Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hey, I think he’s waking up.”

The pain is a hammer, pounding him flat and brittle. Ill-forged iron for his bones.

“We should get him down soon, right?”

The pain is two boulders where his lungs should be. His ribs are cracking from the inside.

“I forget how many hours Doc said we could leave him hanging.”

The pain is taking him apart.

“Outsider’s ass, Sullivan. Don’t you ever talk?”

Vision returns slowly. The room swims before his eyes. Light from hot coals; two men, one huge and hooded, the other shorter, wearing blue. He smells smoke, faintly. His shoulders are being torn out of their sockets by unbearably slow inches. He’s having a hard time breathing.

“Morning, Attano. Sleep well?” the prison guard says. Even if Corvo could breathe, he couldn’t respond. They silenced him months ago. His lungs are stone, immovable and solid. He wheezes.

“Get him down,” says the guard. Corvo’s vision is going in and out again, wavering back and forth through the welcoming darkness of oblivion. He can’t – breathe –

The chains come loose with a rattle and Corvo drops to the floor, too dazed and hurt to catch himself. He cracks his face on the flagstones and hardly feels it. But he can get air in his lungs again and he does, frantically, heaving for breath. One gasp, two, three, and then the pins and needles start up in his arms. It’s like being dipped in boiling oil, the agony of hot blood returning to half-dead limbs, hung for hours so far above his heart. Corvo retches weakly; nothing comes up. His ears roar.

“Danny! Chase! Come put the Lord Shithead back in his cell.” Nothing. Nothing. Pain. Something clatters. Then, footsteps.

“Come on, asshole.” A new voice this time. Agony flares white hot in his arms and shoulders and the floor goes away suddenly. The guards are dragging him down the hall, Corvo realizes. Soon they’ll lock him up again and leave him be. He can lie down on the cold, filthy floor of his cell and wait until he can feel his fingers. He is pathetically, miserably grateful when they throw him in, even though his shoulder pops horribly when he lands. Did they dislocate it again? He’s in too much pain to tell. The door clangs shut.

“Ten days ‘til your execution. Looking forward to it, Lord Protector?” It’s the smug guard, the one who likes to bang his nightstick on the bars of Corvo’s cell in the middle of the night and then mock him for being tired. This one doesn’t give a fuck about Jessamine. He just likes hurting people who can’t fight back. Corvo might have broken two of the man’s fingers his first week in Coldridge. He can’t remember. He saw their faces back then; now, he knows them only by their voices and the tread of their feet. He’s spent too long in the dark.

“Don’t know how they expect him to sign anything when they hang him from his fuckin’ wrists all night like that.” The bitterly indifferent guard. This man probably used to feel badly about how the prisoners are treated here, but time has hardened him. He doesn’t give a fuck about Jessamine either; he is simply practical.

“I think they’re just having some fun now. Sullivan needed a new toy anyway. Right, Corvo? How’s that going? Does Morry play nice with you?” The smug guard laughs.

“Don’t let Sullivan catch you calling him that,” the indifferent one says.

The conversation washes around him, mostly meaningless. Oh, fuck, he hurts, he hurts. At least he can breathe again. The floor is blessedly cool against his burning skin. Corvo drifts through the pain, waiting with the infinite patience born of despair. There is nothing he can do to lessen the pain; nothing he can do will make it go any faster. Against the backdrop of his eyelids, Jessamine dies again and again and again.

Corvo’s dreams are strange and twisted things now. It can be hard to tell them from waking, except that sometimes when he dreams, he sees the sun. Mostly it shines down on him as Jessie dies in his arms. Sometimes he stands in the sunlight and stares up at himself, trapped in a glittering field of green anchored under his skin, watches the Lord Protector struggle helplessly in the grip of his magic. Sometimes he backhands Jessie and then runs her through, so easy, so graceful, the blade always perfectly balanced in his hand. Emily screams every time, Corvo or Help or sometimes Daddy and that’s the worst one. He knows she called out to him. He can’t remember what she actually said anymore.

Sometimes he wonders if he really did kill Jessamine. The dreams are so real, the texture of the flagstones under his hands, the color of Jessie’s eyes, the ribbon in Emily’s hair so bright in the sun as a masked assassin snatches her up under one arm and vanishes without a trace. Blood hot on his hands. The way Jessie’s heart stutters as her last breath rattles in her throat. Corvo goes back there every time he shuts his eyes and he’s losing track of the difference between his memories and his nightmares. Sometimes he thinks the dreams might be real, that if he could find a way to save her he might not wake up in Coldridge again – but she dies every time. She always, always dies, and they always take his daughter.

Ten more days, the guard said. Ten days until they kill him. It will all be over soon. Corvo is almost glad.

Chapter Text

The burns throb on his arm and chest. Only three this time – Burrows and Campbell were being gentle. Or maybe they’ve simply run out of patience. Burrows himself said they didn’t even need the signed confession. So then what was the point of this – this little exercise of theirs? Corvo sits hunched on the rough wooden slab that passes for his bunk, his back against the wall, and looks down at himself. They took his shirt off before they tortured him, and someone was thoughtful enough to throw it in after him when they put him back in his cell, but he hasn’t put it on again. The burns are deep, blistered and glistening. He doesn’t want to touch them.

His body is a patchwork of wounds and scars now. He knows his back must be worse than his chest: the marks from a bullwhip are nothing if not dramatic. But he can’t see it. Two new burns on his forearm, one on his pectoral. Older ones on his ribs and collarbone. The big, ugly pockmarks on his shoulder that weren’t nearly so bad before they got infected. Slashes on his bicep, his forearm stippled with needles and salt, ridges on his belly where the Torturer took strips off him with a hot wire, skin worn away around his wrists, the black of old bruises and blood blisters still growing out under his fingernails. He can’t fathom why they didn’t crush his hands or feet, or cut off any of his fingers. Maybe they just want him intact for the execution – well, more or less. Plausible deniability? Theatrics? Whatever.

Corvo had been a fit and healthy man when they’d thrown him in here. He’s gaunt now, half-dead from hunger, infection, and pain. The old scar on his side where he took a bullet for Jessamine is obscured by a burn wider than his hand. His fingers go bump-bump-bump down his ribs on the rare occasion that he bothers to touch them. There had been a bad spell awhile ago when they’d had bluebottles in the food stores, instead of the usual weevils. The flies were impossible to catch; weevils are a lot slower-moving and easier to eat. They’re the most nutritious food he gets these days. But the weevil infestation is back, and Corvo imagines he feels a little better for it. Well-fortified for his execution next week, he supposes.

Rattle-clang! Corvo doesn’t look up. Someone’s put something through the little grate they use to give him food and various other sundries the guards think he might enjoy. Piss, feces, dead roaches, live rats. That sort of thing.

“You should eat up, Corvo,” the guard says. He doesn’t recognize the voice. Someone new on the cell block? “This meal comes from a friend.”

Corvo doesn’t move. Silence, then retreating footsteps. He makes a little bet with himself: food or shit? Maybe food with some shit mixed in. The guards get bored sometimes.

It looks like half a loaf of bread. Corvo stares. He hasn’t seen that much food in one place since before Jessie. Maybe he’s hallucinating? Maybe it’s a really artful shit loaf? But the guards never go to that much trouble. He gets up and sidles over to it cautiously, waiting for a rat to jump out and try to bite him, but nothing happens. Corvo bends down, pokes it. It feels like bread. He leans closer and takes a sniff.

Flour, nuts, something a little fruity – Corvo snatches it up. It really is bread, and it’s got a nice crust on it, it’s soft on the inside – he hasn’t had soft bread since… There’s a note on the tray, and a key. Corvo grabs both and stashes them on his bunk under his tattered little rag of a blanket for later consideration, sits down on top of them, and then turns his attention back to his food.

The bread is a day old at most. It has nuts in it, walnuts maybe? Or pecans. And some kind of dried fruit, cranberries or currants or something. Corvo’s sense of taste isn’t what it used to be. He rips the loaf in half and finds nothing but more bread inside. One half goes under the blanket, and the other he tears into little pieces and eats as quickly as he dares. Eating is awkward, but he’s worked out how to do it well enough. Food goes in the side of his mouth now, back between his molars where it’s easy to swallow. He can taste the nuts a little. Walnuts, he thinks. There are no insects in the bread at all. He can’t remember the last time he was this happy.

By the time Corvo’s done, he actually feels full. It probably won’t last long – he’s been starving for months. But for the moment, he’ll enjoy the sensation. A few handfuls of brackish water from the tap in the corner of his cell, and he’s ready to think about that note. “From a friend,” the new guard said. Corvo fishes the slip of paper out from under his blanket.

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 for what’s to come.

– A friend

He reads it three times before it occurs to him that he might not be dreaming. The key is solid and real in his hand. Light glances off the blade of a sword, left out so carelessly on the table just across from his cell. Interrogation room. Take the explosive there… lose yourself in the sewers… useful gear. Corvo crushes the note in his fist, then tosses it down the filthy little hole in the corner that serves him for a toilet. He’ll eat the rest of his bread, wait for the guards to finish their rounds, and then make his move. The key goes back under the blanket for now. Something’s thrumming in his chest. He can’t tell if it’s hope, or simple anticipation.

Corvo kills them all. He doesn’t really think about it. First he finds the smug guard and stabs him in the neck. Then he finds the guard who likes to beat men before dragging them into the Torturer’s room and runs him through. Here’s the guard who hates him for supposedly killing the Empress; Corvo cuts his throat. Here’s the guard who bragged about raping a prisoner in another cell block. Here’s the indifferent guard. Here’s the one Campbell tapped to torture him when he and Burrows couldn’t be fucked to make it down to Coldridge – no, that’s this one – no, wait, this one? He’s getting them all mixed up. It doesn’t matter. He finds a gun, then picks his way around the Torturer’s room, clutching his pistol in one shaking hand, his only round chambered and ready, but no one comes. Corvo always wondered what was in the back. (A bomb, apparently.) He carries it under his arm.

The guards bitch about the Empress’s death. They gloat about Corvo’s execution. He kills them from behind, quietly, one by one. It isn’t satisfying. Corvo leaves a trail of bloody footprints behind as he crosses the yard. His shoulders hurt. Only three days ago they hung him from his wrists until he passed out. He has to get out of here.

He loses the element of surprise at the main doors. There are four men in the room, and probably more within earshot. Corvo has five bullets. It probably won’t be enough. He takes aim anyway, and only ends up needing three. Standing there panting, staring down at the bodies strewn around him, he’s mostly surprised that he managed to kill them all. Six months with little food and no exercise, and he’s still that much better than the Watch. Huh, he thinks. It’s all the emotion he can muster. There’s no time to stand around thinking about it, though. Corvo plants the bomb and dives for cover.

The explosion is briefly deafening, but Corvo is sure every alarm in the building is going off. He doesn’t wait for the smoke to clear. He just does what the note said to do: he runs. The bridge is up, but the Wrenhaven is down below, her silver arms spread wide to catch him. It’s a cloudy day but Corvo has to squint against the light. Maybe he really is dreaming if he’s out here in the sun. Who knows? Who cares. He jumps off the bridge. For a moment, he thinks he’s learned to fly.

Then the water hits him hard and it is cold, so cold. The river clutches at him with her iron fingers, heavy and merciless, dragging him down into the dark. He could just stay here, he thinks. He’d be safe down here. No one could hurt him anymore. But Emily is painted on the backs of his eyelids, caught under a stranger’s arm, her hands stretched out to him. Daddy! she screams, and vanishes. Em! Emily, no! But Corvo can’t call out to her, because he can’t breathe. He flails; his feet hit something rough and sharp. A rock? Corvo kicks off it hard and shoots to the surface.

The first breath is a gift from the heavens themselves. Corvo shakes water out of his eyes. The current hasn’t pulled him far; he can see the riverbank. Crack! Crack! Something whizzes past his head. People are shouting. The guards are shooting at him, he realizes. He points himself towards the bank and dives again, swimming as fast as he can. He has to keep moving or he’ll go numb and drown, he knows. He doesn’t have much time, weak as he is. But he doesn’t need much time: he was already close. Corvo scrambles up the rocks on all fours, scrabbling in the dirt like an animal dashing for its burrow.

He makes it into the sewers with bullets nipping at his heels. Corvo wants to stop, wants to rest – his teeth are chattering, his hands shaking violently – but he knows if he sits down he’ll never get back up again. He looks down at himself and realizes with some surprise that he’s still carrying the sword. Never underestimate the power of long training, he thinks. Even after all his time in Coldridge, his body still knows not to drop a weapon. The note said there would be useful gear in the sewers. Maybe that includes a change of clothes. Just the thought of wearing something clean and dry is enough to get him moving again.

The clothes surpass his wildest hopes. Undergarments, trousers, socks, boots that might even fit! A shirt, a waistcoat, an overcoat. He could almost cry. Everything looks a bit too big, but Corvo doesn’t care. He shucks off his filthy prison rags and wipes as much water off his skin as he can with his trembling hands. That’s when he finds the wound on his side. It’s a big slash, trailing from his ribs down onto his belly – one of the guards must have gotten in a lucky swing at the end there. Corvo didn’t even feel it. He’s bleeding. He lurches a little, knees going weak. No, damn it, the adrenaline can’t abandon him now! He still has to get out of here.

There’s a red vial nestled in amongst the things in the case left for him. Sokolov’s Elixir. It’ll help with the bleeding, or it used to – it looks like the formula’s changed, it’s a different color now. Corvo doesn’t bother to smell it, just slams it down in one big swallow. His stomach heaves; saliva floods his mouth. He clamps his hands around the edges of the trunk and fights the need to vomit with all his strength. Stupid, stupid, fucking stupid, should have sipped it, should have fucking waited – abruptly he feels much, much better. Corvo swallows, lets out a long breath through his nose, and begins to dress.

In the end, he’s almost warm. He’s clothed. The shirt rubs painfully against his burns, but he doesn’t fucking care. He has a sword belted at his side – a strange, beautiful, collapsible sword. Corvo’s never seen anything like it. It’s probably weaker than an ordinary blade, but the size is undeniably convenient. The miniature crossbow is a clever little feat of engineering, and the pistol is of fine make. There’s some tinned hagfish and small beer stashed nearby, and Corvo eats gladly. The Elixir sits well in his belly. He hasn’t felt this good since before Jessie.

That doesn’t last long. Corvo kills the first three Watchmen he finds handily from the shadows, but then he runs out of crossbow bolts and fumbles trying to extend his blade, and winds up in a nasty fight with two more. He takes them both down in the end, but by the time they’re dead Corvo is shaking again, clammy with sweat and stumbling. It doesn’t matter. He has to keep going. He has to keep going. He almost doesn’t notice when he makes it out of the sewers, staggering under the cold, gray-clouded sun and blinking in the light.

“Corvo? I’m Samuel,” someone says. Corvo looks around, perplexed. He can’t see the speaker. He can’t see… anything.

“Corvo?” The voice is alarmed. That’s probably reasonable, Corvo thinks, just before he hits the ground.

Chapter Text

“Help! I need help over here!” It’s Samuel, shouting from down at the dock. Cecelia drops the broom in her hand and runs. The old man is sitting in his boat, and there’s someone slumped beside him, half-fallen off the seat.

“I got here as fast as I could, but he’s bleeding,” Samuel says. “Get Piero, get Havelock – ”

“Samuel, what’s wrong?” Callista skids to a halt beside Cecelia, then gasps in shock. It takes her maybe a second to assess the situation.

“Let’s get him to Piero’s workshop. We can carry him between the three of us,” Callista says, going from horrified to businesslike the moment she’s presented with a problem she can solve.

“Right,” says Samuel.

It does take all three of them in the end: Callista and Cecelia looping the unconscious man’s arms over their shoulders, and Samuel taking his feet. Cecelia thinks their passenger is wearing red at first, before she realizes he’s actually wearing brown and is simply covered in blood. She hopes it’s not all his. She doesn’t see how he could be alive otherwise. They lay him down carefully on one of Piero’s tables.

“What are you doing? You can’t just – is that Corvo?” The natural philosopher flutters around them for a moment before the sight of his new patient arrests him practically mid-hop.

“He’s bleeding. Help him,” Callista says.

“I’m not a physician, I’m an engineer! I can’t – ”

“You’re all we got, Joplin,” Samuel tells him. “If you can’t help him, we might’s well bury him now.” Cecelia suspects Piero might do this Corvo fellow more harm than good, but the self-professed engineer is fluttering again.

“Fine. Help me get these clothes off,” Piero says. Cecelia reaches for the buttons on Corvo’s waistcoat, but Callista produces a pair of scissors from – somewhere – and pushes her hand away.

“This is faster,” Callista says. Cecelia steps back with a nod.

Corvo is down to his shorts in less than two minutes. His body is a mess of scars. Callista and Samuel both recoil a little when his shirt comes off – that’s how bad it is. All the marks are recent, some only half-healed, big and pink and shiny and horrible. His chest hair is never going to grow in properly again, Cecelia thinks. It’ll always be patchy with those marks across his stomach and pectorals. There’s a fresh cut on his ribs, a long gash running up one arm, and he’s got a broad, ragged wound on his thigh that is bleeding heavily. The moment he sees it, Piero wads up the remains of Corvo’s shirt and clamps it against the wound, leaning on it with all his weight. Trying to stop the bleeding, Cecelia thinks. Corvo has three big, ugly burns as well, but those aren’t about to kill him. Piero bites his lip, thinking. Everyone waits.

“Cecelia, go get the highest-proof liquor you can find. White liquor mind you, not brown. Callista, do you have a darning needle?” Piero says.

“Several,” Callista says.

“Go get them, and if you have any undyed thread bring that too,” Piero says. Callista leaves without a word. Piero gives Cecelia a hard look. Oh, she’s supposed to be getting liquor from the bar, isn’t she? She runs.

“What about me?” Samuel asks.

“Oh, I don’t – ”

The door to the Hound Pits Pub slams behind her. Havelock and Pendleton are chatting by the bar, poking their drinks at each other the way men do when they think they’re talking about something important. Cecelia races for the liquor shelf, knowing exactly which vodka Piero needs.

“Ah, Cecelia, good. I need – what’s got you in such a hurry?” Havelock moves to intercept her as she turns back towards the door with the requisite bottle in hand. Cecelia looks away. He’s noticed her and now he’s going to want to talk and Piero will be cross with her if she takes too long and that poor man might die –

“Someone’s hurt,” she mumbles.

“Who?” Havelock sounds disbelieving.

“Um, Corvo?” Cecelia tries.

“What? Where? Never mind. Take me to him, now!” The Admiral is suddenly leaning into her space with his urgency. Cecelia shies back, then slips around him. Havelock follows hot on her heels.

“Corvo’s hurt?” Pendleton says rather querulously. He must be drunk already. Havelock ignores him, shutting the pub door with a bang. He and Cecelia cross the yard together. The Admiral is much too close for her comfort, but she can’t very well tell him that.

Back in his workshop, Piero and Samuel have gathered together a few Elixirs, and someone has produced a stash of bandages from who knows where. Cecelia hopes they’re clean. They look alright, but if they’re Piero’s then he’s probably spilled turpentine on them or something. Samuel is pressing a fresh wad of cloth against the cut on Corvo’s leg now, and Piero is fluttering again.

“Outsider’s balls,” Havelock says when he catches sight of the man on the table. Cecelia wonders if he’s looking at Corvo’s wounds or his scars. It would be a reasonable reaction either way. She holds the bottle of vodka out to Piero, who takes it without a word.

“I got the needles and thread – oh. Admiral,” Callista says.

“Good. We’ll clean his wounds with – oh, damn it.” Piero trails off. “I need boiled water – boiled – and decent soap. Then we can sterilize and stitch these. Not the one on his thigh though; we just need to wrap that one. Might have to cauterize it… hmm.” He’s ignoring Havelock, entirely focused on Corvo, deep in thought.

“Wait, wait. What’s on his thigh?” Havelock demands. Samuel peels back the pad for a moment and Havelock hisses.

“You have to sew that up!” the Admiral says.

“No,” says Piero.

“He’s bleeding! You’ve got to close the wound!”

“It’s too big, and there’s too much skin damage. The stitches would never hold, and he could get an abscess. It needs to drain,” Piero says.

“You’ll kill him! I thought you were a natural philosopher, Piero.”

“Cecelia, go boil that water, would you please?” Piero says. Cecelia ducks her head a little to one side and leaves without a word.

“I’ll help her,” Callista says quickly, and trails behind.

“Damn it, Piero, you can’t just – ”

Havelock’s bluster is cut off when Callista shuts the side door behind them. Pendleton is gone from the common room, and the kitchen is likewise mercifully empty. Cecelia grabs a kettle and fills it at the tap.

“Do you think the soap up in the washroom is good enough?” Callista asks her. Cecelia shrugs, twisting the corner of her mouth a little as she turns on the stove.

“What does that mean?” Callista asks. Cecelia suddenly, passionately misses her sister, who could read every twitch of her eyebrows and never made her speak.

“It’s the best we have,” Cecelia says.

“I’ll go get it then,” says Callista, and leaves.

Cecelia leans her head on her own shoulder and fidgets, waiting for the water to boil. Callista will be back soon and she’ll want to talk more, because people think it’s polite to talk, but it makes her nervous. Who is this Corvo fellow? Havelock seems to care about him a great deal. What if he dies? What if the liquor Cecelia brought Piero wasn’t good enough, and he dies because of it? Will she be blamed? Will Wallace be upset that she gave Piero that bottle? Where did Corvo get all those scars? What happened to him?

“I got a new bar; I hope that’s alright.” Cecelia jumps.

“Sorry!” Callista says, genuinely contrite. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” Cecelia shrugs. She’s easy to startle, always has been. Callista smiles at her a little. She’s got a bar of the good milled soap in her hand. It’s the unscented kind; that was smart. Lavender and mint aren’t good for open wounds. Cecelia shifts from foot to foot, waiting nervously, but Callista doesn’t say a word, just leans against the doorframe and watches the kettle in silence.

Pain is an old friend. Void, practically a lover by now, such a constant presence, cradling him to her bosom, saying, here you are, my darling, you’re alive. He can pick the wounds out by shape under his skin – one, two, three burns. Yes, Campbell and Burrows, “We don’t really need your confession, Corvo, but it would be nice.” Motherfuckers. And then he’d had the wildest dream… Was it more surreal to have someone stage an escape for him, or to get a decent bit of bread in Coldridge? Corvo can’t decide. It was fun while it lasted, though. He opens his eyes.

That’s not his ceiling. Corvo sits up fast. A mattress gives under his hands. He hurts in new places when he moves – his ribs, his arm – the wounds in the dream, but that’s not possible –

“You’re awake!” someone says, and he startles violently, jerking back from the unexpected voice, his hands coming up to protect his face. The movement stings; Corvo ignores it. But there’s only a slender woman sitting in a chair by his bed, wearing trousers and a black shirt with a white collar, her mousy brown hair in a knot high on the back of her head. Her lap is full of – embroidery? – no, mending. She looks him over worriedly. Corvo stares at her, momentarily at a loss. Is this some new trick? Are they hoping to disarm him now, somehow? But it’s only a week until his execution… Why would they wait so long?

“I’m Callista,” she says. Her voice is very even. She shows Corvo her empty hands. He waits.

“Callista Curnow. I think you know my uncle, Geoff?” She gives him a tiny smile. “You traveled with him before… well.” The smile is gone as suddenly as it appeared. She looks at him earnestly. “No one here is going to hurt you. We’re – well – I work for the Loyalists. We’re trying to restore the crown to the Kaldwins. Lady Emily, I mean.” Emily! She’s not on the throne now? Where is she? Do they know? Can he see her? The questions are overwhelming and he cannot fucking ask them.

“They arranged to break you out of Coldridge,” Callista continues. “They want you to help them find Lady Emily” – Void fucking damn it, they don’t know where she is – “and put her back on the throne. I don’t think they expected you’d be this badly hurt.” She peers at him apologetically. “Are you in pain? Do you need anything?”

Corvo looks at her blankly. He’s always in pain. What does he need? He needs Em, he needs Jessie! He needs… food. And to take a piss. Outsider’s fucking eyes. He can’t tell her any of that.

“I know I just dropped a lot on you there. We can talk again later. But… oh! I was supposed to give you this when you woke up.” Callista offers him a red vial. Corvo grabs it, ignoring the pain as he reaches out.

“You’re not supposed to move around so much. You’ll tear your stitches,” Callista says. Corvo blinks at her. Stitches? He looks down. He’s got bandages on. He hasn’t worn bandages since the time the infection got so bad they threw him in the infirmary… But he doesn’t want to think about that. He drinks the Elixir. It’s nasty, bitter and medicinal. He hurts less once he gets it down. Sokolov never did care enough to make it taste decent, Corvo thinks. Shit, as long as it works, right?

“Do you need anything? Are you hungry?” Callista asks. Corvo’s fucking starving. He nods. Callista’s brow furrows.

“Yes, you need something? Or yes, you’re hungry?”

Corvo considers this for a moment. The second one, he thinks. He holds up two fingers. Callista looks at him askance.

“Why aren’t you talking?” she says.

Chapter Text

It’s the cold that wakes him, sinking its fingers into his bones. Not the bitter iron of the river but a delicate, whispering chill, insidious as guilt. Corvo sits up slowly and sees his attic room somehow changed: a door bricked up, a window dark. Only one exit remains to him. He opens the door slowly and finds the world all cracked away. It must be a dream, then. Barefoot, Corvo pads out onto the stones that take the place of the Hound Pits stairwell. They are bitter cold.

This dream reminds him of his trips back to the pavilion. He feels the air on his skin, curiously still. He can see every crack in the rocks around him, every vein in every leaf. The sky is above and below him, dusky blue and quiet. The cold is as real as the warmth of the sun on his skin in the other nightmare, the one where Jessie dies. Corvo wraps his arms around himself. He’s wearing nothing but his thin pajamas, and they’re not nearly enough. He could go back for his coat and boots, but this is a dream. What does it matter? So he presses on.

“Hello, Corvo.” The voice is almost gentle. It stops him where he stands. “Your life has taken a turn, has it not?”

A boy hangs in the air before him. He’s slender, fine-boned, well built; he would be beautiful if it weren’t for the eyes. They’re dark enough to drown in, no whites, no pupils, just an endless, sucking black that drags you down the longer you look into it. But he’s no boy at all, is He?

“I am the Outsider, and this is my Mark,” the smirking Leviathan says, and something sears itself into Corvo’s skin while He watches with those unwatchable eyes. It hurts; Corvo’s had far worse at the Torturer’s hands. He endures it. The Outsider speaks of magic, bows smugly, and disappears.

“Come find me.” His words hang behind him in the unmoving air. That’s how it is, then? Fine. Corvo will play the game.

He goes. He’s not ready for what he finds. The tableaux spread before him are sadistic and lovingly crafted things: Jessie dead on the ground in the pavilion for the hundredth time, her blood still wet under his hands when he drops to his knees beside her. The letter he brought her is different, wrong. YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT

Corvo flings it away like a hot coal and uses his newfound Blink to flee. But now here is Emily, crying out, fighting the grip of – oh, Void. That’s Morgan and Custis Pendleton. The pit drops out of Corvo’s stomach. Gossip at court is only sometimes to be trusted, but he’s heard the same whispers about the Pendleton twins for years. They have a very bad reputation; he wouldn’t leave a child alone in the same building as those two if he could help it. Do they really have Emily, or is this just part of the nightmare? There’s a bit of paper falling from her hand. Corvo plucks it from the air.

Corvo,

I am very sad. They say that you’re dead like Mother, but I’m going to put this note in a bottle and throw it in the river because I do not believe them. Living here is very strange. I do not like it, so please come for me if you can.

Then a splotch on the page. She must have been interrupted before she could finish it. Em looks terrified. This has to be part of the dream. It has to be. It can’t be real. If they’ve gotten their hands on her – if they’ve hurt her – oh, he’ll kill them and he’ll make it fucking last.

Corvo continues on, shivering. Sokolov glares at a map of the city. Tallboys kill civilians on some tattered fragment of a Dunwall street. The Outsider appears before him, babbling about trials and runes and gifts. Corvo is thinking of Emily, of Morgan and Custis. And then the Heart is in his hands.

It’s a hideous thing. It doesn’t bleed, but there’s a freshness to it, a suppleness – it beats, and it’s horribly warm, the blood heat of a fresh corpse. The gears turn, the muscles flex, the wire digs into the flesh. The bones press against it from the inside. Corvo slides his thumb over the crystal face, then squeezes it gently.

“This place is the end of all things, and the beginning,” Jessie says. Corvo whips around, searching for her wild-eyed. This is the Void, isn’t it? The Outsider is here. This is where souls go after death. Is she here? Is she waiting for him? Is she – where is she? His hand is clamped around the Heart.

“All of time is meaningless here, neither seconds, nor centuries,” she tells him. He can’t see her. He can’t see her, and he can’t call out for her. Where is she? Where is she? Corvo turns in a circle, looks up and down into the blue abyss. She’s nowhere. She’s not here. She’s…

He looks down at the thing in his hands in dawning horror. Slowly, cautiously, he squeezes the Heart again.

“Why am I so cold?” Jessie whispers.

All the breath goes out of him and Corvo doubles up, landing hard on his knees on the frozen stone. He shapes her name with his lips, Jessie, trying to move a tongue that isn’t there to bring the consonants into the world. All that comes out of him is an animal’s moan. It’s her, it’s her, her voice here in his hands. Is this her heart? Did the Outsider cut it out of her warm body and wrap it up in baling wire to give to him? Corvo bends over her and rocks back and forth, breathing hard through his teeth. He wants to go back up to the pavilion behind him and put the Heart back in her chest where she lies dead in the dream. If he could give her voice back, would she wake? Would those blue eyes flutter and smile when she saw his face again? Corvo sprints to the edge of the stone he stands on and summons up the Outsider’s magic in his hand, but it’s too far, the islands behind him are too high and distant, and Corvo can’t Blink back. He screams into the Void.

No, no, this is a dream. It’s all a dream. He can keep going. It’s not real, is it? It can’t be. It has to not be real. Corvo cradles the Heart against his chest and continues on. She hammers on his fingers as they draw close to the rune, so he collects it to calm her and the magic washes over him in a breaking wave. Suddenly the black-eyed monster is hanging in the air before him again. Corvo doesn’t hear a word the Outsider says, entirely consumed with the feel of Jessie’s heartbeat.

“Someday this place will devour all the lights in the sky,” she breathes, and everything goes white.

Corvo sits bolt upright in bed, shivering despite his blankets. There are no bricks over the doors; through the window, he can see the stars. Corvo shudders, and in his hands, something shudders with him. He looks down and sees – no. No, no, no no no no no no!

The Mark is there. So is the Heart. Corvo’s hands clench tight around her and Jessie’s voice is in his head again, her whispers pouring through him, acid in his veins. He can’t stop shaking and doesn’t understand why until he tastes the salt on his lips. Corvo curls up on his side, the Heart at his center, horrible and warm to his chilled fingers. The cruelty of it all is baffling in its enormity. Why would the Outsider hurt him like this? What the fuck does He want? Does it matter? Jessie’s voice is low and flat and rhythmic, not at all soothing. She sounds as dead as the thing he cradles against his heaving chest. Corvo cries like a child. He shuts his eyes and the letter runs behind his eyelids like ticker tape, YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER YOU CANNOT SAVE HER, endless in the screaming dark.

Chapter Text

“You sure you don’t want to sign the confession, Corvo? How much more are you really willing to lose?” Campbell looks so fucking smug. It’s easy for him to smirk with Corvo shackled to this fucking chair, but in a real fight –

“I’m giving you a chance, Corvo. Just sign, and we’ll take you back to your cell.” Campbell is probably trying to be gentle and compassionate, but he just sounds oily as fuck. Corvo glares at him. He hasn’t spoken since they killed Jessamine. He has no intention of breaking that streak now. Campbell sighs theatrically.

“Very well, then. Hold him!” Hands wrap around Corvo’s head from behind, pinning him back against the chair. He snarls and thrashes like an animal, but there are two men gripping his hair and his jaw and his forehead, and he’s not strong enough. Now there’s a third one, with a heavy leather strap in his hands.

“Get his mouth open,” Campbell says, and suddenly Corvo knows. He knows what they’re going to do to him, and he can’t, he can’t –

“Please,” he says. His voice is harsh and raspy with disuse. They all pause. The man with the strap looks over his shoulder at Campbell, unsure.

“He speaks at last!” Campbell says. “Well, Corvo?”

“Wait,” Corvo says. They haven’t let go of his head yet. What will it take, what will it take?

“Are you ready to sign?” Campbell inquires, as mild as if he’s asking how many sugars Corvo takes in his tea. The High Overseer holds up the confession. It’s such a simple thing, to put pen to paper. One signature in exchange for his tongue. They’ll kill him in a few months, of course, but… There’s a pen in Campbell’s hand. It’s a handsome gold fountain pen; Corvo used to have one just like it on his desk. He wonders if it’s his. Did Campbell steal it? Did Burrows steal it for him? Jessie gave him that pen as a gift. She’d had it engraved – nothing scandalous. ‘Lord Protector Corvo Attano’ it said, but it meant ‘I love you.’

“No,” Corvo rasps. Campbell raises his eyebrows.

“No?” he repeats. The pen flashes as the High Overseer spins it between his fingers. Corvo grits his teeth. A moment of weakness, and now his last words will not have been to Emily and Jess. Well, there’s one way he can salvage this.

“I just wanted to say, fuck you,” he says. Campbell’s eyebrows snap together.

“And fuck Burrows, too! You’ll ge – ” And then the strap is against his lips, bloodying them on his teeth, forcing itself between his jaws by inches. You’ll get what’s coming to you, Corvo thinks. You’ll get what’s coming to you. You’ll get what’s coming to you. You’ll get –

His mouth is levered open and the Torturer appears as if from nowhere, grinning under his mask. Corvo would be writhing if he weren’t in shackles. He yells his fury as the Torturer grips his tongue in a pair of pliers and pulls it out straight. They say the tongue is the strongest muscle in the human body, Corvo thinks. You wouldn’t know it now.

The pain is intense as the razor saws through him. It cuts the floor of his mouth, the roof, it drags against his cheeks – it occurs to Corvo that the last thing he ever tastes will be blood. He feels the pressure release when it’s severed, but the pain goes on, and blood pours out of him thick as vomit, dripping down his chin. Corvo struggles to breathe around the weight of it. The Torturer holds his tongue up before his eyes. It’s strangely small. Corvo retches.

“Cauterize that before he bleeds out,” Campbell says coldly. The Torturer tosses his pliers aside without a glance. Corvo wonders where his tongue landed. But then the hot iron is in his mouth, and the smell of burnt flesh comes up the back of his nose, and there is nothing else, and Corvo is screaming.

Corvo wakes up sick to his stomach. He hates that dream. But after gagging out the window a little while the nausea fades, and he dresses and goes downstairs in search of breakfast. He’s been at the Hound Pits Pub three weeks now, mostly convalescing, which he loathes. But that was how long it took for his stitches to come out and for him to gain some weight again. That was how long it took for him to be able to run up and down the stairs from the common room to his miserable attic without being too winded to move afterwards.

Callista was appalled when he showed her his tongue. Pendleton didn’t seem to know what to do. Piero preempted him with an “I know,” Samuel with an “I saw; I’m so sorry, Corvo.” Wallace never tried to talk to him in the first place, so Corvo didn’t bother. And Cecelia never made him show her. She was his favorite – she never talked, never asked him to talk, only communicated with her head and her hands. I need to change your sheets: a tilted nod, a gesture towards the bed. Are you hungry? Pointing at him, then bringing a bunched hand to her lips with her eyebrows high. How are you? Nudging his shoulder with one fist, her head cocked questioningly. And Corvo would shrug, or stare at his feet, or put his head in his hands, and Cecelia would pat him gingerly on the back, as if to say, I’m sorry. And she’d gesture like a teacup or a shot glass, and bring him whichever one he mimicked back to her.

Havelock, though, he found Corvo’s silence wildly convenient. The Admiral clapped him heartily on the back the first time Corvo came down to the Hound Pits common room, then monologued at length about how terrible it was to deprive a man of his voice, how monstrous, and provided him with a detailed appraisal of the current political situation and Havelock’s own opinions thereon. It was very informative – mostly about Farley Havelock himself, of course, but Corvo got the bare bones of what was really happening, at least. Havelock drank beer and Corvo drank water, (“A drink? Oh, of course, you’re still recovering. Alcohol’s no good for a mending wound. We should get you some tea! Cecelia? Cecelia!” Corvo waved a hand dismissively; water was fine. But Havelock ignored him. “Cecelia! Where is that girl? Can’t get decent fucking help these days no matter what you pay…” Corvo knew Cecelia was out back doing the laundry, but Havelock would never let him say so. His and Cecelia’s gesture for the Admiral was ‘pompously tipping an imaginary tricorn hat’ – he thought that would be good enough to at least commiserate with her about the inevitable dressing-down Havelock would give her later.) But in the meantime Farley fucking Havelock was drinking and Corvo was not, and the lecture seemed to last for hours.

Adm. Havelock finds him quickly today. Corvo’s eating eggs and tomatoes and toast, mostly with his hands. Cecelia fixed him tea and breakfast and then vanished back into the kitchen, as is her wont. Corvo doesn’t mind; he hasn’t yet found a polite way to eat without a tongue in his head. He salts his food because he knows salt is good for him, but he can hardly taste it; pepper is better – pepper, he can smell. He’s still learning his way around food without tasting. It’s very different now, and the Hound Pits larder doesn’t have much in the way of variety. At least tinned food is easy enough to swallow. Not that Havelock gives a damn.

“Corvo!” the Admiral says, pummeling him genially on one shoulder. Corvo nods in greeting. Does he have to pay attention now, or can he eat? Havelock isn’t meeting his eyes. Corvo shovels some more toast into his mouth.

“How are you doing?” the Admiral asks, and Corvo nods a little dubiously, tilting his head from side to side, but Havelock isn’t even looking at him; he’s talking again, not waiting for an answer. “Do your stairs alright? Listen.” Corvo wonders if he has a choice. “I hate to push you like this” – bullshit – “but we really need you tonight, Corvo. One of our fellow Loyalists has been captured.” Havelock blathers on about some Martin fellow, a co-conspirator careless enough to get caught by the Abbey. Honestly, the Abbey? Corvo wants to interject, wants to ask questions, but Havelock is looking right past him, absorbed in the sound of his own voice and paying no attention to Corvo at all. It’s fucking infuriating.

“This is actually an ideal opportunity. They’re holding Martin at Holger Square, as it happens. If you can get in and free him, it’ll be a good time to go after the High Overseer directly. We know he’s involved in the coup. You could kill Campbell tonight, Corvo.” That gets his attention. Corvo’s eyes snap up to Havelock’s face, and the Admiral smiles.

“Just point the way, huh?” Havelock says. Corvo nods once, hard. It’s not subtle; Havelock will draw conclusions from it. Corvo doesn’t fucking care.

“Good,” Havelock says.

He was planning to kill Campbell until Havelock told him about the notebook. Now he’s still planning to kill Campbell, but he’s going to get the notebook off him first. It would be just his luck if the High Overseer bled all over the damn thing and left it illegible. Corvo is somewhat tempted to try to capture him and hurt him until he gives up Emily’s location, but that’s more out of vindictiveness than any real hope. Information obtained via torture is rarely good, if it can be obtained at all; Corvo knows that better than most.

The other snarl in his (admittedly vague) plans is Geoff. Corvo spent six months with Capt. Curnow by his side, traveling the Isles together seeking aid for Dunwall. Curnow is a good man, principled and honest. By the time they’d returned, Corvo had considered him a friend. He has no idea what Geoff thinks of him now, whether he believes Burrows’ lies or not, and he’s trying not to speculate. Curnow is one of the more decent people in the Watch, and Corvo wants to keep him there, which means Geoff has to make it out of here alive.

Corvo hasn’t been to the High Overseer’s offices in almost two years now. Jessamine would visit on rare occasions, but usually the Abbey came to her. Still, Corvo remembers the general layout of the building, and he has some idea of how many guards and Overseers he would have expected on the premises this time last year. He expects they’ve ramped up security since then. He’s right.

Holger Square is crawling with Overseers and the Watch. The floodlights are merciless, but at least there are no tallboys. Corvo crouches behind a dumpster and peers through the bars of the fence, planning his route. The front door is a no-go, but he knows there are basement entrances down the sides of the building; he tries to visualize the floorplans he memorized fifteen months ago in preparation for Jessamine’s last visit. If he’s fast and keeps out of the light, he can make his way around the edge of the square and get in through – oh, what was it, a storage area or something? And then he won’t have to fight twenty men at once, which would be nice.

It’s not a storeroom, of course. It’s the kennels. Corvo shoots the dogs. They’re loud, and they all notice him, and he’s trying to kill as few men as possible besides Campbell in a sort of unexamined penance for all the guards he murdered at Coldridge and has been refusing to think about ever since. He saves his sleep darts for the guards he can’t slip past in time and leaves a heap of dead hounds in his wake.

He finds Campbell’s secret room almost by accident. The Heart hammers in his pocket and the curious gleaming eye of that old bust seems to wink at him in the dim stairwell, so Corvo pushes the poorly-hidden button and hopes for a shortcut. No luck of course, but it’s immediately obvious whose secret cache of sin he’s stumbled onto: Sokolov’s portrait of the High Overseer is hanging on the fucking wall. Corvo can’t believe it’s hidden down here and not up in the atrium or Campbell’s office or something. The rune is a nice bonus, and Jessie quiets when he takes it. He’s kept the Heart on him at all times since the Outsider gave her to him, but Corvo doesn’t dare take her out tonight, afraid if he touches her or hears her voice he’ll fall apart. That’s mostly what he does when she speaks to him, is cry, so he only ever holds her when he’s alone.

Of course Corvo nearly falls apart anyway when he listens to Campbell’s audiograph. The smug little recording confirms that Emily is alive but doesn’t say where she is, and Campbell gloats, and then he starts talking about inspecting the premises and Corvo’s blood runs cold. What the fuck does that mean? “Very nice, very nice,” Campbell says, and Corvo can practically hear him licking his chops. His heart hammers in his ears. If Campbell’s touched her, Corvo will remove his fucking spine vertebra by vertebra.

He forces himself to keep moving. He has to find Geoff before Campbell kills him; there’s no time to panic. Corvo wants to move fast; it’s hard to say how long it will take the men he left unconscious in the kennels to wake again. If someone raises the alarm, his life will probably get a lot shorter in a hurry. So he keeps going up. The Outsider’s magic is an incredibly useful thing – it’s much easier to get past the Overseers and guards on their nightly patrols and ramblings around the building when Corvo can simply Blink around behind them. He can see men through walls now when he wishes, and it saves him from discovery a few times. The chandeliers are wrought iron bolted right into the beams of the ceiling and Corvo flits across them, perfectly happy to trust them with his weight as he works his way around the top floor of the building.

He looks for Campbell, he looks for Geoff, he looks for poisoned glassware. He hears the first two, and spots what must be the third only just in time. Corvo has no idea which cup of wine is poisoned. He spills the decanter just in case, then knocks both cups to the floor and Blinks back up into the rafters as the glass shatters by his feet. Campbell bursts in at the noise, Geoff just behind him.

“What the – oh, by the Strictures. The wine! Damned servants.” Corvo waits, crossbow in hand. He could shoot Campbell with a sleep dart now, but his aim is hardly perfect.

“It’s quite alright, High Overseer. I can see myself out.” What if he hits the notebook by accident? What if Geoff raises the alarm?

“Just a moment, Captain Curnow!” What if – Campbell pulls a gun on the Captain. Well then.

Corvo Blinks to the floor behind the High Overseer and wraps an arm around his throat. Geoff leaps back in surprise, his hands still up, mercifully silent. Campbell goes limp against Corvo’s chest and it is tempting, so tempting not to let him go, to strangle him right here, right now. But that’s probably a bad idea with Geoff watching, so Corvo dumps Campbell on the floor and stoops to rifle through his pockets.

“Who are you?” Geoff says. His voice is low and Corvo can see the whites all the way around his eyes, the darting glances he shoots towards the door. Geoff wouldn’t know him with the mask, of course. Corvo had almost forgotten. And he can’t speak to tell him either; damn Campbell and Burrows for taking his tongue. Corvo points to the door. Go, he wants to say.

“The High Overseer just tried to kill me. You saved me. Who are you?” Geoff says. Corvo jabs his finger at the door. Go now, damn it! He hasn’t found the fucking notebook yet. This isn’t a good place to do a proper search: there are guards right outside, and Geoff needs to leave. Corvo slings Campbell’s unconscious body over his shoulders with a grunt; the man is fucking heavy as shit. Hopefully the chandeliers will hold the both of them; Corvo doesn’t dare walk the halls carrying the High Overseer like a sack of potatoes. Geoff is still standing there staring at him, poleaxed. Corvo jerks his head at the door, then flexes his fingers. He has to get going. Geoff’s already seen him use his magic; no point trying to hide it now. Corvo Blinks back up into the rafters and Geoff gasps. No time to wait around. Corvo heads for the hallway.

“I won’t forget this,” Geoff says to the empty room.

The interrogation room is empty, and it locks from the inside. Corvo dumps Campbell on the floor and secures the exits. He’s locking up the back office when he finds the brand. He knows what it is, of course. It’s a little odd that it’s been left out, but then Campbell has always been sloppy. He’s about to go back downstairs and get Campbell out of his coat when he notices the papers on the desk and stops dead. Corvo knows that cipher, knows it well enough to sightread. The note is a pithy little thing, but it’s intriguing.

TC –

Sealed documents are in the safe, prepped as requested. Who first?

– MR

Anyone stupid enough to leave this note lying around is bound to have the combination written down somewhere. Corvo starts rifling through the desk; he has the safe open less than two minutes later. What he finds inside makes him smile for the first time in almost seven months.

There’s a process behind the Heretic’s Brand. Corvo doesn’t know all the details, but the Abbey does some sort of investigation and then convenes a tribunal. There’s plenty of precedent for secret trials – it’s the typical choice when the accused is a powerful or high-profile Overseer. The Heretic’s Brand is rarely used in petty Abbey politics and power struggles: there are too many people involved, and it takes too long. Murder is much simpler. But Campbell has evidently been trying to bypass all that, because Corvo holds in his hand a sheaf of forged sentencing papers – they must be forgeries – condemning a tidy blank space on the page to branding and exile.

These won’t hold up to a proper investigation, of course. If anyone goes to the Oracular Order with questions the documents will be immediately revealed as fakes. Corvo has no idea how good the forgeries even are, and no real means of evaluating their quality. However, he knows three things. First, Campbell and his people are sloppy, sloppy enough to leave vital, incriminating communications lying around in plain sight. Second, Campbell evidently has enough enemies within the Abbey in Dunwall to make this little enterprise worthwhile. And third, once anyone finds him with the brand on his face, he’ll be thrown out onto the streets immediately with only the clothes on his back. Inquiries will be made post hoc: it is a cardinal violation of the Strictures for any Overseer to harbor or speak to a branded heretic. Life on the streets of Dunwall is dangerous now with the plague and everything; who knows how long it might take the Abbey’s messengers to reach the Oracular Order, if any go at all? Nobody wants to break quarantine. Will Campbell last long enough to see his false conviction overturned? Corvo doubts it.

He finds a pen and ink in the safe; surely these will be what he needs to finish filling in the documents. Here is the branding iron; here is the silver nitrate to put in the wound, guaranteeing a deep and ugly scar. The papers are handwritten in the elegant calligraphy of an Abbey scribe; Corvo knows he can mimic it. One learns such an interesting array of skills at the Empress’s left hand. The papers are already festooned with forged signatures, dripping with ribbons and Abbey seals. It’s the work of a moment to fill in Campbell’s name.

Corvo is suddenly, viciously glad he didn’t kill the High Overseer. Campbell took his life from him, his love, his daughter, his fucking tongue, and now it’s his turn. Now it’s Campbell’s Voiddamned turn to lose everything in an instant. The irony won’t be quite as sweet given that Campbell really has violated the Strictures in half a dozen ways down in that little secret room alone – Corvo is hardly condemning an innocent man, but it’ll do. It looks like Corvo is going to get to hurt the High Overseer after all. He grabs the branding iron and strides out of the office.

Campbell’s notebook is in a hidden pocket in the lining of his coat. It’s obviously encoded, but Corvo doesn’t know the cipher, which is infuriating. The man is still unconscious, although it’s hard to say for how long. On the bright side, the brazier in the corner is full of hot coals; whoever used the room last had failed to put out the fire, or perhaps they always keep the braziers lit. Corvo puts the iron to heat, then straps Campbell to the chair and waits.

It’s so surreal to be on this side of things. Before it was always Campbell standing over Corvo in the Torturer’s room; now the High Overseer is the one gagged and shackled, unable to do anything but wait for Corvo to dole out punishment as he sees fit. Corvo’s stomach churns unpleasantly; he tastes bile in his throat. He also feels a small, ugly sort of joy. He’s earned the right to gloat a little, hasn’t he? How do you like it now, asshole, he could say. But of course he can’t, because he has no tongue, because Campbell had the Torturer cut it out, and the rush of anger Corvo feels at that has him wrapping his hand around his sword hilt before he even realizes what he’s doing.

It would be so easy to kill Campbell and walk out right this minute. Wouldn’t it be sweet to see him dead, this man who watched for hours and hours, week after week, first with anticipation and then with growing impatience and irritation and boredom as Corvo was tortured? He’d imagined killing Campbell the whole time he was in Coldridge. It was one of the small pleasures afforded him by prison life: to escape into a daydream about murdering one of the men who’d taken his life from him. If Campbell was dead, he could never hurt Corvo again. He could wake from his nightmares with the knowledge that the High Overseer had died on the end of his sword. There would be some peace in that, wouldn’t there? There had to be. But at the same time, if this worked, the sheer elegance of it…

Corvo checks the branding iron and finds it ready. The instructions are straightforward. Heat the iron; put the silver nitrate in a shallow dish; dip it, then immediately brand the condemned man. It hisses and squeals when Corvo dunks the hot iron, and there is a foul, chemical smell, and then the iron is on Campbell’s face. The smell of burned meat mingles unpleasantly with the stink of the acid, and the High Overseer’s eyes snap open. Campbell screams into his gag. Corvo puts some weight behind the brand and watches the Overseer struggle.

It’s like impaling an insect on a pin, he thinks. The tiny, ineffectual movements, the obvious suffering. Campbell’s eyes bulge; he’s staring at the mask. Corvo wonders what he sees. Death come to claim him? No such luck – not yet. He pulls the iron away; it sticks to Campbell’s face a little, the flesh cooked on, and comes free with a wet ripping noise. Campbell howls. The silver nitrate will turn the wound black at first; the stained flesh will slough in a day or so, leaving an even deeper burn behind. It might even get down to the bone. Corvo tosses the branding iron on the floor. Campbell flinches violently at the clang. He’s trying to talk around the gag – begging, probably. He sounds frantic enough. Corvo ignores him and pins the signed condemnation to his lapel with careful hands.

This is the part where Corvo should say something cruel and cutting maybe, or something about just deserts. But he can’t speak, and nothing comes to mind in any case. Corvo looks down at the High Overseer. The man is actually weeping with terror. The room reeks of silver nitrate and charred meat. It’s done. Campbell’s been neutralized, Geoff is safe, and Corvo has the notebook. There’s a hollow place in his stomach where the triumph should be.

Corvo slips into the office to gather the remaining forged documents, rolling them up and tucking them into his coat. Then he goes out the back, leaving the former High Overseer whimpering in the chair behind him.

Chapter Text

Things I’ve Learned Since They Brought Me To The Golden Cat:

1. A “working girl” is a lady who works at the Golden Cat.

2. Nobody likes working at the Golden Cat.

3. A “whore” is just a rude name for a working girl.

4. It seems like most people’s only job here is having sex with men they don’t like.

5. “Sex” is actually that thing grown-ups do that my governess would never talk to me about.

6. “Fucking” is another word for sex.

7. Sex is loud.

8. Sex makes babies, but not always, and if it does you can “take care of it” (which means not having the baby) but nobody wants to do that. It sounds like it can make you sick? Not sure yet.

9. It is very important to be able to cry quietly.

10. The third step from the bottom on the stairwell outside the Madam’s office creaks.

11. A “Madam” is someone who runs a place like the Golden Cat (which is called a “brothel.”) How many other brothels are there? Are ladies who work at other brothels also called working girls?

12. Morgan has a mole on his upper lip. Custis doesn’t.

13. They’re both bastards.

14. Grown-ups lie a lot more than I used to think.

15.  

Emily is running out of room on her slate. She taps her chalk against her lower lip, thinking. She could erase it and start at 15 again, or she could try to pare down her list and get rid of items that aren’t important. They all seem important, though. Maybe 2 and 4 are the same thing, kind of? She doesn’t want to write this list in pen and ink – someone might find it. But it’s hard to write really small using a piece of chalk. Fuck, she thinks. (She’s learned so many swear words since she came here. It’s one of the few upsides of living in a brothel.) Maybe if she took out all the questions from the list, she could fit in something about how much murder is apparently involved in politics –

The doorknob rattles, then turns. Emily’s heart leaps into her throat. She’s not supposed to have dinner yet, and she’s not allowed to leave. (The door bolts on the outside now anyway, after the last time she tried to run away.) She scrubs a hand over one side of her slate hastily, wiping the other side against her trousers, obliterating her list. She doesn’t want Morgan or Custis to read any of it, especially the part about how they’re bastards. Morgan might hit her again if he saw that – he’d only ever done it once, but she really hated it.

But it’s not Morgan or Custis in the doorway, or even the Madam, or one of the working girls. It’s a tall man in a long coat. His hood is up. He’s wearing a metal mask shaped like a grinning skull. Emily jumps to her feet, her heart pounding. She doesn’t know who he is. He’s probably trying to scare her. She doesn’t have anything to hit him with, but if he grabs her, she’ll fucking bite him.

“Who are you?” she says. She wants to sound angry, but her voice is shaking. The masked man shuts the door, then puts his hands up to his face. There’s a tattoo on the back of one of his hands; Emily’s never seen anything like it before. It’s weird. But then he’s pulling the mask off and pushing back his hood and it’s, it’s –

“Corvo?” Emily gasps. He nods and holds out his hands to her, and Emily launches herself across the room into her father’s arms.

It’s really, absolutely, definitely him. He’s a little bonier than she remembers, not as broad and warm and solid as he was eight months ago, but his arms are just as strong he catches her just as well and he hugs her just as tight as he always did; tighter, actually. Emily wraps her arms around his neck and bursts into tears. At least she remembers to be quiet. Corvo kneels down slowly, setting her feet on the floor without letting go of her. He rubs her back and rocks them both from side to side a little, kissing her hair.

“They told me you were dead,” she quavers. Corvo shakes his head and squeezes her tighter. “They said you were dead, and they were keeping me safe, but” – she hiccups – “but the people who killed Mommy were the ones who gave me to them! I think they know who killed her. I…” Emily’s getting too loud now. She shuts up and focuses on not crying anymore. Corvo doesn’t even shush her; he just keeps rubbing her back.

Finally Emily has her breathing under control. She steps back to look at Corvo, wiping her eyes and nose with one hand. She sniffles. Corvo looks exhausted. There are dark circles all the way around his eyes, and he looks thin and tired. His cheeks are hollow. There’s a shiny new scar on his jaw. He needs a haircut.

“Are you okay?” she asks. Corvo shrugs a little. His hands are still on her shoulders; he gives her a squeeze and smiles encouragingly. I’m alright; better now that I’m with you, she thinks he means. But this is weird.

“What happened?” Emily says, and his eyes go skating away from her face. He grimaces; an eyebrow bobs. A lot, she thinks. That’s not what she wanted to know.

“Why aren’t you talking?”

Corvo shuts his eyes for a moment. He looks upset. Emily waits, confused. Eventually Corvo touches his mouth with his fingertips, then shakes his head, making a chopping motion with his hand. He meets her eyes, obviously frustrated and unhappy.

“I don’t understand,” she says. She can see how he clenches his jaw. Corvo sighs. He squeezes her shoulder again, and then opens his mouth.

Emily recoils with a gasp. There’s a horrible little stump where his tongue used to be, all ugly and – and someone did that to him? For a moment she struggles with the impossibility of this idea, that someone could hurt her father so badly. He’s Corvo fucking Attano, the Royal Protector. He’s practically invincible! But reality reasserts itself. Corvo isn’t invincible. He couldn’t save Mommy. It took him eight months to find Emily again. If those assassins could beat him, then surely someone else can, too. Corvo is looking at her miserably, and Emily realizes she’s furious.

“Who did that to you?” she says. She’s going to find them, and when she’s Empress, she’ll fucking kill them. Corvo shakes his head. Of course he can’t tell her – he can’t talk. The enormity of it is crushing. Emily clenches her fists. There has to be an alternative. He can still write, can’t he?

“Wait,” Emily says. She dashes back across the room for her slate and chalk, then brings them to him. Corvo looks torn, glancing back at the door, but he takes them from her quickly enough, and scribbles something down. Emily reads the proffered slate.

Talk later? We have to go.

Of course. Corvo isn’t supposed to be here. He came to rescue her, and here she is, wasting time crying and wanting to talk like a stupid baby. Emily nods and tries to take the slate, but Corvo won’t let go of it. His eyes say, wait. He wipes the slate off with his hand, and takes a little longer writing this time.

I’m so sorry it took me so long to find you, Em. I love you. The last sentence is sharply underlined. Emily’s mouth trembles. No, she cannot start crying again, not now. There isn’t time. She dashes the tears away as soon as they form in her eyes.

“I love you too, Daddy,” she mumbles, then snatches the slate and wipes it clean and tosses it on the bed. Corvo tries to hug her again, but she wriggles away.

“I’ll cry if you hug me now. We have to go, right?” Emily doesn’t dare look at his face. Corvo nods in her peripheral vision. “There’s a back door out. I found it last time I tried to run away. It’s the VIP entrance – that means Very Important People. I almost made it that time but some motherfucker” – Corvo gives a little huff of surprise, which Emily ignores – “ratted me out to the stupid Madam and I didn’t get through.” She chances a look up. Corvo is wearing his skull mask again.

“That’s a scary mask. I like it,” she says, relieved. Corvo inclines his head a little and offers her his hand.

“Come on, it’s this way,” Emily tells him, and leads him out into the hall.

Corvo follows her well, stepping carefully over the creaky stair when she does. Emily was always impressed with how quietly he could move, and she’s been trying to imitate him since she was five. She does her best now, but Corvo is still quieter. Nobody bothers them, though. They make it out into the alley and down to the VIP door without seeing a soul. Emily got within spitting distance of this door last time, before the Madam grabbed her by the collar. Fucking bitch. Nobody’s going to stop her this time, not with Corvo here. She tries the door. It’s motherfucking locked.

“Fuck!” she hisses. “Corvo, it’s – ”

A big hand taps her shoulder. Emily turns to see Corvo, holding out a key.

“Is that the Madam’s key?” she says, shocked. Corvo nods. “Wow, you got it? I couldn’t get my hands on it!” She tries it in the lock, and it turns smooth as butter, and Emily grins.

“Perfect. Come on.” And she grabs Corvo’s hand and pulls him through.

Chapter Text

They put him in manacles, then hang him by the chain from a hook that dangles down from the ceiling, winching him up until the tips of his toes only barely touch the floor. Most of Corvo’s weight is on his wrists, locked in those sharp iron shackles. He tries his best to stand, but they’ve hung him so high. His shoulders hurt already. His hands are a lost cause. With any luck, they’ll lose sensation sooner rather than later.

“This can all stop now, Corvo,” Burrows says. He’s a ratty little man, smugly ensconced in his high-collared coat. “Just sign the confession, and we’ll put you back in your cell.” They always start with that. Burrows, Campbell, whoever. The Torturer is the one who hurts him, but Corvo will say this for the hooded monster: he never fucking speaks. There’s an integrity to pure sadism that Campbell and Burrows lack. Corvo spits on the floor.

“Have it your way,” Burrows sighs. “Begin!”

The first blow is deafening. Corvo hangs numb for an interminable moment, ears ringing, before the pain comes through. It must be a bullwhip. The sound, the impact – the line of molten lead running down his back. It’s the Torturer behind him, whip in hand. Corvo can feel the presence of him, the wetness of his breath. His strength in the whip battering against Corvo’s flesh. He waits. He doesn’t have to wait long.

The second blow is agony. Corvo lets out a little grunt when it lands, then breathes hard through his teeth, struggling. He tries to be silent when they hurt him and mostly he succeeds, but sometimes they hit him hard enough to force the air from his lungs, or the pain is bad enough that he loses track of himself for awhile, and the sounds come out despite his best efforts. What he will not do is speak. He will not beg. They can hurt him, they can kill him, but his last words were to Emily and Jess, and they’ll stay locked behind his teeth. Burrows and Campbell and all the rest don’t get to take that from him.

Corvo swings from the impact of the third blow. His toes scrape helplessly against the floor. They took his shirt off before they chained him up; that was probably for the best. It would be in tatters now otherwise, torn and then gouged into the wounds the Torturer is making on his back. Corvo gasps for breath. Did he cry out? He isn’t sure. He can feel blood dripping down his spine, soaking into his ragged, filthy trousers.

The fourth blow is when it all starts to go to pieces. He loses count soon after that, the whip an endless hammer against his flesh, striking him so hard that his body springs open in surrender at its touch. His toes slip on flagstones wet with his own blood. He doesn’t know whether or not he’s screaming. After awhile, he doesn’t know much of anything.

They always stop. Eventually Corvo will pass out and they’ll notice, or Burrows will have a meeting to get to, or Campbell will get bored, and they’ll take him down and throw him back in his cell, and Corvo will come to sometime later, incoherent with pain, and drag himself to the tap in the corner and lie with his lips under the faucet and drink and wait until he can sit up again. They always stop. He knows they always stop. Otherwise he’ll get an infection and wind up back in the infirmary and –

This time, they don’t.

“We can flay the skin off you inch by inch if you like, Corvo,” Burrows says, smirking. “There’s plenty left.” The force of the blows turns him slowly; the whip strikes his ribs, his belly; Corvo knows it when he screams now. Is that good or bad? Does it matter? He’s lost too much blood, more blood than anyone can lose and stay alive: it pools around him, flows down like a thick river towards the drain in the floor, so deep there are ripples in it, fucking ripples, but he’s still awake, and the whip never stills, and his body is mostly meat now, raw and seeping. Corvo can see where the light catches on smooth spots that must be his ribs, scarlet as the rest of him, still thick with blood. And it’s horrible, horrible,

“The monster! Get it away! It’s horrible!” Emily screams, recoiling from him. She hides her face in Burrows’ coat. The whip comes down again.

Corvo wakes with a gasp. He’s – there’s something soft under his palms – white. Sheets? There’s a lit lantern by the bed. The Outsider’s Mark grins up at him from the back of his hand. This can’t be Coldridge. He’s alive, he’s not – he’s not alone. Corvo looks to his left, terror churning in his gut. Emily crawled into bed with him sometime during the night. Or, well, onto bed, not into – she’s on top of the blankets, dressed in her pajamas with her shoes on. She must have woken up and come across the walkway – she’ll see him – she can’t, she can’t see –

Corvo surges out of bed, scrambling off the foot of it, not wanting to wake his daughter. There’s no air in the attic, none at all, and he heaves for breath, sliding to his knees with his forehead pressed against the mattress by Emily’s feet. “The monster! Get it away! It’s horrible!” No, no, she can’t see him, not this mutilated, skinned, mute thing that couldn’t protect her, couldn’t save her mother, couldn’t save anyone! He’s worthless, worthless, and when they come for her again he won’t be able to stop them, she’ll die in front of him just like Jessie did, and he’ll just watch! He can’t do this, he can’t do this, he can’t do this, he can’t do this, he can’t do this, he can’t do this, he can’t do this, he can’t do this, he can’t do this, he can’t do this, he can’t do this, he can’t do this –

“Corvo?” Emily sounds sleepy, remote. He hears a rustle; the mattress depresses a little. She’s sitting up. He can’t do this, he can’t do this, he can’t – he can’t fall apart in front of his daughter. Corvo takes a deep, shuddering breath, then lets it out. His fists clench in the sheets. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

“Are you okay?” Emily asks. Her voice is small and scared. Corvo doesn’t want to look up; he wants to keep his face hidden. He has to reassure her. He forces himself to raise his head and meet Emily’s eyes. Breathe in, breathe out. Corvo nods.

“You don’t look okay,” Emily says. That’s fair. He absolutely isn’t. Corvo’s not sure how to tell her. He’s useless, broken, can’t even talk to his – breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Corvo taps his temple with his fingers, then makes a fist and shakes it hard next to his forehead, shutting his eyes and shaking his head a little. Breathe in, breathe out. He looks up at Emily again.

“Bad dreams?” she says. He nods. He breathes.

“Me too,” says Emily. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m here, he wants to say, but he can’t. He wants to hug her; he’s afraid if he touches her, she’ll scream and shy away. Breathe in. Breathe out.

“Corvo?” Her voice quavers a little. Her lip trembles. What, what is it, what’s the matter, Em? But he can’t say it. He looks up at her anxiously.

“Can I have a hug?” Emily asks.

The nightmare is a barrier between them and he hesitates for a moment, “Get it away!”, but Emily looks at him with huge, hurt eyes. She thinks her father doesn’t want to hug her. And that is unacceptable, and Corvo shoves the fear away, and surges up from the floor and wraps his daughter in his arms. He sits down on his little cot and Emily scrambles into his lap. The heels of her shoes dig painfully into his thigh; Corvo ignores it. Emily is crying again. She’d cried that morning at the Golden Cat, and then refused to touch him, not wanting to cry again. They left the slate behind. Corvo doesn’t even have a pen now. How can he tell her he loves her without a fucking pen? He rocks from side to side, cradling his girl against him. What can he do but hold her tight and rub her back and kiss her hair? So that’s what he does. It’s all he can think of. And slowly, slowly, Emily calms.

“I’m sorry if I woke you up,” she mumbles. Corvo shakes his head. He taps his temple again; Emily’s head is on his shoulder, so she feels the movement of his wrist and hand as he does it.

“Bad dreams woke you up?” she says. Corvo nods. Not being able to talk to her is unbearable. He wants to reassure her, wants to tell her how much he loves her, wants to tell her how sorry he is. He wants to ask her what happened at the Golden Cat, if anyone hurt her, if anyone touched her. The fear has been clawing him down to the bone for almost two months now, what the Pendleton twins or their cronies might have done to his daughter. But he didn’t have time to ask her when they were back there, and he can’t ask her now, with no writing utensils to hand. He should have thought ahead, should have gotten paper and pencil from Cecelia or someone, but it was late when they got back and he and Emily had both been so tired and Callista had just wanted to put her to bed and, and, and. He can’t very well leave Emily and go looking for writing utensils right now. Corvo kisses her forehead.

“I missed you so much,” Emily says. Her voice shakes. Corvo squeezes her tight. I missed you too, sweetheart. I thought about you every day, I was so worried about you. I’m so sorry I couldn’t come for you sooner. I would have done anything, anything to get to you, but I was trapped. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…

“Mommy said talking about bad dreams made them better. I guess you can’t tell me about yours, but you can think them at me really loud if you want,” Emily says. Corvo’s throat goes tight. He clutches Emily against his chest and rocks. What is there to say? I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you. His darling girl, the best part of him. He kisses her forehead.

“Can I tell you about my bad dream?” Emily asks. Corvo nods. Of course, Em. Always.

“I dreamed I was back at the Golden Cat and you didn’t come,” Emily says tearfully. She buries her face in Corvo’s shirt. “I dreamed it was Morgan and Custis again. They yelled at me. They said I should be grateful they were keeping me safe. But I knew you were supposed to be the one who came, I knew, and you didn’t come, and that meant you were really dead!” Emily wails. “They said you were dead for so long and I never really believed it because they always lied but in the dream you were dead and I knew it! And you never came for me!” She’s sobbing again. There’s nothing Corvo can do but rub soothing circles into her back and shake his head as he holds her. She clings to him.

He came so close to not being there to save her. One more week and he would have been executed. One bad moment during his escape and he wouldn’t have made it to Samuel, let alone the Golden Cat. He could have been killed by a prison guard, or landed badly in the river when he jumped, or collapsed in the sewers. What if the Loyalists had never come for him? He’d have died without ever seeing Emily again. He would have abandoned her, and after all those months of torture, he would have been glad to go. It’s the first real bit of gratitude he feels for Martin and Pendleton and Havelock. Some combination of the three of them are the reason he’s here now, holding his daughter in his arms.

“Daddy?” Emily mumbles. She never calls him that unless she’s really upset and they’re alone. It goes right to Corvo’s heart. Her tears have mostly stopped, but her face is still buried in his shoulder. He rubs his knuckles up and down between her shoulder blades, listening.

“Can I sleep here tonight?” she asks. He nods vigorously, giving her a squeeze. Emily sighs.

“Thank you,” she says. Of course, Em, he thinks. He can’t say it, though, so he reaches down and tugs at the straps of her shoes. Let’s get these off, sweetheart.

“Oh,” Emily says. “I forgot I was wearing those.”

They take her shoes off together, and then Corvo settles underneath the blankets and tucks her in beside him. Emily snuggles up against his chest, one hand pillowing her cheek, the other wrapped around a fistful of his shirt. He drifts off to sleep in the fading lantern light, one arm around his daughter.

Chapter Text

Dear Emily,

I’m so sorry about what happened to your mom that Jessie died that they killed Jessamine Mommy. I should have kept her safe I wasn’t good fast good enough It was my fault, I failed you both. I’m s

(paper balled up and tossed on the bed)

Dear Emily,

I wish I could bring Mommy back. It should be her with you now, not me. You deserve better than

(crumpled in a fist and then dropped on the floor)

Dear Emily,

It should have been me. I was her bodyguard and I failed in my duty, and now you’ve lost your mother. It’s my fault. I wish they’d taken me instead, I wish I’d been better, I should have been better. I failed you. I failed you both. I love you so much, sweetheart. I wish I could give her back to you. I don’t know why they didn’t kill me, I almost wish they had, I wish they’d taken me instead of you and her but they didn’t and I don’t know why. I’m not enough, I’m not good enough to be your dad all alone. You should have more than this. You deserve better than me.

What good am I to you now? I can’t keep you safe. I couldn’t keep your mom safe and look where it got us. I was never good enough for either of you. I can’t even talk to you now. I can’t even tell you I’m sorry or say how much I love you or how much I miss her. I fucked this up. I ruined everything. She’s dead because of me.

I’m sorry, Em. I’m so, so fucking sorry. I’ll never be the father you deserve. I’m a failure and you saw it with your own eyes. You must not believe in me anymore. You know I can’t protect you, right? I never could. I was never strong enough to keep either of you safe. I just didn’t realize it before.

I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again. I’ll die first, I swear to you. I should have died with Mommy. I should have died for her. I should have saved her and I didn’t because I was weak and slow and stupid and I left her alone like the idiot I am and it was my fucking fault and you should blame me. I can’t keep you safe. I can’t keep you safe! And if I can’t do that, then what the fuck is the point of me?

I can’t very well give you this letter. I’ll burn it along with the others. I’m sorry, sweetheart.

Love,

Daddy

(the abandoned drafts are ashes, now)

Dear Emily,

I’m glad you thought of writing letters to each other. That’s a really good idea. I’ve just been talking to people by pointing and nodding and things like that; this is so much better. Thanks, Em.

I’m sorry it took me so long to come for you. At first I was in prison, in Coldridge, and I couldn’t get out no matter how hard I tried. I escaped because Pendleton and Martin and Havelock helped me; I couldn’t have done it on my own. But after that, I didn’t know where you were. It took us almost two months to find you, and I came for you as soon as I knew where to go.

Can you tell me about what happened at the Golden Cat? Did anyone hurt you or anything like that? Were you with Morgan or Custis Pendleton very often? Did anybody hit you, or touch you in any way? If you don’t want to write it down that’s okay, you can just tell me. And if you think of anything bad that happened and want to tell me about it later, that’s alright too. I’m always here to listen.

I miss your mother too. I miss her so much! I wish she was here with us. Well, honestly, I wish we were all back at home, safe and sound, and none of this ever happened. But I miss your mother. I miss being together, the three of us.

I was supposed to keep you both safe, and I couldn’t. I’m so, so sorry, Emily. I don’t know how to tell you how sorry I am.

Sincerely,

Corvo

Chapter Text

Dear Corvo,

I apologize for the lateness of this letter. Callista made me do a lot of mathematics and geography exercises before she would let me write to you. But now I’m done!

I was talking to Cecelia a minute ago and I asked her if she knew sign language, and she said yes! I asked her because I don’t think she likes talking that much, so I was hoping maybe she knew another way, and she does! I want her to teach us so we can talk to each other with our hands instead of our mouths. I think it will be fun! And once we get good at it, we’ll be able to talk like normal again. Of course we’ll be silent while we talk, which I think is neat. We could pretend to be spies or something.

Writing letters is good too, though. I miss being able to talk to you. Well, I can talk to you all I want, but you can’t talk back, and I miss that. Will you tell me who hurt you? When I’m Empress I promise I’ll hurt them worse. I wish I could use magic and make it all better for you. I think maybe your nightmares are even worse than mine. Do you dream about Mommy, or is it about the people who did those things to you? I saw some of your scars, but I think you didn’t want me to. I’m sorry if I shouldn’t have looked, but they weren’t there before and I noticed. What happened?

I miss Mommy so much. I want to go home. I mean, I’ve wanted to go home ever since those asasins (is that how you spell it?) kidnapped me. I guess I stopped thinking about it as much when I was at The Golden Cat, since I was there for so long. I kind of got used to it. But now I’m here, and so are you, and I want us to go home. Sometimes I dream that we do go home and – never mind. I don’t want to talk about it.

I want my dolly, and I miss the food at the Tower. I don’t like tinned hagfish, it’s nasty. Is eating different for you now? What does it feel like? I’m sorry if it’s rude to ask that. Maybe I’m asking too many questions in this letter. You don’t have to answer them all if I’m being a baby.

I was so scared after what happened. Morgan and Custis told me you were dead, but they kept lying to me about other things so I didn’t believe them about that either. At first I thought you would come for me right away. Then you didn’t, and I was really angry at you for awhile. I thought you had abandoned (is that how you spell it?) me, but then it ocurred to me that maybe you were in trouble. I tried to run away and look for you, but Custis caught me the first time, and then the Madam caught me, and then they put a big bolt on the outside of my door and only let me out to go to the toilet. I was practicing tying my sheets into knots to try to climb out the window, but you came before I could try it.

I – oh. Cecelia just brought me your letter! I need to read it, just a moment please.

When they killed Mommy it wasn’t your fault, Corvo. You beat all those asasins who came for her except for the last one. They used magic on you. I saw it! It wasn’t fair! If you’d had magic too, you could have killed them all and saved Mommy and I’d never have been kidnapped. You don’t have to say sorry. What matters is that we do our best, right? I know you did your best for Mommy and I.

People did hurt me at the Golden Cat, but it wasn’t that bad. When the Madam caught me trying to run away she dragged me back upstairs by the collar, and that hurt, but she didn’t leave a bruise or anything. Morgan slapped me once because I was talking back to him (I called him a sunuvubich – is that how you spell it?) and I fell down and hit my elbow on the floor, and that left a bruise. But mostly people only touched me when they grabbed my arm or my shirt or something. Elizabeth (she was one of the working girls) would rub my back when I cried sometimes, if she was upstairs and heard me. But she wasn’t allowed to come see me anymore after they started bolting my door on the outside.

I miss Elizabeth. She was the only one who was nice to me. There were lots of working girls. I knew Amelia and Chastity (which I think is a pretty funny name for a working girl) and Velma and Cora, but mostly they ignored me, or chased me back upstairs if they caught me out of my room. Elizabeth told me that I should learn how to cry quietly, so I did. She said if anybody touched my chest or my private parts that I should bite them and scratch them and kick and scream. Mommy always said if anybody did anything like that to me that I should run and tell her or you as soon as I could, but you weren’t around to tell so I thought Elizabeth’s advice was probably good. But I never needed to use it. Is that what you meant? That’s usually what grown-ups mean when they talk about touching. Nobody did any of that to me.

I wish I had been able to run away and come find you when you were in Coldridge. I could have stolen the keys from the guards and broken you out and we could have run away together. I’m small, it’s easy for me to hide. I guess we were both in trouble and locked up and trying to get to each other, weren’t we? I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you. I really missed you. I’m glad Martin and Havelock and Pendleton could rescue you. I wish I could have rescued you sooner. When I’m Empress, nobody will ever do anything like that to you again, I promise.

I think we should ask Cecelia to teach us sign language and then we won’t have to write letters anymore. I miss talking to you. Let’s do that soon, okay?

I hope this letter finds you well.

Sincerely,
Emily

Chapter Text

They hold the lessons in Emily’s tower room. Cecelia sits cross-legged on the floor; Emily joins her happily, Corvo a little stiffly – he’s limber yet, but 39 is old enough to merit a chair, in his opinion. Callista sits on her bed, not wanting to intrude, but still wanting to attend. (She insists that she can help Emily practice, and that she ought to know sign language if her charge is going to learn.) Emily comes well-prepared with pens and paper, slate and chalk. She’s is better at schoolwork than Corvo ever was, and he is warm with pride as he watches her lay out her supplies, and then with gratitude as she hands the slate to him. She intends to take notes, of course, but she wants Corvo to be able to ask questions without wasting paper. She’s so clever and thoughtful.

Cecelia seems nervous with so many eyes on her, but she bears up well. Corvo gives her a small smile and Cecelia smiles back. She’s been his only friend here for the last two months, as far as it goes – Corvo’s never confided in her, not really, nor has she told him much about herself, but they get on well, neither demanding too much of the other, content to let each other be. Cecelia is a safe person for Corvo: she’ll never ignore him or talk over him, she always listens, and she cares about him. He hopes he’s done half as well for her. Without her he would have gone mad in his silence, or at the very least punched Havelock. Only Cecelia and Samuel ever give him the chance to communicate. Callista talks at him and tries to guess what he wants, which is maddening; Piero’s patience only lasts so long. Havelock, Pendleton, and Martin treat him like a prop, or maybe a clever dog. But maybe soon, if this goes well, Corvo will be able to actually talk to Emily, and possibly Callista too. He is so fucking excited.

“A,” Cecelia says, holding up a fist. “B.” Her hand spreads out flat, her thumb curled over her palm. She looks unhappy about talking, even reciting the alphabet. Her pupils mimic her as one.

“C?” Emily asks, and Cecelia gives her a tiny smile, and shapes a simple C with her fingers and thumb. Emily takes up the alphabet from there, letter by letter. They do it three times together, and then take it in turns to recite it to each other, Cecelia prompting them when they forget. Emily does better than the adults; after his first attempt, Corvo swipes some paper and a pen from his daughter and does his best to draw the rough shapes of each sign. It’s untidy, but marginally comprehensible.

“Cecelia, how do you say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’?” Emily asks.

“Please,” Cecelia mumbles, and rubs a circle on her sternum with an open hand. “Thank you,” the same open hand pressed to her lips and then swept outward. And another one, vital but unasked-for: “Sorry,” a fist rubbing circles under her collarbone.

I love you?, Corvo writes on his slate, and holds it up.

“Love,” Cecelia says, crossing her fists over her chest. “You.” She points at Corvo.

“We should ask you one word at a time so you don’t have to talk,” Emily says, and Cecelia grins at her, the biggest smile Corvo’s ever seen on the young woman’s face. Well, she’s grinning at Emily’s shoulder – she seems to dislike making eye contact – but the gladness and gratitude are there. Cecelia nods vigorously, and her fist nods with her.

“Yes?” Emily asks, and Cecelia’s fist nods again. They all mimic the motion. Yes.

“No?” Callista says. Cecelia makes a little snapping beak of her thumb and forefingers. Corvo does it too: no.

«Thank you,» Emily signs.

“Welcome,” Cecelia says, one flat hand making a gentle arc over her chest.

«ABC a-g-a-i-n?» Emily signs, her eyebrows raised in a question.

«Yes,» Corvo replies, and they all go around and try to remember the alphabet.

Corvo stays up late that night practicing. He’s sitting on his bed going through the alphabet when Emily arrives. She almost tumbles through the window, catching herself with the careless agility of youth, and Corvo looks up at her and grins. She’s wearing her shoes and pajamas, the way she usually is when she wakes him crying in the night, but her face is dry and her hair still tidy. She waves to him as she crosses the room.

«I w-a-i-s-e-d s-i-l C-a-l-l-i-t-s-a w-a-t a-t-l-e-e-p,» she signs carefully.

«W-a-i-t-e-d,» Corvo fingerspells back. Emily frowns at him, confused. Corvo pats the bed beside him and she hops up, then leans down to take off her shoes. Once she’s settled cross-legged beside him, Corvo offers her his sheet of drawings of the alphabet. Emily looks it over intently.

«T a-n-d S,» she signs.

«Yes!» Corvo says.

«W-e n-e-e-d t-o m-a-k-e a l-i-s-t o-f w-o-r-d-s f-o-r C-e-c-e-l-i-a,» Emily spells laboriously.

«Yes!» Corvo’s not sure if his face and the shaking of his fist convey his enthusiasm for the idea.

«F-u-k,» Emily signs, scowling. Corvo has been trying not to think about how he needs to teach his daughter to swear properly, but there it is. At the very least she ought to be able to spell the rude words she uses now. Ten is… almost old enough. A child who grew up near the docks would have learned to curse in the cradle, Corvo tells himself. He certainly did. But it’s hard not to worry about propriety when your daughter is a princess. Oh, well.

«W-h-a-t?» Corvo asks.

«W-a-i-t,» Emily says, and launches herself off the bed. Corvo wants to call after her as she bounds back out the window, leaving her shoes behind, but he doesn’t want her to hear the noises he makes now. Emily’s back in maybe three minutes, her hands full of slate and chalk and paper and pen. She offers him the slate and chalk with a smile and Corvo takes them, then sets them down carefully by his knee.

«I n-e-e-d t-o p-r-a-c-t-i-c-e,» he spells.

«I-l-l m-a-k-e t-h-e l-i-s-t,» Emily replies. «W-r-i-t-e w-o-r-d-s you w-a-n-t o-n i-t.»

Spelling out what he wants to say to her is so slow, so laborious. It’s incredibly tempting to grab the slate and chalk and write to her again; they could pass it back and forth and it would be faster than this. But Corvo knows if he doesn’t practice the alphabet he’ll never learn it; if he doesn’t practice fingerspelling, he’ll never be able to do it fast enough when he needs it to fill in the gaps in his vocabulary. Most words have their own unique gestures, it seems, and he’ll need to be able to spell them out until he learns the proper signs. But here’s Emily, just as ready to learn as he is. She doesn’t even need to sign to him, he realizes – she could just speak to him and then try to interpret his gestures. But she’s signing anyway.

«W-h-y d-o-n-t you t-a-l-k?» Corvo asks her.

«I-t-s n-o-t f-a-i-r,» Emily says. Her small, round face is so serious. She cares so much. Corvo can’t speak, he has to sign, and damn it, so will she. His throat hurts.

«W-e l-e-a-r-n,» and then he gestures back and forth between the two of them, meaning together? And Emily nods firmly and repeats the gesture, back and forth.

«I love you, d-a-d-d-y,» she signs.

«I love you, E-m,» Corvo replies, trying desperately not to cry. Her letter left him feeling so shattered with guilt and relief and it’s all right there at the surface still, only a day later. That’s what grown-ups usually mean when they talk about touching. Nobody did any of that to me. Morgan slapped me, the Madam grabbed me by the collar, I was so scared, I was really angry at you, I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you. I really missed you. Sincerely, Emily. He hates that even after all this, he’s still not willing to sign his letters to her with Love, Daddy unless he burns them after. He hates the formality he uses when he writes to her. He can’t put I’m so sorry about Mommy on paper and leave it where someone else might see – but he can sign it to her now.

«I’m sorry, E-m. I love you. I’m sorry a-b-o-u-t M-o-m-m-y,» Corvo signs. Emily’s mouth goes tight and trembling; she looks like she wants to yell at him, but she doesn’t.

«N-o-t your f-a-u-l-t!» she signs fiercely.

«S-t-i-l-l sorry,» Corvo says. Emily’s glaring at him; her big, black eyes are glittering with tears. She grabs him around the neck and hauls herself into his lap and Corvo grunts a little when she yanks on him like that, but she hugs him tight and he puts his arms around her, rocking them both back and forth comfortingly. He can feel the tremors in her diaphragm: she’s trying not to cry. He rubs her back. She can cry here. It will always be safe for Emily to cry around him.

«I love you,» Corvo signs against her back, crossing his wrists and then pressing the tip of his finger into her shoulder blade. Emily heaves for breath and he does it again, and again, and she does it too on the back of his neck. Her hands are too small for her knuckles to wrap around well but her fingernails press into the skin under his ears and her fingertip jabs at his spine and Corvo understands. Her hair is damp when they pull apart; so is his shirt. Neither of them comment on it.

«S-l-e-e-p h-e-r-e?» Emily asks him.

«Yes,» Corvo says.

They blow out the lamp together. Emily comes up with a game in the dark: Corvo presses letters into her back one by one and she spells out the words for him aloud. Eventually she drops off to sleep. He lies awake for some time, listening to her steady breathing. Em doesn’t hate him, even after Jessie, even though he abandoned her at the Golden Cat for all those months. What can he do but try to be worthy of that?

Chapter Text

“Hey Sully, Cyril’s off tonight. It’s just us. Want to have some fun?”

Corvo knows it happens. Not just in the infirmary, but all over Coldridge. They’ve left him alone so far, Outsider only knows why. But tonight he’s strapped to a cot, still weak and shaky with the fever. His newfound silence is a bitter burden. The orderly sounds so smug, and Corvo is afraid.

“What about him, though?”

“He’s got no tongue! Fuck’s he gonna tell?”

They’d debrided the burn in his mouth yesterday. It had been far, far worse than anything the Torturer had ever done to him. Head strapped down, jaws levered wide apart – Corvo’s throat closes convulsively and he shudders. The movement hurts his back. The wounds are still open, still raw and seeping. First the whip, and then they took his tongue and he couldn’t eat or drink; the infection had come soon after. He’s not sure how long it’s been. He doesn’t remember how he got here.

“She’s a nice piece, ain’t she?”

There are only the two of them in the infirmary tonight, just Corvo and the woman in the next bed. They brought her in yesterday evening, both her hands mangled; they’re in heavy splints now. She doesn’t speak either, but she fights the restraints sometimes.

“This is damn luxurious. We don’t even have to take her to the washroom or nothin’.”

“Ain’t it though?”

“What’sa matter, honey? Not a word for your new man?”

Silence.

“Heh. Guess not.”

They keep the patients tied to their beds here. Mostly the inmates are left on their backs, but Corvo’s back needs regular tending, so they’ve put his wrists and ankles in heavy leather cuffs hooked to the bedstead and left him lying on his belly, facedown on a thin pillow. It’s the first pillow he’s seen in months. It leaves much to be desired.

Cloth rustles.

“Love these fuckin’ legs.” A creak. A rattle. At least the pillow gives Corvo somewhere to hide his face. That’s what he’s doing now. He only wishes he could cover his fucking ears too.

He tries to let the sounds go by without comprehending them. He tries so hard not to understand what’s happening an arm’s length away. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to listen. He doesn’t want to feel horribly, sickeningly grateful that for once, they’re hurting someone else instead of him.

The pillow smells of the soap they use everywhere in the infirmary, sharp and unpleasant. The air here stinks of vomit and bitter herbs and lye. Her bedstead rattles rhythmically. Corvo doesn’t even know her name. His fists clench. His heart batters itself against his ribs like a frightened bird. He takes a long, slow breath.

The door to Sokolov’s lab is cold and smooth against his palm. The smell is under his mask, between his teeth, insinuating itself under his skin and Corvo wants to scream but he doesn’t, he ducks behind a planter and waits. His hands are shaking. Vomit and bitter herbs and lye.

“After the characteristic sloughing of the skin – ” Sokolov is saying. His voice bubbles up to Corvo in between the grunts of the men in the back of his mind. None of them will fucking shut up and it’s loud, it’s so loud! Corvo grabs the webbing between his thumb and forefinger and pinches hard with his nails; the pain helps ground him a little. The natural philosopher is dictating to his audiograph; the planters are either empty or full of dead things; there are cages in the back. The lab is walled in glass. There’s someone in one of the cages. Corvo realizes he’s rocking back and forth a little as he kneels; it takes an effort to still himself.

“ – dead by tomorrow afternoon, at the latest.” Sokolov’s voice is cool and clinical. Dunwall will sink into the sea before Anton Sokolov stops being an unfeeling bastard, Corvo thinks. He was always like this, Royal Physician or no. The man has no empathy whatsoever.

The thoughts sit on the surface of Corvo’s mind like pebbles on ice. Below them he’s still tied down, helpless, silent, screaming. The frost-locked lake inside him churns with aimless terror. There’s no fight or flight when you’re strapped to a bed: all you can do is freeze, and wait for it to be over, and hope it won’t be too bad this time. The fear goes on and on, it has ever since he escaped; it was unbearable at first, but Corvo is starting to find it tedious. The woman in Sokolov’s cage is begging him to give her something for the pain. She never spoke, never begged – Corvo never learned her name. She was still there when he’d healed enough to eat solid food. They’d frog-marched him back to his cell and he’d been glad to go, glad to leave her behind.

“It’s true, I have many restoratives and analgesics, but if I were to give them to you it would spoil my research…”

Vomit and bitter herbs and lye. Corvo has to get out of here, and he can’t just kill Sokolov and run: he has to kidnap the bastard, which is fucking unfortunate. He triple-checks his crossbow to make sure he really has a sleep dart loaded. It would be just his luck to accidentally murder Sokolov now. The natural philosopher is standing with his back to Corvo, talking to the woman in the cage. Corvo takes careful aim, propping his forearm on the planter to keep his hand from shaking, and fires.

The old man drops like a stone. Corvo doesn’t want to spend a single second longer than necessary in this intolerable, stinking greenhouse. He vaults over the planter and strides to Sokolov, digging through his coat pockets until he comes up with a key. He unlocks the cage door and then slings the unconscious man over his shoulders while the prisoner is still stumbling through her thanks – she looks bad, her face pale and sweaty; she’s shaky and obviously weak. Tomorrow morning is a generous estimate for her survival. At least she won’t die locked up in there. He tells himself that has to count for something as he flees.

It’s a comparatively short trip across the roofs and down to the pier where Samuel waits with his boat. Corvo’s heart is in his throat the whole way, more from the smell he swears has seeped into the cloth lining of his mask than from any real fear of discovery. Getting past the guards on the way in was easy – now that he’s seen what Sokolov was up to, he thinks it might have been better to slaughter them all, but it’s too late for that now. He more of less throws the natural philosopher into the boat and jumps in after him, pointing sharply at the water. Samuel takes the dinghy out as fast as he can.

Corvo waits until they’re well away from shore before he rips off his mask. The Wrenhaven reeks of dead fish and motor oil; it might as well be lilies and jasmine to him. Corvo breathes deep, openmouthed, relief pouring over him like cool water. Vomit and bitter herbs and lye. He’s out of there. He’s out. It’s gone. He’s free.

“All right, Corvo?” Samuel asks. Corvo nods a little, trying to focus on the boat and the river, trying not to think. The sun’s not even down yet. It can’t be later than five o’clock. They’ll be back at the pub soon, and Emily will be done with her lessons. Samuel talks to him aimlessly and Corvo listens with half an ear, watching the city go by. Water slaps against the hull; the motor coughs and grumbles. The westering sun trails its yellow fingers down the length of the river. At his feet, Sokolov snores.

When Samuel draws the boat up to the little quay behind the pub Corvo brushes right past Havelock, who is trying to talk at him. Emily is out in the yard and her face lights up when she sees Corvo, so he goes up the steps and drops to one knee and holds his arms out to her and she runs to him for a hug. He’s not usually so demonstrative with her in public, even among the Loyalists – her parentage is supposed to be something of a secret, although he suspects that keeping up the appearance of the secret is at least as important as the secret itself – but he wants a hug from his daughter more than anything right now. Emily wraps her arms around his neck and says, “Corvo!” and something comes unknotted in his chest when he hears the smile in her voice. She’s small, but warm and solid, and she gives him a little kiss on the cheek that cheers him up immeasurably. He lets her go and leans back a little to sign to her.

«How were your lessons?»

«Boring! Callista made me memorize all the d-y-n-a-s-t-i-e-s and r-e-c-i-t-e them to her, and it took forever! And we did geography again today. I hate geography.» Emily is childishly dramatic, rolling her eyes and throwing up her hands at the trials and tribulations of being a ten year old forced to do schoolwork.

«Well, you’re all done now,» Corvo says, trying to commiserate.

«Will you sword fight with me?» Emily asks.

«Yes!» Corvo grins and stands, dusting off his trousers.

«I’ll be right back!» Emily says, and runs off to fetch the sticks they use as fencing foils.

“Corvo!” Havelock seems to have snuck up on him while he was talking to Emily. He gives Corvo what is probably supposed to be a friendly clap on the back, but it feels like a blow. Corvo flinches a little. He never used to startle like that; it’s fucking annoying.

“Good work today,” the Admiral says. “We’ll let Sokolov sleep it off. You’ve brought us that much closer to taking down the Regent and restoring Lady Emily’s throne! Thanks for all your hard work. You’ve done great things for us. Great things! Get some rest, my boy.” Havelock genially pummels him again. It really is like he’s talking to a dog, Corvo thinks. A very smart dog, but a dog nonetheless. He considers throwing Havelock into the river. Might make things awkward later, but it might also be very satisfying.

“Here!” Emily’s back, offering him a stick with a grin.

“Well, that’s my cue. Don’t exert yourself too much, now!” Havelock gives Corvo one last clap on the shoulder – he seems to be a man who expresses all his feelings by hitting people – and then finally fucking leaves.

«You ready?» Corvo signs.

«Yes!» Emily says, and Corvo takes his stick with a smile.

Guard, he wants to say, taking a step back and raising the stick like a sword. Emily’s eyes are snapping black when they meet his; she settles into a fencer’s stance. Pride swells under his sternum, pushing away the rattling cold left by Sokolov’s lab and Havelock’s rough hand. She’s quick, his girl, she’s tough, a better fencer by far than he was at her age. She’s got her mother’s face but his eyes and his footwork and she’s here, dueling with him gleefully in the early evening sun. Corvo feints left, then goes in for a quick kill, and Emily parries him handily – he taught her that maneuver years ago. They smile at each other and Corvo beckons, come on, attack me, and Emily starts to circle. Corvo settles in and readies himself for her next strike.

Corvo wakes up angry. Emily slept through the night in her own bed, which he ought to be pleased about, but the memories hang heavy over him and he misses her company in the chilly attic this morning. He gets up. He dresses, combs his hair, washes his face, shaves. Stares at himself in the cracked, dirty mirror. It’s not that all the guards at Coldridge were rapists – most of them weren’t, he thinks. But there’s a certain kind of man who joins the Watch because of the things he’ll be able to get away with on the job. There’s a certain kind of man who goes to work at Coldridge because of what he’ll get to do to the prisoners there. He still isn’t sure why they never came for him. Surely the former Lord Protector and rumored lover of the Empress would be a tantalizing target for men like that. The scar on his jaw gleams at him dully in the mirror. There’s a bedstead rattling in the back of his mind. Corvo grits his teeth.

Someone hammers on the bathroom door and he jumps, dropping his razor into the sink.

“Hurry up in there!” It’s Pendleton, probably already drunk. Fuck, Corvo thinks. He retrieves his razor and yanks the door open, nearly taking Pendleton’s fist to the face for his trouble. The man has definitely been drinking. Corvo suppresses a grimace at the smell and brushes past him.

It’s breakfast time in the common room of the pub. Emily and Callista are sitting in a booth together, eating; Callista gives him a small smile, and Emily looks over her shoulder and waves. Corvo waves to them both. Lydia leans across the bar, simpering a little.

“Good morning, Lord Corvo,” she says. Corvo nods curtly and looks around for Cecelia, trying to ignore the way Lydia is openly staring at him. He should have put his coat on before he came downstairs; he’s in his shirtsleeves and the maid is undressing him with her eyes, which he absolutely hates.

“Corvo! Sleep well?” It’s Martin. Damn. Corvo’s been doing his best to avoid the Overseer he rescued; Martin is constantly sizing him up, eyeing Corvo’s left hand in a way he probably thinks is subtle, but it makes Corvo uneasy. Martin puts a companionable hand on Corvo’s shoulder and Corvo forces himself not to shrug it off.

“Great work with Sokolov. We couldn’t do any of this without you.” The too-gentle sincerity in Martin’s voice oozes over him like oil. Corvo nods as politely as he can manage. He can almost feel Lydia’s eyes slipping up and down his body. It makes his skin crawl.

“He woke an hour ago or so; Havelock’s with him now,” Martin says. Cecelia appears in the kitchen doorway.

«Morning. Breakfast?» she signs.

“I think they’re starting the interrogation soon. Do you want to be there?” Not especially, but Martin is still fucking touching him. His hand is warm and soft and intolerable. Corvo steps away with a nod.

«Later,» he signs to Cecelia.

«Okay.» She disappears back into the kitchen.

“What was that all about?” Martin asks, but Corvo is nearly out the door and doesn’t even consider trying to answer. He doesn’t particularly want to watch Havelock torture Sokolov, or whatever the Admiral has planned, but anything is better than staying in the common room to be touched and peered at and – ugh. Corvo resists the urge to scrub his hands up and down his arms in a futile attempt to wipe away the feeling of Lydia’s eyes, Martin’s palm. He makes a beeline for the kennels, trying not to think.

Sokolov is locked up in the old fighting pit, and there’s Havelock on the other side of the room, grandstanding as usual. Sokolov looks unimpressed, but the Admiral doesn’t need an appreciative audience any bigger than himself for his blustering.

“Ah, Corvo!” Havelock booms, and Sokolov turns, his eyebrows rising. The natural philosopher is actually surprised to see him. Corvo can’t remember the last time he saw Sokolov surprised by anything. It doesn’t last long. The bushy eyebrows come down, and Sokolov scowls.

“You’ve got the former Lord Protector doing your dirty work, Admiral?” he demands, his eyes on Corvo.

“Corvo is doing the necessary work of restoring Lady Emily to the throne – ”

“I heard you’d escaped, and now here you are. Burrows should have killed you when he had the chance, shouldn’t he?” Probably. Sokolov strokes his beard; Corvo crosses his arms.

“Traitor!” Havelock bellows.

“I didn’t assassinate the Empress,” Sokolov says irritably.

“You will give us Burrows’ mistress, Sokolov. I’m sure the rats can drag it out of you.” Havelock is practically rubbing his hands together with anticipation. Rats, huh? That’s Havelock’s plan?

“They’re not plague rats, but I’ve heard even a swarm of ordinary rats can reduce a child’s body to bones in under two minutes. Shall we put that to the test?”

“You’ll get nothing from me,” Sokolov says. He seems to find this whole affair more irritating and inconvenient than frightening. Corvo would be half-inclined to applaud his bravado if he didn’t detest him so much. He’s not optimistic about torturing Sokolov, though. Like as not the rats will just give him sepsis or rabies and Sokolov will die without telling them anything useful. Even a more sanitary method would produce dubious results at best. Corvo was always been disinclined to trust information obtained via torture, and is even more so now, after his time in Coldridge. Sokolov may be an unfeeling, mercenary little cockroach, but that just makes him bribable. The man cares about little besides doing his research and living well. It seems like a more promising angle to pursue.

“What do you think, Corvo? Shall we?” Havelock says. Corvo glances up at the Admiral and, wonder of wonders, Havelock is actually looking at him. Corvo shakes his head. Havelock raises his eyebrows.

“Really?” he says. Corvo holds up a hand, hoping the gesture gets through to him: wait. Havelock nods a little. Sokolov watches the byplay with great interest.

“Have you got a better idea, then?” the natural philosopher asks. Corvo just looks at him.

“You’ve always been a poor sport,” Sokolov grumbles. Corvo shrugs, then leaves. He needs to find Piero. If he can do that without having to deal with Lydia or Martin, so much the better.

Nobody tries to accost him, which ends up being sort of regrettable. Corvo finds Piero at the top of the back stairs, kneeling in the hallway with his eye pressed against the keyhole of the bathroom door. It must be Callista in there, the way Piero chases her. That little – watching – and she doesn't even want – he grabs Piero by the collar and hauls him upright, careless of his clothes and general well-being; Piero gives a strangled yelp. Corvo could slam the natural philosopher into the wall, he could hit him, he could drag him outside and then hit him – Piero is babbling about tumblers and snowflakes. Hitting him would probably be unproductive, which is a damned shame. Corvo transfers his grip from Piero’s collar to his arm and marches the smaller man downstairs and across the yard, back to his workshop.

“Please don’t tell her. I couldn’t bear it if she knew,” Piero begs. Corvo glares at him.

“I – I swear it won’t happen again! I’m sorry. You have my word! Please, I’ll stop. I know you could kill me at any time… Please don’t.” The prospect is certainly tempting, but that’s not why Corvo’s here. He points to the trunk in the corner where Piero keeps his more illicit goods.

“Oh – you… want to see what I have for sale? Certainly! Certainly. I just got some new wares in yesterday, please, take a look!” Piero flutters over to open the trunk and Corvo kneels beside it, knocking the natural philosopher’s hands away when he reaches down to start pulling things out and showcasing them. Corvo digs through it – coin, kerosene, explosives, gold, Elixirs, formaldehyde for some reason, a dead plague rat in a jar, and… Well now. What’s this?

King Street Brandy is the sort of thing rich people drink when they want to show off their good taste by making themselves miserable. Supposedly only someone with a refined palate can appreciate its flavor, but the truth is, it’s just vile. Nobody who mixes whale oil (of all things) with their liquor should be trusted as far as Emily could throw them, in Corvo’s opinion. Sokolov adores the stuff. It’ll do nicely. He rises, bottle in hand.

“You want the brandy? That’ll be one hundred and fifty coins,” Piero says. Corvo glowers at him, equal parts angry and incredulous. I’m sorry, Piero. I caught you spying on Callista in the bath, didn’t knock any of your teeth out, didn’t tell her, and now you want to sell me something? he wants to say. The words are like marbles piling up behind his teeth. Piero fidgets nervously under his increasingly heavy stare.

“I – it’s very rare and valuable – I can’t just – ”

Corvo seriously considers punching Piero. The natural philosopher seems to see it in his face: he quails.

“Oh, yes, well, maybe that’s fair, if you want to just – just take it – consider it a gift!”

Good. I will.

Chapter Text

Getting into the party is pathetically easy. Burrows put tallboys out on the streets but the Boyles can’t be bothered to have the doorman check the invitations properly? Incredible. Everyone thinks Corvo’s Masked Felon costume is terribly clever and provocative. (He’s even got that occult tattoo on his hand! My goodness.) He bows politely to everyone who tries to talk to him, and keeps walking. Pendleton’s letter is down on the riverbed somewhere – he’d cracked the seal on the way over, and his suspicions had proven correct. Corvo doesn’t feel the least bit guilty for killing Morgan and Custis. Treavor can fight his own fucking duels.

Inside the mansion, Corvo looks over the spread with a practiced eye. Hors d’oeuvres, fresh fruit, a suckling pig, champagne fountains, spun sugar, pastries, chocolates. Lavish, favorably lit. The chandeliers glitter. The bunting is definitely excessive. He’s attended many parties as Lord Protector, and developed not only an eye for Jessamine’s tastes, but also his own, not to mention the latest styles. His knowledge of court fashions is about nine months out of date, but the Boyles are never on the bleeding edge of anything. Their decorations are bound to be of the moment and not a trice more. Corvo never would have thought of himself as a man who had opinions on tablecloths and garlands, but it turns out that if one spends long enough looking at anything, one will develop some preferences.

The guests twist and mingle through the rooms of the mansion like ornamental fish in an overcrowded pond: colorful, glittering, and hard to keep track of. Corvo eyes the champagne, then remembers that he can’t drink without taking his mask off, and wanders off into the milling crowd, affecting idleness as he listens to the conversations around him.

“These petits-fours are really to die for, Marquess.”

“Can you believe they’ve tightened the whale oil rations again? We’ll have riots on the waterfront!”

“Do you think Attano really murdered the Empress? I heard they were fucking, you know.”

“Jonathan! Keep your voice down!”

“I’m just saying.”

“The Boyle sisters throw one hell of a party, don’t they?”

“I don’t know. The Fugue Feast balls at the Chatterlys’ country estate – ”

“That’s the Fugue Feast, it’s not a fair comparison.”

“I think it’s Waverly in the red.”

“I’m telling you, that’s Esma.”

“Is not.”

“Is too! Have you seen her ass?”

“My, that outfit’s in poor taste.”

“Don’t be so uptight, Clarice. He’s got the cleverest costume I’ve seen all evening.”

“I heard Esma’s got a new beau.”

“You mean besides the Lord Re – ”

“Ssh!” Interesting. Corvo knows the Boyle sisters, not especially well, but he knows them. They’re at court often enough that he’s had to deal with them fairly regularly, especially Esma, who’s the youngest and tends to throw herself at any and all men in her general vicinity as long as they’re titled, conscious, and out of earshot of their spouses. It’s been Corvo’s great misfortune to be on the receiving end of her rather optimistic advances on quite a few occasions, although Jessie – he swallows hard and shuts his eyes against the memories. It’s a damn good thing he’s wearing the mask.

Corvo pauses and pretends to admire the confetti falling through a chandelier, biting the inside of his cheek. By the time his lips stop trembling, he can taste blood in his mouth. How did they manage to rig up that confetti, anyway? He doesn’t see any servants throwing it down from upstairs. It must be some contraption or other. The point is, he has no problem believing that Esma would be screwing Burrows. Of all three of them, he’d pick her out as the most likely to be any given courtier’s mistress. He needs more to go on than that, though.

“Excuse me? Excuse me.” Someone grabs him by the elbow and Corvo turns, surprised and annoyed. There’s a man beside him in an extraordinarily ugly mask. What is it supposed to be? A bulldog? Void beyond, it’s awful.

“Please, we need to speak privately,” the man says, tugging on Corvo’s sleeve. Grudgingly, Corvo allows himself to be towed into a corner.

“I am Lord Brisby,” the stranger says. It takes Corvo a moment to place the name: Brisby is a lesser house with no significant presence at court. “I know who you are and why you’re here. I’ve done some favors for your cause. Your quarry tonight is the woman I love. Please, I beg you, don’t hurt her. You just need her out of the way, isn’t that right? There’s a better way.” Corvo crosses his arms and nods a little, listening but not optimistic. His optimism plummets as he listens to Brisby outline his fucking plan. Esma Boyle might dally with a man from House Brisby, but she certainly wouldn’t leave court for him, let alone spend the rest of her life at his side – not willingly. And she’s got the lowest standards of them all: Waverly and Lydia wouldn’t give a Brisby the time of day. Esma might be Burrows’ lover, and she might not. It’s possible Brisby is simply lying in an attempt to get Corvo to kidnap her for him. The only thing Corvo is certain of is that Lord Brisby is thinking of no-one’s wishes or welfare but his own.

“Will you at least consider it?” Brisby asks. He evidently thinks Corvo is either stupid, or as much of a monster as he is. It’s a little sickening, frankly, but Corvo has no tongue to tell him to go fuck himself and he can’t very well grab the man by the throat in the middle of the Boyles’ parlor. He nods curtly.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you! I’ll be waiting in the cellar. Thank you!” Brisby grabs his hand and pumps it delightedly; Corvo doesn’t shake him off, although he passionately wants to. He extricates himself as quickly as he can and slips back out into the hall, rubbing his palm as though he can wipe Lord Brisby’s clammy touch from his skin. He still doesn’t know for sure whether or not Esma is the one he needs to eliminate. It’s time to do a little exploring.

Getting upstairs is even easier than getting inside was. The first room Corvo enters turns out to be Esma’s, and she’s left it all laid out for him: a letter, a journal, a key. It’s extraordinary how convenient it all is. She just left all this on her vanity? His estimation of Esma’s intelligence was never high, but it drops further the more he reads. Every employee in the household must know who she’s sleeping with by now. Corvo is shocked that the Loyalists weren’t able to find out. Either they’re worse-connected than Havelock claims, or the servants here live in terror of Burrows. (Probably both, actually.) Lydia and Waverly are both intelligent women, but they’ve handed Esma the family purse strings so she can dole out money to Burrows as she sees fit? It’s really remarkable. Perhaps he’s giving them too little credit; they may have sanctioned the whole affair. If that’s the case, then hopefully Esma’s death will be enough to sour them on the coup. If he can undermine their trust in Burrows, he’ll be able to cut the Regent’s funding – that’s what matters.

Corvo is not, in the general way of things, an assassin. He’s killed quite a few of them in Jessamine’s defense over the years, in fact. He dislikes killing without need, mostly because killing is something he relishes. Corvo had killed enough people in service to the Grand Guard by the time he left Serkonos that he’s no longer actually sure how many lives he’s taken. They were primarily gangsters and other violent criminals, people attacking him, his squad, or occasionally civilians, and if seeing them dead in the dirt with their blood on his sword left him fiercely satisfied, what did it matter? To kill someone to defend yourself, the people you’re sworn to, the people you love – no one can claim that’s dishonorable. Is it wrong to take pleasure in doing one’s duty if the duty is just? Surely not.

That’s how it was with Morgan and Custis, Corvo thinks, making his way back down to the party. That was revenge, plain and simple – dealing with the men who had taken and held his daughter for all those months. He’d killed no employees of the Golden Cat, and only two of the Pendletons’ guards, but the twins themselves he’d taken great pleasure in skewering. Nothing excessively painful or slow, just quick deaths at the end of his sword, which was arguably better than they deserved. Slackjaw’s offer had been briefly tempting, but he didn’t particularly trust the Hatter, and didn’t want to leave Emily’s political future in the hands of a gangster, so murder it had been. Men who kidnapped young girls and locked them up in brothels ended up dead. Corvo felt excellent about that.

It doesn’t take him long to find Esma: she stands out beautifully in white, wandering hopefully through the crowd, greeting guests, her eyes lingering on the men who bow to her. Corvo’s coat and trousers are clean and pressed, his boots shined, his brass buttons gleaming; Cecelia even polished his mask as best she could. (He’d tried to help, but she told him to fuck off, and he isn’t complaining: she’d done a far better job than he ever could.) This is his finest set of clothes, and the coat fits him well. He knows exactly what kind of a figure he cuts in it. Between that, Esma’s diary, and the way she always used to throw herself at him, he feels reasonably confident in his plan. Corvo grabs a flute of champagne, then moves to intercept Esma. She pauses at his approach and he bows gallantly over her hand.

“Oh, my,” she says breathlessly. Doing this in silence may be a bit of a challenge, but hopefully she’ll find it thrilling and mysterious; it’s not like she’s particularly picky, after all.

“Well, aren’t you dashing. What a clever costume!” She takes the drink from his proffered hand with a simper. Corvo inclines his head, accepting the compliment.

“Who is that under there?” she inquires, flirtatious and obviously drunk. Corvo presses a hand over his heart and bows a little: Your servant, my lady.

“A silent Felon, hmm?” Esma doesn’t seem put off in the least. Corvo straightens, then tilts his chin as he looks her over, making sure she can track the movement of his head as he runs his eyes up and down her body. She obviously notices, preening a little and putting her shoulders back. The jacket and trousers are closely-fitted, hugging her generous curves elegantly. The building may be overdecorated, but the Boyle sisters are not. Corvo wonders idly if it was Lydia or Waverly who selected their matching outfits.

Esma reaches up to fiddle with his lapel. Alcohol makes her even less subtle than usual, which isn’t saying much. Corvo has no interest in her at all – he never has. She just isn’t his type, when you get right down to it. The Boyle sisters had been at court back when Jessamine was just a girl and Corvo was young and exceedingly available, and he’d never had eyes for any of them. (The young Lord Chatterly, on the other hand… Void, if you want to talk about asses, well.) Esma leans closer and the déjà vu hits him in a painful wave with her in his space, touching his chest with eager fingers. Generally Jessie would have noticed and extricated him politely by now, or Corvo would have excused himself to go stand at his Empress’s elbow, as a Lord Protector should. His throat feels tight.

“I just hate the way she fawns over you,” Jessie complained, yanking the pins out of her hair with more force than necessary. Corvo shrugged out of his formal coat and tossed it on the back of the sofa.  Jessie set her hairpins aside and then held out her hands to him; Corvo started undoing her cuffs for her.  This was a new cut of formal jacket, and it was so fancy and buttoned-up that it was a damned nuisance for her to get in and out of it unaided. Really she ought to have had her lady’s maid in here undressing her, but Vanessa was a good sort, not inclined to gossip, and she’d known about Jessie and Corvo for years. He had yet to meet a servant who’d complain about a night off, in any case.

“She always does that,” he said.  He didn’t like it either, but he'd gotten used to it after awhile.

“I know! It’s infuriating!” Jessie groused.

“You’re not jealous of Esma, are you?” he asked. Of all the people Jessie might worry about, Esma Boyle was probably at the bottom of the list.

“No! Of course not.” They set to work on the front of her jacket. Corvo started at the bottom, Jessie at the top, and they met in the middle as they undid her buttons. “Don’t be ridiculous. But I know you don’t like it either, especially when she puts her hands all over you.” Corvo nodded at that.

“It’s like I’m being groped,” he grumbled.

“It is that you’re being groped! If a man touched her like that at court she’d slap him, but Strictures forbid you slap her. It’s not fair!” Jessie was irate.

“I don’t want to hit her,” Corvo protested.

“I know, my darling. It’s the principle of the thing.” Jessie turned around, letting him slip her jacket down off her shoulders. Corvo gathered her hair in one hand and bent to press a soft kiss to her neck. She sighed, melting against him. He threw her jacket onto the sofa beside his, then wrapped his arms around her. She was so much shorter than him, short enough that he really did have to bend down to kiss her. He bit her earlobe and she stood on tiptoe, pressing herself back against him.

“Mi amor,” he whispered in her ear. My love.

“Corvo…”

“Estrella de mi cielo.” Star of my sky. Jessie spoke Serkonan, and liked to practice with him when she could, but their opportunities for that were inevitably limited.

“Sobre Esma – ” Jessie began, (‘About Esma – ’) but he cut her off with a finger to her lips.

“No importa,” he told her. It doesn’t matter. Jessie tilted her head back and he kissed her slowly, blissfully, all the time in the world.

Corvo’s breath hitches in his chest; he swallows hard. If he cries now he’ll send Esma running for the hills, and he can’t have that – it’s good it’s her, it really is, it’ll be so much easier to get her alone than either of her sisters – but Jessie’s memory is a warm weight pressed against his chest, and Esma’s hand cuts right through it to grab a fistful of his jacket.

“I was going to dance with you, but maybe I’ll just take you upstairs now,” Esma murmurs, leaning close. She’s probably trying to be seductive; she’s got both her hands on his chest now. He’s shaken and near tears, but between the mask and the alcohol she seems to have interpreted his upset as unbridled lust. Corvo wants to push her away. He knows he can’t. He breathes out hard through his nose, letting her hear it, and bends his head down a little.

“Hmm,” Esma murmurs, pleased. “Come on.” She lets go of his lapels and grabs his hand in hers, towing him back through the crowd towards the stairs, waving the guard aside carelessly. Corvo follows her, fighting to control his breathing.

“You’ll never believe who I’m seeing,” Esma tells him as she tows him up the stairs. “It’s not that I have any real affection for him – it’s just to secure the family politically. But oh, it’s so scandalous! I just wish it wasn’t a secret, you have no idea.” Does he not? Ha. He wishes.

“In here,” Esma says. She’s brought him back to her room – Corvo was here not half an hour ago. He left everything exactly as he found it, not that Esma would be likely to notice if he’d disturbed her things a little. She shuts the door behind them, then steps towards the bed, putting her back to him, as though she’s hoping he’ll put an arm around her from behind and pull her close. Esma sighs happily, hugging herself a little.

Morgan and Custis were so, so different from this. Even the Coldridge guards were different. It’s not that he’s killing a woman, not really. Corvo’s killed plenty of women in his life, but most of them had knives to his throat or guns to his head. Esma Boyle is vapid, vain, and rather unintelligent. Her only crime is sleeping with the wrong man and giving him what he asked for. Stupid political machinations; it wouldn't matter to him in the slightest, except that she’s funding a coup, and likely – and this thought almost drives away his guilt entirely – also paid for the assassins that murdered Jessie in front of her daughter.

He hates Esma, he realizes. It’s a cool thing now, intellectual almost – maybe the anger will come later. She’s part of the conspiracy that murdered Jessie. She helped put him in Coldridge; she’s one of the people who took Emily from him. But she’s never laid an actual hand to his daughter, and she’s certainly not capable of offering him any real violence. Corvo is about to kill Esma Boyle in cold blood, and she won’t be able to fight back. Not only that, but she’s brought him up here, to the room where he’ll murder her, because she wants to fuck him, because she thinks he’s come up here to fuck her. It’s underhanded, cold, manipulative, duplicitous in a way Corvo’s never allowed himself to be. It’s a murder with good reason, maybe, but utterly without honor.

Was branding Campbell honorable? What about killing those prison guards from the shadows? No, it wasn’t. Corvo lost his honor the day Jessie died in his arms. He has nothing left now but Emily, and the truth is, he would give up his honor to protect his daughter a million times over. He would drag himself through the deepest pits of filth humanity had to offer if it meant keeping Emily safe. But tonight, all he has to do is kill a drunk woman in her own bedroom to prevent her from giving more money to the man who orchestrated Jessamine’s assassination. It’s not so difficult, when you get right down to it.

Corvo reaches for Esma. She turns quickly under his arm, pressing her whole body against his, soft and pliant. The roll of her hips doubtless finds him flaccid in his trousers, but she seems undeterred.

“I’m just dying to see who’s under here,” she murmurs, and reaches for his mask.

He reacts without thinking, shoving her away. Esma yelps. She’ll scream if he lets her, and that’ll be a real problem. Corvo’s hand lashes, striking her hard under the chin. Her mask cracks and she tumbles backwards, landing on the bed. Esma lies stunned, arms flung out on the bedspread, the bottom half of her mask broken off; her lips are vividly pink with rouge – she must have been planning to take her mask off tonight. Corvo’s sure she’s wearing a full face of makeup. He doesn’t want to waste time, doesn’t want blood on his clothes. He’d planned to grab her from behind and strangle her, then walk out of the party, but he can strangle her from above just as well. Corvo bounds up onto the bed and wraps his hands around her throat.

The best way to strangle someone like this is to straddle them, to pin their thighs down with your own legs and trap them beneath you, so he does. Esma’s arms are shorter than his by a fair bit; all he really has to do is straighten out his elbows and clamp down on her throat and wait. She can claw at his clothes all she likes, but even if he wasn’t masked, she’d never be able to reach his eyes. It’s a terrible image, an ugly pose – a man holding a woman prone like this, choking the life out of her inch by inch. It would be horrible if the roles were reversed, or if his victim were male; there’s no way to make this look good. There’s no honor in it, no glory, nothing redeemable.

“Please…” Esma’s lips shape the word, but she’s not really speaking, just making weak little gagging and clicking noises as Corvo crushes her trachea under the heels of his hands.

“Please, please!” Those delicate lips turn blue, then purple as he chokes her, and her struggles get weaker, although they’re no less frantic. No, this is nothing like the assassins he killed for Jessie, not even the one who’d shot him, a lithe, powerful woman he’d had to pin to the floor and wrestle for her knife at the end, the one who’d died spitting blood in his face as he twisted her own blade in her guts. This is nothing like Morgan and Custis. Even the Coldridge guards were better; at least they’d been armed.

It’s so loud inside him as he watches Esma Boyle die. The satisfaction of killing; the simple glee of taking his revenge; the knowledge that Jessie would never have wanted him to do this. The sounds she makes just before she loses consciousness. The rattle of her bedstead. Corvo doesn’t release her until he can no longer feel a pulse under his fingers. He sits back on his heels and looks down at the dead woman under him. Her throat is purple and scarlet, bruises rising in the shape of Corvo’s hands. Her lips are plum-colored, her white clothes rumpled. She’s lost a button. There’s not a drop of blood on either of them.

Was this really less awful than giving her to Brisby? Corvo isn’t sure. He’s no moral philosopher, not by a long shot. Mostly he relies on his oaths and his betters to tell him what’s right – of the two of them, Jessie was always the wiser by far. Esma might have escaped from Brisby, possibly many years from now, long after Burrows had been dealt with one way or another. She might have lived her life and never been a threat to Emily again. Or she might have escaped later this very night and run back to Burrows, and then who knows what might have happened? Is it better to condemn someone to indefinite imprisonment and rape with some slim chance at freedom, or to simply kill them outright? Does it matter when his daughter’s life hangs in the balance?

Corvo could sit here all night and ponder the ethics of shit he’s already fucking done. He choked a defenseless woman to death in her own bed for funding a coup against his beloved Empress. Maybe that makes him an evil man. It doesn’t matter. He searches Esma Boyle’s pockets, and walks out of her bedroom a hundred coins richer. No one stops him.

He pauses in the foyer. The guestbook sits out on a coffee table, rich and inviting. Esma is dead upstairs; he doesn’t dare linger. But he doesn’t want to slink out silently, either – whether he wants to claim his own guilt, or simply send Burrows a message is hard to say. Corvo doesn’t think about it. But he picks up the pen, and signs his fucking name.

Chapter Text

He should really have learned by now that nothing is ever that easy, Corvo thinks, running for his life. There’s no masque ball out here in the neighborhood – only a small army of the City Watch, all on high alert for people breaking curfew, and to a man they are hunting him. He practically slams into the fencing around the canal, scanning the dark water for the dinghy. Samuel isn’t there. Well. That’s not good.

“Here! I found him!”

“Don’t let him get away!”

Three Watchmen, no, four now – five – shit. A gun misfires; one of them curses. Corvo has nowhere to go but into the damn canal: they’re blocking all his exits. It’s a good thing he hasn’t had to use his magic much tonight. Corvo wraps his Marked hand around the threads of the world and pulls, and everything goes still and gray around him. The guards aren’t really frozen, but they’ll move slowly for a little while – long enough for him to disappear, he hopes. He has no real way of knowing where Samuel’s gone, but with any luck the boatman was simply run off by the guards and has headed back the way they came. If Samuel is stuck further in, up past the lock, they’re fucked. If he’s lost the boat, they’re fucked. If he’s dead… Corvo sprints past the almost-frozen guards, back down towards the river. The men in his path unquestionably see him: their eyes widen and they start back ever so slightly as he darts by. Hopefully it won’t matter.

By the time the world starts moving again, Corvo’s spotted his boatman. The Watchmen are yelling to each other, calling out a search pattern. He’s not sure how many of them are within earshot. He doesn’t have much time. With the last of his magic, Corvo Blinks straight down onto the dinghy. Samuel startles violently when Corvo materializes in front of him, and Corvo holds up a hand –

“There!”

“Fire!”

He feels the impacts first. A massive punch to his shoulder, another to his thigh; Corvo goes down hard against the gunwale. He processes the sound of gunfire as his other shoulder slams into one of the seats; then the pain begins. A bullet whizzes over his head.

“Go!” he tries to tell Samuel, and is briefly surprised by the animal grunt that leaves his lips instead. Fortunately, the boatman seems to get the idea. Samuel yanks the ripcord and guns the motor, keeping his head down as he sends the boat shooting off down the canal, probably much faster than is safe. Corvo clamps his hands down over his wounds, hissing a little at the pain. The shouting and gunshots recede into the night as Samuel makes for the Wrenhaven.

Samuel slows the boat once they’re well out onto the water. Corvo is sprawled uncomfortably in the bottom of the dinghy, his head propped against what should have been his seat. He keeps pressure on his injuries as best he can. The motor hacks and grumbles, unhappy about being pushed so hard. The stars are out; the moon is nearly full. The blood soaking through his trousers is gilded silver in its light.

“You still with me, Corvo?” Samuel asks.

“Mm,” Corvo says, nodding slightly.

“Did you do what needed doing?”

“Mm.”

“Sorry. S’pose I should let you be,” Samuel says. Corvo would shrug, but it seems like too much effort. He’s starting to feel a bit lightheaded. Somebody is going to have to clean a lot of blood out of the bottom of this boat later – probably Samuel or Cecelia. Corvo makes a mental note to feel bad about that in the morning, when everything doesn’t hurt so fucking much. Once they get back to the pub he’ll have help, he can get his mask off and drink an Elixir or two, but right now he’s shaky and his hands are slick with his own blood and he just wants to lie down right here for a little while longer. They’ll be back soon. It won’t be long. It won’t be long…

Callista wakes to a loud clatter. She sits up, confused. It’s still dark. What on earth? She looks around. Lady Emily’s bed is empty. Something clatters again – it’s footsteps on the walkway, she realizes. A child is running back towards the pub. Drat! Not again. The princess had been doing so well the last few days, sleeping through the night in her own bed. Callista had been cautiously optimistic, but now Lady Emily is off again. Callista rises hastily, shoving her feet into her shoes and pulling on her robe, then hurries out across the walkway after her charge.

“Lady Emily?” she calls, clambering awkwardly down through the window into Corvo’s attic.

“Callista! Corvo’s back!” It sounds like Emily is already in the stairwell.

“My lady, wait!” Callista says, but the only reply she gets is the rattle of Emily’s feet on the stairs. Drat! Callista follows. She ought to be faster than the princess, being much older and longer of leg, but the child is both quick and evidently very excited to see her bodyguard.

Callista has been trying and failing not to worry about that. It’s not that she suspects anything nefarious of Corvo, of course, but it’s terribly inappropriate for the princess to be climbing into bed with him at night. Even if they were related, the princess is old enough now for it to be gossip-worthy; Corvo and Lady Emily not being kin puts it firmly beyond the pale.

Propriety aside, Corvo needs his sleep as much as the rest of them, probably more so. (Callista suppresses a shudder at the memory of those awful scars. He needs time to heal, and he’s not going to get it here, especially not with Lady Emily waking him at all hours.) He’s her bodyguard, not her governess – that’s Callista’s job. She doesn’t want the princess bothering him or keeping him up at night. But she seems to be up against an immovable object here. Lady Emily is a well-mannered child, although her language is often more colorful than Callista would like; she says please and thank you, she mostly does what she’s told, and completes her schoolwork with a normal amount of complaining, but she simply refuses to stop pestering Corvo. The princess clearly loves him a great deal, and it’s not especially surprising – he’s the only familiar person here, and she’s known him all her life. As her mother’s bodyguard, he must have spent a great deal of time with her, and perhaps become something of a surrogate uncle, almost.

It’s not even that he seems to mind when Emily comes to him at night – he’s never complained to Callista about it, and he certainly delights in playing with her Ladyship. Corvo is a reticent man by nature, Callista thinks, polite enough but hardly demonstrative; he doesn’t smile much unless he’s with Lady Emily. To her he gives his smiles freely, gladly – the princess is the only person she’s ever seen make him laugh. It’s obvious he cares about her. But it’s still not appropriate, not really. Surely there should be some distance between an Empress and her Royal Protector, no matter how long they’ve known each other. So Callista chases after the princess, hoping to catch her and coax her back to bed as quickly as she can. The common room is empty, so Callista hurries out into the yard. Light spills out the open door of Piero’s workshop, and Lady Emily is a silhouette in the doorway, standing stock still and looking very small.

“My lady?” Callista says, and then she freezes too.

She hasn’t seen this much blood since Samuel first brought Corvo to them. Corvo is leaning heavily on the boatman, stripped down to his shirt and underthings; his right leg is streaked scarlet with fresh blood, which is dripping sluggishly onto the floor from a wound in his thigh. Anton Sokolov is out of his cage for the moment, it seems – he’s standing in front of Corvo, unbuttoning his shirt; as Callista watches, the Royal Physician steps back, pulling the collar of the shirt aside to reveal another wound in Corvo’s shoulder. The Lord protector’s sleeve and shirtfront are stained red. Havelock is standing by the table, his arms crossed; he must have been waiting up for Corvo to return. Pendleton is nowhere to be seen; Piero is in the corner, watching Sokolov sulkily. None of the men have noticed Emily or Callista yet.

Corvo’s thighs are striped with scars. Callista can see the big wound he arrived with, healed now to a massive, pink weal nearly as wide as her hand. Sokolov is cleaning the wound on Corvo’s shoulder, wiping blood away to reveal the old burn marks on his chest where the shirt is pulled aside. The thick, ridged scars of a heavy whipping clasp at his trapezius like withered fingers.

“This is just a flesh wound,” the Royal Physician pronounces. “I’ll wrap them both. Here, drink this.” He hands Corvo an Elixir and Corvo takes it gingerly, then drinks it down with a wince while Sokolov gathers up a roll of bandaging from the worktable. Looking around for a place to put the empty vial, Corvo spots Emily and Callista in the doorway. His eyes widen; his brows get tight. He’s upset, concerned; he doesn’t want them here now, doesn’t want Lady Emily to see this. Emily stands stock still in front of Callista, both hands clasped over her mouth, eyes huge.

“Your ladyship,” Callista says softly. Havelock, Samuel, Piero, and Sokolov all look up at the sound of her voice. Samuel’s expression is goes from surprise to horror when he sees Emily; Havelock frowns; Piero blinks; Sokolov doesn’t react at all, but kneels with a grimace and starts bandaging Corvo’s thigh. Corvo’s face is tense with worry. It occurs to Callista that this is probably the most of his skin – and scars – that Lady Emily has ever seen. It’s inappropriate for the princess to see Corvo in such a state of undress; it’s inappropriate for the men to see either Callista or Lady Emily in their pajamas; this is all so far beyond the bounds of propriety that Callista isn’t quite sure what to do.

“What happened?” the princess cries.

“Lady Emily, you shouldn’t be here,” Havelock says, but Emily is dashing across the room before he’s even finished speaking. She grabs a handful of Corvo’s shirt, obviously wanting to hug him, but not sure if she should.

“Corvo, are you okay?” Emily says. Her voice is small and scared. Corvo nods firmly.

“My lady, we should let him be for now,” Callista says.

“No! I’m not leaving!” The princess clutches at Corvo’s shirt, glaring mulishly over her shoulder at Callista. Corvo looks upset – with one arm injured and the other wrapped around Samuel for support, he can’t sign to Emily, Callista realizes. He bites the inside of his lip. She could try to drag Lady Emily away, but she suspects she’d have to physically fight the princess, and she doesn’t want to. Her ladyship has been manhandled enough for one lifetime, Callista thinks. Besides, it would probably damage their relationship beyond repair, and she doubts Corvo wants to see his charge hauled out of the workshop kicking and screaming for him in any case.

“I’ll get you a chair, Lord Corvo,” Callista says. Corvo’s eyes go deep with gratitude.

“Here, allow me,” Piero says hastily, and brings Corvo a chair himself before Callista can get to it. She suppresses a surge of annoyance that he didn’t do it on his own earlier. Wretched man.

“Wait,” Sokolov snaps. He’s pinning up the bandage on Corvo’s thigh. “And… there.” Sokolov rises with a grunt – he’s really too old to be kneeling on the floor like that, Callista thinks. Samuel sits Corvo down gingerly in the chair Piero brought, and Corvo sighs with relief once he’s off his feet. He hugs Emily one-armed, and she buries her face in his shoulder and cries without making a sound. Sokolov grumbles a little, but he starts wrapping Corvo’s shoulder.

It takes Callista and Samuel’s combined efforts to get Corvo up to his attic bedroom. Thankfully, Callista manages to convince Lady Emily to wait with her in the hall while Samuel helps Corvo clean the rest of the blood off and get into his pajamas, but it’s a near thing, and Corvo has to weigh in before the princess will agree. Emily frets and fidgets until Samuel opens the door to them with a nod, and then she flies to Corvo, grabbing his hands tight. Callista waits until she can no longer hear Samuel’s slow tread on the stairs before she even tries to send the princess back to bed.

“Aren’t you tired, Lady Emily?” she says quietly.

“I’m not leaving,” Emily snaps. Callista has never heard her ladyship this upset – she’s a little taken aback.

“Lord Corvo needs to rest,” Callista says.

“Then I’ll rest with him!”

“My lady, he’s hurt. He needs to get better. We should let him sleep,” Callista says. Emily scowls. Corvo extricates his hands carefully from hers, then signs lopsidedly, keeping the elbow of his injured arm propped on his knee for support.

«It’s alright,» he says.

“Her ladyship should sleep in her own bed,” Callista says firmly.

«I don’t mind.»

“It’s not appropriate for her to sleep here, Lord Corvo.” Emily whips around at that, shocked and furious. Corvo lifts his hands, then lowers them again, groping for the right words. His black eyes are pleading, Emily’s fierce, and suddenly, Callista sees.

It’s just that his skin is so much darker than Emily’s, she thinks, reeling a little. Corvo is obviously Serkonan, and Emily is as fair as Empress Jessamine was; she’s got the Empress’s round face and small mouth, but – how could she not have noticed sooner? It’s so easy to see now that she’s looking for it. Those black eyes, the shape of the chin – Emily’s is hidden under her baby fat, but it’s there. The sharp line of their eyebrows; Corvo’s are much thicker, but the shape is the same. The resemblance between them is patently obvious now. He’s her father. He’s her father! How did she not realize?

Lady Emily is eyeing Callista doubtfully, but in Corvo’s face Callista sees recognition. I know that you know. Don’t tell anyone, his eyes say. Callista nods. She can’t even imagine what her expression must look like. Everything is falling so neatly into place: the way Emily refuses to stop spending time with him, the way she crawls in with him on bad nights, how often they play together, how much they obviously love each other – her unwillingness to let him out of her sight tonight after watching her mother bleed to death earlier this year. Corvo is Emily’s father and Emily knows – Emily has always known. And they keep it a secret because he’s not a noble, for all he has a title; he’s a common-born Serkonan, and the Lord Protector besides, and he is absolutely not supposed to be his Empress’s lover. If Emily’s paternity were known it would weaken her politically – Callista’s no politico of the Imperial court, but even she knows that much. Far better to be an illegitimate princess than publicly acknowledged as half-commoner.

“I…” Callista says, then stops, not even sure what she wanted to say. She is utterly at a loss.

«It’s alright,» Corvo says again.

“Of course, Lord Corvo,” Callista says. “I – I’m going to bed. Sleep well.”

«Thank you,» says Corvo.

«Goodnight,» Callista signs, then turns and clambers back out the window, more awkward than she’s ever felt in her life. Corvo and Emily are silent behind her, but she’s sure they’re signing to each other.

Corvo is up and walking on his own sooner than is probably a good idea, but it’s Corvo, so it’s not like Cecelia can really stop him. She’s been bringing him and Emily breakfast in the attic for three days now, but it’s the fourth morning since Corvo got back from wherever he was when he got shot, and he’s down in the common room with Emily and Callista, waving to her.

«Wait,» she says, and ducks back into the kitchen. She made eggs and beans and toast for breakfast today – there’s nothing nicer than putting a crock of beans in to bake the night before and waking up to them soft and sweet and ready – and she gathers up plenty of everything and brings it over to the three of them.

«Sit,» Corvo tells her. He taps the empty spot on the bench beside him. Callista pours her a cup of tea and Cecelia sits. It’s been so long since she had anything like friends that she’s not really sure what to do about it, but it’s been weeks now. She ought to be used to it, shouldn’t she?

Cecelia had gravitated to Corvo from the start, partly because he was so hurt and needed someone to look after him, partly because he never tried to make her talk, and partly because people always talked at him and over him instead of to him. (Cecelia knows how that feels, and she hates it just as much as he does.) But then he’d brought Emily back, and then Emily had asked her to teach them all to sign, and now there were three other people who she she didn’t dread chatting with.

(«Why do you h-a-t-e t-o t-a-l-k?» Callista had asked her once, laboriously.

«H-a-t-e, hate,» Cecelia had said. «T-a-l-k, talk.»

Callista had repeated the signs back to her, then asked again, «Why?»

«I don’t know,» Cecelia had said. «I just do.»)

This is what it’s like to have friends, isn’t it? To sit with them and eat breakfast, to accept their compliments on her cooking, to shove her shoulder affectionately against Corvo’s when he thanks her for the food? He always says ‘thank you’ now that he knows how, even though it’s her job to cook for everyone, and it always leaves Cecelia warmly pleased. He never tries to catch her eye, just lets her smile at his hands as he signs to her. Cecelia bounces her leg and wolfs down an extra helping of beans, which are her favorite. One of the best things about this job is that there’s plenty of food and she gets to cook it, which means she can make whatever she likes and then eat as much of it as she wants.

«How is your leg, Corvo?» Callista asks.

«Alright. Better than yesterday,» Corvo says.

«Good!» Callista beams at him.

«What are we studying today?» Emily asks.

«History and mathematics,» says Callista.

«No!» Emily wails.

«Yes,» Corvo tells her with a firm little smile.

«Corvo!»

«Emily.» He’s still smiling. Callista had come to Cecelia distraught the other day and told her that Emily was Corvo’s daughter, as though that was some huge revelation. Cecelia had been a little perplexed. She can’t tell from looking whether they’re blood related, but Corvo has always so clearly been Emily’s dad. It’s in the way she holds his hand, trust in every line of her little body; it’s in the way he smiles at her. He helped raise her, and he loves her like a daughter – Cecelia knew it the first time she saw them together, Corvo walking Emily across the yard, his shoulders building a safe little one-man wall around her as she clung to him. He might as well paint a sign and carry it above his head.

«These b-e-a-n-s are really good, Cecelia,» Emily says.

«Beans,» Cecelia replies.

«Beans?» Emily points at her breakfast inquiringly; Cecelia nods. «Beans. These beans are really good!»

«Beans,» Corvo and Callista say in unison, learning the new sign.

«Beans, beans, beans,» Corvo repeats to himself.

«Thank you! I like them too,» Cecelia says.

«Lord Pendleton doesn’t,» Emily says sardonically.

«Pendleton doesn’t like anything,» says Corvo.

«Just because he has shitty taste doesn’t mean I don’t make good beans,» Cecelia says.

«You make very good beans,» says Callista, stifling a giggle.

«Thank you,» Cecelia says primly.

«‘Shitty’?» Emily asks – she doesn’t know the sign, and she wants Cecelia to define it for her. Oh, kids aren’t supposed to swear, are they? Fuck! Damn it. Cecelia glances at Corvo, and catches the corner of his crooked smile.

«Was that a bad word?» he asks.

«Yes,» Cecelia says.

«It was?!» Emily is delighted.

«She already knows it. Just tell her,» Corvo says.

«Okay. Hey. Shitty – s-h-i-t-t-y,» Cecelia says. Emily’s eyes widen.

«Oh! I thought it was s-h-i-t-y,» says Emily.

«No. Two Ts,» Corvo says.

«Shitty. Shitty,» Emily says. Callista puts her head in her hands. Corvo huffs a laugh. Callista peers at him between her fingers, exasperated.

«What?» he says.

«How am I s-u-p-p-o-s-e-d to teach her a-n-y thing when you two just – ?» Callista waves her hands in the air.

«She already knows how to swear,» Corvo protests, amused.

«I learned a lot at The Golden Cat,» Emily says proudly. Callista puts her head back in her hands with a groan.

“What’s going on over here?” Havelock asks genially, propping an elbow on the back of the bench just beside Callista. Emily’s face falls, Callista’s goes still, and Corvo tucks his elbows in a little, deliberately controlling his body language. The Admiral’s presence falls on the table like a rotten egg, all four of them flinching back from the smell: damn it.

“We’re just eating breakfast, Admiral,” Callista says politely.

“All of you wiggling your fingers at each other in your secret language. How do I know you’re not conspiring against me?” His tone is joking, but the words aren’t. Callista looks uncomfortably at her plate.

“We were talking about my schoolwork, and Corvo’s recovery, and the food, Adm. Havelock,” Emily says. “Would you care to join us?” She’s so polite that it’s heavy, pressing down on the Admiral. Cecelia wonders where Emily learned how to do that.

“Oh – no, your ladyship. I was just making conversation,” Havelock says hastily. Emily smiles up at him.

“Good morning, Admiral,” she says.

“Good morning, your Highness,” says Havelock, and bows a little. For a moment Cecelia thinks he’ll try to linger, even though she’s pretty sure Emily is shoving him away with all her might, but after a moment he crumbles and flees with a jovial “Enjoy your breakfast!” cast over his shoulder like a parting shot. Emily waits until he’s out the door before sighing hard through her nose.

«Well done!» Corvo tells her.

«Mommy taught me that,» Emily says.

«You did a great job,» says Corvo.

«Really?» Emily asks.

«Mommy would be proud of you,» he tells her. Emily’s eyes go big and her mouth goes soft. The air is weighed down between her and Corvo, not good for a friendly breakfast.

«Hey, Callista,» Cecelia says, and Callista looks up at her. «S-u-p-p-o-s-e-d, supposed.» Callista’s hands open in surprise, then come together.

«‘Supposed’? You remembered?»

«A-n-y-t-h-i-n-g, anything,» Cecelia says.

«Anything,» Callista repeats.

«Since we’re learning words, should I teach Emily to say ‘fuck’?» Cecelia asks. Corvo snorts.

«What?» says Callista.

«I know that one already!» Emily says gleefully. The air gets light as Corvo dissolves into laughter, and Callista buries her head in her hands again.

Chapter Text

It should hurt to be back here, but it doesn’t – mostly it’s just surreal. The Tower has been trapped in amber deep in Corvo’s heart, frozen dead and golden on the day of Jessie’s death. But here he is again, and it’s not sunny, there are no soft spring clouds high in the brilliant sky, Emily’s not running to meet him at the water lock, no one is waiting for him in the pavilion. Burrows has installed several Walls of Light around the grounds and they hum and mutter. The tallboys clank around and around the courtyard where Corvo once played hide-and-seek with his daughter. The guards call to each other. Corvo skulks through this shadowy perversion of his memories and only half-believes it to be real.

Burrows seems to be throwing the book at a problem he doesn’t know how to solve – so many guards, so many security devices, but still there are holes for Corvo to slip through. Sightlines left unwatched, too few men around the water lock. Gappy patrols. Corvo powers down the first Wall of Light, then Blinks his way across the buttresses, bypassing the guards entirely. It’s not until he’s hiding in some bushes in the courtyard that he realizes he’s making mental notes for new security measures to discuss with Jessamine later. He almost laughs at himself. The Heart sits in his pocket, heavy as a stone.

There may be new security devices and more guards than usual, but Dunwall Tower has been Corvo’s home for twenty years. He knows the grounds like the back of his hand, thanks to all those patrols and games with Emily, and he slips through now like a ghost. His process is cautious but steady until he finds the note. He’s in a little nook in the new guardhouse Burrows evidently saw fit to erect – an ugly thing that blocks off a whole side of the lower courtyard from view, which seems like a significant tactical error to Corvo – looking around, waiting for a patrolling guard to pass him by, and there it is on a table, granted to him like another of the Outsider’s gifts.

Captain Briarmont,

I must ask you to speak with one of your men. Corporal Keyes reports to you, I believe. According to the morning duty officer, Keyes has been making his way to the basement, meeting with the Royal Interrogator. I have no idea what they discuss, but it's been reported that Keyes has an interest in the occult. Either way, I'm not an Overseer, so I don't give a fig for how he spends his time when he's not on duty. But keep him away from the torturer. The basement is off-limits to our men.

– Major Hocking

The paper is smooth and cool against Corvo’s fingertips. He can hear the faint splash of the fountains. A tallboy clunks past him, just outside the guardhouse. The footsteps of the guard he hid from are receding down the hall. The Heart beats her steady rhythm in his pocket: He’s here. He’s here. He’s here.

It’s ten paces to the exit, keeping low, then a single Blink across the pool outside the main doors, up onto the cornices that trim the top of the first story. Corvo had hoped to get in through a window; the nearest one is locked, and he moves to try another, then stops – one of the vents is wide open. Careless maintenance worker? Broken latch? Well, he’ll be better off pondering improvements to Tower security after he’s infiltrated the place.

Corvo slips inside. It’s a tight fit, crawling through the ducts, and he does everything in his power not to make a sound. He feels strangely safe in here, well-hidden, and the air is warm inside. Part of him wants to curl up in this cozy little nest like one of the rats that now come at his call, wrap himself comfortably in his coat and hide and not come out again. Jessie thumps against his thigh – he’s here, he’s here. Corvo has to force himself to keep moving.

He’s never seen the atrium from this angle. The Wall of Light is new; so are Burrows’ communication devices. The Lord Regent has apparently converted the eastern spire into the broadcasting center for his new street speaker system – Corvo had wondered where that was based. He could head up there now and have a look. He could cut across the balconies into Jessamine’s chambers, where he’s certain Burrows has set himself up in style. He doesn’t. He waits for the guards to disperse, and then Blinks across the atrium and slips through one of the servants’ doors, down towards the kitchens, and further down again, towards the cellar.

Corvo hears the Torturer long before he sees him – the sound of a blow, the rattle of a chain, the dying scream of some hapless victim. Morry needed a new toy, a guard whispers in his head. The light down here is blue. Corvo can’t tell if the heart hammering in his ears is Jessie’s, or his own. He’s-here-he’s-here-he’s-here-he’s-here-he’s – there.

The Torturer’s left off his hood tonight. He’s in his shirtsleeves and a leather smith’s apron, beating a half-flayed, hanging corpse. Every blow of his flail sends a wet slap of blood and viscera splattering across the floor. Corvo smells smoke, charred meat, blood, and vomit. The stench weighs him down like a lead blanket. The Torturer whips the body almost meditatively, his face impassive, a branding iron hanging loosely from his other hand, still red-hot. The light from the scorching metal gleams back up at him wetly from the floor. The chain creaks as the body swings. The hot coals mutter faintly in their brazier. Corvo is amazed he can even hear it over the pounding of his hearts.

It was never like this back in Coldridge. Not the sights or sounds or smells – those were almost exactly the same – but Corvo was never this afraid before. Angry, tired, sometimes sick with dread, but he didn’t feel terror like this: paralyzing, incapacitating fear that makes his hands shake and his knees go weak, that screams at him to run, run before they put you back in the chair – there’s no chair here – run before Burrows and Campbell come – Campbell’s gone – run before he hangs you from that hook and whips the skin off your ribs again – run before they throw you back in your cell! Are you ready to sign your confession, Corvo? This can all stop if you just RUN!

It’s like the Wrenhaven that day he escaped – the day he almost drowned. It snatches at him, grasping, clutching, cold. Fear has iron fingers too. But there’s another way this can all stop, he thinks. It can all stop if he fucking makes it stop. His hands shake with adrenaline now, not just panic. Corvo rises from his jellied knees and draws his sword. The Torturer sees him as soon as he moves. Corvo takes a slow step forward. He wonders if his adversary realizes who he’s facing. He wonders if the Torturer would care. He wonders if he’s going to live long enough to find out.

Most men would charge with a roar. The Torturer charges silently, as mute as he made Corvo. He wields the hot iron like a club, bringing it down hard in one massive fist, the flail in his other hand twitched back and ready. Sparks fly as Corvo blocks the downswing with his blade. What his mind has forgotten in its panic, his body remembers: how to dodge, how to parry. How to use a gun.

Corvo disengages quickly and ducks to the side, trying to put some distance between himself and the Torturer, wary of being forced to the ground by his opponent’s superior strength. Corvo is by no means a small man, but the Torturer has height, weight, and reach on him by a substantial margin. He remembers the power of those huge hands well. But the other man comes at him like a rolling boulder, gigantic and inexorable, and when Corvo draws his pistol the Torturer lashes out with the flail, trying to get him to drop it. Corvo leaps back, but not before the flail gouges three long cuts into the backs of his fingers. He has to end this fast.

Corvo shoots the Torturer in the belly. He doesn’t even falter, just keeps coming. It’s impossible to tell whether or not he’s bleeding in the low light – his apron is already streaked with gore. Corvo reloads and shoots him again in the shoulder, and he staggers ever so slightly and then comes on again, raising the iron for a massive backhanded swing. Corvo chambers a third bullet and aims for a kneecap; the blow from the Torturer’s brand sends him sprawling as he fires. His shoulder slams into the flagstones, painfully jarring the gunshot wound, which is only mostly healed. The Torturer rises over him like a black wave, and Corvo gets his sword up only just in time.

The iron drags harshly against his blade. The tip of it is nearly touching his throat; Corvo can feel the heat of the brand on his skin, even through his clothes. The Torturer has him on the floor, on his back, all his weight pressing down – this is exactly what Corvo was trying to avoid. Fear swamps him; his arm shakes with the strain as he keeps the hot iron back. The Torturer grins, and raises a foot to stomp down on Corvo’s groin.

Corvo shoots him in the knee at point-blank range. He doesn’t even realize he’s done it until the Torturer’s leg collapses under him. The bigger man drops with a wet little gasp – of surprise or pain, Corvo isn’t sure. It doesn’t matter. The branding iron lands on Corvo’s chest: the Torturer has let go of his weapon to catch himself as he falls. The fear is still whipping around him in a confused and shrieking flock, but Corvo doesn’t need to think for this. All he has to do is move. One: he slams the butt of his pistol into the Torturer’s temple. Two: the bigger man reels and Corvo rolls away. Three: he flips to his feet and changes his grip on his sword, holstering his pistol and taking the hilt in both hands. Four: a single sweep of the blade.

The Torturer’s severed head hits the floor at Corvo’s feet with a meaty thud. Corvo stands and watches the body fall, his sword raised and ready, nerves humming with tension as he waits for the next blow. None comes. It takes him a long moment to realize what he’s done, who he’s killed. At first, it seems incomprehensible: the Torturer is dead.

He had a name, of course. A title. Corvo had known them from the start. But down there in the dark, the damp of Coldridge – that sharp gravel-bottomed stream of pain he’d walked for six months’ time barefoot and bleeding – it hadn’t mattered. There was no Morris Sullivan, Royal Interrogator there, only the thing that hurt him, hooded, horribly strong, and silent – the Torturer, unnaming, therefore nameless.

Was it easier to forget a name that had passed Jessamine’s lips than it was to try to remember the day she bestowed the title? There’s no public ceremony to inaugurate a new Royal Interrogator, but some relevant document had undoubtedly crossed her desk. How long ago had she given her signature to endorse the appointment of the man who’d tortured Corvo for so many months? Burrows didn’t choose Sullivan – he came with the rest of the government, packaged up and awaiting orders. His little hidey-hole in the Tower was new, but the job wasn’t. Had Jessamine appointed him? Had she inherited him from Euhorn? Did it really matter?

Corvo lowers his sword slowly. The body on the floor in front of him does not move. He kicks the head away; it fetches up against the dead man’s side, wobbles once, and then lies still. The Torturer is dead. Corvo takes a long, shuddering breath. There’s a feeling pouring down over him, and it takes him a moment to identify it as relief. This will be a victory later, he thinks. He might even celebrate it. But right now he is wearily, numbly grateful to have killed one of the men who haunt his nightmares. The Torturer is dead. He’ll never hurt Corvo again.

So why is his heart still pounding? Corvo touches his chest, then his pocket – oh. It’s not him, it’s Jessie. He looks around, confused – what’s upset her? – and then he sees it. Blue light. A shrine to the Outsider, right there in the corner, plain as day. Jessie shudders under his careful fingers. Corvo picks his way around the dead man at his feet, studiously ignoring the corpse hanging in the cage, and makes his way over to the ugly little altar.

The Torturer would have a shrine to Him, Corvo supposes. It makes perfect sense. One miserable bastard worshiping another. He runs across these shrines from time to time all across the city, and he’d avoid them if it weren’t for the runes. Listening to the Outsider’s fucking speeches is a small price to pay for more power. But every shrine he visits, every word the Leviathan speaks to him, just makes him hate the Void God more. Corvo knows who cut Jessie’s heart from her chest. Corvo knows why she whispers to him so sadly. Corvo knows exactly who wrote the letter he still reads far too often in his nightmares. YOU CANNOT SAVE HER. The Outsider is just as much of a monster as the Abbey says He is, and agreeing with the Abbey gets on Corvo’s fucking nerves. He wishes he still had his tongue: then he could spit on the floor. But still he reaches out and takes hold of the rune, and feels the Void take hold of him in turn.

“Here you are, Corvo, within the high walls of your enemy’s stronghold. What an impressive sight you make…” The Outsider smirks. Well, He never really smiles, but there’s a grating smugness to His voice. “How will you end his reign, by blood or by truth? He's not an easy man to get close to. If the Empress had been as well guarded – how different things would be now.” Corvo wishes passionately that he could reach out and strangle the black-eyed boy where He stands. “Is it just revenge you're after, or do you have another plan in your mind? Will you restore things, make it all right again, and crown a new Empress? Or will you send them all howling into the Void? Either way, I expect a good show.”

And then the darkness releases him. A good show. That’s all this is to the Outsider – everything Corvo’s been through, just a bit of entertainment for his pleasure. Emily losing her mother, those long months in Coldridge, the people Corvo’s killed: a good fucking show. Corvo breathes hard, clenching his fists at his sides to stop himself from destroying the shrine with them. The rune’s magic seeps into his bones. It occurs to him that the Outsider is deliberately antagonizing him, probably for fun. He doesn’t want to give Him the satisfaction.

What had the capricious bastard said? “By blood or by truth.” Corvo regrets not killing Campbell sometimes, but if he could prove that Burrows was the one who had Jessamine assassinated, overthrow the Regent and clear his own name in one fell swoop – well, wouldn’t that be something. It would be good for Corvo, good for Emily, and bad for Burrows: three things of which Corvo heartily approves. And to see Burrows tried for what he’s done, to see him fucking swing for it… He glances at the heap of dead man by the door, and smiles just a little. Yes. That would be good, too.

The truth is much, much worse than he expected. Corvo had been so sure he’d had Burrows pegged – just another unimaginative, overambitious little leech grubbing for power around the Empress’ skirts; the Imperial court is absolutely crawling with them, each one convinced he could be the Outsider’s own rival if only he could get within spitting distance of the throne. He’d been prepared to hear Burrows gloating about the assassination, or lying about Jessamine, but this… The Rat Plague itself was Hiram Burrows’ doing? If someone had told him as much twenty minutes ago, he’d have scoffed. But there it was on the Regent’s audiograph, and Corvo had learned it along with the rest of the city as it went out over the wires. It’s unbelievable. It’s insane! And it’s done away with the Lord Regent for good. Trust Burrows to commit such a thing to an audiograph and then leave it lying around in a safe for someone to steal. Void beyond, it’s incredible. It’s… it’s almost funny.

Corvo tucks the audiograph into a waterproof pouch along with Daud’s letter, then seals the pouch and stows it in one of the pockets of his coat. He’d been right about the identity of the assassin, then: the Knife of Dunwall himself. Who else would one hire to murder an Empress, after all? Daud must be well away from Dunwall by now; if he’s still in Gristol, Corvo will eat his mask. That’ll keep: Daud can be hunted down later. What’s more important right now is that the letter directly implicates Burrows – by name, no less. Now all he has to do is make it out of the Tower with the evidence intact. Corvo isn’t worried. Getting in was the hard part. He already has a plan.

Slipping back outside is easy: he goes over the balcony and back through the vent, the same way he came in. Outside it’s one Blink across the courtyard while the guards aren’t looking; Corvo takes the whale oil canister out of the generator that powers the Wall of Light, tugs hard with his Mark on the threads of the world around him, and when everything goes still and gray, he runs. Straight down the steps, weaving between the men coming up to see what that broadcast was about, leaping clear over a flowerbed, past the tallboys, down towards the waterlock. Corvo’s wanted to do this ever since Burrows convinced Jessamine to have it installed, and now’s his chance. He bounds up onto the railing, and as the water goes from gray to blue below him, Corvo leaps, kicking his feet up in a graceful dive. Behind him, the guards are shouting to each other. Corvo grins as he plunges into the deep, still pool inside the lock.

Piero did a good job with the mask. The fabric lining is waterproof but still possible to breathe through, which Corvo has never seen before – it’s impressive. The waterproof pouch that safeguards the audiograph card and Daud’s letter is made of the same material. Corvo is soaked to the skin the moment he hits the water, but he’ll be able to breathe when he gets out and the lenses let him see better underwater than he could in the normal way of things by opening his eyes, and to top it all off, the evidence remains intact. He swims for the gates of the lock with swift, powerful strokes, and doesn’t surface until he’s beside Samuel’s dinghy, where he bursts up out of the water with a gasp.

“Hey there, Corvo,” Samuel says, leaning back and offering an arm. Together, they haul Corvo up into the boat.

“Get that coat off,” Samuel says. “Here.” He digs under his seat, then sets a thick, wool blanket where Corvo can reach it. The boatman starts the motor and takes the dinghy out as Corvo shucks off the mask and some of his wet things and wraps himself in the blanket. It’s not too cold out tonight, but it doesn’t do to take chances. He empties his boots over the gunwale and Samuel heads for the Hound Pits.

“I can’t believe it. The whole plague – from Pandyssian rats? The Lord Regent did it all himself?” Samuel sounds as shocked as Corvo was. “I won’t ask if you did what you set out to do – I heard it over the speakers, same as the rest of the city. By gum! I never would’ve thought. The Rat Plague… Outsider’s eyes.” The sun is only just starting to come up over the river, the deep, radiant pre-dawn blue of night giving way to pink as the stars wink out one by one. A little kiss of gold creeps down the water from the east. Corvo huddles in his blanket and watches the sunrise.

“Did they arrest him, then?” Samuel asks at length. Corvo nods. Wind from the boat’s passage runs chilly fingers through his wet hair.

“Good,” Samuel says with grim conviction. Corvo nods again, firmly.

“Big changes comin’ now, eh?” the boatman asks. Corvo certainly hopes so. “Bit worrisome for small fry like me. Still, maybe it’ll be for the good this time, with folks like you and Lady Emily in charge.” Corvo hopes that, too. “Well, here we are.” Samuel turns the boat and cuts the motor with easy skill, letting them drift perfectly up to the little quay behind the pub. “You should head on in, Corvo. I reckon they’ve been waiting up all night for you.”

Chapter Text

“Corvo!” Havelock bellows, delighted. He’s drunk. They’re all drunk, the Admiral and Martin and Pendleton, and they cluster around him where he stands dripping and exhausted in the doorway, still wrapped in Samuel’s blanket. Havelock pounds him too hard on the back; Martin hugs him around the shoulders, grinning.

“We heard it all over the street speakers! What a revelation! Corvo, you’ve outdone yourself!” Havelock says.

“A toast!” Pendleton cries, swaying a little on his feet. You’d think a man who drank so much would hold his liquor better.

“To Corvo!” says Martin. He still has his fucking arm around Corvo.

“To Corvo!” Pendleton and Havelock echo, and they all drink.

“You look like a man in need of a whiskey,” Martin says, prodding Corvo in the chest with his glass. Corvo is a man in need of some dry clothes and a fucking bed, is what he is. He shakes his head and points to the stairs.

“Oh come now, just one drink to celebrate,” says Havelock. Corvo shakes his head more firmly and pulls the blanket a little tighter around himself.

“I insist!” Havelock says.

“Let him get some sleep, Admiral,” Martin protests.

“But – ” Pendleton begins.

“We can celebrate properly tonight,” says Martin. He gives Corvo a little squeeze, and Corvo has to restrain himself from shoving the High Overseer away. He shrugs Martin’s arm off as politely as he can and hurries towards the stairs before anyone else can touch him.

“Tonight, then!” Havelock calls after him. Corvo waves to the Admiral in hasty acquiescence, then makes his escape.

Early morning sun spills across the unfinished floorboards of his attic. The rest of the pub is still asleep; Cecelia isn’t even up to start breakfast yet, though she will be soon. He strips out of his wet things, then wraps himself in a towel he swiped from the bathroom on his way up and sees to his weapons. His pistol is waterproof and will be fine, but the sword and crossbow both need to dry. Corvo lays them out in a sunny spot, hangs his wet clothes over the windowsills, then dresses in his pajamas and crawls into bed, carefully tucking the Heart and his little pouch of evidence under his pillow. Hopefully he can get a few hours of sleep at least before tonight’s festivities. He’ll be attending the party in wet boots, no doubt – he’d like to be at least moderately well-rested for that. With any luck, he won’t toss and turn too much before he drops off, he thinks, and shuts his eyes.

“Coorvo… Coooooorvo…”

“Mmph,” Corvo grumbles.

“Wake u-up,” Emily singsongs. He opens one eye, annoyed – he hasn’t even gone to sleep yet – and discovers that the sun has crept well across the floor. His daughter crouches beside his bed, her chin on his mattress, haloed with golden afternoon light. Emily grins.

“Good morning,” she says. Corvo sighs heavily and rolls onto his back, rubbing his face with one hand. He does feel a bit better.

«Good afternoon,» he says to Emily.

«Callista told me to come wake you. There’s going to be a» something. Corvo doesn’t know the sign, but Emily seems excited.

«Going to be a what?» he asks.

«P-a-r-t-y!» she spells.

«Party,» Corvo repeats, committing the new word to memory. «Party, party.»

«You smell like the river,» Emily tells him, wrinkling her nose. «You should get up.» Corvo laughs, and obeys.

Someone – probably Cecelia – has collected his wet clothes from around the attic and taken them away. His boots are missing too, he notes with some chagrin. He’ll go looking for them later. The Loyalists have given him a wardrobe that accommodates laundry and little more, but it does accommodate laundry, so Corvo gathers up his third-favorite shirt, his second-favorite waistcoat, his slightly-too-long trousers, and his short coat, (which fits a little loose around the shoulders,) some socks, and the little cache of secrets under his pillow, and goes to take a bath and shave. Emily is right – his hair stinks of river water.

There are a half-dozen reasons why the bathroom at the Hound Pits is a bad place to linger, but the water is warm for a change, so Corvo takes a moment to enjoy it. Last night’s events are starting to sink in, he thinks, scrubbing himself clean in the tub. His soapy fingers slip down his arms, his chest, tracing the bumps and divots of his scars. Campbell, deposed. Burrows, deposed. And the Torturer, dead. Most of the guards who hurt him in Coldridge are dead too. The men from his nightmares – the one who beat and gouged and burned these marks into his flesh, the ones who ordered the beatings – all dead or powerless. None of them can hurt him anymore. Corvo dunks himself under the water for a rinse and comes up feeling lighter. Emily’s future is so close to secure now. For the first time in a long time, a party seems appropriate. Corvo realizes he’s actually looking forward to it.

He finds both Cecelia and his boots in the kitchen. Cecelia seems to be cooking a dozen things at once and doesn’t have time for more than a wave, but she’s propped his boots up by the hearth; when Corvo puts them on they’re actually dry, and more importantly they’re delightfully warm and cozy. He steals a roll and one of the beer-boiled sausages she’s stacking on a platter and she chases him off with a carving fork, only half-joking, so Corvo obligingly flees.

Emily and Callista are far more sympathetic company, sitting in their customary booth in the common room. Corvo joins them. Callista says hello and then goes back to her book, politely ignoring the way Corvo eats with his hands, and Emily is drawing industriously, although she leans against him in greeting when he sits down beside her. People are in and out, getting ready for the party, pausing to greet or congratulate Corvo as they pass by. Lydia makes eyes at him; Martin gives him lingering looks; Havelock pounds him on the shoulder. Pendleton gives Corvo his congratulations rather wincingly – he looks hung over, and is clutching his flask like a lifeline. Wallace has dug up an audiograph from somewhere and sets it up while Lydia and Cecelia lay out food and drinks. Everything is ready by dusk, and naturally, Havelock kicks the festivities off with a speech.

“Welcome, everyone, and thank you! This is a momentous occasion, and you all helped make it happen! You’ve all been invaluable members of the Loyalists, and we couldn’t have done any of this without you.” Corvo wonders how many times Havelock practiced this toast. “Soon, Lady Emily Kaldwin will be restored to her rightful place on the Imperial throne, and order will be restored to the Empire and to Dunwall.” Are there a bunch of drafts upstairs on Havelock’s desk? Probably. In fact, he’d put money on it. “But I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the man of the hour: Corvo! Through his efforts, we’ve brought the traitorous Regency to its knees. A few days from now, we will end the Interregnum! Corvo, your work is done.” That seems highly unlikely. “Tomorrow, ours begins. We sat on our asses while you ended the coup for us – now it’s our turn. You’ve retaken Dunwall for Lady Emily, and now, we will rebuild it in her name. To the Empire, to the Empress, to the Lord Protector!” Havelock toasts Corvo with his beer.

“The Lord Protector!” everyone choruses, raising their glasses if they have them. Piero drinks Corvo’s health, and Callista; someone’s even dragged Samuel indoors for the party, and he drinks too, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Emily clinks her cup of juice against the tumbler of whiskey Martin foisted on him and drinks with a grin. The Heart is a warm weight in Corvo’s pocket alongside the evidence that will clear his name. Corvo sips his whiskey. It’s not so different without a tongue – the heady aroma of the liquor was always most of its flavor. Havelock, Pendleton, and Martin will probably make a nuisance of themselves in the coming months, but Corvo refuses to worry about politics tonight. Cecelia made a lot of roasted vegetables, which he likes, and he wants another sausage.

«Want to go get some food?» he asks Emily.

«Yes!» she says. So they do.

Corvo spends most of the evening sitting with Callista and Emily. Cecelia stops by now and then with more whiskey, and Corvo lets her top up his drink a few times, until he’s feeling loose and warm. Not stumbling drunk like Pendleton, but the alcohol hums pleasantly through his veins. Eventually Emily starts yawning over her crayons, and he and Callista convince her to go to bed, which takes less doing than Corvo had expected. His promise to come with her and tuck her in probably helps, but Havelock collars him before he can get to the stairs.

«I’ll be right up,» he signs to Emily, and she nods and leaves with her governess. It’s good that she’s willing to sleep in her own bed again. It took almost a week to get her back to her little tower room at night after Corvo had come back from the Boyle party – seeing him hurt like that had scared her badly. But Corvo and Callista have been working together on it, and they’re making steady progress. He hopes Callista will stay with them after they return to Dunwall Tower; Emily needs some constancy in her life.

“Corvo! You’re not leaving already? You promised us that drink!” Havelock says. Corvo’s already had a drink – several, in fact – but he can’t point that out in words Havelock would bother to understand.

“Samuel! Bring us a round!” the Admiral calls, and Samuel vanishes into the kitchen, looking glum. Corvo is surprised that the boatman stuck around so long; he would have expected Samuel to have retreated to his little hut hours ago. He spent most of the night sitting at the bar, nursing a beer unhappily. But he comes back quickly enough and hands Corvo another glass of the whiskey he’s been drinking. It’s a generous pour, and Corvo eyes it dubiously.

“Martin! Pendleton! Come on over!” The other two men join them, Martin swirling the ice in his scotch glass, Pendleton weaving a little.

“A toast,” says Havelock.

“To Corvo,” Pendleton says expansively.

“And all you’ve done,” says Martin.

“The best man of us all!” Havelock clinks his glass against Corvo’s rather too hard, and the other two follow suit, then drain their drinks. Good manners dictate that Corvo do the same, so he knocks his whiskey back, suppressing a sigh. It goes down easy enough, although he thinks it’s actually not what he’s been drinking all night – it smells different, a little off, which is probably just because it’s something cheap.

“You’ve done great things for us, Corvo,” Martin tells him.

“Truly, where would we be without you?” says Havelock.

“We’d be fucked, that’s where!” Pendleton says. Corvo does not roll his eyes, and gives the three of them a shallow bow, hoping they’ll read whatever they want him to say into the gesture. He needs to extricate himself and go say goodnight to Emily before she falls asleep. He feels a little dizzy as he straightens, which is surprising – he’s not that drunk, and he’s had plenty to eat over the course of the evening. That last whiskey shouldn’t be hitting him hard. Well, maybe he’s just tired.

“You off to bed, then?” Havelock asks. Corvo nods, surprised. He was expecting them to try to keep him, but the Admiral just claps him on the shoulder and says, “Sleep well, Corvo. You’ve earned it.”

“Hear, hear!” says Pendleton.

“Goodnight, Corvo,” says Martin. Corvo gives the three of them a nod of farewell, then sets his glass on the bar and leaves, somewhat bemused but relieved nonetheless.

He’s near the top of the stairs when it hits. For one shocked, stumbling moment he thinks it’s the alcohol. But it can’t be, he thinks as he staggers down the hall towards his attic bedroom. It’s not possible that it would hit like this, so hard, all at once – it manifestly can’t be the booze, so it’s – it must be – oh. Corvo trips over the threshold and lands heavily on his hands and knees. His vision swims; his ears are ringing. Those motherfuckers, he thinks, and everything goes dark.

“Lady Emily, wake up.” Callista is shaking her shoulder. “It’s time for breakfast, your ladyship.” Emily buries her face in the pillow with a sleepy groan, and then comes awake abruptly as she remembers.

“Callista, did Corvo come tuck me in last night?”

“I didn’t see him, your ladyship. He might have come in after I fell asleep. You know how the Admiral likes to talk,” Callista says. Emily sits up.

“He promised,” she says.

“I’m sure he came,” Callista says soothingly. Emily fucking hates when adults use that voice on her – it’s like they think she’s too stupid to notice. She scowls.

“I’ll ask him,” she says, and gets up.

“Let’s get you dressed first, my lady,” Callista says. She’s using her Governess Voice, and Emily doesn’t feel like fighting her about it.

“Fine,” she grumbles. Callista makes her comb her hair and everything before she’s allowed to leave. Emily was going to give Corvo the picture she’s been working on for him, but she thinks she’ll show it to him later, after he tells her why he didn’t come tuck her in. She trots across the walkway and hops down through the window.

“Corvo?” she calls. But the attic is empty. Not just empty – bare. Corvo’s bed hasn’t been slept in, his sword is gone, his mask – everything of his has been taken. Cecelia never changes his sheets before breakfast. He ought to be here, still asleep or getting dressed or maybe downstairs in the bathroom, and his bed should be untidy, and his weapons should be lying out on his desk, and they’re not. This is wrong. This is all wrong! Where the fuck is her father?

“Corvo!” Emily yells. Feet hurry on the stairs, the tread much too loud to be Corvo’s.

“Your ladyship!” It’s Adm. Havelock.

“Where’s Corvo?” she asks.

“He’s not here,” Havelock says.

“I know that. Where is he?” she demands.

“Lady Emily, what’s the matter?” Callista asks, clambering through the window behind her.

“Corvo’s gone,” Emily says.

“What?” says Callista.

“He had to take care of something this morning. He got an early start,” says Havelock.

“Why wouldn’t he tell me?” Emily says.

“It came up suddenly, your ladyship,” Havelock says, but he won’t meet her eyes. It’s happening again, Emily thinks. They’re doing it again!

“I don’t believe you,” she says flatly.

“My lady, I can take you to him now, if you’ll just come with me.” The Admiral seems unperturbed by her accusations of dishonesty – he offers her a hand. Emily glares at him.

“No! You’re lying!”

“Admiral, where is Corvo?” Callista asks meekly. Emily wishes she’d shout at him.

“He’s not here. Now, if you’ll come with me, your ladyship – ” The Admiral sounds impatient.

“No! I want Corvo!”

Havelock’s eyebrows snap together. He takes two steps forward and grabs Emily by the arm, hard enough to hurt.

“Ow! Let me go!”

“You have to come with me now,” he says.

“Admiral!” Callista cries.

“You stay out of this. You work for me!” Havelock snaps at her, yanking Emily towards the door.

“Adm. Havelock, let her go!” Callista grabs him by the arm and Havelock shoves her hard, knocking her clean off her feet. Emily shrieks; Callista lands on the floor with a thud. Emily sees her governess hit her head; her eyes are open, but she doesn’t move.

“Let’s go,” Havelock says, and yanks on Emily’s arm again. He’s so big, and so much stronger than she is, but Corvo taught her a few things over the last few months, and Havelock isn’t wearing gloves. «You have to be quick,» he’d said. «Your best weapon against a grown-up is surprise.» So Emily strikes like a snake. She bites Havelock’s hand as hard as she can, and jabs her fingernails into the inside of his wrist, trying to force her fingers between the bones the way her father showed her. It works – Havelock yells. His arm lashes and he shakes her off; she feels her teeth tear through his skin as he knocks her away. It doesn’t hurt until she hits the floor, and then the pain blooms through her back and her jaw and she’s not at all ready for it, but «You can’t lie there and cry. It’ll be scary, but you have to get up. You have to run away as fast as you can.»

“You little bitch!” Havelock snarls, one hand wrapped around the other. Emily can see blood dripping between his fingers.

“What’s going on up here?” It’s Overseer Martin. Emily’s heart leaps. Maybe he’ll stop Havelock!

“She bit me!” Havelock says.

“That’s what you get for not wearing gloves,” Martin says in an I-told-you-so sort of voice. Shit oh fuck, oh fuck! Emily scrambles to her feet.

“Better catch her, Admiral,” Martin says, and Emily runs. It’s a confusion of sound behind her, pounding feet, a heavy thud, a cry of pain that sounds a lot like Callista. She doesn’t dare look back. She’s halfway out the window when someone grabs her by the waist of her britches and hauls her back inside. Emily yelps and a hand clamps over her mouth – she bites down and tastes leather.

“Go deal with the others, Havelock. I’ve got her ladyship,” Overseer Martin says. Emily kicks him in the shins as hard as she can, but he must be wearing tall boots, because he doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Fine,” Havelock says. Emily thrashes in Martin’s grip. Corvo taught her to hit men between the legs, so she flails wildly, hoping to connect, but Martin just grabs her wrist and twists her arm up behind her back. Emily yells in pain against his hand, tears starting in her eyes.

“Military men. No idea how to handle children,” Martin tells her. “We do much better with such things at the Abbey.” He pulls up on Emily’s wrist and agony lances through her shoulder; Emily sobs. “Now listen, your ladyship. You’re going to come quietly with me, do as your told, and I won’t break your arm. How does that sound?”

“Let me go!” Emily wails into his hand.

“How does that sound?” Martin hisses, his voice low and deadly. It feels like he’s going to rip her arm out of its socket. Emily nods and the pressure eases. Martin takes his hand off her mouth and grips her shoulder, not letting go of her wrist. “Come on then, my lady. Your boat awaits.”

Chapter Text

He comes to in the dark.

“Did it work?”

“It had better have worked. It cost me a month’s profits!”

The words reach him over a great distance.

“Think of the credibility it will lend us when we come forward with the body of the man who murdered the Empress!”

Corvo knows that voice…

“Samuel, deal with the corpse.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

The world turns on its head.

He comes to in the dark.

“Should’na been like this. All the good you’ve done, Corvo… It ain’t fair, I’ll tell you. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to do it. I never thought it’d come to this.” Water rushes past, bare inches from his fingertips. Nearby, a motor grumbles. He thinks he is flying across the sea.

He comes to in the dark.

“Here, Corvo.” Something heavy settles over him, covering him from his shoulders down to his shins. “I’ve left you everything. Void, I hope you can hear me. All your things are here. They made me give you the poison, you understand? They were watching. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t give you all of it. You have to live through this, Corvo, y’hear? Lady Emily’s counting on you to come back for her. I don’t know what they’re planning, but it’s nothing good, I’ll tell you that much. I better make myself scarce now afore they realize what I’ve done with you. I’m sorry, Corvo. I’m real sorry.” Something mechanical chokes, then roars, and the darkness opens its jaws and swallows him whole again.

He comes to in the gray and aimless light of a cloudy dawn.

“Poisoned,” a voice says. “Tyvian stuff. Amateur work. He’ll live.” The words drop like small stones and sink to the bottom of his mind.

“What should we do with him?”

“That’s for Daud to decide.”

Then they move him, maybe. He can’t remember after.

He comes to with a slow current caressing his fingers. A paddle digs into the water, leaving little whirlpools in its wake. The Mark grins up at him from just beneath the surface, then fades back into oblivion again.

He comes to and he’s flying, the water far below him. He hears the creak of a winch and cable. This is Rudshore, he realizes. Not two years ago it was a thriving neighborhood; now the moldering buildings lean on each other, broken teeth in a rotting jaw. How did he get here?

There’s a clank and then the world turns over. Gray light, blackened bricks, and a long, red coat. He knows that coat – he sees it most nights in his dreams, that sword, those gloves, the scarred hatchet of a face looking him over steely-eyed.

“I know a great deal, bodyguard,” Daud says. Oh, Corvo thinks. He’s still in Dunwall after all. Corvo’s mind moves slow as an unwound clock, ticking through his numb surprise by interminable inches. He ought to do something. He can’t feel his feet. He can hardly feel anything.

“I recognize that Mark on your hand. It’s a gift from your friend – the one who talks to you in the dark, talks to you when you visit His shrines.” Daud’s face is impassive. “I’ve visited those shrines, too.” Corvo blinks his heavy eyes. The magic…

Daud opens a case he carries, and pulls out Corvo’s sword. The assassin extends the blade and looks it over, cool and assessing. “I know what it felt like to shove a blade into your Empress,” he says. “But I don’t know you, who you are, or who you fight for. You’re a mystery, and I can’t allow that.” The sword goes back into the case, and then the case goes spinning out into the air. There is a silence, then a clatter somewhere far below.

“Bring him,” Daud says.

He comes to in the dark. Sickness hammers at him and he groans a little, trying to curl up as though if he can make himself small enough, the wrenching pain and nausea will leave him be. It doesn’t work. Corvo’s stomach heaves and he rolls onto his knees and retches so violently it blinds him for a moment. He can feel bile dripping from his lips, but nothing else comes up. It takes some time for the dry heaves to stop, and by the time they do his abdominal muscles are cramped and burning and his arms shake with fatigue.

Corvo collapses onto his side, panting. Of course he has just enough tongue left to taste the hot sourness of his own sick. That figures. His entire body hurts. He is shivering uncontrollably. Nausea curdles in his gut.

He struggles to piece together the events of the last... however long it’s been. A night? A day? Two days? More? He has no way of knowing. Burrows, he remembers. Then the party. Then, the poison. Corvo flexes his fingers. Even clenched into fists, his hands still shake. He is going to kill them. Pendleton, Martin, and fucking Havelock – he will kill all three of them for this, right after he kills Daud. It’s good to have something to look forward to.

Where is Emily now? What have they done with her? Is she still at the pub? What have they told her? Is she hurt? Is Callista with her at least? This is twice now that Corvo’s been betrayed and taken from her by force. He really should have seen it coming. Bringing her back to the Hound Pits in the first place was a mistake. The day he found her at the Golden Cat he should have taken her and run. Dunwall be damned – the Empire be damned! Gristol can sink into the sea for all he cares, as long as his daughter is safe. This is all his fault. If he’d been smarter, faster, less fucking trusting, he’d be with Emily now and not – wherever he is. Corvo curls up tighter. He’s shivering. Void, he’s so cold... He opens his eyes.

He sees trash, concrete. A few dead rats. It’s dark. He sits up slowly and his hand hits something soft. He flinches away from the unexpected touch, then looks down. It’s his greatcoat, untidily bundled on the ground beside him. How very thoughtful. Corvo picks it up and shakes it out, then wraps it around himself. The pockets are empty, his bandolier gone. He has no bonecharms. At least the coat is warm.

Corvo leans back against the wall and tries for a proper look around. He’s in... a hole? It’s not terribly deep – he could climb out if he really tried, if he was able to stand, at any rate. Corvo isn’t sure he can manage that right now. The magic would get him out even easier, of course. He tries a Blink and the headache hits like a hammer, blood pounding audibly behind his eyes. He swallows hard against his rising gorge with a grimace, fighting not to vomit again. He’s completely drained. Fucking useless. There’s no food down here, and no drinking water. The walls are damp and mildewy. The humid chill of the air cuts right through him. He’s still wearing his clothes from the party – they’re filthy, of course. Corvo wraps his arms around himself under the greatcoat, reflexively checking his pockets.

The Heart is gone.

For a moment he doesn’t believe it. She must be there. He checks again. His pockets are empty. Did he drop her? He looks around, scrabbling among the detritus and rat droppings on the floor. Turning his head too quickly causes a spate of violent retching, and Corvo gets a good, long look at the ground as he kneels there, splattering it with saliva and bile. She’s gone. Where is she? He has to suppress the urge to call out for her, as though Jessie might somehow hear him and come running, as though he’s even capable of saying her name anymore.

She was in an inside pocket of his coat, one that buttoned closed. He couldn’t have dropped her. Someone must have taken her from him. Who? Havelock? Samuel? No. Most people can’t see the Heart, Corvo’s discovered. Their eyes slide right past her. Samuel wouldn’t take her, even if he could, and Havelock would never have found her in the first place.

“I’ve visited those shrines, too.” Daud’s voice is crisp and clear in Corvo’s head. Daud, who knows the Mark by sight. Daud, whose people appear and disappear by magic. Daud, holding Jessamine’s heart in his murdering fucking hands.

If his anger could warm him, Corvo would be consumed in flame. If his willpower could move him, he would be out of this slapdash prison in the blink of an eye. Instead, he kneels on the cold floor, staring at his own sparse vomit spattered among the rat shit, and shivers violently. He can’t just sit here and wait to die. He doubts Daud will feed him. This prison is only effective so long as Corvo remains too weak and sick to escape it. But there must be food and water elsewhere – perhaps even some Elixirs, possibly nearby; Corvo doubts he’s been left unguarded, and where there are guards, there will be food and supplies. If he could just get to them, he might have a chance.

Corvo grits his teeth, clenches his fists, and stands. His legs shake; his ears roar. If he can just – hold on until it passes –

He’s unconscious before he hits the floor.

Someone is stroking his forehead. Cool, smooth fingers. Strangely tender. He doesn’t hurt. He isn’t cold. It’s nice.

“Jessie?” Corvo murmurs. It occurs to him, distantly, that he can’t talk anymore, that he ought to be surprised to hear himself speak. He’s not surprised at all.

“My dear Corvo.” He knows that voice.

Corvo opens his eyes slowly. It’s dark, and the darkness is tinged with blue, and the Outsider is sitting beside him, looking down at him with those horrible eyes. He ought to be stunned, afraid, or angry. All he can manage is a placid confusion.

“What are You doing here?” he asks.

“You find your way to such interesting places, Corvo,” the Outsider says. That’s not an answer. But Corvo was worried about something, there was something he had to do. What was it? He was looking for someone... The Outsider is still talking.

“Here you are at last, in a ruined and drowning world. Held captive by the man who murdered your Empress.” This isn’t like His usual monologues at the shrines. The Outsider looks down at Corvo contemplatively. He’s still touching Corvo with those cold hands, and Corvo ought to be upset about it but a strange lassitude holds him down, keeps him calm and quiescent. No one has been so gentle with him since Jess. He doesn’t want it to stop. The Outsider tucks a lock of hair behind Corvo’s ear.

“Your friends poisoned you and dumped your body in the river. Did they do it to protect themselves, so no one would ever know what they’d done? Or was it because they were a single move away from controlling an empire, and they knew you’d never let them manipulate Emily? Maybe none of these. Perhaps that’s just the nature of man,” He says. It’s like He’s talking to Himself, almost under His breath, His voice a pensive murmur in the stillness of this unplace. His words jog Corvo’s memory a little. Emily... Is that who he was looking for?

“Is she alright?” he asks. The Outsider looks down at him with something far too close to pity.

“What do you think, Corvo?” He says.

“Why are You here?” Corvo asks again. “You never just... come. I always go to You. Am I dead?” It’s a strange thought. It should probably upset him, but it doesn’t. Corvo considers that.

“No, dear Corvo. You’re not dead.”

“You keep calling me that.”

The Outsider sighs. “Calling you what?”

“Dear,” says Corvo. “Why?”

The Outsider cocks his head a little, like a bird; a curious gesture. Corvo blinks slowly. The Outsider says nothing, but he runs his fingers through Corvo’s hair. It was tangled, wasn’t it? But there are no knots to catch as the beautiful boy with the terrible eyes finger-combs it for him.

“What will you do with Daud, I wonder? What will you do with your erstwhile allies? How does it feel now, knowing they betrayed you?” The Outsider lays a hand on Corvo’s chest, just over the slow, even thump of his beating heart. “Strange how there’s always a little more innocence left to lose,” He says softly.

“You expect a good show,” Corvo says.

“Of course.” The Outsider graces him with a crooked smile. Corvo’s anger eludes him, but the Leviathan’s feckless cruelty is all the more obvious for it.

“You’re a monster,” Corvo tells Him. The Outsider is unperturbed.

“Some say that,” He replies.

“Why did You come here?”

“My dear Corvo, who’s to say I did? This is just a dream, isn’t it?” He sounds amused.

“You’re real,” Corvo says firmly. He’s not sure how, but he knows.

“Am I?” The Outsider bends down and presses icy lips to Corvo’s forehead in a brief, chaste kiss. “Wake up,” He whispers.

Corvo’s eyes snap open. He’s cold again. The sickness is back, and the shakes, and there’s a terrible headache sinking into his molars. He must have hit his head when he fainted. What in the Void was that dream? No, not a dream – a vision. He’s certain of it. The Outsider came to him for a change, Void alone knows why. He tries to sit up and his guts tie themselves into a knot; Corvo collapses back onto the ground. His stomach heaves again and the pain in his head is so intense it whites out his vision as he vomits up a few more teaspoons of bile.

He lies there afterwards and tries not to breathe too hard, afraid if he moves at all he’ll be sick again. Daud didn’t need to bother with this hole. He could have just dumped Corvo in a corner and left him there, and Corvo would be imprisoned as surely as if he were in chains. It’s like he’s back in Coldridge again. Same rat, new trap. How will he ever get to Emily in this state? What is Havelock going to do with her? What is Daud going to do with Corvo?

At least Corvo can be sure that Emily is alive this time. The Loyalists would not have gone to so much trouble to recover her if they planned to kill her. The Outsider implied that they intended to place her on the throne and use her as a puppet, or perhaps establish a new Regency to govern until she came of age. How much progress have they made? How long has he been down here? Do they know that Daud has him?

“I can’t believe he’s doing this,” someone says. Their voice echoes in a large space. Corvo looks up at the makeshift cover of his little prison and sees nothing but half-rotten planks and a sliver of cloudy sky.

“Keeping Attano?”

“Yes. This is crazy. We should just kill him and be done with it.”

“He’s a valuable prisoner.”

“You think the old man wants to sell him?” The skeptic scoffs. “And we’re keeping him in there?”

“It’ll be days before the poison is out of his system.”

“How can you be sure? He’s Marked!”

“Daud knows what he’s doing.”

“Daud’s going soft! Time was he would have killed Attano on the spot.”

“Good. You go tell him that.”

Silence.

“That’s what I thought.”

Corvo waits, but it seems his guards are done talking. There’s at least two of them, then – as if it matters. He’s in no fit state to fight them. If only he had a little of his magic – if he could just see outside of this fucking hole! His Marked hand twitches a little, reaching for the Void out of reflex.

The magic comes. It sings down his nerves and surges through his blood, cold and bright and burning. He’s still in pain, still too sick to move, but the Void is with him again – that’s something. This was why the Outsider came, wasn’t it? To help, for once? He can’t find it in him to fight down his gratitude. Corvo shuts his eyes, and when he opens them again, he can see through the walls.

There is no one visible, although he can hear the sound of distant footsteps. But beside him is a grating, and below that is a network of pipes, and they are alive with rats. Corvo reaches out with the magic and catches one in a ghostly hand. The rat writhes in his grip. This is his chance. He takes it.

There’s no poison in the rat’s body. The transition is usually jarring when he possesses a creature, but this time it’s an almost ecstatic relief as the pain and sickness fall away. The rat crouches in the pipe for a moment, panting. He can smell rot and mildew and hundreds of other rats, his fellows, and the thin thread of plague-scent trailing through the tunnels. He can smell the way to food, the way to his nest, and he can smell the fresher air above. The rat turns around in the pipe and runs back up the way he came.

The pipe drops him out onto a rusted catwalk. Wet-iron-mold-dead-bodies-in-the-water-bread-human-breadbreadbreadbread that way! Corvo surges up out of the rat, its tiny body seizing in its death throes between his knees as he leaves it behind. The pain and sickness come roaring back and he has to stifle a groan, curling over himself, his arms crossed over his stomach. His head throbs with each heartbeat. Corvo sucks in a breath through his teeth, afraid if he opens his mouth he’ll vomit. It’s much too loud: the human his dead little friend smelled can’t be far.

“What was that?” He hates being right. “Hey!” Fuck. The catwalk rattles as though someone’s just jumped onto it from a height. A blade hisses clear of a sheath. Corvo looks up through his hair and sees two Whalers taking aim at him. He’s unarmed, too sick to move. If he stands up he’ll probably just faint again. But he’s not alone anymore: he has the magic.

Corvo gathers it up in his Marked hand, and he calls them, and they come. Rats well up around him in a breaking wave, pouring out of the pipe at his back and a grating further down the catwalk. They rush the assassins in a single mass, climbing their trousers, getting under their coats, gnawing at cloth and leather and flesh.

“Fuck!” one of his assailants yells, and Blinks away with a whoosh and a scattering of ashes. If their cry from up above is any indication, quite a few of the rats came along for the ride. The other Whaler is overwhelmed in moments, their body crumpling into a bloody mess as the rats rip into them. They both die screaming, which is unfortunate, but can’t be helped under the circumstances. Corvo needs to move quickly, before anyone who heard the disturbance can get down here and catch him. The rat smelled bread. With any luck, that’ll be a supply cache. Corvo’s never been a particularly lucky man, but he supposes there’s a first time for everything.

Walking is impossible, so Corvo Blinks down the catwalk. His magic is running dangerously low, but fortunately the bread isn’t far. The catwalk circles the interior of the building – or it did before half of it collapsed, he thinks. At the corner, he finds the cache. Bread, potted meat, water, two Elixirs, and one of Piero’s Remedies are all crammed into a cabinet beside a half-rotted mattress. There’s a stool and beside it, an improvised stove in an old Dabokva can that throws off plenty of heat. Thank the fucking Outsider.

Corvo doesn’t touch the food. He goes straight for the Elixirs. The first one is a struggle to open with his shaking hands, and he spills quite a bit of it down his sleeve, but he drinks the rest and waits, terrified that it’s about to come back up. It doesn’t. The pounding in his head recedes a little; his stomach churns less forcefully. His hands steady enough that he doesn’t spill the second vial. He drinks it down and waits, kneeling beside the stove so his aching body can soak up the warmth from the burning spirits. His guards must have been resting here and talking, perhaps taking it in turns between patrols – if they bothered with patrolling at all. From right here, Corvo has a good view of the hole they’d put him.

This must be one of the old foundries around the outskirts of Rudshore, he thinks. The hole he was trapped in is one of several – cisterns, most likely. The building is crumbling and the lower story is flooded, most of the factory floor submerged. Rusted-out hulks of old machinery poke up out of the water here and there between the piles of shattered masonry. The level of destruction is remarkable. Perhaps the Watch bombed out a Weeper nest nearby. It’s pointless to speculate.

His hands are almost entirely steady now. There’s no more acid in his throat. His headache has gone from agonizing to very unpleasant, which is a huge improvement. No more assassins seem to be coming. Did Daud really leave him with only two guards, out of earshot of the rest of his people? How often are the guards relieved? Corvo opens one of the bottles of water and takes a cautious sip. It stays down. He takes another, then tears off a hunk of bread and takes a small bite. He doesn’t want to linger here – it’s not safe. At some point, someone is going to come. Corvo feels a bit better about his chances of fighting one Whaler, maybe even two, but he doesn’t want to push his luck. Besides, he hasn’t tried standing yet.

The bread isn’t coming back up. Corvo opens the tin of meat and tries a little of that; when it goes well he eats with his hands, unadorned bread and tinned whale, the water bottle smeared with the thin gravy the meat is preserved in. What does he have? Corvo takes stock. One Remedy, which he’s going to drink before he leaves. The assassin the rats killed for him on the catwalk was armed – he’ll have a look and see what of their gear survived the assault. He’s got his short coat and his greatcoat. His mask is gone, along with his weapons. They even took his boot knife. At least they left him his damn boots. Corvo licks his fingers clean, setting the empty tin aside. He rests for a few moments, warming his hands over the little stove. With two Elixirs in him and a full belly, he feels half-human again.

He has to get out of here. He has to find the Heart, and he has to find Daud, and he has to get back to the pub and look for Emily. Escaping Rudshore and returning to the Hound Pits is the priority, but he doesn’t want to leave without Jessie. She’d tell him to go, of course – she wouldn’t want him to waste time looking for her when their daughter was in danger. He can see her so clearly in his mind’s eye, hands on her hips, berating him for even thinking of her when Emily might be hurt. It’s fucking unbearable. I could do it all at once, love. I could find you, kill Daud, and get back to Emily at the same time. The quickest way out of here is probably through Daud, and I can’t just leave you. But she’s not even here for him to mouth the words to. Where is Emily? Where is Jess? Where is Corvo? Where the fuck is Daud?

This worrying is pointless. It’s time to get moving. He needs to stand up again. Corvo backs away from the stove, hoping to avoid fainting and landing in the fire, then takes a breath. Here goes, he thinks, and stands.

His head doesn’t even spin. Corvo feels – not good, but fine. He’s hit his head, and he feels a bit hung over, say, but he’s not sick, not vomiting uncontrollably or shaking too hard to hold a cup. Sokolov worked a damned miracle with those Elixirs. Corvo thinks of that lab, the woman in the cage. He clenches his jaw. It doesn’t matter now. He has to go.

Picking through the gory mess the rats left him is more fruitful than he’d hoped. Not only is the dead Whaler’s sword belt miraculously intact, but Corvo finds their curious little wrist-mounted crossbow almost entirely undamaged. It’s not as powerful as the crossbow Piero made him, but the design is very clever. Corvo sheds his coats, and uses the short coat to clean the weapons. His greatcoat is in better condition at this point, despite the charred spots Cecelia hadn’t had time to mend – not that she could have, he thinks, looking them over. The one on the collar is almost as big as his hand, a memento of the branding iron the Torturer dropped when Corvo took him down. Cecelia is a good seamstress, but she’s no magician.

Armed and dressed in his favorite coat, Corvo feels more himself. The assassin’s saber is an unfamiliar weight, but a sword at his hip is a sword at his hip. The wristbow seems easy enough to use, and has the distinct advantage of leaving his hand free as he carries it. He just needs Jessie and the mask and he’ll really be back in business. It’s amazing the things a person can get used to, he thinks, and starts heading up.

There are no other guards. Corvo can’t believe it. If he’s being honest, he expected a little more of Daud. The Knife of Dunwall himself can’t be fucked to set more than two guards on a high-value prisoner? It never even occurred to him that something might happen? To be fair, Corvo was well beyond all hope of escape until the Outsider came to him. Without His help, he’d still be in that cistern, completely incapacitated by the poison. Daud must have known the effect it would have on his magic – that’s the only way any of this makes sense.

Corvo stands on the battered remains of the roof of the foundry and looks out over Rudshore, as though he’ll be able to see the Heart from here if he just squints hard enough. He realizes he’s checking his pocket for her. Perhaps Daud put the Heart in the case with the rest of his gear. Corvo shuts his eyes, trying to visualize the streets outside that – warehouse? factory? – where Daud had been. It was on the edge of the sea, the buildings moldering. He searches in his mind’s eye for a landmark. It had been like looking up through water with all that poison in his blood; his memory is warped and blurred. But had he seen a spire just over the buildings? A peaked copper dome, green and weathered. That was the Chauncey Bank. If he’s in one of the old foundries now, he ought to head east along the shoreline. It shouldn’t be more than a mile, and it’ll be a place to start looking for Daud.

Corvo works his way carefully through the neighborhood, Blinking from rotting balcony to half-collapsed rooftop to crumbling wall, being as cautious as he can. His magic is limited, and he’s worried about falling. The buildings are in remarkably poor condition. It would be safer to leave the district and work his way around to the bank from further inland, but Rudshore has been entirely walled off by now, partly to contain the flooding and partly to keep the Weepers in. Corvo’s only obvious path out is by water – if he could find a boat, he could take it around the Point and dock in the Portsmouth, and not only is that well out of his way but it’s on the opposite side of the city from the Hound Pits. Finding a boat is a dubious proposition in any case, and swimming more than a mile in the open ocean is clearly out of the question.

He spots the dome of the bank sooner than he’d expected. It doesn’t take long to locate the building containing his gear after that. It’s an old whale oil processing plant, not a factory – Greaves still operates, but this was their biggest refinery in Gristol. They took quite a hit when the neighborhood flooded. There is the cablecar that Daud’s people transported him in. There’s the punt. Corvo is preparing to Blink up onto the catwalk when he hears the soft hush of a Whaler materializing above him. He freezes, crouched on a creaky old duct, not daring to move.

“Why would he come back here?”

“Daud dumped his gear here. He might remember, even with the poison. We should watch the streets. We’ll see him from the rooftops.”

“Alright. If nothing else, we can cut him off at the market.”

“He can’t get through the rail station without the key.”

“Attano’s resourceful. He took down Galia and Christoph easily enough. He’ll find a way.”

“We’ll be ready this time.”

Ash drifts down through the grille as they vanish again. Corvo grimaces. They know he’s loose, then. He must have just missed the change of guards when he left. Damn it. He searches for the assassins in his Dark Vision, but there are none to be seen. That case sings a siren’s song in his mind – Jessie may be just inside. He decides to chance it, and Blinks up onto the catwalk. No one comes. Corvo slips into the old refinery.

Getting down is a nuisance, but Corvo manages, and the Weepers he finds are easily dispatched. He tells himself they’re beyond saving, that he’s doing them a mercy. Sokolov might be able to work out a cure given time, but these people are only days from death, and they’re in his fucking way. A blade to the guts, a slit throat, a wristbow bolt – it has to be better than the Rat Plague. Certainly it’s quicker. Corvo kneels down among the bodies and opens the case with bloody hands.

The Heart isn’t there. He goes through it twice – his mask, his sword, his crossbow, all his ammunition, his grenades, his rewire kits, his pistol, his Elixirs, even his bonecharms – but no Heart. Daud took nothing but Jess. Corvo stares down at his equipment, furious and dumbfounded. He didn’t even take the potions? Not even the crossbow bolts? Why would he leave all this here? Samuel must have packed this case for Corvo – the vials are wrapped carefully in some of his spare clothes, which is the only reason they didn’t shatter when Daud threw the case down onto the refinery floor. Corvo shakes his head, uncomprehending. Something doesn’t add up. Daud took Jessie? And nothing else? Why?

But Daud didn’t only take the Heart, he realizes. Corvo’s little pouch of secrets is gone, too. The letter, the audiograph card – Daud has them, or the Loyalists do. But all his gear was left here, practically gift-wrapped for him to find. The Weepers were no obstacle. What the fuck is Daud’s game? It’s like he’s baiting Corvo to him, which makes no sense at all. If Daud wanted Corvo dead, he would have just killed him. If Daud wanted Corvo somewhere, he would have brought him there. There are too many variables in play for this to be a trap. Corvo is loose in Rudshore, and Daud has very little control over the situation. Why would he leave Corvo so poorly guarded and all his equipment untouched and accessible?

Fury hums under Corvo’s skin. He doesn’t want to play these fucking mind games. He wants to find Jessie and get the fuck out of here. He wants his daughter back, damn it. He gears up there on the refinery floor, buckling on his bandolier, swapping out the dead assassin’s weapons for his own, donning his mask. The magic of his bonecharms settles over him like armor. He puts his hood up and strides to the long chain hanging down from the catwalk far above, stepping over the heap of dead Weepers at his feet without a second glance. It’s time to give the Outsider a good fucking show. As he climbs the chain, he thinks about it; standing on the catwalk, he decides to kill anyone who gets in his way.

A hagfish carries him east past the river krusts, and then he works his way inland, away from the sea and towards the river. The assassins are staying high so Corvo keeps as low as he can, not wanting to waste time fighting them, hoping to keep his location a secret. The streets are choked with corpses, expired Weepers piled up under the fresher bodies of Overseers. Did the Abbey mount an assault on Rudshore? Why? Were they after Daud? It seems remarkably stupid, even for them. Corvo follows the carnage and it leads him to Market Square. This is where they’d hoped to ambush him. Corvo finds assassins on the rooftops, a barricade, and a lot of dead bodies. It’s immediately obvious where Daud is holed up. He uses a rat to cross the square unseen, and it dies beneath his feet as he slips through the door in the barricade.

The next square over is Delancey, just a few blocks away, home to the Central Rudshore Railway Station. Corvo knows the area fairly well – Jessamine came here from time to time by train. Her last visit was two-odd years ago, for the ribbon-cutting at the new Coventry Bank building. Rotten timing – the whole district flooded less than six months later. All that gilt and marble given to the sea. Daud’s barricade blocks Fisher Street, the most direct route to Delancey Square. “He’ll never get through the rail station without the key,” that assassin had said. Corvo has a notion where Daud’s headquarters might be.

Delancey Square is very small – more like Delancey Corner, really. This is old-town Dunwall, the streets barely wide enough for a horse and cart. The further inland he gets, the more intact the buildings are, but that just gives the Whalers more places to hide. Corvo counts four of them prowling the rooftops around the station. The key, is it? He’ll see about that. Corvo doffs his mask just long enough to down one of Piero’s Remedies, then puts it back on and draws his crossbow with the grimmest little smile.

Chapter Text

The Void is merciful, in her way: bound they may be, but Daud can’t feel it when his people die. That lets him hang onto his stupid hope a little while longer. Perhaps the poison would be enough to incapacitate Attano until he could get in touch with Havelock to arrange the trade. Perhaps Attano would escape his makeshift prison and simply leave – he’d killed very few people since Coldridge, and Daud can hardly blame him for fighting his way out of there. Perhaps Attano had better things to do than hunt Whalers. In truth the poison alone should have held him, but Daud was never prepared to count on it. He wanted his people to trust in it and let well enough alone – he’d tried not to order a guard on Attano at all, but Thomas had all but mutinied in protest, and Daud had been forced to give in. And now here is his Second, standing in front of his desk and confirming his worst fears with every word.

“When?” Daud snaps.

“Sir – ” Thomas sounds afraid. That’s rare, and it’s not good.

“Why wasn’t I told?”

“Sir, he’s here. He’s in the building.”

“What?”

“He killed his prison guards, all the gate guards, and the bridge patrols. Everyone on the first floor is dead.” Thomas’s voice is grim. Oh, Daud thinks. Oh, damn it. Outsider take Attano for this, straight to his Void-blasted fucking bosom. Regret sits leaden in his belly. This is all his fault, and his people are paying the price. Attano should have come for him alone, but Daud let his Whalers get in the middle of it. He should have sent them all away, should have stood guard over Attano himself, should have ended it then and there. One final, fatal mistake crowning the shitheap of his bad decisions. Damn it.

“Muster everyone you can and get the trainees out,” Daud says.

“But sir – ” Of course, Thomas wants to stay. Thomas wants to fight. Most of them won’t want to leave Daud behind to face Attano alone. Even after what he’s done, they won’t think they need to. That’s not acceptable.

“Do it,” Daud snarls.

“Sir – ”

“Now.” Daud stares his Second down. For a moment he thinks Thomas will keep arguing, but then the younger man’s shoulders sag a little in defeat. Daud bites back a sigh of relief as Thomas transverses away without another word. Hopefully the rest of them will follow. Attano’s killed some ten or twenty of his Whalers now, seasoned fighters and assassins all. After the losses from the Abbey raid, they’ll be lucky to make it to tomorrow with a third of the people they had a week ago. This is no time for heroics. Daud tries to remember the watch rotations. Who was guarding Attano this afternoon? Who was stationed in Delancey Square? Whose death warrants did Daud sign last night when he approved the schedule? Damn it!

He wants to yell his fury. He wants to weep. He wants to break things, curse himself, pace the floors, drop to his knees in despair – he doesn’t. Daud stands at his desk and he waits. The Lord Protector is coming for him; he always was. Daud’s known it ever since he watched Burrows’ lackeys tear the Empress’s bloody corpse from Attano’s arms and drag him away in chains. He’d felt it then, deep down. He’d seen it in those dead, black eyes. Daud had signed his own death warrant that day. It’s time to pay the piper.

He braces his fists on his desk and stares down at his papers. Attano’s things are on the top of the pile – Daud’s own letter to Burrows, stolen from the Lord Regent himself no doubt, and the infamous audiograph card. And then this strange little atrocity he had in his pocket: a human heart, half-desiccated but still warm and slowly beating. Daud stares at the wire-wrapped thing, its gears and crystal gleaming. It pounds fit to burst when you bring it near a bonecharm. This must have been one of the Outsider’s gifts – it’s obviously Void-touched. Only the black-eyed bastard himself would make something so wretched.

He should have killed Attano the moment they brought him up in the cable car. He should have thrown the former Lord Protector’s poison-riddled body to the Weepers in the refinery below and left it at that. Thomas was right. Billie would have told him the same. Would she have seen this coming? Would she have stepped in to protect the Whalers when Daud failed?

The faintest creak interrupts his reverie. Daud looks up, a reprimand for Thomas on his lips, and sees his own death standing in the doorway. Attano’s coat and trousers are black with Whaler blood, his shirt and waistcoat splattered with it, his hands as red as his blade. Hollow-eyed Vengeance has come for Daud at last, prowling through his stronghold on silent feet to take everything from him. To die at the hands of the Lord Protector – it’s the ultimate payback for every noble life he’s taken, isn’t it? How poetic for the Knife of Dunwall to be executed by the Empress’s own bodyguard. This has been a long time coming.

Daud’s guts have been churning with guilt ever since he killed Jessamine Kaldwin, but here, now, staring Attano down, a strange sense of peace settles over him. This is what he’s been waiting for – it’s what he deserves. It’s Attano’s turn this time. Daud draws his sword.

“Now for the duel that only you and I can fight, bodyguard,” he says.

Attano charges silently.

It quickly becomes clear that, while Daud is quicker and more skilled with his magic, Attano is the superior swordsman. He relies on his weapons more than he needs to, either forgetting to use his magic or simply keeping it in reserve – impossible to say – but he drives Daud back again and again, his blade a stream of quicksilver arcing through the air faster than thinking. Daud is forced to transverse away several times to avoid Attano’s relentless attacks. The former Lord Protector is breathing hard but he keeps coming, never fucking falters. He must be at least ten years Daud’s junior, and it shows. How the fuck did he get the poison out of his system so fast? Daud will probably never know. He doesn’t think he’s going to care for too much longer, anyway.

Attano comes at him again like a whirlwind and Daud barely gets his sword up in time to parry a vicious sweep of the Lord Protector’s blade. He underestimated this man. Attano isn’t screwing around with sleep darts or going for the legs or anything like that – Daud is fighting for his life. Attano’s locked blades with him and is using his weight to try to force Daud back. Daud transverses away again, up into the loft, but Attano doesn’t even stumble when he vanishes, just catches himself nimbly on his toes. He spots Daud immediately.

“We’re the same, you and I!” Daud snarls. “Killing other people’s enemies, fighting other people’s wars! What gives you the right?” Attano, of course, is silent. The rumors about Coldridge had been true – they did take his tongue. Daud saw for himself before they dumped the Lord Protector into his little prison, just to satisfy his own curiosity. Attano finally uses his magic, transversing up into the loft with a bright blue whisper and aiming a swift thrust at Daud all in one fluid motion. Daud leaps back and parries just in time. Attano doesn’t falter, just comes in with a complex overhand pass that will either disarm Daud or take his fucking head off if he’s not careful. Daud transverses away again, the hiss of his magic melding with the sound of Attano’s blade rushing through the empty air.

“What’s the difference between your Empress and Esma Boyle?” Daud taunts from the other end of the room, fighting to catch his breath. “What’s a little more noble blood?” Attano bounds down from the loft, dropping into a roll as he lands and rising quickly, blade at the ready again. The mask glints dully in the afternoon light.

“What makes you any better than – ”

“Sir!” Fuck! It’s Mischa, the ash of his transversal falling to his feet as he draws his sword. Hardly more than a boy, quick with a knife, lived on the streets until four years ago when Daud took him in, only just got his mask, stationed on the rooftop today – Attano doesn’t turn away from Daud, not fully, but his gun is in his hand, and it’s pointed at Mischa’s heart.

“No, damn it – ” Daud begins, and is interrupted by the arrival of another Whaler, then a third. Rosanna by her stance, Devon with the patch on his shoulder – their blades are out. Attano fires.

Daud only bends time when he can’t avoid it. It takes too much power to be practical; better to save the magic for transversals, which will get you behind your victim just as fast. But there’s a need now, and he does it without thinking, then races forward through the gray, still world to knock Attano’s bullet from the air with the flat of his sword, putting his back to the Lord Protector. If his people will just stay out of it –

Pain cuts a white line down his back and shoulder. Daud transverses away on reflex, staggering a little on arrival. Attano is coming at him again, as colorless as everything else but moving, and he shouldn’t be. He can’t be, but he is. Daud can feel blood running down his back, soaking into his shirt. He’s going to die, he thinks. That’s fine, but he’s not willing to lose any more of his Whalers. Daud tugs at the threads of the world, and the color trickles back into it. Attano checks, turning to keep Mischa, Devon, and Rosanna in his peripheral vision. He’s certainly already reloaded his gun. Daud has less than a second to head this off.

“Stand down! This is my fight!” he yells. The Whalers hesitate. “That’s an order, damn it!” Mischa transverses away. The other two follow. Something comes untwisted in Daud’s chest. If they don’t intervene again, they might survive this. Attano clearly doesn’t trust his order, suspecting it’s a ruse, most likely – not an unreasonable assumption. He’s looking around, keeping Daud in his peripheral vision as he searches the room, his pistol held low at his side.

“Second thoughts, bodyguard?” Daud taunts. He sees the little breath of blue almost too late.

A quick dive to the side barely saves him: the thrust of Attano’s sword that would have skewered Daud through the guts instead leaves a deep gash down his side. Attano adjusts immediately, far quicker than Daud, who is momentarily distracted by the pain. He parries blindly as Attano turns and comes at him again, and doesn’t realize how badly he’s fucked up until his sword goes flying across the room. Attano raises his blade for a death blow and Daud grabs his wrist and kicks him hard in the knee, priming his wristbow. Attano slams him into the wall; the wound on his back flares white-hot with pain. Then Attano strikes him across the face with the butt of his fucking pistol. Daud hears his own nose break before he feels it, the grinding of bone and loose cartilage that makes his teeth ache. He gasps for air and nearly chokes on a mouthful of his own blood. The transversal is cool in his hand before he even realizes what he’s doing.

It’s not that Daud particularly wants to die – he just expects to. Even after Brigmore, after everything, death is probably what he’s owed. He staggers and drops to his knees, blood dripping from his face and splattering on the dirty flagstones as he tries to crawl away. His heart thunders in his ears. His magic has run dry. He knows Attano is coming.

The Lord Protector doesn’t keep him waiting this time. A boot strikes Daud hard in the side, kicking him onto his back. He drops back onto his elbows with a grunt, panting through the blood that drips over his mouth and down his chin. Attano levels his sword at Daud’s throat, inscrutable in that metal mask.

“I have one more surprise for you, bodyguard,” Daud rasps. “I ask for my life.”

I’ll trade you for Jessie’s, you son of a bitch, Corvo wants to say. He can’t, of course, so he settles for running Daud through.

Knife of Dunwall he may be, but Daud dies like all the rest, an insect on a pin. Corvo watches his body jerk, watches him choke on the blood that bubbles up his throat, watches those stony eyes go dark, that craggy face go gray and slack. When a heartbeat no longer thrums up Corvo’s blade, he plants his foot on Daud’s chest and yanks his sword free of the corpse.

The man who killed Jessamine is dead. That’s all of them dealt with, now. Only Pendleton, Martin, and Havelock are left. Corvo is tired. His hands are tacky with blood. Wounds on his arms and shoulder ache – Daud’s Whalers are all competent fighters at their worst. They got their hits in. Corvo turns on his heel and stalks back across the makeshift bridge, leaving Daud’s body sprawled on the ground behind him. From what he overheard, the quickest way out of Rudshore is through the sewers below the train station. He’ll need Daud’s key, and he wants to find Jessie before he goes.

Daud was generous in this, at least: he left everything laid out for Corvo on his desk, another inexplicable gift. Corvo snatches Jessie up and clutches her to his chest for a moment, relief flooding him even as he waits for the trap to spring. Nothing happens. He strokes her gently with his thumb.

Why would he bring me here? she asks in a miserable whisper. Corvo doesn’t have an answer. He puts her carefully in his pocket. He doesn’t want her out of his sight, but he also can’t linger here. There’s the letter and the audiograph card, Daud’s key, a letter to Daud from Burrows – the complete correspondence. How nice. Corvo gathers it all up and tucks it into the inside breast pocket of his coat. He brushes his hand over Jessie’s fragile little weight, and goes.

Corvo is ready for the surviving Whalers to attack him again, stage an ambush maybe, but they don’t come. Maybe they all ran, he thinks, picking his way between the bodies littering the floors of the old station offices. It’s a very fine line between arrogance and fear. Maybe he pushed them across it. They’d taken it for granted that they could hold him, he suspects, and then they’d taken it for granted that they could fight him, and they’d been wrong on both counts. He doesn’t know how many of Daud’s company are left alive, and he’d really rather not find out if he can help it, but he’ll kill every last one of them without a qualm if they try to stop him now. He’s too close to escaping Rudshore and finding Emily to let anyone get in his way.

Corvo walks around a corner and stops dead. There are Whalers in the hallway, seven of them clustered together, some of them strangely short – unmasked – their shoes are wrong – it takes him a long moment to understand. There are two adults, masked and gloved, and clutching at their coattails are a group of children. The kids range between five and fifteen, at a guess; they are bareheaded, barehanded, and painfully young, wearing little copies of those Whaler coats. The older ones have knives at their belts. The youngest is all red hair and freckles; he’s sucking his thumb like his life depends on it. He sees Corvo first and his eyes go even wider; he yanks hard on one of the adults’ sleeves.

The response is silent and instantaneous: swords leap into their hands; there are two wristbows aimed at Corvo’s heart quick as thinking. Even the teenagers draw their knives, hard-faced with fear. Corvo gathers his magic in his hand, raising his sword and shifting into a fighting stance.

“Thomas?” one of the little ones whispers, terrified.

“Ssh!” the tallest of them hisses, his voice muffled by his mask. Behind them, Corvo can see a chain hanging down from the ceiling. He has a strong suspicion that it will take him down to the sewer gate, if he can just get to it. Corvo can hear a child crying, their muffled hiccups and sniffles echoing in the stillness of the empty hallway.

How many kids did Daud have here? Is this all of them? How old are they when they’re inducted? What does that entail? How many teenagers did Corvo kill on his way to Daud? Where did these children come from? Was Daud picking them off the street to fill the ranks of his merry band of killers? His little fucking cult?

Was life as a Whaler really worse than life as a starving urchin on the streets of Dunwall?

Someone made those coats for them, Corvo thinks. They’re properly clothed and shod, not dressed in rags. Someone fed these kids, someone trained them – the older ones clearly know how to use their blades. The littlest boy clutches a fistful of the Whaler Thomas’s jacket; he’s tucked himself beside the man’s leg and leans on him like he trusts him. Corvo remembers Emily at that age. She loved to play come-catch-me with him, and Corvo would chase her through the gardens or around Jessie’s rooms until Emily dove behind her mother just like that, clinging to her jacket and hiding behind her leg, giggling all the while. The little boy’s eyes are fixed on him. Corvo wonders how much he understands of what’s going on. He knows the children are afraid he’ll kill them.

Slowly, Corvo lowers his sword. None of the Whalers move. He doesn’t want to fight them. He doesn’t even want to kill the adults, not when it would mean leaving the children to fend for themselves on the plague-ridden streets. Of course he can’t tell them that, Void damn it. Corvo is going to be cursing Campbell for the rest of his days for taking his tongue from him. He just wants to get out of Rudshore. Daud is dead, Jessie is safe, Corvo has what he needed. Killing these Whalers will accomplish nothing now.

It takes most of his remaining magic to bend time around him, but the world goes still at Corvo’s tug nonetheless. He Blinks down the hall, bypassing the little group of Whalers entirely, and drops to the floor cat-quiet just an arm’s length from the chain. It leads down through a hole in the floor, a two-story drop into the basement of the building, miraculously unflooded. Corvo climbs down quickly, not wanting to be caught there when time resumes its normal pace again. Jessie leaps in his pocket and he takes the rune he finds, patting her in thanks. There’s a gate on the far wall that looks promising, and Daud’s key turns smoothly in the lock. Corvo slips into the sewers just as the lantern-light turns golden again. He leaves the gate open behind him.