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rinaldoescobar · 7 years

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penance - crossposted from ao3, written for low chaos week 2017 <3

Dunwall, 1843

10th day of the Month of Rain

Dunwall Tower was surprisingly easy to infiltrate. The lost powers pf the Bond would have made it much easier, of course, but Thomas long since learned to navigate without them. May have made a few more undignified exits, of course, but it hasn't diminished his effectiveness as an assassin-- or his leadership potential. He'd led a ragtag bunch of leftover, newly powerless Whalers and recruited gang members for over a year before rioting and mutiny broke out and the gang disbanded through the brilliant, scarlet-yellow flames of a refinery fire. Thomas figured everyone would assume that he died like the rest of his trapped underlings.

He learned from the best how to tie up loose ends, but like the best had grown to regret it in the long two years hence.

This wasn't penance. If he repeated it to himself, over and over, he could almost believe it. He drowned it out by crawling through the alarmingly spacious ventilation shafts of Dunwall Tower, searching for his goal over the heads of guardsmen patrolling the halls. His goal was, really, not that well thought out. He planned to drop down in front of the Royal Spymaster and ask for a job.

Beg for one, really, and hope that he wouldn't end up fodder for the headsman or riddled with bullets from guardsmen.

This wasn't penance.

What was the worst that could happen? A lot, actually, and Thomas would likely be better off keeping to the shadows of belowdecks or up high changing out lights. Curse his heart, unsatisfied with odd jobs and with a stubborn hunger for purpose. A loftier purpose, not just one gutting whales or men, or tying bags of goods bound for far shores, or winding ropes or weaving baskets. Sewing. Thomas had many odd skills now and none of them offered any peace of mind. Void, even the scrawling and arcane tattoos that crawled along his body when the Bond seared his flesh were gone. They'd faded with it. Apart from his scars there was no trace of his old life on him; and before, either. Sometimes, Thomas found it hard to pick apart who he used to be before Daud and what Daud had made him into. Even free from Daud's control, he didn't regret it.

It took him inordinately long to locate the Royal Spymaster's office. It was an L-shaped room that had a vent directly above the Spymaster's desk, nicely dispersing freezing air to whoever was having a meeting while keeping the Spymaster merely pleasantly cool. Thomas wiggled his fingers and noted with mild worry how they were tinged with blue, and in the next second he was carefully removing the grille with his unsteady, frozen fingers while using the clacking of an audiograph to shroud the movement in sound.

He dropped down in front of the desk while the Spymaster turned to the back of the room to stare, for some reason, at the wall. Thomas decided not to count his blessings and instead focused on keeping his footfalls as silent as he possibly could. Not silent enough, apparently, because as the audiograph reached the end of the card and shut down with a solid shunk, the Spymaster whirled around and pointed his pistol right between Thomas' eyes.

Thomas threw up his hands in front of his face and wilted back, as harmless as he could be. The pistol remained leveled at his face. Damn. He hadn't recognized Corvo Attano from the vent, and now that he was face-to-face with the Lord Protector-and-apparently-Royal Spymaster, the memories of the breathless days before Daud's disappearance caused his heart to begin thudding nervously in his chest.

“You have ten seconds to explain to me why you are here, and then my guards are going to escort you to confinement.” Corvo's voice was very soft; dangerous in the way a silent, flickering arc mine was dangerous. His face shone with caution but not recognition, which was predicted but appreciated nonetheless. Thomas nodded his understanding.

“A spy network is a fixture of any successful court, and I know that you have one. I'm very good at--” a gesture to the unscrewed vent grille, “spying around and I know my way through the Dunwall underground.” He lowered his hands enough to make eye contact-- Corvo's eyes were dark. Pitiless. Thomas looked down. “I have reasonable confidence that I could be an asset as a part of it.”

His throat closed up as Corvo's expression didn't change at all, and he worked his tongue against his top teeth for a precious second. A second wasted. “And I don't appear in any census forms, as far as I know. Legally, I don't exist.”

That was not exactly a truth, but the persona he'd cooked up as a cover would work. He already had a reputation under a different name; Corvo, digging through his network, would find enough to be satisfied.

Maybe. Thomas wasn't one to question the tenacity of determined men.

“What is your name, then?”

“Everett Warren. No relation, and I don't know my family line. My parents died when I was young.” The Warrens, a wealthy family, had stayed strong throughout the plague and aided in reconstruction efforts. Thomas had taken the surname only for the ease of remembrance, seeing it once when he was a teenager and unable to get work, so falling on the support of a false identity. There had to be scraps of contracts with the boxy scrawl of Everett Warren's signature around, and if not that then old men with scarred faces and memories of a quiet and hard worker.

“And why did you assume crawling through the vents would make me trust you?”

Thomas nearly cringed. Now, forced to examine his actions, they did not seem as great as they did during sleepless nights. “An exhibition of my skill. Sir.”

Corvo's gun hand faltered. Thomas kept his hands up, unsure. His hesitation was not unfounded, as Corvo rang a bell on his desk and in the next second two guards pawed into the room.

“Take him to Coldridge. Question him thoroughly, get all his information. I must write to the census bureau.” Corvo's voice wasn't as harsh as it had been when Thomas came tumbling into his office but it still held a certain amount of steel that Thomas respected. He kept his hands where they were and allowed a guard to manhandle them, pin his wrists behind his back, and then steer him roughly towards the door.

11th day of the Month of Rain.

“My name is Everett Warren. I'm twenty-six years old. I was born on the tenth day of the Month of Wind, 1816.”

A popular month for births, and besides; everything was true except for the name. The less lies he told, the less he would have to keep track of.

The man in front of him wrote it all down. “And your parents?”

“...I never learned their names. They died when I was young.” Thomas looked down, feet knocking together. His interrogator cleared his throat.

“Who did you live with after their deaths?”

Now that was something Thomas had only briefly thought about. “I stayed with my mother's sister for a while, but she eventually sold me to a meat packing plant as a worker.”

“Do you remember which plant?”

The questions just kept coming. Thomas shook his head apologetically. “No, sir. Sorry.”

The questioning went on for another hour, and then Thomas was led-- dragged, nearly, his legs trembling and weak-- back to his cell. It was a lonely and damp thing, small, and his cot in the corner had a sad excuse for a mattress and no blanket. It was better than nothing. It was better than stocks, which he'd had the dubious pleasure of being trapped in for the entirety of the first day. To soften him up, he knew, keep him from sleeping or stretching. He took vicious satisfaction in semi-purposefully collapsing and forcing them to drag him all the way to the interrogation room.

Thomas sat in his cell and tried to pretend that soon enough he'd wake up and go to another boring day of killing whales.

13th Day of the Month of Rain

“Everett.”

An advantage of a long-kept false name was that Thomas responded to it without any suspect hesitation. He looked up, shoulders straightening, and stood with a sore jerk.

“Lord Protector. Or should I say Royal Spymaster?” He ducked his head, an unspoken apology for undue insubordination. Thomas-- Everett-- was already on thin ice, and he didn't want to jeopardize whatever this meeting was. A slimy fear that he already had stuck to the inside of his throat. Daud took his pointed questions in stride on all except his worse days. This place might be entirely different.

Corvo's lips twisted in the way of a man practiced at hiding amusement. He held a tray in his hands, a half-loaf of bread and a tin pitcher of water. “Lord Attano will do for now.”

“Lord Attano,” Thomas murmured, and ducked his head again. It was a hard habit to break.

“Stand back and put your palms on the wall. Keep them there.”

Thomas, mildly confused, obeyed. His palms laid flush against the clammy stone, and his eyes fixed on the pocked walls; someone had carved checkmarks with a shiv. They'd been here quite a long time. The previous two days in his cell he hadn't paid them enough attention, apparently; he appreciated the savage scraping marks for a second, nose nearly touching them. The scrape of a key in a lock informed Thomas that the door was opening, and suddenly the order to stay away and immobile made more sense.

The tray went on his low wooden table and then the door clicked shut again. Corvo's feet tapped against the stone.

“You may relax now.”

Thomas relaxed, as much as he could in prison. He rolled out his shoulder and rubbed the aching joint, then finally met the Lord Protector's eyes again. There was a warm crease to his brow that spoke of--

Amusement. That was never a good thing, people being amused at Thomas' expense.

“Try and sleep well. You're to be interrogated properly in the morning.”

That was a jibe. Had Corvo come here simply to rub salt in his wounds? Thomas bared his teeth, a scowl, and turned away. The Lord Protector turned on his heel and left. As sullen and hurt as Thomas felt, though, he'd been brought edible-looking food for the first time in three days and his stomach rumbled insistently. He padded over to the table and drained the pitcher first, then picked up the bread. There was a note underneath it-- a note and a key, the key to his cell. Thomas grinned and read the note.

This is a test. I expect you at my office at sunrise.

A test with ridiculously high stakes. It reminded him of clammy days training with Daud, the threat of a lethal drop always at his fingertips if he misjudged a transversal.

For the first time since flames had eaten the refinery, Thomas felt a flicker of real excitement in his chest.

He made it to the Spymaster's office an hour before the sun tinged the sky any colors at all, and promptly collapsed against the wall there. He was sopping wet from a dive into the Wrenhaven, aching from overexertion, nursing several holes in his shirt and resultant chemical burns from river krusts, and certainly his pants would need serious mending thanks to the hagfish, but he'd made it alive and arguably in one piece. At the very least he hadn't ruined Corvo's chair with his blood and wet.

He'd been taken by a much-needed doze, head lolled onto his shoulder, by the time the door opened. He was sitting in a puddle of the water sluicing off of his clothes, his hair, and the realization of that sent a hot flash of shame up his spine. That might have been fine in the Flooded District-- there, he could strip out of his bloodied uniform and toss it to the corner to mend it, sit on his cot half-naked and bleeding in peace. Here, it felt... Wrong. Undignified, and not how a spy was supposed to act.

“Lord Attano,” Thomas slurred, trying to sit up straight. He managed, but the world tilted violently like he'd had a few too many bottles of Old Dunwall. Corvo hmphed and made for the unlit fireplace. He started to tend to it and without much preamble spoke to Thomas.

“Get that shirt off, Everett.”

“Lord Attano?” That was-- inappropriate. He shouldn't. He felt chilled to the bone, and the coarse fabric of it stung against his open cuts, but it would be entirely inappropriate to disrobe in any degree in front of the Lord Protector.

“You look like a drowned rat.”

That, finally, worked a chuckle and cooperation out of Thomas. He unbuttoned his shirt with clumsy, frostnipped fingers and pulled it off of his shoulders, laid it over his lap.

“Come sit in front of the fire. It won't be any good if my newest spy freezes to death inches away from warmth.” Corvo paused. "I'll get some bandages for your wounds.”

“Lord Attano, you really don't have to...” Thomas felt unsteady and uncomfortable and still halfway convinced that this was all a very cruel dream. Even so, he sat down on the floor in front of the fire and felt shivers he hadn't even noticed initially abate. Corvo, now seated at his desk, scratched down notes in dark blue ink.

“We'll see how your bladework is later.” That sounded... Decisive. Thomas stared into the dancing flames.

“Permission to speak freely, Lord Attano?”

Corvo paused in his scratching. “Permission granted.”

“I've been held in prison for three days, interrogated, and swam through the Wrenhaven.” The levity in his voice surprised even him, but he kept going. “I doubt it will be impressive.”

“I know.” Corvo hummed, and then returned to his scratching. After a minute or two, he stood and left. Thomas kept staring into the fire until his footsteps receded, and then immediately beelined to the open pad of paper. Either Corvo assumed he was too beaten down and cowed by his stretch in Coldridge to snoop, or that was exactly what he wanted Thomas to do-- he was too smart to make an oversight like that.

Ten minutes later Corvo returned with two bags. One held snacks from the kitchen, the other bandages. He set both down at Thomas' side-- the man seemed to have slipped into a doze again, properly exhausted, but woke up once Corvo's footsteps crossed the threshold-- and returned to his desk. There passed a minute of silence as Thomas dressed the wounds requiring attention, and then Corvo cleared his throat. Thomas tuned in instantly.

“No need to snoop around, Everett.”

He flushed hotly. In his hurry to check the pad and be back to his spot before the Lord Protector's return, he hadn't even noticed the trail of damp he left. Maybe he was too tired to be effective, right now, or maybe the Royal Protector was just exceedingly keen to those types of things.

“My apologies, Lord Attano.” He licked his lips, worried the bottom one and pulled a bandage tight around his chest. “I had assumed that it was another test.” He got no reply, and once again silence reigned. Thomas inched closer to the fire. He returned to fussing over his wounds, dutifully ignoring the bag of food (tampered with, he thought), and quickly enough a half hour passed and his hair finally felt dry. His pants, as well. Thomas regretfully crossed his shirt off as a lost cause.

“Hm. I have a meeting in a half hour. Go to the servant's quarters and choose an empty bunk. You'll stay there for now. If you need anything, talk to one of the maids, Malia.” Corvo moved behind Thomas. He hadn't even noticed, and stiffened up at the sudden change in location.

“I'll do that. Thank you, Lord Attano.”

Of course he couldn't sit in front of the fire all day. As pleasant as it was, he was exhausted and Corvo had promised more tests in the future.

“You have until sundown to acquaint yourself. Then you will meet me in the courtyard and we'll continue.”

“Understood, sir.” Thomas unfolded his legs from beneath himself and stood, offering a shallow bow after he turned to the Lord Protector.

“Dismissed.”

Thomas got clean clothes, took a nap, and scavenged un-drugged food from the kitchens before dutifully heading down to the courtyard.

There was an assortment of weapons laid out on the cobble. An Overseer's weapon, blade sharp on both sides. A Lower Watch blade, which Thomas had passable experience with, but the weighting was all wrong. There was a long dagger, a little shorter and thinner than his Whaler's blade, and he immediately gravitated towards it.

He made a show, though, of moving through each blade and other offered weapon. He tested the weights and the feel, and even flirted with the idea of keeping the Watch blade for whatever assessment Corvo had planned, but he had the sneaking suspicion that his performance here was just as important as his impromptu escape via Wrenhaven.

Daud's training would show. Thankfully, Thomas kept himself well-rounded with instruction from the other Master Assassins, with his own bladework. Daud's movements were all clipped and final; he struck for the throat. Thomas held the vice of preferring to play with his food. Besides, Corvo was drugged and exhausted when he fought Daud. Thomas suspected that he wouldn't catch on. It had been years, and to the Lord Protector Thomas was nothing but a shady master of skulduggery.

He settled his grip on the blade and warmed up, so absorbed in the rhythmic motions of swordplay that he nearly missed Corvo coming up behind him.

“You're early.”

“It serves to be punctual, Lord Attano.” He twisted around, settled the tip of his blade on the ground, and offered a shallow bow. Corvo huffed, hand resting on the hilt of his own blade.

“We'll see you bow properly when I beat you into the dust.” That was heartening. If Corvo allowed a little backtalk, this would get a whole lot more interesting.

“You haven't even seen my bladework yet!” Thomas stepped back with a smile, blade lifting to the en garde position. Corvo unsheathed and unfolded his knife. It was a hypnotizing motion, and Thomas' eyes followed it, but quickly enough settled back on Corvo's face.

“So says the man who was held in prison for three days and swam through the Wrenhaven.” Having his own words tossed back in his face nearly made Thomas laugh. Yes, this would be interesting. “Now let's see what you're made of.”

Thomas stepped back even more and Corvo stood at the ready. They paced, circled each other, and finally Thomas made the first move; a testing and quick slice down Corvo's front. It was parried and redirected, so Thomas lunged to the side and attempted to catch Corvo in the back. That, too, came up unsuccessful. He circled back around to Corvo's front, stealing a look at the man's eyes instead of his clever fingers. His quick blade.

“Clean clothes. I took it you spoke with Malia?” Corvo jabbed and Thomas sidestepped, feet scraping semicircles in on the dusty cobble. He struck at Corvo's sword arm. It was effortlessly parried. He'd have to try harder to land a hit.

“I did.” He hopped back, lurched to the side and feinted. Corvo took the bait and got Thomas' blade thwapping his side for it. “And I didn't eat the drugged food that she offered.”

Corvo smiled. There was considerably more teeth than what Thomas would consider friendly, the cut of Corvo's eyes glittering and sharp. The momentary distraction was enough for Corvo to ready his blade for an overhand, blisteringly quick but still telegraphed enough that once Thomas noticed the flicker of steel in the sunset he yelped and dove out of the way in time.

“I trust that the poor girl's still alive.” He whirled, showing his back and knowing that Thomas would jump at the opportunity; but still unbalanced, he didn't get the chance and Corvo had the time to slam the hilt of his blade down onto Thomas' back. The younger man gasped and staggered forwards. His knuckles whitened with the grip around the hilt.

“Oh, yes, sir.” It came out a surprised wheeze and he dropped into a roll, rising to his feet a safe distance away. Maybe he could come back from that? Corvo, at the least, seemed relatively impressed that he'd lasted so long. Speech left him and he buckled down even more, focused. This wasn't a back-alley brawl, or even a spar with the assassins he used to run with. Corvo, Thomas reminded himself, won the Blade Verbena at sixteen.

Once Corvo found a chink in the armor of his defense, Thomas really had no hope of salvaging himself and his attempt earned him a bloody nose for the effort. Corvo took him down with thorough, terrifying efficiency. The flat of his blade struck Thomas' joints, exposed nerves, made his entire body sing in pain. A particularly firm blow to the back of his ankle made Thomas drop to his knees, and the hilt thudded down on the back of his neck. He collapsed onto the stone and twisted into his back for a hopeful counterattack, and found instead Corvo's boot on his chest.

Thomas quickly gave up the idea of winning a fair fight.

“Mercy! Lord Attano, mercy!”

He kept his hands on the ground, panting. The blade rested at the hollow of his throat, Corvo standing victorious over him. He felt his throat fluttering against the sharp point, just pressed enough to threaten injury.

“There is no mercy in the spy's work. A performance like that would see you dead.” Corvo lowered the blade from Thomas' throat, eyes dark and half-lidded. Disappointed.

Thomas nodded and took another second to bring his breathing back under control. “And there's no fighting fair, either.”

He hooked his leg around Corvo's and kicked his knee out. The Lord Protector squawked only half on purpose and Thomas kept them linked together, dropping his blade in favor of attempting to manhandle Corvo underneath him. It was a fool's effort, of course, the Lord Protector was a tall and imposing man and Thomas had always been slim even as the years packed whipcord muscle onto him, but it would let him escape.

He got as far as Corvo obligingly on his back and he launched himself off towards his blade only for the dubious pleasure of an arm like a steel bar wrapping around his throat and hauling him against Corvo's chest. Thomas choked and flailed, debating the merits of crying out; but he knew that Corvo would have no issue clapping a hand over his mouth to quiet him.

Corvo let him writhe for a few moments and he kept fighting even as black stole the edges of his vision. Even as his limbs started to feel much too heavy. The last time he was on the receiving end of this, he'd woken up hours later with a bruised neck, stashed under a flight of stairs.

Corvo's voice cut through the encroaching darkness and buzz in his ears. “That's enough, Everett. Settle down.”

Embarrassingly, Thomas whimpered and obediently fell still. Corvo relaxed his grip until it was merely resting against Thomas' throat, but the threat of a continued choking present if Thomas decided to fuss. He didn't. He only sucked in grateful breaths, chest heaving. He tasted blood on his tongue.

“You're resourceful and clever, but you never even thought of using the other weapons laid out here.”

“--I guess that duels amongst noblemen are much different than duels between the commoners.” Thomas tried to laugh. It just came out hoarse. He was lightheaded from the arm around his throat but too well-warned to move, and as if in reward Corvo released him. He scrambled up to his feet and only hesitatingly offered Corvo a hand up. The Royal Protector graciously allowed Thomas to help him.

“I am intrigued at your choice of blades, though. That seems much more suited as a hidden blade than a proper sidearm.” His eyes narrowed. Curiosity, nothing more, Thomas assured himself.

“I would certainly hope that as a spy I wouldn't need to carry an obvious weapon.”

That was fitting enough, and true besides. Corvo grunted. Thomas relented, inasmuch as he could without jeopardizing his identity.

“People don't take me seriously when I use a small weapon. They go off their guard, they're easier targets.”

“I stand by what I said. You're clever.” Corvo shook his head, bemused. “Let's try again.”

Thomas smiled, just as much teeth. “On your mark, sir.”

Interlude, 1845.

Day 5 of the Month of Hearths.

“Lord Beechworth.” It never hurt to be polite, and besides Thomas had taken to clinging to social niceties like a vine. His jobs had seen him going to parties, sitting in at court, talking with high-society servants, and all of it forced gentility back into his bones.

“Just Samuel will do, young man. All those titles are too fancy for me.”

Thomas' lips quirked in a smile and he settled down on the seat across from Samuel. “Samuel, then. I hope you'll forgive the intrusion.”

“Of course.” The boatman shrugged. “If you'll forgive the ride.”

He unmoored the Amaranth, and Thomas shrugged back as they cast off. The Wrenhaven was calm, reflecting the harsh orange of the setting sun in every cresting wave. Thomas simply stared out into the water. He'd come meaning to ask questions. Now, though, it seemed gravely inappropriate. He left it up to Samuel to break the silence and after ten minutes of floating out away from the shore he was not disappointed.

“Corvo knows where you're from, if not who you are.”

Thomas fought back a tremor and instead tilted his head curiously. “He does? But I thought the census didn't have any information on me, save from what the interrogators at Coldridge got...”

Samuel waved his hand, halfway between a dismissal and a reassurance. “Your bladework. You don't look it, but it's distinctly Serkonan. I don't know who your teacher was, but he must have been a very good one indeed.”

Oh. Thomas let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

“Yes, one of the men at a slaughterhouse I briefly worked for taught me. I studied by myself, and it really does wonders for throwing off potential challengers.” Thomas brushed his hair back with his fingers, smiling. “--ah, but Lord Attano has told you about me?”

“Yes he has.” Samuel chuckled and looked down at the keel of the Amaranth, shaking his head. ”Said you were the first to just up and ask him for a job. Normally he hand-picks his allies.”

“So that's why it looked like he had half a mind to kill me.”

They shared a chuckle, and Samuel finally reached down under his seat and fished out a bottle of Old Dunwall. “The sun's going down. I don't know if Lord Corvo'll approve of me getting you buzzed before sending you back to the tower, but I figure that if you've lasted this long it merits some celebration.”

Thomas nodded. He didn't drink often, didn't have the time nor the motivation. This, though, was a gift and he couldn't afford to burn bridges that he was still in the tenuous process of building, so he graciously accepted the bottle. Samuel got himself another.

They drank in silence, boat rocking softly against the waves. The sun tinged the sky trails of red, orange, salmon pinks, spreading out like trails of blood along the clouds. For the first time in a long while, Thomas felt at peace.

Thomas fell into a comfortable routine. He did whatever Corvo asked, dug through files searching for Daud when time and secrecy permitted, and the day he was assigned to a security detail to discreetly follow the then-eighteen-year-old Empress on a tour of a refurbished district he felt nothing but bittersweet pride, even as his blade sunk through the gut of some poor insurgent-- he dragged the man to Corvo and Emily like a pleased cat with a caught mouse, and passed him off to the Royal Guard.

The last time he'd seen the Empress that close, she'd been a child; crying, and screaming for her mother. Now, he swept a low bow and offered her a roguish smirk, and she looked almost impressed. On Emily's insistence Corvo introduced them later. It was brief, and pleasing, and warmth rose in Thomas' chest for the hope that he was making amends, slow and piecemeal as they were. This still wasn’t penance. It was too selfish for that.

Yes, Thomas felt he had a place here. It was hard-won and the people could never know who he truly was, but Everett was a hard worker and a good man. He had many allies, if not many friends, and was usually willing to be a helping hand when not off on some ridiculous mission. He had a place with Malia, gossiping over the new recruits, and he had a place with Corvo; he'd started bowing properly, a fact which Corvo ribbed him endlessly about. He'd started growing a stubbly goatee. It didn't look all that impressive and it itched, so within the month he shaved it.

At night he still sometimes dreamed of flames, of the screams of people he'd known for years and some he'd known for days. He dreamed of leering golden masks and the grinding of music boxes. Of Daud, kneeling and bleeding out, and himself, brandishing his blade for a doomed fight before being ordered away. Of Billie. As the years passed the dreams grew less and less, and thankfully did not encompass his thoughts in his waking hours.

Thomas did not forget, but it didn't consume him. That was they best he could do, and he accepted it.

And then Zhukov came. Thomas ended up on his knees at the Boyle masquerade, a blade he used to know with the intimacy of time pressed against his throat. He'd worn a mask styled after a wolfhound, with faux golden trim adorning the eye holes and forehead. It was off now and cracked in two. His nose was bleeding and it dripped into his mouth and down his front as he panted. Galia met his eyes, but she'd only seen him once with his mask off and it had been years and so she passed him over with a sneer.

Even if she did recognize him, he sincerely doubted that she cared.

After the party he was given a three day’s leave to rest and recover. He healed, but for the first time since he'd freed himself from the dirty cell in Coldridge, rest was hard to come by.

Dunwall, 1851

26th day of the Month of High Cold.

“Hey, Everett.”

Thomas dug his head into his pillow and groaned.

“The Royal Spymaster wants to see you.”

He groaned again. Seeing Galia, seeing that mask, again hadn't helped him at all. She was dead, now. Rinaldo was... Alive. In Coldridge, but alive. Thomas wanted to visit him, but common sense forbade it. He simply stole bits and pieces of information when he could, and was pleased to find his tongue as sharp as ever.

“I'll be right up. Thank you, Malia.”

The maid and fellow spy smiled, and then left. Thomas shoved his head further into the warmth of his pillow before he readied himself.

Ten minutes later, he stood in front of Corvo under the full blast of the air vent.

“Lord Attano, sir. What's the occasion?” He kept his hands clasped firmly behind his back to shield his anxiety, his tension. Corvo wasn't facing him. That, in itself, made fear sing high in Thomas' chest.

“It's come to my attention that you are not who you told me you are. Is that true, Everett?” Thomas felt like a rat cut open for study. Corvo's voice filled the room no matter how quietly he spoke, even when he wasn't facing Thomas, and it made Thomas want to tremble and beg for forgiveness.

He gulped, but kept his face carefully impassive. “It is true, sir.”

Corvo turned, eyes narrowed. The crags on his face from age and strain seemed deeper, more severe. He was angry. “And you were a member of Daud's assassins, in your youth?”

“It--” Thomas' voice stuttered, and he looked down. All his careful neutrality wore away, and now he felt only guilt. Corvo's eyes burned holes into his skin. “It is true, sir. How did you find out?” His voice dropped to a whisper. ”If I may ask.”

“At the ball, you immediately picked up on the lead Whaler's swordwork. Too quickly, in fact. All I had to do was accuse you, and now you've given me enough information to arrest you and execute you on charges of treason. And don't think I didn't notice you taking out files on Escobar. I have eyes everywhere.” Corvo shook his head, and Thomas was abruptly aware of how thoroughly he'd been had. Corvo spoke again, clipped and sharp. “Tell me your name.“ Your real one hung heavily in the air between them. Thomas kept his stare fixed to the floor.

“My name is Thomas, sir. No surname.” That was truth, and it seemed to satisfy Corvo.

“Anything to say for yourself, Thomas?”

Thomas didn't feel up to looking Corvo in the eyes right now. “I'm sorry, sir. And I... I accept any consequences that my actions have brought.” As brief as it was, his real response went unspoken. By now, Corvo would be able to pick up on his implicit meaning: if Corvo chose to have him executed, Thomas would kneel for the bullet without a fuss. Corvo sighed and scrubbed at his temples with his hands, less angry now and more tired.

“You have two days, and then I send people after you. That is my mercy, and because you have served-- the Crown faithfully, you deserve it. I don't want to hear of you in Gristol ever again, Thomas.”

There is no mercy in the spy's work. Corvo's words now rang in the back of his head. Would he have killed him, those years ago, if he knew who he was? He had Thomas entirely at his mercy in that moment, blade touched to his throat. It would have been so easy. Even though he'd spared Daud, Thomas was not so important and did not delude himself as such.

“Yes, Lord Attano.” He dipped his head. “Thank you.”

“Dismissed.”

#low chaos week 2017 #writing #corvo attano #thomas #the whalers #dishonored #samuel beechworth #daud #emily kaldwin

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