enough that she had never questioned him when he told her that he did.

From behind him, Galia was making dramatic gagging sounds like a Weeper, ostensibly ruining their moment, though Montgomery chuckled at her antics anyway.

“Void, old people are so gross,” she complained loudly.

“What your mouth, you brat!” Javier snipped in reply, and they immediately began poking stupid, well-worn jabs at each other.

Montgomery restrained her amusement to wrangle them, but quickly abandoned the task when Misha frowned at her behind their backs before turning back to the fight. Leonid had stepped up into the makeshift ring now, his willowy frame towering over Corvo despite Corvo's own height and impressively trim bulk. It would be an interesting match, but Montgomery was confident that Corvo would be the inevitable victor, so she closed her eyes against the rare warmth of sunlight and leaned against Javier. His arm was quick to wrap around her waist, even as he continued his foolish spat with Galia.

After several minutes there was a solid thump as Leonid tumbled to the floor, all sprawling arms and skinny legs and unreasonable height, flailing gracelessly like a spider flicked off a table. Corvo was grinning, cheeks pink with exertion, but he was clearly enjoying himself. He untangled Leonid from his own limbs and hauled him to his feet before gesturing for another pair to take their place. Montgomery watched him for wooziness or distress, but he seemed perfectly content, if a little tired, and he sank heavily down beside Thomas, who was watching the display from the spot that Corvo had helped him hobble to earlier. They were both healing, a product of ample rest and generous portions of precious elixir, and some life had returned to Thomas's eyes over the last few days. The sunlight was certainly doing him good, and he was smiling over at Corvo with a softness that suggested genuine care. Montgomery had seen them sleeping soundly with their mattresses shoved together, after all, so who knew what emotions were brewing in the meager space between their beds.

Misha must have followed her gaze, because she casually mentioned: “Thomas would be a good match. He's fast, efficient in his movements, a tactical genius. I doubt he could match Attano's stamina, but it would be a great fight.”

“I wanna watch Attano fight Daud,” Galia added a little wistfully, abandoning her tiff with Javier. “Yeah, it would be a damn good fight, but the tension. Like it came straight out of a smutty novel: the beautiful, noble lord and the dark, brooding assassin, locked in a battle of wills, warring against their love. Void, can you imagine?”

“I'd rather not,” Javier frowned.

“Agreed,” Misha complained.

“I'd put money on Rinaldo,” Montgomery said casually, watching as he sparred with Kieron, ducking and tearing through the Void.

“Seriously?” Galia gawped, thrilled that Montgomery had joined their game.

“Absolutely,” Montgomery confirmed, confident. “10 coin says Rinaldo gets him down, but Corvo is back on his feet within seconds.”

Misha leaned forward as if to argue, but within their little arena, Rinaldo transversed, landed a punch to Kieron's side, hooked his ankle behind Kieron's calf, and catapulted him backwards to the ground. Montgomery wasn't a fighter, but she could see it was an excellent bout – ruthless, fast, decisive – and alongside the rather discomfiting mania in Rinaldo's grin as he bounced on the balls of his feet, elated with victory, she knew he'd pose a challenge. Across the platform, Corvo was smiling and patting Thomas's knee as he rose to his feet, rolling out his shoulders, ready for a fight. There was something glinting and dangerous in his eyes, something animal in the way his steps moved like he was prowling for a kill, and Montgomery felt that she was beginning to understand Jordan's quiet fear of the man. He was striking, gorgeous, deadly as a blade rendered benign by the protection of its scabbard. But it was too easy to forget that the blade was not what the scabbard protected.

Corvo rocked into a fighting stance, and Rinaldo matched him, giddy, but as soon as the tension was about to break with the first lunge, Daud's booming voice cracked down like thunder from the roof of the Chamber.

“Attano! What the fuck do you think you're doing?!”

Corvo deflated a little, scolded, though Montgomery knew that Daud was simply concerned about his health. She had watched as Daud – distant, stoic, ice-hearted Daud – had sat by Corvo's bedside, held his hands and murmured soothing Serkonan to calm his disoriented terror. It had worked too, Corvo having succumbed so easily to Daud’s soft insistence, inexplicably trusting in the presence of Gristol’s most dangerous man. It was a beautiful thing to watch that sort of soul-deep bond develop before one’s eyes, to watch connection shift a person’s whole being into something a little better, a little kinder, like a river carving rock to change its course. Montgomery suspected that neither of them even noticed the change, but Daud had been different enough since meeting Corvo that whispers had spread throughout the Whalers’ ranks, not all amenable.

She disagreed assertively with the dissenters, instead happy to see Daud settling into something that was more like himself, though she had never seen it in all their years together. His morals were long gone, crumbled like ruined temples and lost to the sea, but the bits of good left in the Knife of Dunwall had been bolstered since Corvo Attano had appeared in his life, bringing a sunlight that urged those kernels of decency to put down roots. Daud feared it was weakness, that he was losing his edge, going soft. Montgomery knew better; she knew the difference between losing yourself to another and growing because of them. She had lived both, suffered one and feared the other, but the fear was a temporary, nonsensical thing that would eventually burn itself out like a candle melted down to nothing. The greatest surprise, however, was to discover when the candle was spent, that you had never needed the light of fear to illuminate the truth of it all. The truth lived in the one you offered your heart to, and they shone brighter than the sun.

Smiling, Montgomery leaned against Javier and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, wildly content. He burbled a questioning little sound, a little too distracted by Daud shouting down from the rooftops like a vengeful god from the old legends, but she found she didn’t mind, too glad to have a moment of what passed as normalcy in the chaos of their lives.

In the center of their makeshift boxing ring, Corvo was shifting, standing to his full height with his arms folded across his chest, shoulders rolled back in defiance. He truly was a striking man, made even more so in the unusual warmth of the day. With his shirtsleeves rolled up to expose tanned skin dusted with dark hair and marred with shiny scars, hair curling and damp with sweat, thin lips pursed in an effort to smother a smile, he was nearly divine. Daud was a lucky man, indeed, to be cursed with the affection of Corvo Attano.

“Well,” Corvo was shouting back, deep voice bright with sly amusement. “Why don’t you come down here and find out?”

There was a giddy titter throughout the Whalers present, some of the novices hiding grins behind their hands as Anatole and Akila whispered fervently back and forth, gazes fixed on Corvo. Akila’s stare was a little too hungry, perhaps, and Montgomery suspected that she’d need to have another chat with her about minding herself and not pursuing men who had no interest, especially when they were twenty years her senior. It was a conversation she typically had with the boys when they stumbled into their teenage years – a duty relegated to her by Daud, who had no business speaking about such things – but Akila was a special case, indeed.

Daud growled from his perch high above, and Montgomery need not look to imagine the expression of confounded fury twisting his features; she knew him too well, after all. There was the Void-stained shuffling echo of his transversal, and Daud appeared an instant later in front of Corvo, whose grin split wide and genuine with excitement. Rinaldo was quick to scuttle out of the way, but Montgomery was too distracted to notice him making his escape, too engrossed by the way Daud’s gaze roved over Corvo, uncertain. Corvo shifted, cocking one hip, and Daud’s eyes snapped guiltily back up to his face. Unreasonably smug, Corvo arched a brow, teasing, and Daud licked his lips uncomfortably. Void, Montgomery thought merrily, the old Knife was in deep.

“Kind of you to grace us with your presence,” Corvo goaded, and Daud bared his teeth. Corvo did not seem even minimally fazed by the little threat, and simply prowled around for a few steps before dropping into a fighting stance.

“Oh ho, wish granted, Galia,” Javier was saying, patting at her hip with excitement. “He’s a brave one.”

“You have no idea,” Montgomery replied, grinning.

Daud sighed, defeated, and began unbuckling his knife, his wrist bow, his pistol, his bandolier and setting them aside. He looked remarkably more human without all of his murderous accoutrements, but the way he rolled his shoulders, the breadth of his chest, and the powerful thickness of his legs pulling his trousers taut was a keen reminder of who he was. Of what he was. Montgomery had not been intimidated by Daud in a decade, but a sudden pulse of the old fear made her heart throb too hard for a few long moments. From the harsh, unsettling stillness of the other Whalers, she suspected that she wasn’t the only one.

“No magic,” Corvo informed him, far too thrilled with the prospect of going hand to hand with Daud to be concerned overmuch with his own safety. There was a wildness in his eyes that Montgomery had not seen before, and it made him look a little mad. He had to be, at least a little, to have ended up where he was with who he was and in the good graces of the Knife of Dunwall.

“Fine,” Daud replied, carefully haughty, and raised his fists. “Let’s go, Attano.”

“Vamos, Viejo,” Corvo teased, earning a scoff that could nearly have been a laugh from Daud.

“¿’Viejo’?” Daud echoed, unimpressed. “Mirate, cabeza hueca.”

Corvo laughed, head thrown back, and sniped in reply: “Cabrón.”

“Cerrado,” Daud huffed, almost smiling.

“Pendejo.”

“Ñero.”

“Guapo,” Corvo said slyly, and Daud’s face went slack, clearly shocked.

Montgomery was lost, too unfamiliar with Serkonan to understand, but she could feel the playfulness between them like humidity in the air. It died a little with Corvo’s last statement, but turned instead into something that sparked like a Wall of Light, hot and crackling and far beyond her understanding. Daud understood though, because his eyes went dark; but not in the dangerous way she was used to. This was different. This was almost sultry, dangerous in a way she could not fathom. But Corvo seemed pleased, smugly so.

“Oh, this is going to be interesting,” Javier whispered, cautious not to fracture whatever was brewing in the air.

“No me hagas esperar, cariño,” Corvo purred.

Despite being ignorant of the meaning, a thrill of something intense danced up Montgomery’s spine at his tone, and Javier gasped, a little breathless, and clutched at her knee. Across the platform, Rinaldo looked equally astounded, and she imagined that his cheeks bore an embarrassed heat that was hidden by the darkness of his complexion.

“¿Qué sucede contigo, Attano?” Daud growled, flailing to recover from the shock of Corvo’s words with aggressive conviction.

“Usted está.”

“This is going to be very interesting,” Javier repeated.

Montgomery nodded, though she knew distantly that she should be concerned about her recently concussed patient squaring up against the Knife of Dunwall. Instead, she was awed by Daud and Corvo and the chaotic reality of their togetherness. Void, they were a match.

“Te mataré,” Daud snarled, dropping back into his fighting stance.

“No you won’t,” Corvo insisted sweetly, though his grin was wicked.

After a tense, electrifying instant, the fight began.

Chapter Text

Art for Chapter 7, and art for Chapter 10 by Meru!

Moghra's gorgeous piece!

“Ow,” Corvo complained flatly.

He was slumped in a dining hall chair with his feet propped up on a table, face tilted forwards as he held a sad, dingy handkerchief beneath his bloodied nose. It had been a while since his eyes had stopped watering, but there was still an unpleasant coppery tang trying to trickle down the back of his throat that he compulsively wanted to swallow away. Daud shuffled up behind his chair, and Corvo leaned back to stare at him upside down.

There was a rich purple bruise creeping out along Daud's jaw, and ugly, puffy swelling beneath his eye that looked more like he had earned it in a bar fight than in a hand-to-hand bout with the Empress's bodyguard. Corvo was glad that he had managed to land a few nasty blows despite losing the match. Though it was no wonder he had so readily forfeited after ending up sprawled on his back with Daud straddling his thighs, one hand pinned beneath Daud's boot despite the other closing tight around Daud's thick neck. He had, perhaps, been having too much fun grappling on the ground like a Serkonan street kid. Though he didn't recall ever becoming so hot under the collar after losing a fight in a Batista back alley.

“Did you really have to head-butt me in the face?” Corvo whined.

“Where else would I head-butt you?” Daud sniped back. There was still a smear of blood from Corvo's busted nose striped across his forehead. “Is it broken?”

“No, I wouldn't give you the satisfaction,” Corvo teased with a wheezy chuckle. “And thank the stars for that; as if my nose isn't crooked enough already.”

“Your nose is fine.”

Grinning, Corvo had every intention of heckling Daud about finding him handsome, but was quickly silenced with a solid flick to the forehead that made his nose throb.

“Don’t start,” Daud warned.

Frowning childishly, Corvo sat up to reach for the rag half-dangling out of a bowl of pink-tinged water and dripping messily on the tabletop. He wrung the water out with one hand, cold rivulets rippling down his forearm, and gestured for Daud to sit beside him. Daud eyed him warily, clearly cautious of some hare-brained retribution.

“Just sit. You're so fussy,” Corvo grumbled in Serkonan, dragging his feet off the table and nudging the chair with his boot. “Come on. It's not a trap.”

With an air of discontent more aptly suited to a mule than a man, Daud slunk down into the chair, frowning. Corvo felt as if he could live an eternity and never grow weary of watching Daud acquiesce, however reluctantly, to his whims. It was a special sort of power, one not to be abused lest the power be revoked entirely, but the little abuses that Daud permitted were sweeter than honey.

“It was a good move,” Corvo admitted as he gently pressed the damp cloth against the little cut along Daud's cheekbone, wiping at the flaking blood. “The one that got me down. No one has put me on my back in a long time.”

Daud arched an unimpressed brow, clearly hearing Corvo's blatant innuendo, but he ignored it and closed his eyes with a soft sigh. The trust imparted in that little gesture made Corvo's heart go warm and stupid.

“My mother taught me that,” he admitted after a long while.

“Truly?” Corvo asked, chuckling with Daud's short nod.

“She got tired of patching me up when I was still too scrawny to win a fight, so she showed me how to use an opponent's size against them.”

Smiling at the glimpse of Daud's past, Corvo hummed. “It certainly still works. I haven't hit the floor that hard in decades.”

“I haven't had to use it in a long time. You earned it.”

“I think I'm flattered,” he laughed.

“You should be, it was a good fight,” Daud paused, frowning. “You could have won.”

Corvo laughed. “I don't know about that.”

“I’m sure we can ask the novices if I’m right. I think Yuri was taking notes,” Daud teased, almost lighthearted.

“They’d be fools to admit that I won in front of you.”

“They would.”

Daud’s lips pulled crooked in an unlevel smile, opening one eye to watch slyly as Corvo guffawed. Huffing, Corvo shoved at his shoulder, and Daud settled again in silent acquiescence to his nursing.

They were silent for a long time, and Corvo took longer than necessary to dab at Daud's little wounds, savoring the quiet moments to study him at ease. Just as he had told Jessamine those few months ago, Daud was not a particularly handsome man by most standards. His eyes were stern and his nose a little crooked and the corners of his mouth permanently dragged down into a scowl, not to mention the scar cutting like a ravine down his cheek; but by the Void he was striking, with his challenging posture and killer's body and carrying the air of something dangerous around his shoulders like a cloak. Corvo found that he loved to look at him, to study the little shifts in his expressions and watch the flickers of feeling in those smoke-grey eyes. Daud was beautiful in a way that the world at large could never see or understand, but Corvo was thrilled to have that particular gift of sight.

“Tell me about your mother,” Corvo prodded gently, wiping the thin, dried streak of his own blood from Daud’s forehead. When Daud frowned, eyes still closed, deep creases wrinkled across his brow; they made it impossible to get at all the mess, and Corvo laughed. “Stop your scowling. I’m just curious.”

“Why?”

Corvo stared at him like he was dim. “Because she’s your mother. I imagine the woman who raised you was fierce, indeed.”

Finally, Daud’s eyes fluttered open to fix him with a suspicious glare, roving over Corvo’s expression like he was looking for a trap. Amused and foolishly besotted, Corvo smiled benignly back at him.

“What about you?”

“What about me?” Corvo snorted, an especially ugly sound with his nose still clotted. “There are a hundred books written about me, so there’s not much to say. And don’t play dumb; I know you have one in your bookshelf.”

It was a rare sight to watch Daud’s cheeks flare a fetching shade of pink, embarrassed despite himself. Corvo wanted to kiss him, to taste the frustration on his lips, but Daud had seemed a little skittish since last night, and he was reluctant to push him too far.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t tease,” he said instead, reaching to drop the bloodied cloth back into the bowl on the table. “People write about you, too, you know. Legends about the Knife of Dunwall. Some are attempted biographies; others are just absurd fiction. One of the maids at the Tower reads the cheap smutty ones where you break into a lady’s boudoir to complete a contract, only to be swayed into bed by her beauty instead. She accidentally left it in my office after cleaning, once. It was quite the read.”

“You read that nonsense?” Daud snarled, looking absolutely scandalized.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know about them,” Corvo laughed as he reached out to pet along Daud’s jaw, despite his hand being roughly slapped away. “They seem like the sort of thing that Galia would love.”

“They are, unfortunately.”

Laughing, Corvo's smile split his face with a giddy sort of amusement that he rarely felt anymore. With the state of the Empire as fractured as it was, and riddled with plague, his thoughts turned too often to grimmer subjects, and joy was as elusive as black cats in the dark. Here, though, with Daud, and insulated from the rest of Gristol by floodwater and the abandoned corpses of once-fine buildings standing as sentinels to guard their backs, it was easier to relish in the brief bouts of happiness that always surprised him when they slithered into his heart. Perhaps it was the newness of his… relationship with Daud, but Corvo imagined that he would find joy with him regardless of the circumstance.

Even with the Whalers. He had nearly forgotten what it was like to have friends.

He reached out and managed to find a decent grip on Daud’s chin, who balked like a horse unwilling to take the bridle, before settling with reluctant acceptance. With a huff of amusement, Corvo wiped the rest of his blood from Daud’s brow with his damp thumb, rubbing at the smear until he was content. Daud frowned at him once he was finally released, scrubbing at his forehead with the back of his hand and rather blatantly looking at anything but Corvo. Smirking, Corvo pulled his thumb between his lips to lick away the blood, thrilled with the scarlet tint rising along Daud’s ears.

“Shameless,” Daud scolded weakly.

“Only for you.”

Daud snorted, a throaty sound just shy of a laugh, but his eyes softened a little with flustered amusement. “We both know that’s a lie.”

“Do we?” Corvo asked, his voice far softer, far more intimate than he intended.

“You'll make eyes at anything that breathes,” Daud retorted edgily.

“It's different when it's special,” Corvo sweetly murmured, so very fond yet as serious as the grave. “You of all people should know that, Daud.”

Something like terrified panic swept over Daud's face, washing away the shade of a smile from his lips before hardening into stony blankness. Corvo could see his walls going up, could feel the cold-edged scrutiny in his gaze and realized with a frantic desperation that he had forgotten what that shuttered assessment felt like coming from Daud. He had grown comfortable and so delightfully familiar with the minutiae of Daud's expressions – anger, concern, frustration, desire, sweetly timid joy – that now faced with such a dramatic regression, two steps back to their old distant caution, Corvo could feel his stomach drop with horror. He had gone too far, gone too soft, gone too honest, and now Daud would flee, lost to Corvo forever. The thought alone left him sweating in the maelstrom of his fear.

Suddenly Daud stood and turned away as if to retreat, and Corvo reached out without concern for the consequences to grasp Daud's wrist. His skin was hot beneath Corvo's fingers and his muscles taut, and Corvo traced the slick ridge of a scar with his thumb, following the line of it up his forearm until it disappeared beneath the rolled-up cuff of his sleeve. Daud shuddered like he would wrench himself free, or bare his teeth in violence like a wolf braced to maul itself loose from a snare, but Corvo was prepared to be bitten.

“Daud,” he said softly, thumb stroking through the dark hair on his captive's forearm. “Stop running. I have to return to the Tower soon; don’t waste time making me chase you.”

After a long breath of anxious silence, Daud rumbled a dismissive sound low in his chest. He did not make to escape, but he would not turn to acknowledge Corvo, either. There was an uncertain furrow to Daud's brows when he glanced briefly back over his shoulder, and Corvo could see him struggling against his instinct to flee, to kill the threat and wash his hands of it all.

“Come here,” Corvo sweetly whispered in Serkonan, thrilled when Daud shuddered but turned to face him, reluctant. “I understand the risk you took in bringing me here, Daud. You let an enemy into your home, let me learn your secrets. Will you still let me go home?”

Contrary to Corvo’s expectation, Daud looked appalled for a moment, eyes wide and lips pulled tight at the corners. What a peculiar sensation, to watch an assassin balk at the suggestion of doing away with a witness, but he quickly turned angry, baring his teeth and reaching to grab a brutal fistful of Corvo’s hair at his nape. Corvo hissed at the pull, not entirely unopposed to the rough handling, though he refused to struggle, sinking soft and pliant into Daud’s grasp. His lack of resistance must have been startling enough because Daud’s hold loosened to curl his blunt fingernails against Corvo’s scalp. It was a delightful sensation, almost comforting but still dizzying in his lack of control, and Corvo sighed, tilting his chin up and reaching to hold fast to Daud’s elbows.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Daud sounded too measured to be completely safe of becoming unmoored. “You think I’d… after everything I’ve done for you?”

“No, I don’t,” Corvo soothed, stroking his thumbs reassuringly over the firm swells of Daud’s biceps. “But I think you don’t know what you’re supposed to do. I don’t want you to regret anything, Daud. I don’t want you to regret…me.”

Breathing slow between his teeth, Daud finally opened his mouth to speak, but Corvo interrupted. His heart was pounding too hard in his chest, and he was terrified of what Daud would say.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” he insisted, trying to catch Daud’s gaze. “Just… just know that this is your chance to be rid of me. I will return to the Tower, and everything can be as it was. No us; just you living your life and me living mine and everything else forgotten.”

“Is that what you want?” Daud asked after a while, and is voice was so quiet that Corvo strained to hear.

“No.”

Daud was silent for a long moment, grey eyes studying Corvo’s face and looking for something that lie deeper than skin, than flesh and bone, and Corvo let him look, left himself open for Daud to vivisect down to the truth of him. He hid nothing, laid himself bare and vulnerable. And whatever Daud was searching for he must have found, because he tightened his fist in Corvo’s hair and his eyes went dark and distant. Gasping, Corvo arched up to meet him, hands finding their way to the open collar of Daud’s shirt to drag him down into a searing, open-mouthed kiss. He whined, weak and wanton, against the press of Daud’s tongue, hissed against the sting of teeth on his split lip.

Void, this was what he wanted. The pleasure, the pain of being at Daud’s mercy, held fast by an unforgiving fist at his nape. Daud’s ferocious initiative tasted sweeter than Cullero wine but left him just as drunk, foolish and wanting and out of his mind.

“Void,” Daud swore when he pulled away, breathing hard.

Desperate for more closeness, Corvo leaned up for another kiss only to be retrained like an unruly beast by the cruel hand in his hair, though he was allowed just enough freedom to nuzzle and taste the underside of Daud’s jaw. Daud hummed, low and rumbling, and Corvo tried to sink his teeth into the vibration of it. He was scolded with a rough jerk of Daud’s wrist, but reluctantly settled back into obedience.

The kiss was sweeter this time, slow and soft and desperate as Daud dipped down to taste his lips, and Corvo sighed against him, reaching to weave his fingers into Daud’s dark hair. He wanted to stay like this, to abandon his duties and languish, twisted up in Daud, until it was impossible to separate one from the other without killing them both. He wanted to be a tree with roots grown round an ancient tombstone, a reef consuming a shipwreck. But there was a big, cruel world outside of Rudshore, existing beyond the taste of Daud’s lips and the warmth of his hands against his skin, a world consumed by plague where he was bodyguard to an Empress and Daud a killer for hire. It made their time together feel too short, and Corvo’s heart ache with the brevity of it all.

Desperate to make the moments count, to press the words he struggled to find directly into Daud's skin, Corvo arched up against him, eager. Betraying his uncertain inexperience, Daud was startled just long enough for Corvo to slip one leg between Daud's knees, making use of his bewildered gasp to drag his tongue along his lips. Corvo could feel Daud starting to panic at the loss of control, and so he retreated to breathe hot kisses along Daud's jaw, his neck, until his composure was regained enough for his fist to tighten once, warningly, in Corvo's hair before releasing entirely. Not wanting to push too far, Corvo leaned back in his chair, taking a long moment to savor the crimson flush over Daud's skin, the nearly-frantic shine in his quicksilver eyes. Outsider's eyes, he was striking.

“You deserve a Stricture all your own,” Daud teased eventually, voice coarse and dark enough to send want shuddering up Corvo’s spine.

He grinned up at Daud, sharp-edged and hungry. “Not many know what kind of sin I am. Count yourself lucky, Knife of Dunwall.”

“Fuck,” Daud gusted like he’d been punched in the gut. “You can’t just say things like that.”

He looked at his feet, avoiding Corvo’s gaze, but when he raised his face he was smiling, truly smiling, with heavy creases at the corners of his eyes and his lower lip trapped between his teeth as he tried not to laugh. Eventually he lost his valiant struggle and huffed loudly, a hoarse thing that made Corvo wonder how long it had been since Daud had truly laughed, how long it had been since he’d smiled in earnest. It was the most genuine expression he’d ever seen on Daud’s face; broad, stupid amusement at Corvo’s expense, not dampened by uncertainty or the harsh wall of cautious distance that normally concealed him like Dunwall fog. By the Void, he was beautiful, and Corvo rose slowly from his seat to press into Daud’s space, trailing his fingers along that square jaw and kissing the happiness off his lips. Daud sighed against Corvo’s mouth, deliciously at ease.

Pulling away, Corvo rested their foreheads together and nudged Daud’s nose with his own, despite how it stung from his earlier injury. “I’ve never seen you smile before.”

“There’s not much to smile about,” Daud breathed, sounding tired.

“I’ll just have to work harder, then.”

“Next time,” Daud said slowly, stepping out of Corvo’s hold. “For now, I’m the one with work to do.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I’ll be back tonight. I’ll return you to the Tower just before dawn, so be ready to go.”

Daud turned to leave, and Corvo, feeling suddenly bereft without his closeness, surged after him, closing his arms around his waist and nuzzling into his hair. When Daud tried to wriggle free, Corvo simply tightened his hold, and Daud ceased his struggling with a defeated sigh.

“Corvo…” he warned.

“Thank you, Daud,” Corvo whispered against his neck, holding a little tighter when Daud shivered pleasantly against his chest. “For everything.”

“Corvo… I—” Daud began, but was interrupted by a sharp, forceful knock on the doorway into the dining hall.

Daud jolted, shoving Corvo back and away, and Corvo stumbled into a chair, shocked and wounded by the sudden rejection. He rubbed at the place where Daud’s elbow had caught him in the ribs, watching with lament as the soft, gentle Daud he had held not moments before disappeared, replaced by his usual stern, hardened self. Corvo hardly knew how to describe the loss of it – aching and defeated and longing as he was – but he forced his expression into something approximating respectable, turning to face the intruder.

He was shocked to find a short, slight woman leaning against the doorframe in a red coat that matched Daud’s, her Whaler’s mask buckled at her belt and her dark eyes watching him with disappointed derision. It felt as if she could see beneath his skin, could read his thoughts like an oracle, and Corvo tried not to cower under his vicious scrutiny. Her gaze was very direct and left him feeling unbalanced, much like Daud’s, but when he set his jaw and squared his shoulders against her stare, her full lips pulled into a frown. That, at least, was markedly different from his first meeting with Daud. Though he wasn’t certain why, but Corvo felt as if it were vital that he find himself in her good graces.

“Billie,” Daud said sternly.

“Daud,” she acknowledged flatly, without any of the polite deference the other Whalers typically used. Slowly, she dragged her gaze from Corvo to Daud, and Corvo was relieved to be free of her examination. “Am I interrupting?”

The snide inquiry was bitingly cruel, and Daud seemed to set his shoulders firmly, bristling. “What do you want, Lurk? I recall that you owe me reports, and I’m still waiting.”

“In good time, old man,” Billie dismissed easily, shoving away from the doorframe. There was a roll of documents tucked beneath her arm, and she handed them to Daud, watching Corvo with critical wariness all the while. “A present. Some things you may find useful for that big job coming up.”

“I told you we’re not doing it,” Daud murmured darkly, even as he thumbed through the pages with abject curiosity.

There was very little Corvo could see discreetly over Daud’s shoulder: a map of the Dunwall city sewers, pages of hand-written notes in nearly illegible scrawl, the barest corner of a floorplan. Still, he could see Daud absorbing the information with an unsettling speed and intensity, the gears in his head turning smoother than any of Sokolov’s wretched clockwork horrors. It was a peculiar sort of intimacy to watch Daud work, even outside of slinking through shadows and picking locks. He had a brilliant mind, one that held knowledge like a trap and honed a keen sense for strategy. Corvo wondered what sort of tactician he could have been in the military; a fine, stern general to be sure, one that Corvo would gladly have followed into battle more readily than any of the officers he had served under in Serkonos.

“I’ll let you be the one to tell our… client that,” Billie told him with a quiet threat in her tone that made Corvo sweat. “He won’t be pleased.”

“Whether he is pleased or not is his problem, not mine,” Daud snapped, vicious.

“What are you thinking, old man?” Billie angrily hissed, and it had the sound of a well-worn argument. “Since when do you pause to think before a job like this? When did you go soft?”

“We’re not taking the fucking job!” Daud bellowed, breathing hard.

Billie looked almost as startled as Corvo felt, but her shock faded quickly into bitter apathy while his pulse continued to pound anxious and heavy in his throat. There was an energy about Daud when he truly lost his temper, a halo of grimness that seemed to drink the light from the world around him. Corvo thought perhaps it was a consequence of his connection to the Void, though it could just have easily been the gravity of Daud himself, a gut-churning expression of the way he seemed to affect the world around him like a meteor striking the earth. It left Corvo feeling rattled, unbalanced on his own feet, and he moved to reach out for Daud, only to be stilled by the chilling glare Billie sent his way.

“Daud,” Corvo murmured softly instead. Daud flinched violently as if struck, as if the reminder of Corvo’s presence was as agonizing as a blade to the spine, and Corvo recoiled, hurt by his reaction. “Daud?”

“Not now, Corvo,” Daud said icily.

“Daud, what—?"

“Not. Now.”

Reprimanded, Corvo nodded silently and watched Daud step close to Billie, snarl a few quiet words into her ear, and disappear with a flutter of the Void that seemed darker than usual, undoubtedly blackened with his foul mood. It was a long moment before either he or Billie moved, but she was quicker to recover, and folded her arms over her chest to study him with cool scrutiny. She took two steps closer, glaring up at him with less indifference than she was likely trying for. Unwilling to be threatened, Corvo straightened his posture and crossed his arms as well, planting his feet to match her.

“So it’s you,” she bluntly observed.

“It’s me,” he growled back down at her, despite being oblivious to her meaning.

“You must have something that he wants, otherwise he wouldn’t be wasting his time.”

“Who says his time is being wasted?” Corvo spat.

“You flatter yourself.”

Corvo scarcely kept from gnashing his teeth like a beast, but his shoulders still crept up dangerously, a hound with its hackles raised. Billie's grin was wicked, a facsimile of a smile warped like a secret whispered from ear to ear until it forgot itself and twisted into something different entirely. He couldn't be sure what he had done to earn her derisive malice, having only just met the woman, though he suspected that he was an inconvenient stone in the shoe of her life. Daud had treated him the same, at first, and Billie was so very much like Daud it was uncanny.

“You actually like the old bastard,” she whispered with grave awe. “A nobleman falling for Daud… well, it wouldn't be the first time. Maybe you'll end up dead somewhere finer than a Bottle Street gutter. The last wasn't so lucky.”

Brows furrowed with frustrated ire, Corvo tried to mind his tongue, determined not to bring any more of Daud's resentment down upon himself by stabbing his lieutenant in the neck. Though he was unarmed, he was certain that he could find something lying around the dining hall or stashed in Jenkins's kitchen to commit a casual assault with.

“If that is how Daud wishes to rid himself of me, he is welcome to it,” Corvo informed her icily. “That is his decision to make, and I will respect it. But his alone.”

Billie watched him carefully, apathetic and betraying little, before stepping close into his space. The instinct to rock back from her was overwhelming, but Corvo fought it, taking measured breaths and meeting her dark gaze. She looked him up and down, slowly, pulling away his layers like she was cutting a corkscrew peel from an apple, only to find it rotten at the core. Sneering, Billie poked a slender finger into his chest, threatening.

“You don't know what you're doing, Lord Protector. What you've already done,” she hissed, cruel and unforgiving. “Stay away from him, from all of us. You’ll kill him, in the end. Whether by your own hand or another's, you're going to be his death and you don't even know it.”

“Daud can survive me. I’m sure he has survived worse.”

“You’re making him weak,” Billie spat, rising up on her toes and trying to match Corvo’s height. “He’s going soft because of you.”

The notion was ridiculous, and Corvo barked a laugh. Billie settled her heels back on the floor in surprise, but was quick to set her glare more fixedly upon her face.

“Do you honestly think being happy makes him less of a murderer?” Corvo asked. “Do you think me being around will somehow compel him to stop trading blood for coin? It’s his trade, and he’s good at his work. He’s not going to stop doing it.”

“His ambition is dying.”

“He’s exhausted.”

“You’re trying to change him.”

“I’m not the one asking him to be something he’s not,” Corvo rumbled darkly, feeling like he was beginning to unravel at the edges.

This foolish girl had yet to realize that Daud was not the only killer between them, and Corvo was starting to ache for Daud to rush back in and settle him, to order him down from the violence that was starting to itch beneath his skin. Still, he would snap like an animal and draw blood if it meant that Daud would handle him too roughly, or use that tone with him, the one that permitted no argument and demanded obedience. He wanted to cause trouble, if only it meant he could be defiant in the face of Daud’s reprimand. Yet no matter how contrary he wished to be for his own entertainment, or to gain Daud’s attention, there were limits to how much prodding he would oblige Daud to suffer. And hearing him belittled by his own lieutenant was beyond the bounds of Corvo’s tolerance.

“He could slaughter half of Parliament tomorrow and I wouldn’t give a flying fuck,” Corvo said eventually, voice low and dangerous. “I won’t ask him to not be an assassin. But I’ll be Void damned if that’s the only thing I’ll allow him to be.”

Before Billie could reply, he squared his shoulders and pushed past her, stalking out of the dining hall and setting off in search of someone – anyone – to distract him from Daud’s absence or thoughts of Billie’s criticism. He flitted between the Whalers, eager to make good use of what would apparently be his last day in Rudshore, and found himself eagerly welcomed by the familiar faces, though those few who were still unfamiliar treated him with Billie’s kindred disdain. Perhaps she was not the only one disapproving of his presence, the thought idly as he suffered through another losing game of Nancy.

Javier had won as the Taker again, with Misha as his partner, and Jordan and Rinaldo were busy licking their financial wounds as they shoved teetering piles of coins across the crates they had used as a card table and into Javier’s eager grasp. Akila, who had been permitted to play with the masters but had been too keen on batting her eyelashes at Jordan and Rinaldo to accomplish anything besides losing pitifully, seemed all too ignorant of Killian shooting her irritated glares from where he was settled at Jordan’s hip. Javier took pity upon Corvo, who at present had little coin to his name, and was appeased by Corvo’s solemn oath to swipe some good cigars from the Tower for him, next time he came to visit.

It was pleasant to be treated with such familiarity, and even to be burdened with the wonderful expectation that he would return to Rudshore – to the Whalers, and to Daud – and be welcomed readily. He had grown to be at ease amongst them in recent days; all too happily listening to Javier and Rinaldo natter over something foolish in fast-paced Serkonan, and accepting a list from a bashful Anatole of little fineries from the Tower that the novices were eager to try. Being amongst them was so familiar, and it conjured nostalgic notions of family and soldiers’ camaraderie that he had lost before he had ever truly found. He was eager to return, and reluctant to leave.

By the time he was able to pry himself free of the happy mob it was late enough to play at going to bed, and Corvo swiped a few bites of bread and fruit from Jenkins before returning to his quarters in the infirmary. His bed was still shoved close to Thomas’s, and Thomas was curled on his side, asleep, likely not having woken since Jordan had helped him hobble back to his room earlier, exhausted. Corvo felt wretched for abandoning him after his bout with Daud, and for slipping away to steal a few short-lived moments of privacy, but Jordan had promised that Thomas had been far too tired from being up and about to mind overmuch. Still, Corvo couldn’t deny his guilt as he washed in the adjoining bathroom and crawled into bed.

Thomas woke with a burbling mumble of confusion, twisting to glance over his shoulder despite the twinge of discomfort from his healing leg.

“Corvo?”

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You keep saying that,” Thomas observed, and his tone would have been sardonic had he not still been half dumb with sleep.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Corvo chuckled.

“What time is it?”

“Late enough to go back to sleep.”

Thomas grumbled some acknowledgement but settled back down into his blankets, and Corvo watched his back rise and fall with the slow rhythm of his breaths. Timidly, Corvo reached out to place his hand between Thomas’s shoulder blades, fingers splaying wide over the sleep-warm cloth of his shirt, and he could feel the rhythm of his breaths pause, attentive.

“I have to leave in the morning,” Corvo whispered carefully. “To return to the Tower.”

Thomas sighed. “When?”

“Early. Before the sun rises.”

For a long moment Thomas was silent, and Corvo feared he had begun to doze again, but eventually he drew a long, measured breath.

“Wake me before you leave.”

Relieved, Corvo slid his hand up to the back of Thomas’s neck, the tautness of nervous muscle playing beneath his fingertips, and began kneading his thumb into his nape. Thomas let a slow sigh slip between his teeth, and Corvo closed his eyes.

“I will.”

Chapter Text

The Timsh estate was crawling with City Watch officers combing through the barrister’s documents as if they were searching for silver in a dried up Serkonan mine. Daud observed them from a balcony across the way, saw each folio they added to a special stack for further investigation, watched their eyes glaze over as the promising relief of dinnertime approached. There was an officer in his navy coat that moved constantly between Timsh’s private office and the barristers’ offices below, a rapidly growing collection of papers piled in the crook of his arm. He scanned each diligently when he received them, brows furrowed low as he chewed on his scarred lip, though the lines of figures on the ledgers were quick to lose his attention.

Daud felt that he recognized the man, distantly, but spared it no further thought. His scheme to turn the Tower’s attention to Timsh’s slimy dealings was a success, it appeared, regardless of Corvo’s bloody interference. At least not all had been lost. At least he would still get paid.

He had scanned the fourth floor with his Void gaze, searching for the mysterious speaking statue that Thomas had warned him about, but there was nothing to be seen bearing the glow of magic aside from a single rune that Thomas must have missed in the ensuing chaos. It was just possible to glimpse the curve of cold marble through a window that a Watchman had opened to admit the cool evening breeze, but the statue remained inert, dull and useless. Daud had no reason to doubt what Thomas had seen, as Corvo had told him a similar story when asked; though while Thomas had been appropriately spooked by the entire situation, Corvo had bared his teeth and hissed about some stony bitch threatening Daud.

It never ceased to amaze Daud how brazenly foolhardy Corvo Attano could be in the face of forces he didn't understand. More than likely Daud was part of the problem, though he refused to admit it, having allowed Corvo to grow so familiar around the powers of the Void. Still, it was equally as likely that Corvo would be stubbornly defiant in the face of dangerous magic even without being conditioned to it through Daud's suddenly persistent presence in his life.

Corvo was adaptable in a way that made Daud nervous, in a way that should have made most people nervous. It made him clever, unpredictable, hard to pin down in a fight. It made him dangerous. Daud suspected that too few people understood that about Corvo Attano, and he wondered how many people had learned it the hard way. If he were honest with himself, Daud would admit that he was one of those people, but he made a point of avoiding introspection like the plague. After all, there was very little benefit in knowing Daud better, even for himself.

With a grumbling sigh, Daud shoved his spyglass shut and returned it to a pocket on his bandolier. There was not much else to be gleaned here, not while the Watch was still teeming through the estate like hagfish in a tidal pool. Still, the nerve-grating hum of the rune in the apartment behind him was drawing him in as a riptide, the bits of Void slithering through his bones reaching out for the echo of their god. Resigned, Daud succumbed and forced his way into the apartment.

The place seemed to be less abandoned than he had initially assumed, dusty and decaying but rich with the acrid scent of charred willow ink, painted over the walls in cultist ramblings that had him curling his lip in irritation. The Estate District was only recently succumbing to the influences of the Plague that had been slowly eating away at the rest of Dunwall for months; abandoned homes left to rot, their inhabitants gone from the city or dead, pockets of others’ livelihoods snatched up and stolen by the opportunistic and desperate that remained like Pandyssian burrowing owls. Heretics thrived in the chaos, turning well-appointed homes into cultist havens that praised a god who paid no mind to their ramblings or sacrifices. Daud hated them. The Outsider did not deserve such reverence.

The rune was singing behind the wall, hissing with a volume that reeked of a shrine, and Daud was disappointed to realize that he was correct once the bookcase concealing the doorway was forced aside. For a long moment he watched the eerie glow of the Void seeping from the cloth and driftwood of the shrine, debating if the merits of acquiring the rune were worth the absolute agony of talking with the Outsider. It had been many years since the deity had spoken to him at shrines, but given that he had been creeping into Daud’s dreams as of late, even if it were only the echo of whale song and the slapping of waves, Daud feared that this time he would not be so lucky.

Heaving a resigned sigh, Daud squared his shoulders and reached out for the rune.

“Daud,” the Outsider drawled, looking too smug. “How kind of you to visit.”

“Right,” Daud hissed, squinting against the phantom sting of salt water in his sinuses. “Get on with it, then. What do you want?”

The Outsider tilted his head, watching Daud like a specimen to be studied, but continued on as if Daud hadn’t spoken at all. “What interesting company you are keeping nowadays, Daud.”

“No. No, no, no,” Daud snapped, waving his finger as if he were scolding wolfhound and stepping into the deity’s space with a snarl. “You leave him out of this.”

“And who would that be?”

“Don’t play dumb. I swear, if he even mentions smelling the ocean I will murder your fishy ass,” Daud sneered, a ridiculous surge of fiery anger tightening in his chest.

The Outsider arched one brow, unimpressed. “You’re a few millennia too late for that, I’m afraid.”

“What?”

“Corvo Attano is already involved. By your own hand, I might add,” the Outsider continued, disregarding Daud’s confusion. “Was it not your assignment that not only resulted in his conferring with a witch, but nearly ended with him cracking his pretty head open?”

“Fuck you,” Daud was seething, stomping away from the deity before whirling back on him, livid. “Why even bring it up?”

“A witch. An unfamiliar marked. It’s a mystery.”

“No shit.”

“It’s eating at you already, old friend.”

“If you have nothing useful to say, which you never do, can I just take the rune and go?”

“There is a name I can offer,” the Outsider said, his ink bottle eyes too focused to be teasing. The intensity caught Daud off guard and halted his furious pacing. “Delilah.”

“I didn’t expect you to be so generous,” Daud grumbled, swallowing his surprise at the deity’s candor. “You’ve always told me you don’t interfere.”

“And so I don’t. Eternity is a cruel fate, Daud, and I must keep things interesting. A nudge in one way or another is all I offer; humans do the rest.”

Daud snorted, unimpressed with the logic. “You call that not interfering?”

“You may perceive grave consequences, the rise or fall of empires, but they are mere raindrops in an ocean of time and space. The world has a way of righting itself,” the Outsider preached, eyes dark and oily but gleaming with an air of superiority that Daud hated. “There is balance in everything, a corrective give and take that ebbs like the tides. Do you believe that the Empire of the Isles is the only nation that feels it? While the world within your scope of understanding crumbles with death and plague, another civilization rises to greatness from the ashes of war. I do not control it. My influence merely alters the flux. That is all.”

“Oh, that’s all, is it?”

Frowning, the Outsider vanished in an inky plume before reappearing at Daud’s side. His hands were folded behind his back like a schoolteacher lecturing an unruly student, and Daud knew well that if he bided his time, dug a little bit deeper, the deity would crack away from his apparent indifference, irritation boiling over. Even after an apparent eternity of existence, the Outsider was still just a child. Now, he was a child with the power of a god; arrogant and insolent and dangerous. It was unwise to provoke such a being, who was spiteful despite his claims otherwise, but Daud ceased fearing the Outsider years ago, perhaps foolishly. No matter, Daud was displeased that the Outsider had wriggled his way into his life once more, and would make absolutely certain that the god was aware of his frustration.

“When you roll dice, Daud, do you not already know the limits of your possible outcomes? Any result between two and twelve is within reason, but anything beyond is unacceptable. It defies the bounds of possibility and must not be tolerated.”

With a derisive laugh, Daud bared his teeth at the deity, impatient. “It seems like you are weighing your gamble against this Delilah, assuming that she is your thirteen. And here I thought that you didn’t have favorites.”

The Outsider sneered, dark and angry and primal. “Favorites, no. But I see when an errant stone will throw the scales off balance. There are futures I wish to watch that may be lost with certain interference.”

“Whose interference?” Daud mocked viciously. “Your own?”

“No,” the Outsider spat, and it felt as if the eternity of the Void rippled with his ire. “The interference of those who think that because they bear my mark, they can be what I died to become.”

With a sudden gust of salty air Daud was thrown from the Void, landing flat on his ass in the floor of the abandoned apartment. He certainly had succeeded in getting under the Outsider’s metaphysical skin, so to speak, but the morsel that the deity fed him would be worth savoring.

Delilah.

The name meant nothing to him, and he suspected that it had no reason to. But she was a wildcard and she had already known of Daud if what Thomas told him was true. Now, she also knew of Corvo, and knew he was involved with the Whalers. That was dangerous information for a stranger to have, especially provided that Delilah clearly had no qualms against threatening Daud, of all people. If she had connections like Timsh, she surely was well connected elsewhere, and considering that the vast majority of the aristocracy hated Corvo on principle it would take very little to have him thrown into Coldridge for treason. It was unlikely that even the Empress could save him then. Daud couldn’t risk it. Delilah had to go.

Daud hated this cryptic nonsense; threats laced with too little wit to strike fear into the heart of one as stony as Daud, but nonetheless spilt from the lips of an unpredictable enemy dangerous enough to make the warnings foreboding. Surely the witch was scheming, and judging from what she had told Thomas and Corvo, she was not only immensely proud of herself, but also wildly arrogant and likely close to setting her plans into motion, whatever they may be. Regardless, the information gleaned from the Outsider was still too vague to sponsor any worthwhile conclusions, the evidence of treachery so disparate as to be entirely nonexistent. There was little to be done about her, about this elusive Delilah, but something had to be done. To protect the Whalers. To protect Corvo.

Daud continued to mull over the possibilities as he went to meet his client from the Timsh job – the doomed barrister’s own scorned niece.

Thalia Timsh did not seem especially disturbed to learn of her uncle’s untimely demise, especially given that the will he had recently drafted on behalf of his rapidly ailing mother had been retrieved as requested. It seemed peculiar that Thalia was not particularly concerned that her inheritance was tied up in an investigation of fraud, but rather was merely pleased that the inheritance would be hers, rather than falling into the hands of some unrelated harlot. The young woman had launched into a rather heated rant about how her uncle had grown besotted with some wretched, cultish baker’s apprentice who had wooed him into making her benefactor of the estate. Apparently, the man had been so taken with the woman that he had invested in a whaling ship which now bore her name – Delilah – a vile name for a ship, in Thalia’s opinion. Upon hearing this, Daud suddenly became vested in her useless ramblings. With minimal prompting, the young woman was all too eager to tell Daud about how this Delilah was witchy and wicked, prone to creating bright, garish paintings that made her ill at ease. According to Thalia, Delilah had vanished mere weeks before, and barrister Timsh had begun to grow increasingly paranoid, startling at shadows and keeping candles lit through the night. Thalia had even offered in a conspiratorial whisper that she believed Delilah to be a witch, as she had appeared during a séance recently held at the Boyle estate.

Armed with a sudden wealth of knowledge and a bag full of freshly earned coin, Daud returned to Rudshore, thoughts of Delilah forcing his mind to distraction. It all surely meant something, or had some significance, else the Outsider would not have planted the seed of mystery in Daud’s mind to grow like a choking weed, hungry and sprawling. It was a mystery, and Daud could not abide a mystery, though he hated that he could be so easily wooed to do the Outsider’s bidding when faced with one. He couldn’t even posit what it was that the Outsider wished for him to accomplish, though it likely didn’t matter. Delilah, whoever the fuck she was, had already woven her creeping tendrils too deep into Daud’s territory, and he would rip her up from the roots.

Now though, as he retreated to his rooms in the Chamber to lock their payment safely away, he was forced to focus on more pressing matters. Corvo was leaving, returning to the Tower, and already Daud felt as if his departure would leave a wound in the heart of the Whalers. Corvo had come to Rudshore with chaos in his wake, but he had settled quickly amongst their lot, and was treated with little of the suspicion typically awarded new faces. Those who had been appropriately wary had soon warmed to his wit and charisma, softening with good humor and nearly claiming him as one of their own. Leonid was still cautious, as he was wont, but Corvo had even fallen into the good graces of the twins. It was comforting, in some way, to discover that Daud was not the only one weak to Corvo Attano’s charms.

Billie alone was still openly hostile toward him, and had Daud not been stuck between them with an armful of incriminating documents in his hands, he perhaps would have been more keen on separating the two by force. Corvo had returned her aggression, like for like, but Billie had not been cowed by his stature and status. Daud would have been proud of her for going toe to toe with someone like Corvo, snarling with foolhardy arrogance like a wolfhound off its leash, if not for the knowledge that Corvo would have torn her apart despite her connection to the Void and likely have killed them both in the process. As amusing as the fight would have been, Daud was perhaps too fond of them both to permit a deathmatch in his dining room. Besides, Jenkins didn’t deserve that kind of mess.

Still, Daud had been a fool to leave them alone. But he had panicked, too unbalanced from the soft intimacy that he and Corvo had shared just prior to Billie’s interruption, and further rattled when Billie had turned her bitter derision on him. All Corvo’s dogged, hard work, baring his soft underbelly just so that Daud would merely consider offering him the same courtesy, and it had been so quickly ruined simply because Daud was afraid that Billie would think him weak. It was not his place to impress her; quite the opposite, in fact. And yet, Daud had turned his fear into cruelty directed at Corvo, snapping, and driving him away like a wounded animal backed into a corner. Corvo had looked so wounded, nearly heartbroken, for a mere instant before his expression had gone stern and distant, careful not to reveal any weakness that Billie could use to pry him open as a knife in the seam of a river krust. Daud had no right to feel injured by Corvo’s reaction to his own viciousness, especially not while standing beside him holding plans on how best to assassinate his empress. He had not said a word to Corvo about Burrows’s scheme, and he never would. The contract would die silently, unfulfilled, and Daud would have committed no betrayal.

Daud’s hypocrisy was boundless.

And so he had fled, anger and hurt and something sour like guilt curdling behind his ribs, and a roll of documents outlining his treachery tucked under his arm. He had abandoned Corvo to Billie’s interrogation and had retreated to pace and stew in his office, like a fucking coward. Yet he had glanced compulsively out the shattered windows in his chambers, watching for Corvo to reappear. When he did, not long after, he looked livid and itching for a fight, but as soon as he caught sight of Rinaldo, Corvo’s simmering ire was replaced with a blinding smile and his typical good humor, the kind of smile that made Daud’s stomach twist oddly in his belly. Corvo must have admitted that he would shortly be returning to the Tower, because before long he was being roped into all sorts of benign nonsense – games of Nancy and chatting with Javier and drinking whiskey straight out of the bottle at the urging of the twins.

Daud had watched them all say their goodbyes before departing for the Estate District, carefully avoiding being drawn in, and it seemed most of the Whalers had made an appearance to bid Corvo farewell. It seemed absurd to make such an ordeal of a temporary parting. At least, Daud assumed it was temporary. It was foolish and soft hearted, sticky with a longing that he couldn’t rinse away, but Daud hoped that Corvo would come back to Rudshore. He had cautiously enjoyed the uncertain normalcy of seeing Corvo at the dinner table beside Rinaldo, or hearing in passing as Jordan griped to Galia about being wrung dry in Nancy by the Lord Protector. It was as if Corvo had always been meant to be among them, and had finally filled a void that Daud had never known was there.

And selfishly, Daud had enjoyed the first tentative steps they had taken, together, towards something that he had yet to define. He was afraid to put a name to it, afraid that saying it out loud would make it real, make it something to be stolen away from him. He didn’t want to lose it, whatever it was. Void, Daud despised his fragile, greedy heart.

At last steeling himself, Daud set out to collect Corvo from his room in the infirmary and return him to the Empress of the Isles. As he entered the clinic – carefully quiet so as not to wake Thomas or Aeolos – Daud could see the phantasmal glow of lantern light filtering through the crack beneath Corvo’s door and cautious whispers drifting from within. It appeared that Thomas was already awake. Ever the voyeur, Daud stepped close on silent treads to listen.

“—be alright, won’t you?” Corvo was asking gently, plainly concerned.

A heavy sigh, weary with exhaustion, and Thomas replied: “I’ll be fine.”

“Thomas,” Corvo scolded weakly. He sounded tired.

“I will be,” Thomas assured, though there was little confidence behind his words. “As soon as Montgomery clears me, I’ll be back on assignments and too busy to think.”

“That’s not a solution.”

“It has always worked.”

“Thomas, please.”

“It’s fine, Corvo. I promise.”

A long beat of dubious silence passed between them, and for once Daud felt mildly ashamed of himself for eavesdropping. Something had been brewing between Thomas and Corvo since their misadventure in the Estate district, and though Daud was ignorant as to its nature a confounding flare of possessiveness set his blood hot in his veins nonetheless. His foolish heart yearned pathetically for Corvo while the mark on the back of his hand throbbed, longing for Thomas. It threatened to rend him apart. Absently, Daud shook his left hand by his side, clenching and unclenching his fingers and willing the sensation away.

“And what about Daud?” Corvo asked eventually, and bizarrely his tone carried the weariness of an old, well-worn conversation.

“Daud will be Daud. He always has been, and always will be. Nothing will change, and truthfully… I don’t want it to,” Thomas replied. Corvo must have pulled a face at him, skeptical, or perhaps offended – definitely not resigned, of that Daud was certain – because Thomas continued with his reassurances, voice soft. “I’ll be fine.”

“Take care of yourself. Please. Please,” Corvo begged in a shaky whisper.

Daud could hear Thomas drawing in a long breath, the emphasis of Corvo’s words hanging potently in the air, and Daud abruptly found that he could bear no more of the tenderness between them. It seemed to come so easy for them, speaking soft and intimate like old lovers, while Daud struggled like a harpooned whale to even offer Corvo a glimpse of his budding affection. It was unfair, and it was entirely his own damn fault. He had consistently pushed Corvo away, left him too long to his own devices in Rudshore, avoided him simply because it was easier to be angry than afraid. It was natural that Daud be replaced, especially after abandoning Corvo to Billie that afternoon. With a foolish, bewildered surge of embarrassment, Daud realized that he was jealous. Unable to bear his self-imposed torment any longer, Daud knocked on the door, nudging it open with his fist.

Corvo twisted to look at him from where he was seated on the edge of Thomas’s bed, one of his broad hands resting lightly atop Thomas’s thigh over the blankets. Thomas tried to scramble back against the headboard, wide eyed and frantic, his breaths still fluttering frantic as a trapped bird. He looked as if he were about to face the firing squad, terrified and trembling, but Corvo remained casual, nodding to Daud before turning back to Thomas.

“We need to go, Attano,” Daud reminded, and he saw Corvo’s shoulders go tight at the use of his surname. “There’s only two hours until sunrise.”

“Okay,” Corvo agreed softly, rising from the bed.

Daud watched, pulse too loud in his ears, as Corvo placed his hand gently on Thomas’s shoulder, kneading softly into the muscle, before caressing his cheek sweetly with the backs of his fingers. Thomas sighed, eyelids fluttering as he watched Corvo with something glittery like adoration in his gaze, and Daud had to look away, feeling very much as if he were intruding where he did not belong.

“I’ll see you,” Corvo whispered.

“See you,” Thomas echoed.

Daud turned away, unwilling to watch them any longer, and left the clinic, certain that Corvo would follow. Unfairly, selfishly, Daud felt betrayed. There was a hot unpleasantness like bile in the back of his throat, and he could feel the soft little bits of himself that he had torn open for Corvo to see threatening to scab over and close up. Like every other scar he bore, it would be ugly and gnarled and earned because he was a fool.

He made it far out onto the breezeway before he heard Corvo trotting up behind him, boots clanging heavily on the ramshackle scaffolding. Corvo was still shoving his arms into his Lord Protector’s coat, the military crispness of the fittings returned after a thorough laundering by Anatole, and he huffed at Daud’s back at having been left behind.

“Daud,” Corvo called, pitching his voice low in the heavy silence of the Flooded District. “Daud, slow down. Outsider’s eyes, what’s the rush?”

“We don’t have much time,” Daud snapped, immediately feeling a surge of guilt for his harshness. “I don’t want to be seen leaving you outside the Tower. It would be bad for both of us.”

“Okay.”

Corvo didn’t sound convinced but let the subject die, and he trailed dutifully after Daud as they wove through the Flooded District, keeping high above the river krusts and dodging the clusters of Weepers that milled around the refinery, crying blood and searching for something warm to sink their teeth into. Daud felt like a weeper himself, mindlessly violent with no recourse, waiting for the slightest provocation to tear into Corvo. Maybe it would drive Corvo away. That was what he had wanted, was it not? It was easier to tell himself that was the truth, rather than admitting that he had known upon their second meeting that he would never truly be rid of Corvo Attano. He didn’t want to be.

When they reached the borders of the Flooded District and caution demanded they take to the rooftops, Corvo clutched Daud’s hand with a sad, bewildered sort of smile, twining their fingers together. Daud refused to coach Corvo through the transversals, simply dragging him to the edge of each rooftop and reaching out for the Void, and by the time they made it to the southern edge of the Estate district Corvo was a little pale, a little out of breath, a sickly sheen of sweat coating his brow. The sky was just beginning to lighten into a flimsy shade of violet to the east, and the puny light cast harsh shadows beneath Corvo’s eyes that made him look ill. Guilt twisting in his belly, Daud dug a remedy from his belt and forced it into Corvo’s hands. Corvo scowled at it but drank obediently.

Daud barely caught the praise of good boy that almost poured thoughtlessly from his lips, the memory of Corvo’s weight against his chest burning less bright than it had but a few scant days before. Rather, he cleared his throat and drew his gaze from the way Corvo wiped the remedy from his lips with the back of his hand.

“I’ll leave you here,” he said, stalwart. “Much closer to the Tower and we may be seen. Best to let you go where the patrols are less tight.”

Corvo studied him in silence for a long moment before passing the unfinished half of the remedy back to Daud with a sigh.

“We’re alone. Will you finally tell me what the matter is?” Corvo asked, sounding as if he were reasoning with a petulant child.

Very much like a petulant child, Daud turned his face away and began sipping at the foul remedy, if only to avoid speaking. Corvo, naturally, was undeterred. He stepped close into Daud’s space, expression twisted into something desperate and exhausted, and caressed his big hand along the line of Daud’s jaw, fingers weaving into his hair.

“Daud, cariño, talk to me. Please.”

Daud jerked back at the affectionate moniker, slapping Corvo’s hand away. He felt the loss immediately, twisted longing hot in his belly as he yearned for the tender caresses from the last few days, when he was less certain of himself but impossibly certain of Corvo. Now he was unsure, doubting the things he had let himself believe simply because they spilled from Corvo’s lips like honey.

“You should go,” Daud said, snappish.

“Void dammit, Daud!” Corvo shouted, startling a dog in the garden of an estate down the road, sending the thing yapping.

With a grimace, Corvo stepped close again to cradle Daud’s jaw with both hands, and Daud could no longer avoid the concern in his expression when he was so near, whiskey warm eyes glimmering with hurt. It was difficult to look at him. Daud couldn’t look away.

“If I did something, you have to tell me. I can’t read your mind,” Corvo murmured, leaning to press his forehead to Daud’s. “Please. I don’t want to leave like this.”

For a long while Daud said nothing, simply basking in the strength of Corvo against him, matching his level breaths, grasping his elbows and trying to convince himself that he would be able to let go. But Corvo nudged their noses together sweetly, his thumb brushing lightly over the scar carved down Daud’s face as if he was something delicate, precious, and Daud could feel his resolve crumbling out from beneath him like weak soil at a cliff’s edge. Corvo was so earnest, so eager to be himself with Daud, and Daud felt like a bastard for willfully ignoring that honesty. He took a deep breath, steeling himself.

“You and Thomas…” he began, but quickly lost his determination when Corvo sighed, resigned, and pulled away.

“Near-death experiences have a way of bringing people together, Daud,” Corvo told him, teasing but not malicious. “Besides, it is easy to become fond of another when you’re both foolishly besotted with the same stupid man.”

Daud recoiled, shaken, to stare wide-eyed at Corvo. Corvo’s smile was soft and a little sad, his thumb still tracing sweetly along Daud’s jaw. The touch was grounding, something solid to cling to as he reeled with the revelation.

“What?”

The tender press of Corvo’s lips against his own was soothing but brief, and Daud hardly had the wherewithal to not chase after the kiss when the parted. After all his earlier anger, his wretched feelings of betrayal and acrid jealousy, Daud too quickly fell back into Corvo’s orbit, the explanation a relief in its simplicity but also completely confounding.

“He loves you, Daud,” Corvo whispered gently, so earnest. “He has for years. And yet you are so dismissive.”

Daud started to protest, but Corvo hushed him with the soft press of a finger against his parted lips.

“Just listen,” Corvo ordered, soothing. “He loves you, would die for you. You have to understand, Daud, how hard it is for him.”

“I…” Daud began, stuttering, and stopped to swallow the wretched ache of realization that thickened his throat. “I didn’t know.”

“I know, cariño, I know.”

“He didn’t say anything.”

“How could he? Fear makes us all fools, Daud; you of all people should know that. And the fear of losing you was worse than the pain of staying silent,” Corvo continued. “He never would have told you.”

“Then why tell me now?”

Corvo made sure that he had Daud’s attention, expression somber and almost pitying. “I betrayed his trust because I couldn’t bear the thought of you taking your jealousy out on him. Thomas has done nothing wrong.”

An acidic crackle of shame pulled tight in Daud’s chest, and he turned his face away, too mortified by his own selfish resentment to meet Corvo’s patient gaze. Again, he only served to prove that he did not deserve Corvo Attano. He did not deserve the faith that anyone placed in him, let alone someone as kind and tenderhearted and good as Thomas Lindsay. Fuck, Daud was such an inordinate asshole.

“You like him,” Daud accused weakly.

“I do,” Corvo said truthfully, and envy flared hot in Daud’s blood. “And it changes nothing for you and I.”

Corvo’s last statement was pointed, his gaze searching as he studied Daud’s face while sweetly dragging his thumb back and forth over Daud’s cheek, occasionally pressing temptingly into the hollow beneath his lower lip. Sighing with timid want, Daud was accepting when Corvo leaned in to kiss him, chaste but heavy with startling conviction. Cautiously he tasted the seam of Corvo’s lips, his longing soothed when Corvo opened for him like a flower in spring with a wanting groan in his throat. Daud felt settled for the first time since their short-lived moment of adoring intimacy that afternoon, and it was easy to savor the splay of Corvo’s hands across his back, strong and possessive. Most things were easy with Corvo, so long as Daud didn’t make them difficult.

When they parted, deliciously breathless, the sun had risen to stain the morning sky a dark magenta, each heavy cloud tinted indigo and haloed in flaming orange that turned Corvo’s skin copper in the glow of early dawn. He was beautiful, wildly, confoundingly so, and Daud struggled to drag himself away.

“You need to go,” Daud whispered as if the all-consuming peace he felt would be startled away.

“I don’t want to,” Corvo whined weakly.

“You have to, else the Empress will have my head.”

Resigned, Corvo kissed along Daud’s jaw, sighing against his lips, and finally withdrew as if it were wrenching his heart from his chest. He clung tight to Daud’s hand, apparently as reluctant to part as Daud felt.

“I’ll see you, right?” Corvo asked cautiously.

At Daud’s nod, he seemed to bolster himself, stepping back towards the edge of the roof until their fingers separated with the distance.

“Be careful,” Corvo insisted, and distantly Daud wished he would hurry up and go so that his own heart would cease its pleading. “I'll see you soon.”

“I'll see you,” Daud agreed in soft Serkonan, and transversed away.

*****

            Despite the early hour, Corvo managed to cause quite the stir when stole back into the Tower, as clandestinely as he could manage. The guards at the gates startled when he approached as if he had materialized out of the mist like some specter, but they had permitted him entrance with only minimal mumbling, one even going so far as to offer a bewildered but polite “welcome back, sir” as he passed. It was not until he made it into the Tower itself, dimly lit as it was given the hour, and caught his reflection in an ostentatiously gilded mirror that he truly understood the cautious treatment he was being afforded. He bore a sprawling black eye from where Daud had head butted him in the face the previous afternoon and was wearing the beginnings of an impressively dark beard, and after having apparently vanished without a trace for several days, Corvo could only imagine the tall tales that the guards would spin around his absence. The maids balked from him in the hallways as he passed, his careful mask of indifference unfaltering as he trudged upstairs towards his rooms, desperate for some uninterrupted rest, no matter how brief.

            He would speak with Jessamine after breakfast, he decided.

            However, as he stepped onto the second floor landing, he stumbled directly into Geoff Curnow, who jumped back but reached to steady Corvo on his feet. Corvo was fond of Curnow, and considered him – perhaps one-sidedly – to be his friend, certainly the only one he had within the Tower that wasn’t Jessamine or his daughter. It was pathetic, really. But Curnow was a kind, diligent man who rarely wasted words and never left one feeling as if he were twisting truths and telling lies; not like the aristocracy and the high-brow captains of the Watch who thought too highly of themselves.

            Presently, Curnow looked a little rumpled, with a dark shading of stubble along his jaw and heavy purple shadows beneath his deep-set eyes. In his hands was a thick pile of documents, several of which had fluttered down the hallway when they collided, and Corvo scrambled to collect them, gracelessly.

            “Lord Corvo,” Curnow greeted cautiously as he accepted the gathered papers.

            “Captain Curnow,” Corvo replied with a weak gesture towards Curnow’s collection of documents and ledgers. “You look like you’ve been busy.”

            “So do you, sir,” Curnow said in his clipped military tone, nodding towards Corvo’s face sympathetically.

            Flustered, Corvo prodded lightly at his nose, scowling when it smarted, still angry and tender. Curnow raised an eyebrow at him oddly but said nothing, and Corvo waved the bewildered concern away with a huff. He was tired of being fussed over. Not that Curnow was prone to much fussing – Corvo couldn’t even imagine Curnow fussing over receiving a knife wound to the kidney – but Corvo didn’t have the energy to fend off anyone’s concern. The tension he’d felt at Daud’s bitter distance, combined with several days of anxious uncertainty and the guilt of exposing Thomas’s longing to Daud left him exhausted. It was all he could do to remain upright, let alone have a coherent conversation.

            “No matter,” Curnow continued in the face of Corvo’s silence. “Her Majesty will be eager to hear the details of your assignment, I’m sure. The Empress is in her study, at present.”

            So Jessamine had invented some false assignment to explain his absence; he would need to be careful not to contradict the stories she'd spun if he wished to avoid putting himself under any more scrutiny than normal. Corvo sighed, silently cursing Curnow’s conscientiousness. If he avoided Jessamine now, and she heard that he had not come to her right away, she would be livid. It was best, perhaps, to get the interrogation over with. Patting Curnow on the shoulder, Corvo made for Jessamine’s office.

            “Thank you, Captain,” he called over his shoulder. “Get some rest, Geoff, you look terrible.”

            Curnow barked a hoarse laugh, startled, and continued down the stairs.

            Corvo didn’t bother with knocking, and instead shoved his way into Jessamine’s office unannounced. She chirped a noise of surprise at the sight of him, battered and bruised, slinking over to drop like a sack of stones onto her couch and kicking his muddy boots up on the armrest.

            “Corvo!” she scolded, tone imperious. “My word, what happened to your face?! Was it Daud? I swear, if he laid a finger on you…!”

            Corvo waved away her anger, unconcerned. “It’s fine, Jess. I busted his lip, we’re even.”

            “Well,” she huffed, folding her arms across her chest and looking every inch the enraged empress. “I suppose being cooped up with him – while wounded, I might add – didn’t have the effect I was hoping for if you two ended up brawling like street thugs.”

            “My head is fine, Jessamine, thank you for asking,” he snidely quipped, irritated. “And everything was fine. We were sparring, it happens.”

            “So you two didn’t end the week staring longingly into each other’s eyes?”

            Flustered, Corvo stared at the ceiling, resolutely silent, but he could hear Jessamine shifting in her seat, sensing weakness like a harpy spotting a flailing fish.

            “Oh, you did, didn’t you?” she drawled, giddy as a schoolgirl up to no good.

            “I didn’t say that.”

            “You didn’t not say that, either. How was it, Corvo? Did your charms finally win him over? Did you manage to kiss him without nearly being shoved off a roof?” she paused and gasped, comically scandalized. “Corvo, did you bed the Knife of Dunwall?”

            “No, Jess, for fuck’s sake! Have some shame!” he snapped, embarrassed.

            Corvo was warm under his coat, a flustered blush burning him up beneath the wool, and he resolutely tried not to breathe too deeply the echo of Daud’s cologne on his lapels. But Jessamine had gotten what she’d wanted; at least, his humiliation would be enough to tide her over until her thirst for more finally wrung him dry over drinks after dinner. He could hear her smugness in the air like logs crackling in the fireplace, and he resolutely changed the subject.

            “I saw Geoff in the hall,” Corvo commented idly. “He looks as if you’ve run him ragged.”

            “Ah, yes, well,” Jessamine began, clearing her throat. “There was an incident in the Estate District. Arnold Timsh was found dead, and in the course of securing the scene some rather incriminated evidence of fraud was discovered amongst his papers. Captain Curnow has been heading up the investigation.”

            “Ah,” Corvo said guiltily, “About that….”

            “No!” Jessamine snapped, holding up a silencing hand. “If you had anything to do with it – if Daud had anything to do with it – I don’t want to know.”

            “Okay.”

            “Okay?”

            “You said you didn’t want to know.”

            Jessamine groaned, dragging her hands over her face and smudging the edge of her lipstick. Corvo almost felt guilty for causing trouble for her, and for Geoff, but Timsh was a slimy bastard. He wouldn’t feel guilty for giving the man what he deserved.

            “Everything has gotten so bad, Corvo,” Jessamine said lowly, and the seriousness of her tone had him sitting up on the couch, carefully attentive. “Corruption among the nobles, starvation among the poor. Plague eating the city alive, the death count rising by the day. It will only get worse from here. Timsh is only the start. The flooding of Rudshore is only the start.”

            Corvo suppressed a flinch at the mention of Rudshore, unreasonably fearful that she knew about Daud’s base and the Whalers, but she continued on, captured by her train of thought.

            “I can’t fix it.”

            “You can. You will,” Corvo insisted, rising to kneel beside her chair, holding bother her hands in his as if he could hold her together. “Sokolov is working on a cure. You’re trying to keep the people safe. You’re doing your best.”

            “My best is not enough, Corvo,” she told him wearily, finally looking up to meet his eyes.

            She looked exhausted, worn thin and weary, and Corvo’s gut clenched with horrified concern for her and the weight upon her narrow shoulders. He would do anything – anything – to help her, and he told her as much, words harsh with conviction.

            “And I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to make good on that promise,” she murmured, cupping his cheek gently in one of her delicate hands and scratching her nails through the beard he had grown over the last several days.

            “Anything,” he swore again.

            “Corvo,” Jessamine said, solemn. “I have an assignment for you.”

Chapter Text

It required nearly two weeks of endless toiling before Corvo managed to catch up on the few days of work he had missed, and the mathematics of the equation never quite sorted themselves no matter how he parsed it. There was the usual business – security concerns and oversight of the Tower guard, plus organizing the Empress's protection detail for an outing into the city, which Corvo argued was unwise given the state of things. He was vetoed easily, of course. And then there was the matter of the Timsh investigation. Typically, such a thing would have fallen outside his purview, instead left in the hands of the City Watch and Spymaster Burrows, but Curnow had come to him clandestinely with concerns regarding the integrity of the investigation, and Corvo had promptly made it his business. There were discrepancies between the notes made by Curnow on site and the reports submitted by the City Watch squad under Burrows's watchful eye. It was a dangerous game to suspect Burrows of treachery, especially when the original documents needed to confirm any wrongdoing were already firmly in the Spymaster's slippery hands.

Corvo had never particularly liked Burrows, nor trusted him, and it was certainly mutual, as Burrows hated Corvo in turn. Having his concerns validated by Curnow, who by Corvo’s estimation was one of the most reasonable men in Dunwall, was empowering, especially after Jessamine had decided to send him on her errand at Burrows’s insistence. Jessamine swore that she felt it was the best way – the only way – to find a cure for the Plague. Corvo had argued that Sokolov was working on a cure, and that he was needed here, protecting her. There had been assassination attempts and discontent during her reign, of course, but Dunwall had never been more dangerous than it had been of late. He refused to leave her and Emily alone, undefended.

Jessamine had given him a sad, sympathetic look, and reminded him that she was protected on all sides by the Watch and the Overseers and her Spymaster in a tone that one would use on a dim, forgetful child. He had grit his teeth, preparing to argue once more, but at the sight of the insolence in his expression she turned stern, becoming the Empress and ordering him to acquiesce. Reluctantly he agreed, bowing his head.

They would not tell Emily, Jessamine decided, until just before Corvo was to leave. She believed that Emily’s disappointed complaints and tantrums would be far worse than the discomfort of willfully lying to their daughter, but Corvo strongly disagreed. He could scarcely resist her pouty frown when she was trying to wring something out of him. She had him wrapped around her finger, and he was quick to crumble to her whims, much to Jessamine’s chagrin. It would be difficult to keep the secret, but Jessamine demanded it and it must be so.

He would also have to tell Daud.

That, somehow, was even more daunting. Corvo feared that whatever was building between them would be killed by the distance and time apart, soundly putting whatever affection Daud had for him in the ground. He didn’t want to lose it, whatever it was they shared. Corvo was too invested, now. He was invested in his feelings for Daud, his blooming feelings for Thomas, his affection for the Whalers. The thought of being cut off from them – both figuratively, with Daud’s rejection, and physically, with his inability to access Rudshore safely on his own – was nearly devastating. It had been years since Corvo had felt welcome, like he belonged somewhere, like he had even tentative friends, and selfishly he did not want to lose it. After gaining just a mere taste of that acceptance, he didn’t think he could go back to how it was before when he was an outsider in his own home, scorned and condemned for his accent and his heritage and the color of his skin. It had not occurred to him in almost twenty years to miss his native tongue, but now he could not forget.

No matter the cost of keeping it all, Corvo would not let go.

In the two weeks he spent catching up on his seemingly abandoned duties, he had hardly left his office, let alone ventured out into the city at night to see Daud. He wanted to. His skin was itching with claustrophobia, with the urge to stand atop the roofs of Dunwall and feel the wind and rain and taste the smog on the air. He wanted to hold Daud’s hand and leap from rooftops like a fool, reveling in the adrenaline stupid rush of falling only to feel the tingle of the Void over his skin, the jolt of salvation from the plummet.

Corvo knew he was a selfish man. He wanted out, beating frantic wings against a lovely cage. Jessamine noticed his restlessness but was kind enough not to comment. Emily, however, had no such compunctions against demanding his every waking moment.

“Corvo,” Emily groused, nudging his knee with her foot under the table. “Corvo! Are you listening?”

“Sí, of course, mija,” Corvo lied, blinking to awareness.

She frowned at him, then at the fork-full of breakfast hovering halfway between his plate and his mouth, and then back at him. Corvo carefully avoided her scrupulous gaze and finished his bite of eggs. They were cold.

“Emily,” Jessamine scolded from across the table, arching a keen brow at Corvo. “Corvo has been busy and is tired. Don’t pester him.”

Emily pouted, indignant. “Well, someone has to tell me about hunting pirates! If I’m going to be a pirate I need to know what to expect, and Corvo has fought pirates! I need first hand sources.”

Corvo flattened his surprised grin at her declaration, even as Jessamine furrowed her brows in frustration. Well, at least Emily was retaining something from her history and literature lessons with her tutors.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Emily. You’re not going to be a pirate,” Jessamine insisted, rolling her eyes. “You’ll be Empress.”

“I’ll be a pirate empress, then!”

“Emily, don’t start,” Jessamine huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose. Quickly Emily turned to Corvo, eyes round and glittery and pleading, but Jessamine resoundingly cut her off before she could begin mewling. “If you are finished with breakfast, go wash up for your lessons. Go on.”

Sulking, Emily shoved away from the table and slid down out of her chair, scowling crossly at her mother all the while. Still, she shuffled over to press a quick kiss to Corvo’s cheek before turning to the door and trudging off to meet her tutor in the library for lessons. Her frustration was wildly amusing. Corvo had seen beaten hounds that looked less pathetic.

“Have a good day, mija,” he called after her, and Emily graced him with a defeated smile as she rounded the doorway.

“Outsider’s eyes, that girl,” Jessamine complained, glaring at Corvo’s amused smile.

“She is her mother’s daughter.”

“Hey, you,” she scoffed, suppressing a grin as she flicked a grape at him from across the table.

Corvo caught the grape before it hit him in the chest and ate it, chewing obnoxiously. But his amusement was quick to fizzle, a match dying in a rainstorm, smothered by guilt and the knowledge that he was carrying on lying to his daughter by omission, keeping his looming departure a secret. He wanted to tell Emily, to take the weight of deception off his chest. Jessamine resisted, digging in her heels like she always did when someone contradicted her decisions. Still, he prodded again.

“It’s the ninth of Timber, Jess, we have to tell her eventually. I’m leaving in three weeks.”

“Oh, Corvo,” Jessamine groaned. “That may be, but you’ll be gone for less than three months, not forever. Emily will survive your absence. However, I may not survive the next three weeks if I’m forced to listen to her griping. Have a heart, Corvo. Spare me my suffering.”

Sighing, Corvo rubbed at his eyes, exhausted.

“Emily deserves a little warning, at least. I don’t want to drop it on her the day before,” he argued, pressing onward when Jessamine tried to interrupt. “She’s my daughter too, Jess, and I’m the one leaving, so I think that—”

A knock on the doorframe announced the arrival of a Tower guard with a stack of letters for Jessamine, and Corvo clamped his mouth shut awkwardly, turning his face away in embarrassment for his outburst. If the guard had heard any of it, surely it would make the rounds by the end of the day that the Empress’s hound had been barking up a storm. The whole Tower would know that he was being sent away, and even if they knew nothing of the reasons why, they would certainly conjure their own theories.

“Later, Corvo,” Jessamine ordered imperiously, harshly dismissive.

Corvo briefly glanced up at the guard, who was watching him with derision, and quickly looked away again, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“Correspondence, Your Majesty,” the guard said, offering Jessamine a polite bow.

“Thank you. You may go.”

“Ma’am. Lord Attano.”

Jessamine flipped through the stack of letters with deft fingers as the guard retreated, and Corvo remained steadfastly silent as she sorted them into piles based upon their apparent urgency. There was one that she came to, however, that had her pausing with a frown, turning the envelope over twice and inspecting the wax of the seal. Corvo sat up straighter, curious and equally wary, as Jessamine slipped one thin finger beneath the seal, breaking the wax. She read for several moments, brows furrowed deeply, before a sly grin began to pull across her lips and she glanced up at Corvo from beneath lowered lashes. After a tense moment, Jessamine huffed a laughing sigh, sliding the letter across the table.

“This one’s for you,” she smirked, amused.

“What?” Corvo spluttered and reached for the missive.

It was fine paper, thick and embossed lightly along the edges, but the contents of the letter were written in a graceless, drooping scrawl that listed downward on the right side of the page. There were faint smudges where the paper had been folded before the ink was completely dry, as if written carelessly in a hurry, or perhaps with a childish eagerness unfettered in the penning. Surely enough, Corvo decided the letter was indeed intended for him given the large sprawl of his name at the top of the page, and so he began to read, mouth pulled in a bewildered frown.

Corvo,

            You must be busy with your protectorly duties at the Tower, since we haven’t seen you out in the city at all since you left. D has been better and worse somehow. His mood has been nicer, but he explodes if anyone so much as thinks about mentioning it. Javier even got threatened with laundry duty, not like he’d actually do it. We’ve all decided that D misses you, or something like that.

            Even if D won’t admit to it, the rest of us would like to see you. Thomas, Kieron, and I will be in the Tower District at the end of the week.

            -Rinaldo

            P.S. Thomas’s leg is all healed up. I think if he sees another drop of healing elixir he’ll be sick on the spot.

            P.P.S. Hopefully the wax seal I used allowed this letter to reach the Empress without trouble. Don’t worry, the previous owner won’t be needing it anymore. I promise not to use it for anything too nefarious.

            P.P.P.S. Tell the Empress that Misha says hello.

            Astounded but grinning like a fool, Corvo turned the envelope over to study the wax of the broken seal, noting the initials M.D.E. over the image of a blood ox wreathed in oak leaves and rye. It was familiar, in the way all old family crests were familiar: regal and self-important and ridiculous.

            “I’m afraid to know how your new… associates acquired the Estermont seal,” Jessamine said, watching Corvo with her chin resting in her palm.

            “Estermont?” Corvo asked incredulously, somewhat concerned that Daud had been involved in the assassination of a member of Parliament without him noticing.

            “Lord Maurice Denys Estermont,” Jessamine clarified helpfully. “He died by rat swarm a few weeks ago, barricaded within his office by colleagues. His son, Talmedge Estermont, has since inherited the estate and the title, and was chosen to replace his father in Parliament. Dreadful business.”

            “I see.”

            Corvo supposed he should have recalled such things, but the lords and ladies of the aristocracy seemed to blend so easily into one massive, faceless amalgam of greed and silver tongues and useless etiquette. He remembered, now, the chaos following Maurice Estermont’s demise and the new plague regulations it spawned, but after one Estermont was replaced with another Corvo was quick to forget the names in favor of recalling the tragedy. It wasn’t much of a tragedy, in Corvo’s opinion, especially given that Talmedge Estermont was as entitled and insufferable as his father had been. So Corvo had simply shifted his dislike from one to the next. Consistency of loathing was easy when the entire aristocracy was equally terrible.

            Jessamine watched him for a while as he reread Rinaldo’s letter, something like fondness in her gaze, before she spoke up. “You haven’t mentioned Rinaldo before.”

            “Oh, right,” Corvo muttered sheepishly, folding the letter and tucking into a pocket inside his coat for safekeeping. “I know you don’t want to get involved.”

            “Just in anything criminal, Corvo,” she assured. “But this Rinaldo seems like a friend. He seems… exuberant.”

            Corvo barked a surprised laugh, grin blooming anew across his face.

“You could say that,” he told her, smiling. “He’s Serkonan and… energetic. Never knows when to stop talking, always grinning about something. He’s trouble.”

“Good trouble or bad trouble?”

He smiled at the echo of the conversation they had on that first night he met Daud, smirking as he replied: “Both. He’s got a good heart. Happier than anyone else I know.”

“He’s a murderer.”

“Well,” Corvo grimaced, unable to deny the accusation. “So am I.”

“You’re a soldier, Corvo,” Jessamine scolded curtly. “Killing as a soldier and killing as a lawless thug are two very different things.”

“Sure,” he said carefully, lowering his voice. “But he’s a friend. And far less dangerous than… David, and that’s turned out fine. Better than fine. It need not be an issue.”

Jessamine leaned back in her chair, hands folded primly on the tabletop. Her look was considering, peeling away at all of Corvo’s little secrets like paint from an old window frame, and he struggled not to bow under the full force of her assessment. There was no need for his cowed embarrassment, not really, but Corvo had been ever mindful over the last two weeks of the trouble that his exploits caused her, and his guilt was eating a hole in his belly. It felt like the foolish flutter he felt when Daud was soft and playful, but turned sour with acid and shame. Jessamine did not resent him for his pursuit of Daud or his own sudden, consuming happiness, at least she swore that she did not. But Corvo wondered if it was just another one of those sweet little lies they told each other to spare some disappointment. They were the same types of little lies parents told their children and old married couples told each other, seemingly harmless but known for the falsehoods they were; like the way his father had always told mamá that his joints didn’t ache, or how mamá promised that she wasn’t hungry and that Corvo was a growing boy who needed to eat.

All Corvo could do, in truth, was believe when Jessamine told him that she did not resent him for his happiness.

“Well,” Jessamine said at length, cocking her head to the side curiously like a bird, long neck arced like a swan’s. “Are you going or not?”

Corvo studied her for a moment, doing his best not to let his thill at her approval overtake him in his eagerness, before nodding.

“I’d like to, if I may.”

“You may,” she allowed imperiously.

Relieved, Corvo sighed a breath that he did not realize he had been holding, and reached across the table for Jessamine’s hand. She folded her fingers around his and squeezed gently, her stark, weighty gaze conveying a hundred comforts and warnings all in a moment’s glance. Corvo bowed his head a little, silently chastised, but did not pull away until Jessamine at last released him.

“Do not wait too long, Corvo, to say what must be said,” she told him gravely.

“I know,” he whispered.

With a nod, Jessamine collected her silverware and began to finish her meal, dismissing him soundly. Corvo excused himself, perhaps too quickly, but his eagerness to see Rinaldo and Thomas was already lending a bit of liveliness to his weary mind. There were a great many things to do before the week was done: travel plans to be made, reports to read and file away, treats to steal from the kitchens for Jenkins and the novices. He wanted to find some hibiscus for Montgomery’s tea, swipe some good quality coffee for Daud, and speak to Sokolov about Thomas. The latter task he had no expectations of enjoying, as asking anything of Sokolov that would draw time away from his experiments or his art typically resulted in abundant Tyvian grousing, but Corvo would bear it for Thomas’s sake.

It would be a busy week, indeed.

*****

            “For fuck’s sake, will ye stop your blasted pacing, Thomas?” Kieron snapped, cigarette smoke huffing angrily from his nostrils like a blood ox bull.

            Thomas flinched, glancing over his shoulder to where Kieron was grinding the last vestiges of his cigarette out angrily against the heel of his boot, scowling at it like it had personally insulted his mother. Despite the fact that, objectively, Kieron was always angry about something, Thomas never could quite bring himself to not take Kieron’s mindlessly harsh words personally. Given that Rinaldo was too distracted to intervene, sitting on the edge of the roof, humming to himself and kicking his feet idly as he kept lookout for Corvo, Thomas shifted to lean against the wall of the building abutting their current perch. It was a struggle not to fidget, anxious as he was, but Thomas shoved his hands impatiently in his pockets to wait.

            Luckily, it was not long before Rinaldo was waving wildly at a figure down in the darkened street, tampering his exuberant voice down to an excessively loud whisper to draw their attention.

            “Corvo! Up here!”

            “Aye, fuck off Escobar,” Kieron complained, irritated. “Don’t make the poor bastard climb all the way up here. Go on, then.”

            Thomas shifted to go fetch Corvo, anxious yet eager, but Rinaldo was already throwing a rude gesture over his shoulder to Kieron and shoving himself off the roof. A few moments later, Rinaldo reappeared on the roof with a rather green Corvo in tow, clutching a bag slung over his shoulder close to his chest as if it were the only thing preventing his soul from fleeing his body. Corvo seemed to shake himself, wiping his sweating palms on his trousers, but when he met Thomas’s gaze he smiled, broad and honest. Something winged fluttered in Thomas’s belly, foolish and wanting, drawn to Corvo as a moth to flame.

            “Thomas,” Corvo breathed happily, a bit of color returning to his cheeks.

            “Corvo,” Thomas said.

            He moved to step closer, drifting into Corvo’s orbit, but was immediately thwarted by Rinaldo bounding over and slinging his arm around Corvo’s shoulder, his grin broad and giddy.

            “You’ve been missed, brother!” Rinaldo told him, and Corvo gamely allowed himself to be dragged along to the collection of air ducts and upturned buckets where Kieron was holding court. “¿Que paso, Corvo? ¿Estás bien?”

            “Sí, sí, estoy bien,” Corvo agreed, smiling apologetically to Thomas but following Rinaldo obediently.

Sighing, Thomas stared after them with a pathetic sort of longing. He was a fool to desire so much of Corvo, to expect anything other than the kindness that had been shown him already, kindness likely only earned because of his weakness and Corvo’s soft-hearted pity. Corvo was a kind man, stern when he needed to be, with a core of steel that concealed the beast below, but he had only ever been gentle with Thomas when in his right mind. Thomas assumed too much, wanted too much. He did not fancy himself an especially covetous man, and certainly was too loyal to Daud to destroy what happiness his master found with Corvo; but the heart was a weak muscle, and stupid, and selfish. And still Thomas wanted Corvo’s time, his attention. He wanted what peace and comfort their quiet nights together in Rudshore had offered, when he slept soundly with the soft heat of Corvo so near.

Yet as it had been Rinaldo’s idea to reach out to Corvo like they did, Thomas could not begrudge his enthusiasm for Corvo’s attention, though he would indulge in a brief, ridiculous flare of jealousy.

            “Gentlemen,” Corvo greeted once he had been manhandled into a seat by Rinaldo’s forceful hands on his shoulders.

            Kieron, ever eager to assert his superiority over anyone he deemed a threat, puffed himself up and leaned over with his elbows on his knees as if he was the boss of a band of street thugs about to interrogate a rat in their ranks. It took serious effort for Thomas not to bristle and roll his eyes, but instead he leaned back against the chimney once more, too anxious to sit with the other men. He was irrationally concerned that Kieron's posturing would irritate Corvo into leaving, even if past evidence would indicate that not even Daud's general unpleasantness would deter him. Still, Thomas tapped his fingers nervously against his elbow, watching.

            “What’s that in the bag, eh?” Kieron asked, jerking his bearded chin to the overloaded satchel in Corvo's lap.

Unimpressed, Corvo leveled Kieron with a scolding, displeased frown that had him straightening uncomfortably in his seat. The look wasn't threatening, it wasn't aggressive; it was simply disappointed, and that, perhaps, made it all the more effective. Thomas nearly laughed. Such was the power of Corvo Attano, and it settled as a pointed reminder that Corvo was, in fact, a father.

“Patience is a virtue,” Corvo scolded shortly.

“No, it’s not,” Kieron countered.

“Well, it should be,” Corvo said, beginning to rummage around in the bag, pulling out a wrapped parcel and dropping it on Kieron’s knees. “And I believe you’re thinking of the Strictures.”

Rinaldo laughed, loud and bawdy, leaning over to collect the parcel Corvo offered him and slapping him cheerily on the back. “Mierda, Corvo, we don’t know the Strictures.”

Corvo snorted. “Of course not. Lo siento, my mistake.”

Thomas smiled softly to himself as he watched Kieron and Rinaldo tear into the packages Corvo had given them, slow, joyous surprise spreading on both of their faces. The little scar through Kieron’s eye wrinkled as his brows rose in astonishment at the collection of candies in his lap – all Morleyan, dark with molasses – alongside a few traditional apple pastries wrapped in parchment and a small bottle of whiskey. Not the sad stuff distilled in Dunwall, Thomas could tell, but the smokey dark liquor from the old country that shone a rich, appealing amber when Kieron held it up to the moonlight.

“What’s all this?” Kieron asked, and he would have sounded suspicious if he had not been so obviously thrilled with the offering.

“Gifts,” Corvo said simply with a shrug. “There’s a lot of… excess, in the Tower, and there were some things that wouldn’t be missed. Things I thought you all may enjoy.”

Rinaldo’s grin was broad and white as it carved through his dark complexion, and he was chattering happily to himself in Serkonan as he rummaged through his parcel. It was brimming full with citrus fruits and jars of foreign spices that Rinaldo clutched covetously to his chest, even as he unwrapped a bar of chocolate and nibbled carefully at one corner. He shuddered with a happy sigh as it melted on his tongue, though he rewrapped the treat and returned it to the parcel after one conservative bite.

“You’ll have to share, I’m afraid,” Corvo murmured apologetically, though he was clearly thrilled with their joy. “But there’s sweets for the novices, vodka and Tyvian pastries for Galia and Misha and Leonid, good coffee and honey for Daud, liquor and cigarettes for everyone. There’s a few recipe books and spices for Jenkins, and some herb extracts and medicines that Adelaide may be hard pressed to find.”

“Huh,” Kieron said eloquently, the surprised expression he had been wearing slowly morphing into a timid sort of grateful respect.

“And what about Thomas?” Rinaldo asked with a knowing smile that promised trouble and made Thomas distinctly embarrassed.

“I’ve not forgotten,” Corvo said, turning to smile sweetly at Thomas before digging through the satchel once more, trying not to let the myriad vials and parcels slip free of the bag.

Corvo's attention made color flush to Thomas's ears, and he rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck, glancing away. Thomas knew that Rinaldo was watching him with that insufferably smug look on his face, so he made a point to avoid his gaze, instead staring down at his hands and picking at his tattered cuticles.

Rinaldo had kept Thomas company during the time he was still cooped up in Montgomery's clinic after Corvo had gone, with Galia and Jordan and Killian cycling through to chat or bring him dinner. In those few days, Rinaldo had talked incessantly about Corvo, eagerly declaring that Corvo was his new best friend. Thomas had teased that Galia would be offended to hear him say such a thing, but Rinaldo had declared himself endlessly loveable with a loud laugh, claiming that having more than one best friend was simply in his nature. Besides, Rinaldo had insisted, it would be nice to have another friend besides Jordan whose love life was gossip-worthy. Galia and Thomas were no fun in that regard, he had claimed, though at least he was kind enough to not mention Thomas's pining over Daud. It was for the best that Thomas also kept his budding pining for Corvo a secret, if he wanted to avoid Rinaldo's ribbing.

“Thomas?” Corvo asked gently, and Thomas looked up, startled. Corvo was offering him a small, wrapped package. “This one's for you.”

“Oh… thank you,” Thomas eventually managed, accepting the gift.

“I hope you'll like them,” Corvo said, and if Thomas didn't know better he'd say that Corvo was sheepish.

Smiling, Thomas unwound the twine from the package, admiring the way his name was scrawled across the brown paper in Corvo's lopsided hand. Inside was a packet of candies, flavored with lemon and honey and lavender, alongside a tin of imported tea.

“You didn't seem to enjoy Jenkins's coffee, so I thought the tea may suit you better,” Corvo said, almost bashful.

“Does anyone enjoy Jenkins's coffee?” Thomas teased, though Corvo's thoughtfulness made a giddy, childish warmth bubble in his chest. “Thank you, Corvo.”

At his gratitude, Corvo's smile stretched satisfied and sunny, clearly pleased, and Thomas caught a brief glimpse of Rinaldo smirking at them both from his seat next to Kieron. Perhaps Rinaldo was more attuned to Thomas's thoughts than Thomas had originally given him credit for. That was always the danger with Rinaldo, though the danger itself was relative. While he was not always especially bright, Rinaldo was perceptive, so it was not uncommon for Rinaldo to learn secrets without having even been told. It was not in Rinaldo’s nature to use the secrets he gleaned for spite or cruel manipulation, but given his proclivity for talking incessantly about anything on his mind, discretion was not one of his strengths. Thomas simply hoped that Rinaldo would take pity on his pathetic, wanting heart and stay quiet regarding this matter.

“And there’s another thing, if we may speak alone, for a moment,” Corvo said softly, his eyes gentle but keen as he studied Thomas.

Nodding, Thomas straightened and hid his hands behind his back to conceal where he had been picking nervously at his fingernails for the last few weeks. No doubt Corvo had noticed, already, but the thought of hiding yet another weakness from him at least made Thomas feel a bit more in control of himself, no matter how untrue that notion was.

Corvo rose from his seat and handed the satchel in his lap to Rinaldo for dubious safe keeping. Almost immediately Rinaldo began rummaging through the bag, and Corvo flicked him harshly on the back of the neck.

“Paras eso,” Corvo scolded when Rinaldo looked up at him, grinning a falsely sheepish smile. “Don’t be greedy.”

Shaking his head, Corvo took Thomas gently by the elbow and led him out to the edge of the roof, keeping his back to Rinaldo and Kieron as if for privacy. Thomas wasn’t certain if whatever conversation they were about to have should result in him being grateful or worried for the seclusion, and unease twisted sour in his chest. But Corvo’s expression was soft, gentle, so much like the heartfelt concern he had shown the night when Thomas had broken and poured his heart out, when Corvo had held him close and let him cry over Daud.

“Is something the matter?” Thomas asked, pulse a little too fast.

“How have you been, Thomas?”

Bewildered, Thomas sputtered for a moment. This didn’t seem like the type of talk that needed to be so confidential, and Thomas felt adrift, as if he was missing something crucial.

“I’m… fine, Corvo. What—?”

“No, how have you been?” Corvo insisted, hands curled at his sides as if he wanted to reach out and touch.

Thomas wanted nothing more, but he remained rooted to his place, still confused.

“Your… your mind, Thomas,” Corvo whispered like it was breaking his heart. “You haven’t tried to hurt yourself again, have you? I’ve been worried.”

Wretched shame rose in the back of Thomas’s throat and he stared down at his boots, gritting his teeth against the sting of tears threatening to well up, hot and salty and damning. Void, he was so weak, threatening to fracture at the slightest showing of concern and shriveling like an uprooted weed whenever a light was shone on his failings. But then Corvo’s big hand was on his cheek, carefully raising his head, and the small, soothing smile on Corvo’s lips finally broke him.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas sniveled, even as Corvo hushed him so tenderly. “I haven’t, I swear. I swear, Corvo.”

“It’s alright, Thomas. Even if you have, you’re here, and that’s what matters,” Corvo insisted softly. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve been so good. And hopefully, this will make it easier.”

Corvo reached into his pocket and presented a vial of medicine, filled with pale yellow tablets that clattered musically within the glass. Carefully, he folded the bottle into Thomas’s hand, and Thomas turned it over to read the label as he wiped at his damp eyes with his sleeve. There were instructions scrawled in an aggressive hand on the paper label, directing a single tablet in the morning, increased to one tablet twice a day if symptoms persisted. It made no mention of what symptoms the drugs were supposed to counter, and Thomas glanced up at Corvo, confounded.

“It’s a medicine for the sadness,” Corvo told him. “Something I asked Anton Sokolov to work on for you. There’s magnesium and solstice wort extract and… Void knows what else, but I hope it will help.”

Forgetting himself for a moment, Thomas surged forward to embrace Corvo tightly, burying his face in the join of his neck and shoulder to hide the grateful tears that dripped relentlessly down his cheeks. After a moment Corvo held him tightly in return, one big arm slung around his waist while the other hand laid heavily, comforting, on the back of his neck. The grounding pressure had Thomas shuddering, heaving a sigh that rattled through him like a dying man’s cough, leaving him breathless but liberated.

“Thank you,” he murmured against Corvo’s throat.

“There’s no thanks needed, querido,” Corvo whispered, the words delectably humid against Thomas’s hair. “I hate to see you suffer like this.”

Thomas held him tighter for a long moment, pathetic and wanting, heart twisting desperately at the sound of an endearment that he didn’t understand tumbling foreign and sweet from Corvo’s lips. Corvo had used that word before – querido – and though Thomas knew that Rinaldo or Javier or, Void, even Daud, could explain its meaning, he selfishly wanted to keep it for himself. He wanted it to live in the quiet nighttime spaces between he and Corvo, where his ignorance let him dream of what sweetness it could offer, let him conjure specters of affection that did not run as deep as he wished it to. And even now, Thomas held it close to his chest, tucked it in a little pocket over his heart to savor later when the darkness of his mind sought to steal all light.

“Thank you,” Thomas said again as he pulled away, the cold of their parting threatening to cave his chest in.

Corvo smiled, patient, and took a slow breath. “How is Daud?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Thomas told him honestly despite the plunging ache of jealous longing yawning open in his belly. “He has been away more often than not, and when he is around, he… avoids me.”

“Stupid bastard,” Corvo muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why is he like this?”

Thomas smiled at Corvo fondly, even if it was a little lopsided and watery. It seemed as if something had happened, or at least seemed that Corvo had some idea as to why Daud had been flighty and harsh on the rare occasion that Thomas saw him at meals or in passing. Though it did not appear that Corvo was going to share this inside knowledge, his apparent exasperation was oddly soothing to Thomas’s worries.

“Thomas, will you do something for me?”

“Anything,” he replied a bit too quickly.

Corvo’s answering smile was soft and knowing, but not mocking.

“I need to speak to Daud. It’s important,” he said. “Will you tell him to meet me? Six days from now, at the Clocktower.”

“Is everything alright?”

“It will be,” Corvo promised, though there was something strained at the corners of his eyes that had Thomas worried. “It’s… really important. Will you do that for me?”

“Of course,” Thomas agreed, a little breathless when Corvo brushed his knuckles against his cheek with a soft sigh.

“Good boy. Thank you.”

Thomas tried to keep from going boneless at the praise, a sudden flare of desire trapping his breath in his lungs, hot and depriving. Void, there was nothing he wanted more than to be good for Corvo. It had the potential to be a problem.

“I have to go, but I’ll see you,” Corvo said, and Thomas nodded mindlessly, drifting after him when he turned away.

After saying short goodbyes to Kieron and Rinaldo, who both had been watching the exchange with rapt attention, Corvo vaulted over the parapet wall of the roof as if he were touched by the Void and invincible. Thomas thought back to that night in the Estate District, watching Corvo climb up to the rooftops with all the grace of a dancer, and wondered if he had been gone on Corvo since that first moment. He was besotted, he knew; infatuated in a way that was brighter, more joyous, more hopeful than his adoration for Daud, which ran deep and dark and steady through his soul like the currents in the ocean, persistent and deadly.

He must have been wearing his thoughts upon his face, as Kieron and Rinaldo were both staring at him as if they had found fresh ammunition in a firefight, delighted and smug. Resolving to ignore them entirely, Thomas tucked the vial of medication Corvo had given him safely into a pocket, turning back towards Rudshore. Their work in the Estate District was done, after all, and home was calling.

After all, it seemed that Thomas needed to speak with Daud.

Chapter Text

Daud was fucking tired.

The last two weeks had been exhausting; though, if he were an honest man, he would admit that it was entirely his own fault.

Rudshore had shifted, when Corvo left. Everything and everyone were suddenly quieter, more subdued, and Daud was immeasurably flustered that only a few days of Corvo’s presence had managed to tilt his world just slightly off its axis. It felt as if all his furniture had been shifted two inches to the right, leaving Daud stumbling into things that had always been there and bruising his hip on table corners. He had realized it, embarrassingly and most profoundly, the evening after Corvo had left, when he had shuffled into the mess a few hours after Jenkins had served dinner, face buried in a book even as he sat on the kitchen counter and picked at his own meal.

“Corvo ate, didn’t he?” he had asked Jenkins around a mouthful of roast whale meat, not bothering to look up as he turned the page of his book.

“Uh, no, sir,” Jenkins had replied, sounding bewildered and more than a little concerned.

Daud was gearing up for a frustrated rant about Corvo’s apparent inability to take care of himself before he even realized what he had asked. Snapping his book shut, he glanced up at Jenkins, ears staining red with embarrassment. Jenkins, to his credit, merely rubbed at a roasting pan with a rag, playing at drying it though it was near gleaming from his polishing, and resolutely did not look at Daud. There would have been pity in his expression, Daud knew, because Jenkins was nothing if not wildly empathetic, the big lout.

“Right,” Daud had said, stiffly, and jumped down from the countertop, leaving the last of his supper unfinished.

It only grew worse from there.

Walking from Montgomery’s infirmary to his quarters one day, he heard Rinaldo laughing loudly at something from across the way, and he jerked his head to look, expecting to see Corvo grinning and saying something sly in Serkonan. But it was only Rinaldo and Galia, heads bent together over some smut novel and torturing Jordan with whatever was contained therein. Daud grit his teeth and pretended he was not disappointed.

He was tired, and irritable, and unaccountably lonely. He refused to admit that he missed Corvo, as they had only spent a few days together and had only been a few days apart, but there was an ache in his belly that felt like old hunger and left him feeling hollow. And so, he threw himself into his work, taking quick, one-off contracts that he could use to waste an evening. Simple things, usually, thievery or spying on a cheating spouse or a quick murder, anything that would keep him from sitting in his office and smoking too many cigarettes and thinking about dancing with Corvo. He was making himself a nuisance, assigning contracts to his subordinates, and then elbowing his way back into the assignments as soon as he felt an itch of longing creeping down the back of his neck that quickly needed forgetting.

And then there was the matter with Thomas.

Ever since Corvo had told Daud Thomas’s secret, in the soft morning light on the day he returned to the Tower, Daud had been avoiding Thomas like he carried the plague. It was not explicitly intentional, and he knew it was cruel, but a sickly sort of guilt had settled under his ribs that refused to let him meet Thomas’s eyes. For the first few days, with Thomas still imprisoned in Montgomery’s infirmary as he healed, it was easy to evade him. But soon he was released with stern orders to not overexert himself, though he immediately made his way to Daud’s office despite Montgomery’s threats and the slight tightness in his step, eager to be useful. Daud had quickly sent him away, guilt and awkwardness making his dismissal unreasonably harsh, words brusque and callous. Thomas had recoiled, a twist of agonized hurt furrowing his brows, and he had quickly averted his eyes. They looked suspiciously damp, even as Daud tried not to look too closely, but Thomas had saluted stiffly and turned away, ever eager to submit to Daud’s desires.

Void, Corvo was right.

Daud could see it, could hear it in the agonized sobs that Thomas tried to smother into his pillow in the dark that night, all alone, heartbroken and hopeless, dismissed by Daud and abandoned by Corvo. Thomas’s pain had always echoed through Rudshore like the mourning of lost ghosts, the stuttering of choking breaths and salt on damp sleeves a regular occurrence that Daud had known of for years. The sorrow sickness in Thomas’s mind had ever been present, had ever haunted him, and all the Whalers knew the cause of the crying in the night. They all knew, though they either pitied him too much or scorned some perceived weakness to say anything on the matter. But still, for all the silences broken by Thomas’s sorrow, for all the private tears shed under the scrutiny of them all, Daud had never thought himself to be the cause.

He was not the only cause, he knew. There was a darkness in Thomas’s head that ate joy like a hagfish, voracious. And for years, Daud had respected the strength it took for Thomas to battle it away, even as he in his blind ignorance and self-importance held Thomas below the surface, drowning him slowly in inadvertent rejection.

And yet Corvo had noticed almost immediately. He had noticed and Thomas had trusted him enough to offer up the truth in confidence, trusted him more than he trusted Daud, apparently. Daud was selfish enough to feel wounded by the perfectly reasonable slight, despite having no right to. He had no right to ask anything of Thomas, not given the precariousness of Daud holding a position of power over him, and not after everything that he had apparently put him through. But Corvo had broken an oath of secrecy to Thomas, so that Daud could work to redeem himself, and so far, all he had done was inflict another, different kind of hurt.

Corvo, kind soul that he was at heart, would tell Daud to be gentle with himself, that he had not known because Thomas had stayed silent for so long. But Daud was not gentle like Corvo, not even to himself, and he had no plans to change that fact now.

So, he avoided, swept things under the metaphorical rug, ran himself ragged and pretended that Thomas did not exist. Until, of course, nearly three weeks after Corvo’s departure, when Thomas slipped into his office and shut the door softly behind himself, staring at his boots like a novice.

“I’m…” Thomas began, before rallying and straightening his posture. He still wouldn’t meet Daud’s eyes, instead staring blankly just beyond his shoulder, and took a fortifying breath. “I’m sorry to intrude, sir, but I was asked to deliver a message. From Corvo… from Lord Attano.”

Daud nearly bristled at hearing Corvo’s official title. It sounded wrong on Thomas’s lips, and it felt like a lie after the way Daud had seen them saying goodbye, all whispers and gentle touches in the dark. Jealous anger that burned like bile sat heavily on the back of his tongue, cruel words braced just behind his teeth, but Daud swallowed it down, clenching his jaw. Corvo had been honest with him about the growing feelings he bore for Thomas, spreading and putting down roots. And Daud feared that casting aside that honesty would surely break whatever he shared with Corvo. Doubting Corvo seemed impossible, in so many baffling ways.

“I see,” Daud said carefully, instead. “And how did he get a message to you in the first place?”

Daud wasn’t jealous, Void damn it. He wasn’t.

“We… Kieron, Rinaldo, and I… we met him. In the Tower District.”

Brow furrowed, Daud scowled at Thomas, assessing. “Kieron and Rinaldo were assigned to the Tower District five nights ago. You were not, if I recall. Why am I just now hearing about this?”

Thomas’s eyes went anxiously wide for a moment, and he shifted on his feet like he was about to bolt. If Daud took a few steps closer, he was certain he would hear Thomas’s breath fluttering, his heart pounding in his chest, the creak of his fingers flexing nervously in his leather gloves.

“Rinaldo insisted that I relay the message.”

Ah.

Rinaldo Escobar was a pest and a nuisance, one who said too much and saw too much, who was clever enough to manipulate people into doing what he thought they should but also dim enough to not realize why such a scheme would be ill advised. For all his good intentions, for all his efforts to forcefully repair Thomas and Daud’s apparent estrangement, Rinaldo could not see the agonized strain on Thomas’s face, the desire to flee. Thomas had never looked so desperate to not be in Daud’s presence, and Daud knew there was no one to blame but himself. He had done this. He had driven Thomas away, all because of a secret affection that Daud was apparently intent to punish him for.

“Which was?” Daud asked instead.

“That he needs to see you. Tonight, at the Clocktower,” Thomas said haltingly. “It seemed important.”

“Was that it?”

“Um, yes, sir.”

Thomas shifted awkwardly on his heels as if he were waiting for a dismissal and were eager to leave, but he waited, patiently, for Daud to give him permission. He looked exhausted, shadows dark beneath startingly blue eyes that refused to linger on Daud’s face. There was something a little lifeless about his pallid complexion and the sad pull of his mouth, something that spoke of bone deep weariness that had nothing to do with a lack of sleep. It spoke of longing and rejection and the pain of a broken heart. Daud knew that he was the cause. He knew that he could fix it, but he wasn’t sure if he was brave enough to act.

Just like Thomas, he kept his feelings tucked tight behind his teeth.

“You…” Daud started, fumbling, cringing at his own awkwardness. He sighed, tried again. “How have you been, Thomas? You look well healed.”

It was a lie, but not the worst he’d ever told. Still, Thomas brightened a little, clearly surprised, brilliant eyes wide and lips falling open in a soft, startled ah. Finally, he met Daud’s gaze, searching, and looking cautiously hopeful that he had earned whatever elusive forgiveness he had been aching for. There was no forgiveness to be earned, Daud knew. Rather, it seemed rather more prudent that an apology be offered, even if it stubbornly refused to crawl up out of Daud’s chest. That would mean explaining his avoidance. That would mean explaining what he knew, what Corvo had told him. It would mean finding an answer for Thomas, and Daud wasn’t ready. He was slowly becoming aware that he perhaps cared for Thomas more than he realized, the pieces falling into place like mosaic tile, but he hardly had the words to admit it to himself, let alone to Thomas. He would stay silent, like he always did, for all the good it did him. It was for the best.

“I’m fine, sir,” Thomas replied, voice a little dazed. “Thank you.”

“Good. That’s… good,” said Daud, distinctly uncomfortable but wholly honest.

Corvo would slap him for being so ridiculous, Daud thought idly, and he vaguely hoped that Thomas had not been too forthcoming to Corvo about Daud’s shameful behavior as of late. If so, he would be in for an earful when they met. As patient and kind and good as Corvo could be when faced with Daud’s uncertainty about them, about their relationship, whatever it was, he knew as well as Daud did that Thomas did not deserve this distance and doubt, especially when he had no inkling as to the cause. Daud could do better. He knew it and Corvo knew it, and unfortunately for Daud, Corvo tended to have a firm hand when he felt that Daud was being childish and wallowing in denial.

“Thomas,” Daud began, but was stalled when Thomas smiled sadly and took a step back, deciding to leave by his own approve.

“It’s been good to see you, sir,” Thomas said softly. “I’ve missed you.”

“Thomas,” Daud breathed, ribs clenching cruelly around his heart.

For a moment, watching Thomas smile resignedly and turn to walk away, Daud thought he would die. It was the same gut wrenching, sickly longing that Corvo made him feel, and Daud hated it, just as much as he wanted Thomas to pretend that Daud had not spent weeks acting like a bastardly fool. He wanted to reach out, he wanted Thomas to need him. And for a brief moment, when Thomas paused to glance over his shoulder at him, Daud thought that perhaps his errant selfishness had managed to manifest, warping the world around him like he bent the Void.

“I nearly forgot,” Thomas murmured apologetically as he held out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, ignorant of Daud’s plight. “From Lord Attano.”

Daud accepted it, wary, but his name was scrawled across the wrapping in an aggressively angled hand, the first letter looping with an odd flourish that seemed somewhat stilted, unintentional. He had never seen Corvo’s handwriting, but something about the way the graceful script seemed tinged with an edge of sharp intent, tilted and slightly defiant, told him that the hand could belong to none other. Daud turned the little bundle over in his hands, and somehow it suddenly seemed far more precious than a parcel wrapped in parchment had any right to. The intention, the thought of Corvo sitting down and thinking of Daud and what he may want or need or like, felt so intimate, so personal. It had his heart flopping oddly in his chest, heat threatening to rise scarlet on the back of his neck.

“I think you should call him Corvo, Thomas,” Daud muttered, staring at the gift like it held all the answers he desperately needed. “I think you’re beyond formalities, by this point.”

“Of course, sir,” Thomas agreed, appeasing, and only sounding a little fragile.

With that, Thomas excused himself, and Daud was left standing in the middle of his office, holding a gift that he didn’t deserve, gifted and delivered by two men that he didn’t deserve. He could only spare a moment to be angry with Corvo for summoning him like a hound, too off balance from the last few minutes to do anything besides feel egotistically sorry for himself. For a man who considered himself cursed against luck, Daud suddenly found himself exceptionally fortunate in a way that no amount of redemption on this life could have ever earned him. But here he was, finding himself caring foolishly for two men who, against all logic and good sense, cared for him in return. And all he could do was bristle like a beast, protecting his soft underbelly with sharp words and temper and distance.

By the Void, he was a sorry bastard.

*****

Jessamine, true to her word, had managed to strongarm Corvo into waiting until the last minute to tell Emily of his upcoming departure. It had gone as poorly as Corvo had anticipated, unfortunately, beginning with a shrieking tantrum punctuated with red-faced rage and stomping feet, culminating eventually in tearful clinging to Corvo’s coat and pitiful pleas not to leave. No matter how much he promised that it would be a short trip, that he would be right back, that he would miss her terribly, Emily had not been contented until she eventually sniffled herself to sleep. By the end of it all, Jessamine, who had begun the entire ordeal sternly scolding Emily for being ridiculous, looked absolutely wrung dry, exhausted. She still would not admit that Corvo had been right to worry about Emily’s reaction, but Corvo held smugly to the knowledge that she surely could not deny that he was, despite her imperious posturing, correct.

Now, though, as he slipped out of the Tower walls and into the shadowed alleys that wound out into the hulking sprawl of Dunwall, he feared that Emily would only be the first tantrum he’d face regarding his departure. Daud, Corvo suspected, would not take the news well.

There was a fear, constant and despicably rational, that Daud would simply vanish from his life after he left, disappearing into Rudshore, and forever gone beneath the cloak of the Void. It was Daud’s right to wash his hands of Corvo, no matter how much it would ache like loss. Their worlds were too different, the farce of their relationship glaring in the apparent impossibility of it all, but Corvo wanted to cling to what they had, regardless.

Corvo didn’t want to lose Daud.

He didn’t want to lose any of them. Not Rinaldo and his teasing smiles, not Javier and his steady sense, not Montgomery, not Jenkins, not Jordan. And certainly not Thomas, who he had been too cowardly to inform of his departure when last they met. Corvo had hoped that perhaps his gifts would soften the blow, in addition to the long, sappy letter folded up tight in a pocket in his coat, tucked safely over his heart.

Corvo hoped, when he returned, that they would all be waiting for him.

Regardless of how ridiculous his fears felt – he was leaving on an assignment for two months, by the Void, not going off to war – anxiety still had his stomach souring when he at last caught a glimpse of a figure in crimson looming on a rooftop, backlit like a specter in the low light. After a moment, Daud vanished, reappearing in the shadows of a nearby alley, leaning casually against the brick of the wall with his arms folded over his chest. When Daud jerked his head, indicating for Corvo to follow, he did so automatically, perhaps foolishly trusting but trusting, nonetheless. He had done far more foolish things than pursue the Knife of Dunwall into a grimy alleyway, after all.

“Daud?” Corvo called softly, ducking around a stack of crates that stank like rotten produce, likely the discarded goods left behind by some noble family or another that had fled the city. “Daud?”

“Here, Corvo,” Daud answered from behind him, before a gloved hand grasped his own and the eerie drag of the Void tugged at him like an undertow, leaving him standing on a low rooftop beside Daud.

“Warn me, next time, damnit,” Corvo scolded, holding his breath in his lungs for a long moment before he turned to face Daud. “You look terrible.”

Daud scowled at him, the shadows beneath his eyes somewhat dampening the potency of his displeased glare.

“So do you,” he snapped back.

“It’s been… a long day. A long few weeks,” Corvo amended with a sigh, stepping close into Daud’s space and bending to tuck his cheek against the curve of his neck. “I missed you.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Daud complained softly.

Daud was very still, and though he did not echo the sentiment, Corvo could feel it in the way Daud finally relaxed against him, his hands coming to rest lightly at Corvo’s waist. Encouraged somewhat, Corvo folded his arms around Daud, squeezing harder than was likely necessary as he nuzzled against Daud’s throat. He smelled divine, like harsh soap and sweat and faintly of tobacco, and Corvo wondered idly if his lips taste like the coffee that he bought for him.

It was the one gift that Corvo had not stolen from the Tower, instead ducking out early one morning to hunt down the specialty shop that he had overheard a pair of noble ladies discussing before a Parliament meeting once. He had found it eventually on the edge of Draper’s Ward, near the border of the Old Waterfront District, and discovered that the proprietor of the shop was a little old woman from Saggunto, who imported goods from Serkonos that were difficult to come by in the northern isles. Corvo had spent too long wandering between the shelves, pining over things that he had not seen since his childhood – bottles of spiced wine and jars of olives and brightly scented bars of soap that made his heart clench desperately with longing for his mother.

Eventually he had managed to pry himself away from his reminiscing, finding the top shelf Serkonan roast coffee that he had originally come to find for Daud, and had shuffled over to pay the little old woman, staring longingly at the tall glass jar full of traditional sweets sitting on the counter. She had smiled at him knowingly from behind her immensely thick glasses, clearly knowing precisely who he was but making no comment, instead dropping a handful of candies into his bag and shooing him sweetly out the door. They had been delectable as they melted on his tongue, and he had grinned to himself the entire way back to the Tower.

As he held Daud close, Corvo wondered if he knew about the little shop with the abuelita named Juana, wondered if Daud would feel the same sense of childish joy as he picked through the shelves, reveling in the old familiar. Corvo wanted to take him there and hoped that both Juana and her little store survived until he had the chance. If he ever had the chance. Though it would be risky to be seen out and about with someone as recognizable as Daud, Corvo entertained the sweet allure of normalcy, of going out on a date with Daud, no matter how pedestrian the idea might be. Still, Corvo knew in his heart of hearts that Daud would grumble and bluster but indulge him anyway, stubborn man that he was.

“What’s all this about, Corvo?” Daud finally asked. “I can’t leave Rudshore at your every whim simply because you miss me.”

He sounded vaguely disturbed by the idea that it was possible for Corvo to miss him at all, and the thought made Corvo’s stomach sour with a pitying sadness. Of course he would miss Daud. How could he not?

“It’s not a whim,” he corrected with a frown, straightening to press his lips lightly to Daud’s temple. “I… there’s something I need to tell you. It’s important.”

Pausing for a long moment, Daud was tense in his arms, before he asked: “Tell me what?”

With a sigh, Corvo kissed softly along his cheek, finally chastely claiming his lips. Daud returned the kiss timidly, clearly uncertain where the conversation was going, his brow furrowed deeply. It looked as if he were preparing for Corvo to turn on him, to sink a knife cold and unfeeling between his ribs.

“I have to leave, Daud. Jessa— the Empress is sending me on a diplomatic trip around the Isles, to find a cure for the plague and to negotiate the end of the blockade,” Corvo solemnly admitted. “I’ll be gone for a few months, if all goes well.”

“And if it doesn’t go well?” Daud asked, pushing Corvo back to arm’s length, watching him critically.

Corvo struggled to meet his gaze, dark and piercing as it was, and shrugged, even as he folded his hands around Daud’s wrists to slip his thumbs beneath his gloves and knead idly at the heels of his palms. Thus far Corvo had refused to consider the possibility of his trip not going well, at least not out loud, as he had been more appropriately concerned with the safety of Jessamine and Emily during his absence. Now, though, he could feel the importance of his upcoming tasks like a physical weight that not even his broad shoulders could tolerate. It was crushing, and he feared it would destroy him.

“I don’t know.”

Scowling, Daud shook Corvo’s hands from his wrists in favor of pacing away a few steps, eventually turning back to Corvo with a complicated expression on his face. It seemed as if there were something just on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be said, but Daud grit his teeth against it, his scar twisting and pinching with his grimace.

“When are you leaving?”

“In the morning,” Corvo confessed, though it felt like the admission carved something vital out of his chest.

“This is a bad idea,” Daud spat, heated.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Corvo fussed, upset but also immeasurably relieved that someone was finally agreeing with him. Jessamine had been so stalwart in her insistence, but the nagging uncertainty of leaving her had yet to ease from Corvo’s belly. “I’ve hardly left her side for more than a day or two in the last twenty years, Daud, and now she expects to just send me off for months and leave her unprotected? I’m not a diplomat, I’m a soldier! I can’t… I don’t understand how she can even ask this of me!”

Corvo startled to find his eyes damp with angry tears, dripping salty on his face as the only reasonable outlet for the frustrated rage and anxious fear that had been simmering in his chest for weeks. It was pathetic, but now that he had started, the tears refused to stop.

“Easy, Attano, pull yourself together,” Daud soothed as he surged back into Corvo’s space, one hand smoothing gently against his cheek and the other on his shoulder, harsh and bracing.

Daud was ever a man of contradictions.

“I don’t want to go, Daud,” Corvo whined.

Sighing, Daud wiped Corvo’s cheek with the heel of his palm.

“You don’t have a choice,” he said. “You’re right: you’re a soldier. Now stop complaining and follow orders.”

“Daud.”

“Stop it. The Empress is surrounded by guards; guards that you had a hand in training, I might add.”

“I know, but—”

“No,” Daud snapped, impatient and a little cruel. “That’s enough. Do your damn job, Corvo, even if you don’t like it. That’s not your call to make.”

Daud’s gaze was harsh and unyielding, his hand on Corvo’s shoulder holding just hard enough to ache, and still all Corvo wanted was to huddle into the broad expanse of his chest, allowing himself to be small and pathetic for just a moment. Of course, Daud would be hard pressed to allow such a thing, even if Corvo had managed to wring little bits of softness out of him in the past, it had never been given yieldingly or with open tenderness. But Corvo liked that about Daud, even when it seemed fit to drive him mad.

“I’m scared, Daud.”

“I know,” Daud sighed, softening his hold, and tilting his chin up when Corvo made to crowd up against him, seeking something like comfort. “I know, Corvo. But you don’t get to say no to this.”

“I know,” Corvo whispered, folding his arms around Daud once more. Daud accepted the embrace with a huff, humming when Corvo pressed a kiss to his throat, just above the top of his collar. “Will you watch over them for me, while I’m away?”

“Yeah, Corvo, I will,” Daud agreed reluctantly.

“Not all the time, just check in. And watch Jessamine when she goes out in public,” Corvo hurried on, the words muffled in Daud’s shoulder. “Maybe send Misha to the Tower every so often, since she and Jess got on well.”

Daud knocked the side of his head against Corvo’s temple, jostling but not cruel. “I already agreed, idiota.”

“Right, of course.”

Pulling away reluctantly, Corvo straightened, a furious flush staining his cheeks from embarrassment and lingering tears. Perhaps he was too aggressive in scrubbing the dampness from beneath his eyes, but Corvo could not rightly remember the last time he had come even close to tears, and he knew that sadness was ugly on his face. Not like Thomas, who somehow managed to still look dignified, even when his complexion was flushed and splotchy, blue eyes gleaming too bright and tinted red. Thomas would disagree, he was sure, but that didn’t matter. To Corvo, Thomas was always beautiful.

Thinking of Thomas, Corvo startled, digging into his coat to retrieve Thomas’s letter, and smoothing the creases from the envelope against his chest. Sheepish, he handed the letter to Daud, who accepted it with a dubious quirk of one scarred brow.

“What’s this?”

“It’s for Thomas,” Corvo said, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I didn’t tell him that I was going, and it felt wrong not to explain. But I wanted to tell you first. It seemed important, but maybe I’m just being foolish.”

“You are,” Daud shortly scolded. “He’d survive without you, it’s not worth the trouble.”

Corvo bared his teeth for a moment, something mean and unforgiving threatening to twine up his throat, and he nearly startled himself with the sudden reaction. Angry on Thomas’s behalf, he shoved at Daud’s chest, forcing him to stumble back a step, bewildered.

“Daud, you selfish prick, how can you say that?”

“The fuck, Corvo?”

“After refusing to speak to him for weeks, being an absolute shit, you still think it doesn’t matter?”

“Says the coward who didn’t tell him that he was leaving himself,” Daud snapped back. “I’m not your fucking errand boy, Attano.”

“Don’t Attano me, you ass.”

They bristled at each other like animals for a few long moments, gazes locked and unflinching, and Corvo could feel the heat of angry want snaking into his blood, devouring sense, urging him to close the distance. To his surprise, it was Daud that chose to bridge the gap, surging into Corvo’s space as if he were about to start a fight, and perhaps it was a fight, with the way Daud’s teeth sank brutally into Corvo’s lip. There would be no single winner, Corvo knew, though he was happy enough to play the game, eagerly digging his hands into Daud’s hair to drag him close even as they stumbled towards a wall. Daud’s back struck the brick and he grunted, teeth nearly clenching shut on Corvo’s tongue in his surprise. Still, the threat of injury simply set Corvo’s blood further ablaze, and he rutted his hips mindlessly down against Daud’s thigh where it had pressed between his legs.

Corvo gasped at the sensation, having gone so long without that sort of intimacy, without that frantic brand of touch, and suddenly he was starving for it, mouth desperate for a taste of Daud.

“Daud,” he whined, breathless as he dropped his hands to Daud’s waist to drag him closer. “Daud, cariño, please.”

“Corvo.”

Corvo slid his hands to Daud’s belt, licking the stuttering breath from his lips.

“Corvo, wait—”

“Can I? Daud, tell me I can. Please, please.”

The dull brass buttons of Daud’s trousers were slick beneath Corvo’s fingers as he sought to offer him pleasure, so eager to feel the weight of Daud on his tongue, but Daud shuddered, going tense, and shoved Corvo away.

“I said enough!” Daud shouted, breathing hard and eyes a little frantic, darting around as if looking for an escape. “Enough.”

“Daud?”

Flailing to keep is balance, Corvo considered stepping back into Daud’s space for a wild, foolish moment, wanting to offer comfort, wanting to be close. Yet like a cornered animal, Daud looked prepared to tear Corvo apart at the slightest perceived threat, and so he stepped away, hands raised in surrender. There was a panic in Daud that he had never seen before, an edgy flightiness that pulled his shoulders taut and made the muscles in his neck jump, strained and uncertain. It reminded Corvo vaguely of the night they danced in Daud’s office, of the uncertain tension that took so very long to bleed from Daud’s body, leaving him supple and open to the closeness they shared. Corvo thought of that night and considered their current predicament, wondering if he’d pushed too far, asked for too much.

“Talk to me,” Corvo gently offered, but Daud simply grit his teeth and held his gaze like a threat. “Daud, tell me what I did wrong. Please?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong!” Daud barked, suddenly livid.

He shoved away from the wall with a frustrated grunt, and Corvo watched, arousal resoundingly doused, as he paced back and forth across the rooftop, expression just too spooked to be properly angry. Corvo was baffled, desperately trying to recount where he had gone wrong and finding, ostensibly, nothing in particular that would warrant such a reaction.

“I don’t understand,” Corvo softly said, dejected.

“Of course you don’t,” Daud hissed as if he were gearing up for a proper argument, before he deflated a little, pausing his pacing to rub wearily at his forehead. “This isn’t the time for this conversation.”

“I don’t even know what this conversation is supposed to be?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It seems like it does, Daud.”

Daud waved his hand in front of his face as if he could shoo the entire issue away, instead turning to face Corvo, fresh determination etched into his features.

“This can wait. You’re leaving in the morning.”

“And I’m going to worry about you the entire time I’m away,” Corvo argued.

“Why should you?” Daud snapped, squaring his shoulders as if he was perfectly willing to fight Corvo on the matter. “Why should you give a single shit about me?”

Painful sadness cinched around Corvo’s heart, and he reached out slowly to rest his hand on Daud’s arm, gently pulling him closer when he was not immediately shaken off. He sighed when he finally was able to rest his forehead against Daud’s, reveling in the intimacy and the way Daud reluctantly softened against him with a trembling breath.

“Because you’re important to me,” Corvo told him, murmuring the words in the timid space between their lips like a secret. “I don’t think you know how important.”

Daud grumbled but remained quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, Corvo knew that he was purposefully choosing the less intimate issue to address, opting to admit to one thing rather than letting his feelings be exposed, heart flayed open for Corvo to see. And that was fine, Corvo convinced himself.

“I’ll explain when you come home, when we have more time,” Daud swore. “Simply put, I long ago came to understand something about myself, and now you’ve ruined it.”

He sounded exasperated but not angry, not edged with panic as he had been before, and Corvo felt secure enough to chuckle lowly at Daud’s persistent conviction to be cryptic and unhelpful. Folding his arms loosely around Daud’s shoulders, Corvo nuzzled a kiss along his hairline, somewhat relieved.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“If you insist,” Corvo teased sweetly.

Daud huffed, relaxing enough to press his forehead into the warm seam of Corvo’s neck and shoulder, and Corvo felt a warm flutter of anxious longing beating its wings against the cage of his ribs. He had no right to be so attached to Daud, no reason to so wretchedly dread their parting, but he did anyway. Maybe that was proof that this thing they shared was real, its roots growing deep. Maybe it was proof that he was a fool. Both, Corvo had to concede, were likely true.

“Daud?” Corvo asked, holding tighter when Daud hummed in acknowledgement. “Will you stay with me until morning? Until I have to go?”

Daud was silent for a long moment, the steady rise and fall of his breaths beneath Corvo’s hands going still and quiet, before he heaved a heavy sigh that sounded like resignation.

“I’ll stay.”

“Thank you,” Corvo breathed, kissing Daud’s temple and holding him tight. “Thank you, Daud.”

Chapter Text

Leaving the port of Dunwall and steaming out into the Wrenhaven should not have felt so much like when he had left Karnaca so many years ago, unpleasant and sickly and permanent. His heart was tethered to that wretched, rotten city, already torn between the high walls of the Tower and the murky waters of Rudshore, stretching to breaking with every minute spent sailing downriver. He knew, objectively, that he would be back in the Tower in mere months’ time, but that reminder did little to settle him for now.

Still, as they abandoned the river in favor of the open sea, heading north along the coast of Gristol, he fought the drag of idleness by making a nuisance of himself above deck, hauling lines with the crew and settling back into the ancient familiarity of being a sailor. The deckhands warmed to him slowly, once they ceased being bitter about his intrusion in their well-worn routine, but the captain and first mate were not so welcoming. Rather, they insisted that he behave as a passenger should, languishing in his cabin. The captain had even attempted to pull rank, claiming that on the open ocean he was in command and expected even the Lord Protector to follow orders, but a long, unimpressed stare from Corvo was enough to send him back to the helm, grumbling under his breath. Victorious, and with the impressed smirks of the crew bolstering his confidence, Corvo carved out a little place for himself as an unofficial midshipman, much to the officers’ chagrin.

He was sitting on a crate splicing a dock line one afternoon about a day out from their first port of call at Driscoll, when another member of the Tower contingent, and easily Corvo’s favorite, made his first appearance outside of his cabin. Poor Geoff Curnow looked about as green as a head of lettuce, eyes red and face sickly pale, and Corvo tried not to smirk at him as he stumbled towards the rail on legs as shaky as a colt’s.

“Are you alright, Captain?” Corvo asked with a grin.

Curnow made an unfortunate groaning noise and leaned over the rail, as if hoping that either the bracing spray would soothe him, or the ocean would surge up and put him out of his misery once and for all. Corvo almost felt guilty for finding it so entertaining. Geoff Curnow was always so stern and put together, always the perfect soldier, and seeing him looking as if he’d been dragged behind a railcar, hair mussed and shirt half untucked from his trousers, was grimly amusing.

“No, sir,” Curnow grumbled, straightening to tilt his face to the sky miserably. “No, sir, I’m not.”

Laughing, Corvo set aside the line he was mending and stabbed his knife into the top of the crate he had claimed as a workbench. He moved to grab Curnow by the shoulders, coaxing him to abandon his death grip on the rail, and shuffled him towards the aft of the ship to sit against the back of the wheelhouse where the wind was gentler and the swells less jarring. Curnow allowed himself to be manhandled and sat when told, squeezing his eyes shut unhappily.

“Stay here for a while, the fresh air will help,” Corvo instructed gently, unable to completely erase his grin. “I believe I saw some ginger tea hidden in the galley just for this sort of thing.”

Curnow nodded in half hearted agreement, swallowing against his nausea. Content that he certainly wouldn’t be wandering off any time soon, Corvo hurried belowdecks to make him a cup of the promised tea, steeping it extra strong and mixing in some of the herbs that they had always used in the Grand Serkonan Guard when their pursuit of pirates drove them into rough waters. When he returned to find Curnow precisely where he’d left him and looking at least a little less pitiful following the change of location, he urged the battered mug into his hand.

“I knew this trip would be miserable,” Curnow complained.

“Why did you accept the assignment if you knew you’d be at sea the entire time?” Corvo asked curiously.

“Thought you could use the company, sir.”

“I appreciate it,” Corvo told him honestly, warmth blooming in his chest at the consideration. Curnow really was a good man. “Drink that, it’ll help.”

Nodding gratefully, Curnow folded his hands around the cup, apparently savoring the comfort of the warmth, and took a long drink. After a moment, his face made a complicated expression before he began coughing, looking absolutely betrayed by the concoction he had been given.

“Void, what’s in this?” Curnow asked, grimacing.

“Ginger, mint, and belladonna,” Corvo told him. “Things that help with ocean sickness. Someone was thoughtful enough to stock them, for whoever wasn’t used to being at sea.”

“Damn, Attano, it tastes like you trimmed hedges to make this,” Curnow hissed, looking livelier than Corvo had yet seen him, though his face was quick to fall as he realized his insubordination. “Sir, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean….”

A broad grin spread across Corvo’s face as he waved away the apology; he knew he liked Curnow for a reason. Suddenly, he felt much less lonely.

“Está bien,” Corvo assured, though Curnow looked at him oddly. “Really, it’s fine. There’s only two people who are brave enough to actually curse at me, and I don’t mind if you’re the third. Besides, I think I’d vastly prefer if you called me Corvo, anyway.”

“Sure, Corvo,” Curnow tested the name as if it were a trap, but he seemed to relax when Corvo smiled, immeasurably pleased. “I can’t imagine anyone cursing at you, let alone two.”

With a huff, Corvo settled to sit beside him, reaching to tap at the back of his hand with one knuckle to encourage him to drink. Curnow scowled, disappointed, but continued to sip at the tea obediently.

“Well, Captain, there’s only two who will do it to my face.”

“Geoff,” Curnow insisted with a shrug. “It’s only fair.”

Corvo chuckled, incredibly glad that Curnow – Geoff – was the Watchman assigned to accompany him on this trip. He had wanted to be more acquainted with Geoff for some time, wanted to be friends, even, but rank and duty always seemed to hinder his efforts. But now, on a months-long journey with Geoff being arguably the only friendly face on the entire ship, Corvo was certain that he would be glad for Geoff’s company, even if the poor man was doomed to be seasick for the entire trip.

“Geoff, then,” Corvo agreeably smiled. “Plenty curse me behind my back, I’m not a fool. But they won’t tell me to go fuck myself when I deserve it. Only the Empress, and….”

Trailing off, he bit back Daud’s name, barely catching himself. Geoff looked at him curiously, too keen even when ill to let it go unnoticed. Corvo grimaced, cheeks going warm as he rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Huh,” Geoff said concisely, arching a knowing brow. “Good for you.”

“What?” Corvo laughed, bewildered.

“Oh, sorry, I just assumed… there’s been a lot of rumors spreading through the Watch, especially the Tower Guard, about you coming and going at odd hours,” Geoff told him like he was apologizing for something. “I try to shut them down when I hear the men muttering, but they’re persistent. I thought the rumors were ridiculous, but, well….”

“You’re not… you’re not wrong,” Corvo managed.

Inexplicably, Geoff smiled, a sweetly crooked thing that looked as if it were rarely taken out and dusted off. Corvo felt flattered that Geoff would take the initiative to defend him, no matter how taxing such an effort would surely be. People had been saying cruel things about him for two decades, Corvo was used to it by now. He never imagined that Geoff would be one of them, and he was glad to be proven right.

“Tell me about them?” Geoff asked gently, even if his face twisted uncomfortably when the ship rose and dropped on a large swell, causing the tea in his chipped mug to slosh over his fingers.

Corvo chuckled awkwardly. “I don’t even know what to say about him.”

“Him? Well, that’s a start,” Geoff encouraged, and Corvo was relieved that he did not seem as put off about him having a male lover as he could have been. In fact, Geoff didn’t seem put off at all; Corvo filed away that tidbit of information. “A member of the Watch, maybe?”

“No,” Corvo blurted with an ugly guffaw. “No, a civilian.”

“What’s he like?”

“He’s an asshole.”

Geoff snorted, spluttering like he had almost choked on his drink, and wiped his mouth. He looked over at Corvo with appraising amusement, nudging him with his elbow.

“Sounds like a gem.”

“He’s not,” Corvo agreed, and he knew his smile was lopsided and stupidly lovestruck. “He’s originally from Serkonos, like me. It’s nice to speak the old language sometimes.”

The sun was starting to set, sinking down atop the coast in the west, making the wave crests gleam like mirror shards between the dark ribbons of the ocean that spread out on all sides, pleasantly endless. Corvo found that he had missed this, the smell of the air and the graininess of salt on his skin, the delicious possibility of forever looming black and depthless just below the keel. It was nice, liberating, to pretend for just a little while that he was not the Empress’s bodyguard on an assignment to find a way to salvage an entire Empire; instead, he was just a shitty Serkonan kid on a ship in the middle of an ocean that would swallow him whole and leave him forgotten. It was nice to be nobody for a moment.

“How did you meet?” Geoff asked, genuinely curious.

His face was painted with dwindling orange sunlight when Corvo looked back to him, dark shadows settling in the creases at the corners of his eyes and the little scar that cut through his lower lip. When Corvo smiled at him, thoughtful and distant, Geoff smiled genuinely back, chasing some of the forlornness from Corvo’s heart. He imagined that he and Geoff were going to become good friends, and his mood brightened at the idea.

“Well, I wouldn’t say we hit it off immediately,” Corvo told him conspiratorially. “Actually, when we first met, he threatened to stab me.”

Geoff barked a hoarse, startled laugh, eyebrows climbing disbelievingly towards his high hairline. Grinning at his surprise, Corvo could feel an overwhelming ease and relief soothing something tight in his chest, and he chuckled, huffing out a breath he had not realized had been sitting trapped in his chest. It was freeing to talk about Daud to someone who only knew as much as Corvo willingly offered, someone who was not the mother of his child, someone who seemed perfectly content to listen and offer teasing encouragement.

“Seems like a keeper,” Geoff joked dryly, but his tone was far from disparaging.

“You don’t know the half of it. I wish I could say it wasn’t sexy,” Corvo lamented, laughing as he lowered his voice. “First time I kissed him, he nearly pushed me off a roof.”

“Void, Corvo. Is your lover in a street gang? Or is he a serial killer?” Geoff teased.

Startled, Corvo chuckled awkwardly, attempting to keep Geoff from realizing how right he actually was. He must have done a poor job, because Geoff stared at him in blatant surprise for a long moment, before looking away with a good-natured shake of his head.

“This sounds like quite the story.”

Corvo decided that they would be good friends, indeed.

*****

The first letter arrived only a few days into the Month of Clans, and Daud supposed that Corvo must have dropped it in the post nearly as soon as he had set foot in their first port of call. Kieron had come to Daud, befuddled, with a bone charm wrapped in parchment and addressed to one Mr. Cuchillo, Old Port District, Dunwall, Gristol. He had found the thing in the mail slot of some abandoned apartment, throbbing with the Void, and had nearly discarded the letter in favor of the bonecharm's hissing whispers of silent footsteps in the dark.

But Javier had seen the name scrawled upon the packaging in an aggressive italic manuscript and had startled Kieron with his howling laughter and instructions to pass the whole lot on to Daud. Daud had spit his embarrassed anger at Kieron, though the poor man's ignorance of the Serkonan tongue left him more confused than before, and so Daud had given him the bonecharm in weak consolation.

Mr. Cuchillo, Daud translated. Mr. Knife.

Damn Corvo thought he was so fucking clever. Daud was only rendered more livid by the objective fact that it was a fine display of the man's sharp wit. Daud nearly hated him for it. Tearing open the letter, Daud read with single-minded determination.

He refused to believe that he was desperate for Corvo's company so soon after his departure, but the weak tether of the accidental arcane bond that had inadvertently grown between them throbbed pitifully at the distance with a persistence that drove him to distraction. It felt as if a thread of his soul had been pulled out and stretched, unraveling across the Isles, and Daud wondered at the impossibility of such a bond developing. With the Whalers, the bond had been intentional, consensual between both parties, agreed upon and acted upon. Corvo’s bond was faint, like the vague echo Daud usually felt after a Whaler had died or severed the bond of their own volition. It shouldn’t have been possible for it to simply appear, and Daud believed in retrospect that he should have felt it when it developed, but then again the Void never behaved as he expected and Daud had hardly noticed the bond at all until he could feel the strain of the distance upon it. Still, there was some comfort in knowing that he could Corvo on the other end, a whisper against his consciousness that he clung to at night when Rudshore was too dark and too quiet and too cold. When he was lonely.

It was easy to fall into wanton longing with the distance between them growing by the day, yet holding Corvo's words in ink and paper served as a firm enough reminder that the man was entirely insufferable.

Mr. Cuchillo,

I hope this letter finds you well. I hope it finds you at all.

We have stopped in Driscoll to see how the city fares while Dunwall dies of plague, kindly skipping Whitecliff and their ilk, and soon we set off for Morley. East to Wynnedown, followed by a stop at Fraeport in the north. Then a long haul to Tyvia through the Void-damned cold, a day or two in Yaro, then Wei-Ghon to refuel and suffer in the ice, and finally back south to Dabokva. We'll stop in Baleton, I think, for supplies, though Potterstead seems wiser, then on to Serkonos. Bastillian first, of course, before cutting a route home to Karnaca. We have a final stop in Cullero on the way back north, then homeward bound to Dunwall.

I fear this voyage will be long and trying. Keep me abreast of the happenings in Dunwall. I know you'll be more forthcoming on the state of things than the lady of the house ever will. She hopes to spare me, but your cruel bluntness seems kinder in these trying times.

I hope your reply will meet me in the next port.

Yours, C

Daud snorted at Corvo’s ridiculous attempts at subtlety, though he supposed that, had any passerby or – Void forbid – an Overseer find the missive, it would have seemed sufficiently inane to keep minds from turning to Corvo or to himself. There had been no grand announcement that the Empress had sent him away, for security reasons, Daud assumed, and so it would take several specific sets of circumstances for someone to connect those particular dots, even with the entirety of Corvo’s itinerary laid bare for anyone to see. Daud had strong opinions about that particular bit of foolishness, and given Corvo’s not-so-subtle urging that he should pen a reply, he was all too eager to put his complaints to paper. He would have Misha slip it in with the Empress’s outgoing mail, since those two had been getting along swimmingly based upon Misha’s red-faced reports.

C,

All is well here. Misha has been keeping an eye on your lady. They are spending time together when Misha goes to check in, though that is but a recent development. She says that the lady is busy, but not out of sorts with your absence.

Misha should be able to get a message to me, if there’s anything pressing, but don’t send any more charms. You’ll get yourself and your lady into trouble with the Abbey.

Stay  out of trouble.

-D

P.S. Eres un idiota.

Daud sent the letter to the Tower with Misha that night, knowing that she would return with tales of the Empress ribbing her as Daud’s proxy, she sly taunts about such a prompt reply and the merits of keeping a lover waiting with bated breath. He had gathered, from both Corvo and the besotted Misha, that the Empress was such a person to tease in good humor, so very unlike the hard-faced statue that loomed outside of the Chamber of Commerce. That knowledge seemed to solidify his resolve in rejecting Burrow’s contract and made him feel less like he was losing his spine for doing so. Corvo was adamant that she was doing as admirably with the current state of affairs as anyone could be asked to, and Daud believed him. It had not seemed that he had risen to her defense as her bodyguard, or her former lover, or the father of her child, but more so as a citizen who happened to be more privileged to information than most.

Still, an anxious guilt that Daud had never truly faced loomed in his chest, constricting and unpleasant and restless, gnawing at his bones each time he thought of the things he had not told Corvo. He had denied the Burrows contract, and that was that. No one besides himself and his Whalers would be capable of the feat that the Spymaster had asked of them, and he held that knowledge close to his breast. There was no threat, because he had been the threat, now neutralized. Corvo hadn’t needed to know, and it would have been cruel for Daud to let him be haunted by the truth while he was away across the Isles.

Daud tried his best not to think on it overmuch, keeping himself busy with work and whipping the novices into shape for two weeks, when the next letter arrived, hand delivered by Misha.

D,

What a moving letter you sent. I am flattered to know how dearly I am missed back in Dunwall. Try not to mourn my absence overmuch.

Daud nearly crumpled the paper in his hand, scowling down at Corvo’s harshly angled scrawl. That smug, sarcastic shit. If he hadn’t truly, regrettably been suffering some foolish, aborted form of loneliness, Daud would have stopped reading and instead used the letter for tinder. Instead, he smoothed out the angry creases from his fingers and read on.

We’ve made port in Morley. It is beautiful in a sad sort of way. Just as wet and dreary as Dunwall, but it manages to make the gloom charming, somehow. The talks here have been as unproductive as you’d expect, though I feel like they hate me less because I’m not Gristolian born and bred. I would find it funny, were it not still managing to make my job nearly impossible. I imagine that if I’d brought you with me, I’d manage to accidentally conquer the Isles without lifting a finger. All you’d have to do is glare, which you do anyway.

Or maybe, I’m just looking for excuses to think about you.

But things aren’t all terrible. I’ve missed the ocean, and sailing, even if the crew is only playing along to keep me out of their way. And I’ve made a friend in someone from the Tower that I’ve known for a while. So, I have to make a request: if ever you are given a contract on the life of one Captain Geoff Curnow of the City Watch, please don’t kill him. I’m fond of him and would rather not have one of my few friends end up dead in a gutter because you were strapped for coin.

I’ll write again when I can, though we’ll surely be underway for Tyvia before you receive it. Be sure to look after Thomas. I’m worried for him, always. I miss you.

Yours, C

At the bottom of the second page, beneath Corvo’s initial, he had drawn a little sketch that spread the breadth of the paper; it was a view of the high cliffs from the ocean, etched with long shadows and the smudges of seabirds screeching overhead. It was, much to Daud’s surprise, beautiful. Just a simple sprawl of ink on parchment, and it moved more within him than any of Sokolov’s great masterworks ever did. His heart lurched in his chest, and not even from the guilt of his neglect of Thomas, which he still had yet to wholly resolve.

It was just the mere thought of Corvo taking a moment, seeing the stark limestone cliffs and rolling green of the Morleyan coast, and thinking of Daud. Daud knew he did not deserve such consideration, but he had always been a greedy man.

Void damn it, he missed Corvo, too.

*****

It was late, but at least the nights were getting warmer, and Galia could only be thankful that she was returning home after an assignment clean, for once. No blood on her slick leather coat or sewer mud plastered ankle-high on her boots; just a renewed distaste for Dunwall high society and whiskey that cost too much to taste like anything but privilege.

She was ready to be free of her finery, but she walked down the street with the pompous poise of any lady who knew too well that the cut of her velvet coat and fitted breeches accentuated her figure in the appropriate ways. There was an alley half a block ahead where she could shed the pretenses like a cloak, one dark enough to conceal the black magic that would whisk her to the rooftop and to where her uniform was hidden. Years of wearing practical gear at Daud’s demand had spoilt her rotten, and the balls of her feet protested with every click-clacking step of her heeled boots on the cobblestones. It was a wonder that women had not revolted yet, after centuries of wearing what inane fashions men seemed to think attractive, Galia mused.

The darkness of the alleyway swallowing her whole was a sweet relief, and Galia sunk into the places where the streetlights couldn’t reach like a leviathan beneath the ocean’s surface. Though as she began to reach towards the rooftop, Daud’s power flowing strong and uninhibited into her bones, a broad shadow from the street stopped in the mouth of the alley, stretching long into the darkness.

Galia cursed at the glint of light off the figure’s golden mask.

The Overseer approached in measured steps, backlit by the street like some harbinger of foul news, his mask scowling discontent with all the force of the Abbey. He stopped several cautious paces away, shifting his weight to one foot, watching. Galia knew she could take him down if need be, even being armed with only the stiletto strapped to her ankle; but he was big and broad and had a false complacency in his posture that swore he would go down like a savage.

“It is unsafe for a young woman to be out in the city alone at night,” he observed, and even muffled by the mask, Galia recognized the voice with a huff of relief. “Especially a beautiful young woman. Should I accompany you home?”

“Void, Reilly,” Galia swore, stepping closer to swat him in the chest. “You scared the shit out of me. I thought I was going to have to kill you.”

His chuckle was deep and hollow beneath his mask, but Galia could hear his smile in the sound and she rocked up on her toes to leave a quick kiss on the cool metal covering his cheek. Reilly caught her hand, his gloves so shockingly white even against her pale Tyvian complexion, and he tangled their fingers together with the timid sort of tenderness that he was always so eager to give. Galia smiled despite herself in quiet wonder at the Overseer with a heart more golden than his mask, and she knew that he tried to be gentle even though she required no such thing, if only because the Abbey had denied it to him since he was a boy.

“Are you on patrol alone tonight? Where’s Cathal?” Galia asked, looking around in the shadows as if the hound would have merely ignored her in favor of something else.

“Eating rats, probably; he’ll find us eventually. How are you?” Reilly asked, genuinely curious. “I’ve missed you.”

Galia couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up from between her ribs, rising from the warm place where her heart was. “We saw each other less than a week ago!”

“And that should stop me from worrying?” he complained, but his tone soon turned cautious. “How is Daud?”

Sighing, Galia pulled her hand free of Reilly’s grasp to drag her fingers through her short hair. Daud had been insufferable, always short tempered and sulking about, snapping at any novice whose maneuvers were not impeccable, and pacing around his rooms more often than naught. Most of the Whalers, even those who condemned Daud as soft and spineless for his association with Corvo, had hoped that with the arrival of Corvo’s letters Daud would be soothed enough to get off everyone’s backs. He hadn’t. If anything, he had gotten worse, as if the little bits of longing that were soothed with each correspondence only returned tenfold, leaving him moody and snappish and oddly forlorn. But Galia knew well the ache of distance between two people who cared for each other, knew the conflict of interests and the woes it brought the heart. She had known these things herself, and she saw them now in Daud.

“He’s been in a foul humor of late, less forgiving than he ever was and livid with the world. I think…” she fumbled with the thought, idly clasping the hem of Reilly’s embroidered sleeve. “I think he’s lonely, and worried, with Attano gone on the Empress’s errand. As absurd as it sounds, I think everything – the distance especially – is weighing on him.”

“Well, do what you can for him, but take care of yourself first. I know you love Daud and would do anything for him, but you can’t do this on his behalf. He will work his way out of it, eventually, and he has to do it on his own,” Reilly soothed, his hand falling to rest on Galia’s cheek. “Even the Knife of Dunwall is just a man, and men feel. Regardless of what the Abbey says of heretics or Overseers, we’re all just men. We all love.”

Smiling, Galia kissed the heel of his palm. “You are a wonder, Overseer Hannegan.”

“I’m only speaking the truth as I know it.”

“Well, I certainly appreciate the guidance,” she told him, dropping her voice into something teasing and alluring. “I’d be honored if you’d allow me to… thank you for your advice.”

Galia backed away, suddenly aware of how near they had been standing, of how easily they could have been seen, of the heat of his broad body. Still, she cast an alluring glance over her shoulder as she turned towards the door of the vacant apartments flanking the alley, smirking as she heard Reilly’s breath catch in the echo of his mask.

“You shouldn’t so eagerly test an Overseer on the sixth Stricture, Galia,” he rumbled, timbre low with interest.

Galia grinned, canting her chin up in challenge. “Come over here and make me.”

He followed eagerly as she slipped through the door and transversed up the stairs in a flicker. Her abilities never gave him pause, not anymore, and soon they were stumbling onto a dusty old couch that stank of abandonment, Galia perched on Reilly’s thighs as she pulled off his mask and pushed back his cowl. He was an undeniably handsome man, with green eyes from his Morleyan father and tan skin from his half-Serkonan mother and brown hair that was nearly auburn in afternoon light. He breathed deep with the oppressive mask gone, and Galia thought to herself that it was a pity that he had to cover such an attractive face with that horrid, grimacing thing.

They watched each other for a moment before the mask in Galia’s hand clattered to the floor with a heavy metallic thunk, and then their lips were meeting, desperate and frantic. His wide hands were on her waist, urging her closer, and he tilted his head up to accept her kiss, baring his throat. She could kill him, Galia knew, with how vulnerable he let himself be around her. But Void did she love this fool, with all his daring and his unyielding adoration of her. An Overseer and a heretic. Maybe they were both fools.

The clacking of claws in the hallway did nothing to draw their attention from each other, but the sudden sinking of a large weight on the couch and a cold nose butting the underside of Galia’s chin made Reilly pull away with an ungainly snort. He was smiling, shoving away the persistent bulk of the wolfhound trying to drape himself across their laps, but the beast was too insistent to be overcome.

“Cathal, get down,” Galia complained with a grin, shoving at the hound’s haunches as he languished across her thighs. It was only so much of an imposition, as she had come to adore the beast as much as she did his master, once Cathal had finally ceased his violent snarling and accepted that she would always reek of the Void.

“I’m sorry, Galia,” Reilly huffed, scratching behind the hound’s ears.

She waved him off, burying her fingers in the coarse scruff of Cathal’s neck as he sniffed at the bone charms sewn into the liner of her coat. “You stupid beast. You sniff at me as if you weren’t a heretic yourself, always running about eating rats. The Abbey should have your hide, by now.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Reilly began, digging around in the pockets of his own jacket before handing Galia a bonecharm. “I found it on a raid a few days ago. I don’t know what it does, but I thought it may be of use to you.”

“Thank you,” Galia murmured into a gentle kiss, hiding the charm behind her back to keep Cathal from stealing it out of her hand.

Reilly sighed into the press of her lips, pulling her closer as best he could with the wolfhound still sprawled bonelessly across their laps. He caught Galia’s lip between his teeth and she gasped against his tongue, her fingers curling into his hair to keep him close for as long as she was able. She missed him, when they were apart, which unfortunately was nearly always. And with the condemnation she knew Daud would strike upon her should he find out that she was stupidly, helplessly in love with an Overseer, of all people, she was careful to keep Reilly all to herself. Daud did not begrudge them relationships, or even love, so long as their trysts did not affect the Whalers of their work. He would be a hypocrite to do so, what with himself being all twisted up in Corvo. But still, it hurt to not be able to get drunk and titter about Reilly with Rinaldo and Jordan in the way that Jordan always tittered over Killian, but Reilly was vastly more important to her than any friendly gossip.

Kissing him sweetly and nuzzling against the strong line of his nose, Galia held him close for a moment, savoring the warmth and breadth of him in her arms.

“Brother Hannegan!” a voice called from the alley below, the metallic muffling of the sound floating in through a broken window. “Brother, where have you disappeared to?”

Cathal’s ears perked towards the doorway, and in an instant they were scrambling apart, Galia fleeing towards the window and Reilly hurriedly tugging on his mask.

“I’ll be sure he can’t see you leave through the window” he said, straightening his jacket. “Be careful, Galia. I love you.”

Galia paused, perched on the window sill, and smiled. A quick transversal and they were again chest to chest, her lips against the golden grimace of his mask.

“I will. Goodnight, Overseer.”

She was gone in an inky billow of the Void.

Chapter Text

25^th of Clans, 1836

My dear Empress,

Talks here in Tyvia have been as unproductive as in Morley, as we feared they would be. There have been no reports of Plague-like symptoms on either isle, so this disease continues to be the burden of Dunwall alone. Unfortunately, it seems that there is not a single physician in the Empire who can conjure any cure. Well, if there is, I haven’t found them yet.

I am failing you, Jessamine, and with every port of call I doubt more and more that I will find any of the solutions we seek.

Perhaps it is the grimness of Tyvia that is making me so hopeless. The sky and the sea share the same shade of grey, but not like in Dunwall. Here, it is cold and forbidding. I never imagined that I would find myself afraid of open water, but these northern seas make me uneasy. Still, according to our Tyvian crewmate, summer is coming early this year, and he believes that the ice will melt quickly enough that we should be able to make way back south ahead of schedule.

I will hold tight to that hope, as it means I am nearer to being home. Give my love to Emily. I have bought her one of the jeweled music boxes that they make in Dabokva, as a gift for the New Year. It is not nearly as fine as the ones on display in the Tower, but it is special; when the lid opens, a little silver pirate ship rocks as if on the ocean. Foolishly, I spent the majority of my stipend on it, but you need not scold me as Geoff has already done it for you.

Yours, Corvo

*****

4^th of Songs, 1836

Darling Corvo,

            Do not be disheartened. It is easy for us to flag when faced with such great responsibility as this, but we must bear our burdens for the Empire, not just for ourselves. The people of Dunwall are afraid, and with Burrows increasing security measures throughout the city, they need to know that there is no need to fear so long as we are cautious. They need to see their Empress expressing positivity and sympathizing with their loss and concern. I need to raise their spirits, and with any luck, people will begin to feel some hope again. Everything you do gives me the ability to do so.

            And do not blame yourself for my failings. You did not cause the Plague, my dear Corvo, and it was cruel of me to place the burden of curing it upon your shoulders. Simply do your best, as I know you always will, and know that Emily and I both count the days until your triumphant return. We miss you dearly.

            Be strong, my love.

Jessamine

P.S. Geoff was right to scold you. I knew I liked him for a reason.

*****

7^th of Songs, 1836

            Corvo,

I asked Misha to add this to the post, I hope you don’t mind. I’m sure you don’t care to hear from me and I don’t want to be a distraction, but I miss you. D has settled some over the last month or so, but I doubt that will last. Contracts have been growing more sparse, but the ones we take are bloodier than usual. Many of the noble lot have fled to their homes in the country to escape the Plague. It is to be expected, given the time of year, but I doubt many will return to Dunwall after Fugue ends. The ones who remain, however, have seen opportunity in the city’s fear and are taking advantage. I’ve killed more cousins for inheritance in the last few months than I think I ever have. Not that I mind. Watch anyone for long enough and you’ll find your own reasons for wanting to stab them in the neck.

But if things continue as they are, I fear before long our coffers will be empty and our pantry spare. Jenkins is already complaining about how few merchant ships are arriving in port, and every week it seems that less Gristolian produce makes it to Dunwall. Javier, Rinaldo, and I have already talked about cutting the masters’ portions so that there is enough for the novices to eat. D demands we all should get equal portions, as he always has when times were lean, but I would rather starve than watch the young ones be hungry. It hasn’t come to that, yet, but I fear it will. I fear many things that have not yet come to pass.

I should not add to your worries, Corvo. It is cruel and selfish of me. Just know that I think of you often. D does as well, I’m sure of it. He cares so dearly for you. I hope you know that, and understand how precious that is. It is a rare thing.

Take care, and may the sea have mercy.

Thomas

*****

11^th of Songs, 1836

Thomas,

You are not a burden to me, and speaking of your worries is never selfish. Truthfully, I am glad to hear them, if only because it means you will not keep them to yourself. Do not punish yourself by bearing more than is feasible. I can carry lots of weight, so let me share some of yours.

Should I be completely honest, I admit that I am happy to be hearing from you. I am glad that D has chosen to be less of an ass. And I mean chosen, because you and I both know how indignant and stubborn he can be, especially when he’s at fault. You have a spine of steel, Thomas, no matter what you may think of yourself. I have seen it, and he needs to see it, too. I know he worries for you, but stern care need not be his only form of kindness. He’s smarter than that, though I may be giving him too much credit, and I know that you are far stronger than either of you realizes. You are not a child; you outgrew tough love long ago. You are a man, an exceptional one, and D needs to learn that, else he drive a wedge between you that he can’t pry out.

I know you love him, Thomas. But that doesn’t mean you have to like him all the time. Demand better, you deserve it. And you do deserve it.

I am ready to see you again. Keep fighting away your darkness, solecito.

Yours, C

*****

12^th of Songs, 1836

            D,

            We are finally free of Tyvia, and this letter comes to you via Baleton, where we stopped for fuel and provisions that aren’t Tyvian in origin. I know I complained that Potterstead would have been a wiser choice of port, considering that we docked in Baleton so quickly after departing Dabokva, though I now admit that I was a fool to think so. Baleton has been a blessing, if only because the market here gave us cause to rid ourselves of the remnants of the various types of brined, pickled, and salted fish that were forced upon us in Tyvia. If that is what they eat, it’s no wonder that Tyvians are so often either angry or drunk.

            In a few days we will arrive in Serkonos.

            I wish I was excited to return home after so many years, but the reason for my visiting tends to dampen any joy I may find. Still, I indulge myself in daydreams of languishing in Karnaca with you, dancing and eating and enjoying all the things I missed as a boy. I think it would suit you. You were meant for sunshine and strong wine, I think, no matter what reputation you’ve built for yourself as the grim assassin. I want to swim in the ocean while you doze on the beach, and to wake you with kisses that taste like sea salt.

            I miss you. It’s making me pathetic and long-winded. Mock me all you wish; I suppose I deserve it. I am ready to be home, and to be free of this assignment that I seem to be failing so miserably.

            Keep me abreast of things back home.

            Yours, C

*****

17^th of Songs, 1836

C,

I will mock you. All the time you spend moping is making you distracted, and distraction gets people killed. I won’t say that you being away is making me sentimental, but I’d rather you not get shot just because you’re too busy thinking about something useless. Get your head out of your ass, idiota , you have a job to do.

Don’t waste your time daydreaming about sand and surf and enjoying the luxuries of Serkonos. Neither of us know a damn thing about living the sweet life, so whatever fantasies you come up with will be wildly off the mark. You’ll say that there’s no harm in pretending, but there always is. You’re setting yourself up for disappointment, and I warned you, so don’t come crying to me when you break your own heart.

It is quiet without you here, I’ll admit. The novices ask about you all the time, especially Aeolos. Thomas seems depressed, even though we patched things up weeks ago and I thought things were better. I think he needs you, because he won’t talk about whatever is bothering him to anyone else, not even Rinaldo. And especially not me. I expect I deserve that distrust.

Dunwall is rotting. Every alley is swarming with rats, and they grow bolder by the day. Last week Jordan reported seeing a Watchman – one of your lady’s new Dead Counters – nearly getting stripped to the bone by a pack of the damn things. And again, two days ago, Little Tom and Desmond nearly were mauled themselves near Bottle Street. Luckily for them Javier was able to get them out, though they got a scolding from him and laundry duty from me for being oblivious. No one else has gotten ill, though, not since the two novices all those months ago. I am admittedly grateful for that. If one of my masters contracted the disease, I wouldn’t hesitate to send them to the Refinery with a pistol and a single bullet. But despite what everyone may think of me, I don’t think I could offer poisoned elixir to another frightened child and hold their hand while they died.

I may be a monster, but even I have my limits.

I hope you’re not on a fool’s errand. I hope there is something out there that could snuff out this plague. But even if there isn’t, that’s not on you. Do you hear me? You can’t always be a hero, and you probably won’t be one now.

Damn it. Maybe I do miss you, you bastard.

-D

*****

19^th of Songs, 1836

Corvo,

I trust you have made it to Serkonos by now, my dear. Emily has been pestering me about it, and I grew so flustered that I lied and told her that you arrived yesterday just so that she would leave me be. I told her that your first port of call was Bastillian and encouraged her to do some research and write to you with her questions. I apologize in advance.

I have been forced to authorize the City Watch use of Anton’s dreadful tallboys in the Estate District. With the Plague spreading so quickly, many of the noble families have abandoned Dunwall for their country estates, and the looting has been out of control. Some of the gangs are putting down their roots in the area, or at least are padding their coffers with whatever they can swipe from every empty manor house that isn’t locked down as tight as Coldridge. Watchmen on the ground aren’t enough to combat them. Though I hate the idea, the tallboys will have to do.

The shopkeepers in Draper’s Ward are beginning to panic. The encroaching Plague means less customers and greater threat of sickness, so many shops are threatening to close their doors entirely. A few already have, regretfully. So, I plan to take a trip to the district in the first week of the new year. With any luck, it will encourage patrons to support the shops, and offer the shopkeepers some comfort. I know you will disapprove, but you should also know that I’ll do as I like nonetheless. I thought I’d be courteous by letting you know.

Love always,

Jessamine

*****

19^th of Songs, 1836

Hello Corvo,

Mother said that I should write down all of my questions for you in a letter. I want would like a written reply for documentashion purposes, but I guess you can tell me everything when you get home, if you must. Here are my questions:

1. Is there always snow in Tyvia? Or only most of the time?
2. Did you see any bears there?
3. Why are all Morleyan songs about funerals?
4. Why do people from Morley like jellied ox tongue? I’m scared to try it. It looks gross.
5. Have you seen any pirates yet?
6. Can lady pirates have girlfriends?
7. Is all Serkonan food spicy, or are spicy foods just your favorites?
8. Is Serkonan coffee tasty? Mother won’t let me try any.
9. Will you teach me to dance like they do in Serkonos? It seems more fun than the way my governess tries to teach me, and the music is less boring.
10. Are you happy to go home?

I have more questions, but I’ll let you answer these first. I miss you very much and can’t wait for you to be home. Things are boring when you aren’t here. There’s no one to play with and the Guards won’t teach me sword fighting. They are all too afraid of mother.

I’ll talk to you later, daddy. Please write back soon.

Princess Emily

P.S. I drew you some pictures, but I ran out of blue crayon. I hope you like them.

P.P.S. Are you still talking to your friend David? Mother has a new friend, too. I can hear them talking in her office late at night sometimes. She has a funny accent. I thought maybe she knew your friend because she and mother were talking about you and somebody, but his name wasn’t David, even if it did start with a D. I want to meet your and mother’s friends someday. But I will keep them a secret like you asked! I like keeping secrets from Spymaster Burrows. It’s funny to watch his bald head turn red when he’s angry.

Corvo chuckled to himself, flattening the letter out with careful hands upon the wobbly desk in his cabin. The ship was rocking wildly in the throes of a fierce storm that had snuck up suddenly from the south, catching them off the coast between Bastillian and Saggunto. Poor Geoff was groaning in his bunk above Corvo’s, green as a cabbage, despite having eaten nearly every ginger lozenge on the ship. Corvo continued to force soothing tea upon him, both to ease his suffering and to rehydrate him after each unfortunate trip to the head, and Geoff was a fussy but grateful patient. It was understandable.

As Emily had promised, there were two additional sheets of paper crammed into the overstuffed envelope, both covered in colorful childish drawings. The first bore a rather dramatic depiction of himself standing upon the prow of a quirkily disproportionate ship as it sailed along the surface of a vibrantly green sea. A small corner of the paper actually featured blue ocean, but Corvo could see the frustrated, fading scribbles where Emily’s crayon had succumbed. Grinning, he carefully pinned the drawing to the corkboard bolted to the wall above the desk, then glanced down at the remaining sheet in his hand and barked a loud, startled laugh.

Shifting with a miserable groan, Geoff leaned over the edge of his bunk to grumble questioningly at Corvo and his amusement. The poor man looked as if he had been drunk in a barfight and lost miserably. His dark hair was in wild disarray and his face held a sickly grey pallor as he huddled up on his bunk, curled in an overlarge sweater and smothered in both his own blankets and Corvo’s spare quilt. Corvo felt dreadful for him, even if his pitifulness was a little amusing.

“What are you laughing at?” Geoff rasped.

“Not at you, I promise,” Corvo chuckled, turning to show him Emily’s second sheet of drawings. “Look at these.”

Geoff squinted at the proffered page and a crooked, woozy smirk pulled at his lips. Emily had drawn a series of unflattering portraits of several prominent figures from the Tower. Burrows was depicted with his absurdly tall collar and overlarge nose and gleaming highlight on his bald head that sparkled like freshly polished crystal. Beneath him was Sokolov, his eyebrows so bushy that they nearly obscured his scowl, and with an assortment of paintbrushes and pencils tangled in his beard. There was also a rendering of a toppled tall boy, stuck flailing on his back like an upturned beetle, and in the corner, a lopsided likeness of a wolfhound, tongue lolling.

“Princess Emily is certainly… creative,” Geoff offered cautiously.

Corvo snorted, turning back to the desk to admire the drawings again. “Her creativity tends to exceed her skill.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Geoff huffed as he sprawled back out on his bunk with a sickly sigh.

“How are you feeling?”

“Kill me,” Geoff replied flatly.

With a chuckle Corvo left Geoff to his suffering and quickly collected some paper and ink to pen a reply to Emily, even if the rocking of the ship would leave his handwriting strangely loopy and nearly unintelligible. Typically, he would wait until the ocean was calmer before sitting down to write, but his chest was filled with fond joy, and he did not have the patience to wait. Besides, with the storm raging outside and Geoff looking rather like he would weep if Corvo abandoned him to face his nauseous sloshing alone, there wasn’t much else to occupy his time.

Mija,

I am amazed as always by your curiosity, and I trust you are affording this much attention to your studies. While I don’t know the answers to all of your questions, I will answer the ones I can. As for the rest, you should check in the library. Better yet, ask Anton. I’m sure it would make him very happy, so don’t give up when he scolds you. If he argues, tell him it was my idea, and he will scold me instead when I get home.

As for your questions:

There is not always snow in Tyvia, though the north and Wei-Ghon have snow for most of the year. Even when there is not snow, there is ice in the ocean. Great big blocks of it that make sailing difficult. Luckily, a crewman on the ship is Tyvian, and was able to help us. Unfortunately, I did not see any real bears. I saw a big stuffed one in the Citadel of Dabokva, when I had a meeting with the Presidium. It was much taller than me, so I was rather glad that it wasn’t alive anymore.

Morleyans have plenty of songs that aren’t about funerals, though I will admit that they do enjoy singing about them. But the songs about funerals are rarely sad. I suppose the people in Morley think about them differently than we do. They clearly think about food differently, too. While most of the food I ate in Morley was very good, jellied ox tongue was not. I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.

I have not seen any pirates yet, I am sorry to report. But in about two weeks we will be sailing through the islands to the east of Cullero, and I’m sure we will see some there. And lady pirates can certainly have girlfriends. There are old Serkonan legends of two pirates named Anita Bolivar and Marisa Ribas who were called the Queens of the Eastern Coast, and they loved each other dearly. They loved each other so much that Marisa even dressed as a man and called herself Marco to help Anita frighten away her husband. Together they went on many adventures and became two of the most fearsome pirates in history.

Lastly, no, not all Serkonan food is spicy, that’s just how I like it. Serkonan food has lots of spices, and lots of flavor, but just because it’s spiced doesn’t mean that it will make your lips burn and your nose drip. Spiced and spicy are very different things. Yes, Serkonan coffee is very good. No, you may not try it. When I get home, I will show you how to dance. You can stand on top of my feet like you did when you were little and I’ll teach you the steps. You’re right, the Serkonan way is much more fun.

My home is with you and your mother, but I am glad to go back to where I am from for a little while. It is happy and sad, at the same time. One day, I hope that I can bring you to Serkonos to see it for yourself, mi corazoncita.

Behave yourself and listen to your mother. I love you and will be home soon.

Your Corvo

*****

26^th of Songs, 1836

            Jessamine,

You are right; I do not approve of your proposed outing to Draper’s Ward, though I don’t imagine that my disapproval will dissuade you. No force known to man could dissuade you when you’ve made up your mind. If you must go, be careful. Whatever security Burrows suggests, double it. Be safe.

We will be docking in Saggunto tomorrow morning. I am to speak to several prominent physicians there, as well as the local government, and then on to Karnaca. I am looking forward to seeing Duke Theodanis again; it has been a long time. And before you say anything, no, I don’t resent him for sending me to serve your father. Theodanis was always kind to me, and how could I ever resent the man who brought me to you?

I hope that whatever affection he once had for me has not disappeared entirely. Perhaps it will encourage him to be more helpful than anyone else has thus far. Maybe his physicians will have some insight. After all, there have been rare instances of bloodfly infection, and I can’t imagine that that sickness is vastly different than the one we face now. Bloodflies have been in Serkonos for as long as anyone can remember; surely there’s some inkling of how to treat the condition that can be applied to the plague.

My hopes may be too high, or maybe I’m just so desperate for good news. In mere weeks I will be returning to Dunwall, and I dread coming home empty handed. Please do not resent me if I do.

Yours, Corvo

P.S. I am sending a reply to Emily alongside this letter. Tell her that I love her, and that her drawings were beautiful. They are decorating my cabin. Geoff likes them too.

*****

27^th of Songs, 1836

D,

By the time you receive this, it will be 1837. With any luck it will be better than 1836, but with my luck it won’t.

We dropped anchor in Karnaca Harbor early this morning, early enough that I was able to stand on the bow and watch the sun rise behind Shindaerey Peak. I had forgotten how beautiful this city can be. Sometimes, my sister and I used to wake early and leave home with my father when he left for the lumber yards before dawn. We would trek out to the end of the Point of Batista, as far as we were brave enough to go, and we’d sit on the beach and watch the sun come up while we ate stolen oranges. As a boy, I was certain that every color known to man was in that sunrise, and that nothing could be more spectacular. It was easy to understand the legends about the Old Gods after seeing a sunrise like that; surely something greater had a hand in it.

After twenty years of Dunwall’s gloom, the awe was fresh all over again. I had foolishly wished for a moment that you had been there with me this morning to see it, if only so that I could hear you describe it again years from now, like you did that night on a rooftop in Drapers Ward. I was a stupid thought, but the beauty of the place that used to be home was making me sentimental.

Karnaca is still beautiful, even now as I sit on the deck of the ship at midday, writing this letter and watching them hang the Fugue banners on shore. They are plain white cloths now, strung low across streets and between houses, but I know that by the time the Hymn of Atonement is called they will be knotted full of strips of colorful cloth, each inked with the confession of a sin. I have no engagements until after Fugue has ended, and I don’t plan on celebrating, but I may go ashore to write my own sins for the banners for old time’s sake. Void knows I have plenty to offer.

Maybe I’ll take Curnow with me. His grandfather was Serkonan, but he’s never seen Karnaca until now, and knows nothing of the old customs. He might be amenable to experiencing Fugue as we do it here and staying for the Burning of the Banners. Even if I do celebrate, I’d rather my Fugue not be too exciting. I’ll promise to behave myself if you promise to do the same, but that doesn’t mean I won’t think about what you and I could get up to together during the freedom of the feast. Those thoughts alone are sinful enough to earn a place on the banners, but I think I’ll hold onto them for myself.

And I must ask a favor. My lady has decided to venture out to Drapers Ward during the first week of the new year. I trust she has enough sense to wait until the last revelers of Fugue have moved on with their lives and things have somewhat returned to order, but I can’t be sure. She assures that she’ll take plenty of the Guard with her, and that she will be cautious, but it would ease my mind if you’d keep an eye on her as well. I know it is a lot to ask, and I don’t ask lightly. I wish I had more details to offer, but perhaps she has spoken to Misha about her plans. They’ve grown close, after all.

Be safe out there. I’m eager to be home and to see you again.

Yours, C

Damn Corvo, writing such ridiculous letters that made Daud’s gut go funny and his pulse thrum desperately in his veins. He had read the damn thing twice already, hunched over it at his desk like a starving man over a scrap of stolen bread,

Daud shuffled the pages of Corvo’s letter in his hand, reordering them and refolding them back into their envelope. He tucked the letter into his coat pocket with a huff and turned to Misha, who was rummaging absently through the little crate of treats that Corvo had sent alongside the correspondence. Luckily Misha had been quiet about spiriting it into Daud’s office to deliver the post, otherwise his desk would be swarming with novices like rats on a corpse. Daud had permitted her first pick of the items inside, considering she had hauled the damned thing all the way back from the Tower, and she squirreled away a pack of cigarettes and a chocolate bar into her pocket, the gold foil flashing briefly before vanishing in her nimble fingers.

There was a small package that Misha had set aside with Thomas scrawled on the parchment in Corvo’s angular scrawl. It seemed like a book, from the size and the hollow sound it made when Daud tapped one knuckle against it, and for a defiant, stubborn moment, Daud considered opening it. There had been nothing besides the letter addressed specifically to him, which made a stupid throb of sickly jealousy twist in his belly when he picked up the wrapped book, turning it over in his hands. It was not a large volume, whatever it was, but Daud paused just shy of untying the twine that bound it, intrigue be damned. Thomas deserved better, and recently Daud had struck enough blows against him in Corvo’s eyes that even his curiosity – which stank suspiciously of envy in a way that he despised – was quelled.

“Misha,” Daud said after a moment, setting the book aside. “What do you know about the Empress going to Drapers Ward?”

Misha frowned, brows furrowing over eyes still smudged heavily with kohl, and Daud could hear the clack of some hard candy sweet against her teeth as she rolled it on her tongue. It seemed far too early in the morning for that sort of thing, Daud thought, but he supposed that saving it was a riskier endeavor. After all, every one of his Whalers had the skills of a thief, and none were above swiping what they wanted from their fellows’ pockets.

Eventually, Misha shoved the sweet into her cheek with her tongue, looking rather like the Empire’s most lethal chipmunk, and said, words awkwardly muffled: “She’s going today.”

“What time?”

“Should be leaving the Tower in the next hour or so,” Misha said with a glance at the clock perched on a crooked bookcase behind Daud’s desk. “She and the Tower Guard are taking railcars into the district, and they’re meeting more of the Watch there.”

“Fuck.”

“Sir?”

Daud growled with frustration as he shoved back from his desk, snagging his pistol and a handful of bullets from the drawer, and dumping them into a pocket on his bandolier with a disorganized clatter. Behind him, he could hear Misha quicky crunching her candy between her teeth, apparently startled by his sudden urgency.

“Where’s Lurk?”

“I haven’t seen her for days, sir,” Misha told him, shadowing his movements as if she should be gearing up, too. “Should I ready a squad?”

“No, I’m going alone.”

“Going where?” she shouted after him when he swung out the window. “Sir?”

“Draper’s Ward.”

If she spoke again, Daud did not hear her. Dragging himself to a breezeway with a transversal, he set out across Rudshore.

When he was a younger man, Daud enjoyed testing his skill by pulling jobs in broad daylight. It was ridiculous to think about now, as he was soon to come upon his forty-second year and was, in all things aside from arrogance and youthful foolhardiness, in his prime, and he found that he far preferred doing his work under the cover of darkness, even if it made the stories a sight less impressive. Not that he particularly cared about that. What he did care about, however, was efficiency, and strutting about in the middle of the day trying not to get shot by the one Watchman that remembered to look up certainly did not lend to that.

Which was why, when he pulled himself up onto a rooftop on the edges of Drapers Ward nearly an hour and a half later, he decided that Corvo was going to owe him a fucking favor for this.

In the street, a crowd was beginning to mill about down the road from the storefronts, eager for the Empress’s visit, and Daud could hear the murmur of voices rise when clatter of a railcar heralded the arrival of the Tower retinue. Guards of the City Watch quickly formed a protective barrier around the car emblazoned with the imperial crest to keep the pressing crowd away until the door opened, and a short, barrel-chested Watch officer with neatly combed blond hair and the cauliflower ears of a boxer hauled himself out. He took a cautious glance at the crowd around him, straightened his coat, and reached back to offer a hand to the Empress, who stepped down to the street with all the grace befitting a noble born lady.

Crouching on the edge of the roof, Daud leant over to watch her as she nodded to the various shop owners, regal and gracious, pausing to gently grasp the hand of a smartly dressed man with a narrow face and a thick moustache. The man gestured broadly to her, apparently familiar enough to beckon her up the road with a kindly smile, and the Empress followed him into a shop outside of Drapers Mall. Things would remain quiet, it seemed, as Daud watched her be ushered around the place, encouraged by no less than six different shop keepers to glance into their display windows. The Empress didn’t look the least bit pained by the obvious cloying for attention – not as Daud knew he would be, the mere thought of so many people pitifully vying for his attention making his skin crawl – and she complimented each tacky bolt of cloth she was offered for inspection.

It was strange, trying to reconcile the Jessamine that Corvo told him about with the Empress of the Isles that he saw now, the one that he had ordered his Whalers to watch in the long weeks before Corvo came into his life. She was regal and imposing with her hair tied up in a severe twist, but the smiles she offered the shop keepers were nearly genuine, only slightly muted with the weariness of duty. Corvo spoke of her so warmly – she was the mother of his child, after all, it was only natural and right – but the woman he described was still so far from the poised and self-mastered Empress who commissioned coats and breeches and hats she’d never wear from each shop keep in turn. Perhaps Misha could offer some insight to the Empress, an opinion somewhat removed from Corvo’s biasing fondness and the mask she wore for her citizens.

But Daud was not here to ponder the Empress’s disposition. He was here as a favor to Corvo, to keep an eye on his reckless lady.

It was nearly midday by the time the Empress and her retinue seemed to be migrating back towards their railcars, and Daud, having grown bored and hungry, transversed down off of his rooftop and through an open apartment window. The apartment was wholly empty, and seeing as it was reasonable enough to assume that its occupant was down in the street mooning over the Empress, Daud helped himself to the remains of their breakfast – grapes and bread with butter and fig jam. Though as he propped his hip against the windowsill, mouth full of stolen bread, there was a shout from below. Daud ducked out the window, only to find a bedraggled looking man surging through the gathered crowd towards the Empress, a pistol in his hand. His eyes were wild and desperate, his strength augmented by some apparent madness, and as one of the Watchmen dove into his path with an overconfident snarl, the man aimed, and fired.

The Watchman dropped like a stone to the cobblestone street and the crowd dispersed in a cacophony of shrieking screams. It was not mere anger in the man’s expression, and that alone made him dangerously reckless; rather, there was a grief that made his eyes flat and a little vacant, some anchor of loss dragging him down. Daud doubted he had ever killed someone before, and could see the instant the realization struck, startling a bit of life back into him like falling into cold water. After a reeling moment of panic, the man collected himself and turned once more to the Empress, levelling his pistol at her head.

“Fuck,” Daud spat, shoving the rest of the bread in his mouth.

It took only a matter of moments for Daud to haul himself out the window, and dragging time to a halt with a draining surge of the Void he dropped to the street, darting into the grim tableau. With his time dwindling and the strain of the power beginning to ache in his core, Daud pulled out his pistol and shot the assailant cleanly between the eyes before smashing a bottle of choke dust on the ground. He felt time resume as the world jolted back into chaos, and on some wild impulse he reached through the smoke to grab the Empress around the waist, pulling once more on his waning reserves of the Void to jerk them both to safety with a transversal.

Back in the apartment, the Empress stumbled free of his hold with a sickly gasp, though she quickly whirled on him, a snarl on her lips and a dagger in her hand. She was panting, half leaning against the arm of the sofa, but the fire in her dark eyes earned a shock of respect from Daud. Corvo had clearly been training her; Daud would recognize that back handed grip on her blade and broad stance anywhere.

“Easy, Your Majesty,” Daud offered, hands raised. “Corvo asked me to keep an eye on you. Seems like a good thing I did.”

She watched him for a long moment, viciously assessing in a way that was so familiar his heart clenched a little in his chest, a brief surge of wanting loneliness that left him feeling hungry and exhausted. There must have been something about the pitiful flicker of expression across his face that satisfied her, because she straightened with a slow breath, lowering her dagger.

“Daud,” Empress Jessamine Kaldwin said icily, the knife vanishing behind her back.

Feeling particularly indignant at having been caught off guard, Daud offered a mocking bow, one hand on his chest and the other held out to his side, and greeted her with a clipped: “Empress.”

“Corvo sent you?”

“Misha brought me his letter this morning. He mentioned that you were making a public appearance today, and was concerned about your safety,” Daud told her. “He called in a favor.”

“A favor, hmm?” she echoed, shifting to prowl around him like a cat around a caged canary, walking in a lazy circle.

Daud knew, objectively, that she was no real threat to him. He was an assassin, the Knife of Dunwall, the ghost in the dark, the bedtime story that left children trembling in their beds – and yet her assessment felt too critical to be anything but cowing. Bizarrely, he wondered if this was how Jordan felt under Kieron’s considering gaze; desperate for the approval of his lover’s dearest confidant and withering under the denial of that endorsement. Not that he would consider himself and Corvo to be lovers, regardless of the way that every muscle in his chest contorted around his ribs when Corvo smiled at him, or when they danced around each other in combat like it was instinct. Truthfully, Daud hardly knew what it meant to be someone’s lover.

But Jessamine Kaldwin did. She knew precisely what it was like to be Corvo’s lover, even, and it was easy for the flare of anxious jealousy Daud felt to turn his words cutting and razor-sharp.

“Yes, a favor,” Daud snapped.

“And what sort of favor will you call for in return?” the Empress asked bitterly from over his shoulder.

Daud growled, frustrated with her ridiculous interrogation.

“That’s between me and Corvo. I don’t see how it’s any of your concern,” he told her, adding on snidely, “Your Majesty.”

The Empress stalked back in front of him, eyes hard, and by the Void, she was so small with her slender frame and narrow shoulders. She looked fragile as bird bones, but she carried with her an immense soft of gravity, her presence overbearing as if she were some creature built of steel, like the old stories of golems that his mother told him when he was a boy. Daud attempted to loom over the Empress, so used to throwing around his reputation to the result of cowering and groveling; but she simply stood her ground, seeming to puff up like an alley cat ready to claw another scar into his face.

“Corvo is my Royal Protector, and I am his Empress. I am your Empress, Knife of Dunwall,” she hissed. “Everything to do with him concerns me.”

“He’s not your hound on a chain!” Daud shouted, perversely livid with her casual possessiveness.

They fell quiet for a long moment, Daud panting angrily into their little slice of silence, so far removed from the chaotic din that still echoed up from the street below. And then, to his immense surprise, the Empress smiled, though it was a sly thing that caused the hairs to rise on the back of Daud’s neck.

“Defending his honor?” she drawled, as if he had just passed some test he wasn’t aware he was even taking. “Stars, you really are all wrapped up in him, assassin. Not that I blame you. Corvo is alluring that way.”

“What?”

“For all his honor, Corvo is a dangerous man. I imagine that’s what hooked you,” the Empress continued, wandering over to a little table to pluck a few grapes from the bunch on a plate there. “That’s how you hooked him.”

“I’m not talking about this with you.”

The Empress forged on despite his complaint. “That first night, he was giddy as a schoolboy, grinning and going on about some striking murderer who tried to push him off a roof.”

“I didn’t try to push him off a roof.”

“He called you distinguished, of all things. I believe his exact words were: dark hair and grey eyes, with a bearing that nearly makes you ill. You’re not certain if you should be afraid or otherwise,” she laughed then, a flat, mocking thing. “Though I’ll admit, you’re more of a bastard than he implied.”

Startled, Daud’s jaw clacked shut on the reply he’d built on his tongue, and the Empress arched an expectant brow at him. When he only grit his teeth and looked away, she snorted in a way entirely unbefitting the ruler of an entire Empire, amused at his expense. Suddenly, she turned towards the door, clearly as distracted by the shouting of her guards as Daud found himself to be. They were looking for her, and obviously beginning to panic. Daud couldn’t blame them, honestly; if he were the Watch and had to tell Corvo Attano that they’d misplaced his Empress, he’d be shitting his pants too.

“Well, Daud,” the Empress said suddenly. “I’d say it’s been a pleasure, but, well….”

Holding his biting words behind his teeth, Daud watched her disappear out the apartment’s front door and down the staircase, reappearing a few moments later in the street, to the immediate and immense relief of all of her guards. The crowd had been forced back, and she was ushered urgently towards the railcar by the stocky captain from before. She paused, however, at the sight of the attempted assassin laid out in the cobblestones with a tidy bullet hole in his forehead, eyes staring and sightless. Immediately, she turned her glare up to Daud. He could see her grinding her teeth, even from his hiding place, but with a dismissal that seemed far too elegant for how rumpled she was, she climbed into the railcar and was whisked away.

Even if she cursed him for saving her life, Daud knew that Corvo certainly wouldn’t.

Exhausted, Daud lingered in the apartment for a long while, until he heard footsteps in the hall and the rattle of a key in the lock. Heaving a sigh, he pulled himself up onto the windowsill and was gone in a billow of the Void.

*****

6^th of Earth, 1837

            C,

I went to Drapers to look after your lady, as you asked. I won’t lie and say that it was uneventful; some fool disgruntled with the Rat Plague lurked in the crowd and made an attempt on her life. Don’t worry, even if the Watchmen with her failed miserably, I put him down.

We had a chat, after I dragged her from the chaos.

I don’t know what you have been telling her about me, but she doesn’t seem to care for me overmuch. When she realized that I killed the attempted assassin she seemed livid, though thankfully I was already free of her by then. What, exactly, did she expect the Watch was going to do with him? Throw him in Coldridge to execute at a later date? He wouldn’t have lasted long either way. My way was kinder. You would’ve agreed, if you could have seen the grief and anger on his face. Whatever it was he’d lost to this Plague that brought him to this, I doubt he had much left to live for. It’s a wonder any of us does, anymore.

You should be nearing your journey’s end. I am glad for it.

-D

Chapter Text

Rinaldo was returning from stealing supplies from the port with Kieron when he noticed Thomas huddled against a chimney on a roof near the Chamber, a well-worn letter in his hand and a book opened against his bent knees. Thomas had been quiet, as of late, distant in a way that was different from his usual melancholy reticence. He had been taking the tablets that Corvo had had made for him for weeks now, and he claimed that they helped tremendously, though Rinaldo couldn’t say he’d noticed. Thomas was quieter at night, however, which was a blessing to everyone. It seemed like he was sleeping relatively soundly more often than he sobbed himself to sickness in his rooms, and woke less often from nightmares to pace up and down the halls, and if those were the only benefits of the medication Sokolov had made, they were fine ones nonetheless. At least the shadows beneath his eyes were fading from the color of the sea in winter.

Curious, Rinaldo whistled sharply at Kieron, who was walking a few steps ahead of him with a crate in one hand and a half-eaten boiled potato in the other. The Morleyan obsession with potatoes, Rinaldo would never understand, no matter how many he had eaten while Jenkins had been keeping them fed. When Kieron turned, baffled, Rinaldo loped over with a grin to drop his own crate atop the one Kieron held. Yelping, he caught the added weight awkwardly with his knee as he shoved the rest of the potato in his mouth, muffling his curses and whatever insults he was surely attempting to cast against Rinaldo’s mother, rest her soul.

“Thanks, Red,” Rinaldo purred with a shit-eating grin. “I owe you!”

“Fuckin’ right ye do!” Kieron shouted back, having choked down the rest of his potato.

Rinaldo could see him running his tongue over his teeth as he grumbled to himself, and in a moment of foolish impulse, he transversed back to Kieron’s side to press a fat, sloppy kiss to his cheek. Yelping, Kieron swatted at him but almost dropped his cargo, so Rinaldo simply laughed and danced out of his reach, transversing up to an air duct and hauling himself onto the roof where Thomas was hiding.

Thomas was huddled into himself, eyes skimming slowly over the note in his hand, shuffling through the pages over and over with a hollow, longing look on his face. By the Void, Rinaldo worried for him, ever and often.

“Hey,” Rinaldo called softly.

He seemed to spook Thomas regardless of his efforts. Jerking, Thomas crammed the letter between the pages of the book and snapped it shut.

“Rin, I thought you were on a supply run,” Thomas muttered, clearly embarrassed as he worried at the edges of the papers spilling from the confines of the book.

“I was,” he agreed easily, digging around in his coat pocket. “Kieron and I wiped out a merchant ship in port. Stole these out of the captain’s cabin. Want one?”

He offered a paper-wrapped taffy to Thomas, who took it reluctantly. Smiling, Rinaldo picked through the remaining pieces in his hand, holding it up to the moonlight and trying to ascertain the flavors through the paper by smell and sight and some mystical divination alone. It seemed that Thomas was satisfied with whatever flavor he chanced to receive, as he quickly placed the candy on his tongue and began folding the wrapper into increasingly miniscule squares. Rinaldo lifted a taffy to his nose, smelled the pungent scent of black licorice, and scowled with an overdramatic gag. Immediately, he chucked the candy over his shoulder and off the roof. After a moment there was a quiet plunk-splash from far below that earned a small, crooked smile from Thomas, which Rinaldo answered with a blinding grin.

“Whatever happened to ‘waste not, want not’?” Thomas asked wryly.

“No one like licorice and you know it,” Rinaldo insisted.

Chuckling softly, Thomas looked down and reopened his book, thumbing through the pages as if it were some precious thing, and not just a half-ragged volume with a cracked spine and embossed lettering that long since lost it’s gilding. Thomas pored over the words tattooed on the pages, reverent, and Rinaldo cocked his head to watch him, chewing on his taffy all the while.

“What are you reading?” he asked, though he knew perfectly well that it was the book Corvo had sent, even if he didn’t know precisely what book it was.

“Poetry of the Serkonan Masters,” Thomas told him, turning the book in his hands to show Rinaldo the title stamped across the faded cover. “It’s beautiful.”

“Ah, poetry, of course. Seems Corvo has good taste,” Rinaldo grinned, before reciting dutifully:

“What long and woeful weepings spent

In want of other shores,

When lands upon which weepers tread

Were sought by those before.”

Thomas snorted a startled laugh, quickly clearing his throat.

“I didn’t know you were a fan of poetry.”

“Hmm. Well, the quickest way between a pair of thighs is a little pretty verse,” Rinaldo said slyly, enjoying the way Thomas’s ears went red with embarrassment. “Read me something?”

Blush flaring across his cheeks, Thomas grumbled something about being inveterate, shaking his head at Rinaldo’s demands.

“I’m serious!”

“What?”

“Read me something,” Rinaldo insisted.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I’m not!” he laughed at Thomas’s skeptical expression. “You have a great voice for reading, Thomas. Have I ever told you that?”

A complicated expression twisted over Thomas’s features before settling into a half-hearted scowl. He sighed.

“You have,” Thomas reminded. “Any time I so much as glance at a book.”

Rinaldo grinned at him sweetly, thrilled that Thomas was feeling enough like himself despite his melancholy to offer some sass in reply to Rinaldo’s pestering. With an exasperated huff, Thomas rolled his shoulders back and smoothed his hand down the page he had randomly selected, taking a deep breath as he began to read.

“‘Tis you, my love,

who exists as my illness

and as my salvation,

for I possess a condition of the heart

in that it is no longer mine

but is rather lost upon you.

Rich my spirit would be

should you look upon me with favor,

my soul would warm,

slow and vibrant to burning

as sand upon a Serkonan beach

kissed by southern sun.

You fill my lungs,

my love, my air,

and with a glance you steal my breath

to leave me wanting,

wringing all I am

and all I can offer into your cup.

Drink your fill of me

as I am ever a depthless fountain

of affection, of remedy.

Dry me like a riverbed in summer,

for I am willing to wither,

always your eager sacrifice.

There is no cure to my ailment

to be taken in half-measures.

Either we exist as us

or as you and I,

two spheres separate in our orbits

free of all conjunction,

and not as you as my earth

and I as your eager moon,

a happy captive of your gravity.

But should you choose, my love,

that we be parted,

fear not for my heart

for it is yours

to do with as you will.

I shall not prevail upon your splendor,

but will marvel from afar

until at last my curse is cured

and I lie dead,

content to know my parting gift

to you, my love,

was freedom

and the last withering beats of my heart

for they were always yours

and yours, alone.”

A complicated frown tugged at the corners of Thomas’s lips, and Rinaldo could hear as well as anyone the way the poem seemed to echo Thomas’s own plight. It was a poorly kept secret amongst the Whalers that Thomas was hopelessly in love with Daud. Everyone knew, except Daud, of course. And wasn’t that the cruelest part of it? Rejected love was one kind of agony, but surely it was impossibly more agonizing to lay one’s adoration again and again and again at the feet of one’s beloved, only for that devotion to go unnoticed entirely.

His heart breaking for Thomas, Rinaldo did his best to raise his spirits, sighing overdramatically and dropping his chin into his hand.

“Beautiful,” Rinaldo mooned, ridiculous.

“Are you serious?” Thomas asked, bewildered. “It’s a poem about being so in love with someone that you’d willingly bear their rejection and die so that they could be happy. It’s tragic.”

“It’s Serkonan, so tragedy is always romantic,” Rinaldo teased in reply. “If you want real tragedy, read Tyvian poetry. Frankly, the most tragic thing is how damn dull it is. Void help me, I can only read so many metaphors about hearts as barren as snow before I go mad. If that nonsense is the pinnacle of Tyvian literature, it’s no wonder that Leonid is such a bore.”

Thomas laughed loudly, a startled smile on his pretty face, and Rinaldo’s heart warmed through with delighted victory. How rare it was to see him looking bright in recent days, what with the cloak of despair settling heavier over the city by the day and Corvo’s absence wearing everyone thin. Rinaldo had been watching and had seen how Thomas seemed as affected by Corvo’s leaving as Daud had been; though while loneliness and longing had made Daud testy and quick to temper, Thomas had grown weary and depressed. Idly, Rinaldo wondered if Corvo even knew the kind of effect he had on the people around him, regardless of whether they were denying being in love with him or not.

“Why do people always try to write about love, anyway?” Rinaldo mused aloud, and Thomas glanced up at him, looking reluctantly curious. “It’s impossible. How could anyone summon up feelings like that with flowery words? The feelings are too big for that.”

Thomas huffed, and Rinaldo was thrilled to find that he didn’t have to forcefully drag him into conversation. It had been difficult to talk with Thomas, lately; he would respond when spoken to directly, but rarely with more words than were strictly necessary. Rinaldo missed his friend, especially because they saw each other every day.

“I’ve never seen you spend more than a month with someone. At the most.”

“What can I say? I’m Serkonan – I love love. It’s in my blood,” Rinaldo teased, chuckling when Thomas snorted at his antics. “I fall in love all the time. Why, I fell in love during Fugue. It didn’t last long, but I loved him between the sheets, I’ll tell you that.”

Huffing his amusement, Thomas rolled his eyes. “You’re incorrigible.”

Rinaldo simply opened his arms with a sly grin, accepting the accusation as praise. Thomas smiled back, exasperated but in rare good humor, and by the Void was he radiant. There was nothing but platonic affection between them, but Rinaldo could easily admit that Thomas was a beautiful man. Had the opportunity ever presented itself, he would have eagerly lost himself in Thomas simply for the enjoyment of reveling in the pleasures that gorgeous body surely had on offer. But Thomas was reserved, not prone to venturing out to find warm, carnal company just for a single night like so many of the Whalers did. And Rinaldo would respect it. He always would, even if he hadn’t known about the terrors that lurked in Thomas’s past. After everything he’d been through as a child, it was no wonder that Thomas would save what was left of himself for someone who loved him.

Rinaldo had always been certain that it would be Daud, someday. Now, though, he began to wonder if it would be Corvo instead. Corvo would be careful with Thomas, he would hand Thomas the reins and let him dictate every touch, what and when and how. Rinaldo would trust Corvo with that, readily.

Speaking of Corvo…

“What’s the date?” Rinaldo asked suddenly.

Startled, Thomas glanced up from where he had been idly thumbing through the pages of his book, lost in thought and not reading a single word. A look of baffled frustration wrinkled his brows, and he tilted his head at the question.

“I know you know the date, Rin,” he replied, impatient. “You turned in a report this morning with the date on it.”

“Just humor me.”

Thomas sighed. “The sixteenth of Earth.”

“Right, right, of course,” Rinaldo hummed with his best impression of oblivious innocence, watching Thomas scowl at him suspiciously. “That means Corvo should be back soon, right?”

It was spectacular to watch Thomas’s cheeks flare scarlet, mouth gaping like a beached fish, before he snapped his jaw shut with an alarming clack of his teeth. Rinaldo grinned, though he was certain his smile was gentler and more tender than he’d intended, as he was so pleased to see a sparkle of life in Thomas’s eyes, even as he avoided Rinaldo’s gaze.

“I suppose you’re right,” Thomas agreed bashfully.

“I think we’ll all be relieved when he’s returned.”

Thomas glanced up, though he quickly turned away, and the light in him seemed to sputter like a lantern burning out its whale oil, shuttering his joy away. Rinaldo could kick himself. He’d never been accused of being overly tactful.

“Yes,” Thomas murmured. “I’m sure he and Daud will be happy to be reunited.”

“And I’m sure Corvo will be eager to see you, Thomas.”

“Doubtful. He’ll be occupied with far more important things.”

Before Rinaldo could retort, heart breaking, Thomas rose from where he had been huddled, tucking his book under his arm and stepping away. An urgent desire to reach out and crush Thomas to his chest in an embrace surged up in Rinaldo’s throat, hot and sickening like bile, but he remained where he was. It could be risky to embrace Thomas when his thoughts turned inward. Daud bore a scar from just such an attempt; an ugly, arcing thing carved down his chest as if someone had intended to tear out his heart like a human sacrifice. But Rinaldo knew well enough that Daud was not the sort so inclined to sacrifice himself for anyone’s interest but his own.

Thomas, on the other hand, was an endless well of offering, one that Rinaldo often doubted Daud deserved.

“Thomas,” Rinaldo called gently, catching him before he could escape to sink into his self-loathing. “He has missed you dreadfully. I know it.”

Thomas paused, breathing deep and slow for a moment, before turning away.

“Whatever you say, Rin.”

The Void surged up around him, obediently heeding his call to whisk him away with a fluttering drag of darkness like the final wisps of cigar smoke, and Rinaldo sighed, hanging his head. Thomas’s stubbornness could rival Daud’s, at times. Rinaldo could only hope that their stubbornness didn’t strangle them both like choking weeds; they both would be smothered, if they didn’t learn to grow.

*****

            Daud couldn’t help but wonder if, should he schedule all of Leonid’s reports for some time around midnight rather than mid-morning, his monotone droning would trick his restless mind into sleep. It certainly seemed to be working now, as Leonid was powering past a half-hour of rambling about every minute movement of the Dead Eels as they inched their way into a solid foothold in Drapers Ward, and Daud was struggling to pretend that he was still taking notes rather than staring blankly at an empty sheet of paper.

Sleep had been fickle and fleeting as of late, filled with labyrinthine dreams that echoed with whale song and the scent of salt and candle smoke, the Outsider whispering to him in cruel little snippets but not having the good grace to show himself. Instead, Daud would wake gasping with the sting of ocean water in his nose, feeling wrung out and exhausted. It had led to him delegating more and more, shrugging off tasks he had initially kept for himself onto the shoulders of his Whalers so that he could languish in Rudshore. They were being stretched thin, by both his demands and the looming threat of the Plague and the myriad side effects it brought alongside its wretched crusade. Those among his men who had been losing faith since Corvo first made his appearance were doubting more with every passing day.

Still, Daud’s policy remained the same as it always had. Anyone could leave, but he would tear his Mark from their hand, and should they meet again the only greeting they’d receive would be a bullet to the skull. It had been sufficient for years, and it would have to be now. None had ever been foolish enough to turn on Daud or return with a battalion of Overseers at their backs. They knew perfectly well what carnage would ensue if they should.

Void, Daud considered as he sat up behind his desk, rubbing tiredly at his face, even considering betrayal from within his ranks was more appealing than listening to Leonid carry on as he was.

Luckily, however, perhaps a gift from the universe in his time of need, a gaggle of novices came bursting into the office, stumbling over each other with broad grins on their faces. Daud’s ink pot rattled dangerously when they slammed into the front of his desk, ignoring a perturbed Leonid, who swayed in the onslaught like one of the skinny mountain-top pine trees in the Tyvian highlands. Jordan came rushing in behind the mob, looking mortified and apologizing profusely, even as the novices crowded the desk and began speaking all at once. Baffled, Daud glanced from the novices to Leonid to Jordan, a headache blooming behind his eyes at the sheer volume of their excitement, and eventually slammed his fist down on the desktop.

“Enough!” he bellowed, and all of the novices fell quiet with an audible clack of teeth. Daud drew a composing breath and held it for a long moment, trying to keep his eyebrow from twitching. “Someone had better be dead.”

There was an itchy, squirmy sort of silence between the gathered novices that felt like anxious excitement, but they all held their tongues despite looking as if they were about to burst at the seams.

“Well, go on,” Daud huffed.

The novices scrambled a little, Desmond elbowing Little Tom in the ribs while Yuri and Anatole shared a knowing glance from their places on either side of Akila, who was too busy mooning over Jordan to contribute much to the conversation. Eventually, little Aeolos squirmed to the front, shoving between the others to plant his hands on Daud’s desk and glaring up with fierce, dark eyes half hidden by curls that were growing too long. Daud glared back, waiting for the boy to buckle under the scrutiny. He didn’t.

Aeolos had seemed to grow into his own skin in recent months, no longer the spooked child nearly feral with fear that Daud and Corvo had found chained in a hidden room in Ludd’s warehouse, his existence noted only in a ledger as if he were a bolt of cloth for sale. His terror had turned to anger, fueled by the power and control offered by Daud’s shared Mark, and he had become as scrappy as an alley cat, getting scolded too often for sinking his teeth into Desmond’s arm during training. He’d even tried to take a bite out of Rinaldo, once, for patting his shoulder in acknowledgement of a job well done when the boy wasn’t expecting to be touched. Rinaldo, the crazy bastard, had beamed with a good-natured laugh and ruffled Aeolos’s shaggy hair, mussing it in front of his eyes.

Daud couldn’t even be annoyed about the kid being a wild card. He’d grow up to be as skilled and furious as Billie, if he continued as he was now. Despite his past being so eerily similar to Thomas’s, Aeolos was already driven by anger, not by fear, and damn if that wouldn’t make this spitfire boy into a dangerous man someday, if he didn’t burn himself out first. And if Aeolos ever went off the rails, Daud was certain that he could call in Corvo as backup to muzzle the beast. The boy still worshipped the ground Corvo walked on, after all.

Daud could admit that he liked the kid.

“Well?” Daud asked defiantly, raising his chin.

“Lord Attano’s ship is in the harbor,” Aeolos stated, blunt and unfazed.

“And how do you know that?”

Awkward, but determined to spare his charges at least a bit of Daud’s ire, Jordan piped up from the back. “Misha just got back from the Tower. She brought the news.”

“I want to see him,” Aeolos demanded.

“No.”

Aeolos hissed, baring his teeth, and Daud arched a wry brow even as the other novices shifted back, afraid of receiving collateral punishment.

“Why not? You’ll go see him.”

“Not now, I won’t, and neither will you,” Daud insisted.

“Fuck you,” Aeolos snarled.

Daud, frankly, was impressed. The kid had bigger balls than most people he knew, aside from maybe Lizzie Stride.

From the back of the assembled novices Jordan made a frantic choking sound, as if he suddenly realized that his charges were far out of hand, but Daud waved his master’s concern aside. Smirking, he leant one elbow onto the desk, crowding into Aeolos’s space. The boy scarcely blinked at the threat.

“Nice try, little lobo. You’re on laundry duty for the foreseeable future,” Daud said, pride creeping into his voice like a weed. “You can all watch the ship from this side of the river, and tend to your responsibilities later.”

They all seemed to light up at that, eager to seize a sanctioned opportunity to avoid their training and duties. Akila – who had been thus far entranced with staring at Jordan, twisting a lock of hair around her fingers and fluttering her eyelashes at such a rate that it seemed she’d been afflicted with some condition that Montgomery needed to see to – perked up at the tangential mention of Corvo. Daud had heard Galia laughing with Rinaldo about Akila’s attempts to flirt with him, and barely avoided rolling his eyes. Foolish girl.

“Now get out.”

For a moment no one moved, just blinking at him with something akin to hopefulness in their eyes, and he could see the questions building on their tongues, an inevitable barrage of when’s Corvo coming to visit? and did he bring us more treats? that Daud couldn’t answer without spontaneously developing foresight. And the novices just stared, and blinked, and vibrated in their skins until he finally lost his patience and slammed a fist down on the desk, again.

“Be grateful for what I gave you! Now go on, get out!” Daud shouted, and the novices scattered like rats.

In the sudden silence Daud sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face and tilting his head back to stare at the yawning hole in the ceiling. The sky was unpleasantly blue for Dunwall, even in the summer, and sunlight streamed in through every crack and rotten board, the dust in the air highlighting the blandness of his office into something vaguely holy. This place had no right to look so sanctified.

So, Corvo was back.

Daud refused to say that he was home, even if he had, in a moment of weakness, said as much in one of his letters. Corvo’s home would never be wherever Daud was. The world was not that simple. Even if they weren’t the Knife of Dunwall and the Lord Protector, even if they were just two ordinary men, it would never be so tidy. Particularly because Daud could not force any words of affection from his strangled throat, regardless of the fact that his chest had ached with an uncanny emptiness with each day Corvo was abroad. Daud had missed him with a pitiful sort of longing that he hadn’t known since he had been torn from his mother as a boy. And he had hated that he missed him, hated it so terribly that he had subjected all of his subordinates to his frustration, dragging them into the mire of his own dissatisfaction. Misery loved company, after all. He had been especially unpleasant to Thomas, even though he knew better. The looming threat of Corvo’s disappointment should have been enough to spook the stubbornness out of him, but apparently his penchant for force-feeding himself punishment had deeper roots. If Thomas had mentioned his oxshit to Corvo in any of his letters, however, Void knew what sort of scolding he would be in for soon.

Fuck, he was pathetic.

It was just as pathetic how eagerly Daud awaited Corvo’s return, regardless of how much he apparently enjoyed self-flagellation. Whatever persistent melancholy had taken root in his heart over the last half-year had only burrowed deeper while Corvo had been away, and Daud was ready to be free of the wretched feeling.

“Sir? May I continue?” Leonid asked, startling Daud from his thoughts.

The creepy bastard was still looming on the other side of the desk, his report in one oversized hand. He had forgotten Leonid was here, distracted from the wretched dullness of his report by the novices’ interruption. Groaning, Daud rested his head in his hands, fingers curling into his hair.

“Please don’t.”

*****

Corvo never imagined that he would be so glad to smell the whale-blood stink of the Wrenhaven, but now, standing on the prow of the ship with gulls screaming overhead and the regular flash of Kingsparrow Lighthouse cutting through the pre-dawn shadows, the river reeked like home. Sunlight was just starting to unfurl across the eastern horizon, tinting the dark ocean pink like southern wine, bizarre for Gristol but warmly hopeful in a way that buoyed the anxiety in his heart.

It was hard, to be assigned a task of such importance and to fail. He knew Jessamine would not hold it against him, and neither would anyone else if she had kept the matter quiet as she said she would. That left only him to bear the burden of his failure, and it was far more difficult to persecute himself when no one else would join in his crusade.

“Corvo,” someone called from behind him on the deck, and he turned to find Geoff leaning against the capstan, watching.

“Morning, Geoff,” Corvo greeted warmly, his smile more genuine than it had been in weeks. “You look refreshed, for a change.”

“Very funny,” Geoff complained as he shifted for Corvo to join him against the capstan. “Of course I would find my sea legs as soon as we make it home.”

Laughing, Corvo leaned next to Geoff, the thick tow rope rough even through his coat. “Better late than never.”

“Quite right.”

For a long while they were silent, watching Dunwall loom larger as the engines chugged doggedly into the mouth of the river, heaving like a racehorse rounding the final bend. They were almost home, as wonderful and dreadful as it was. Corvo was ready to sleep in his own bed. He was ready to embrace his daughter and suffer her incessant questions. He was ready to have a whiskey with Jessamine in her office at an indecent hour, talking about anything and everything that wasn’t the Empire threatening to crumble around their shoulders.

He was ready to see Daud, to hold him close and let himself be weak for a little while, to steal kisses that tasted like longing. Void, he had missed Daud. He had missed Thomas and Rinaldo, missed Montgomery and Javier, even Jordan and Misha and the twins. He had missed his friends. Pathetically, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to say such a thing with any conviction.

And here he was, leaning beside another friend on the deck of a ship that had felt less like freedom and more like prison for the last two months, wondering how the world would be different when they set foot once more on Gristolian soil. If it would be different at all.

“Geoff,” Corvo began cautiously.

Geoff hummed, turning his attention from the sunrise to Corvo, a benign little smile on his face.

“When we return to the Tower, I want to offer you up for promotion,” Corvo said, watching bafflement wrinkle the deep creases in his ever-worried brow. “You’d be permanently assigned to Her Majesty’s personal guard.”

“Corvo….”

“It’s… it’s not nepotism, I swear,” he insisted when he sensed the denial in Geoff’s tone. “But it would ease my mind to have someone who I trust, implicitly, watching her when I cannot. This isn’t an order. Just… think about it.”

When Geoff’s confusion faded, his smile turned soft and a little pitying in a way that inexplicably made Corvo feel like a child asking a foolish question and being gently appeased by some kind-hearted adult. He felt a flush wanting to rise on his cheeks, so he hid behind the fall of his hair, turning to look out over the glittering sprawl of the ocean.

“I will, Corvo. Thank you,” Geoff gently allowed.

The companionable silence that they had easily enjoyed so often over the last two months returned, untainted by his awkwardness, as they settled in to watch the sun come up. It nearly made Dunwall picturesque, the colors painting the city as if by an artist’s brush, composing a beautiful lie in pinks and golds and oranges. The light winked off of windows, blinding, little jewels in the Empire’s crown as it rose on the riverbanks in all its dingy glory, the filth of the city rendered invisible beneath the grace of dawn.

Corvo sighed as the morning sun climbed higher and the engines cut back to a weary purr, coasting into a mooring by the docks. With a resigned smile, Geoff gestured for Corvo to lead the way down the flank of the ship to the skiff that would ferry them into the water lock and up to the Tower, back to the rot and the pain and the expectation of their dying city.

“Welcome home,” Geoff offered when the water lock thundered shut behind them, briny water rushing down the walls with a roar to bear them upwards, the spray settling damp and unpleasant against their coats.

“Welcome home,” Corvo echoed.

Geoff snorted, turning to stare up as they ascended, and they both nodded diplomatically when the guards offered greetings while they disembarked.

It was almost too sunny for Dunwall when they stepped from the darkness and into the Tower’s formal gardens, and he was about to lean over and whisper something snide to Geoff when a shrill cry of his name drew his attention. And there was Emily, barreling towards him with her hair threatening to curl in the summer warmth and a dusty stain on the skirt of her dress, easily the loveliest thing he had seen in weeks. She launched herself into his arms, his little girl, his heart, clinging tightly to his shoulders, and in an instant the congestion of disappointment and worry around his heart dispersed. He held her close, indulging for a selfish moment in something he rarely was able to outside of the privacy of their rooms, pressing a secret kiss to her shoulder as he twirled her around. She squealed, thrilled, and Corvo felt his smile go broad, genuinely happy.

“Hello, mija, I missed you,” he whispered as he bent to set her back on her feet.

“I missed you, too, daddy,” she whispered back, grinning, before tugging roughly on his hand, insisting on a game of hide and seek.

It was perhaps childish to find himself riled up by his daughter’s accusation that two months away from home would be enough to degrade his skills at hiding and otherwise seeking, but he found himself rolling his shoulders back and accepting her challenge. Emily’s grin turned a little wicked, for just a moment, and she looked so fucking much like her mother that Corvo’s heart clenched with joy, burning off the lingering shackles of anxiety latched between his ribs. He shook his head as Emily twirled to trot off down the stairs. But little did she know, his outings with Daud had vastly improved his already not inconsiderable talents in such matters. Not that he wanted to prove a point, he thought as she covered her eyes to count. It was far more worth enduring her childish gloating to savor her happiness, and for that he would suffer any pain or embarrassment.

Ducking behind an overgrown cluster of coiled steel wire, Corvo waited for Emily to get close before reaching out to grab her, dragging her squealing with laughter into his lap. He held her to his chest, the moment a contented reprieve, and rocked her back and forth while she tried to squirm out of his hold. After a moment she went loose-limbed and useless, draping herself in his arms as she grinned up at him, panting.

“I’m glad you’re home, Corvo,” she said, playing with his fingers when he brushed her hair from her face. “Mother is, too. She’s been sad, I think.”

“Your mother has lots of responsibilities, and they have been getting harder and harder. She sent me away to help, but I couldn’t,” Corvo told her truthfully, even though it made him ache with shame.

Emily considered his words for a moment, solemn. “Is something bad going to happen?”

“No,” Corvo insisted firmly. “No, mija, everything will be fine. Times are hard, and lots of things are happening all over the Empire. But your mother is smart, the smartest woman I have ever known, and she’ll find a way to fix it. I know she will.”

Frowning and clearly concerned about things far beyond her control, Emily nodded. Corvo hated the worry on her face, hated that he couldn’t fix it all with pure force of will and stubbornness alone, and he held her close as if that would be enough to keep all the darkness of the world at bay.

“And we’ll help her,” Emily declared with a level of conviction that Corvo could only dream of having.

“We’ll help her,” he agreed, kissing the top of her head. “And the first step is telling her about my trip so we can make a plan.”

“Yeah!” she shouted, re-energized as she scrambled out of his grasp and stood up tall, hands on her hips. After a moment she wilted a little, expression turning sour with distaste. “I think first you have to save her from Spymaster Burrows.”

“Is that so?”

“They’re arguing in the pavilion. They’ve been arguing a lot lately. I told mother that she needed to tell him that he was stupid and that he has a weird long neck like a gazelle, so no one should listen to him anyway.”

Corvo barked an ugly laugh, snorting. He grinned as he strongarmed Emily into helping him up off the ground, and she dug her heels into the dirt with a dramatic grunt, ruining her fine shoes, and leaned back to heave him up. In all truth she was very little help at all, but Corvo enjoyed watching her struggle like a blood ox before a plow, her face twisting into ridiculous grimace.

“You’re heavy,” she scolded.

“Maybe you’re not heavy enough,” Corvo retorted with a good-natured laugh.

She mimed tossing long locks over her shoulder, sassy, before sneering: “I have a delicate physique.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” he soothed, gesturing for her to lead the way to the pavilion.

Immediately she loped off, chattering and humming to herself, even when Corvo was well out of earshot. He shook his head at her exuberance, knowing perfectly well how exhausting it could be. But he wouldn’t begrudge her joy, especially not today, when he energy bolstered his weary heart like the bubbles in sparkling wine.

Climbing the stairs, he exchanged a few good-natured barbs with Anton, who scowled and threatened him with a brush full of scarlet paint. He didn’t seem pleased to be painting Campbell, and apparently had a true, unfiltered disdain for the man that ran as deep as Corvo’s own, but quickly returned to his work. Anton Sokolov was nothing if not diligent, though perhaps only when the task suited his interests. Campbell, naturally, insisted on risking Anton’s ire in order to get the last word in, but he only ended up preaching at Corvo’s retreating back.

He’d never been particularly fond of the Abbey, perhaps a lingering skittishness resulting from his mother’s radical devotion following his father’s death and Beatrici’s abandonment, though most likely it was simply a personal distaste for self-righteous zealots. Daud’s self-explanatory distaste of Overseers certainly didn’t earn them any favor in Corvo’s book. He wondered if Daud’s dislike stemmed entirely from being a heretic and the Abbey’s public enemy number one, though it seemed rather more personal than that. Regardless, it felt like a vicious little victory for both Daud and himself to snub the High Overseer with such conviction. As he walked away, Corvo could hear Campbell bitching about his rudeness while Anton scolded him again for moving, threatening to ruin his portrait in retribution.

Corvo abandoned them to their posturing, rolling his eyes when Geoff smirked at him from his post as he awaited to be graced by Spymaster Burrow’s presence.

“Egos so big it’s remarkable they aren’t forced to live in the garden,” Geoff muttered, never abandoning his stiff, perfect-soldier parade rest. “To say nothing of His Eminence Spymaster Burrows.”

“Careful my friend, you’ll get yourself court marshalled,” Corvo whispered back, sly.

“Absolutely worth it, sir,” Geoff said as he struggled to smooth his smirk back into a professional neutral.

Corvo barked a loud laugh that startled the officer hovering on the pavilion steps behind Burrows. The officer scowled at him, livid at being caught off guard, and likely equally as baffled to see Corvo smile; a rare thing indeed, especially amongst the two-faced Watchmen who were eager for any ammunition to use against him. Corvo glared back, even as Geoff snapped a cheeky salute. And if he made a rude gesture once the other officer had turned away with a childish huff, well, it was no one’s business.

“See you around, Geoff. Come by my office for a drink sometime? And think about what I said, yeah?” Corvo said softly, lips twitching into a smile.

“Yes, sir,” Geoff replied warmly, though his professionalism dropped back into place with the startling weight of a curtain in a theater.

Shaking his head, Corvo turned to walk up the pavilion steps, where Burrows and Jessamine were arguing furiously about something. Jessamine was radiant in the morning sunshine, her makeup pristine and her hair in a severe twist, looking as spectacular as a goddess while she gave Burrows a rather pointed dressing down, tone leaving no room for argument. She was angry, properly angry, but her expression softened for an instant when she glanced up to find Corvo hovering on the steps. Of course, in true Jessamine Kaldwin fashion, she scarcely missed a beat, sending Burrows away with a snappish dismissal.

He excused himself with a bow that reeked of condescension and said a few double-edged words to Corvo in passing as he stalked away with all the undampened pride of a peacock. But Corvo paid him no mind, rushing to Jessamine and scarcely keeping himself from embracing her, crushing her to his chest. From the way her hands twitched at her sides, she was facing the same struggle. Void, he had missed her, his best friend in the world.

Emily was beside them, announcing the rather obvious news to her mother that Corvo had, indeed, returned ahead of schedule. But their joy at reunion only lasted for a brief few incandescent moments, before the grim reality of his absence returned with full force.

“It is a fair wind that brings you home to me, Corvo,” Jessamine smiled, the lines of exhaustion smoothing from her face for a lovely moment. “What news have you brought?”

“Nothing good, I’m afraid,” he told her honestly, pulling a sealed letter from Theodanis out of his coat and offering it to her. “I don’t know what it says, but Duke Abele was oddly grim and apologetic when we parted.”

She pursed her lips as she broke the wax and opened the letter. While she read, Corvo glanced out over the Wrenhaven and the Tower’s immaculate gardens, though a flash of movement towards the water lock caught his attention. Unbidden, he made a strangled sound when he saw a momentary glimpse of red that almost immediately dissolved into an all-too-familiar billow of blackness. The smile that he felt dragging at his lips was wild and giddy, and Jessamine clearly noticed, because she huffed at him, glancing up from the letter in her hand.

“Has someone come to welcome you home?” she asked benignly, too casual to be anything but teasing.

“Perhaps,” he replied, though he paused when the red-clad figure ceased their fluttering about long enough for him to get a better look.

They were wearing a whaling mask and were far more slight than Daud in stature. Daud never wore a mask, or at least hadn’t in years from what Javier had implied. Billie, then. Misha must have delivered word of his arrival to Daud, and he had sent Billie to make sure he’d made it back in one piece. Even if Corvo would have preferred Daud to come himself, the concern was sweet in its own eerie way.

Jessamine sighed heavily and began to pace, so Corvo turned his attention away from Billie. The letter must have been as bad as he’d feared.

“I had hoped that someone would have dealt with this before. That they knew of some cure. This news is very bad, we’re at the breaking point,” she whispered desperately.

“We’ll figure something out,” he swore. “Anton says he’ll have a cure soon enough, we just have to keep it contained until he does.”

“There isn’t time to wait for Anton. Those cowards are going to blockade us! They’ll wait to see if the plague turns this city into a graveyard!”

“Jess—” Corvo began, reaching out, but Emily rushed to her mother’s side.

“Don’t be sad, mommy! We’ll help you fix it!”

Jessamine smiled down at her, caressing her cheek, so much of the strain falling from her shoulders at the innocent declaration. Corvo knew well that, sometimes, he didn’t have the solution to all the world’s problems. Sometimes, an issue couldn’t be resolved with words or a blade; sometimes it just required the solemn optimism of a child.

“Thank you, my darling,” Jessamine said sweetly, besotted with their little girl. “I’m sure you will.”

And suddenly, with all the erratic attention of a ten-year old, Emily glanced up towards the roof of the water lock and pointed, blatantly unsubtle, at the masked and hooded figure lurking on the roof there. Corvo and Jessamine both followed her gesture, and the Empress’s brows tugged together in confusion, clearly having decided that it wasn’t Misha and growing momentarily concerned.

“Daud?” she mouthed silently over Emily’s head.

“His lieutenant,” Corvo mouthed back.

Bewildered, Jessamine glanced around, as if checking that Billie had not been spotted by any of the Watchmen on guard duty, but no one was near, and she pursed her lips.

“Where is everyone?”

Corvo looked over his shoulder to find that the garden had grown strangely empty, when the familiar fluttering swish of the Void echoed beside them, heralding Billie’s arrival. Jessamine startled and Emily shrieked as if she had seen a ghost, but Corvo was quick to soothe her before rushing over to confront Billie.

“What are you doing here, Lurk?” Corvo hissed, jumpy, feeling as if at any moment a random Watchman would wander by and spot them convening. “Did Daud send you? Is he alright?”

For a long moment she just watched him, the glass lenses of her mask reflective and eerie, and he tried to keep himself between her and Jessamine, who was whispering furiously and struggling to keep Emily calm. It seemed that since he had not immediately shot the intruder, Emily’s fearful panic quickly shifted to curiosity, and she tried to lean around her mother to look at the newcomer.

Corvo felt wildly out of control, as if the two halves of his life were ships lost in the fog, drifting ever closer to catastrophic collision, and he was but a meager lighthouse with a burnt-out bulb. Panicking, he surged into Billie’s space, snarling.

“Why are you here?”

She tilted her head, considering, looking for all the world like a strange bird with her hood and mask. Her calmness was unnerving in a way he couldn’t explain – even Daud had tells, however subtle they may be – and she glanced past him to Jessamine and Emily, then sighed.

“It’s nothing personal, Attano,” Billie said at last, her voice edged with impatience.

Corvo scoffed, another question on the tip of his tongue, when she suddenly shoved him back and drew her sword. Stumbling, he drew his pistol from his hip as he flailed to regain his balance, but everything had flown into chaos in the span of a moment.

Emily was screaming, clinging to the back of Jessamine’s coat as she threw up an arm to protect them both. Corvo heard her hiss when Billie’s blade carved into her forearm, saw her dark sleeve stain darker with blood, but Jessamine continued to fight back, vicious. Forcing himself back to his feet, Corvo lunged, a snarl on his lips. He managed to grab Billie by the collar, jerking her back, but the tingling sensation of the Void flooded against his skin and she slipped from his grasp. When she reappeared across the pavilion he was able to raise his pistol quick enough to fire before she ducked away once more, but he only managed to graze her shoulder.

“Lurk!” he bellowed, chest heaving and feeling like there was an animal beneath his skin, angry and primal. “What the fuck is this?!”

Billie stared at him for a moment, too relaxed, and said simply: “Business.”

And then she raised her hand and the sickening pressure of Void magic clenched around his ribs and he was lifted from his feet, hovering for a breathless moment before he was flung aside like a ragdoll. He struck one of the stone columns with a grunt, the breath knocked from his lungs as the back of his head cracked against the ground. Disoriented, he tried to sit up, tried to find his pistol, tried to see anything beyond the agonized tears that blurred his vision.

Emily was screaming again, big heaving sobs, calling out for him daddy daddy daddy.

Jessamine was shouting, hopelessly fighting Billie away, crying out, begging him to get up, begging for help.

But his arms were so heavy, and the ground titled oddly on its axis when he moved, and he thought inexorably of the night he went out with Thomas, when he fell and Daud had to carry him back to Rudshore. Daud’s arms had been so strong and steady, his body so warm. Fuck, he needed to focus. Groaning, Corvo forced himself to roll onto his front and push up on his forearms, spitting the threat of vomit onto the ground, when there was a pained gasp, and everything went quiet all at once.

“Mommy?” Emily called, no longer screaming but as fragile as glass.

Jessamine coughed, a wretched wet sound, and when Corvo glanced up she was looking at him over Billie’s shoulder, eyes wide and glassy. There was blood dripping from the corner of her mouth.

“Cor—” she began, but then Billie wrenched her sword from Jessamine’s chest, and she crumpled like wet paper, dropping to the ground in an unnerving sprawl.

Corvo could hear himself screaming from somewhere far away, could hear Emily crying out as she tried to fling herself down atop her mother, but Billie caught her by the arm, jerking her up, and then they were gone.

It was quiet again, so quiet, only his own harsh breathing and Jessamine’s wet wheezing rattles to break the silence. A frigid numbness raced down Corvo’s spine, freezing his heart in his chest, clenching around him until he thought his ribs would crack under the strain.

“J… Jess?”

Slowly, Jessamine tilted her head to look at him, eyes unfocused, and tried to reach out for him, hands trembling.

“No,” Corvo breathed, scrambling to her side. “No. No, no, no, no, Jess. Jess, look at me. Jessamine, my love, come on.”

She stuttered an agonized breath as he pulled her into his arms, cradling her close. His pulse fluttered in his chest, frantic as a caged bird, hands shaking and eyes burning and throat closing until he couldn’t breathe.

“Corvo,” Jessamine rasped, trembling fingers caressing his jaw. “Emily… find Emily. You know what to do, my love. She… she needs her father. Find her.”

“Jess,” Corvo sobbed, and Void, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d wept. “Jess, don’t leave me. Please. Please, Jess.”

“It’s okay,” she murmured, so weak.

He could see her fading. He had seen it before, so many times. Eyes going dull and unfocused, breath coming shorter and shorter by the moment, a sudden flare of panic or peace, and then, silence. But he refused to see it now, not Jessamine.

“Jess. Stay awake, Jess. Come on.”

“I love you, Corvo… so much.”

She was smiling. His tears kept dripping on her cheeks.

“Jess, please. Don’t leave me.”

“It’s okay. It’s…”

Her eyes went wide, for just a moment, and then the breath shuddered from her body. Corvo felt her go still, suddenly so, so very heavy.

The wail that crawled up his throat was a wretched thing, and he yelled, snarling and weeping when they dragged him away, so many hands on him, voices saying cruel things about regicide and treachery. He held Jessamine’s sightless gaze until he couldn’t see her anymore, until all that was left was her blood drying cool and sticky on his hands.

Jessamine was gone.

And his entire world was gone with her.

*****

By Daud’s estimation, having a gang of novice assassin’s burst into his office one time was one too many, and so when they all exploded through the doors for a second time in the span of a few hours, summarily ruining the sole streak of productiveness he had managed all morning, he felt ready to combust. He rose from his seat at his desk, feeling tetchy and combative, but when he saw that they were trailed closely by Thomas, who looked gutted with a fear that Daud did not understand, he paused.

“What’s happened?” he asked, gruff with rising urgency.

“It’s all over the loudspeakers,” Thomas told him, voice trembling. “The Empress is dead, and the Princess missing.”

Daud froze, icy terror clawing up his spine like some slinking, rotten thing. Corvo was meant to return today. The Empress would have been safe with him, Daud was sure of it. But if someone had gotten to her, they must have had to go through Corvo first.

Stomach dropping, Daud nearly had to brace himself on his desk when his knees wobbled dangerously. If something had happened to Corvo, the Empire was truly on the brink of crumbling. If something had happened to Corvo, Daud feared that he would crumble, too.

He took a slow breath, holding it until he somehow felt less like he was dying.

“And Corvo?”

Thomas grimaced, gnawing at his lower lip. His eyes were too shiny, and he was obviously trying to swallow the tightness from his throat.

“They’re saying he did it,” Thomas admitted, and he sounded close to shattering. “They’ve taken him to Coldridge. They’re going to… they’re going to execute him.”

Fuck.

Daud wouldn’t let that happen. He would tear down Coldridge stone by stone to get to Corvo, and he would find his daughter. Daud was a selfish man; he would not let this fucking city take Corvo from him, too.

“Gather the Masters,” Daud ordered, pacing toward the window as if he would be able to see Corvo’s cell from across the Wrenhaven. “I want Billie and the twins on Coldridge, looking for options. Thomas, you track down the girl. We can’t get her until we have Corvo back.”

“Master Daud,” Thomas whispered.

And he was crying now, silent, heartbroken tears that made Daud’s stomach turn.

“Master Daud, Billie’s gone.”

Chapter Text

Galia was glad that she was skilled at sneaking.

Slipping out of Rudshore had gotten incredibly difficult, over the last few months. Daud had grown exceedingly paranoid and had taken to confining everyone to the district on the infrequent occasions when he was not striving to run them all ragged. Most of the Whalers had grown frustrated with the confinement, grumbling under their breaths and making themselves scarce whenever Daud’s ever-flaring temper raised its head. Few of them, aside from Javier and Montgomery, and perhaps even Killian and Jordan, could possibly understand what pain surely occupied Daud’s days. And still, none but Daud himself could truly fathom the agonizing guilt of knowing that the person he trusted most in the world had betrayed him, and in doing so had condemned the man he cared for – daresay even loved – to imprisonment for the murder of the mother of his child.

Galia couldn’t fathom what Daud was suffering through. She struggled when circumstances kept her from Reilly for more than a few weeks at a time, despite knowing that they both were safe and going about their duties and still so in love. To be parted from him by force and the bars of a prison cell, betrayal festering from cruel misunderstanding, it would surely be agony.

Daud was working to find a way to get Attano back, she knew, just as he was hunting for Billie and combing through every back-alley whisper in search of any indication of where she had taken the Princess. Billie had acted on Burrows’s instruction, of that they were all certain. But after swooping in to instate himself as Regent like the vulture he was, Burrows had at least had the good sense to bolster his security, surrounding himself with guards and soldiers and the constant mechanical whining of Sokolov’s Void-damned contraptions. It would be difficult to get to him, though not impossible, but Daud had apparently decided that Burrows was not his highest priority at the moment.

They would find Princess Emily first, and then keep her location under surveillance until they could pry Attano from the icy grip of Coldridge. Daud had decided that they would not rescue the girl until they could bring her father along for the attempt, and that they would not retrieve Attano until they could soothe him with accurate knowledge of his daughter’s whereabouts.

It seemed convoluted, and Galia despised the idea of leaving Attano to rot in prison while the Whalers sorted themselves out, but she could not begrudge Daud the precautions. She had spoken with Rinaldo and Jordan on the matter two weeks previous, when they had all huddled together in the warm summer evening air, trying for just a little while to pretend that the world wasn’t crumbling around their shoulders.

“I don’t know what to do,” Rinaldo had said, rubbing at his face. “Daud is snappish and mean, but he’s on the edge of falling apart. I can see it.”

He had looked so exhausted as of late, with puffy pockets of weariness beneath his dark eyes, and Galia worried for him dreadfully. She reached over to rub at his shoulders, and he sighed, burying his face in his hands. He had been straining to hold everything together, what with Daud wound so tight he was on the verge of snapping and Thomas nearly shut down with grief. Javier and Leonid tried to help, willingly accepting delegated duties while the twins and Dodge kept provisions coming in and the novices wrangled. The young ones were panicked, though they attempted to be as useful as they could, the older boys keeping an eye on Aeolos while Anatole minded Thomas as best she could.

“We need to get Attano out,” Jordan added, weary. “Thomas is a wreck. Killian has been trying to help Anatole, but they’re struggling to even get him to eat or take his tablets. And apparently Montgomery has been giving Anatole some soothing tincture to slip into his food, to help him sleep, else he paces all night. Daud has been taking it, too, though at least he is taking it under his own power. If he doesn’t, he’ll stay awake for days.”

“What a clusterfuck,” Rinaldo sighed.

Galia was quiet for a long while, letting the unpleasantness settle. She believed she had a solution, though no one would like it. Taking a slow breath, she glanced between the two men, her two dearest friends.

“What if I knew of a safe way to get Daud into Coldridge?” she offered cautiously.

Both Rinaldo and Jordan whipped their gazes to gawk at her, startled.

“How?”

“I know someone who could help,” she murmured, willing them both to keep their voices down.

“Who?”

“I can’t say.”

“Galia,” Rinaldo snapped, flustered and plainly concerned. “This isn’t something we can entrust to outsiders. We’d put Daud and Corvo at risk.”

“I trust him with my life,” Galia retorted, equally heated. “He’ll help us, without question. But Daud won’t like it. Not at all. None of you will.”

Rinaldo groaned, bending to hang his head between his knees and folding his hands on the back of his neck, scrubbing at his short-cropped hair. It had grown so much over the last few months, to the point that the texture of his tight curls was plainly starting to irk him whenever he wore his mask. Galia would offer to cut it for him but convincing him to sit still long enough to do a decent job was getting harder by the day. Rinaldo made a pitiful, exhausted whining noise, and Galia met Jordan’s concerned gaze over his bowed back.

“We’ll figure it out, Rin,” Jordan soothed, rubbing his hand over Rinaldo’s back, though he didn’t sound convinced. “It’ll be okay.”

They were all worn thin, but watching Rinaldo – who was usually so warm and lively and always the optimist – crumple under the pressure made Galia’s heart ache. Rising from the crate she had claimed as her seat, she moved to kneel at Rinaldo’s feet, taking his broad hands in her own. He shuddered, sighing, but would not look at her.

“Let me help, Rin,” she begged in a desperate whisper. “Please.”

“I can’t,” he wheezed, sounding so choked with frustrated emotion. “I can’t risk those of us that are left. Billie’s betrayal was too much, and I won’t risk being betrayed again.”

“Rinaldo,” Jordan began.

“Don’t,” Rinaldo snapped, though when he looked up, there were tears shining on his cheeks. “Don’t ask me to.”

“Okay. Alright,” Galia had soothed, rising up on her knees to wipe the dampness from his face and pull him against her chest. Gasping, Rinaldo clutched the back of her coat, shaking in her arms.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against her throat.

“Shh, it’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

The three of them had sat, huddled together in the dark, until Rinaldo had ceased his trembling and had started to doze. Jordan had wrestled him up and gotten him to bed, and none of them had spoken of it since.

Not until a few hours ago, when Rinaldo had come running into Rudshore from the direction of the Gate, searching for her in a panic.

“Void, Rin, what the fuck is it?” Galia had snapped, even as he grabbed her by the arm and hauled her into a secluded alcove.

“They’ve moved up Corvo’s execution.”

“What?”

“I heard it on the broadcasts. They’re going to execute him, in three days,” Rinaldo insisted, wide-eyed and frantic.

“Does Daud know?” Galia breathed.

Rinaldo immediately shook his head, turning away to pace.

“Not yet,” he said. “At least, I don’t think he does. I’m afraid of what he’ll do when he finds out.”

Galia dragged her fingers through her short-cropped hair, flustered. Anxious fear was settling hot and heavy in her belly. She didn’t want Attano to be put to death for crimes that the Whalers themselves had nearly committed. The only reason that Daud had turned down Burrows’s contract, she knew, was Attano. He had embedded himself in their lives and routines, and had changed everything. They all cared for the wry, clever Lord Protector with a heart of gold, and she couldn’t let him lose his life simply because they failed to predict Billie’s betrayal. He didn’t deserve that.

Galia was not particularly familiar with the man, not the way Rinaldo and Thomas and Javier were, but she respected him. It was difficult not to. Attano was a kind man, with the noble bearing of a general at war and none of the condescension, and half of Rudshore had been infatuated with him and his easy charisma by the end of that first day. And Daud, well, he had been gone on Attano from the start, no matter how fiercely he denied it.

“Do you think Daud will storm Coldridge?” she asked Rinaldo carefully.

He shook his head, looking pained.

“I’m afraid he won’t do anything at all,” Rinaldo explained, agonized. “I don’t want my friend to die. I don’t want to live with the knowledge that I could’ve saved him and did nothing.”

Nodding, Galia took his hand with a careful breath, squeezing his fingers tightly. She doubted that she was being as comforting as she intended, but there was little comfort to be had in Dunwall, nowadays, and especially not amongst their lot.

“What do you need me to do, Rin?”

“Your contact… will they really help? Can they be trusted?”

Galia sighed, relieved.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” she swore. “He’ll need to meet with Daud, to plan. And I need your word, Rinaldo, that he will be protected when he comes here. Promise me.”

Rinaldo seemed baffled by her insistence, his full brows furrowing low over dark eyes, but he nodded regardless.

“Sure, whatever you need. But why?”

“You’ll see, soon enough,” Galia told him, knowing that she was being cryptic, but caution was imperative. “But nothing can happen to him. I can’t let anything happen to him.”

She was terrified. But she would do this, for Attano. For Daud, and Thomas, and Rinaldo. For her friends. Her family.

And so, she found herself ducking between the Whalers’ own patrols and slipping out of the district like a thief in the night, traversing the shadows and following the Wrenhaven upstream towards Holger Square. The Watch was crawling all over the city like roaches, spreading their filth into every seedy corner and filling the voids left by those who had been fortunate enough to escape into the country. Where fear reigned, Overseers sank their fangs into the bruised flesh of those who remained, preaching at corpses and imposing the damnation of the plague onto the shoulders of sinners, a burden of the weak and weary. Houses had been looted, either by the Watch or the gangs or the desperate, the shattered glass of windows glittering like crystal strewn across the cobblestone streets. Sickness stank in the air, reeking like rot and death, similar and yet so different than the very same stench of whale blood in the river. The city was dying, and it would only get worse from here. Galia had never seen Dunwall so broken.

It took her ages to reach the far edge of the Distillery District, the city emptier than ever and yet more dangerous than she could remember, but it took little effort for her to climb over a rooftop and into a familiar alley, ducking into an open window. The apartment was dustier than usual – it had been some time since she had been here, after all, certainly longer than she’d like – but it took her only a moment to find the familiar box of matches and light the familiar lantern, carrying it to the windowsill.

Anxious, Galia settled on the creaky old couch to wait, picking at a loose thread on the upholstery. She hated waiting. She had spent far too much time waiting as of late; waiting for information, waiting for instructions, waiting for Daud to either pull himself together or completely fall apart. But they could not wait anymore. If they did, Attano would be executed for a crime that one of their own committed, though Billie could hardly be considered one of their own after her betrayal. Galia had never been Billie’s biggest fan, and though she had certainly respected her strength and efficient brutality, Galia had never managed to understand her. Daud had given Billie everything, had drug her up from the gutters and washed the mud and blood and misery from her scrawny hands, had offered her power. Yet, with such ease, Billie had abandoned him, disregarded orders, and broken his heart in too many ways to number.

And for what?

Galia didn’t know. She didn’t think she ever would. She hoped she’d never understand, because then she would risk offering forgiveness. That was not a kindness she was willing to offer, not for what Billie had done.

Sighing, Galia slumped down on the dusty sofa and clutched a ratty pillow to her chest, seeking something like comfort. It did not take long for the sound of boots and the click-clack of paws to echo up the staircase outside, and she flew to the door, flinging it open just as Reilly was digging into his pocket for the key Galia had stolen nearly a year ago.

“Galia!” he jerked, startled as she surged against his chest, seizing him in a fierce embrace. “I saw the lantern. I didn’t think we had planned to meet?”

“We didn’t.”

“Well, alright then,” he agreed, reaching to pull off his mask and push down his cowl.

He sighed as he tousled his short hair, the loose curls going frizzy and dark with sweat from being trapped in the summer heat. Galia watched him for a long moment while he breathed deep, relieved to be free of his stifling mask. He looked exhausted. His face, normally full between his high cheekbones and square jaw, seemed a little sallow, shadowed with stubble and wan with weariness and the beginnings of hunger. Riley was always so lively, eyes bright and smile eagerly shared – certainly too cheery to be an Overseer, in Galia’s entirely correct opinion – but the Plague had been wearing him down like sand on stone, scraping away little bits of his joy, stripping him of what little enjoyment he managed to find in his severe, pious life. It broke her heart the way wilted flowers always did, watching time and tribulations sap the life from something beautiful.

And yet, here she was, about to ask him to offer even more of himself.

Galia sighed, cheek still pressed to his chest.

“You smell like a campfire,” she whispered.

“Funeral rites,” Riley supplied grimly, lips tender against the top of her head. “With so many of the plague dead, we’ve stopped bothering with extinguishing the fires. It’s… not proper, but it’s necessary. Still makes me feel like I’m damning souls to the Void by not completing the rite correctly, though.”

“I’m sorry,” Galia offered.

Riley had explained so many of the rites to her, once when they were lying naked in the feather-down bed of some noble who had taken the winter in the country and left her estate in the city empty save for a lazy housekeeper. He had told her about anointing and burning the bodies, of reciting the Strictures and reading passages from the Litany, tending the fire until there was nothing left but ash. He described extinguishing the flames so that the spirits of the dead would not be tempted into lingering in the light, then destroying the bones to protect them from desecration by heretics. His voice had gone soft and sad with recollection when he spoke of performing the rites for his brothers, of mixing their ashes into enamel to paint their masks, of placing their blackened masks in the catacombs beneath Holger Square. Performing the rites meant a great deal to Riley, Galia knew, even if in many other ways he had begun to question the Abbey since meeting her. That the state of things demanded he not be able to commit himself fully to that duty had surely been wearing on him.

This plague had spared no one.

“Needs must,” Riley sighed.

“Needs must,” Galia echoed.

Riley held her close, the scowling mask still clutched in his hand digging unpleasantly into her back, but Galia couldn’t find it within herself to mind. It was too great a relief to see him, to feel his warmth and breathe in the lingering echoes of incense woven into the wool of his coat, and she stretched up on her toes to wrap her arms around his neck. Reilly gamely stooped down to accommodate her – towering, kind-hearted brute such as he was – and a thick surge of affectionate longing rose to lodge itself in her throat. She swallowed, constricted and blurry-eyed, and he noticed immediately.

“Galia? What’s happened?”

“I love you,” she whispered, choked.

“Galia?” Reilly tried again, soothing but clearly concerned. “Please, love, you’re scaring me. What’s happened?”

“I need your help. Everything’s falling apart. Attano is scheduled to be executed, and if he dies, Daud will… I don’t know, exactly,” she admitted, face buried against his throat. “If Attano dies, it’ll be over, for all of us. Daud will break. And Thomas… I’m afraid Thomas won’t survive it.”

Reilly’s breaths came fast, but regulated, and Galia could feel him thinking, running through possibilities, calculating risks, stretching the muscles of his brilliant, strategic mind. He would have an answer, he had to. Galia had promised Rinaldo as much, banking all of her blind faith in Reilly and his wit and his connections. She just hoped that she hadn’t doomed them all, in her desperation.

“Okay,” Reilly said after a while, straightening and ushering Galia back to the rickety couch. “Okay.”

Pensively, he began to pace, gnawing on the fingertip of his glove. It was a foul habit, one that the Abbey had attempted to beat out of him as a boy, though he always seemed to slip back into the comforting routine of it whenever tensions were high, when he needed to think. Galia loved him for it, loved the little flaw that the Abbey had failed to wipe away.

As he strode back and forth, carving a path through the dust in the ragged old rug, the hulking form of a wolfhound shadowed the sliver of the doorway, sniffing about and eventually shoving the door open with his long snout.

“Cathal,” Galia called, clicking her tongue.

Cathal whined, ears perking at the familiar sound of her voice. He wiggled happily when he noticed her on the couch, his thick tail whacking rhythmically against the doorframe, but settled at the sight of Reilly’s frustration. Ignoring Galia, Cathal trotted over to his master, coming to heel, and doggedly followed his every step until Reilly finally slowed his pacing to drop his hand on the hound’s head. Cathal huffed softly, leaning his bulk against Reilly’s thigh and nosing at his palm.

“Hey, buddy,” Reilly murmured, distracted, even as he absently scratched behind the hound’s ears.

Cathal sighed a rumbling whine, pleased with the attention.

“I think…” Reilly began, uncertain. “I think I have an idea.”

Galia heaved a sobbing sigh of relief, bending to drop her face into her hands.

“Void, thank you,” she breathed as she suddenly stood, wrapping her arms around his waist desperately, gratefully. “Tell me what you need.”

“I need to speak to Daud.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said, despite what she had told Rinaldo with such conviction before.

“I have to. He deserves to know what’s happening,” he insisted, though he sounded petrified by the thought. “We can go now. Take Cathal with us. There’s nothing I need from the Abbey, and time is of the essence.”

“Reilly, what are you saying?”

He smiled down at her, reaching to gently cup her cheek, the touch so saccharine with affection that Galia’s heart clenched in the cage of her ribs. There was something resigned, and fearful, in the tense corners of his mouth, something that Galia decidedly didn’t like.

“What I’m saying, my darling,” he said slowly, cautiously, “is that once we go, I don’t think I’ll be coming back.”

*****

            Rinaldo wasn’t sure what to expect, when he found himself a hiding place near the Rudshore Gate to wait for Galia to return with her mystery contact. He knew what he was risking, bringing a stranger into the fold, especially with Daud walking around like a grenade with a half-pulled pin. But Galia swore that she trusted whoever she was roping into this nonsense, and Rinaldo trusted Galia with his life.

He just had to trust her with Corvo’s life, as well.

Watching the train cars full of the plague dead file into the district was nearly enough to serve as a distraction from his nervousness, the grimness of it all turning his stomach as the Dead Counters trudged through the mess. Occasionally, one of them would stumble upon a shrouded body that was still weak and moaning with sickness, and Rinaldo hated that the gunshots startled him less than the eerie silence that always followed.

It was a blessing to finally see the silhouettes of Galia and a tall, broad-shouldered man creeping their way into the rotten belly of Rudshore, trailed dutifully by what appeared to be a wolfhound. That alone was peculiar enough, but then Rinaldo noticed the dull glitter of gold at the man’s waist, a mask contorted into a cruel snarl, and his heart stuttered to momentary stillness even as his blood went hot with indignation. Livid, he followed the pair from the rooftops until they were far enough into the district to not draw attention before transversing to the ground in from of them. The man – the fucking Overseer – instinctively reached for the pistol at his hip and the wolfhound lunged protectively forward, snarling with teeth bared.

“Cathal, no!” the Overseer shouted.

The hound froze immediately, though it continued to growl as if nothing would make it happier than feasting on Rinaldo’s insides, the hair down its spine standing on end.

“Cathal, heel,” Galia called, too calmly, and the wolfhound obeyed her order instantly, trotting back to stand tucked between her and the Overseer. She patted the beast on the head, and it huffed as if disappointed at having been recalled. “Good boy.”

“Galia,” Rinaldo breathed, confusion and panic and anger making his voice tremble. “Galia, what the fuck is this?”

“Rin….”

“No. No, no, no,” he hissed, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. “Your contact is a fucking Overseer?”

“Rin, please.”

“You said that you knew someone who could help! And you bring a Void-damned Overseer spy here?” Rinaldo yelled, not caring at his volume. “We might as well roll out the red carpet for the rest of the Abbey. Fuck, roll it out for the High Overseer himself!”

“Rinaldo!”

Rinaldo sucked in a deep breath, holding it as terror boiled like some witch’s brew in his belly. “You’ve killed us all.”

“Will you shut up?!” Galia shouted in reply, chest heaving.

“Love, please,” the Overseer soothed gently, his voice far softer and kinder than Rinaldo had expected.

Still, those two mumbled words struck him like a wrench to the skull.

“’Love’?” Rinaldo echoed, dumbfounded. “Are you… are you fucking kidding me?”

Galia tilted her chin up defiantly, grabbing the Overseer’s wrist and stepping protectively in front of him. It looked ridiculous – petite, little Galia blocking the Overseer from view despite the fact that he towered over her – but the look on her face was fiercer than Rinaldo had ever seen. She was serious, dead serious.

“You and Jordan always teased about the secret lover you thought I was keeping,” she snapped with a broad gesture behind her. “Well, here he is. Reilly Hannegan – Overseer, ally, and the love of my life. Reilly, meet Rinaldo Escobar – notorious asshole.”

It felt oddly as if the earth was going to split open and drag him into oblivion, and all Rinaldo could manage was to stare like a gazelle staring down a hunter’s arrow. He hadn’t expected any of this. Frankly, he wasn’t sure what he had expected; but one of his closest friends dragging an Overseer into a nest of assassins and claiming that, not only could he help free Corvo, but that he was the man that carried her heart. Being slapped by Granny Rags would have been less startling, but an edge of familiarity was enough to offer some distraction.

“Hannegan?” Rinaldo asked, the name niggling like an itch.

The Overseer nodded, at least intelligent enough to know when it was wiser to keep his mouth shut than wag his tongue.

“You…” Rinaldo began. “You were that Overseer. The one that let Little Tom and Yuri go. You drew your brothers away when they were in a tight spot. Javier said that your name was something like that, Hannegan or Hammond or whatever. He heard your brothers call you by it.”

The Overseer – Reilly, Rinaldo conceded bitterly – simply nodded, glancing down at Galia and petting his wolfhound’s wide head, nearly a nervous tick.

“Galia told me what the music boxes do to you, how ill they can make you. And those two seemed so young,” he admitted, deep voice low and cautious. “I didn’t want them to get caught. Some of my brothers can be… cruel.”

Rinaldo couldn’t help but scoff at the absurdity of that understatement. None of the Whalers had ever managed to have a pleasant encounter with the Abbey. Those unfortunate few that managed to get caught had been held in Overseer outposts and tortured until their fingernails were missing and their faces beaten into disfigurement. They surely had been grateful for Daud’s bullet when he finally found them to relieve their misery. Certainly, it was not all compassion that drove him to putting them down; torture could make even the tightest lips talk, and Daud was not the sort of man to take chances. The Whalers had operated unmolested by the Abbey or the Watch for so long for a reason.

“Zealots are always cruel,” Rinaldo snapped.

“Rin!” Galia bit back.

“It’s okay,” the Overseer – Reilly – soothed. “I understand, and it’s not untrue.”

He shifted on his feet, one gloved hand hovering above the snarling mask buckled to his belt as if he were desperate to hide behind the anonymity it offered. Rinaldo watched him for a slow moment, still uncertain. But the Overseer had been determined and brave enough to wander into a den of heretic assassins, bare faced, simply because the woman he loved asked him to and, by all reckoning, he genuinely wanted to help. Though Rinaldo could not fathom why, he was sure the answer would be interesting. Whether Daud accepted it or not was another matter entirely; it was likely that Daud would reject the entire scenario outright, and they’d end up with a dead Overseer and a broken-hearted Galia on their hands.

Still, the easiest way to discern Reilly’s intentions was to ask directly, and no one had ever accused Rinaldo of being particularly tactful.

“What is your end, here?” he questioned. “You waltz into the base of the Knife of Dunwall, offering to help free the disgraced Lord Protector, and for what?”

Reilly was silent for a while, considering, though it seemed to Rinaldo that he knew precisely what he wanted to say, but was instead searching for the correct words. He was unlike the Overseers that Rinaldo knew, or rather, the ones that Rinaldo had the misfortune of encountering; this man was quiet and pensive, and was gentle with both Galia and the wolfhound currently sitting protectively on his boots. Despite his imposing stature, he had a kind face and eyes that spoke of exhaustion and frustration and old fear. Rinaldo was angry that he might actually come to enjoy the zealot’s company, should he prove not to be a traitorous wretch.

“Lord Attano is a good man,” the Overseer said slowly. “I don’t believe he killed the Empress, and I fear there is some conspiracy afoot. High Overseer Campbell has been changed, as of late, and I can’t abide the leader of my Order being involved in something so dreadful. Lord Attano doesn’t deserve to be imprisoned, and the Princess does not deserve whatever fate has befallen her.”

Grinding his teeth, Rinaldo glanced from Reilly to Galia, who nodded solemnly as she took her Overseer’s hand. He smiled softly down at her as she twined their fingers together, and his expression was of such genuine fondness that it could only be real, lasting affection. It was like watching Montgomery and Javier spend a quiet moment together after dinner, Javier with his rum and Montgomery stealing drags from his cigar.

Just as Rinaldo opened his mouth to speak, to concede to his help, Reilly continued.

“And Galia has told me about Lord Attano and Daud,” he said, a little bashfully. “She told me that they love each other. The world has been so dark that we’ve nearly forgotten love altogether, and… well, leaving the Lord Protector in Coldridge doesn’t sit well with me.”

Staring at them for a long moment, Rinaldo finally groaned, bracing his fists on his hips and pacing, a relentless back-and-forth, back-and-forth that neither Galia nor Reilly seemed particularly inclined to stop. Daud was going to be livid, and he would likely tear his Mark from Rinaldo’s hand if he didn’t kill him outright, along with Galia and her Overseer. Rinaldo would be lucky if his corpse ended up dumped in the Refinery, though it was more probable that he would just be tossed into the flood waters to feed the hagfish.

This was an awful idea, though Rinaldo couldn’t see many other options. Difficult problems always required sacrifice in the solving, and he would make this sacrifice, for Corvo. And for Daud, even if the Knife wouldn’t likely appreciate the effort.

“Fuck. Damn it to the Void,” Rinaldo sighed, halting his pacing to stare up at the sky.

It would be dawn soon. The clouds were thin after several days of storms, and the sun would likely rise bright and victorious over Dunwall, painting the city in a glorious palette of pink and orange and flower-blossom yellow that it didn’t deserve. Idly, Rinaldo wondered if Corvo could see the sun at all, where he was.

“Rin?” Galia tried.

He turned back to look between them all – his friend, her Overseer, and a wolfhound – and gestured for them to follow.

“This is going to end badly,” he warned, glancing over his shoulder. “But since I probably won’t live long enough to say it later, I’ll go ahead and say it now: I told you so.”

Galia huffed a weak laugh, a fragile, relieved thing, and tugged Reilly along behind her as she hurried to keep pace.

“Thank you,” Reilly murmured after a while.

Rinaldo couldn’t fathom what the idiot could possibly be thanking him for, considering that they were walking into a den of wolves that Reilly probably wouldn’t survive.

“Thank you for trusting me,” Reilly elaborated, cautious.

“I don’t,” Rinaldo snapped back, turning away. “But I want my friend back, and we’re running out of options.”

Chapter Text

Thomas had managed nearly two hours tucked in the little nook he had made for himself without being disturbed, thick tomes stacked on the floor and tucked between his thigh and the arm of his chair. They were all dreadfully boring and occasionally outdated; mostly law books that they had stolen from the barristers’ offices downstairs. He had taken to educating himself on criminal law – his bastard father had apparently been a barrister, after all, at least according to what Montgomery had told him years ago – but he still knew that no amount of study would save Corvo from Coldridge. With the Empress’s murder and Burrows’s regency claimed, the rule of law had been tossed to the wayside. Nothing of any legal merit would manage to see Corvo freed, only force, though Daud seemed reluctant to order Corvo’s retrieval. He had offered excuses, near-reasonable explanations of finding the young princess so as to regain Corvo’s trust when he was finally rescued, but Thomas ached with so much worry that his impatience threatened to outweigh his loyalty to Daud’s command.

Thomas had considered going to Coldridge himself, electing to ask for Daud’s forgiveness rather than his permission, but the sting of Billie’s betrayal was still too fresh for insubordination of that magnitude. The only thing worse than the thought of Corvo rotting in a prison cell was the thought that he could lose Daud’s trust forever. Even the consideration of it left Thomas’s belly roiling with disgusted horror.

Still, Thomas devoured whatever information on unlawful imprisonment and exoneration of the falsely accused that he could find, if only to keep himself from going mad with worry.

The volume currently open across his thighs was of little use, and so Thomas snapped the cover shut with a hollow, papery thud, leaning over the arm of his chair to reach for his teacup on the floor. It was empty, of course, and so he set it back on the saucer with a sigh.

He was so tired, even though his sleep had been exceptionally good as of late, if he disregarded the nightmares and strange, liminal dreams that always lingered for a few hours after waking. Often, he woke disoriented and uneasy, though he would occasionally jerk awake, frantic and sweating and tangled in his bedsheets. Those mornings were the worst, as the remnants of the dreams always seemed more persistent in haunting him than the others, tormenting him with echoes of night terrors that blended with real memories of life. Scenes of Corvo falling from that rooftop in the Legal District, except it had been Thomas’s hands that shoved against his chest and there was no balcony to catch him. Pastoral fabrications that started so sweet, with Thomas running his fingers through Corvo’s hair as he rested against his thigh, but turning grim as the realization dawned that Corvo had already been executed and his decapitated head was gaping up at Thomas from his lap. The worst were when Corvo spoke, saying cruel things and casting blame that Thomas could not readily deny. Those days, Thomas woke up weeping.

Shaking the vile thoughts free, Thomas took a slow breath and collected his teacup once more from the floor, determined to bribe Jenkins into brewing a fresh pot. He doubted that it would take much effort. Since the announcement of Corvo’s arrest had found them, bringing with it a pitiful shadow of melancholy, Jenkins had been coddling everyone with food that they could hardly spare, and he had been so eager to waste sugar on Thomas. Jenkins practically forced cubes of it into Thomas’s teacups with an aggressive sort of affectionate care that made his chest go tight and his eyes grow damp. Thomas was never sure what he had done to deserve such kind treatment, but he selfishly cherished it all the same.

Thomas had managed to squeeze from between the bookshelves behind which he so often hid and was halfway down the hall when the shouting started. Flinching, he abandoned his cup on a desk and sprinted towards Daud’s office, where he could hear him bellowing something jumbled and angry about traitors and disloyalty and Overseers. Thomas was about to reach for the door when a crossbow bolt exploded through the glass, followed by several startled yelps and, confoundingly, the vicious snarling of a wolfhound.

Startled, Thomas pressed himself back against the wall, concerned that if he intervened now he’d be the one getting shot.

“How fucking dare you!” Daud yelled, and Thomas couldn’t ever remember hearing him so angry. “You bring this zealot filth into my base and expect me to trust his word?!”

“Yes, I do!” someone shouted in reply – Galia, Thomas supposed. “If not, trust that I trust him! With my life!”

“The last person I trusted with my life got us into this mess in the first place! We were betrayed, and now this!”

Thomas could imagine the snarl on Daud’s face, the vicious gesture.

“Master Daud, please,” that was Rinaldo, sounding like the most composed of all of them, oddly enough. “He can help us.”

“I don’t…” Daud sounded like his anger was flagging, like he was about to tear at the seams if they pressed him much harder. “I won’t trust anyone else with him.”

Thomas’s heart clenched at the edge of desperation in Daud’s voice, a strange reediness that belied his exhaustion and worry and fear and anger. All the things that Thomas knew so well, things that had plagued his nights like a bad bedmate.

"Sir, please," Galia begged softly, so gentle. “Corvo is running out of time.”

Fuck, Thomas had not heard his name said aloud in weeks – it had become some accidental taboo, a certain means of earning Daud’s ire – but the sound of it was so sweet, sticking to his heart and burning like hot caramel. Thomas heard himself wheeze, pathetic, and he pressed his fist against his lips to keep quiet, slouching a little heavier against the wall.

The silence was long and wretchedly fraught, nearly buzzing with tension, but eventually there came the sound of boots shuffling awkwardly on the hardwood floor and the low whine of the wolfhound, and a voice Thomas didn’t recognize spoke.

“Sir,” the man’s voice was low and naturally soft, laced with genuine respect. “I can’t ask you to trust me blindly. I would never expect you to.”

Daud scoffed, derisive, and the man quietly cleared his throat.

“But I am certain – I was even before Galia told me the truth of it all – that Lord Attano doesn’t deserve to be where he is. I’ve been to Coldridge before. I’ve offered the Rites of Repentance to men who had earned their execution, but even they did not deserve the treatment they received there. And Lord Attano certainly does not.”

From his place in the hall, Thomas could hear nothing but Daud breathing heavily through his nose, surely anxiously angry and fighting the urge to move, to rage against the emotions in his chest and the injustice of it all. Thomas’s own heart was thudding in his ears, pulse fluttering in his throat like a trapped thing, but he held his breath and finally stepped into Daud’s office, boots grinding against the shattered glass on the floor.

The whole contingent whirled to stare at him – Daud, Rinaldo, Galia, and the stranger, a tall, broad man with a soft expression on his broad face and wearing the vestments of an Overseer. At the stranger’s side was a large, sooty-colored wolfhound, whose ears perked up at Thomas’s sudden appearance, but who remained perfectly at its master’s heel, unmoving. Thomas studied the newcomers for a brief moment before turning back to Daud, who wore a complicated expression that looked suspiciously like guilt.

“Thomas…” he began, though he sounded uncertain.

“Daud,” Thomas interrupted, and he could not recall a time when he had addressed Daud without some sort of honorific that expressed his fealty. He imagined that it should feel like insubordination, like scum against his skin, but this was too important to allow his own insecurities to dampen his words. "Please."

"Thomas," Daud tried again, voice on the edge of trembling.

"Whatever it takes, just do it," Thomas insisted as tears starting coursing down his cheeks. “Bring Corvo home.”

Daud was gritting his teeth, shoulders bunched with frustration. He glanced from Thomas to Rinaldo to Galia and her Overseer, and finally, as if it pained him to do so, back to Thomas. For the first time since the Empress’s death, Daud truly looked at him, and Thomas’s belly went tight with longing and the crippling threat of more rejection, another dismissal, more indifference.

They stood frozen for a long moment, staring at each other, until at last Thomas drew a careful breath, holding the stale air of Rudshore in his chest as if it would make him braver. Slowly, he stepped into Daud’s space.

The breadth of him never grew less imposing, but Thomas now carried fears far greater than the fear he had always had of Daud. Standing so close to him, Thomas could see the exhaustion darkening the shadows beneath his eyes, the worry creasing the corners of his mouth, and with a startling certainty, Thomas realized that he wasn’t the only one of them who was afraid.

Cautiously, fingers trembling, Thomas reached to press his hand gently to Daud’s cheek, smoothing his thumb across the scar carving cruelly down his face. Daud flinched at the touch, tensing as if to turn away and close his eyes. But Thomas persisted, trailing his fingers reverently along Daud’s jaw until he looked up once more, grey eyes lined with the same bone-deep pain that haunted Thomas’s steps like his shadow. His heart ached for Daud, who, for all the years that Thomas had known him, had avoided emotions and attachment the way most people avoided the Plague.

Daud was such a difficult man to love.

Offering a fragile smile despite his tears, Thomas smoothed his thumb along the edge of Daud’s frown. This time, Daud tilted his face subtly into the soft press of Thomas’s hand, and Thomas felt as if his heart was unfurling, buoyed, fluttering in the cage of his ribs like a songbird.

“We both want him back,” Thomas said, gentle and aching. “We have to get him back, whatever it takes. Please, Daud.”

Finally, Daud met his gaze, searching. After a moment he nodded, reaching to grasp Thomas’s wrist and simply holding tight for a breath before pulling his hand from his cheek.

“Okay,” Daud allowed, and desperate relief loosened the tightness in Thomas’s chest like a ship breaking free of its mooring.

“Thank you,” Thomas wheezed in a sobbing gust. “Thank you.”

He wanted to slump against Daud’s chest, to bury his face against Daud’s throat and just breathe for what felt like the first time in weeks. But Thomas knew that he had already been too selfish, too pathetic and desperate for comfort that was not offered, and he had demanded too much of Daud already. He should be grateful that Daud had allowed him this much.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Daud stepped away, and Thomas fought back the bubbling roil of disappointment that settled low in his gut. Instead, he just nodded and glanced to Rinaldo, who offered an encouraging smile in return, though he quickly straightened his composure when Daud stalked over to the Overseer.

The man towered over Daud – easily closer in size to Corvo, or at least of a height with Leonid despite being far broader through the shoulders – but he seemed to shrink in on himself when faced with the sheer, overwhelming presence of the Knife of Dunwall. Still, to the Overseer’s credit, he held Daud’s gaze without looking away. Thomas respected him for that, if for nothing else; after all, Thomas could hardly manage such a feat himself.

“If this is a ploy,” Daud growled lowly, “if any harm comes to Corvo Attano because of you, there will be nowhere on this earth that you can hide from me.”

“Yes, sir,” the Overseer replied, posture straightening respectfully. “I understand, sir.”

A flutter of surprise crossed Daud’s face before he settled back into his usual scowl. Thomas imagined that the deference had surprised him, as it surprised Thomas a bit as well, but the Overseer seemed wholly genuine.

“You said you could help,” Daud stated flatly, almost accusing. “How?”

The Overseer took a slow breath, clearly bolstering himself, and Thomas breathed with him, feeling as if the entire world was bracing for a gale that determine if they would survive or all sink together. But the Overseer reached down to grab something that Thomas could not see from his belt, staring down at it with a pained expression on his gentle face before sighing, deep and heartfelt, and holding it out to Daud.

In his hand was a gleaming Overseer mask.

“The Abbey offers the Rites of Repentance to all prisoners scheduled for execution. The Lord Protector will receive the same, even if his detainment has been a farce,” the Overseer said softly.

He nudged the mask at Daud again, and Daud accepted it, slowly.

Thomas watched it shift in the light, the scowl rendered even more vile with the morning light pouring heavy shadows into its creases. He never imagined that the symbol of their greatest enemy would become their salvation, and the realization settled oddly in his chest.

“A brother will be sent to offer Lord Attano his last Rites in the morning,” the Overseer said. “That will be your chance.”

*****

            The Overseer’s uniform fit well enough, but Daud felt more like he was wearing another man’s skin rather than another man’s clothes.

Coldridge loomed large as he crossed the bridge to the entrance, the sheer stone face of the prison glaring down at him as if offering a challenge. There were no records that Daud could recall to suggest that anyone had ever managed to escape, and so it seemed that the proud, cruel structure was about to lose its first reluctant resident. Because he would not be leaving without Corvo. He wouldn’t.

He glanced up over his shoulder to a distant rooftop, where Rinaldo was crouched, ever watchful. Even if everything fell apart, if Daud was discovered or if security was tighter than expected or if anything else went wrong, he could trust Rinaldo to get Corvo out, to make him safe. Thomas had protested meekly, obviously desperate to see Corvo, but Daud had left him behind in Rudshore, tasked with minding Galia and her Overseer. Given the realizations that Corvo had offered him regarding Thomas’s feelings all those months ago, Daud knew that he could not trust Thomas to leave him behind if it came to that.

The guards at the gate welcomed him with a leering sort of indifference, asking him snappish questions about which prisoner he was there to see before waving him through the door. Hannegan had coached him on what to say and how to say it, adamant that it would matter how he presented himself even with the mask offering some degree of anonymity, but Daud wasn’t sure if the suggestions made any particular difference. At the very least, Daud had not been shot on sight and had been met with little more than mild derision, so perhaps Hannegan had been right to insist. Daud wasn’t certain if that were truly the case, and he was reluctant to give the Overseer too much credit.

The interior of Coldridge was as grim and miserable as the rest of it. It felt like the hollow chest of some great beast that breathed with whistling steam pipes winding through a ribcage of iron prison bars, a beast that fed on misery and lost hopes. Everything was cold; the concrete walls and musty air and the sensation of unyielding disquiet that made the hair on Daud’s neck stand up worse than any dark alley or hissing shrine. There was some specter haunting this place that seemed to pursue his every step, chasing him down the hallways that birthed it. It was a foolish thought, the same sort of ghost story that he had become, the type of story that only served to conjure worse horrors in weak minds.

Daud was not possessing of a weak mind, but there was something vile in Coldridge prison, something as real and as unreal as the Outsider himself, and Daud hated it.

“You here for Rites of Repentance, Overseer?” a Watchman asked as Daud approached a security gate, and it took an awkwardly long moment to remember that the guard was addressing him.

“Yes,” he managed. “For Lord Attano.”

“You mean the former Lord Attano,” the guard snapped, even as he turned to fuss with the lock. “Fucking dark-skinned bastard isn’t any kind of nobility anymore, not after what he did. Just another filthy foreigner.”

Daud tried to keep his shoulders from bunching towards his ears even as he nodded, grateful for the concealment of the mask he wore as he bared his teeth. He thought he might put a crossbow bolt between this fucker’s eyes before the day was done, but not yet. He needed to be sure Corvo was safe, first.

“Cell B5, Overseer. And don’t expect to get anything from that savage. If the Royal Interrogator hasn’t managed to wring anything from him but screams by now, I doubt religion will.”

Daud nodded brusquely to the guard and moved through the second security gate, which he pushed open with a bone-grinding groan. It required physical effort not to rush through as soon as he thought he could squeeze through the gap, but Daud stood as patiently as he could manage. Corvo was close, so close that Daud’s body nearly hummed with anxious anticipation. But as he rounded the corner, he found another guard stood in the middle of the hall, staring at Daud with an expression that suggested he had not been expecting company.

The guard kept staring, fingers tapping against the underside of the tray he carried and looking awkwardly back over his shoulder as if he were waiting for Daud to move along. Eventually, Daud’s impatience grew too great, and he glanced around to be sure no other guards were near before transversing behind the man and wrestling him into a vicious Tyvian chokehold. He startled and dropped the tray when Daud’s forearm folded across his throat, the metal dish and half-stale bread clattering loudly to the floor, though he made no other sound and easily dropped into unconsciousness with a limp-limbed sag. In the nearby cells prisoners yelped with surprise while others whooped and kicked up a general ruckus, and Daud grimaced behind his mask as he hoisted the guard over his shoulder and dropped him in a well-concealed corner behind a disused locker and a short barricade. Luckily, no other guards came rushing over at the noise the prisoners made as they shouted and banged against their cell doors like wild animals trapped in a menagerie, instead the guards merely shouted back as they continued on their patrols, clanging bully sticks against the bars and barking threats of withheld dinners.

Daud heaved a slow breath at avoiding all undue attention, stepping back down the hall the collect the discarded tray and bread. The bread he passed through the bars to another prisoner, who snatched it eagerly from his hand, but as he turned back in search of Corvo’s cell, he noticed a folded note lying on the floor. Curious, he picked it up to read.

Corvo,

Who we are is irrelevant right now. Just know that we have faith in you.

Here is the key to your cell. Once you're out, head for the prison's Interrogation Room. Take the explosive there and plant it on the outer door. When the bomb goes off, run. Make for the river and lose yourself in the sewers. You'll find some useful gear stashed there.

One of the prison guards will leave a weapon just outside your cell.

And good luck. We need you alive and well for what's to come.

- A friend

“What the fuck?”

Daud muttered under his breath, glancing around for the mentioned key. Not seeing a key upon the floor, he ducked back to where he had dropped the Watchman and rummaged through the man’s pockets until he found a single brass key on a ring. Baffled, he glanced from the key to the guard’s slack face, suddenly impossibly glad that he had lost his taste for gratuitous killing, and that he had not taken the man’s life.

He had conspired with some apparent ally to set Corvo free, and that was reason enough for Daud to let him live.

Clenching the key in his hand, Daud rose on shaking legs, startlingly aware that he had not actually planned this far, that stumbling upon this guard on this day mere moments before Corvo was handed his own freedom with a lump of stale bread was remarkable in its coincidence. Daud did not believe in coincidence, but he also doubted the Outsider’s intervention. Neither had ever worked in Daud’s favor. But none of that mattered. All that mattered was that he held Corvo’s freedom in his hand, and he walked back down the cell block, chest tight.

Daud’s breath caught, strangled, in his throat when he at last stepped in front of the bars of Corvo’s cell, his own shadow casting a long swathe of darkness across the dingy greyness of the floor. It was bare, and frigid, and unbearably soulless; a grim stone box designed to wring the hope and humanity from its resident like water from an old rag. Daud wished that he could be certain that not even this would break Corvo, but strong men had been broken by less, and he doubted that Burrows had simply left Corvo alone to rot. Burrows would gladly subject Corvo to beatings and burnings and broken fingers if it suited his ends, and Corvo would surely resist with every bit of strength in him, regardless of the fact that his defiance would surely bring even greater agony upon his head. Daud, for all the violence he had wrought and suffered in his life, felt nausea churn in his stomach at the thought.

And still, even as he stood mere steps from the lock on Corvo’s cage, the key and a baffling note sitting heavy in his pocket, he found it difficult to cross the meager space. Fear and deep, desperate longing made his chest tight and his skin flush hot with anxiety beneath the weight of his borrowed coat, and Daud hated it. He hated the weakness, and the dread. He hated that he knew damn well that Corvo might never look upon him with affection again, and he hated that it would be justified.

But he hated the thought of Corvo suffering because of his own pathetic indecision even more, and so he took the last two steps to the cell door, feet heavy as lead.

Shadows seemed even deeper in the far corners of the cell, sinking inky into grimy crevices, and appearing to shift and slither like the Void. Along one wall was a half-rusted metal bed frame, stripped of its mattress likely as a cruel punishment for some perceived slight, but tucked in the back corner was Corvo, huddled into himself on the floor with a thread-bare blanket tugged close around his shoulders.

He was so thin, almost frail, and nearly starved – cheeks sunken and eyes shadowed like a wraith – and his hair, now long enough to nearly touch his shoulders, was lank and greasy and as abysmally lifeless as the rest of him. Daud’s heart clenched, leaving him silent and breathless as he loomed on the other side of the steel bars, staring, until eventually Corvo looked up, defiant. There was no fear in his eyes, only grief and exhaustion and a dull rage that smoldered like a banked hearth, his ferocity muted only by the weakness in his bones. His gaze landed heavily on Daud, a challenging weight, and gingerly dragged himself to his feet. It occurred to Daud that Corvo likely did not huddle in the corner out of fear, like the other poor souls in their clammy, dank cells. No, Daud imagined that he instead wanted to be able to face his jailers, to meet the eyes of the men who tried to break him so that they knew that they would fail, time and again. Corvo wanted them to understand their folly.

He was still so dignified as he stood in the center of his cell, glaring out at Daud, and suddenly Daud could no longer abide the bars between them. It choked him, an aching wound in the center of his chest where his heart was supposed to be, and the longing dragged him forward like a whale on a line until he was fumbling in his pocket for the key. His fingers felt clumsy as he fumbled the key into the lock, like they belonged to another man, and the Overseer mask partly blocked his vision. Eventually he grew so flustered that he tore the mask off and dropped it dismissively to the floor, unconcerned with the echoing clatter of it striking the concrete. He nearly had the door open when Corvo sucked in a trembling breath, and Daud’s gaze snapped up.

“Daud?” Corvo whispered, voice wheezy and wet from illness and emotion alike.

Slowly, his expression began to shatter, exhausted and grieving, and Daud flung the door open to rush to Corvo’s side, pulling him into a crushing embrace.

“I’ve got you,” Daud murmured, Corvo trembling in his arms. “I’ve got you. We’re going home.”

“You…” Corvo tried, voice growing angry as he strained to struggle out of Daud’s hold. “You killed her. You fucking killed her!”

“Corvo,” Daud hushed.

“You betrayed me, and you killed my Empress!”

“No, Corvo.”

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Corvo hissed, his abused voice sharp as a blade despite the croak of disuse that left it so fragile. “I’ll kill you.”

Corvo wrenched himself loose and shoved Daud back against the cell bars, his shaking hands closing around Daud’s throat. But he was weak, his arms trembling as his muscles protested the effort, and it was easy for Daud to fold his too-thin wrists into one hand and drag him close with an arm around his shoulders. Weariness seemed to draw the fight out of him like poultice over a festering wound, leaving him sagging heavily against Daud’s chest as he choked on secret sobs, face buried in the crook of Daud’s neck. He was burning hot with fever, but Daud felt nothing but the chill of concern.

“We were both betrayed,” Daud whispered, petting through Corvo’s filthy hair and hating how everything he said sounded like an excuse. “I’m sorry, Corvo. I’m so sorry.”

“They’re both gone, both my girls.”

“I know,” Daud soothed. “Lo siento, I know. I’ll explain everything later, and we’ll go home to look for Emily.”

“Home?”

“Yeah, home,” Daud promised.

Corvo muttered something unintelligible into the side of Daud’s neck, his overwarm skin clammy in the cold dampness of the prison, some sickness trying to burn through his body with fever. What was left of his clothes – little more than soiled rags, now – did little to keep him warm, so Daud pushed him gently away to squirm out of his borrowed coat. Wrestling Corvo’s arms into it was nearly impossible with the way he was swaying on his feet, eyes glazed and bleary, entirely unhelpful.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Daud said, grabbing Corvo’s chin in an effort to keep him focused. “I found a note on one of the guards addressed to you, from ‘a friend’ who was going to aid in your escape. Do you know who they could be?”

Corvo shook his head slowly, though the motion seemed to make him a bit nauseous.

“Focus, Corvo.”

“I don’t know,” Corvo eventually said, frowning. “I thought I was going to die here.”

Frankly, given how fragile he seemed standing there barefoot and weak and stinking of sickly sweat, Daud was astonished that Corvo was coherent at all, let alone able to answer. But it still cut deep that Corvo had assumed Daud would leave him in this awful fucking place, that he meant so little to Daud that he could be so easily tossed aside after everything. Then again, Daud knew he had never been so forthcoming. Even as Corvo had flayed himself open to expose his heart, Daud had offered no such equivalent kindness. Perhaps it was only right that he assumed Daud would leave him here for dead.

But if Corvo could feel the way Daud’s heart was breaking, shattering like glass in his chest, perhaps he would understand. Perhaps, even Daud would come to understand how he had softened so much for one man, despite how viciously he had fought against his own affection for Corvo. Affection, because he couldn’t in good conscience call it love, though matters of conscience – good or otherwise – had never much mattered. He couldn’t call it love, because the Knife of Dunwall didn’t know how to love. He couldn’t call it love, because Daud didn’t think he knew what love felt like.

Even so, he reached to hold Corvo’s cheek, wiping a smudge of grime from beneath his eye with his thumb. Corvo clenched his eyes shut with a shaking sigh, grimacing against what was surely the first gentle touch he had known in months, but Daud forced himself to pull away even though his chest clenched at Corvo’s disappointed whimper. They were running out of time.

“We’ll get you well,” he promised, slinging one arm around Corvo’s waist to support his weight. “But we have to get out of here, first.”

Corvo nodded with a mumble of something that may have been assent, swaying on his feet and leaning heavily against Daud’s side. He seemed to weigh next to nothing, his ribs prominent under the supporting pressure of Daud’s hand in a way that made him seem bird-bone fragile, as if the wrong movement would shatter him to rubble. Daud was not a gentle man, he knew little of tenderness and care, but he tried to soften his grip nonetheless despite how tense with worry he was.

Slowly they shuffled out into the hall, Corvo’s bare feet stumbling along, stiff with cold and the agony of what appeared to be several broken toes. But he did not groan with the pain, only the quickness of his breaths – worsened somewhat by what Daud suspected to be a cracked rib beneath his palm – indicating his discomfort. Daud didn’t dare imagine what other wretchedness he had endured, now concealed by the remnants of his clothes and skin mottled dark with bruises and filth. There had been Whalers who’d suffered less at the hands of the Abbey who had begged for death, death that Daud had freely given. Daud wasn’t sure if he would have been able to offer the same to Corvo, should he have asked for it. Daud didn’t think he could have pulled the trigger, selfish as he was.

He had never been so grateful that Corvo Attano was a stubborn, sturdy bastard.

Sighing, Daud pulled Corvo close as he prepared to transverse them up to the top of the security gate; he might have walked right in, but even the dimmest guard would be suspicious of an Overseer dragging the disgraced Lord Protector out of Coldridge like a sack of rice. They would need to use caution on their escape. Daud wasn’t certain that he’d be able to fight off an entire battalion of Watchmen and keep Corvo safe at the same time, not being at such a disadvantage as they were with Corvo’s illness and injuries. Perhaps it would be wise to make use of the gifts left by Corvo’s mysterious benefactors alongside the Outsider’s magic. Daud just hoped that Corvo would tolerate the drag of the Void better than he had the last time he had been unwell.

He did not.

As soon as they landed atop the catwalk above the gate, Corvo shuddered and collapsed, legs giving out as his body tried to purge his empty belly. Daud shushed him as he whined, pitiful like a dying hound, and petted down his back.

“Hold on, Corvo. Hold on, cariño.”

“I can’t, Daud, I can’t,” Corvo breathed, shaking.

“Yes, you can,” Daud insisted as he glanced around in search of any wayward guards. “Just a little further.”

Corvo tried to struggle when Daud bundled him up in his arm, and he weighed so little, just skin and bones. But as soon as Daud reached out for the Void, dragging them across space and time to another foothold and yet another, Corvo had gone slack in his hold, breathing shallow and eyes jerking frantically behind shadowed lids. Eventually, Daud found a safe place to leave him while he went in search of the bomb his benefactor had promised him.

Ducking into the Interrogation Room, even empty as it was, left a churning, nauseous anger in Daud’s belly. The chains, the chair, the blood splattered across the floor – all of it spoke of the horrors Corvo had endured at the hands of Burrows and his puppets, horrors that he had endured in stubborn silence, if the guards’ whispers were to be believed. Daud had noticed Corvo’s many wounds; hands gnarled from fingers broken and improperly set, fingernails bloodied or entirely missing, feet fractured and bruised, burns and cuts and countless cruelties carved across his skin. None of it was necessary, and Daud could not avoid the glaring realization that, had he been less of a fucking coward, none of it would have happened at all. He wondered if, when Corvo was coherent and had learned the truth of it all, of everything, he would ever see Corvo’s smile again, or if he would be cast aside forever as a traitor, a betrayer of trust. As desperately as he hoped not, Daud knew that he was all of those things and so much worse.

In the end, Daud simply retrieved the promised explosive – a diabolical looking thing that even Javier and the twins would be hard-pressed to conjure – and left without tearing the room to pieces. Though, if he did carve his blade through the throat of Burrows’s portrait, it was for his own satisfaction.

Setting the explosive took a matter of moments, and as the timer ticked down to zero, he ducked back to collect Corvo, gathering him close and protected in his arms. The blast was perhaps larger than was strictly necessary, and the main door peeled open like an overripe fruit, chaos ensuing as guards shouted and scrambled with startled panic. By the time the Watchmen had composed themselves and taken up posts along the remnants of the bridge in pursuit of the saboteur, Daud and Corvo were long gone.

Almost immediately, he discovered another note, tacked to a stack of crates. Daud jerked it free with a flustered huff to read.

Corvo, if you're reading this it means our plan worked and you've broken free from Coldridge. One of our contacts has hidden weapons for you somewhere deeper in the sewers. Grab the gear and find Samuel where these tunnels dump into the river. He will bring you to us.

A Friend Who Will Meet You Soon

Daud sighed. Whoever this “friend” was, they certainly had a flair for the dramatic. The notes and the overall scheme felt less like a conspiracy and more like children playing spy games, and Daud hated the theater of it all. Still, the promise of additional gear and a defined path out of the sewers was tempting enough, and Daud held Corvo close as he delved into the dark.

There was an odd sense of relief to be found in disappearing into the sewers, even despite the smell and the wet and the creeping things in the dark. Like the rest of Dunwall, they had grown crueler, more ruthless, a suspicion confirmed as Daud crouched atop a rusted old cell, watching two Watchmen be devoured down to little more than grease stains by a swarm of rats. Even then, there was a particular ease in vanishing into the shadows, unpursued, in stealing keys from corpses and letting the Void drag them across the channels slick with oil and scum.

As promised, Daud discovered a crate packed full of gear, and he set Corvo down atop another as gently as he could to investigate. It was indeed a small cache of kit, alongside the strangest sword he had ever laid eyes upon – a baffling contraption that folded neatly away upon itself. Scowling at the overcomplicated blade and hoping it would not spontaneously unfold and gut him like a fish, Daud tucked the sword away inside his coat and loaded his pockets with the crossbow and bolts and what other meager offerings Corvo’s benefactor had seen fit to offer. Even if Daud did not trust whoever had sought to aid Corvo, their willingness to see him armed and protected was enough to ease some of his suspicion.

Sighing, he collected Corvo, who groaned weakly in his hold, still not wholly aware, and continued on.

The sewers dumped them out on the riverbank, and Daud took a moment to lean against the tunnel wall, arms weary from carrying Corvo and all of the gear they’d recovered. Carefully, he slid down to sit atop a section of discarded old pipe with a sigh.

Corvo shifted weakly in his arms, not quite recovered from the unnatural pull of the Void on his battered body and weary mind, but closer to consciousness than he had been. Daud held him close to his chest, exhausted himself, and smoothed one hand back through Corvo’s hair as he bent to lean their foreheads together. The breath in his chest stumbled free, stuttering loose into the stinking river-edge air, and Daud could not recall the last time he had felt so close to weeping. He was so tired, stretched thin by months of fear and worry and deep, unassuaged guilt that had chewed on his heart and weary bones like a starved rat since the moment he had learned of Billie’s betrayal.

Because he might not have put a blade through Jessamine Kaldwin’s chest, he might not have killed the woman that Corvo loved, the mother of his child, but Daud had practically signed her death certificate. And that would weigh upon his mind for the rest of his life, regardless of whether Corvo rejected him in the light of the truth or not.

“Daud?” Corvo wheezed, barely conscious and woozy.

“I’ve got you,” Daud assured him, lips lightly brushing along Corvo’s hairline.

“I know,” Corvo answered warmly, delirious. “You always do.”

Daud’s ribs clenched around his heart, throat tightening. He felt like a fucking fraud, but he held Corvo firmly in his arms, selfish, and pressed a kiss to his temple, unreasonably afraid that he would never have the opportunity again once this moment of tender weakness passed. And that was true, he thought with a mournful wave of anxious despair. This may be the last time.

Void, he hoped it wasn’t.

“Corvo, listen…” Daud began, but a sudden soft voice from the river’s edge interrupted his pitiful confession.

He had no right to be so relieved.

“Lord Corvo?” the voice called. “Lord Corvo, over here.”

“Stay here,” Daud redundantly instructed as he settled Corvo to sit on his own, drawing his blade and pistol and stepping the last few feet out into the daylight from the shade of the sewers.

On the meager strip of beach, an old but pristinely maintained skiff was nudged up on the shore, keel carved into the stony sand. It was a vessel Daud knew well, though he was baffled as to what it was doing here. And leaning against the side of the hull, donning the same thread-bare old coat and grey sideburns as he had the last time Daud had seen him, was the little boat’s captain.

Daud lowered his pistol, the tension draining from his shoulders. Fuck, he was exhausted.

“Beechworth?”

“Master Daud?” Samuel Beechworth asked incredulously, thick brows rising as he straightened to standing. “I was expecting Lord Corvo.”

“He…” Daud began, though caution seemed the wiser sin and he corrected himself. “I found the notes. Who is your employer?”

Beechworth looked as if he wanted to argue, to demand after Corvo, but Daud’s protectiveness must have conveyed itself as barely contained violence, because Beechworth swallowed thickly and scratched at his jaw.

“They’re a group of men loyal to the Crown, who want to help Lord Corvo put Princess Emily back on the throne,” Beechworth said, infallibly honest as he had always been. “They have connections, ways to get information that could be of use. We want to help.”

Daud watched Beechworth shrewdly for a long moment before glancing back to the sewer entrance, where Corvo was still safely hidden. If these Loyalists were who they said they were, they could offer legitimacy to whatever actions Corvo took in pursuit of preserving the royal line and the life of his daughter. No matter how desperately Daud wanted to keep him safe, to aid him in whatever way he needed, the Whalers were still a band of assassins. There was nothing legitimate about the things Daud did, even those things done in service of the greater good. But he and the Whalers could keep Corvo safe, and could keep the princess protected once they found her. With Corvo by his side, Daud was certain they could conquer the Empire anew if they had to.

“You trust them?” Daud asked shortly.

Beechworth nodded. “I trust their intentions. None of us wish Lord Corvo any harm.”

“Where were you instructed to take Corvo, once you retrieved him?”

“The Hound Pits Pub, a bar on the river in the Old Port District. They’ve set up there. It’s safe, only accessible from the Wrenhaven, what with all the barricades.”

Daud heaved a deep breath, nodding in agreement as he tugged on the Void and summoned Rinaldo to his side. Beechworth startled at his appearance, but did not jerk or shout. At least he had not forgotten everything about the Whalers’ skills since he had last worked for Daud.

“Master Daud,” Rinaldo saluted. “Corvo’s alright?”

“He’s weak, and sick, but alive.”

“Your orders, sir?” Rinaldo asked, trailing on Daud’s heels as he went to collect Corvo.

Corvo whined, still a little delirious and so, so tired, but Daud held him as close and gentle as his violent hands could allow, pressing a kiss to his temple. Daud could see the tension in Rinaldo’s shoulders, the trembling desire to reach out and touch, to confirm that Corvo was really, truly alive and free, but Rinaldo kept his hands in shaking fists by his sides.

“We’ve acquired some allies, it seems,” Daud told him. “Beechworth will take us to the Hound Pits Pub, in the Old Port District. You know it?”

“I do, sir.”

“Good, collect Misha, Thomas, and the twins and meet us there. Bring Montgomery, and make sure she’s fully equipped. Jordan and Leonid are to stay in Rudshore, keeping an eye on Galia and the Overseer. For everyone else, it’s business as usual until I return.”

“Understood.”

“Go, be quick,” Daud snapped, and Rinaldo immediately vanished with a flicker of the Void.

Beechworth’s eyes went wide when Daud approached to lean over the side of the boat and settle Corvo gently in a seat, brushing his hair away from his eyes when he shuddered with discomfort.

“Daud,” Corvo whined, reaching out.

Daud took his fragile hand, bringing it to his forehead reverently.

“Will he be alright?” Beechworth asked, genuinely concerned.

“He will be,” Daud told him with as much certainly as he could muster. “From now on, anything that tries to harm him will have to go through me, first.”

Chapter Text

Corvo woke slowly, warm and comfortable and so exhausted that the ache buried deep in his bones hardly registered. Grumbling, he tried to snuggle lower into the blankets, sinking into the softest mattress he had known in months, his contentment only disturbed by the sting of his bruised cheekbone against the pillow. He hurt; a low, pervasive pain that by now was so familiar he could scarcely remember what it felt like to be whole and hale, what it felt like for every breath to not echo with an agonizing rasp, or for his fingers to straighten without cracking like brittle branches, or for wounds to not stick to his clothes with every shift. But that was easy enough to ignore, given the surprising pleasantness of everything else. He probably should have worried, or at least questioned his drastic change in circumstances, but he refused to ruin a good thing while it lasted.

Just as Corvo began to doze once more, a door creaked open on the other side of the room and gentle footsteps crossed the space to his bed. There was shuffling, the tinkling scrape of glass bottles on a wooden table, and then a sudden weight on the edge of his mattress. The movement jostled some of Corvo’s injuries and he hissed, jolting awake, frantic and flailing in his own defense.

“Easy, Corvo, you’re alright,” a familiar feminine voice soothed, gentle but firm. “It’s Doctor Montgomery. It’s Adelaide.”

Corvo blinked his eyes open, fighting against the crustiness that clumped in his eyelashes, only to find Adelaide Mongomery smiling down at him, a damp rag in her hand to clean the grime from his face. She had such a lovely, motherly smile; one that pushed the apples of her round cheeks up into her eyes and folded handsome creases of age at their corners. Javier was a lucky man, Corvo mused idly.

“There you are,” she teased, gently wiping at his cheek. “I say, Corvo, we have to stop meeting like this. My dear husband will get jealous.”

He tried to laugh – a wretched, grating thing – but it scratched at his throat and he began to cough. Still, it was an exceptional thing to feel as if he could laugh; it had been a distant, half-forgotten sensation for so long, and Corvo was surprised that it had not been torn away from him like so many other things while in the grasp of Burrows and his wretched pet. If only there were things left in the world to truly laugh about.

Montgomery shushed him and held a cup of something steaming and herbal and awful to his lips, supporting his head with one of her plump little hands as she forced him to drink. He swallowed dutifully, though his mouth contorted into a displeased frown at the taste. Like garden clippings and despair, Javier would have said.

“Oh, stop your fussing,” Montgomery scolded gently as if she could read his mind.

If she could read minds, Corvo wouldn’t be able to say with confidence that he was entirely surprised.

After diligently finishing the vile concoction, Corvo shuffled to sit up against the headboard despite the pain in his ribs. Montgomery had wrapped his torse firmly for support, though it only helped so much when he ached down to the marrow of his bones all over. Now that he considered it, he was covered nearly head-to-toe in bandages and splints and poultices, and looked rather more like the corpse of an Oracular Sister than a living, breathing man. He wanted it to be funny, wanted to laugh at himself, but he was too tired and there were too many questions sitting like lead weights on his tongue, heavy and poisoning him slowly.

“This isn’t Rudshore,” he eventually managed, though it sounded more like a question than anything else. He cleared his throat; his voice sounded strange to his own ears. “Where are we?”

“A place called the Hound Pits Pub,” Montgomery said conversationally as she straightened up the various bottles and foul-smelling vials on the desk by his bed. "Daud brought you here after dragging you from Coldridge. He said something about a “loyalist conspiracy”, but he wasn’t making much sense. He hasn’t made much sense ever since… well.”

Corvo frowned, trying to ignore the sting of grief in the back of his nose. He had spent so much time trapped with his grief in the cruel silence of his cell that he felt it shouldn’t have such a hold on him anymore. But it did. Of course it did.

“Daud is… here?”

Montgomery smiled at him a little sadly and smoothed the blankets across his lap.

“He’s been pacing the hall, waiting to see you. Has been since I kicked him out while I got you taken care of,” she admitted. “Not that he’ll admit it, but he’s been worried to death. We all have.”

“I see.”

“You can see him whenever you’re ready. If you’re ready,” Montgomery told him with a pointed arch of her brow. “You two have a great deal to discuss.”

Nervous sickness squirmed in Corvo’s belly and he scowled down at his hands. He could remember, vaguely, the things that had been said between them in the shadows of his prison cell; a desperate flurry of apologies and claims of betrayal and excuses, so many excuses. Corvo knew, in his heart, that Daud was telling him the truth. But it was easier to be angry, to lash out. He had not been able to snarl or fight in months, not without earning himself some creative new horror in the Royal Interrogator’s chair, and he was weary of sitting with his rage and turning it back on himself. He was to blame, after all. His attachment to Daud had brought all of this upon his head, and even if it had been Billie who drove the blade into Jessamine’s chest and taken Emily, Daud had taught her everything she knew. Daud was culpable as much as anyone else.

And Corvo hated that it was true. He wanted it to be a misunderstanding, or a dream that he would wake from with a beam of rare Dunwall sunlight blazing in his eyes and a warm body dipping the mattress beside him. But if he had not woken by now, he wouldn’t. He was living this nightmare, no matter what he wanted.

“Is it…” Corvo began, clearing his throat and refusing to meet Montgomery’s eyes. “Billie... did she really betray you all?”

Montgomery frowned down at his bandaged hands for a long moment, before defiantly raising her chin, eyes sharp as flint.

“She did, though I wish it wasn’t true,” she told him. “Daud was devastated. By all of it. He’s been struggling, Corvo. And that doesn’t erase what happened to you, or to the Empress, or the Princess, but… give him the chance to speak. That’s all I ask.”

She didn’t wait for him to respond, instead simply rising from the edge of the bed with a sad smile. Her hand was gentle as she brushed it over his hair, despite how foul and filthy he knew he surely was, and Corvo shuddered at the softness of the touch, barely avoiding flinching when she reached for him. Montgomery’s smile flickered, pained, perhaps, before she drew away entirely and walked towards the door.

“Adelaide,” Corvo called out just before she turned the knob. “Thomas… is Thomas here?”

“On his way, with Rinaldo,” she assured him kindly.

A brilliant surge of relief rose to soothe some of the tightness in his throat, a tender balm to the rising anxious terror that had put down roots there and blossomed over recent months, a fear that threatened to bear fruit now that he was about to be faced with Daud, again.

“Thank you,” he said.

Montgomery nodded and slipped outs, leaving the door ajar behind her. In the hall, Corvo could hear the rhythmic pacing of boots trying to wear a rut into the floor, a sound that halted immediately when Montgomery stepped outside. There was a frantic shuffling, then the muted whispers of voices, and then a great gust of breath before the sound of bootsteps returned, now slow and strangely timid.

Corvo knew who would be on the other side of the door, he knew that Daud was collecting himself as much as he was, and so Corvo cleared his throat.

“Daud?”

There was a sigh, and then the door pushed open. Daud’s gaze immediately snapped to Corvo in his bed, eyes fluttering all over as if checking for any injury that Montgomery might have missed – as unlikely as that was. He was slow moving to Corvo’s side, cautious like he was waiting for some rebuke. Corvo had never seen him so timid, so painfully self-aware, and so he took pity on him and raised his hand in offering. Daud immediately rushed to his side with an unnecessary draw of the Void, taking Corvo’s hand in a desperate grip.

“Corvo,” Daud breathed, Corvo’s fingers pressed firmly to his brow and eyes clenched shut. “Corvo. Corvo.”

“Daud,” Corvo whispered, tears threatening to choke the words from his throat. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

There was something wounded in Daud’s expression, a fragile little thing that seemed as if he would shatter if Corvo spoke too loud or moved too fast, and it didn’t suit Daud at all. He was supposed to be fierce and focused and indomitable, a force of nature that did not balk at pain and cast emotions to the sea like a sailor’s burial. But Daud looked exhausted, a weariness deeper than a sleepless night of pacing by Corvo’s bedside. There were heavy shadows beneath his rid-rimmed eyes and a wan draw to his face that left him looking hollow, like his too-thin body would echo like a well if he was touched with too much force. This wasn’t the Daud that Corvo knew, the Daud that he loved. This was a man wrung dry by bitterness and worry and crippling guilt. Somehow, Corvo felt as if it were his fault.

“I wouldn’t…” Daud tried, shakily clearing his throat and releasing Corvo’s hand. “I wasn’t going to leave you there, Corvo.”

Corvo nodded as if he had known that all along, but he hadn’t. He hadn’t, and he’d been there so long, so long that he didn’t even know how long it had been. Despite the agony of Jessamine’s death and his fear for Emily’s safety, despite the gut-wrenching belief of Daud’s betrayal, Corvo had hoped that Daud would come for him.

“How long?” Corvo asked softly.

“Too long,” Daud said. “Months.”

Corvo chewed on his lower lip, but it was split and swollen and the pressure of his teeth against it stung. He ran his tongue over the freshest cut, trying to soothe it, and managed precisely the opposite. Nothing, it seemed, would permit him any comfort.

“What took you so long?”

“Corvo….”

“Just answer the question,” Corvo hissed, though he swallowed his frustration. “Don’t I deserve to know?”

Daud looked as if he’d been slapped, jerking back and casting his gaze to the floor with shame. Corvo thought Daud was too proud for shame, and it looked brittle on his face.

“We’ve been looking for Emily.”

Corvo’s breath caught anxiously, heart stuttering and stumbling and then pounding too fast. “And?”

“Billie learned too well. We haven’t been able to find her,” Daud admitted. “I wasn’t going to retrieve Emily without you there, but it was best if we knew her location before we extracted you, in case….”

In an instant, Daud’s expression crumpled, agonized, and then shuttered entirely. Corvo knew that look, knew what sort of secrets Daud so often buried behind it like bodies in a shallow grave. There was something he didn’t want Corvo to know.

“Daud,” Corvo whispered, reaching to clasp Daud’s hands in his own and bringing them to his lips. He’d missed the shape of them, their roughness and their strength, the way they could hold and caress and destroy. He’d missed Daud, missed him terribly, and so he nuzzled along his knuckles, pressing kisses to each tendon and knob and scar. “Daud, cariño, what aren’t you telling me?”

For a moment, Corvo thought that Daud would pull away and vanish, like he had so many times before whenever the emotions pressed too close, whenever Corvo flayed his heart open for Daud to pick through at his leisure. But Daud stayed put, back straight as he sat on the edge of the bed, gaze wandering over Corvo’s face as if this were the last time he’d have the chance to look. It made Corvo’s skin crawl. Not the attention, never the attention; rather, he had longed for Daud to look at him like this, like he was the only beautiful thing left in the world. But this moment didn’t come with that heart-fluttering joy, that nervous, juvenile giddiness that left him eager and woozy.

This felt like the precipice of heartbreak.

Daud sighed, glancing away.

“About a year ago, I accepted a job from Hiram Burrows,” Daud said, sounding as if each word was being pried from his very soul. “It wasn’t the first. We’d done plenty of his dirty work over the years, and this was more of the same. At least, I thought it was. But the coin he was offering was enough to keep us fed and clothed and armed for a decade.”

Corvo swallowed, dread like acid eating at his insides, dissolving the cage of his ribs until he thought he’d spill into a puddle on the floor.

“What… what kind of job earns that much coin?” he asked, afraid he already knew the answer.

“The murder of an Empress.”

“No,” Corvo whined, shaking his head desperately. “No, Daud, no.”

“Initially I accepted,” Daud continued, and Corvo could see him straining to maintain his composure, but with the first devastated wheeze of Corvo’s breath, Daud shattered. Panic rose on his face like a tidal wave, sudden and all-consuming, and Corvo jerked his hands back even as Daud reached out for them, desperate. “But when I met you… Corvo, you changed everything. I turned Burrows down, told him I wanted nothing to do with it. I turned him down, and tightened the defenses in Rudshore, expecting retribution. Corvo, I told him no.”

Corvo ground his teeth, desperate not to cry. Still, the agony of deception and betrayal and the ruin of all the hopes he had placed upon Daud closed around his throat, a fresh hangman’s noose the replace the one he’d awaited every day he’d languished in Coldridge. This was crueler, a long suffocation that made him wish he’d faced the executioner instead. At least he would have made it quick, at least he wouldn’t have had the audacity to look as devastated as Daud did now.

“You never told me,” Corvo whispered, grabbing the tendrils of anger that wove through his despair like weeds in sidewalks.

Anger was easier, it hurt less, it made him feel like he still had control over something in this maelstrom his life had become. He didn’t want to be angry, fuck, he didn’t want to be angry. He wanted to understand. But he was tired and sore and so, so sad, and he struggled to find the patience for understanding.

“No,” Daud conceded softly. “No, I didn’t.”

“You could have told me,” Corvo said, anger rising despite the way it tore at his ruined throat. “You could have warned me about Burrows. I could have increased security, or dealt with him myself, or stayed in the Tower and not gone on that fucking trip!”

He was yelling now, ribs withering like dying plants around his heart, constricting and hot and unpleasant. He felt like he was going to die, just as he had when they dragged him away from Jessamine’s body, his boots leaving ugly marks on the pristine marble steps.

“It shouldn’t have mattered. No one else could have gotten to her, and I had Misha watching her in your place. Burrows was out of options. She was safe.”

“I could have… I could have protected her!”

“No, you couldn’t!” Daud shouted in reply, a wretched, anguished look in his eyes. “There was a reason Burrows contacted me, Corvo! Without our abilities, it would have been impossible for Burrows to take action against her without raising suspicion. But I turned him down, because of you! Because—!”

Daud silenced himself so abruptly that his teeth clacked when he bit back the words, eyes gone wide and frantic, breaths coming too fast and too short. Corvo had never seen him look so scared, had never seen him freeze up with panic like a gazelle spotting its hunter hidden in the trees. He wondered if Daud would also flee. He’d proven himself to be far more of a coward than Corvo could have guessed.

“Because what?” Corvo asked icily.

“It never should have happened,” Daud eventually said, changing the subject with a noticeable lack of grace. “She shouldn’t be dead.”

“But she is, Daud!” Corvo roared. “She’s dead and Emily is missing and everything has gone to shit because of you!”

“I—”

“Billie’s betrayal I could have accepted – she always seemed like the type – but you lied to me, Daud! Or at the very least, didn’t tell me the truth!”

Daud was quiet for a long moment, and when he spoke his voice was dreadfully soft. “I was afraid.”

“Of what? This?!” Corvo snatched an empty bottle from the table by his bed and threw it at Daud. It flew past his shoulder, only narrowly missing his broad frame, and exploded against the back wall. “Afraid I’d find out you used me?!”

Daud did not flinch, he did not summon the Void to cast the bottle aside; he simply stood there as shards of glass rained down on his shoulders, catching in his hair. He held Corvo’s furious gaze without withering, and Corvo felt as if he could read the grief and guilt and quiet desperation on every line of his face. But Daud didn’t fight his derision, he simply bore it the way lighthouses weather storms, stoic and silent. Suddenly, Corvo felt that his heart was breaking anew, a fresh crack that he hadn’t know was spreading, splitting what bits of him were left whole open. Suddenly, Corvo felt as if he’d made a mistake.

“Just… get out,” he told Daud, chest heaving with aching breaths. “Just go.”

With a slow sigh, Daud nodded and turned to the door. His steps seemed heavy, reluctant, as if the weight of the world and all his mistakes had settled on his shoulders, dragging him down, down, down. But he paused just before steeping back into the hall, his glove creaking on the doorknob, and turned back to Corvo.

“I know it means nothing, Corvo, but I am sorry,” he said softly, oddly tender. “And I was never afraid of you finding out what I had or hadn’t done. I was just afraid of losing you.”

The gentle click of the door closing behind him was deafening.

-----

Thomas had followed Rinaldo blindly when he explained what, exactly, had happened when Daud had crawled out of a sewer with a battered Corvo in his arms. He tried not to feel so devastated that Daud had not wanted him there, by his and Corvo’s sides, in this new place – the Hound Pits Pub, Rinaldo had said – but the hurt was there, nonetheless. So, he had patiently waited as so many of the others were summoned, waited and worried and stolen secret moments in the safety of his chambers to weep.

Galia and her Overseer had found him, once, huddled on the floor between the corner and the decrepit old chair that had always lived there. He had expected dismissal, perhaps condemnation for his tears when he ought to be overjoyed that Corvo was alive and free. But Galia had merely said gentle things that soothed his heart, in that soft tone of hers that promised she would be an exceptional mother one day, kind and sweet and wholly adoring. And her Overseer – Reilly – had said nothing at all, instead draping blankets around Thomas’s shoulders and braving Jenkins on his own for a consolatory cup of tea.

Their kindness had nearly shattered him entirely, and he had sobbed like a child as he fought back the old urge to take a knife to the skin of his thighs, to focus the all-consuming agony that blurred his thoughts and choked his heart into a tangible pain. When it passed – because it always did, eventually – Thomas had felt more settled in his bones than he had since before Corvo had set sail on the Empress’s errand.

Rinaldo came for him with a summons from Montgomery, not Daud, the following afternoon. His head had been clear as he gathered his things and followed, listening as Rinaldo told a wild tale of recent events in the moments between transversals, a tale that took the entire trip into the Old Port District to tell.

The Hound Pits Pub – quickly becoming a secondary base of operations, judging from the number of Whalers rushing about – was an old building that had once been beautiful, but was now worn and weary and grim, as so many old beautiful things often became. Some of its old character lingered, despite what looked to be centuries of sloppy updates. Thomas would not call it a charming building, but it was endearing in the way that a grandparent who never really knew what year it was could be endearing. Endearing but tragic, all at once. Still, it was a secure enough place, nestled between tall barricades and the Wrenhaven, easy enough for people with their particular skills to navigate but nearly impossible for anyone else. The halls were drafty and each door looked deceptively the same, lending a sense of over-largeness to what truly was a modest box of a building.

Rinaldo had led him up several flights of stairs to the top floor, where they had settled Corvo in to rest, when the shouting started.

It was Corvo, voice wrecked and strained but undeniably him, and the relief that Thomas felt at the sound of him alive and relatively well was enough the quell the throb of anxiousness that he should have felt at the sound of an argument. But he did not rush in, lingering instead in the hall with Rinaldo until the shouting grew unnervingly quiet, and finally Daud emerged from the room, looking disheveled and exhausted.

He glanced up for a brief moment, eyes flicking between Thomas and Rinaldo, before he rolled his shoulders back and straightened his posture. It was a weak effort at composure, but they both allowed it, staying silent.

“See that he is looked after,” Daud ordered weakly. “I need to speak with Havelock.”

“Yes, sir,” Thomas and Rinaldo said in choppy unison, turning to watch him go.

The tension of grief that lingered in the wake of Daud’s departure had a seemingly physical weight, the kind of weight that pressed the air from one’s lungs and forbade the drawing of breath. Thomas was accustomed to such pressure; it was a constant companion that hung around his neck, dragging him down, always down, pressing him flat and lifeless like blossoms in book pages. It was the burden of uncertainty, of vengeful sorrow with no target, of walking on eggshells with chains around one’s ankles, of striving for usefulness and perfection in the face of the looming inevitability of failure.

Rinaldo was not accustomed to such pressure, optimistic man that he was, and he squirmed by Thomas’s side, glancing between Corvo’s door and the direction Daud had stalked off in.

“I think,” Rinaldo said carefully, “it would be best for you to look after Corvo.”

“I… right, sure,” Thomas reluctantly agreed.

And as soon as he gave his assent, Rinaldo nodded and made himself scarce, leaving Thomas to face whatever awaited on his own. Holding his breath, Thomas gathered himself and walked down the hallway on silent steps, as if he would startle Corvo away with too much noise. It was disturbingly quiet.

“Corvo?” he called softly, knocking lightly on the door.

There was a breathless pause, and then came a shaking reply of: “Thomas?”

“Yeah,” Thomas swallowed the thickness in his throat. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Thomas,” Corvo repeated, almost a sob, edging on desperate. “Thomas.”

Something clattered and fell on the other side of the closed door, followed by a heavy thump and a sharp-tongued Serkonan curse, and Thomas could hardly bear the barrier between them any longer. He flung open the door to surge inside, frantic, heart crawling up his throat like a crab trying to escape a boiling pot.

Corvo was half sprawled on the floor, looking so weak and frail and fragile in a way that a man like Corvo should never look. He was too grand, too lively and imposing, too spectacular to look so feeble, wasted away. But Thomas could hardly focus on the wrongness of it all, because nothing had ever looked more beautiful than Corvo reaching out for him with pleading hope in his eyes. He stumbled to his knees, the warped floorboards tearing at his trousers with splintery hands, and flung his arms around Corvo’s shoulders to drag him close.

“Thomas, solecito,” Corvo gasped against his throat, face buried against his neck.

“I’m here, Corvo, I’m here, I’m sorry,” Thomas sobbed as tears welled in his eyes, making the world look strange and watery, the way Daud described the Void. "I'm so sorry, Corvo, I'm sorry."

For a moment Corvo’s fingers curled brutally into the back of his shirt, grasping and wonderfully selfish, the sting of his too-long nails a grounding spot of pain. But then Corvo leaned back, hands caressing Thomas’s face with a frantic tenderness that he did not deserve, that he could never deserve, his shadowed eyes searching for something in his expression that Thomas could not comprehend. Thomas felt half-blind with the wetness in his eyes, a blurry desperation that worsened when Corvo pulled him close in another fierce embrace, pressing tender kisses into Thomas’s hair.

“I was so scared, Corvo,” Thomas sobbed, pitiful. “I was so scared that we’d be too late. I couldn’t bear it, if you were gone. I… I would have followed you, Corvo. I would have followed you.”

“Don’t say that, Thomas,” Corvo whispered. “Don’t say those things.”

And fuck, Thomas knew he was selfish to pour his grief into Corvo’s cup, a glass already overflowing with loss and suffering, but Corvo was so gentle, so caring, and Thomas wanted to drown in him. He wanted to languish in Corvo Attano, he wanted to pry loose the weed of affection blooming in his chest and offer it up, a wretched little thing for Corvo to do with as he wished. He wanted to lay himself at Corvo’s feet. He wanted to free the great and terrible words that lurked always beneath his tongue.

I love you. Don’t leave me. I’m sorry, I love you.

They clung to each other for a long while, rocking gently side to side, until their breaths had finally slowed into a shared, even rhythm. The closeness loosened a tangle of longing that Thomas had not known was tying him in knots, and he slumped into Corvo’s chest, lulled by the slow sweep of Corvo’s broad hand over his back. The relief of having him here was immense, deeper and wider and more vast than the ocean, drowning Thomas in the swell of his own emotions. No matter the pain he had felt during the long months of waiting for Daud to make a decision, to come to his senses, Thomas could only feel gratitude to Daud for bringing Corvo back to them, all the bitter, anxious frustration forgotten.

Nuzzling into Thomas’s throat, Corvo chuckled, a raspy wheeze of breath, before he leaned back to brush his thumbs against Thomas’s cheeks, a baffling smile curling his split lips.

“What is it?” Thoms asked, clearing his throat.

Hesitating for a moment, Thomas slowly raised his hand to trace the shape of Corvo’s lips with the tips of his trembling fingers, following the graceful curve of his mouth, the mouth that spilled such sweet and gentle words. Thomas wondered if they tasted so sweet, if their kiss would be so gentle. But he dared not learn.

“Look at us,” Corvo said softly, grinning despite everything. “We’re a mess.”

Thomas couldn’t bite back the thick, watery laugh that leapt from his chest, startling in its genuineness. Rubbing the lingering dampness from his cheeks, Thomas fought to pretend that he had not just broken down in the arms of a grieving, tortured man, and that he was not on the verge of breaking down again.

“Do you want to bathe?” he asked, and Corvo’s face lit up as if he’d been offered a vault full of riches rather than a meager soak in a lukewarm tub. “I’m sure Montgomery won’t mind rewrapping your bandages.”

“As much as I respect Adelaide,” Corvo huffed, “right now, I don’t much care if she does mind.”

“Alright,” Thomas smiled as he stood, and it was the easiest smile he’d worn in years. “Alright, Rinaldo mentioned a washroom downstairs.”

“Thank the stars,” Corvo sighed, allowing Thomas to hoist him to his feet.

He was unsteady on his own legs, knees threatening to wobble out from under him, so Thomas pulled him close by an arm around his waist and they shuffled along the hall and down the stairs like some strange, four-legged beast. Thomas used the time to look over Corvo’s injuries – or, more accurately, the vast wrappings of bandages around his hands and arms and chest. His fingers were purple and swollen and less straight than they used to be, left knobby and crooked from being broken an untended. It was likely that Corvo had reset them himself, in the dark of his prison cell, and sour nausea made Thomas’s mouth water unpleasantly at the thought. And then there were the burns, the cuts, the missing fingernails all slathered will foul-smelling herbal salves, the vast black bruises that surely stretched across his skin like storm clouds on the horizon, horrendous and inevitable.

Eventually they found the washroom, thankfully vacant, tucked across from the servants’ quarters on the second floor. It was a cramped space, especially with the both of them crushed into the little room, but it served its purpose, useful enough despite the unfortunate wallpaper that unpeeled at the corners and the wood warped from decades of steam. There was a convenient little bench against one wall, and Thomas settled Corvo onto the seat before turning on the taps, wiggling his fingers under the water until it warmed.

“I’ll find you a towel, and a change of clothes,” Thomas murmured, keeping his gaze on the floor and firmly away from where Corvo was struggling out of the tatters of his shirt. “I’ll… I’ll be in the hall, if you need anything. Just… just call me.”

“Thomas,” Corvo said sharply, reaching to grasp Thomas’s wrist with on bandage half unwound from his forearm.

Thomas swallowed thickly, staring at a mislaid tile on the floor that ruined the rest of the pattern. He wished, dearly, that the damn tile was the most interesting thing in the room, but there was Corvo, divested of his shirt and grasping at his wrist with a sort of desperation that made Thomas’s stomach flip with selfish desire. It was a vile thing, he knew, to want Corvo even when he was this weak; his dark complexion chalky with illness and his cheeks sunken from hunger and his ribs too prominent along his sides. But Corvo was always beautiful in his eyes, always so strong, and Thomas wanted him in any way, even if it was merely to tend his wound and help him heal. Thomas would do anything for him, the same way he would do anything for Daud.

“Thomas,” Corvo said again, voice gone low and strangely tender. “Stay, please.”

“I….”

“Stay with me.”

Drawing a careful breath, Thomas nodded, pleading for composure as he helped Corvo undress and step shakily into the steaming bath. Corvo groaned lowly as he settled, a sound that would have been filthy had the circumstances not been so dreadfully sad, and Thomas knelt behind him at the end of the tub.

“Nothing hurts? It’s not too hot?” Thomas asked to fill the quiet.

Corvo said nothing for a while, simply closing his eyes as Thomas poured water over his hair with his cupped palms, then rumbling a low sound of pleasure when Thomas lathered his hands with harsh lye soap and began working the grime from his hair with gentle fingers. Once Thomas had rinsed his hair clean – grown so long over recent months, nearly puddling over Corvo’s shoulders – Corvo reached up to clasp his hand, and pulled it to his lips, kissing softly against the meat of his thumb.

“It’s perfect,” Corvo said softly, sounding close to dozing off there in the cooling water. “You’re perfect.”

“Corvo,” Thomas whined, leaning his forehead against the top of Corvo’s head, not caring about the dampness.

“I thought of you often, when I was…” Corvo trailed off with a strangled rasp of breath. “I thought about that night in Rudshore, sleeping with our beds pushed together. You were so warm. I thought about being warm, a lot. It was always so cold there.”

Thomas nuzzled against Corvo’s cheek, with an agonized sigh. He was desperate for anything to focus on, to keep the tears at bay, and so he collected a cloth and lathered it with soap, reaching into the water to scrub gently over Corvo’s chest and shoulders. There seemed to be so much less of him now – less muscle, less weight, less life, less everything. Thomas loved him still, no matter how much or how little of Corvo there was. Thomas would love every bit of him, every laugh and tear and freckle and scar.

“I wondered what you were doing,” Corvo continued, distracted with exhaustion.

“I was thinking about you,” Thomas told him honestly, voice a tearful whisper.

Corvo hummed, a soft smile on his face as he leaned his head back against Thomas’s shoulder, falling into a weary silence. Thomas let him rest and continued gently working months of filth and neglect from his skin, vigilantly watching for any flinch of discomfort or furrowed brow. When he was finished, he wrung the water from the cloth and draped it over the edge of the tub to dry. Corvo shifted, jostled from whatever rest he had managed to find.

“You alright?” Thomas asked quietly as he wrapped his arms around Corvo’s shoulders, hands spread open over his chest and the little tattoo over his heart. Thomas would not have guessed that Corvo hand any tattoos, not like the miles of twining shapes that marked his own body, but there were a few inked into his skin: a dove over his heart, a bouquet of flowers splayed across his ribs, a sextant over the curve of one shoulder. They were lovely, little signposts of Corvo’s life that Thomas had no context for, no understanding. But he desperately, achingly longed to know each of their stories.

Corvo hummed as Thomas leaned their temples together and murmured: “Just thinking.”

“What are you thinking about?”

Corvo chuckled, a hoarse, wry sound that bore about as much humor as a wake.

“It’s a stupid thing, really,” he said, just a little too airy to be properly casual, leaving him sounding brittle as ice. “When we were in Tyvia, I bought a music box for Emily as a gift for the new year. It was one of the silver ones inlaid with gemstones, made by a master jeweler from Dabokva, and when you opened it a little mechanical ship would sway on mechanical waves. It was a trifle, far less fine than anything in the Tower, but Emily longs to be a pirate. A princess, and she wants to be a pirate.”

Uncertain of what to say, or even of where Corvo’s thoughts were taking him, Thomas stayed silent, holding him close even as his broken chuckles fractured into something deeper, dissolving into the hiccupping threat of sobs.

“And you know, I have no idea whatever happened to that little thing,” Corvo said, shuddering.

Thomas held him, shirt soaked to the elbows with tepid bathwater, as Corvo finally wept.

-----

            Rinaldo was not opposed to eavesdropping.

In fact, it was a favorite pastime of his, a fact well known among his peers and wholly expected of him in any context. The halls of the Hound Pits were perfect for such salacious listening; they were drafty, with high ceilings and too-few rugs for how loudly the ancient floors creaked, and the old wood and plaster seemed to ricochet secrets between the walls, ripe for the taking. Rinaldo, a gossip by trade, loved places like this. Places with conspiracy and unlocked doors and tongue-loosening liquor and servants too often ignored who were eager to chat about anything and everything. Places like the Hound Pits Pub were brimming with entertainment waiting to be tapped by someone with Rinaldo’s set of skills. Jordan called it insatiable nosiness; Rinaldo called it a convenient by-product of unfettered charisma.

So, it was natural that, when he heard Montgomery and Daud arguing with that pompous, stiff-necked Admiral – Rinaldo frankly couldn’t recall his name, and didn’t give enough shits to ask – he paused just before turning the corner to listen.

“We have goals that will benefit the Empire,” the Admiral was saying sternly, with the commanding sort of tone that probably worked on sailors and that Daud and Montgomery would ignore entirely. “Corvo is vital to achieving those goals, and time is of the essence.”

“You address him as Lord Attano. Don’t be familiar,” Daud snapped, vicious.

Montgomery sighed, loud and put-upon, and Rinaldo could imagine her folding her pudgy arms beneath her ample chest, glaring up at the Admiral like a prize-fighter and refusing to back down no matter how much he loomed. Despite being surrounded by the likes of Corvo and Daud and Misha and the twins, Adelaide Montgomery was the scariest person Rinaldo knew.

“With all due respect to your goals,” she said, not sounding respectful at all, “Lord Attano is incredibly ill. His fever has yet to break, his wounds are riddled with infection, and he’s half-starved. The man is weak, and exhausted.”

The Admiral huffed, frustrated, but Montgomery plowed on before he could speak.

“If your goal is to get the Lord Protector killed, then by all means, carry on.”

Montgomery’s sarcastic disdain always had the distinct effect of making one feel like a young and unbearably stupid child. Rinaldo wished he did not know from experience.

“Ma’am…” the Admiral began condescendingly.

“Doctor,” Montgomery and Daud spat in the same moment.

“Doctor,” the Admiral corrected, though it sounded like he’d just been informed that he’d have to pull his own teeth. “There is information that we need, and an ally that needs our assistance. Corvo is the only man with the skills to complete the mission.”

There was a long pause, and Rinaldo pressed his fist over his mouth to bite back an incredulous snort of laughter. A band of assassins with heretical powers had just put down roots in his little hidey-hole, and the Admiral believed that Corvo was the only man among them capable of stealing a few documents and getting an ally out of a bind? Rinaldo wondered if he was truly so dim, or if he had simply made up his mind and would not be persuaded to change it no matter how the circumstances had shifted. Either option spoke poorly of the man. Rinaldo amused himself with imagining that the Admiral had joined the Navy despite not knowing how to swim, being either too stupid to learn or too stubborn to admit the folly. He quite liked the idea of watching the man drown.

“The importance of this cannot be overstated,” the Admiral insisted. “I am unwilling to trust anyone but Corvo with this.”

Daud growled at the disrespectful lack of Corvo’s title, and even from his place around the corner, Rinaldo could see the way the shadows shifted unnaturally with his anger, pockets of darkness that gained life and claws and teeth under the influence of the Void.

“I’ll go myself,” Daud said, demanding. “He trusts me. That should be good enough for you, Havelock.”

Ah, so Admiral Asshole was in fact Admiral Havelock. Rinaldo thought that the name was familiar in some far-off way, but he wasn’t worth the effort of recalling why.

“Considering the row I heard earlier, I’m not so sure that’s true,” Havelock snapped back.

Daud was deathly quiet for a long while, and Havelock’s smugness was nearly a palpable thing, an ugly little monster that clawed at the open wounds in Daud’s heart. Rinaldo knew he was hurting; how could he not be, after everything? Rinaldo had heard more than enough as he escorted Thomas up to Corvo’s room, his own heart clenching at the pain of betrayal in Corvo’s shaking voice and Daud’s frustrated agony as he tried to explain, tried to defend himself, tried to be heard. It had been an awful thing to listen to, and Rinaldo had never heard Daud so close to tears.

Thomas’s arrival had been a balm to both of them, as he always was. Thomas was always a beacon of warmth and gentle kindness, soothing like honey slathered on a rotten wound. He would fix everything, he would ease the lingering pains they carried, even if it took time. It was an unfair burden to place upon Thomas’s shoulders – he already carried so much – but Rinaldo knew he would bear it gladly for Corvo and Daud, the men he loved.

Eventually, Daud drew a slow breath and Rinaldo strained to hear him.

“He’s not going,” Daud ordered, and Havelock would have been a fool to argue given the edge of protective violence in his voice.

Rinaldo could abide the tension no longer, and so he foolishly surged out from around the corner, coming to stand in the middle of the hallway and feeling rather suddenly like a child being caught swiping sweets from the kitchen. The trio stared at him, each with varying degrees of surprise and disappointment in their eyes, and he struggled not to chuckle at the awkwardness of it all.

“I’ll go,” he said, straightening his spine. “Master Daud, I’ll go, and you can stay with Lord Attano.”

Using Corvo’s title felt wrong and left him feeling itchy, but he would not disclose their familiarity in front of Havelock, in front of an outsider. Montgomery rolled her eyes at his antics, though the pull of her lips betrayed some of her pride, but Daud simply watched him for a few moments more, an unreadable iciness in his gaze. Rinaldo squared his conviction and powered onwards.

“What’s the job?” Rinaldo demanded as he turned to Havelock.

“Extraction,” Havelock said. “Get one of our own out, and locate a notebook filled with information vital to our cause.”

“Location? Target?”

Havelock’s heavy brows furrowed deeper over his pale eyes, mouth pursed in grim assessment. It seemed as if he were slowly coming to a conclusion, one that likely suggested that Daud and the Whalers were involved now, regardless of whatever his plans had initially been, and that fighting their involvement would make his life miserable and his goals unachievable. Good, Rinaldo thought spitefully. Whether his intentions were pure or not, Havelock clearly did not have Corvo’s best interests at heart, and he was plainly outmatched.

“Holger Square,” Havelock said slowly. “The target: High Overseer Campbell.”

“Well then,” Rinaldo said coolly, arching one brow as he turned back to Daud. “I’ll take Kieron. With him around, all I’ll have to do is slip in and recover the documents; the Overseers will have their hands full. It’ll be in and out, easy.”

Havelock opened his mouth as if to speak but was immediately interrupted by Daud.

“Fine,” Daud said with a firm nod. “I’m sure Admiral Havelock will happily give you all the details.”

There was an edge of smugness in Daud’s tone that brought a smirk to Rinaldo’s own lips, and so he offered a crisp salute and a low, respectful bow – far tidier and more deferential than usual – if only to watch the corner of Havelock’s mouth twitch with frustration.

“Understood, sir,” Rinaldo acknowledged, nodding to Montgomery.

“Dismissed.”

“Master Daud,” Rinaldo said courteously, and turned immediately on his heel, stalking off in search of the twins.

As he turned the corner, he nearly walked straight into a young woman, who, for all her apparent shock, recovered quickly. Callista, Rinaldo thought her name was. A governess in the Admiral’s employ, if he recalled correctly, and given the way she crisply straightened her coat and glanced up at him with something akin to disappointment, he concluded that she was a governess, indeed.

“Pardon,” Rinaldo offered, nodding as he shuffled around her.

He was but a few steps down the hall when she called out to him, her voice sharp but polite enough to not earn immediate dismissal.

“Master Assassin,” she said. “I have a request, if I may make one.”

“Uh, sure,” Rinaldo agreed awkwardly.

He waved his hand at her to continue, and she clutched her hands to her chest, relief and hope clear on her face.

“I had planned to make this request of Lord Corvo; I have heard that he is a kind and understanding man, and had hoped that he would listen,” she took a slow breath. “But if you are to go in his place, I must ask you instead, though you have no reason to listen to me. My uncle, Geoff Curnow, still serves as a captain of the City Watch, but he is a good man, and my only family.

“The chatter in servant circles is that Campbell just took a delivery of an exotic poison, and I think I know why. My uncle is not corruptible like the rest of them,” Callista paused. “Campbell, that wretched man, is going to poison my uncle. I’m certain of it.”

Rinaldo tried not to grimace, knowing perfectly well the request that was coming. He wanted to refuse, to tell her that he was not in the habit of serving as a protection detail – he was an assassin, after all, his trade was quite the opposite. But she looked so genuine, so desperate, and so Rinaldo did nothing to rebuke her.

“Do you think you could protect him? I have little to offer as compensation, but I will give you whatever I can. Please?”

“I’ll… I’ll see what I can do, but I make no promises,” Rinaldo reluctantly agreed.

“Thank you!” she breathed, plainly relieved. “Thank you, Master…?”

“Rinaldo,” he offered. “Rinaldo Escobar.”

“Master Escobar,” Callista echoed, slightly reverent. “Thank you.”

Rinaldo nodded with a nervous swallow, summoning the Void to transverse down the hall and away from her hopeful scrutiny.

Fuck, he was going to regret this.

Chapter Text

“Okay, so,” Kieron began, shoving his mask up on his forehead to scratch at his beard as they stared down at Holger Square, currently humming with lazy night patrols, “you want me to look for a route inside while you free that gobshite over there from the stocks?”

He gestured broadly to the yard in front of the Office of the High Overseer, where a figure could be seen kneeling with his neck and hands pinned in restraints. Rinaldo nodded, scouting out the best points of entry with relatively clean sightlines. Conveniently, the Overseers’ commitment to stern, unadorned architecture and excessive minimalism – at least on the outside, like all allegedly pious institutions were – offered plenty of high ledges to transverse to with few obstacles in the way.

“That’s about it,” Rinaldo agreed, squatting beside Kieron on the balcony to retie his boot. “He’s apparently an ally. Martin, Havelock said his name was. Once he’s out, we head inside to find Campbell and that notebook.”

“What about that lass’s uncle?”

“If we can get him out, then we get him out. If getting him out risks the mission, we leave him to his fate and tell her we were too late to save him,” Rinaldo said as he stood once more. “Vamos, let’s get to it, then.”

Parting ways, Rinaldo let the Void draw him from his perch and down into the yard, directly behind an Overseer who was standing at the base of the platform, taunting the man in the stocks, who, presumably, was Martin. As he landed in a crouch, Rinaldo raised one finger in front of his mask, urging for silence, and to Martin’s credit, he did not shout, did not exclaim; his eyes simply widened for a moment before his expression slipped back into smug neutrality and he made a snide comment about the other Overseer’s wife. It was amusing enough that Rinaldo snorted, the sound wheezing and strange through his mask. The sound made the teasing Overseer go tense, but before he could turn Rinaldo wrapped an arm around his neck and dragged him back, holding tight until he stopped thrashing and went limp, unconscious.

From up on the platform, Martin made a considering sound edged with humor.

“You’re not who I was expecting,” he offered conversationally. “But I’d be grateful if you’d pull that lever and let me out of here.”

“Martin, right?” Rinaldo replied as he trudged up the steps, Kieron appearing behind him a moment later.

Martin nodded, cunning eyes flickering between them. When Rinaldo pulled the lever to release him, Martin collapsed to his hands and knees with a grunt, blowing a long, pained breath between his teeth before gingerly hauling himself up to standing.

“It feels good to stand up straight again,” Martin grumbled, half to himself, and stretched his back. “Where’s Corvo?”

“At the pub, resting,” Rinaldo told him honestly. “He was in bad shape, but our physician is tending him.”

For a long moment, Martin studied their masks, their uniforms, the swords at their belts, and eventually asked: “Daud is there?”

Immediately Rinaldo went tense, and he could practically feel Kieron bristling, looming behind him. Though he was not inclined to confirm or deny Daud’s whereabouts, not to a stranger, and certainly not to an Overseer, Kieron apparently had no such compunctions.

“How the fuck d’you know Daud? I’ll gut you like a fish, you weasel,” he snapped, brogue rumbling heavy over each word with his anger.

Martin did not seem especially intimidated by the outburst, and rather looked very much like he’d enjoy commenting on Kieron’s blended metaphors just to watch him start fuming. Instead, he simply tilted his head, assessing, as a sly look unfurled across his face.

“Daud and I were once… very well acquainted,” Martin replied. “Many years ago, now.”

“The fuck does that mean?” Kieron snapped back, though now he sounded more concerned than defensive.

Rinaldo, for one, most certainly did not want to find out, because already theories were beginning to conjure themselves in his mind that he refused to consider too closely. Instead, he nudged Kieron back with a hand on his broad chest, trying not to grimace.

“Can you make it back to the Hound Pits on your own?” Rinaldo asked Martin in a desperate bid to change the subject.

“Of course,” Martin said easily, though his expression turned steely after a moment. “I hope you understand how important this is to the Empire. Corvo would have been determined to succeed. I hope you feel the same urgency.

“You need to get in, and get out. Once you’ve killed Campbell, search his body for his journal – his notorious black book. Campbell is meeting with a guard named Curnow, and word from my informant is that Campbell is going to poison him. Maybe you can use that to your advantage.”

“Poison?” Kieron spat, like the mere thought was filthy. “I’m not poisonin’ anybody. Fuckin’ poison. That’s the coward’s knife.”

Martin arched one brow, unimpressed, and raised his hands in surrender.

“An option, that’s all.”

“We’ll take it into account,” Rinaldo offered as diplomatically as he could.

“Alright,” Martin allowed, straightening his coat. “I won’t be of any help here, so I’ll make my own way back. If I see Samuel the Boatman, I’ll tell him to pick you up in the back yard, behind the Office of the High Overseer.”

“Thanks.”

Martin nodded graciously, turning to walk back towards the gate to Holger Square.

“May all the spirits guide you, and may our enemy’s head hit the floor without you taking a scratch.”

“Yeah, sure,” Rinaldo said to Martin’s retreating back, bewildered.

He turned to Kieron, who was standing with his arms folded and shoulders hunched up towards his ears, bristling, and looking for all the world like a wolfhound with its hackles raised. Snorting, Rinaldo patted the firm swell of his bicep consolingly, not bothering to suppress his smile behind his mask.

“Easy, big guy. I’ll let you tear his arms off next time, promise,” Rinaldo teased.

“Ach, go fuck yourself, Rin,” Kieron huffed as Rinaldo danced out of reach. “That bastard’s a snake.”

“I don’t disagree!” Rinaldo chuckled.

“You’re a bastard, too.”

Laughing, Rinaldo bowed like nobles always did when they asked a lady for a dance, though he was quick to straighten. They had a job to do, after all.

“Any good routes inside?” he asked.

Kieron huffed, amused and repulsed all at once. “Half the damn windows are open.”

“Well, that simplifies things.”

“Campbell has a meeting room on the second floor. There’re transoms over all the doors, and not many men in the halls. The place is about as secure as a paper bag.”

“Even better,” Rinaldo said, considering. “We’ll wait in the meeting room. With any luck, we can get our hands on Campbell and Curnow in one go."

Kieron nodded in agreement, and armed with a plan they transversed up and over the fence and into the Abbey, the Void seeming to hum as if it could feel the presence of so many men who reviled it. Rinaldo could certainly feel it, the threat of capture, torture, death at the hands of hierophants who considered themselves to morally upright that they were beyond the constrictions of morality whenever a threat to their beliefs was involved. Since he’d earned his Mark from Daud, Rinaldo had been lucky. He’d not had any run-ins with the Overseers that he hadn’t been able to squirm his way out of, but there were some who had not been so fortunate. There had been Pavel, only twenty-three, who had wandered too close to an outpost and had earned an Overseer’s bullet for his trouble. And then there was Walter, two weeks shy of his sixteenth birthday, who had been snagged around the ankle by a wolfhound and dragged away for interrogation. Leonid had found his corpse a few days later, with a heretic’s mark branded across his face and body mangled from the beatings that ultimately killed him. There were others – Connor and Rapha and Hobson and Thorpe – all lost to the violence of the Abbey, to their fear of the things they do not understand.

Tonight, though, he and Kieron would offer just a bit of the deserved retribution. It felt selfish, but Rinaldo was honest enough with himself to admit that helping Corvo find the princess and returning her to her throne were not his only reasons for infiltrating the Abbey. Corvo would understand; Rinaldo was certain of that.

Kieron was right about the security, Rinaldo discovered as they transversed to the ledge outside of the open window. Though there was an alarm at one end of the hall, there was no one near enough to trigger it, and the architecture of the whole place seemed to be begging for someone to break in. Of course, Rinaldo was happy to oblige.

It was easy enough to pull themselves up to a transom over a door across the hall, and then duck around into the meeting chamber, settling in atop the ductwork, high in the shadows of the ceiling, to wait. The room was subtly opulent, with rich carpet and heavy wood furniture, the intricate parquet floor aged but not unduly worn, weighty crimson wall hangings, and leaded glass windows. In the center of the impossibly long table sat s silver tray carrying two cut-crystal glasses and a bottle of wine. The set-up seemed glaringly apparent, though Rinaldo conceded that perhaps it was only thanks to Martin’s mention of poison that he noticed it at all. Still, there was something blatantly suspicious about a tray of wine and glasses when they were the only thing sitting on a table that absurdly large.

“Poisoned, I reckon,” Kieron murmured, nodding towards the wine bottle.

Rinaldo barked a surprised laugh, too loud in the quiet, and was grateful that the room was still empty.

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Was just sayin’,” Kieron complained defiantly.

Even as Rinaldo drew a breath to tease, there were voices drawing close out in the hall, and he titled his head to listen. One voice was certainly Campbell, obnoxiously verbose as always, though the replies were clipped and efficient. Curnow, Rinaldo assumed.

“I want Campbell,” Kieron said before Rinaldo could even address the issue of dividing and conquering.

It was well enough, considering that none of the Loyalists seemed to give a damn about what happened to the High Overseer, so long as he was out of the way by the end of the night. His chances of ending up dead were higher if Kieron got his hands on him, but Rinaldo could not find it within himself to be troubled by the thought. Besides, the governess had approached him about saving her uncle, so it only seemed right that he not expose the poor man to Kieron. One near-death experience was likely more than enough for a single evening.

“Fine with me,” Rinaldo conceded. “I’ll drop Curnow with a sleep dart so he won’t kick up a fuss while we deal with Campbell.”

“Aye,” Kieron agreed easily.

“Once we have Campbell’s journal we can figure out what to do with—”

Beneath them, the heavy door swung open and Campbell entered with a man in a sharp-pressed Watch uniform trailing cautiously behind, and the words died in Rinaldo’s throat. The officer – Curnow, he had to be – was broad shouldered and stout, with ram-rod straight posture that spoke of the quiet strength of standing at attention for long hours on end. He had a stern, considering weight to his brow and an aquiline nose that sat a little crooked on his narrow face above thin, pursed lips. Rinaldo could see the twitch in his strong jaw whenever Campbell said something ridiculous, could see the assessing flicker of clever eyes.

Void, Geoff Curnow was lovely.

“Oh, fuck,” Rinaldo muttered emphatically under his breath.

“We need to move,” Kieron said from beside him as Campbell pushed a glass of wine into Curnow’s hand.

“Shit,” Rinaldo fussed, a little frantic.

It took only a moment to put a sleep dart into the meat of Curnow’s pectoral muscle, and he did little more than grunt, perturbed by the sting as he glanced down at the projectile in his chest before dropping like a stone. Campbell seemed a little startled, apparently not expecting his poison to work so quickly, though he was even more startled when Kieron transversed in front of him without warning.

Campbell jerked back with a wordless exclamation, before snapping, “What?!”

“Surprise, bitch,” Kieron said, a vicious grin coloring the sound of his voice through his mask.

He then pulled back a fist and punched High Overseer Campbell square in the face.

Campbell’s head snapped back with the force of the blow and he hit the ground like a load of bricks, sprawling gracelessly on the plush carpet. Kieron seemed a bit disappointed that Campbell went down so easily, setting his hands on his hips with a huff as he nudged Campbell’s leg with the toe of his boot.

“I thought he’d be tougher,” Kieron whined, petulant.

“Did you kill him?” Rinaldo asked curiously as he moved to pluck the empty dart out of Curnow’s chest and drop it in a pouch at his waist for Javier to refill later.

“No.”

“Well,” Rinaldo said, taking a moment to admire Curnow before hoisting him up on his shoulder for safe-keeping, “get that journal out of his coat. While you deal with him, I’ll make a sweep of the place and see if there’s anything worth taking.”

“What about your Watch officer?”

Considering, Rinaldo glanced around, noting the expansive chandeliers dangling from the high ceiling of the meeting chamber. It seemed reasonable enough, and he pointed up with a shrug. Kieron made a strangled sound in his throat, halfway between a laugh and a gasp of disbelieving offense, shaking his head. Rinaldo would let Kieron worry about his own unconscious body, and Rinaldo would worry about his, so he transversed up to the top of one of the chandeliers and carefully laid Curnow out across the top. Just as Rinaldo was about to jump back to the floor he paused, thinking, and then promptly unbuckled Curnow’s belt, threaded it through part of the light fixture, and buckled it back. Satisfied, he patted Curnow on the chest.

“Stay put, now.”

Naturally, Curnow did not reply, but Rinaldo nodded and transversed back to Kieron, who promptly handed him Campbell’s black leather journal. Flipping through it revealed pages and pages of detailed notes and finances written in code and packed tightly into each line. Rinaldo had no mind for codes, and certainly he didn’t have the patience, but he hoped the journal would be useful to someone who did. Daud would likely enjoy the cipher purely for the challenge of it, though Dodge would surely be capable of untangling it all. Or, perhaps, Martin. He was clearly intelligent, and maybe had some bit of inside knowledge, given that he was an Overseer, after all.

Tucking the journal inside his coat, Rinaldo transversed up to the transom above the door that Campbell and Curnow had entered through, then turned to glance back down to Kieron.

“Deal with that,” he said, jerking his chin towards Campbell. “I’ll be back in a little while.”

Kieron grunted in agreement and bent to collect the High Overseer from the floor. As Rinaldo ducked through the transom window and into the hall, he heard a muffled thump from behind him, followed by a half-hearted “oops”.

Chuckling, Rinaldo left Kieron to his abuse of Campbell and set off down the hall, picking through the library and the offices, pocketing what valuables he found before darting down the stairs. The coins gleaming on the altars in the lobby were tempting, but there was a huddle of believers listening to the droning of an Overseer, and Rinaldo deemed the risk far greater than the award. Still, he lurked atop a chandelier for a few moments before moving on. He'd never been inside the Abbey, and despite his distaste for their philosophies and the cruelty they inspired, he could at least appreciate the beauty of the place, all crimson banners and gleaming stone and gilded plaques etched with the tenets the Overseers lived by.

Still, there was only so much time he could waste, and so he continued on, down another set of stairs, and found himself in a long, deserted hall that ended abruptly in a solid wall. As if that was not suspicious enough, there was a bust of Benjamin Holger tucked in one corner that boasted a large, red, gemstone eye. Rinaldo scoffed, amused, and depressed the button. The wall immediately slid open to reveal a lavish hidden chamber.

“Seriously?” Rinaldo muttered to himself, offended on behalf of the intelligence of everyone who had ever snooped around this building.

Shaking his head, he stepped inside.

The room reeked of sex and spilt wine, and Rinaldo scrunched his nose at the smell, though perhaps the more repulsive thing than the odor was the mere thought of Thaddeus Campbell fucking anyone on the bare mattress tucked into an alcove. Rinaldo, digging himself even deeper into the hole he’d found himself in, briefly considered the sorts of sounds Campbell might make while hunched over a bedmate, and, even worse, the sight of sweat gleaming on his bald head. It was enough to make him gag, shaking himself as he moved to pick through the room for anything useful, carefully refusing to touch anything that he could avoid touching for… hygienic reasons.

Along one wall there was a display case with yet another bust of Benjamin Holger, a few silver trays, and a book of the Litany. But tucked alongside Holger’s bust, displayed like a hunting trophy, was a Whaler’s mask. Cold anger and grief twisted up in Rinaldo’s chest, leaving him breathless as if his ribs were a set of great jaws threatening to clamp shut around his insides, and reverently, Rinaldo collected the mask, wiping his thumb across the glass of the goggles. It was Walter’s, Rinaldo was certain; they had never found any of his gear, even as they collected his corpse to burn per their own ramshackle traditions, his mask and blade unable to be burned with him. Swallowing thickly, Rinaldo turned the mask over in his hands, and there, scrawled into the leather, was the name Walter in crooked handwriting. Rinaldo fought down the ill feeling in his throat, clipped the mask to his belt, and moved away to survey the rest of the room.

There was little else to be found save from a handful of books, a couple of coins that he swiped on principle, and a rather self-important portrait of Campbell leaning against the wall. For his own entertainment and the satisfaction of his own spite, Rinaldo took a bit of coal from a cold brazier and marked a few unflattering additions to the painting. Satisfied, he dusted off his gloves and headed back upstairs in search of Kieron.

No alarms had been raised thus far, and no ruckus had drawn any undue attention, but to his dismay, Kieron was no longer in the meeting chamber. Cursing under his breath, Rinaldo checked that Curnow was still in one piece, still unconscious and swinging lightly in his spot atop the chandelier like a baby in a bassinet, and Rinaldo resigned himself to hunting Kieron down. Yet, just as he was about to slip back into the corridor, a wretched scream echoed from a room down the hall. Worried that Kieron had found himself some trouble that would bring the Abbey down upon their heads, he followed the source of the sound to an interrogation room.

The mere thought of what lay within dropped sourness into Rinaldo’s belly, but he persisted, ducking through the transom. To his surprise, Campbell was strapped into his own interrogation chair, squirming and tearing at the arms of the chair with his fingernails, and Kieron was standing, mask off, a cruelly level expression on his face, with a still-glowing heretic brand in his hand. Startled, Rinaldo transversed down beside him, laying a carful hand on Kieron’s arm. He was tense, muscles firm as timber and shoulders hunched towards his ears with barely leashed rage, eyes vacant and breaths heaving. Campbell was still yelling, cursing and thrashing against his bonds, the burn of the brand red and blistered and disgusting on his face, but Rinaldo ignored him, shifting to block him from Kieron’s view.

“Hey,” he said gently, and Kieron’s gaze cut too quickly to his face, sharp like a predator’s. “What happened, Rojo?”

Kieron took a slow breath, carefully steady in a way that made Rinaldo’s hair stand on end, and tightened his hold on the brand in his big hand.

“I branded him,” Kieron said, voice chilly.

“Yeah, you did.”

“His own people will hate him. Cast him out.”

“They will.”

For a long moment Kieron said nothing, and even Campbell had fallen silent despite his seething, likely listening for any indication of what his fate may be.

“It’s not enough,” Kieron insisted calmly, staring at Campbell as if he were a weed that needed pulling. “He was there. He told me. He bragged about it.”

“Where was he?” Rinaldo gently asked.

“When they killed Walt,” Kieron said, “he was there. Said that Walt cried, and they beat him anyway, cut off his fingers. He cried and begged for his mother, and for Master Daud. He was just a lad, and they beat him until he drowned in his own blood. He was just a little thing.”

Kieron sounded as if he would fall apart any moment, his voice a wretched blend of grief and anger and fear, each word trembling as much as his hands, fisted tightly at his sides, the brand still clenched tightly in one. If he cracked, if he fell apart, there would be nothing that Rinaldo could do to spare Campbell’s life, not that he was particularly inclined to do so. So many times he had seen Kieron lose himself to his anger, so many times he had seen anyone who wasn’t Killian be drawn into the crossfire when they tried to soothe him or talk him down. Rinaldo knew better than to interfere; it was best to let his anger burn its course, regardless of what collateral damage accrued, and wait for him to settle once more into his bones.

Kieron was a dangerous man, just unstable enough to make him a threat even to his own allies. But Rinaldo had learned his lesson long ago with a dislocated shoulder and a busted lip. He would sacrifice Campbell to Kieron’s rage. It was a reasonable compromise if it meant Kieron would return to his own mind instead of wherever he went when his jaw clenched tight and his eyes glazed over.

“Okay,” Rinaldo agreed softly, carefully reaching to brush a loose strand of hair from Kieron’s brow. It was risky, it always was, but sometimes a bit of softness was enough to cement friend from foe in Kieron’s mind. “Do whatever you need to, alright?”

At that, Campbell shouted an indignant noise, resuming his thrashing, but Kieron quickly raised the heretic brand and brought it forcefully down on Campbell’s shoulder, face impassive. Rinaldo flinched back when Campbell yowled like a drowned cat, putting some careful distance between himself and Kieron’s anger.

“Meet me outside by the back gate when you’re through?” Rinaldo offered as he stepped back, heart pounding in his throat, and reached for the Void in preparation for a transversal.

“Okay, Rin,” Kieron agreed flatly.

With a slow exhale, Rinaldo transversed back up to the vent that he’d snuck in through just as he heard the sickening, wet, crunch-splatter of the brand striking Campbell’s head. He grunted, a pained, wretched sound, but Kieron was entirely silent as he struck the next blow, and the next, and the next, and the next. Rinaldo could only stomach so much, so he left Kieron to his revenge and went to retrieve Curnow, toting him out through the open window and across the yard towards the back gate.

There were no patrols here, no wolfhounds, and so Rinaldo settled Curnow as gently as he could on the ground, leaning him up against the wall. Curnow was a handsome man; Rinaldo focused on picking out the little things that made him so lovely, in avoidance of considering what was happening not far above. He only had a few moments, however, because soon Kieron was dropping down beside him, breathing heavily and splattered in gore. Kieron seemed more himself, like he had been taken apart and his bones all put back in their proper place, even as he cut such a fearsome figure. His leather coat was unnaturally slick, gleaming with the distinct viscosity of fresh blood and viscera, and there was dark red drying on his face and in the thickness of his beard in telling splatters, occasionally smeared from where he’d wiped at his cheek. He had not bothered with his mask, instead fastening it to his belt for safe keeping.

“Ready?” he asked evenly, as if he had not just beaten a man to death.

“Yeah, just let me get—” Rinaldo began, words cutting of sharply when Kieron bent to drag Curnow up off the ground, arranging him over his broad shoulder.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” Kieron said, reaching to shove open the lid of the dumpster with his free hand.

“Wait, what?” Rinaldo fussed as he struggled to pry Kieron’s hand away and shut the dumpster. “We can’t just… leave him here!”

“Why the fuck not?”

“He’s a friend of Corvo’s, a close friend,” Rinaldo insisted, gaze flickering fleetingly from Kieron to the unconscious man draped over his shoulder like a sack of grain. “And he’s a Captain of the Watch with a dislike for the powers that be. It could be beneficial to have him around.”

Kieron shrugged Curnow higher onto his shoulder as he stared at Rinaldo with the same bland expression he always wore when presented with a problem that he couldn’t solve by punching someone in the mouth.

“How the fuck d’you know that?” Kieron scoffed.

“I…” Rinaldo began, squirming, before heaving a great sigh. “I read it in a letter Corvo sent to Daud.”

Kieron was quiet for a long moment, blinking slowly, unimpressed. At least he was managing to shake off the fog of whatever it was that had settled in his head when he’d loomed over Campbell and decided his fate. It was not that Kieron was an especially cruel man; he simply took injustice to heart so intensely to as nearly be absurd, though Rinaldo could never quite parse who would manage to earn his rage on their behalf. Killian was not the same. He was levelheaded and largely sensible, and normally Kieron deferred to his brother’s feelings on any given matter. Issues arose, chiefly, when they were parted, when Kieron did not have his twin to look to for guidance. Jordan called Kieron “unhinged”, but Rinaldo just considered him misguided, reactive, a thing to be handled with caution but not abandoned altogether, like a hound with a vicious streak that only rose when he was startled.

But he was settled, now, essentially himself again – blunt and coarse and funny in the dim sort of way that Jenkins was. They were kin, after all.

“Beg pardon,” Kieron said, a little too primly considering he was covered in another man’s blood, “but did you just tell me that you fuckin’ read Daud’s letters? His personal correspondence?”

Rinaldo cleared his throat and glanced away, nervously adjusting the bandolier slung across his chest. “Technically it was Corvo’s letter to Daud. And Daud just had the letters stashed in a book in his office, anyone could have found them!”

“Like that makes a fuckin’ difference!”

“It’s true!”

“But you didn’t have to go and read them, you daft bastard!”

With a huff, Rinaldo waved his hands in front of himself defensively, as if he could shoo away the fact that Kieron was certainly within his rights to be aghast at the admission. Rinaldo would have been so, as well, had anyone else confessed that they had done the same. Yet, he was a fool for not closing the letters back into the book he’d found them in and returning them to the shelf immediately. But he had been so curious, and the opportunity had fallen right into his lap in the most literal sense, and restraint had never been his strong suit. He had been dying to know what Daud was like with Corvo; how he spoke and what he thought and what he said, if it were possible to reconcile the Daud that Rinaldo knew with the one that adored Corvo Attano, who let Corvo soften his edges. It had been fascinating, truly, to find how Daud’s coarse nature went a little pliant when faced with Corvo’s impossible, heartfelt charm. And how Corvo was so genuine with his worries and doubts, worries and doubts that Daud soothed with bluntness but undeniable care.

And so Rinaldo, insatiable and stupid, had read every letter through, some more than once, savoring the revelation of it all.

“Let’s not concern ourselves with what I did or did not do, but rather—” Rinaldo began.

“You read Daud’s letters, that’s what you did,” Kieron interjected.

“But rather,” he continued, “let us focus on finishing up, and getting Captain Curnow here back to his niece.”

Rinaldo reached out to pat Curnow, who was still draped bonelessly over Kieron’s shoulder, and ended up clapping his hand lightly against his ass. Kieron made a questioning sound in the back of his throat, tilting his head to stare pointedly at where Rinaldo’s palm was still resting atop Curnow’s rather firm backside.

“Ah,” Rinaldo said, and withdrew his hand with a startled jerk.

“Fucking pervert, groping the man after putting a dart full of sedatives in his chest,” Kieron griped, turning away.

“Hey!” Rinaldo barked, following close on Kieron’s heels as they started through the gate towards the back yard. “I didn’t… that’s not… I didn’t mean to!”

“Sure.”

“Kieron,” Rinaldo whined, knowing perfectly well that he was whining.

He certainly wasn’t above it, and generally Kieron couldn’t give two shits about anyone’s griping or pleading. It was entertaining to tease Kieron, to hang off his broad shoulders and whine pitiably and watch his stern, drawn face grow redder and redder with barely contained frustration. Eventually Kieron would explode – that first punch was always the hardest to dodge – and Rinaldo would laugh and dart away to hide behind Thomas, who did nothing to protect him but simply sat as a silent bastion between predator and prey. Thomas was one of the only people that Kieron would never hit, and while Rinaldo couldn’t be certain as to why that was, he was fairly sure it was for the same reasons why most of the Whalers never raised a hand to Thomas. He was so benign, unprovocative, kind; but should he be backed into a corner, Thomas Lindsay could be fiercer and more brutal than any caged hound.

“The boatman’ll be at the dock?” Kieron confirmed quietly, watching from a rooftop as a pair of Overseers patrolled below.

“Should be.”

“Then let’s hurry and get the fuck out of here, place gives me the creeps.”

Rinaldo couldn’t help but agree, especially after ducking into a workshop to swipe a few rolls of copper wiring and a handful of loose bullets only to find a half-constructed music box and a document outlining the chords that hindered black magic. It made his skin crawl to consider something as simple as a melody managing to cut off his connection to the Void, like cutting a flower from its roots, leaving it to whither and die a mangled husk of a thing.

Luckily, Samuel was right where Martin said he’d be, and though it took some creative maneuvering to get Curnow down to the docks without cracking his skull on the pavement, they eventually managed. They received an odd glance when Samuel noted the unconscious guest they had brought, and though he warningly spoke about being over capacity for his vessel, he allowed the additional passenger nonetheless. To his credit, he made no mention of the dried blood crusting Kieron’s face and clumping his copper-red beard, merely raised one brow at the sight, cast Rinaldo a wary glance, and said nothing about it. Rather, Samuel asked them politely about how their assignment went, as casually as if asking children about their day at school, and then grumbled unflattering things about the former High Overseer Campbell as he navigated them out into the Wrenhaven.

They were silent for the rest of the trip, and Rinaldo divested himself of his mask, rubbing his hand through his hair, gloves tangling in the texture. He really should take Galia up on her offer to trim it; the length was starting to irk him, and he didn’t have the patience to sit through Anatole braiding it into rows. There would be little time for anything of the sort before long, Rinaldo reasoned, already feeling exhaustion drawing him thin at the prospect of it, stretched and folded back on himself like taffy. At least they had goals, now. They had purpose, and that purpose already seemed to be organizing Daud into some semblance of himself once more. Or perhaps that was simply a result of having Corvo near again, free and safe and protected; though given the argument he’d heard a few hours past, all shouting and hurt and shattering glass, Rinaldo couldn’t imagine that Daud was taking much comfort from that. Still, having Daud back, in all that he never truly left, was a relief that Rinaldo could hardly begin to describe.

Slumped in the bottom of the boat, Curnow groaned and shifted a little – not quite conscious yet, but still fighting against the unconsciousness with an impressive valor. Rinaldo knew how unpleasant waking from their sleep darts could be, the headache and the disorientation and the nausea, and he could only imagine how dreadful it would be to do so on a little boat in the middle of the Wrenhaven River. Kieron had not been gentle in settling Curnow in his seat – if one could call the bottom of the boat a seat – and Rinaldo took pity, reaching to shift Curnow so that he was leaning back against the bench where he and Kieron sat. Surely it was uncomfortable, with his head slumped at such an unpleasant angle, so Rinaldo gently nudged Curnow to rest his cheek against the outside of his thigh.

Kieron had been watching, frowning, and made a derisive sound in the back of his throat before looking over the water once more. Rinaldo paid him no mind, instead placing his hand lightly on Curnow’s shoulder to keep the chop if the river from jostling him overmuch. He wanted to look down at Curnow, to admire him, but the lure of his fascination was not worth satisfying if it meant he’d have to face Kieron’s judgement for the foreseeable future.

Oh, well. With any luck, Geoff Curnow would be sticking around for a while.

*****

Corvo’s head was heavy against Thomas’s lap, and his breaths had finally slowed into something other than the wretched, hitching sobs that had left him trembling in Thomas’s arms. At least he was resting now, even if he still whimpered and shifted in his sleep.

Thomas had sat with Corvo as he’d wept in the bath until the water went cold, the wetness of his clinging hands soaking into Thomas’s shirt. There was little comfort he could offer aside from his presence, aside from meaningless gentle words and kisses pressed to sodden curls. But Corvo held fast to him as if there was nothing else to hold him together.

It had taken coaxing to urge Corvo back up the stairs to his room, his tortured body rendered even weaker by an exhausted spirit, but someone – Jordan, if Thomas had to guess – had left two fresh sets of night clothes on the bed. Eventually they settled, and Corvo laid stretched out on his side, avoiding the fan of mottled bruises painted across his ribs, and Thomas wanted to lie down behind him, barricade him from the cruelties of the world. But he kept his careful distance, not wanting to presume, not wanting to push, not wanting to be anything besides precisely what Corvo needed. Yet when he tried to pull away, to offer some peace and quiet, Corvo clung to him with a ferocity that was startling, and he begged Thomas to stay with a voice gone hoarse from tears, urgent and edged with panic.

Thomas had soothed him with a hand along his brow, combing back into water-dark hair. Heart clenching, Thomas had whispered promises he couldn’t keep, hating that there was nothing he could offer to heal Corvo’s hurts. He couldn’t even heal his own hurts, let alone anyone else’s. He wanted to bear Corvo’s burdens, all of his wounds and his sadness and his pain, but Thomas knew he wasn’t strong enough. He wasn’t strong enough.

Thomas was nothing.

He was nothing.

After a moment, Corvo had dragged him close and Thomas went willingly, sitting with his back against the headboard and Corvo half-curled into his lap, an arm around Thomas’s waist and his head resting heavy on his thigh, the dampness of his curls soaking into his pants. Eventually Corvo managed to sleep, desperate for rest, but Thomas couldn’t ease the agonized clench in his chest, and so he simply sat, holding Corvo as close as he dared. The tears that welled and spilt down his cheeks were hot in the chill of the room, but Thomas would not raise a hand to wipe them away, too afraid of disturbing Corvo’s rest. And so he bit his lip, gnawing his silence into his skin, and wept until his tears ran dry.

How selfish he was, to cry for his own hurts. He clung to Corvo, taking comfort in his nearness when he should’ve been offering comfort instead.

Corvo was a creature of grief now, a creature of hurt, curled into himself and around Thomas and half-buried in the months of torment he had endured. Thomas could see it, could feel it in every nervous twitch as he slept.

Still, there was some solace to be had in the realization that Corvo did not flinch away from Thomas’s touch as he tried to comb through the damp tangle of Corvo’s hair with trembling fingers. Thomas doubted his heart would have been strong enough to tolerate being the source of Corvo’s fear, even if it was justified.

For long hours Thomas sat awake despite his own exhaustion, refusing to doze and leave Corvo unprotected. At some point he began to speak, just a low whisper that offered secrets to Corvo’s unlistening ear, foolish things that, no matter how small, made him the man he was. It seemed only fair to offer up his own weaknesses, faults, fears, wants, when he already knew so many of Corvo’s own. It was the coward’s way, but Thomas knew he was a coward. When simply speaking into the silence felt so much like bleeding himself dry, he knew that he had not the courage to do so any other way.

“Montgomery raised me,” Thomas whispered. “She was as my mother, and Javier as my father. Some of the novices see Daud that way, but… but I never could.

“I’d loved him since I was young, too young to understand why he made my chest go tight with longing. Montgomery had promised that it was an infatuation, the sort of things that young men often felt for older men that they admired.”

Thomas sighed to himself, wistful, and stroked his hand down Corvo’s back. He let it linger there for a moment, feeling the even rise and fall of his breaths, a quiet reassurance that Corvo was here, he was safe.

“Those feelings never went away, though,” Thomas continued softly. “I believed there was something wrong with me, that I was abnormal for looking at Daud and wanting so badly. It felt like I would turn inside out if he spoke to me gently, or offered some praise. I was pathetic, and nothing has changed.

“I understand that feeling now. I understand that it’s love. And…”

Drawing a slow breath, listening closely to be certain that Corvo would not wake, Thomas persisted.

“And I feel the same for you, Corvo.”

Thomas felt shaky, like his ribs had opened up and set all of the fluttering, anxious, wretched things that lived in his chest free. He could breathe, if only for a moment. Overcome, he curled over Corvo, embracing him as tightly as he dared, and tears welled up in his eyes, thickening in his throat. They were confounding tears; not tears of grief, but tears of longing, of timid liberation of the overwhelming feelings that constricted his heart.

“I love you, Corvo Attano,” Thomas whispered.

And from beneath him, Corvo stirred.

“Thomas?”

Panicked, Thomas froze, pulse throbbing in his ears as Corvo shifted to look up at him, dark eyes bleary with exhaustion.

“Corvo,” Thomas stammered, horrified with himself, “Corvo, I—”

“I love you too, Thomas.”

Thomas was certain he’d misheard, that he was conjuring his heart’s desires into some cruel delusion. But then Corvo smiled gently and reached up to caress Thomas’s face with shaking, crooked fingers so painfully gentle against his cheek.

“I love you, solecito. My Thomas.”

Breathless, Thomas held Corvo close and wept.

*****

 Jordan hated the Hound Pits Pub.

There were too many open sightlines, too many strangers, too much tension in the air. Everyone was unsettled – pub servants and Whalers alike – and no one seemed inclined to broach the issue, so they all seemingly agreed to keep to themselves, stewing in the awkwardness.

Jordan parked himself in a booth on the main floor, watching the main door and quietly keeping note of who was who and who was where, tracking routines, categorizing the potential threats each may offer. Most were harmless. There was the governess, a stern, pinched-faced woman named Callista; the mopey barkeep called Cecelia, who was strong from hard work but who bore a fragile heart; and Lydia, the raunchy-minded maid who smoked too many cigarettes and had a penchant for snooping in her spare time. Then there was the skinny noble’s footman, Wallace, who took himself and everything he did far too seriously by Jordan’s estimation, and who seemed determined not to lower his standards despite the general disarray of their current surroundings.

Wallace’s master, Lord Treavor Pendleton, had almost immediately earned Jordan’s disapproval. He had a narrow face and thin arms that had never seen a day’s work, and his hands would have been soft, if he had deigned to offer one for Jordan to shake. There was an aroma of stale wine that seemed to follow him around the way flies followed a Weeper, though despite the apparently massive quantities of booze he drank – enough to rival Jenkins’s more adventurous nights, even – Pendleton never quite seemed drunk. His lips were always pursed and his eyes narrowed as if he were certain someone was about to pick his pocket, his nose an alcoholic red that made his pale face even more pallid. Apparently Pendleton was one of the core members of this little rebellion – more accurately the wallet, if Jordan had to guess – but he looked more like a liability than anything. Besides, his voice grated on Jordan’s nerves in a way that made him feel spiteful.

The other was Farley Havelock, some sort of disgraced admiral who was as stocky as a blood ox and looked like he’d be fairly matched against Kieron in a boxing match. Still, despite the fact that he looked significantly more useful than his co-conspirator, he had a tendency to parade himself around and bark orders that Jordan didn’t like. He carried himself with an air of arrogance that he likely thought was authority, though Jordan knew what true authority looked like, and it did not look like Farley Havelock. Havelock carried just enough scars to look like he’d be helpful in a fight, yet there was a cunning sleaziness in his eyes that made Jordan feel like he needed to look out for a knife in his back. Perhaps, most unnervingly, was the way that Havelock spoke about Corvo as if they were old friends. It was clear that he didn’t know Corvo at all; if he had, he wouldn’t have spoken to Daud in the manner he did the day before, like he and Daud were handlers and Corvo was a hound on a short leash. Jordan had not seen Daud so genuinely angry in a very long time, and for a moment had feared that the Loyalist conspiracy was about to be short a conspirator. Montgomery’s summons had been the only thing that saved Havelock’s neck, because Daud had been a breath from wrapping his hands around it.

According to Lydia, who had been pausing in her work to flirt with Jordan whenever she saw the opportunity, there was a third member of the conspiracy who had yet to make an appearance. By her own admission she knew little about him, but that certainly didn’t keep her from speculating. From what Jordan had gathered, the third Loyalist was the tactician of the group, the spy, cleverer than the other two combined and armed with the sort of voice that could charm a grieving widow out of her wedding ring. Lydia seemed disappointed that all the knowledge she had was from listening at the door while the mystery conspirator had met with Havelock, as it had left her with nothing to offer regarding the man’s appearance. Given the way she’d spoken about the way he sounded, Jordan imagined that she’d like to get her eyes on him, at the very least.

As he was leaving on assignment with Kieron, Rinaldo had mentioned something about getting an ally out of a bind, and Jordan suspected that this ally was the mystery conspirator. He had been proven right when, just before dawn, a bedraggled looking man in an Overseer’s uniform swaggered through the back door of the pub. Jordan had been on his feet in an instant, hand resting on his pistol.

“Good morning,” the man said, raising his hands as if to show he was unarmed, but wiggling his fingers teasingly as if he were entirely unconcerned about getting shot. “Who might you be?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Jordan hissed in reply.

The Overseer chuckled, pushing a hand through his rain-damp hair, and he was so casual about the entire situation that a tingle of nervousness coursed down Jordan’s spine as if he’d just realized he’d walked into a trap.

“I would, actually,” the man said. “Teague Martin. And I imagine you’re one of Daud’s men.”

Rinaldo must have mentioned Daud when he let Martin free, so Jordan tried his level best not to look overtly surprised by the accuracy of Martin’s hypothesis. Instead, he turned his attention to studying Martin with a critical eye.

Lydia had been right about his voice, at least. Martin spoke like a man who was far more intelligent than he let on, like he expected the world to have low expectations for him and would let the assumption stand until it suited him to disprove it. He was pleasantly charming in the way roses were until a thorn tore at flesh, a blade hidden behind a smile and good humor. But there was something unnerving about him – perhaps the way he stood too precisely as to be unthreatening, or his accent, so perfectly Gristolian that it seemed a farce – and Jordan had to swallow against sour anxiety rising on the back of his tongue. Martin was powerfully strong beneath the heavy wool of his coat, though not so burly as to be incapable of looking unassuming. His face bore the lines of a long, hard life, though he seemed to be near enough to Master Daud’s age, and he carried each mark with the stubborn, subtle pride of someone who had repeatedly told the universe to go fuck itself and had been heard, obeyed.

Teague Martin, Jordan concluded, was a force of nature. A hurricane dressed like a springtime shower. Teague Martin was dangerous, in every way a man could be.

Jordan opened his mouth to offer a disparaging reply just on the edge of snarky, when the pub door opened once again. Rinaldo shoved inside, shortly followed by Samuel, and then Kieron, who, inexplicably, was carrying a City Watch officer slung over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

“Ah, gentlemen,” Martin greeted easily, stepping aside so that Kieron could dump his officer gracelessly into a booth. “You made good time.”

Rinaldo grinned crookedly at him and raised his left hand, wiggling his fingers as teal tendrils of the Void coiled from beneath his glove. Martin, despite being an Overseer, seemed entirely unbothered by the display, and simply ducked his head in acknowledgement.

“And the book?” Martin asked.

Smugly, Rinaldo patted his chest over the inside breast pocket of his coat, and it resounded with the hollow thump of bound board and paper. For a brief instant, Jordan saw a flicker of grim frustration pulling at the lines around Martin’s eyes, though it smoothed away as quickly as it appeared, leaving him instead to offer an approving grin that seemed rather less friendly than it looked. Jordan wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the interaction, but he did not have much time to consider it, as the sound of boots on the stairs arose just as the Watch officer groaned, threatening to wake.

A moment later, Corvo was shuffling down the last few steps into the pub, Thomas tucked supportively against his side in case he should lose his balance. He looked marginally better than Jordan had expected given what he’d been told by Montgomery, though he seemed drawn, wan, too small for his skin. Corvo had never been anything but a beautiful, looming, warrior of a man in Jordan’s opinion, powerful and dangerous enough to recommend caution, tall and strong and dark. Now, though, he leaned on Thomas a bit too heavily, and his face was sunken and sickly grey, and every visible bit of him was marked by some bruise or cut or burn. His hands stayed half curled into themselves, knuckles knobby from a vicious cycle of breaking and clumsy resetting, and Jordan wondered at his resilience.

For a moment, Corvo looked as if he’d bolt back up the stairs, wide-eyed and overwhelmed by the sheer number of people milling around the bar, but Thomas gripped his arm and whispered something to him, one hand smoothing gently down his back. Corvo didn’t settle completely, though at least he didn’t withdraw into himself completely. Rather, he slid a shaking hand down Thomas’s forearm to grasp at his hand. Thomas smiled up at him, sweet and sunny, and folded their fingers together with impossible care, careful not to aggravate any injuries.

The sight of them together left something warm and tingly spreading through Jordan’s chest like hot cider, warm and spiced and a little dizzying. Thomas was one of his dearest friends, and to see him happy, genuinely, despite the circumstances, softened some of the coarse edges that had grown around Jordan’s heart in recent days.

Jordan was just about to call out, to reach for them both, when from across the room Rinaldo made a sound of elated surprise.

“Corvo!”

“Hey, Rin,” Corvo said, hoarse but indulgent. He smiled weakly, took a single step, and immediately paused, expression contorting with confusion. Then said, incredulous, “Geoff?”

Rinaldo barked a victorious laugh and slapped Kieron in the chest with the back of his hand, nearly spilling the pint of ale that Kieron had already seen fit to help himself to.

“See, I told you they were friends!”

Jordan watched a wild flicker of emotions twist over Corvo’s face – bafflement, concern, quiet elation – but after a moment he pulled free of Thomas’s grasp and rushed to the Watchman’s side, less graceful than usual, just as he was starting to fight free of his forced unconsciousness. Corvo checked him over with careful hands even as the Watchman groaned and clumsily batted his fussing away.

“Corvo?” he asked, blearily. “Someone shot me.”

Corvo cast a sharp glance at Rinaldo who shrugged, raising his hands defensively.

“Sleep dart, I promise,” he swore. “Though the hangover is worse than the morning after getting wine drunk and brawling with Jenkins.”

They descended into ridiculous bickering, the Watchman – Geoff, apparently – seeming far too muddy-headed to parse much of it, even as Martin leaned back against the bar, watching the display curiously. He had yet to make a move to introduce himself to Corvo, and the realization left an uncomfortable nervousness twisting in Jordan’s belly. Martin just stood there, nearly disappearing amidst the chaos, his gaze fixed firmly on Corvo as if he were sizing him up, picking out weaknesses, noting his interactions with each Whaler, assessing his physical condition as one would before buying a racehorse.

Jordan didn’t like it. Martin had predator’s eyes.

Thomas sidling up beside him offered some distraction, certainly more pleasant than struggling to put his finger on why Martin, for all his easy charm, made his skin crawl.

“How is he, really?” Jordan asked in a whisper.

Thomas sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

“About as well as can be expected,” Thomas offered lowly. “He’s hurting, in many ways. And his fight with Daud was… bad. But he was able to clean himself up and rest, at least.”

“Thanks to you.”

“I wouldn’t say so,” Thomas disagreed, excessively humble as always.

Jordan truly wondered if Thomas didn’t see the way Corvo looked at him, a gaze so heavy and intent and quietly adoring, as if it took every bit of his conviction not to reach out and touch, to be close, always. It was how Javier looked at Montgomery, how he himself looked at Killian. It was how Thomas looked at Daud. How Corvo looked at Daud.

He could not begin to parse that dynamic. It seemed messy, unnecessarily complex in the sort of way that promised heartbreak should the misunderstandings and fissures not be settled sooner rather than later. Jordan knew that he was young, inexperienced in love – Javier had reminded him of the fact incessantly, whenever he had gone to him to mope over his feelings for Killian before they’d sorted themselves out – but he knew that nothing would come from longing if it was left to fester. Best to come out with it, confess your feelings, lance the wound. Either the feelings would be returned and the wound would heal, or they would be rebuffed. At least then the pain of infection – of hopeless longing – would be gone, and the different hurt of healing could begin. Jordan just hoped that those three would find a stick to bite on, so that they might subject themselves to the scalpel, for everyone’s benefit.

“His injuries seem to be less severe than I’d imagined,” Jordan said when Thomas had been silent for too long, carefully watching Corvo.

“A recent development,” Thomas allowed. “They were far worse last night.”

Jordan turned to Thomas, not understanding in the least. There was a grim sort of tension to the flat line of his mouth, an intensity in his eyes that Jordan didn’t quite know what to do with. But just as Jordan was about to press, the pub door opened. Daud let himself in, looking exhausted and harried and dragging the first raindrops of a rising storm behind him on his heels. In an instant, all of Rinaldo’s good-natured chatter and Corvo’s fussing over his Watch officer plunged into a sudden, weightless silence. Corvo rose carefully to his feet, doing well to hide the weakness in his limbs, and Daud fixed his attention upon him with an immediate ferocity that spoke loudly of concern and resigned anger and an echo of fear.

“Corvo,” Daud said, defensively steady. “You’re up.”

“I am,” Corvo softly replied.

He sounded a bit hoarse, sounded softer than he had ever been before Coldridge, and absently Jordan wondered if that, too, would heal, or if the rich warmth of his voice was just another pound of flesh taken by that awful place. Jordan focused on Daud, on the complicated expression on his face, on the tension he could feel rising in Thomas’s posture from where their shoulders were pressed together. Rinaldo, always so eager to break nervous tension with some inane comment, was staring stubbornly at the floor, and Kieron was leaning against the bar beside Martin, silent.

“How are you feeling?” Daud asked.

“Well enough. This helped,” Corvo said, reaching to unwind the bandages from his left hand and turning the back of it to Daud.

Daud’s eyes went wide, more blatantly shocked and dismayed than Jordan had ever seen him. He staggered a step back towards the door, looking like he would bolt. Jordan couldn’t fathom what would cause such a reaction, but then Corvo dropped his hand back to his side.

There, in viciously black ink against his dark skin, was the Mark of the Outsider.

Everyone lingered in shocked silence for a moment, before Daid said, vehemently, “No.”

“I’m afraid so,” Corvo replied, voice edged with something cruel and chilly.

Jordan reached down to grasp Thomas’s wrist as Daud fumbled for words, expression shifting from shock, to hurt, to unhindered vitriol. Sincerely Jordan hoped that such anger was not directed towards Corvo, but rather towards the Outsider, whom Daud despised with fervor and viewed as some sort of otherworldly nemesis. Jordan didn’t understand it. Though, Jordan was self-aware enough to recognize that there was a great deal that he did not understand.

“Well,” Martin suddenly said, inserting himself into the conversation, “this is exciting.”

Again, Daud froze, apparently having not noticed Martin at all, and his expression contorted into a baffling amalgam of emotions before settling into something like surprised, offended rage.

“Teague,” Daud said coldly.

“Hello, dear heart,” Martin grinned, smarmy. “It’s been a while.”

Jordan’s brows shot towards his hairline, and he knew he was standing there, mouth open, agape, looking like an absolute buffoon, but the realization was too baffling and he felt like he would wake up any moment from some wild fever dream. Beside him, Thomas made a horrible, wheezing sound in the back of this throat, staring fixed upon Martin as if, at any moment, he would lose his remaining fragments of control and launch himself across the room to commit a murder. Cautiously, Jordan tightened his grip on Thomas’s wrist.

Corvo had gone stock still, and Daud’s eyes were flicking frantically from Corvo to Martin to Thomas to the nearest exit and back. Then, Daud drew a deep breath and said, with conviction: “Fuck.”

He immediately turned on his heel and stalked back out into the rain, slamming the door heavily as he went.

For a moment, the pub was wholly silent save for the rising thump of raindrops on the old windows. Everyone looked incredibly uncomfortable aside from Martin, who was grinning smugly with something like satisfaction. Eventually, Rinaldo began laughing awkwardly, the sound high and breathy and manic, and glanced around the room with a wild incomprehension in his wide eyes.

“Shit,” he said, rubbing at his face and then shaking himself violently to regain his composure. Jordan wasn’t certain that it had worked, but Rinaldo straightened and put his hands on his hips. “Anyone else hungry?”

The silence was tangible, bewildered, and then, softly, Corvo began to laugh. It was a fragile, wheezing thing, but the sound of it seemed to soothe something in Thomas, as Jordan could feel him deflate a bit by his side.

“Yeah,” Corvo said, “I think I am.”

Chapter Text

They had not abandoned Rudshore entirely – there were, even now, a handful of masters keeping an eye on the place – but after learning of Campbell’s gruesome demise at Kieron’s hands, Daud had worried about Burrows seeking retribution for the death of his conspirator. Galia thought it a reasonable concern, despite her bristling at Daud’s continued distrust of Reilly, who had proven himself nothing but deferential and helpful and perfectly mindful of his place in the scheme of things.

 Mindful, unlike her fellows who had descended upon the Hound Pits pub with no regard of the fact that these “Loyalists” were meant to be allies, whose toes were best not tread upon. No one else seemed to notice the way that the Loyalists and their servants seemed to bristle at the sudden intrusion, though Galia could hardly blame them. The Whalers were overwhelming not only in numbers, but in volume, in chaos, in space occupied. They flowed into every corner of a space and settled there like they belonged, the way water settled into every crevice of a cracked and crooked vase.

There were those among them who kept to themselves; Leonid and Dodge, of course, whom Daud chiefly assigned to Rudshore, and sensible Misha, and Killian, who was always wary of strangers and as such stayed close to Jordan or Kieron or Rinaldo when possible. Others, however, occupied space the way forbidden thoughts often occupied the mind – completely and unapologetically intrusive.

Jenkins, for example, had planted himself firmly in the kitchen of the Hound Pits to the vast amusement of the housekeeper, Lydia, and the incandescent rage of Wallace, who, despite his anger, was not such a brave man as to go toe to toe with someone like Jenkins over a matter as trivial as whether there should be tomatoes in the ox stew. It took mere hours for Jenkins and Lydia to gang up on Wallace, and only a few hours more for Desmond, Little Tom, and Aeolos to join in the scheme to make the valet’s life as difficult as possible, purely out of spite.

Galia also had noticed Lydia making eyes at Jenkins from across the bar, flirting filthily and unabashedly with the big man and earning broad, chipped-toothed smiles and loud laughter in return. She flirted with the same wild, casual abandon that Rinaldo often did – like a fisherman casting a line off a dock just to see if anything would bite – and Galia could do little more than shake her head at their antics. Galia loved Rinaldo – and was growing fond of Lydia and her crass humor for many of the same reasons that she adored him – but they were entirely absurd, if harmless. She doubted that anything would come of Lydia and Jenkins, but she was amused that they were entertained.

Rinaldo, too, was happy finding his own entertainment in the poor Watchman that he and Kieron had kidnapped from Holger Square. Despite his quiet relief at having found his niece safe and sound in a veritable pit of vipers, the Watchman – Geoff, Corvo had told Galia in that fragile whisper which had seemingly replaced his voice – consistently looked as if he had a rock in his shoe. Much of that was Rinaldo’s doing, Galia was sure. He was unabashed in his efforts to garner the Watchman’s attention, a fact that left Geoff unsettled and awkward in his own skin as Rinaldo postured like a full-feathered tropical bird putting himself on display to the derision of his desired mate. It was wildly amusing to everyone who was not Geoff or Rinaldo, Galia amongst them. She felt somewhat badly for Rinaldo, who was truly besotted by all estimation, and who was routinely ignored. Still, Rinaldo was nothing if not persistent, and unfortunately Geoff seemed an improbably resilient man.

After sitting with Corvo for a while, quietly content in the way that good friends often were, Geoff at least managed to look less like a cat about to climb the drapes to escape a yappy dog. His suffering seemed to cheer Corvo to some degree, and the effort of trying to make Geoff and Rinaldo a legitimate thing kept Corvo’s mind off the horrors that refused to let him sleep at night.

Thomas had helped immensely, rarely straying far from Corvo’s side.

They, apparently, had sorted themselves out. Galia had ducked into Corvo’s rooms on Montgomery’s instruction to check that he was actually managing to sleep, and most nights she found them wrapped up in each other on the too-small bed. Thomas kept him warm, Corvo had told her sheepishly one morning after she had accidentally woken him during a nightly check. Galia allowed the lie given that it was at least part of the truth. Corvo had been starved of his bulk, after all, leaving him frail and prone to chills; but Galia suspected that Thomas was unafraid to hold him through the trembling when the nightmares or the singing of the Void rattled him awake. Galia knew well the damage that a man like Corvo could cause when waking from a nightmare – she had seen how Jordan carried the marks from Killian’s bad nights, after all – especially when they were freshly minted with the powers of the Void.

There was more, still, between Thomas and Corvo that she didn’t fully understand. They shared space, warmth, affection, and a slow simmering passion that Galia didn’t think had yet to boil over. They shared a longing, too. They mourned an emptiness where Daud was meant to be.

But Daud had been too busy hiding under the pretense of working in Rudshore. He was hiding from two people who needed him, who loved him, if Galia read the situation right. He was hiding, and that made him a fucking coward. Montgomery had been sure to tell him as much last time he’d skulked back to the Hound Pits like a kicked puppy.

“You’re a fucking coward, Daud,” she had told him, trapping him in a corner at the bottom of the stairs. “You’re needed here. Corvo needs you.”

Galia had frozen on the landing just above them, feeling like an intruder, but curiosity had gotten the better of her as it often did, and she leaned over the banister to spy.

“No, he doesn’t. He made that abundantly clear,” Daud spat in reply, before grimacing as if he hadn’t meant to give so much away. “Leave it, Adelaide.”

“Leave it, like you do?”

And fuck, Montgomery didn’t pull punches when she thought someone needed a knock to the head. Unfortunately, Daud was all too aware of that fact.

Galia could hear Daud hiss, lowering his voice into something deep and dangerous and roiling with the Void. The shadows on the wall seemed to shift and writhe with Daud’s anger, the fringes growing tattered as the darkness twisted into snarling things with teeth. They snapped at the edges of the light, threatening to swallow it whole.

“I didn’t leave him there,” Daud snapped lowly. “I went back for him because I…”

“Because you love him, and you couldn’t stand the thought that he’d believe you would abandon him,” Montgomery said, ruthless, and Daud made a sound like he’d been gut shot. “Don’t keep giving him reasons to think he was right.”

Galia had made herself scarce after that, even though later that night Montgomery had given her a stern look over the top of her half-empty pint or ale. Luckily Daud had fled back to Rudshore, and Galia needn’t have learned if Daud had been aware of her eavesdropping or not.

In the following days, Daud had only made a few appearances outside of the borders of Rudshore, meanwhile Thomas had kept close to Corvo’s side, making sure he ate and drank and slept and kept warm. It seemed to everyone, Galia included, that perhaps Daud should have been right there beside them both, a fact that came up in disparaging conversation more often than was strictly necessary. Killian, in particular, was exceptionally outspoken about Daud’s apparent neglect of the man who never would have been in Coldridge to start with if it had not been for Daud’s cowardice in the first place. Galia thought that perhaps Killian was being excessively harsh. It became a frequent topic of conversation, to the point that even Reilly would mention it as they laid together in bed at night, Galia stubbornly attempting to sleep while her lover muttered one-sided conversation in the throes of anxious sleeplessness.

Despite everything, they had all settled into a strange, domestic sort of routine, far more so than they ever had in Rudshore. It felt… civilized. The younger Whalers were happier, all bunking together in the big room on the second floor and were gladly tolerating Callista’s instruction with far less mischief than they ever did with Dodge. Desmond had taken to helping Jenkins in the kitchen – a real, proper kitchen! Jenkins had bellowed with good humor when he first saw it – and Little Tom and Yuri spent their time exploring and stealing from abandoned apartments. Akila and Anatole – accompanied most often by Aeolos, oddly enough – had practically press-ganged Cecilia into their little group, teaching the poor girl how to pick pockets and flirt for information and style her hair and smudge her lashes with kohl.

Galia found that it was almost easy to forget that these children were trained thieves, spies, assassins. They seemed, for lack of a better word, so normal in this new place. Frankly, Galia couldn’t decide which would be worse: being forced to leave or getting the chance to stay.

They had all settled into their usual spots in the pub this evening, with a few of the novices huddled around a table with Lydia while she taught them some wildly inappropriate ways to cheat at Nancy. Montgomery and Javier were snuggled in a booth together, watching the proceedings with the air of elders gleefully watching their grandchildren be corrupted at the hands of a questionable aunt.

In a far corner, the Watchman and his niece were seated across from Rinaldo and Misha as if at a treaty table, sharing stunted conversation that was predominantly carried by the women. Poor Geoff, much to Galia’s amusement, was staring studiously into the bottom of his empty whiskey glass with a pretty flush sitting high on his cheeks, repeatedly declining Rinaldo’s offers to fetch him a fresh drink. Rinaldo was, plainly, smitten to the point of foolishness. It was the dreadful variety of smitten that made one dumb to everyone and everything that was not the object of one’s affections.

Galia recalled that special brand of idiocy well; she had long been a victim of it herself as she’d watched Jordan and Killian stumble around each other as if they weren’t pitifully in love and dreadful at hiding it. Still, it brought her joy to see her friends settled in their happiness, no matter how fragile. The same way she felt that foolish, buoyant elation with Reilly.

Even now, watching Reilly chatting in a booth with Jordan, Thomas, and a dreadfully frail but slightly revived Corvo, Galia felt a whisper of joyous longing tightening in her throat when whatever Reilly said drew a small smile to Corvo’s lips. Beside Corvo, Thomas smiled at his quiet flicker of happiness, his own relief glowing as if someone had just thrown back the curtains of his soul. He held Corvo’s gnarled hands – healing faster with the aid of one of Daud’s personal bone charms and the Void – carefully in his own, as if Corvo wasn’t as sharp-edged as broken glass and honed blades.

Galia watched Corvo with even more wariness now, and not because Montgomery had warned them all to be careful with him as he healed. No, despite how Coldridge had seemingly wrung the life out of him, Corvo Attano was more dangerous now than ever. More reckless, perhaps, the way beaten animals made themselves violent for the sake of taking someone down with them. Or maybe it was the flinty way his sunken eyes seemed unable to settle on anything for longer than a heartbeat, his gaze cutting to Galia’s core whenever she had the misfortune of meeting his stare. Maybe it was just the thrum of the Mark on the back of Corvo’s hand that left her feeling hunted. Still, Daud had never left Galia so unsettled, even in the earliest days of her time as a Whaler.

Daud exuded power and authority and controlled danger. Corvo radiated the primitive threat of predator, and Galia felt like prey. She had, in the last week, begun to regret how ruthlessly she had teased Jordan for being so unsettled after he first met Attano in Ludd’s warehouse.

She was beginning to understand.

Leaning against the bar, Galia tried to settle, tried to shrug some of the tension from her shoulders. It was easy enough with how at ease everyone seemed to be, but soon enough Corvo was shifting in his seat, flinty eyes cutting towards the door to the back yard like he knew something the rest of them didn’t.

Suddenly, Martin barged in, uncaring of the dent he left in the plaster, holding Campbell’s black book aloft like he was about to give some grand sermon to the pious. He would find no such people here, but he was unbothered, stomping towards the table were Corvo sat with Thomas.

In the open doorway, Daud leaned with his arms folded, eyes fixed firmly on Martin’s back. There was something considering, nearly fond, in Daud’s gaze that made Galia’s stomach with sympathetic jealousy for Thomas, for Corvo. It was plain that there was history there, but no one had been brave enough to ask, yet.

Corvo reared back when Martin leaned forward to plant his hands on the table, looming and victorious, a nearly manic grin on his face. Galia could see the way Thomas’s hand curled protectively, soothingly over Corvo’s thigh, even as Jordan scowled at the interloper.

“I know where she is,” Martin said into the sudden silence of the bar, rapping his knuckles against the cover of Campbell’s black book. “I know where to find your daughter, Attano.”

*****

            Daud should have expected Corvo to bolt at Martin’s revelation – a revelation provided with more dramatic circumstance than entirely necessary, a trait of Martin’s that Daud had forgotten to be prepared for. There was no means of stopping it, after all. Daud had tried for years to make Martin simply behave himself, but it had always been about as useless as bailing out the ocean with a holey bucket. It had not been an endearing trait when they’d been together, and had become decidedly less so now that Daud was watching the man he actually cared about storm out of the pub and into the dark, desperate to find his daughter.

            “Ah. Perhaps I should have led with the Golden Cat being but a theory. A good theory, but a theory nonetheless,” Martin said with put-upon humility.

            It made Daud’s belly curdle with sour irritation. There was no need to jerk Corvo around so cruelly; surely the man had been through enough.

            “No matter,” Martin continued, something smug worming into his expression, “I believe your gun hound has gone hunting without you, Daud. You may want to leash him before he gets too far afield.”

            “Fuck you, Teague,” Daud spat as he turned to follow Corvo, not caring to hear Martin’s response.

            Certainly there must have been one, as Martin was wholly incapable of not having the last word in any discussion – a trait that had not changed in the years they’d been parted. It made Daud suck at his teeth like a derisive brat, a habit he thought he’d cured himself of since he’d taken leave of Morley and the alluring charms of Teague Martin nearly two decades ago. But now the bastard was back, churning up old patterns and leaving Daud confused by his own reactions, his own thoughts, as if suddenly possessed by an outdated version of himself.

            There were things more important than earning the favor of Teague Martin, now, and one of them had just bolted through the pub’s back door out into the darkness, headlong and foolishly desperate.

            “Corvo! Void dammit. Corvo!” Daud shouted after him, frustrated.

            Despite being a few weeks beyond lying half-dead in a prison cell, Corvo was fast, even without using the Void humming beneath his skin. Daud drew on his own abilities and transversed just in front of Corvo, forcing him to stumble to a halt with a hand pressed firmly to his chest.

            “Just wait,” Daud whispered, not knowing why he kept his voice so low besides it simply seeming the right thing to do. “Think first, Corvo.”

His gentleness accomplished nothing because Corvo snarled, body shaking with tension beneath the press of Daud’s hand, and tried to wrench himself away.

“I’m going,” Corvo insisted, breath shallow in his chest, even as he stumbled in the deep sand of the yard. “She’s waited long enough for me. I won’t leave her.”

“No one is asking you to, Corvo,” Daud snapped back, flustered and anxious. “We’ll go as soon as we know what we’re walking into.”

Seething, Corvo surged into Daud’s space, looming like a storm blackening the horizon, and bared his teeth. Daud refused to cower, raising his chin defiantly in the face of Corvo’s fear and anger. There was a brittleness down at the core of him that Daud could see clear as day, something cracked and teetering that splayed eerie fractals of light through the darkness inside of Corvo. It left him looking warped, broken, monstrous in a way Daud wouldn’t have recognized if he hadn’t spent the last three decades of his life looking at the same wretched thing in the mirror.

That familiarity still didn’t make this any easier.

 “I know everything I need to. That Emily is being held hostage in a fucking whore house, by the same weasely shits who spent years leering at my fucking empress from across the parliament hall,” Corvo was breathing hard, chest rising and falling in frantic waves like storm surge. “What else is there to know, Daud?”

Daud drew a slow breath, refusing to rise to Corvo’s bait. “I’m not trying to keep her from you, Corvo.”

“Then let me go.”

There was a fragility in Corvo’s voice that had been absent mere moments before, and it softened some of the coarse, defensive edges of Daud’s heart. Boldly, he raised one hand to settle it against Corvo’s cheek – knowing he was just as likely to end up with a broken wrist as he was to earn any easy acceptance – just a quiet offer of comfort, of understanding, of want. Corvo stiffened for a moment, uncertain, before shuddering and heaving a distraught sigh in a great, withering gust of breath. He turned his face into Daud’s palm, an animal plea for comfort, and Daud traced his thumb across the too-sharp rise of his cheekbone. Thick lashes fluttered against his fingertip as Corvo clenched his eyes shut, grasping desperately at Daud’s wrist.

Their closeness felt too intimate for the distance they’d been keeping as of late. Though the rift between them had been entirely of Daud’s own making – a fact that he would only admit to on the worst nights when his heart seemed to be climbing up his throat with guilt and loneliness – he was selfish enough to enjoy the whisper of Corvo’s breath against the pulse at his wrist. How greedy he was. How wretched.

“I want my little girl back,” Corvo whined, pitiful.

“I know, Corvo,” Daud offered in reply. “I know.”

It felt empty, a hollow condolence.

“Help me, Daud. Please.”

Corvo’s eyes were glistening when they fluttered open, depthless and searching as Daud stammered with worthless words on his lips. They were brighter than they had been since Corvo had left on the empress’s errand, but not with his old mischievous mirth or the gleaming edge of something darker, crueler, feral. Now, they shone with grief and the threat of tears. Daud was a foul man for finding them beautiful.

“Corvo—” Daud began, not entirely knowing what he would say, but the sound of urgent bootsteps crossing the gritty yard killed the unthinking words on his tongue.

“Master Daud! Master Corvo!”

It was Anatole, backlit by the glow of the pub’s open door as she trotted through the humid gloom to join them. Corvo straightened, shifting away from Daud’s grasp. Even as he distanced himself, Corvo made no effort to conceal the wetness of his eyes, and Daud tried not to consider how it stung that Corvo might consider their closeness a weakness to be hidden but not his own tears.

“Yes, ¿chica?” Corvo asked as he turned his back to Daud, voice thick.

Anatole offered Corvo a tight smile, clearly flattered by his gentleness but still wary of whatever she had interrupted. Her gaze flicked to Daud briefly, uncertain, but he gestured for her to continue, frankly relieved for some sort of business to distract him from the ache around his heart.

“I…” Anatole swallowed, uncomfortable, “I might be able to help. With getting Princess Emily back.”

Corvo drew a sharp breath, but after a moment his expression softened into something sad and touched, and he reached out a large hand to gently pat her shoulder.

“You need not come along, my dear,” he told her kindly.

“No sir, I’d slow you down,” Anatole corrected.

Daud watched Corvo’s mouth twist into something grim and unsatisfied; though Daud was well accustomed to how poorly the girl thought of herself, the casual meanness seemed to irk Corvo in a way that Daud didn’t fully grasp. Perhaps it reminded him too much of Thomas.

Before Corvo could speak, Anatole pressed on.

“There’s a hotel called the Captain’s Chair near the Golden Cat, on John Clavering boulevard. That area’s been overrun with the Watch ever since… since the Lord Regent took power,” she said carefully, gaze flickering over Corvo as if he’d retaliate against her for speaking the truth. “If you can get in the back door of the hotel, then the roof has a good vantage point of the Golden Cat. You should be able to get into the bath house from one of the balconies. No main doors, no guards. All you need is the Captain’s Chair key.”

“And where might we acquire this key?” Daud asked before Corvo could speak.

He folded his arms over his chest and affected a stern expression, raising an unimpressed brow when Corvo glared over at him. Not cowed, Corvo unfurled himself to his full height, no longer shrinking in on himself for Anatole’s benefit, and folded his arms over his own chest in a mocking mimicry of Daud. And shit, Daud had not seen Corvo look so much like his old self since he dragged him out of Coldridge. That quiet confidence, the ease with which he knew his own strength now enhanced with the Mark hissing on the back of his hand, the darkness of his eyes; it made Daud’s mouth go dry.

They stared at each other for too long, until Anatole warily glanced between them and cleared her throat, awkward.

“Well?” Daud snipped, hoping the dim night was enough to hide the flush staining his ears. Fucking Corvo, making him look foolish in front of his subordinates.

“I have a friend, from when I was a server at the Cat. She has a hobby, you see. Likes to take impressions of her clients’ keys when they’re passed out after… well, after,” Anatole said, ducking her head in embarrassment. “She’d have the keys made for Madame Prudence, but we’d try them on random doors for fun, not ever expecting anything. But once we managed to unlock the hotel’s back door on accident.”

“And you have this mystery key?”

“No, and I doubt I’d be able to get a message to Lisabetta. The Plague swept through the Cat, and I don’t know who made it through,” Anatole admitted grimly.

Suddenly, Corvo straightened, a smugly satisfied expression on his gaunt face. Daud could admit that it was a relief to see a bit of the old Corvo shining through, even if it meant that Daud was about to get sucked into some ridiculous scheme.

“But you know who had the original key,” Corvo said.

“Yeah,” Anatole nodded, lower lip drawn nervously between her teeth. “But you’re not going to like it.”

*****

Corvo had been restless all night, once he’d finally managed to find his way to bed. It had taken hours of discussion to wring something like fact out of Martin, and some additional wheedling before that narrow-faced Pendleton admitted that he was perhaps less clueless about his brothers’ whereabouts than he’d have liked them to believe. But by the end they’d established some sort of plan, grim as it was.

“You had better be certain,” Daud had told Pendleton as they’d begun to disperse towards their rooms, voice rumbling with threat. “Because once we leave here tomorrow, your brothers won’t live to see nightfall.”

Pendleton had nodded, voice nasally and trembling when he said that he was certain, and Daud had cast Corvo an unconvinced frown before disappearing back to Rudshore for the night.

They had a plan, and Corvo had only wait until the afternoon tomorrow. But he was restless, unable to sleep, jittery with the song of the Void in his veins and the longing for action vicious in his heart.

Still, he had played at sleep, half-settled by the warmth of Thomas pressed against his back, one arm draped lazily over Corvo’s hip and breaths tickling along his spine. The softness of it, the quiet satisfaction of Thomas so at ease in the bed they’d taken to sharing, the way Thomas would grumble and rub his forehead between Corvo’s shoulder blades – it was enough to keep him from rising to pace the length of his room until daybreak.

But when the sun at last began to stain the glass of the windows with its first, watery wash of pink, Corvo slid out of Thomas’s hold, pressing a kiss to his brow and taking a moment to scrawl out a note. It was an ugly thing, his handwriting gone ragged ever since his fingers had healed wrong, but Thomas needed it. He needed to know, in the first chaotic moments of waking, that he had not been abandoned. Such a small comfort to offer, and Corvo would give it willingly time and again. Thomas deserved that, and more.

At the softness of his thoughts, the Heart – the monstrosity of flesh and metal that lived inside his chest until he summoned it to hand, the oracle that the Outsider had bestowed upon him alongside his Mark, the wretched thing that spoke with a dead woman’s voice – thumped airily alongside his own. It seemed keen on Thomas. It whispered things unbidden, telling Corvo of the tender tilt of Thomas’s thoughts or spilling the secrets of his fears. Corvo had not told Thomas of the things that the Heart said about him. It ached like a betrayal, but the thing Corvo dreaded most was Thomas’s inevitable, sad acceptance of having his innermost self so readily laid bare. Thomas would permit it, shrug the hurt aside as if his feelings on the matter meant nothing.

Corvo had tried to talk to the Heart about its voyeurism, scolding, but it had just spoken in that vacant, dreamy voice it had, telling him about Cecelia’s dreams as she loitered in the yard.

In truth, Corvo dreaded the things it would confide about Daud. He dreaded the possibility of rejection that lurked in Daud’s heart, hidden by his insurmountable guilt. Even as he still stewed with anger for Daud’s betrayal, Corvo couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.

“He longs for you like trees long for water,” the Heart offered as if reading his thoughts. “He is the thing of nightmares, but there is only one thing he fears.”

With a grimace at the Heart’s words, he reached to brush a wild strand of hair from Thomas’s brow, and left.

Slipping quietly down the stairs, Corvo wandered into the kitchen, lured by the smell of coffee. Jenkins was already at work, kettles bubbling on the stove and a pan of sausages sizzling in concert with his off-tune humming.

“Morning, Jenkins,” Corvo murmured as he scrounged for a teacup.

He hardly recognized his own voice anymore, scratchy and rough and grating, his accent snagging his words behind his teeth. Thomas told him that he simply needed to heal, that it would get better with time, and he had believed him; but now, with the promise of seeing Emily looming large before him, a quiet dread was creeping in, a fear that his little girl would hear him speak and recoil. Thomas had dismissed that, too, as they’d lain together last night, burrowed beneath blankets as they hid from the creeping autumn air.

At least he sounded more like himself when he spoke with Rinaldo in their native tongue. At least Burrows had not taken that from him as well.

“Corvo!” Jenkins greeted, far too loud for so early in the morning, and reached one big hand over to scruff Corvo affectionately on the back of the neck. “Fine morning!”

Corvo had never given much thought as to what being a wolfhound pup felt like, though he supposed he needn’t wonder on the matter now. Grinning, Jenkins released him to pull a tin of spices down from a high cabinet, automatically tipping a dash of the mixture into the bottom of Corvo’s cup before reaching for the bubbling percolator. The luxurious aromas of cinnamon, nutmeg, and chili unfurled into the muggy kitchen air as Jenkins filled the cup with steaming coffee.

Jenkins shuffled to the icebox for the luxurious, fatty cream that Corvo liked best in his coffee, glancing over his shoulder with a quizzical scowl. Corvo frowned back at him as he pushed up to sit on a scant sliver of empty countertop. There was clearly something perched on the tip of Jenkins’s tongue, waiting to be spoken, though Corvo knew he need not wait long. After all, Jenkins rarely seemed to filter the thoughts that bloomed in his head from escaping his mouth. Perhaps it was a consequence of the few too many knocks to the head, but then again, Corvo knew the twins to be just the same. Maybe it ran in the family.

“What is it, Jenkins?” Corvo asked with a sigh.

“You look like dog shite,” Jenkins told him. “No offense.”

Corvo raised a brow and claimed his coffee from Jenkins’s big paw, unconcerned with deigning that with a response. He knew what he looked like. He knew how exhausted he was. He knew how to avoid every mirror in the pub, how to duck away from his reflection in every pane of glass. There was nothing he need say to explain himself.

“Is Thomas taking care of you?” Jenkins asked, frowning like a mother asking after her daughter’s newest beau.

“We look after each other,” Corvo allowed.

Humming in consideration, Jenkins turned away, setting to assembling Corvo’s breakfast without bothering to ask what he might like. It was a strange skill that Jenkins had – an ability to tacitly know what someone needed, what meal their belly required to ease their soul. A skill, perhaps, that had siphoned away any actual talent he may have had in the kitchen. Poor Jenkins was a decent cook at best, mediocre at worst, but everything he made seemed to be redeemed by the sheer joy he found in the making. Corvo thought it made Jenkins much like the Serkonan mothers in his neighborhood when he was a boy; every meal was made a bit sweeter by the ingredient of affection.

Corvo sat on the countertop, cradling his coffee in gnarled hands, and watched Jenkins toss eggs and tomatoes and enough chili to make his own eyes water into a skillet, deftly slicing flatbread to smear with butter. He slid the whole mess onto a plate with a thick wedge of soft cheese and offered it up, leaning back against the cabinets to watch Corvo eat.

“And what about Daud?” he asked eventually. “Are ye still cross with him?”

“Yes,” Corvo immediately said around a mouthful of breakfast before pausing to chew, considering. He sighed. “No.”

Jenkins nodded like he’d expected the answer.

“He’ll keep away forever if you let him,” he warned gently. “He’ll punish himself until ye tell him he doesn’t have to anymore.”

“I know,” Corvo admitted.

“He loves you.”

“I know,” Corvo said again, feeling wretched and cruel.

Jenkins patted him roughly on the shoulder, nearly knocking the empty plate from his hand. “No need to make all three of you suffer.”

“I know,” Corvo agreed once more with a groaning sigh.

Grinning, Jenkins took Corvo’s plate from his hand and shooed him away. Corvo glowered at the broad plane of his back and tossed back the dregs of his coffee, long since gone cold. He slid from the counter with an awkward stumble when his bad knee tried to buckle from beneath him, but recovered well enough.

“The tinkerer came in asking about you again this morning,” Jenkins offered as Corvo turned to leave. “Something about upgrades to your gear.”

With a groan, Corvo pivoted on his heel to find Jenkins watching him, thick arms folded over his chest.

“I don’t want anyone but Javier upgrading anything,” he spat, and the hoarseness of his voice made it sound more vicious than he’d intended. “I don’t care if he built that ridiculous folding blade.”

“Aye, but you’ll have no peace until you go see him,” Jenkins argued.

Growling, Corvo grit his teeth. “You’re very wise this morning, güey.”

Jenkins barked a sharp laugh.

“Smarter than I look,” he joked, rapping the side of his skull with his knuckles. “Sometimes.”

Shaking his head, Corvo smiled – the fragile, awkward thing that seemed to be the only sort of happiness that felt natural on his face anymore – and slipped out the kitchen door.

Corvo frowned as he ducked through the front door of the pub, suddenly wishing he had brought his coat. The warm days of summer were long behind them, and the chill of slow-creeping winter was making itself more known with each passing day. To his left, heavy rays of muted orange sunlight streamed between the ruined tower at the riverside and the craggy shore, straining to cut through the chill. In the final rays of sunrise, fog sat low over the river like a quilt, and Corvo couldn’t help but be reminded of a similar morning nearly twelve years before. A morning seen from the opposite side of the river, when he’d sat atop the Tower battlements with Jessamine and learned that he was going to be a father.

Thinking about those memories was painful, now. They were still precious, beautiful but fragile and agonizing in their stinging grief, tainted with loss. Corvo held them close to his chest, defensive of every ounce of recollection. He knew that, with time, they would begin to slip through his fingers like sand until all he could remember would be the echo of Jessamine’s laugh, the generic glow of sunrise, the vague way she leaned against his shoulder, her small hand in his. The smallest things – the most beautiful, the most lively – they would fade and disappear. He would no longer remember the ugly, undignified way she always snorted at the end of a laugh to catch her breath, grinning and amused at herself. Or the way the reflection of daybreak off the Wrenhaven nearly blinded him, and how he played at blinking away the brightness to hide the tears in his eyes. Or how she had pressed a kiss to his shoulder and looked up at him was adoration in her vibrant blue eyes, folding their hands together like they belonged that way, the pink lacquer on her nails so dainty against his darker skin.

Eventually, all of those precious little details would fade, and the thought left Corvo feeling as if his chest would cave in. Grimly, he shook the sensation away and rounded the corner towards Piero’s workshop, eager to get that unpleasantness out of the way. The inventor made him excessively uneasy for reasons he could not expressly name without feeling very much like an asshole. Nonetheless, Corvo tried to be pleasant within the limits of his own patience.

It seemed, however, based upon the chaotic racket of shouts, clanging metal, and weak-willed wailing emanating from the workshop, that someone else’s patience had very much met its limit already. Picking up his pace with concern, Corvo ducked around to find Rinaldo already there.

“Hey, Corvo,” Rinaldo greeted casually, leaned up against the wall with a slice of toast in each hand, watching the chaos inside Piero’s workshop with a sporting sort of grin in his face.

“What’s happening?” Corvo asked, baffled by the incessant rise and fall of shouting from inside.

“The bookworm has been inappropriate with Miss Curnow, it seems,” Rinaldo told him gleefully, clearly delighted. “Dear Geoff has taken it upon himself to remedy the issue.”

“Oh shit,” Corvo said, pushing away from Rinaldo’s side.

He got as far as seeing Piero huddled pitifully against the staircase with blood dripping from between his fingers where he clutched his nose, glasses busted and crooked, before Rinaldo hauled him back. In the workshop, poor Callista was shoddily dressed as if she’d done so in a hurry, with her hair loose and still dripping from a bath, staining her coat dark. She looked mortified, a red flush high on her cheeks, and she wrung her hands in silence as Geoff raged at Piero. Geoff was shouting, looming, angrier than Corvo had ever seen him, with blood drying on his knuckles and his normally well-tended self an utter mess. It was a point of pride for Geoff to look the perfect soldier – shirt tucked and coat starched and buckles shined to an immaculate gleam – but he looked now rather like a madman, one trouser leg tucked into his boots, hair mussed, and shirt buttons fastened out of alignment.

After a moment, Geoff huffed a great, angry bellow like an ox bull, turned on his heel, and began marching back towards the pub, Callista close behind him. He blinked when he noticed Corvo and Rinaldo watching the spectacle, but merely bowed his head, embarrassed at himself.

“Good morning, Corvo,” he offered as he held the door open for Callista, ushering her protectively inside. “Rinaldo.”

“Morning, Geoff,” Corvo replied, carefully neutral.

Geoff merely nodded at them both, gaze lingering awkwardly on Rinaldo for a moment too long, before he vanished inside with a resounding slam of the heavy door.

Once he had gone Rinaldo sighed, besotted, and turned to Corvo with a plaintive expression on his face. If he didn’t stop slouching against the wall like that, he’d look like some forlorn, lovesick maiden from a faerie story. He was ridiculous. Corvo adored him.

“Corvo, my dear friend and confidant,” Rinaldo began, rueful. “How does one tell a man who just beat the shit out of a natural philosopher that I want to fuck him?”

Corvo was silent for a long moment, processing, before bursting into mad, unfettered laughter. It tore at his throat, but it was such a pleasant ache that he couldn’t find it in himself to mind it. He had not laughed, not so truly or recklessly, in such a long time.

Chest pleasantly aching, Corvo shoved gently at Rinaldo’s shoulder, basking in the warmth of his blinding, cheeky grin.

“Incorrigible,” he scolded.

“I prefer determined,” Rinaldo teased in reply.

Shaking his head and significantly buoyed by Rinaldo’s good humor, Corvo shuffled into Piero’s workshop. The unfortunate natural philosopher was sprawled on a crate like the jilted heroine of some tragedy, ineffectually wiping at his bloodied face with the back of his hand. Corvo suspected that Piero had never been hit with such conviction, though he imagined that people frequently pondered doing so.

“You should put something cold on that,” Corvo said in greeting, gesturing to Piero’s rapidly swelling black eye.

Ceasing his blubbering, Piero sat up with a grunt, blinking blindly at Corvo. His glasses were missing, and there was a gushing splash of scarlet across the bridge of his nose where Geoff had split the skin with his knuckles. Other than some reddening marks and shallow scrapes, he looked far better than Corvo would have expected given the racket he’d heard before.

“He just attacked me!” Piero fussed. “Unprovoked!”

It took true restraint not to snort with derision, so Corvo occupied himself with finding the least grease-stained rag he could and saturating it with rubbing alcohol from an open, half-empty bottle on the windowsill.

“Curnow is one of the most disciplined, well-mannered men I know,” Corvo offered flatly as he pressed the alcohol-soaked rag to the cut across the bridge of Piero’s nose. “So, whatever you did, I can only imagine that you deserved this.”

“No one deserves this,” Piero complained, scowling up at Corvo through eyes gone watery from pain.

Corvo didn’t deign to grace that with a response, knowing damn well that if he had caught a man being inappropriate with Emily – no matter how old she was – the bastard wouldn’t get away with so little as a busted nose and a viciously blackened eye. Restraint was not so much his strength as it was Geoff’s. He reasoned that the number of times Geoff had kept him from saying something foolish during their tour around the Isles easily numbered in the dozens. Corvo trusted Geoff’s judgement without question. In this, he felt no differently.

“You had something for me?” Corvo prompted when he grew weary of listening to Piero trying to breathe around the blood in his sinuses.

“Ah, yes, indeed,” Piero answered nasally. “I trust the blade and crossbow suit you? Though I suppose you haven’t had cause to use them, yet.”

“I haven’t.”

Piero blinked awkwardly at him, as if he had been expecting some sort of praise.

“Ah, well then,” he tried, standing unsteadily from the crate he’d been slumped on. “Glasses… I need my glasses.”

They were lying on the floor a good ten feet away, smudged with blood and the lenses all but shattered. Corvo collected them and offered them back. Piero muttered his thanks before moving to pull a box out from beneath a pile of scrap metal and coiled wire, complaining all the while. Even as Corvo strained to glance around him, Piero huddled low over the box as he removed something with gentle hands.

“This came to me in a dream,” he said slowly. “A dream of darkness and illness. And from the dark, death itself stared back at me.”

Turning, he offered the object up to Corvo.

From his hands, the face of death indeed stared back, all welded metal and wires. A mask. The face of death. Corvo’s face.

“I hope it can serve you well.”

An uneasy chill slithered down Corvo’s spine, the same discomfited shudder that he always felt when he opened his eyes and found himself amongst the Void, the Outsider’s voice silky in his ear, the weight of the ocean crushing down on him from above. As he claimed the mask tentatively from Piero’s grasp, he felt the thrum of the Heart beating alongside his own pulse in his chest. Perhaps it recognized a kindred spirit; both Void-touched amalgams of steel and wire and sickly magic.

“Corvo,” came a stern voice from behind him, and he jerked, swallowing down whatever he had been contemplating saying to Piero.

Daud stood in the doorway, scowling, face creased with some vague displeasure that Corvo could not name.

“Daud,” he breathed, impossibly grateful to be rescued.

But Daud’s face was grim. He was armed to the teeth – so much like the first time they’d met, when Daud was nothing but a coarse-edged shadow that made Corvo’s stomach churn with something between fear and desire. The conversation with Jenkins had settled somewhat, and Corvo longed to reach out, to pull Daud to him, but he stilled his hand.

“Get you gear,” Daud said ominously. “It’s time.”

Chapter Text

Slackjaw had certainly gotten more than his fair share in exchange for the key Anatole had told them about. They had found Slackjaw’s man – dead, of course – in Galvani’s apartment, and Daud had looted the place like it was an open vault for old time’s sake. He had explained to Corvo that it was a favorite pastime of his to rob Galvani blind for the fun of it. Corvo had wheezed his fragile little laugh, tinny behind his mask, and Daud had hidden his answering grin in the collar of his coat. It had felt, for a moment, like a sliver of redemption, of healing the wounds between them. Not that it truly meant anything.

Corvo, for all that he’d changed, was in many ways very much the same as he’d always been. He’d left Daud behind on a window ledge when he’d slaughtered two City Watch guards who had taken to harassing a young woman in an alley, and Daud had needed to intervene to keep the girl from screaming at the bloodshed. Never had it occurred to Daud that he’d be the more comforting of the two of them, but it seemed to be the case now, with Corvo looming in the shadows, the grim sheen of his mask splattered with gore. The girl had recoiled when Corvo tried to speak, his soft voice still ruined and grating like glass on gravel. Daud saw the way Corvo had shriveled at her fear, broad shoulders curling in on himself, and Daud’s chest ached for the wounded remnants of Corvo’s kind heart.

The girl must have seen it as well, as she had stepped around Daud to offer Corvo a key with her shaking hands, thanking him softly. Corvo had nodded but refused to speak again, even after the girl had scampered off in search of somewhere safe to hide.

The key, she had told them, opened a door into an art dealer’s apartment. There was a vault there, she told them, and other riches, but Slackjaw’s men had overrun the place, trying to open the vault themselves, and she had not been brave enough to make an attempt. Daud doubted that he and Corvo would have much trouble with a few thugs, and they had cleared the apartment themselves, pocketing coin and curios that might have some value on the black market. The vault remained sternly shut, but it seemed the sort of challenge that Kieron and Javier would find fun. Daud resolved to send the pair over once he returned to the Hound Pits.

As Daud had readied himself to move on towards the Golden Cat, Corvo wandered almost aimlessly off to a side room. Daud heard him gasp, small and shaky, and immediately rushed to his side, only to freeze in his tracks, revolted by the sight before him.

Hanging on the wall in a gilt frame was the damned portrait that he had allowed Sokolov to paint of him nearly two decades ago. Daud had hoped the thing had been destroyed, burnt in a house fire or lost forever, but it seemed, as always, that he was not so lucky.

“Ah, fuck,” he said concisely, grimacing.

Corvo glanced over to him, and then back to the portrait, slowly reaching up to trace his fingers along the thickly textured paint. He followed the painted line of Daud’s waist – so much trimmer seventeen years ago – up to the wide cut of his shoulders – stronger and straighter with youth – and finally traced the slash of the scar down his cheek – fresher and angrier then, still unhealed. Daud shuddered, mortified. He wished he could see the expression on Corvo’s face.

“Look at you,” Corvo murmured, voice nearly muffled by the mask. “So handsome.”

“It was a long time ago,” Daud said, almost defensive.

“That hasn’t changed,” Corvo replied as he glanced at Daud, shifting to pull a dagger from his belt.

“What are you doing?”

Corvo huffed and reached to drag the knife along the inside of the frame, freeing the canvas.

“Taking this with me.”

“Corvo,” Daud complained. “Please.”

Void, his ears were nearly steaming in his embarrassment.

“As much as I enjoy it, begging will do you no good here,” Corvo said with a teasing sort of finality as he gingerly folded the painting and tucked it away in his coat. Turning to leave, he paused to nudge one knuckle beneath Daud’s chin, tilting his face up to meet the cold, flat lenses of his mask. After a moment Corvo released him and walked away. “Let’s go.”

Daud’s chest constricted, breath caught in his throat, stomach roiling with something not entirely unpleasant. Beneath the throb of uneasy desire, his heart ached with longing. For just a moment, Corvo had seemed so much like his old self that Daud felt nearer to pining than he ever would admit.

Fuck, he’d missed Corvo. Desperately. That desperation made him irrational, made him look for glimmers of feelings that he doubted Corvo even felt anymore. That knowledge settled cold and cruel in his veins, and Daud was left looking the fool in his yearning. He had always been but flotsam caught in Corvo’s wake, trailing behind, always too slow to sort himself out.

And Corvo… well, Corvo never languished for long. He wouldn’t wait for Daud, even now that Daud was willing to follow, no longer uncertain or ashamed.

As he watched Corvo disappear through a window, heading for the Captain’s Chair Hotel, Daud knew that he would follow anyway.

The Golden Cat was swarming with the City Watch like flies on a corpse.

Luckily, they were largely distracted, tempted by the lure of indulgences far sweeter than duty could offer. Slipping inside had been laughably easy thanks to Slackjaw’s key, now nestled back in Daud’s pocket. He and Corvo drifted through the brothel like smoke, swiping trinkets and information as they went. The place reeked of sex and white tobacco and the hazy smoke of something sweeter, stronger – the kind of drug that made the world melt at the edges and made the worst decisions taste like honey. It made tongues loosen and secrets spill like cheap wine.

It had yet to spill the right secret, however.

Corvo’s eagerness hummed in the Void, dragging against Daud’s attention with the sharp-edged teeth of something large and starving and violent, restless, determined. He carried himself with the same focused intensity that Overseers’ hounds did at a whiff of the arcane, taut and eager. There was nothing to temper him but his own vicious patience, every wretched thing within him leashed by nothing more than a desire to see his daughter, and Daud knew that at the first sight of the girl Corvo’s restraint would falter like a chain pried apart one link at a time. Corvo made Daud nervous like this – all predatory stillness. And as they sat crouched together atop a line of ductwork in the bathhouse atrium, it seemed as if the tension in Corvo’s body was starting to make Daud’s own muscles ache.

Despite having only been free from Coldridge for three weeks, Corvo was in good form, had been all night. The Void and Daud’s bonecharm had mended his body, and though he was still gaunt and hollow like a wraith he was strong again, almost like… before. He had taken to training with the twins in the back yard of the pub, supervised as always by Adelaide or Thomas, who hovered and fretted like Corvo was wet paper and the world was a sharp-nibbed pen. Corvo seemed to tolerate the constant minding, even offering shy, fragile smiles that made Thomas light up like the fucking sun, brilliant and beautiful.

There was no reason for the tightness in Daud’s chest, for the resentment on the back of his tongue, bitter as cyanide. But it was there. Daud could feel it, taste it, mean and uncharitable.

There was something between them, but they kept it well from Daud’s sight like a secret. It felt as if he were losing Corvo, and it prompted spiteful thoughts about whether he’d even had Corvo in the first place. Daud knew he was coarse, unpleasant, unfair, uncouth. It had only been because of Corvo’s unrelenting pursuit of him that Daud had ever softened to the idea of having something between them. Perhaps the thrill of the hunt had been enough, and now that Daud’s heart was wretchedly invested, Corvo found himself unwilling, uninterested. It was an uncharitable thought. Corvo may not have been the sort to linger and pine for the unwilling, but neither was he the sort of man who was cruel for sport. Well, he hadn’t been. But a great many things had changed of late, and Daud could feel all that was familiar and precious slipping through his fingers, sand scattered to the winds.

Though they had haunted his thoughts since they’d left the Hound Pits, there was no time to think about such things. It was an old, well-worn excuse, Daud considered with a painful twist of irony. Of course, the one time he wanted to dwell circumstance denied him.

They had a job to do.

Beside him, Corvo was shifting uneasily, watching the courtesans below mill about and flirt with patrons and hapless Watchmen alike. The humidity left Daud sweating in his coat as much as his own restlessness did. Corvo was holding back his twitchy impatience by the skin of his teeth; Daud knew that if they sat about listening for information that would not come for much longer, Corvo would lose himself and cause an incident. Better to set him to a task than sit back and await a bloodbath, Daud reasoned, because while Corvo had always been prone to violence, his inclination to mind his own impulses had lessened since Coldridge.

And while Thomas could keep Corvo to heel with a soft touch and a gentle word, Daud knew that he couldn’t. Not in any way that mattered.

“We’re accomplishing nothing, here,” Daud said, bristling with exasperation and the vague discomfort offered by the unseasonable heat of the bath house. Corvo’s attention turned sharply to him as he spoke, jarringly intense from beneath his mask. “Take this floor, and I’ll go upstairs. Search for Emily and information on the Pendletons.”

Corvo needed little else to set off, vanishing in a dark blur of the Void. Daud felt some of the tension vanish with him, drawing from the air like poison from a wound. He took a slow breath as he trekked silently up to the third floor.

There was an uneasiness creeping down the collar of his shirt and along his spine at the prospect of leaving Corvo unattended. He had scarcely strayed from the relative safety of the pub since Daud had dragged him, damaged and delirious, from Coldridge. If something happened to Corvo, if he was harmed, Daud knew that Thomas would never meet his gaze again, would likely never recover. That possibility chilled his blood just as viciously as the thought of being responsible for any harm befalling Corvo, but Daud did not have the luxury or desire to contemplate that at the moment, if ever. Besides, he reasoned with grim optimism, if something did happen, he doubted that Corvo would be the one walking away worse for wear.

His coddling had earned him little more than Corvo’s derision as of late, so Daud turned his mind to his own task.

The third floor lacked the grandeur of the establishment below. Rather, it was a short stretch of hallway lined with doors along one side, with musty floorboards and wallpaper peeling from years of humid bathhouse air lapping away at the glue. Behind the doors were cramped dormitories for the working girls, and Daud used his Void gaze to see what lie inside. There were a few valuables of little note, a courtesan painting her fingernails at a rickety vanity while another slept, and, behind the final door, a child-sized figure crouched on the floor.

Daud’s heart leapt into his throat for a moment, because it had to be her. It had to be Emily Kaldwin, hunched over with a pencil in her hand. For a brief instant, Daud had no idea how to proceed. The sight of him would terrify the girl, he was certain, and perhaps she’d hurt herself trying to fight or flee, perhaps she’d scream. He was just another stranger in what was likely a very long line of unfamiliar men with unfamiliar intentions, all most certainly nefarious. but he couldn’t do this without Corvo. He was that self-aware, at least.

            Tapping into the thrum of the Void in his bones, Daud sought out the thread that seemed to link himself and Corvo, an invisible, impossible thing that he could always feel tugging at the edges of his awareness, unavoidable. He felt that tether and pulled, an electric surge of magic not unlike summoning one of his Whalers with the Arcane Bond. Even still, this was different. He could feel the awareness between them vibrating like a plucked guitar string, could feel Corvo’s surprise and vague willfulness at being called for like a hound, but Corvo came at his call nonetheless. Daud could sense the ebb and flare in the Void as Corvo made his way through the Golden Cat in a series of transversals, and a few minutes later Corvo was by his side in the upstairs hall.

            “She’s here,” Daud whispered, placing a steadying hand on Corvo’s shoulder.

            Corvo was trembling beneath his palm like a tree in a storm, though Daud wasn’t certain if he was shaking from fear, or eagerness, or some unholy combination of both and a hundred other emotions besides. Immediately, Corvo jerked towards the door, but Daud caught him with a fist in the lapels of his coat, pulling him back.

            “Let go, Daud,” Corvo snarled, vicious but so very fragile, voice metallic behind his mask. “Let me go.”

            His hand was on the hilt of the blade at his waist, fingers jerking uncertainly. Daud didn’t think that Corvo would hurt him, not really, not after all this time, but it seemed a risk to push and find out. Instead, he smoothed out the lapel that he had grabbed, reaching with his other hand to remove Corvo’s mask, gently. Corvo looked wretched; his cheeks were still sunken from the weight he’d yet to gain back after Coldridge, his eyes dark with sleeplessness and haunting whispers in the dark, his hair wild and unkempt when Daud slowly tugged down his hood. There was an unhappy twist in Daud’s belly at the sight of tears dripping to cling to his stubbled chin. On foolish impulse, Daud wiped the tears away with his thumb, and, to his surprise, Corvo shifted into the press of his fingers with a low whine.

            “Take a breath, Corvo,” Daud softly ordered, fingers moving to tangle into the overlong hair at Corvo’s nape. “She’s right there, you’ve got her. She’ll be safe, now.”

            “Daud…”

            “It’s alright,” Daud promised, submitting to the base desire to pull Corvo close, to press dry lips to his forehead, to linger for a moment too long. Corvo looked baffled and unaccountably moved by the meager affection when he leaned back, released from Daud’s grip. Daud struggled to meet his eyes, fingers clenched tightly around the sharp edges of Corvo’s mask like a punishment. “I’ll stand watch. Go to her.”

            Corvo’s gaze was searching as he backed away a step, and then another, before turning towards the door. Something soft and pathetic curled in Daud’s chest to watch him step through the door. There was a startled gasp from inside, and then a too-loud, breathless call of “Corvo!”

Daud turned his back on the reunion, uneasy for selfish reasons that he couldn’t truly explain. It was guilt, he reasoned. Guilt for things that he had done, things that he hadn’t done, things that he failed to say which led them all here, to a heartfelt reunion between a widowed father and a half-orphaned daughter separated for months by various prison walls.

And fuck, it was all his fault.

Daud had known, had always known that this – all of this – was his own doing. He was to blame for the Empress’s murder, even if his… affection for Corvo had stilled his own blade. He had acknowledged his guilt when Corvo had fought and cursed even as Daud had dragged him, broken and half mad with fever, from Coldridge. He had borne every cruel word or chilly inch of distance that Corvo had dropped between them since. He had accepted it all as his punishment, and had aimed for penance for what was perhaps the first time in his long and bloody life.

But looking into that room, seeing their reunion, facing their grief and the consequences all his actions had wrought… it was too much. He was a coward, and he couldn’t force himself to turn and see.

So Daud leaned against the wall of the corridor, listening as Corvo murmured to his daughter in his low, raspy voice, switching rapidly to Serkonan and back on an apparent whim. Eventually, the girl’s sniffling slowed, and the sound of Corvo’s eerily light footsteps startled Daud from the mire of his thoughts.

In the doorway, Corvo stood with the girl clinging to his shoulders, her legs hugged tightly around his waist as she buried her face against his throat unhappily. There was that cold, carefully distant look on Corvo’s face that rarely spelled anything but trouble, the sort of expression that always seemed to precede him losing himself to the tempting draw of vengeance.

“Ready to go?” Daud asked carefully, trying to read Corvo’s thoughts through the grim darkness in his eyes. “Take her to Beechworth; I’ll get Slackjaw’s information delivered and meet you there.”

“No.”

“What?” Corvo…”

Corvo silenced him with a scowl, adjusting his hold on his daughter and extending a folded piece of parchment on offer to Daud. Baffled, Daud accepted it, unfolding the page with careful hands to find a childish drawing of two men – the Pendleton twins, he was sure of it – looming over Emily.

Understanding sank like a stone in Daud’s gut, and he folded the drawing, tucking it into his coat pocket. Though the image showed no explicit neglect or threat, there was a seemingly tangible fear in every line of the drawing that had Daud’s hackles raising. It was enough, it seemed, to condemn the Pendletons in Corvo’s eyes. They would not live to see dawn.

Daud sighed, resigned. He wouldn’t be able to stop Corvo, so instead he held out Corvo’s grim mask, an offering, approval.

“I’ll take her. She’ll be safe with me,” he swore as Corvo set Emily on her feet and reclaimed his mask from Daud’s hand. “We’ll wait for you at the docks.”

            It was an astounding show of trust that Corvo merely nodded, nudging Emily to Daud’s side with a whispered word of comfort and a kiss to her cheek. She looked reluctant but obeyed nonetheless, apparently soothed by whatever her father had told her even as he turned away.

            “Corvo,” Daud whispered on impulse, catching his wrist in a firm grip. “Be careful.”

Corvo shifted, swaying slightly into Daud’s space before remembering himself and pulling away. His brow knitted tightly, sternly, as he tugged his mask back on and vanished in an inky billow of the Void. Emily gasped at the display of magic but recovered quickly, looking up at Daud like his promise of safety actually meant something.

            “Come on, princess,” Daud grumbled.

            Emily scowled but stayed close by his side as they ventured down the hall to the stairs and out the VIP exit, her little fingers hooked into the belt of his bandolier. Her face was stern and her shoulders hitched stubbornly towards her ears, as if at any moment she’d decide that Daud was an enemy and bolt. But instead she kept snugly to his hip, quieting her steps when told and hurrying along by his side. Daud wouldn’t call it trust – he doubted this girl would trust any stranger any time soon – but she seemed enough at ease to not be willful. She didn’t trust him, but, perhaps, Corvo was learning to do so again.

            Fuck, Daud hoped he didn’t disappoint.

*****

Daud left the little princess in the skiff with Beechworth to happily interrogate the poor man about the veracity of old sailors’ stories and bragging about her ability to read a sextant. He doubted that was a skill she actually possessed, but he was too wound tight to dwell in amused exasperation. Instead, he paced steadily at the dockside, back and forth, back and forth, waiting for the first glimpse of Corvo among the shadows.

Corvo had been gone too long. It should have been simple enough to dole out whatever vengeance he saw fit upon the Pendleton twins, but Corvo had been edgy and unrestrained when they’d parted. Something could have gone sideways. There could have been more guards than they’d realized. Corvo could be in irons, could be injured, could be dead for all Daud knew.

Fuck, Daud had known that it was an awful idea to let Corvo off on his own, but he’d wanted to offer some feeble proof that he was not Corvo’s keeper, no matter how often he felt like it. Corvo deserved his freedom and he had survived enough torment to have earned his revenge. He was cruel Justice, blindfold fallen from his eyes, the blade of judgement gleaming in his gnarled hands. Corvo would seek to punish those he deemed wicked whether he was given leave to do so or not; Daud’s feelings – his worry – had nothing to do with it.

The thrum of the Void, humming in the air like the remnants of a lightning strike, drew Daud’s attention. He could feel Corvo’s proximity, and after a few moments, one shadow pulled away from the rest cast harshly against a wall in the stark afternoon light. Daud heard Emily gasp from behind him, quickly soothed by Samuel’s easy comfort even as Daud rushed to Corvo’s side with none of her restraint.

“You’re back,” Daud said dumbly as Corvo stepped close.

“I am.”

There was misty blood splatter across his mask, dimming the gleam of the gruesome thing in the yellow light, and his ungloved hands were stained to his sleeve cuffs with dried, flaking blood. Daud looked him over carefully. The gore had all gone brown and tacky, surely an hour or two old, and thankfully wasn’t Corvo’s from what he could see. Still, there was a tight defensiveness in his shoulders that warned he had yet to settle from his battle high and would likely be as reactive as a beaten dog if Daud so much as stepped wrong.

Slowly, Daud reached for Corvo’s mask, murmuring platitudes when Corvo instinctively flinched away. Corvo looked exhausted and wound tight with the grim thing gone, and dried rivulets of old blood meandered along his hairline. He looked like a wild thing.

“Steady, Corvo,” Daud told him. “Let’s clean you up, yeah?”

Daud tucked Corvo’s mask into his belt and retrieved the small flask of water at his hip, pulling one glove off with his teeth. Carefully, ever aware of the keen sharpness of Corvo’s gaze on his every movement, he tipped some of the water into his palm, reaching up to comb his wet fingers through Corvo’s hair and rinse away the blood, working through the tangles. Next were the bits of dried gore smudged along his temples, streaked along his jaw, splattered down the powerful line of his throat. Breath caught in his lungs, Daud wiped it all away with his fingertips, pressing the last vestiges of another man’s life into the creases of his hand.

There was a tension building between them, crackling bright like embers mere inches from straw, humming with the threat of warmth and violence in equal measure. Daud felt drawn into Corvo’s orbit, throat tight, eyes lidded. For a moment Corvo seemed to lean back into his space, sharing the same air, and Daud found himself transfixed on the thin, grim line of Corvo’s mouth. It was too easy to trail his bloodstained fingers from Corvo’s jaw to the gentle fullness of his lips, lingering with soft pressure. With a sigh, Corvo’s lips parted, and the warmth of his breath against Daud’s fingertips seemed to jerk them both back to the moment, to the reality of their current circumstance.

Corvo recoiled like he’d been burned, eyes averted as he flexed his hands uncomfortably. There was still blood beneath his fingernails.

“We need to go,” he said, fragile voice more hoarse than usual.

Daud nodded, watching as Corvo shuffled past him to settle into the boat. Emily poised herself upon her father’s lap while Beechworth coaxed the skiff’s engine to life. Even as he stepped down into the boat and shoved them away from the dock, Daud felt strangely beyond his body. The lure of Corvo’s presence still crackled down his spine, but he wrangled the flush of longing in his chest and sat, carefully distanced from the object of his desires.

The trip back to the Hound Pits was almost unbearably quiet, even Beechworth respectful of the sanctity of a father’s reunion with his stolen daughter.

Daud sat on the seat across from Corvo, swaying with the rocking of the boat on the gently churning river. Corvo held the princess in his lap in a desperate, clutching embrace, his face buried in her shoulder, breathing slowly as if he’d fall to weeping if he abandoned the monotony of it. She seemed content enough to allow him to cling, even if she appeared to grow bored of her father’s stubborn silence as he sat, consumed with agonized relief. The girl settled with her cheek resting against the top of Corvo’s bowed head. She toyed idly with a button on the cuff of his coat, watched the glint of fresh moonlight on the water, and gawked sardonically at Daud.

Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin had a very direct gaze. She stared at Daud like it was her right to do so, like it was he who should avert his eyes, like she had nothing to fear from the Knife of Dunwall and threatened him to prove otherwise.

She was so much like her father.

There was an inscrutable edge of wizened defiance in her gaze, eyes sharp and hazel and so, so familiar. She studied him carefully – a keen sort of observation that Corvo must have taught her, as it bore an intensity beyond her years – and, it seemed, found him wanting.

Daud knew he was an unpleasant sort of man to look at. The scar cleaving down his face was enough to make most grown men avert their eyes, let alone a little girl, but with his heavy brow and grim eyes and dour mouth, he was just shy of repulsive. But that did not appear to be a factor in her dislike of him, from what he could gather. Perhaps it was his bearing, or his silence, or Corvo’s ghastly mask resting in his lap. Perhaps it was the way he had allowed his hand to linger on Corvo’s shoulder for a moment too long as they settled into Beechworth’s riverboat. Perhaps it was the way Daud was struggling to drag his gaze away from the smear of dried blood behind Corvo’s ear that he must have missed while cleaning up in the alley.

Perhaps, and most likely, it was merely a child’s intuition.

“You’re Daud, right?” Emily asked, a cutting edge to her voice.

Corvo stiffened, his arms winding tighter around her waist, but Emily ignored it and Corvo did not raise his face from her shoulder.

“I am,” Daud answered slowly.

“I thought so,” she replied. “Corvo said he had a friend named David, but I figured out who you really were. I’m clever that way.”

“I can see that, princesita.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Emily snapped back, suddenly vicious.

She reminded Daud somewhat of the little dogs that nobles liked to keep as pets, small in stature but massive in attitude and self-importance. Ankle biters, Kieron had called them once. It seemed an appropriate moniker, given that the girl was scowling at him like she’d happily gnaw at his pants leg.

Amused, Daud raised his hands in surrender.

“It was not my intention,” he admitted honestly.

“Good,” she imperiously said, raising her chin.

For a long while they were silent again, the early evening quiet disrupted only by the hollow slap of wake against the boat and the low, guttural drone of the engine puttering them along. Emily had begun to toy with one of her father’s broad hands, thin fingers tracing the new scars and pinching gently at his knuckles. Corvo had yet to raise his head, and unease had begun to churn in Daud’s belly. He disliked his long silence; it reminded him too much of when Thomas would get lost in his own head, only to come back to the real world with a desperate gasp in his throat and a knife in his hand.

But before Daud could manage to find the words to reach out, Emily straightened in her father’s lap, gaze pinned firmly to Daud once more.

“I hope you know,” she said gravely, meeting Daud’s eyes like a challenge, “if you ever hurt Corvo I’ll have your head put on a pike outside Dunwall Tower.”

“Emily!” Corvo shouted, scandalized, as he whipped his head up to gawk at her.

“What?” she complained. “I can do that, you know!”

“No, you cannot!” Corvo insisted.

His cheeks had gone dark with disbelief and embarrassment as he looked frantically between his daughter and Daud, as if waiting for Daud to retaliate. Daud would do no such thing, because as he listened to them bicker and recovered from the shock of hearing such a thing from the mouth of the little princess of the Isles, a foolish elation was building in his chest. There was laughter, ill-advised and absurd, clenched behind his teeth, a crooked smile pulling at his lips. He managed to control himself, if barely, until Emily said something about how Daud needed a shovel talk, and how, despite her current lack of an actual shovel, now seemed as good a time as any.

Inexplicably, an ugly guffaw burst from his chest, and Daud laughed with more blind enthusiasm than he had in years. It was short lived but genuine, and soon Corvo was chuckling too, handsome mouth pulled crooked with good humor. Emily looked deeply offended from where she perched on the throne of her father’s knee, but Daud saw the way she leaned into Corvo’s chest, settling against the comforting rumble of his laughter.

Daud felt for a moment as if he’d gone mad in one fell blow, though after a moment Corvo leaned forward to settle one hand atop Daud’s knee and lucidity sank once more into Daud’s heart like river sediment. Corvo’s hand was warm and broad, squeezing gently at the muscle of Daud’s thigh in a way that left him shivering for want of more closeness, more touch, more. Blinded by a throb of wounded longing, Daud raised one hand to grip Corvo’s, to hold him close and leech every bit of comfort from the touch as he could, but Corvo was already pulling away. Still, Corvo smiled that thin, lopsided smile, and his eyes were warm, and his posture at ease, and Daud tried not to feel jilted.

Soon enough, though, Beechworth was easing the boat broadside against the dock at the Hound Pits, and Daud could feel a ripple of excitement through the Void, a giddy churn rising from the bonds he shared with his Whalers. It took effort to not let his wary weariness mangle his expression, even as some of the novices fluttered into the back yard in surges of eager Void magic.

“Master Daud!” Anatole called, jogging down to the dock with Curnow’s niece tight on her heels. “Stars, you found her.”

Daud simply grunted and hauled himself out of the boat, onto stable ground. He’d always hated boats – hated their rocking, hated the improbable physics of their existence – though the irony of his settling in Rudshore did not escape him.

Once ashore, he turned back to offer a steadying hand to the princess. She scoffed, turning her nose up at his effort before climbing up on the seat, placing her hand atop Corvo’s head to steady herself, and jumping onto the dock. The boards were slick with age and spray from the wind, and she nearly lost her balance, gangly legs almost failing her before Anatole caught her by the arm to settle her upright once more.

“Thank you,” Emily said primly, straightening her blouse.

“You’re welcome, your Highness,” Anatole offered amiably.

“Emily, this is Anatole,” Corvo said as he lumbered up out of the boat with slightly more effort than Daud was comfortable with.

He must have overtaxed himself over the course of the evening; a combination of being drained by his ample use of the Void and the tension he’d carried in every muscle since Teague had shown up with the girl’s location in hand, Daud suspected. Corvo had only been training with the twins and Rinaldo, after all – stakes low and punches pulled. He had not exerted himself so much since he’d been freed from Coldridge. Daud worried for him, even as he kept his distance. He would be soundly scorned for his coddling, if Corvo knew how large the knot of concern tied up in Daud’s gut was. So, Daud kept it to himself. He kept his hands by his sides and did not reach out to clasp Corvo’s shoulder in a steadying grip, too much a coward to face being rebuffed.

“Hello, Anatole!” Emily chirped cheerily. “I like your hair!”

“Oh,” Anatole said with wide eyes, raising one hand to touch the dark cloud of pencil-tight curls that bounced around her head. “Um, thank you.”

Suddenly, Pendleton’s sniveling manservant appeared behind the girls, panting like he’d been running about, with the maid – Lydia, Daud thought her name was – arriving shortly after at a much more sedate pace.

Wallace dipped low in a ridiculous bow, one arm spread wide, and Daud scoffed. The butler sneered sneakily at him, careful to be sure that Emily could not see.

“Your Royal Highness,” he simpered as he straightened, overwrought. “Welcome to the Hound Pits Pub. I am Wallace, manservant to Lord Trevor Pendleton. I will happily accommodate anything you may need during your stay here.”

To Daud’s great amusement, Emily glanced over her shoulder to Corvo when Wallace bowed again and pulled a sour face at her father. Corvo’s lips twitched into a wry grin that made Daud’s stomach twist with something that bubbled warm and sugary like affection.

“Uh, thanks,” Emily offered, making Wallace twitch subtly with her lack of decorum.

As further introductions were made, Corvo looming behind his daughter as if any spread of distance would shred him apart, Daud noticed Havelock and Pendleton further into the yard with their heads bent together in discussion. He approached, shoulders rolled back and Corvo’s mask still clutched in his hand, and the pair straightened.

“Good work, Knife,” Havelock praised, reaching as if he were going to clap Daud on the shoulder. Daud bared his teeth and Havelock abandoned the motion. “With the princess secure and Martin ready with a fresh lead, our outfit seems to be making good progress. You two have accomplished more in a single night than most men do in a lifetime. We knew that having Corvo on our side would be to our benefit, but the pair of you together… well, that’s something else entirely.”

He sounded proud, smug, as if he’d actually put in any work. Daud and his lot had been the ones skulking around the city, returning to the pub with bloodied hands and a dull sense of achievement. Corvo had been the one suffering, eager to tear Dunwall apart to find his little girl, even as he languished and struggled to recover from months of torture and isolation. Void, even Teague had been poring over Campbell’s little black book, wheedling information from the tangles of codes and sifting the useful from the rubbish. Havelock had contributed nothing but a decrepit pub and Pendleton nothing but a bank account, and yet they paraded around the place extolling their virtues to audiograph machines and patting each other on the back.

Daud hated them both.

“How did Corvo manage?” Havelock prompted when Daud had been silent too long.

“Well enough,” Daud conceded. “He’s strong. Dangerous. You’d do well to remember that when you address him, Admiral.”

“It has not gone unnoticed,” Pendleton said, attempting to affect indifference and failing miserably. “The Loyalist Conspiracy thanks you for your work, though I don’t know if I can. My brothers…?”

“Handled.”

“In what way?”

“Put down,” Daud told him coldly, losing his patience even as Pendleton sucked in a scandalized breath. “You told Corvo that you wanted them gone, and so they’re gone. If you set a hunting hound on the scent of a stag, you’d best have the conviction to hang the stag’s head above your fireplace.”

Havelock’s brows had arced disbelievingly towards his hairline, and Pendleton gaped at Daud like a beached hagfish for a long moment before he closed his mouth with an audible clack, expression twisting into something disgusted.

“I dare say…” Pendleton scoffed, tugging at his ascot like a necklace of pearls to be clutched. "Do not overestimate your importance to this operation, Daud. Corvo was the one we wanted; you were incidental. Your impertinence will not be tolerated.”

An ugly, vicious grin pulled across Daud’s face, showing his teeth. The shadows beneath his feet were roiling, twisting into lupine echoes of the Void that chased out light and consumed it, spreading with his rising anger. Pendleton gasped when he noticed, recoiling, and Havelock’s hand fell to the pistol at his hip.

“Corvo may have eliminated two-thirds of the Pendleton brothers, but I’ll happily end the bloodline,” Daud hissed. “Now, if you’d be so kind as to fuck off, Corvo needs to rest.”

He turned away, dragging the biting shadows of the Void behind him. Despite Pendleton’s outrage, Havelock would allow no retribution. He was smart enough to know that any action against Daud would lose them Corvo’s support, and they’d be left hopeless, confined to inaction. The Loyalist Conspiracy would be crushed beneath the impossible weight of their own expectations.

Confident, Daud returned to Corvo’s side just as Anatole and the governess – Callista, if he recalled correctly – offered to show Emily to her room in the tower so she could settle in. Yet before Anatole could move away, Daud stopped her with a firm hand on her arm.

“Keep the others at bay, for now,” Daud ordered quietly, glancing up to where a few curious shadows watched from the roofline of the pub. When they noticed they’d been spotted, the shadows vanished in a flicker of the Void. “Introductions can be made in the morning, but not tonight.”

Anatole nodded firmly, the final rays of evening light casting her face in harsh shadows that seemed to age her far beyond her sixteen years. There was a cautious wisdom to her that Daud had always favored; even if she was a weak fighter, Anatole possessed a keen mind and a diligent sense of loyalty than ran fathoms deep. Daud trusted her and had grown grateful in recent months to have someone besides Montgomery who was capable of managing the sensitive sort of situations where he seemed so often to blunder.

“Yes, sir,” she agreed. “And what of Lord Attano?”

Daud sighed, an exhausted headache beginning to creep up his neck to bury itself at the base of his skull.

“I’ll manage him. Though I’d advise you keep your distance, for now.”

Swallowing thickly, Anatole nodded once more, a flicker of wary concern crossing her expression before she settled her features back into something like cautious neutrality. She trailed after Emily and the governess with his leave, even as Corvo stalked behind them all, overprotective and still agitated. Callista and Anatole seemed a bit unsettled by his intensity, but the boon of Emily’s curious questioning eased everyone’s nerves.

Daud would remain here for now, keeping Havelock and his lot at bay until Corvo could finally settle back into his bones, the vicious edge of defensive hostility sanded down into something less volatile. For a while Daud occupied himself with checking guard rotations and avoiding Martin, but eventually he found himself wandering up to Corvo’s rooms, venturing cautiously inside. He had not set foot back there since Corvo had cursed him and thrown a glass bottle at his head, had not been brave enough to.

Now though, with Corvo staying with the girl until she settled into sleep, the governess perched protectively at her bedside, Daud felt emboldened. It had not been his intention to stand leaning in the door to the breezeway that connected Corvo’s rooms to the tower, but he had fallen into a strange vigil, watching, waiting. He could not be entirely sure what, precisely, he was waiting for, though the brutal edge of wounded longing that had buried itself deep in his belly seemed eager to be soothed. It was a foolish hope, especially given the distance that Corvo had been keeping and the lingering acidic burn of the words he spoke with such vitriol a few long weeks ago. But the day’s events had promised a softening to Corvo that Daud could not help but relish in, hope blooming like a weedy flower between cobblestones, stubborn in the face of adversity. The lure of absolution was a temptation sweeter than any he’d seen at the Golden Cat – not that he had much interest in such things.

The sound of weary bootsteps on corrugated steel drew Daud’s attention from his lamenting to find Corvo trekking back towards his rooms from the tower, expression flat and shoulders heavy with exhaustion. He seemed to straighten at the sight of Daud in the doorway, slowing his pace as he drew nearer.

“You needn’t have stayed,” Corvo said.

It felt oddly as if the words were a test of some sort, one designed to trick Daud’s true intentions into exposing themselves. Daud shifted, pushing away from the doorframe.

“But I did,” he replied too softly. He hated the fragility in his voice, and cleared his throat, refocusing. “She’s settled in?”

Corvo nodded, apparently soothed to be redirected to a tidier topic.

“As well as she can be,” he offered, glancing back over his shoulder toward the tower. “Callista will see to her well. Emily already seems to be warming to her, but she’s already taken with Anatole.”

“There are worse role models for a little girl to have. And I imagine the others will be eager to meet her,” Daud said. “With your approval, of course.”

“Of course,” Corvo echoed cryptically, an edge of derision in his voice. It cleared quickly, however, when he stepped nearer, a firm, assessing look in his eye. “Thank you, Daud.”

One broad hand smoothed down Daud’s arm, gentle and caressing, and Corvo pulled him close. Exhausted relief sat heavy in his gaze, constantly dragging it away from Daud’s eyes like a physical weight. After a long, breathless moment, Corvo leaned in and kissed him.

It was chaste, but lingering, firm enough with determined longing that it drew a pathetic sound up the back of Daud’s throat, pitiful and desperate. For a long moment they sank into the press of their lips – neither deepening, neither retreating – until Corvo withdrew to pull a slow, shaking breath into his straining lungs, leaning their foreheads together with a solemn pressure that promised words lost in the weight of emotion.

“Thank you,” Corvo repeated softly, nuzzling against Daud’s cheek. “For everything.”

“I wouldn’t let them keep her from you,” Daud swore, hoarse and desperate to be acknowledged, desperate to not be condemned any longer in Corvo’s eyes. “You have to know that.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Daud.”

Daud didn’t understand how relief could feel so much like agony, but there was a crushing weight in his chest like an anchor chained round his ribs, dragging him down, down, holding him in place at the ocean floor. Perhaps it was a less grim thing than all that. Perhaps, with some of the soft acceptance having now returned to the way Corvo looked at him, it was more akin to regaining his bearings. At least, now, Daud thought he knew which way was up.

Even with his heart clenching, Daud was a little less adrift.

“There’s no…” he tried, words stuttering on his tongue when Corvo’s broad hand alighted upon his cheek, thumb tracing the line of the scar that tore down his face. “Don’t waste your apologies.”

“It’s not wasted.”

There was nothing much to say to that, so Daud swallowed thickly and remained silent. Eventually, just as their closeness was beginning to burn like inaction, like some confused desire, Corvo pressed a soft kiss to his temple and pulled away, the Void already glowing from the back of his left hand.

“Goodnight, Daud.”

“Goodnight, Corvo,” Daud said to the empty air.

Chapter Text

Corvo jerked awake for the third time in as many hours, groaning and shifting to settle uneasily back into the aged mattress. The spot beside him where he usually could sink into Thomas’s warmth was empty – just as it had been when he’d stumbled into bed, just as it had been for the last four nights.

            He found that he disliked sleeping alone, now. He vastly preferred being drawn into the crater made by the weight of Thomas’s body on the left side of the mattress; preferred the gentle disturbances of Thomas shifting as he slept, snoring lightly and tucking his frigid feet against Corvo’s ankles. It was easier to rest, when his body knew that Thomas was by his side.

            But now, alone, each rattle of a loose shutter in the wind jerked him into bewildered wakefulness, each groan of a floorboard downstairs left his heart in his throat. His room was too large and the shadows too deep, and the haunting drone of whale song seeped into his fitful dreams even though the Outsider did not deign to show himself.

            Uneasy and frustrated, Corvo forced himself from bed, pulling on his boots and shrugging his coat on atop his sleeping shirt to trudge down the stairs.

            The Hound Pits was quiet, the reclaimed third floor hushed despite the occasional shifting of one of the master Whalers behind a closed door, and the second-floor bunkroom full to bursting with novices. Some were out – on patrols or errands for Daud, most likely – but most all who remained were sleeping soundly, huddled beneath threadbare blankets.

Emily was sleeping among them, somewhere, having soundly abandoned the tower after the first fitful night. She claimed that it was too hot, too cold, too drafty, too stuffy. She’d conjured a hundred excuses, but all she had needed to say was that she no longer wanted to sleep alone. Corvo understood; of course he did. Besides, for a child who had been raised living the isolated life of a princess of an empire – with no siblings, no friends aside from the minders who were paid to tolerate her – Corvo imagined that suddenly coming into what was essentially a gaggle of siblings was novel, if not wildly jarring. But she had brightened significantly over the last few days, and Corvo certainly wouldn’t deny her the comfort of closeness.

A surge of warm fondness bubbled up behind Corvo’s breastbone at the thought. It reminded him dearly of his time in the Grand Guard, what seemed like a lifetime ago. That easy camaraderie formed by shared purpose and shared circumstances, the blind faith of youth in the guidance of an officer of standing. Corvo knew that it was not the same, not really, but the pleasure of reminiscence eased the faults of his logic that he had no intention of pondering, anyway.

Corvo wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself, awake at such an unreasonable hour, so he wandered down to the pub proper, stepping over the third stair from the bottom that always wailed like the specters in the old ghost stories that Beatrici had always told to scare him. Perhaps he would take to the kitchen – try to remember his mother’s recipe for Serkonan rye. Or maybe raid the pantry, see if there was enough citrus and sugar to spare to make magdalenas for Emily’s breakfast. She had settled happily enough among the novices, enjoying the same breakfast of eggs or porridge with molasses that the others did. Still, Corvo knew that she had never truly been without the luxuries of the Tower, and was certain that the loss wore on her, whether she realized it or not. He would make and effort, then, to spoil her in whatever ways he could. Emily was still a princess, after all.

It seemed that he was not the only one awake, however, as he found Javier sitting at the bar in the low light, nursing a cup of something warm and aromatic. When he sidled closer, it became clear that Javier had availed himself of a splash of good brandy with his coffee.

            “Can’t sleep?” Javier asked, slipping easily into the familiar trill of Serkonan with a weary smile.

            “Not in the least,” Corvo replied, continuing in their shared native tongue. “I thought I’d be relieved enough to sleep, now that Emily’s safe.”

            Javier nodded sagely, humming his sympathy. “I’m sure Thomas being back in Rudshore isn’t helping.”

            Corvo sighed and rubbed at his eyes with one scarred knuckle, slumping onto a stool beside him. The statement was true enough. It had been weeks since Corvo had slept alone; Thomas was always tucked against his side through the night. Save for the infrequent nights spent in Jessamine’s bed, Corvo had always slept alone, whether in his quarters in the Tower or in a cramped ship cabin with Geoff or even in the Guard bunks in Karnaca. Now, though, he feared he’d never be able to do so again.

            “Are we so obvious?”

“You care for each other. Deeply,” Javier soothed with a smile. “It’s not a bad thing.”

Corvo tried to answer his smile, but it felt crooked and brittle like a ratty old mirror threatening to fall from its nail in the wall to the floor.

“It feels like Daud is punishing Thomas by sending him away. Or maybe punishing me. I’m not sure which.”

“He wouldn’t,” Javier said, voice harboring a conviction that surprised Corvo. “Besides, he’s still trying to find his way back to your good graces. He’s not so hard-headed as to jeopardize that, no matter how much a fool he can be.”

Corvo barked a short laugh, so harsh and sudden that it left his ribs aching. “He’d mop the floor with you if he heard you say so, even if it is true.”

“Good thing no one will tell him, eh?” Javier teased with a sly grin, leaning over the bar to fumble for the brandy before adding another splash to his half-drained mug.

“Right,” Corvo easily agreed.

Javier reached over and clapped Corvo on the shoulder, shaking him gently as if to rouse some good spirit. Vaguely, Corvo remembered that his father used to do something similar – the closest the man had ever come to true, forthright affection despite how much he clearly adored his children – and it was easy to lean into Javier’s offered comfort.

“Don’t blame Daud,” Javier soothed easily as he took a sip of his doctored coffee. “Thomas is his lieutenant, after all. It’s to be expected that his responsibilities keep him busy. If anything, it’s a sign of trust on Daud’s part.”

“I suppose,” Corvo muttered, unconvinced.

Javier nodded, apparently satisfied with his weak agreement.

“Come on,” Javier said, switching easily out of Serkonan as he shoved up from his barstool with a grunt. "Let’s get some breakfast in you. You still look like a stiff breeze might knock you over.”

Corvo snorted a half-hearted chuckle and leaned his elbow on the bar top as Javier shuffled into the kitchen and propped open the swinging door, all the while complaining about his aching knee and the trials of old age. It was easy to grin at his bitching, but Corvo was starting to feel those aches himself and he was still two years shy of forty.

“Don’t pretend you’re some decrepit old man,” Corvo complained, even as his heart felt a bit lighter in his chest. “And I’m not that thin.”

“Ha!” Javier barked from the kitchen. “You’re nearly as thin as Leonid, and he sways like a piece of wheat if anyone so much as sneezes in his direction.”

“You’d think a stick in the mud would be sturdier than that.”

A grin tugged at the corners of Corvo’s mouth in the breath of pause that followed before Javier crowed with laughter, too loud for the earliness of the morning and the delicate quiet that hung throughout the rest of the pub like gossamer cloth. For a few minutes Javier chortled from within the kitchen, his amusement dulling the sharp sound of clattering dishes. He emerged a moment later with a plate in one hand and two fresh cups of coffee balanced in the other, still grinning as he set his bounty on the bar. Nudging the plate against Corvo’s hand before scrounging up some silverware, Javier gestured for him to eat as he sipped at his coffee.

The plate was bountiful with fried eggs and sliced dark bread, wedges of tomatoes that were only a little too soft offering a vivid splash of color to the mix. Corvo’s stomach rumbled, his appetite rearing its dormant head, and he ate with a fervor that surprised himself and Javier both.

“Slow down, boy,” Javier teased, only a little mocking. “I won’t let you starve to death. Promise.”

There was genuine reassurance in the curl of Javier’s lips, as if he thought Corvo truly needed to hear that he wouldn’t be abandoned, that the pain and hunger he had known in Coldridge would remain a thing of the past. And perhaps Corvo did need to hear it. Perhaps it soothed his soul more than Javier knew.

“I know,” Corvo said, and meant it.

*****

Daud rubbed the heel of his palm into one eye until he saw spots. He hated the haughty drone of Havelock’s voice, hated how he spoke as if he were the authority on all things and the holder of all knowledge. There was no need for anyone to explain the intricacies of Daud’s own business to him, though Havelock seemed to deem it necessary. They were of an age, but Daud had been killing men since he was a child, since before Havelock had learned to tug his own cock.

“The security will be tight,” Havelock said, pompous and overbearing. “We cannot allow any harm to come to Sokolov, we need him intact, healthy enough for interrogation.”

“Would you prefer fetch him yourself, Admiral?” Daud snapped in reply. “Or would you rather let me do my damn job?”

Teague shifted uncomfortably where he stood leaning against Havelock’s desk. Daud had been able to ignore the weight of Teague’s stare on the side of his face thus far, but he finally relented and cut his gaze to the side. There was an unnerving dullness to Teague’s expression, cold and considering as he watched Daud bristle at the condescension in Havelock’s tone, though he was quick to drag a mask of easy disinterest when he noticed Daud staring.

“There’s no need for that, dear heart,” Teague drawled as he pushed away from the desk, smirking when Havelock’s jaw twitched in irritation. “We trust Corvo to do the job.”

“No,” Daud grit out.

“No?”

Havelock was eyeing him with unveiled disdain, as if Daud was making it his sole purpose to upset his schemes. The corner of Teague’s mouth twisted into a frown as he glanced briefly to Havelock before turning back to Daud, smiling with an ease he plainly did not feel.

“Corvo is the logical choice. He is familiar with Sokolov, and could perhaps reason with him,” Teague offered.

Daud hated that Teague still knew him as well as he did. He knew how to ply Daud into ceding to his whims, knew just how to twist and twine his wiles through sound logic and braid them into noose that Daud had hanged himself with dozens of times through the years. Though they both had changed, worn and sculpted by time and hard lives, Teague still knew him, could still read him like a book.

However, Daud knew Corvo far better than Teague had ever known Daud.

Daud snorted, shaking his head. “That may be, but Sokolov won’t be able to reason with Corvo.”

“What are you getting at, assassin?” Havelock snapped, beyond impatience.

“You want Sokolov alive, don’t you?” Daud asked rhetorically, humming when Teague glanced uneasily at Havelock. “Then you need to keep Corvo as far away from him as possible. Corvo… he can be unpredictable, and Sokolov is precisely the sort of bastard to get under his skin. Sokolov is arrogant – too arrogant to realize when he’s digging his own grave.”

“Corvo will go,” Havelock insisted.

Daud frowned, glaring at the admiral and wishing that the bastard’s thick neck was under his boot. Corvo was capable – Daud knew that, of course he did – but Corvo also needed time to settle. The princess had been returned to her father’s side for nearly a week, and even though Corvo was diligent enough to accept the assignment from Havelock without complaint, Daud knew that Corvo would be distracted. With his thoughts trained on his daughter at the Hound Pits and not the dangers around him, Corvo would put himself at more risk than Daud was truly comfortable with.

Truthfully, Daud couldn’t be more disinterested in the fate of Anton Sokolov. He and Sokolov knew each other well enough – and disliked each other enough – to be beyond feigning concern for whatever cruelties may befall one another. They had hated each other when they met at the Academy, and had hated each other when Daud inevitably left; though in the decades since they had met on infrequent occasions to share a cigar and a glass of brandy, always parting with shared sentiments of go fuck yourself and I hope you die in a ditch. The circumstances of such meetings were, invariably, contrived, results of Sokolov being in possession of things that Daud wanted and Daud being in possession of a connection to the Void that left Sokolov slavering in want of the same.

It was pathetic, truly, Sokolov’s obsession with the Void, with the Outsider. And Daud would not dispute that he had interfered with several of the philosopher’s rituals beneath the old Abbey over the years. It was amusing, after all, to watch a man so sure of his own competence fail miserably time and again.

“Do as you like, but don’t blame me when you ask for a natural philosopher and get the corpse of one,” Daud said blithely. He could see a thick vein throb in Havelock’s blockish temple.

“Perhaps,” Teague began cautiously, placing a firm hand on Daud’s shoulder when he went to turn away, “it would be best to let Corov remain here. Daud is familiar with Sokolov, are you not?”

Daud wasn’t sure how Teague had that information, as they had parted ways long before he had even come to Gristol, let alone enrolled in the Academy with carefully forged documents, but Daud nodded nonetheless. Teague cast a grateful glance his way, thumb rubbing against Daud’s collarbone with too much familiarity. Grimacing, Daud ducked free of his hold. Teague played it off with his usual ease as he turned back to Havelock.

“We should be mindful of Corvo’s… health,” Teague offered, lowering his voice with caution. “You know what he did to the Pendletons. A repeat of that performance and we could lose vital information.”

“He’s not an animal,” Daud snarled in Corvo’s defense, as if he had not just been espousing his unpredictability in an effort to earn him some peace and fucking quiet.

These bastards wanted too much of Corvo. The world wanted too much of Corvo, and Daud had watched as its demands wore him down like grain beneath the milling stone. If it continued, there would be nothing of Corvo left – nothing left of the man that Daud knew and cared so deeply for. He refused to let the greed of men like Teague Martin and Farley Havelock take Corvo away from him.

“I’m going,” Daud professed with the sort of sternness that made his Whalers straighten their spines and shut their mouths.

Teague raised a curious brow even as Havelock gritted his teeth. Still, he did not argue, aware that he’d been overruled by his betters. Daud weathered his heated glare like a lighthouse in a storm, steadfast and defiant. He didn’t give two shits if Farley Havelock hated him – it was mutual.

Havelock growled, arms folded across his chest. “Very well. But should anything befall—”

“What’ll you do about it? Hmm?” Daud asked with a viciously mocking grin. “There won’t be a hair harmed on his balding head.”

Bristling, Havelock turned to Teague. “If something happens, it’ll be on you, Martin.”

With that, Havelock stormed from the room, surely on his way to find someone who would cower beneath his invented authority. Daud only had a moment to revel in his smugness before Teague turned to him with his arms folded, a flustered sigh hissing between his teeth.

“Was that really necessary?” he griped, a trill of that old, familiar brogue in his voice.

It settled Daud a bit, made Teague seem less like a stranger and more like a memory. They didn’t know each other, anymore, not the way the used to, but Teague had always had a way about him that made it so easy to forget that he was a stranger. Daud had watched him use those charms on marks before, back in Morley where they met, had even fallen victim himself. How simple it was to become lost in the beauty of the garden, only to realize too late that there was a snake amongst the weeds.

Daud struggled to sure up his defenses as Teague prowled closer, that look of wounded disappointment on his face.

“It was necessary,” Daud bit back. “I won’t let that washed up son of a bitch run Corvo into the ground. He’s been through enough.”

Teague grinned, pleased like he’d found ten coin that he’d forgotten he’d had. Daud could feel his hackles rising.

“You’re mighty protective of the Lord Protector, aren’t you, dear heart?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Oh,” Teague frowned, overwrought, “but you used to like it so much. Used to melt like butter in my hands, didn’t you?”

“I’m not your plaything anymore, Teague.”

Teague stepped close, fingers trailing over the front of Daud’s coat, lingering over the place where that old tattoo remained; a snake driven through with a dagger, one inked into Daud’s young skin with Teague in mind. Thomas, during one of his fits, had carved a wound through it years ago, and Daud had never been more grateful for a scar.

“My, but how you loved to play.”

Embarrassed heat flushed up the back of Daud’s neck, and he was nearly certain that his ears had gone scarlet with flustered mortification. He had been young in those days, inexperienced in love and desire and sex, even if he was already so familiar with killing and death and bleeding men like pigs for a pocketful of coin. He had let himself be so easily guided by Teague’s more worldly hand, eager to please in exchange for praise whispered against damp skin and fleeting flickers of lackluster pleasure. Desperately, he had wanted to be told that he was good, that he was wanted in any capacity he could give. Teague, for a time, had offered that.

It had been childish, pathetic. Daud knew, now, that he never should have been surprised by the inevitable betrayal. Ever since, Daud had kept his longings in check, he had killed them like weeds, ripped up by the root.

He had, until Corvo. Until Thomas.

Decades on, and he was still a fool.

With a snarl, Daud closed his fingers cruelly around Teague’s wrist and wrenched his hand away. The Void was elated with his anger, his discomfort, as it writhed at the edges of his shadow with snapping teeth, sprawling beyond logic like an overturned inkpot. It nipped at the fringes of Teague’s shadow, consuming and hungry as it crept across the floorboards.

Daud was too close, sunk deep into Teague’s space. He could enact vengeance with lips and teeth and tongue, taking what he was owed. But Teague looked too pleased with their nearness, his pupils blown wide and throat bared and lips glistening from the swipe of his tongue across them. He had his free hand fisted in the front of Daud’s coat, the one still held in Daud’s iron grasp curling and flexing over and over with pent eagerness.

Teague pressed closer, closer, until his mouth lingered a scant breath away from Daud’s jaw, just above the thin silver scar that Teague had carved there when they first met, nigh on twenty years ago.

“There you are, dear heart,” Teague whispered, breathless and nearly wanting. “I’ve wondered where you’ve been.”

A biting comment, tinged with violence, rose like the tide on the back of Daud’s tongue, but suddenly, from beyond the door cracked slightly ajar, came a heavy wheeze of breath, a stumbling bootstep, and then the hiss of a transversal. Daud could feel the pull of the Void in his gut, a wretched, bloody length of twine tied around his spine, and he knew that it wasn’t one of his men. He knew he had just fucked up.

“Oh dear,” Teague said with false concern, his brows arched towards his hairline. “That is unfortunate.”

Daud shoved him away with more force than necessary and Teague stumbled back, slamming his hip into the edge of Havelock’s desk hard enough to make the over-fine things perched atop it rattle.

“Stay away from me,” Daud hissed, jabbing an accusatory finger in Teague’s direction. “Stay away from him.”

“If you insist,” Teague agreed easily – too easily – raising his hands, feigning defenselessness.

“I’ll fetch Sokolov,” Daud said. “But if I hear a word about you approaching him, breathing in his direction, I’ll cut your fucking throat, Teague Martin.”

Breath constricted high in his chest, Daud took a step back and sank into the Void.

*****

Corvo sat with his feet dangling over the balcony above the back yard of the Hound Pits, the copper pipes of the pub’s little distillery hissing and thrumming below. He’d been sitting here for a long while, long enough for the grating of the balcony floor to dig uncomfortably into the backs of his thighs and the putter of Samuel’s boat to fade as it ferried Daud to Kaldwin’s Bridge. The sun was sinking low at his back, the light warm and crimson as it glanced off the roof of the pub and stretched long shadows towards the river, leaving the yard chilly and dim.

The fading light did little to dissuade the cohort of novices – Emily included – who sat in a haphazard semi-circle around Reilly and his docile wolfhound, watching with rapt attention as he drew heretical symbols in the sand, explaining patiently their meanings and origins. Corvo supposed that an Overseer’s knowledge of bone charms and runes, while different than that of someone touched with the Void, would be beneficial if toppled on its head. Certainly Reilly’s brothers at the Abbey had not intended for his training to be used in such a way, but the man seemed so at ease betraying his oaths in favor of teaching black magic-wielding children how to assemble a charm without corrupting it. How much of his knowledge was from the Abbey, as opposed to his own gleanings from Galia and experience, Corvo could not tell. But the advice was sound, and far more insightful than his own, and far more patiently offered than Daud’s.

He was glad, suddenly, that Daud had granted Galia permission to bring Reilly to the Hound Pits, and not merely as a keen set of eyes to be trained on Martin. After all, Daud seemed to be keen enough on Martin all on his own.

Corvo was still bristling – aching – at the recollection of their earlier closeness, the intensity of their familiarity, when the clang of steel-toed boots on the catwalk above the distillery announced company. Rinaldo loomed over him as he approached, limned in waning light that made his dark skin glow but did nothing to smooth away the mischievous edges of his grin.

“Why so glum, my inconveniently handsome friend?” he asked, voice lilting with teasing humor.

Frowning, Corvo cast him a derisive glance. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Oh, come on, Corvo,” Rinaldo whined as he sat gracelessly, thumping heavy on his ass by Corvo’s side. “I hate seeing you like this.”

“Like what?” Corvo asked, snappish.

Rinaldo arched a wry brow at him, unimpressed.

“Catty, for one,” he said, though he then heaved a great sigh and bumped their shoulders together. “Your girl is safe, you’re healing… things are going well, but no one would know it from looking at you.”

Corvo sighed, leaning heavily against Rinaldo’s side. “I’m tired. There’s always one more thing to do, one more trigger to pull. Emily is safe, but neither of us has time to grieve her mother. And Emily is an empress now. Stars above, she’s only a child – she used to dream of being a pirate, and now she dreams of blood on the hem of her skirt that she can never scrub out. How can we possibly ask her to step into that role? Into the role that killed her mother?”

“Does she even want it?” Rinaldo asked gently, genuine and unaccusatory. “You could leave the crown behind, take her and raise her as a normal girl, with a normal life.”

“Nothing is that simple.”

“No,” Rinaldo agreed wearily, “it never is.”

“I’m so tired, Rin. So tired.”

“If I knew how to breathe a bit more life back into you, my friend, I would.”

“You could punch Teague Martin in the face,” Corvo offered with a weakly sly grin. “That would make me feel better.”

Rinaldo barked a loud, overzealous laugh, energetic enough to startle the group sitting in the yard below. “And deny you the pleasure? Never.”

Corvo couldn’t help but smile, especially when Emily looked up and saw him, grinning broadly and raising a hand to wave. She was thriving amongst Daud’s people, settling in with the Whalers as if she had always belonged, their interactions effortless and unstilted as Corvo might not have expected given her lifestyle up until now. Emily had always been a cunning, clever girl, adaptable when it suited her yet as stubborn as an ox when it did not, so much like her mother. It was difficult to imagine taking her away from this easy camaraderie, returning her to the Tower and her fine clothes and tutors and duty and a loneliness that he knew all too well. Corvo knew that if he asked her to give all this up, he’d be cruel to not expect the same of himself.

“You’re getting lost in that head of yours, again,” Rinaldo said, voice gentle even as he waved down at the novices and Reilly with a broad, childish grin.

“It’s easy to, these days.”

“Ah, well I have a way to remedy that!”

Rinaldo grunted as he hauled himself to his feet, offering a hand to drag Corvo up off the balcony floor. His smile had turned devious and beguiling, and giddy wariness immediately puddled in Corvo’s belly.

“What are you up to, Rin?”

“I’ll have you know, oh ye of little faith, that I happened upon a crate of rather fine and tragically unopened liquor in one of the apartments across the way. Seems like someone was holding out on the old Admiral, much to our benefit,” Rinaldo informed, waxing poetic in that absurd way he had, which always managed to dig the good humor out of Corvo’s heart like a miner’s pickaxe. “I reckon we deserve a party.”

“’You reckon’?” Corvo asked incredulously, words lilting with an unavoidable chuckle.

“I do!” Rinaldo countered, mock offended. “Daud and his sour face are off hunting for natural philosophers, and I have it on good authority that dear Thomas will be back within the hour. What is it they say about mice when the cat’s away?”

Corvo sighed, weary but intrigued. “Fine.”

Smarmy and self-satisfied, Rinaldo grinned as he reached to brush nonexistent dust from Corvo’s shoulders, straightening his coat. It was too easy to fall into Rinaldo’s wake, tugged along into his half-brained schemes like a victim of the Dawn Patrol, stumbling headlong into trouble. Such effortless charm should violate some sort of law, Corvo thought wryly, but he followed Rinaldo back into the pub, nonetheless.

It took very little effort to convince the twins to partake, and Rinaldo quickly goaded Reilly into relaxing long enough to join them after sending his wolfhound off with Emily and the other children much to the relief of everyone else. Misha was reticent, withdrawn in the way she had been since Corvo had escaped Coldridge, but a bit of lighthearted nudging from Jenkins and Lydia had her smiling shyly, accepting a tumbler of Rinaldo’s stolen liquor and settling at the bar. Though Galia and Leonid were gone on assignment for Daud – much to Reilly’s discomfort and dismay – the rest of the gathered Whalers and the staff of the Hound Pits scrounged up some audiograph cards and made merry.

Corvo planted himself in a quiet corner near the door into the stair hall, where he could watch, bask in the others’ joy like the light of the sun, as warming as the whiskey in his glass. And it was good whiskey, smokey and rich and smooth as silk in his throat. It was easy to indulge, to sink into the shadows of his own space, keeping keen eyes on the doors and windows with a quiet, lazy sort of vigilance.

Nearly all of his dearest people were here. Misha and Callista had taken up a game of Nancy against Lydia and Jenkins in a booth, while Reilly watched on, struggling to learn and chatting idly with Montgomery. Javier and Jordan stood flanking Geoff as they all lounged against the bar, drinks in fine-cut glasses in their hands. Geoff looked more at ease than Corvo had yet seen him amongst the Whalers, in this strange place where he had no control. It irked him, Corvo knew. He had gone on a rather restrained tirade some weeks past about how the Hound Pits was criminally lacking in security, with people coming and going at all times and seemingly at will. Corvo had hid his grin behind his hand, trying not to incense Geoff further by laughing outright, but he had reminded his dear friend that they were hidden in a quarantined district and guarded by dozens of Void-touched assassins. Geoff had grumbled, though he had turned bright red when Corvo had teased that he was certain that Rinaldo would come to his aid, should he need it.

Rinaldo himself was standing awkwardly between the twins, watching Geoff the way a hound would watch a haunch of pork as it was carried from kitchen to table, pitiful with longing. Killian had a gleefully cruel smile curling his lips while Kieron simply looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else, particularly when Rinaldo and Killian started up a biting banter that Corvo could not hear but suspected regarded Rinaldo’s sorry pining.

“Rin!” Corvo called.

Rinaldo whipped to face him, bug-eyed and startled, though he slunk over to Corvo’s side when gestured for. Kieron, clearly unimpressed with the antics of Rinaldo and his twin, grumbled something and wandered off. Killian, however, stuck close to Rinaldo’s side as if he could sense trouble on Rinaldo’s horizon.

“Enjoying yourself, Corvo?” Rinaldo asked innocently.

Corvo arched an unimpressed brow at the effort, casting a quick glance to note the way Killian’s grin broadened with sinister glee, like a child about to watch a sibling be scolded. Rinaldo cleared his throat and tried again.

“The liquor’s good, yeah? Top shelf stuff!”

He laughed awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable, and Corvo felt amusement bubble up in his belly, effervescent as sparkling wine.

“What are your intentions with Geoff?” Corvo asked bluntly.

Rinaldo made a sound akin to a rusty hinge squealing open while Killian choked on a snorting laugh. He quieted beneath Corvo’s glare, deferent and perhaps still a bit fearful, but Corvo had no doubt that he would regale Jordan with the entirety of this conversation as soon as he managed a moment.

“I… I was… well….”

“He wants to screw!” Killian offered cheerfully.

Rinaldo made that awful sound again, and Corvo imagined that his face would be flaming red if not for the darkness of his complexion. He was stammering again, eyes darting furtively between Geoff and Corvo, and Corvo smiled into a sip of his drink.

Rinaldo was usually so blasé about romance, about sex. He and Corvo had spent enough nights murmuring about Corvo’s relationship woes that he knew Rinaldo was wildly open about his conquest and his pursuit of pleasure. There was no shame in him, no embarrassment. Just a wry, selfish pride in the joy of the act, in the chase, in the intimacy of shared ecstasy and the light-hearted parting.

But Corvo had never seen Rinaldo like this.

It was heartwarming, truly. And it was even more so when Corvo noticed Geoff glancing in their direction, gaze fixed on Rinaldo’s back, cheeks flaring pink when he noticed Corvo watching.

“Be good to him, Rin,” Corvo demanded gently, and Rinaldo nodded, his eyes wide and a little glassy.

“Yeah, yeah, I will.”

“He’s not like you,” Corvo said, tapping his chest right over his heart. “He stays guarded, doesn’t trust easily, but there is more loyalty and goodness in him than most. Don’t break his trust, once you earn it. I don’t want to have to choose between the two of you.”

“Choose him, if it comes to it,” Rinaldo insisted with startling conviction.

“Very well.”

Rinaldo smiled broadly at that, and Corvo clasped him firmly on the shoulder, pulling him in to knock their foreheads together gently, lingering. When they parted, Rinaldo rocked on the balls of his feel, shaking out his hands like a boxer before a prize fight.

“Go get your man,” Killian urged.

The smile they received in return was blinding even as it fluttered with nerves. Corvo waved Rinaldo away, and off he went.

“He’s gone stupid,” Killian said, exasperated.

“From my experience, love is the greatest threat to sense.”

The younger man eyed him curiously and chewed at his lip, as if trying to wring the answer to some ancient mystery out of Corvo. He must have failed, because he shook his head with a shrug.

“Aye, fair enough,” Killian agreed as he moved to drift in Jordan’s direction.

Corvo glanced to the far side of the pub, where Rinaldo had managed to worm his way into Geoff’s space, elbowing Jordan out of the way with a glaring lack of subtlety as he plastered a charming smile on his face. A flush was spreading on Geoff’s cheeks as he stared down at Rinaldo’s broadly gesturing hands, seemingly enraptured by the glint of the gold rings he wore against his dark skin. The low, golden light of the lamps was alluring, making everything a bit more enticing – the whiskey in their glasses limned in liquid amber, the lips of the object of one’s desire shaded in plush temptation. Corvo could see Geoff swallow thickly, could see Javier gesturing discreetly to Jordan that they make themselves scarce.

The sight of them together, seemingly at ease despite Geoff’s obvious awkwardness, warmed Carvo’s heart in his chest. They were both his friends and he loved them dearly, so it was natural to want to see them find happiness. Especially with each other. Geoff and Rinaldo, despite being so very different in disposition and demeanor, were so well suited whether they realized it or not. Corvo imagined that Geoff’s steadiness could serve to level Rinaldo’s energy and curb his wild whims, while Rinaldo might pry Geoff out of his shell, soften his sternness. They would elevate the best in each other, bring each other happiness even as they discovered their own. They could fill the faults left by their flaws and by the old wounds inflicted by others, they could share burdens with gracious hearts the way Corvo and Thomas did. The way Corvo and Daud did.

Or, at least, how they used to.

That odd, unnerving tightness twisted in his chest again, and he could feel the Heart thrumming in his pocket, eager to whisper secrets into his mind. Corvo ignored her, even though it felt cruel. He didn’t think he could tolerate her mournful voice now; he had never been a particularly melancholy drunk, but Corvo knew he was just tipsy enough to find out if that had changed since Coldridge, since… everything.

In that moment, however, Thomas slipped in through the back door of the pub, the late autumn wind blowing in on his heels as he ducked quickly inside, coat held close around his body and mask in his hand. Corvo’s heart flared with warmth at the sight of his cheeks flushed bright with the biting chill, a vibrant contrast against the dark tattoos snaking up his throat from beneath his collar.

“Solecito,” Corvo called sweetly, and Thomas found him quickly amongst the general din and movement in the bar.

He smiled, a fleeting twitch of his lips, and came immediately to Corvo’s side. Corvo wrapped one arm around Thomas’s trim waist, breathing him in. His hair was tousled by the wind and smelled of sea air, undercut by the earthiness of well-loved leather and the bright scent of the verbena soap he preferred when he managed to find it.

“Corvo,” Thomas said, a little breathless from being held so close to Corvo’s chest.

Corvo liked the way his name sounded in Thomas’s voice, especially when he said it like that. He felt like he could drown in Thomas, in every good and wretched thing about him, and die a happy man.

“You were away too long.”

“There was much to be done.”

Sighing, Corvo bent to rest his brow against Thomas’s temple, suddenly exhausted, suddenly so very aware of how alone he had been in recent days. He could hardly determine the point at which being alone had shifted from a mere fact of his life to an overwhelming sense of wrongness, but he could feel it now. The days-old tension woven between his ribs was easing, his breaths coming steadier, his awareness dulled to something manageable. His relief was palpable, and Corvo released a slow breath from between his teeth, closing his eyes.

“Corvo?” Thomas asked as he raised one hand to pet along Corvo’s jaw. “Are you alright?”

It was easier to ignore the concern in Thomas’s voice if he pretended that he was not about to rattle part at the seams like an old dock in a squall.

“Your fingers are freezing,” Corvo said, folding Thomas’s hands around his half-empty whiskey glass. “Drink, it’ll warm your bones.”

With a shy smile Thomas raised the glass to his lips and took a cautious sip, his eyes widening with surprise a moment later.

“Good, isn’t it?” Corvo asked with a chuckle. “Courtesy of Rinaldo’s sticky fingers.”

Thomas scoffed and rolled his eyes even as he took another long pull of the whiskey, shivering pleasantly as it warmed his belly. “I should have known.”

Corvo grinned at the expression on Thomas’s face – a scowling pout not unlike a disappointed schoolmarm – even as Thomas batted at him half-heartedly when Corvo held him close, back to chest. Swaying a little to the music projecting tinnily from the speakers of the audiograph machine sat atop the bar, Corvo hooked his chin over Thomas’s shoulder, gesturing to the far end of the bar. Geoff and Rinaldo were alone, now, bending into each other’s space like palms trees on a Serkonan beach.

“Everyone is in good spirits,” Corvo murmured.

Thomas hummed in agreement, leaning back against his chest.

“Are you, Thomas?” Corvo gently asked. “Are you happy?”

Thomas froze suddenly in his arms, no longer swaying to Corvo’s rhythm, eyes wide and distant and considering. Corvo could feel his breaths coming a little faster, but not like panic. Perhaps like… realization, Corvo thought. Hoped.

“Thomas?”

He gasped, just a small, fragile thing, and tilted his head to look a Corvo, an enlivened dampness in his eyes.

“I think… I think I might be.”

Smiling, warmth blooming in his chest like wildflowers, Corvo held Thomas close, nuzzling into his wind-tousled hair with a contented hum. Thomas let his eyes drift shut with a sigh, one hand coming to tangle in the long hair at Corvo’s nape, fingers curling and holding tight enough to be grounding.

“Corvo, I…” Thomas began, but was suddenly interrupted as the audiograph card changed to a lively Morleyan jig that had Jenkins and the twins whooping with giddy excitement, leaping from their seats to dance. They fell into step easily, Jordan gamely tugged along on Killian’s arm as Lydia was quite literally swept off her feet by Jenkins, laughing loud and throaty. Kieron offered a timid hand to Callista, notably more subdued, but she accepted with a bit of nudging from Misha, a bright flush on her cheeks.

Corvo could see Geoff shifting uneasily at the sight of his niece agreeing to dance with a hulking, bearded Morleyan man who was infamously known for having a short fuse, but Rinaldo held him at bay with a soft pat in the center of his chest. Grinning, Rinaldo whispered something in Geoff’s ear, and Corvo watched a vibrant flush crawl up the back of his neck even as he nodded along with whatever Rinaldo said. As they shifted apart, just enough for Rinaldo to guide Geoff away from the bar with a hand splayed on his lower back, Rinaldo looked liable to shake apart with eagerness even as he struggled to affect calm nonchalance. They were weaving between the others, towards Corvo and Thomas, towards the stairs, and Corvo met Geoff’s gaze with a wryly arched brow.

Geoff seemed over-warm from drink, but not out of his head with it. He was certainly aware enough to be embarrassed when Corvo made a face at him for slinking off with Rinaldo to get up to who knows what. But Corvo was thrilled for them, really, even if this, perhaps, was not exactly what he had in mind.

As Rinaldo tried to slip past and into the stair hall, Corvo shot one hand out with a speed that made Thomas spook in his arms, grabbing Rinaldo by the back of the collar and scruffing him like an unruly pup. Rinaldo’s eyes went wide as he was jerked back, one hand reaching blindly out for Geoff.

“You,” Corvo said, jostling him a little in his hold, “mind yourself. Be a gentleman.”

“Yeah!” Rinaldo half-shouted as he squirmed free, rubbing at his throat. “Yeah, okay, shit.”

“Rin?” Geoff called, and Corvo leaned with Thomas and Rinaldo to glance around the doorframe, finding him standing on the second step. He clearly wanted to squirm under their attention, plainly embarrassed at being caught slinking off with another man, but he squared his shoulders, affected that dour captain-of-the-Watch expression that he wore so well. “All good?”

“Of course,” Thomas answered gently before Corvo or Rinaldo could make Geoff even more self-conscious, and Corvo loved him for it. “I’m sorry, I’ve been away and had questions for Rinaldo about assignments.”

“Right,” Geoff said, unconvinced.

“Well, I suppose assignments can wait for the morning” Thomas dismissed, making an overt show of looking up at Corvo, dragging his gaze from his eyes to his lips and lingering long enough to make Rinaldo chuckle awkwardly. Corvo knew it was a ploy, a way to put poor Geoff at ease, but he was enthralled by the edge of promise in Thomas’s blue eyes. “Enjoy your evening. Corvo and I, I think… are about to go to bed.”

The tips of Thomas’s ears flamed scarlet even as he said it, but he managed to hold character even as Rinaldo edged past them and murmured a hurried good night. As soon as their footsteps disappeared up the stairs, Thomas slumped dramatically, hiding his face in his hands. There was so much color on his pale skin that Corvo chuckled, tempted to put a hand on the back of his neck just to feel the heat.

“Thank you,” Corvo offered genuinely. “That was kind. Geoff is a private sort of person.”

Thomas made a disgruntled noise into the palms of his hands, but when he finally raised his face with a sigh he looked at ease, less flustered than Corvo had feared. Enchanted, Corvo held him close, fingers toying with the tightly shorn hair at his nape, following the dark tendrils of ink that reached like leviathans up from beneath his clothes. Corvo pressed a soft kiss to Thomas’s brow, lingering for a moment before pulling away.

“We could, you know,” he offered.

“Could what?”

Corvo swallowed, untenably nervous. “Go to bed.”

“You’d want that?” Thomas asked, a shaky whisper. His gaze had drifted back to Corvo’s lips, distracted. “You’d want that with… with me?”

“If you wanted it, then yes. More than anything,” Corvo swore.

Thomas swallowed, and Corvo could feel it beneath his fingertips as he shifted his hand to follow the line of his throat, to trace the luscious swell of his mouth. They were too close, too obvious, and if Corvo had a thought to spare he would have been mortified. But as it was there was longing heat sinking through his body, trickling from his splayed-open heart down into his belly, making him want with such desperation that it left him startled. He had not felt this way with such urgency since that night in Rudshore, so many long months ago, when he’d danced with Daud on creaking floors that smelled like abandonment. Now, Corvo thought he was on fire, alight with a funeral pyre for all of his aches and sorrows, a pyre that would bear from its ashes the fresh spark of what he felt now, with Thomas.

With a nod, Thomas wet his lips with the tip on his tongue. It dragged against the pad of Corvo’s finger and they both shuddered, breathless.

“Yeah,” Thomas murmured, eyes lidded as he closed his fingers tightly in the lapel of Corvo’s coat and pulled. “Yeah, I want that.”

Fumbling, desperate not to lose the closeness between them, they made their way up the stairs, all the way to the landing outside of Corvo’s room, where Corvo found himself pressed back against the wall, Thomas leaning eagerly into his space. They were so close, close enough to share air, to trade breath back and forth and force life into each other’s lungs. Thomas was lovely, so incredibly beautiful in the low light, with his cheeks bright and his eyes so blue and hair gone dark at the roots with eager sweat.

“You’re beautiful,” Corvo told him, as if the words, the truth of them, would kill him if they remained on the back of his tongue. “My Thomas, solecito, you’re beautiful.”

Thomas whined in the back of his throat, closing his eyes and swallowing thickly like he would weep. Corvo knew that Thomas wouldn’t believe him, that he looked at his scars and marks as shameful things, so many inflicted by his own hand. But to Corvo, they were proof that he lived, that he was alive, alive and here and folded in Corvo’s arms.

Corvo wanted to kiss him, wanted to mold the truth of those words into his lips so that Thomas would have to swallow them like one of his pills. Just another thing that would keep him above water.

Corvo realized, with a sudden, shocking clarity, that he had never kissed Thomas before.

Such a cruelty could not stand, and so Corvo laid his hands gently along Thomas’s jaw, and asked again. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” Thomas said, breathless, and tilted his face up when Corvo bent to meet him, pressing their lips together with a softness that had no right to be so earth shattering.

Pressed against him, clinging, unsettled, Thomas shuddered into the kiss. He breathed heavily through his nose, fingers clutching at Corvo’s coat as if Corvo would go somewhere, as if Corvo would leave him.

And then, all at once, Thomas shed his timidity like an old cloak, casting it aside and surging up, up into Corvo’s space with the conviction of forgotten self-denial. It was delicious, divine, nearly base in its urgency, and Corvo felt the pressure of Thomas’s mouth fog his thoughts the way the head rush of white tobacco made sense slide sideways into something foolish, giddy with selfish longing. Startled and desperate, Corvo made a surprised sound in the back of his throat. Thomas stole it away with a devious swipe of his tongue, like it was his. He took the sound of Corvo’s pleasure straight from his mouth like a birthright reclaimed.

Thomas was spectacular, lovely, a divine thing gracing dingy halls and dingy company, offering a boon to Corvo’s troubled heart straight from his lips.

It was easy to be pliant and conceding to Thomas’s wants, not that he demanded much. Corvo wished he’d take more, even as he parted his lips to the press of Thomas’s clever tongue, no longer uncertain but eager, desperate. Thomas had his hands on Corvo’s coat, freeing the buttons until he could shove it from his shoulders. It puddled on the ground at Corvo’s feet, and by the time Thomas had moved frantic fingers to the buttons of his shirt, Corvo had scarcely managed the seemingly endless buckles of Thomas’s uniform. He was struggling with the bandolier when Thomas pulled away sharply, clearly flustered.

“Off, off, off,” he hissed as he tugged the damned thing over his head and casting it roughly to the floor.

It was amusing, almost, that dear, fastidious Thomas would be so cruel to his equipment simply to that he could get Corvo’s hands on his body, under his clothes. Corvo only managed a moment to think about it, because Thomas surged back into his space, fingers curling in Corvo’s hair as he licked into his mouth with a flustered whine.

Corvo slowed him, gentled him by kneading tender circles into Thomas’s hips with his thumbs, slowing the pace to something sweeter, less urgent.

“I’ve got you,” Corvo whispered against his lips. “’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you. I've got you.”

“Corvo….”

“Easy, easy,” he murmured, pressing back into the kiss, slow and sensual.

Thomas made a soft sound, but it was hardly loud enough to conceal the sound of the bedroom door opening beside them. They both froze, turning to look for the intruder, only to find Daud standing in the doorframe, looking exhausted and, frankly, baffled. Corvo could feel panic, hot and stinging like acid, crawling up the back of his throat as he reached for Daud, but Daud was already stumbling back. His lips were set in a firm frown, but his eyes were glassy with hurt, with betrayal.

“Daud…” Thomas tried, his voice so gentle.

Daud flinched, gaze flickering between both of them, and bolted.

“Daud!” Corvo shouted after him, trailing in frantic pursuit even as he abandoned Thomas, shell-shocked, at the top of the stairs. “Daud! Void dammit, Daud!”

He managed to get his foot in the door before Daud could slam it in his face, and he shouldered his way into the bedroom, breathing hard. Daud was through the window and on the breezeway to the tower by the time Corvo managed to stumble after him in a frantic scramble of sprints and Blinks.

“Daud!”

With a snarl more like a cornered animal than anything, Daud froze on the breezeway and turned on his heel to glare at Corvo, chest heaving. He looked like he was trying to be angry, trying to dig up some wretched spite to fling Corvo's direction, but really he just looked wounded, betrayed. Corvo had never seen Daud look so small, and it broke his heart. Everything about it was bone-twisting and wrong; Daud was the Knife of Dunwall, a legend so large as to cast a shadow that could swallow Gristol whole, not this tired man with foreign, woeful lines creasing the corners of his eyes.

“Will you listen to me, please?” Corvo panted, desperate. “Let me explain.”

“I may not know much about these things, Attano, but I'm not such a fool to need that explained to me!” Daud snarled, advancing aggressively.

Corvo snorted, derisive, and it sounded more mocking than he intended. He could see the minuscule flinch as Daud recoiled, but the hurt was quickly concealed by indignant anger.

“Do you think I would betray you? Really?” Corvo snapped.

“I don’t know!”

“You damn well should know, after everything!” Corvo shouted in reply. “After everything, I’m still here, with you!”

“Well, what the fuck am I supposed to think? Am I not enough, so you decided to get your rocks off with Thomas?”

“No, of course not!”

“What, then? You wanted to explain, so fucking explain!”

Corvo sighed, rubbing his palms over his face and curling his fists into his hair. No matter how he broached the subject, Daud was already too livid to properly listen. The truth, straight forward and simple, would likely cause the least damage.

“Thomas comes to me for comfort – has been coming to me for comfort — when everything is too much. If I can ease his suffering at all, I'll do anything.”

“Oh, of course,” Daud hissed, jeering. “His suffering. You saw him fighting the monsters in his own head, and you took advantage!”

“How dare you?” Corvo spat, dangerously quiet. “How dare you say that when you're the reason he's suffering?”

“Me? What do I have to do with it? He's been ill for years!”

Corvo dug his fingers into his scalp violently with a growl, pacing a few steps before whirling back to Daud.

“He's been in love with you for years!” he breathed, immediately feeling a painful throb of guilt for betraying Thomas's confidence. “He has loved you since before you and I even met, and I understood how infuriating you are, so we would talk. I'd let him cry on my shoulder – cry over you – and though it began that way, I eventually began to feel for him as I do for you.

“I care for him,” Corvo insisted, hot frustration simmering in his veins. “And of course we’ve grown close. Do you think it’s been easy to give you the distance you obviously want? But I’ve given it, haven’t I?”

“That I want?”

Daud was seething, now, his expression strangely betrayed, but Corvo continued, speaking over his complaints.

“You want to hide away in Rudshore? Fine. You want to wash your hands of me, of Thomas, and fall back into whatever it was you and Martin used to have? Go ahead,” Corvo said harshly, so much speaking tearing at his throat. “But do not – do not – accuse me of being able to do the same!”

“What the fuck do you want from me, Corvo?!”

They were shouting at each other now, loud and breathless and unavoidable, surely waking up the whole of their contingent in the Hound Pits. Corvo hoped desperately that Emily couldn’t hear.

The chill of the night was cooling anxious sweat against Corvo’s bare skin, his shirt still loose and unbuttoned around his shoulders. Every bit of giddy warmth that Thomas’s touch had fled from him long ago, like blood from a slaughtered ox. Suddenly, wretchedly, Corvo realized that Thomas was likely standing just inside the window, watching, listening as he poured himself out at the feet of the man Corvo had just abandoned him for.

But this was important. They were both important. Corvo prayed to the stars and the sea and every great, unimaginable thing he could think of that Thomas would understand.

“I want you to be able to look at me again!” Corvo persisted, his eyes stinging with rage and grief and so much he could hardly spare words for. “I want to be able to look at you and see something other than regret on your face! I want to know if any part of you doesn’t hate me for the mess I’ve dragged you into!”

Daud’s expression had twisted into something sickly and sad and soft, and Corvo couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t stop himself from barreling on through a mire of his own selfishness, even when Daud called his name, even when he could hear Thomas breathing too carefully behind him.

“I'm tired of denying affection to the ones I care about!” Corvo bellowed, gesturing widely. He was screaming himself hoarse, chest aflame with anger and hurt, but he couldn't care. “My entire Void-damned life I have had to hide the people I love, and I’m fucking tired of it! Would you deny me that, Daud? After everything, would you take away my freedom to tell you that I love you?”

Heavy silence settled between them, gritty and unpleasant like a layer of dust, as Corvo panted, heaving angry, anxious breaths into his withering lungs. Daud was staring blankly at a spot to the left of Corvo’s boots, stubborn as ever and clearly reeling, shoulders taut as Tyvian steel. Corvo shifted to reach for him, stepping nearer, but Daud’s cutting gaze only flickered briefly to Corvo’s outstretched hand as it dropped awkwardly back to his side.

“I love you, you fucking asshole,” Corvo offered gently, breathless and genuine.

“You…” Daud began, swallowed, took a deep breath.

“Daud,” Corvo whispered, pained, and reached to caress his jaw. “Sí, cariño. Te amo, Daud. I love you. Te amo.”

Daud flinched away from the soft press of Corvo’s fingers, eyes wide and frantic, still focused on some nebulous thing over Corvo’s shoulder. Corvo had never seen him look so brittle.

“I…” Daud tried, took a breath, tried again. “I need to… to think. I need…”

He stumbled a step back before glancing up at Corvo like he had never seen him before. Even as Corvo’s heart clenched, aching, there was a soft, pitiful longing in Daud’s eyes that soothed the harsh edges of his rebuff, and for a moment the overwhelming crush of despair in Corvo’s chest glimmered through with a promise of maybe.

In an instant, Thomas – sweet Thomas, too kind for the likes of Corvo, too tender for the likes of Daud – was in front of Corvo, carefully blocking his view of Daud. Despite his lighter build, Thomas might as well have been a stone wall between them, stubbornly impenetrable as he scrambled to keep them both from digging their own graves any deeper.

“It’s alright, Daud,” Thomas was murmuring, as if to a frightened animal – and Void, did Daud look like one. “It’s alright. We’ll be here. We’ll wait for you.”

His voice was sure and steady even though it was so gentle, as if he expected Corvo and Daud to back down simply because he wished them to. Corvo knew he would, if Thomas demanded it; and from the way Daud was watching Thomas as if he were a lighthouse in the fog along a foreign coast, Corvo suspected that he was just as eager to obey. For all they foolishly treated Thomas like some fragile thing rendered brittle by the darkness in his head, it seemed time and again that it fell to him to hold them together, to keep what bonds they three had forged from flaking apart with rusty disrepair. Thomas held onto Corvo and Daud until his fingers bled, and his nails were pried from their beds, too stubborn to abandon two wretched, broken things that should have been cast aside long ago.

“Daud,” Corvo tried, the word nearly caught behind his heart lodged in his throat.

“Enough, Corvo,” Thomas snapped not unkindly, but there was a warning in his voice that left Corvo shutting his mouth with an audible clack. “He can go if he wants. We’ll be here. Isn’t that right?”

Though Thomas addressed him, Corvo knew that none of that was meant as anything but an assurance to Daud, a promise that his leaving wouldn’t sever whatever was between them like the fall of an axe. Struggling to pull his gaze from the terrible, fragile expression on Daud’s face, Corvo nodded.

“Always,” Corvo swore softly.

Daud ground his jaw, looking uncertain, before nodding to Thomas and vanishing in a humid gust of the Void. Thomas deflated somewhat with his departure, a heavy sigh hissing between his teeth.

Corvo wondered what he was feeling – if he were as twisted up as Corvo felt, sorrow and anger and loss and bitter, hateful hope threatening to turn him inside out like a pair of old trousers. Corvo was rotting, a sickly dock board creaking out the death throes of its stability. He could feel himself crumbling, dropping piece by piece into a torrent of his own making, swept away.

“Fuck,” he cursed lowly, dragging a shaky breath into his lungs as hurt morphed into anger – at the world, at Daud, at himself. “Fuck. Fuck!”

“Corvo,” Thomas said, placing gentle hands on Corvo’s shoulders to snug his still unbuttoned shirt around his body. “This isn’t a rejection. He’ll be back. He just needs time to… process.”

For a moment they simply shared space, breathing in the cool night air, until Corvo slumped into Thomas with an untenable weariness, pressing their foreheads together firmly.

“Solecito,” he murmured against Thomas’s lips, separated only by a sliver of empty space and the breadth of intention. “Why do you trouble yourself with us? You deserve so much more. You deserve better.”

Tenderly, Thomas cradled Corvo’s face in his hands, tilting him down to press a soft, lingering kiss to his brow. Corvo felt stinging salt at the corners of his eyes and clenched them shut. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Thomas’s face, to see the inevitable tenderness there. There was no world in which it was deserved, and it was easier, then, to simply deny himself.

“Corvo. Will you look at me, please?” Thomas whispered, his patience excruciating.

Tears rolled down Corvo’s cheeks as soon as he obeyed, but Thomas simply smiled at him so sweetly and caught the dampness with his thumbs. There was a fragility in the mask of ease he wore, a threat to shatter with the wrong prodding, but Corvo was a selfish man, and he wallowed in the glimmer of acceptance that Thomas offered.

“I love you,” Thomas said with an ease that was nearly startling, able to simply say the words without feeling as if he were being wrung out like a rag.

“Thomas—"

“I love you. And Daud…” Thomas sniffled a wet laugh, smiling despite the glitter of tears in his eyes. “Daud has been lost on you since you met. I had never seen him so flustered. I couldn’t help but be jealous, for a while, but then I met you, and I realized that it was no wonder Daud had fallen for you.”

“Don’t—” Corvo tried, but Thomas hushed him with a shake of his head and his sainted stubbornness.

“You, Corvo Attano, are a force of nature. Just by being yourself you’ve changed Daud, changed me, changed history. You’ve changed everything, Corvo,” Thomas insisted, nearly breathless with quiet fervor. “How could anyone not love you?”

Heat was coiling in Corvo’s belly, revived from before, and he panted as he watched Thomas speak, breathing in his words so that they settled into his lungs, soaked into his blood. They dulled the ache of Daud’s departure, soothed the burn of the wound Corvo had inflicted upon himself with a knife that bore an edge of cruel words and distance. Even when Corvo was at his angriest, his most devastated, Thomas had been a balm. He bore an ease and gentleness unto others that he never granted to himself, always patient, always kind. But now there was an intensity in Thomas that Corvo nearly could not recognize; it laid somewhere between lust and utter devotion, a toxic longing that drew him in with the promise of sweetness before the sting. Corvo wanted to taste it from his lips.

“Thomas,” Corvo breathed.

“All will be well. I swear it,” Thomas sounded drunk with adoration, his voice a blur of unrealized desires. “Do you trust me?”

“You know I do. Always.”

In an instant Thomas was claiming a kiss with startling boldness, breath warm as he licked into Corvo’s mouth. Corvo groaned, opening for him, and wrapped his arms around Thomas’s waist to keep him close. Thomas whispered impossible promises against Corvo’s lips, and Corvo held each one close to his chest, clinging to the surety that Thomas tried to sell.

“I love you. We’ll be alright.”

“I know,” Corvo murmured in reply, words humid with want. “I know.”