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onewhoturns · 6 years

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pt 8 - Harbinger

I know, it’s been a while since the last chapter went up. Well, in case you forgot: here’s chapter 7. Or start from the beginning on AO3. Or part 1 on tumblr. As always, credit to @kaldwinqueen for writing the Outsider; I wrote for Emily & Corvo.

Here’s a big ol’ plot bomb for you, feel free to leave a comment here or on AO3 letting me know your thoughts. Hopefully you have many.

They ate efficiently in the room darkened by heavy curtains drawn closed with the sobriety of their intended conversation. After all three had had some sort of sustenance, and Corvo had gotten a good look at the unfinished report, it came to discussion time.

“There was another death at the Academy. A student.” The Royal Protector’s voice was low, somber. He was staring at the table where he curled a napkin into a tight spiral. There was an ominous tone to his words. “They were in possession of a replica of the Heart.”

Emily’s own heart lept to her throat, and she very nearly choked on the water she’d been drinking. A moment of spluttering and then she managed to speak, her voice high and tight. “There’s a replica of the Heart?”

“Not anymore there isn’t.” Corvo grimaced, still not taking his eyes from the fabric on the table.

Emily flexed her hands nervously as she tried to calm herself. No, of course not. And even if there was, it wouldn’t be the same. Silly of her, to let that flash of hope perch even briefly in her chest. She’d had her closure months earlier, saying goodbye to that last scrap of her mother. It was a gift she never could’ve imagined, that chance to make her peace, and yet as soon as the idea was even hinted at that she might speak with her mother again — Emily had lunged for it. And she wasn’t happy about that.

No, the Heart her father spoke of would’ve been something else entirely. It may not have held a spirit at all. Just the cogs and wires that could simulate a beat. ...A disgusting, morbid thing.

She still felt ill at ease. Mostly put off by her own visceral reaction to the thought.

“...And there are storms coming.”

The way he said it, she was sure he couldn’t mean the standard rain or thunderstorms. Her silence prompted elaboration.

“Sweeping in from Pandyssia. And reports from the Eastern Coast claim it’s… off. Unnatural. Though I suppose all reports of the ‘unnatural’ from Whitecliff should be taken with a grain of salt…”

Oliver listened intently, but he always did. His features twisted in concern, eyes flickering between them. He was contemplating, his gaze shifting around the room as if desperately searching for an answer in the air before him. Had he been in the Void, perhaps it would have worked exactly like that. Perhaps he wouldn't need to put all of the pieces of the puzzle onto a table and assemble them shard by shard. What was worse was that they were missing edges and corners, the ensemble was incomplete, they didn't have the full story.

Hearing about the heart again made his chest tighten and he recognized that feeling as guilt. He could remember haunting Pierro Joplin's dreams, influencing him to sew together flesh and sinew, mold it with metal and wire until it was part mechanism and part living, merging into one abominable amalgamation of love and torturous confusion. He remembered the day the empress' voice carried through walls of thumping skin, when she spoke to him with such kindness and warmth as if coddling a child. Even then, at his worst, he could feel her warmth through layers of ice that coated the whisper of humanity he still had.

He wanted to tell Emily so many things. He wanted to rake his fingers through her hair and reveal to her all of the secrets in the world. But he had a job to do. And hopefully, a whole life ahead of him.

He stood suddenly, from his seat at the fireplace, pulling the map of Isles off of the wall and prying it out of the frame hurriedly. His movements were sporadic because for once he wasn't planning them or compensating, not three steps ahead of himself. Not paced or stiff-backed. He laid it out on Emily's desk, knocking several items to the floor but not seeming to care.

"The Void is, in its most rudimentary form, an immense mass of raw, undirected, cataclysmic power," he explained, his voice lower, losing the sharp edges, the sultry undertones. "Without a representative, there is no means of translating that energy into the world. There is no connection, no common ground in which it can safely tamper with society and the direction that fate takes. Which would be acceptable if not for the gaping cracks in the world where oblivion seeps into reality, dripping down the walls like muddy rainwater on a stormy night. The Void is-" He was drawing on the map, taking the files that Corvo had set down and beginning to mark locations down hastily.

"The Void is a storm. The Void is a fearsome entity clawing its way into the realm of the living without realizing that there is no balance between these two domains. The Void is alone and some might even say that it is angry, hungrily devouring any life that it can take and snuffing out candles in the night — blotting out the moon and the stars, the clouds in the sky and leaving nothing but nothing in its wake, it is-" He furrowed his brows, eyes widening, locks of hair falling into his face as the picture became clearer.

"...starving," he whispered, staring down at all of the incidents. "...Did you know," he slowly stood straight and his brows furrowed, "six out of ten students that attend the Academy of Natural Philosophy are deeply intrigued by the nature and composition of the Void?" He glanced up at the two of them, swallowing softly, all too aware of the cluster of marks.

Still, he felt the other even when he wasn't looking, even though it wasn't marked on the map. The notch in the hills where the mines were rich with silver and the grounds were tainted with the blood of the innocent. He tried not to look there, though. He'd put his past behind him.

Emily was rather taken aback by the surge of motion, and as he moved and spoke she felt a thrumming in her very bones — a creeping dread, a chill that seemed to approach from the east, racing faster than the storm. Cataclysmic power. She’d been in the Void, and there she’d experienced its electric tension, this feeling that it was always ready to strike even when things seemed slow or frozen. There was an energy that hung in the air and inhabited every slab of stone, silent screams condensed to an eerie hum. The dreams had only added to her wariness of the place — the thing. No, not wariness: terror. The purest form of fear she had ever experienced.

“Are you implying that this storm has been… summoned? Called here by students?” Corvo’s brow was furrowed, and Emily shared his confusion, though she found it hard to concentrate on his words.

Her mind buzzed angrily, a series of questions and anxieties, and as she closed her eyes to take a deep breath, calm herself, she could’ve sworn she saw the storm itself for a brief moment. She didn’t jump, muscles tensing and holding her body still despite her surprise, but her eyes had opened again in an instant. She wanted to reach for him - slip off her gloves and weave fingers with his, chase off these chilling thoughts - but that wouldn’t solve anything.

Ignoring her father’s question she flexed gloved hands and asked, “What can we do? How can we prepare?”

“There has to be a person causing this, or a group — a cult? Another group like the Eyeless? If we find them, maybe we can stop this.” Corvo spoke logically, but she knew there was no logic to the Void.

Oliver went to answer Corvo's question but his eyes darted to Emily's form, the way she shuddered and looked away, clearly uncomfortable, clearly conflicting with herself. He furrowed his brows at the sight and quickly composed himself. Becoming unhinged was not an option, he knew Emily was a very empathetic person, whether she realized it or not. The last thing he wanted to do was contribute to her stresses.

He stepped forward away from the desk, sitting beside her once more at the small table that'd been brought in for their breakfast. His hand found hers, settling over it carefully. It was a subtle gesture, but the least he could do was let her know he was there. "No the students aren't summoning it... Not knowingly. The last remaining cults teeter off the edges of society, loose and hopeless. The Eyeless were the most prominent - the most funded - without them in power anymore, the other cults are dwindling in numbers. Natural philosophers will travel far and wide, to the outermost reaches of the empire and beyond to retrieve information that might better their understanding of the world and its workings. They seek knowledge, not power. Conquering the Void is not their aim, instead it is rather to comprehend something incomprehensible."

Oliver sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, taking a moment to think before speaking again. "So they surround themselves with artifacts and trinkets they find scattered around the Isles, my Mark carved into their ancient surfaces. Names have power and I believe the two of you understand that far more than the vast majority. In this case, the saying is quite literal. My runes and bonecharms provide the Void with tiny cracks in the slab from which it may spill out into reality. Typically, I could control that. I was its mediator, the one who directed the power, the one who determined who would act as the windows between worlds as to keep it at bay. But now the Void is empty, desolate, with no consciousness to be at one place at one time, no representative to speak for its vast, benign plains."

His hand eased some of her tension, but not nearly as much as she’d like. Emily closed her eyes, wanting to wrap herself around him as she had that horrible night — but this wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t the Void in her mind, these were the facts of the world. She shook her head, blinking her eyes back open even as the ice in her bones spread. Six in ten. Curiosity that welcomed the Void, tried to explore it — it wasn’t something they could just stop. The Abbey had been trying for centuries, and what good had it done them? Her head cocked to the side for a moment, though her hope was slim. “What about the music boxes?” It wouldn’t stop the storm - she doubted anything could - but maybe if they applied strategic placement they could prevent a death or two. Weaken the ties artifacts held to the Void. But no, that would cause an uproar. Her reign had been particularly generous with the Academy, particularly fond of invention and study, perhaps a bit too lenient on heresy in the halls of scholarship; an invasion like that would anger a lot of people. Important people.

Drawing away from his comforting grasp, she found her head in her hands, incredibly weary. She wouldn’t ask for comfort, as much as she wanted it. She was drawing into herself again. She had to endure this, she had to be strong — the figurehead of the Empire. Her face went smooth, stony, chin rising as her hands folded neatly in front of her. No time for self-pity. No time for moping. It was time for planning and action.

He thought again, piecing things together in his mind, struggling to pull apart the information he had to work with and assemble some kind of answer. But he knew far too well how difficult it was to explain something as ambiguous as the Void. "Music boxes wouldn't work the way you'd like them to. They might distort the Void, but really, all they can do is fracture the intimate bond between a Marked and the energy that leaks through the Void and into them. They do not banish the Void completely, that would be impossible. What the Void seeks is equilibrium: as above, so below. It needs a counterbalance. Otherwise it would just swallow the world completely."

Oliver stopped when he caught sight of her movements, not continuing. His eyes flickered over her form and though he was obviously concerned, there was something else gleaming in his gaze. A mixture of things - admiration, yearning, desire - brows knitted together against his forehead. She was so resilient, even when the odds were against her she held her chin high, she spoke with voice unwavering, a tongue so sharp it could cut through diamonds. It was baffling, how someone so incredibly strong inside and out could be reduced to breathy moans and hushed desperation.

He was so lost in thought that the moment itself escaped him. He memorized her features, her jawline, her neck still faintly discolored by the force of his lips, her almond eyes and carefully shaped brows, the raise of her cheek bones, the bow of her lips. Everything in the wavering light of candles and a dying fireplace. Gorgeous. She was the most graceful creature he'd ever laid eyes on, like a roaming feline on the golden plains of the Pandyssian continent. She never fit in amongst nobles, her features too bold, her movements too methodical; she was a gem amongst rubble.

Emily stared at steady hands as she listened, distantly wondering if she might turn to stone herself if she stayed still enough. Would it be a relief, to be stone as Corvo had been? He never talked about his time trapped as Delilah’s statue. She’d never felt brazen enough to ask. She knew it hurt him to speak of those days - of his failure as Royal Protector - and it wasn’t necessary for her to see the pain twist his features for her sake.

She focused on her breath, counting as she breathed in and out, letting his words enter a calm mind. Balance. That made sense. The Void needed a touch of their world as much as their world needed a touch of the Void. All things in equilibrium. It lacked a counterbalance.

…So they needed to provide one.

She wasn’t happy about the prospect, but could had to wonder of Corvo’s feelings on the matter. She glanced to her father to find-

He stared at the man beside her, mouth in a tight scowl. But not in concern. He looked angry. Or just… thoroughly irked. Glaring furiously. She turned as well, even as Corvo cleared his throat vigorously, only to find a pair of pale green eyes dazedly staring at her... neck?

She felt a slight blush creeping from her chest, and adjusted the fabric against her skin, pursing her own lips as she quickly looked away. And they’d been doing so well.

Corvo cleared his throat again, louder, and she shot her own glare at him.

“Father, I thought we already discussed this-” Her tone was warning, but it didn’t do much good.

“Let the man defend himself, Emily, he’s not your pet — stop treating him like one.”

She felt affronted. How dare he. Her mouth opened to say something, but she felt at a loss for words. Corvo hadn’t even spared her a glance, his eyes still trained on Oliver. Words raced through her head, perching on her tongue, ready to call her father out for the way he was treating Oliver — the way he was treating her.

The clearing of a throat didn't reach his ears the first time. He wasn't focused on her neck itself so much as the entirety of her. He wanted to capture her where she stood. While he still had the privilege of doing so. It was only when she spoke up against her father that he snapped out of his reverie. His eyes shot towards Corvo, the look in his eyes almost venomous.

He spoke before she could, "I favored you Corvo Attano, when the streets ran with muddied waters and scattered limbs gnawed by plague rats. I gifted you with the ability to change the tides of fate and save Emily Kaldwin from perverse nobility and asked for nothing in return. I respected the rules you set in place, I acted accordingly from the moment I stepped foot into the tower and had I not met Emily by pure chance and chance alone, I would not have sought her out before you granted me permission. Now I am not asking, I am demanding that you, and please pardon my language, get the fuck off my back. I am not younger than you, I am not your subordinate, you may be Royal Protector, but I am four thousand years old, and excuse me for being so bold but I think I am a damn fine candidate to court your daughter so long as she, an adult might I add, is consenting," he snapped, brows furrowed dangerously, hands gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles were turning white.

Had the circumstances been different, he would have held his tongue. But now he knew what had to be done. He knew exactly what was necessary to stop all of this. Which meant ultimately that the life he envisioned would never come to fruition. He wouldn't learn by experience, he wouldn't taste all of the flavors life had to offer him, suffer blissfully through the mundane hardships of the average man. Most importantly, he wouldn't be growing old with Emily, as he had imagined himself doing, regardless of whether or not they were romantic. He just wanted to be at her side, he yearned for her presence. If he bored her and she took another suitor, he would accept that. But what he could not accept was that even after all of these years, Corvo hadn't shown the slightest bit of gratitude, or at the very least, some form of respect.

He didn't want to be treated like a god, revered or given special treatment. But he wanted to be treated like an equal. Frankly, he had no idea what Corvo had against him. Part of him suspected it was the dogma of the Abbey, another part of him felt something indescribable. An emotion that nestled between guilt and sorrow. He knew things, like the locations of hidden treasures, the great adventures of lost heroes, or the lonely life of the Royal Protector who still hadn't taken on another romance after the deep intimacy he shared with Jessamine. Who's only reason to wake up in the morning was the future of his pride and joy, Emily Kaldwin.

Emily’s brows shot up and she turned undeniably surprised eyes on Oliver as he spoke. She… hadn’t been expecting that. In the least. She found a small smile coming - unbidden - at his choice of language, and she bit her lips to keep them closed, though the lift in them was still evident. As he went on, she found herself oddly proud of him. Some smug part of her was reminded of her own sentiments; he didn’t need Corvo’s permission, he needed hers. There was a long tense pause. She found herself gazing at him in wonder for a moment before glancing to Corvo for his response.

He had a wry smile on his lips, eyes alight, and when he spoke it was to Emily, though his eyes only flicked away from Oliver briefly, his voice no gruffer than usual. “As I said… Let him defend himself.” He didn’t seem angry. If anything, he looked affirmed, as though he’d been waiting for such a response — though there was certainly a touch of amusement in his expression, even if no one but Emily would be able to spot it.

She wondered if he had wanted such a reaction — not necessarily an outburst, but perhaps just some push back. A curious part of her wondered if it was some kind of test. After all: Emily herself was often quite adamant. Maybe he wanted Oliver to prove he could stand up in the face of someone as intimidating as the Royal Protector. She had, admittedly, been a bit blindsided by his assertiveness. ...Maybe she had been a bit… over-protective.

Corvo finally looked to her pointedly, raising an eyebrow, but didn’t respond to Oliver. And it seemed he didn’t plan to.

Her eyelids twitched a moment as she resisted rolling her eyes, running her tongue over the back of her teeth to keep her childish exasperation from voicing itself. “...Well.” Her voice held just a touch of sarcasm. “If you don’t mind, my time is limited. Can we return to the matter at hand?” She didn’t wait for an answer, instead looking down at her hands, her voice with a forced casual lilt. “If possible, I’d prefer not to sentence some poor human to thousands of years of torture and torment. Aside from the cruelty of it, there’s also no way to guarantee they’ll be… well… not Delilah. Do we have alternatives?”

Admittedly, he hadn't seen that coming. His emotions clouded his foresight and judgment, especially when Emily was involved. He sat back and let out a small sigh, eyes flickering to her when she finally spoke and broke the awful, somewhat awkward silence that'd fallen between them.

He felt like a weight had been lifted. Though not nearly as heavy as the burden of most likely having to return to the Void, it was at the very least comforting, He was grateful — for both of them, for Billie Lurk, and even Daud, the whispered name still lingering in his ear, against the length of his neck. The breath had been cold, it smelled like wet stone after a rain in the Month of Harvest.

In these few days, if he'd learned anything, it was to respect himself. Though perhaps he was a less suitable candidate for courting now that he was probably sentenced to another several thousand years in a vast, boundless oblivion. The thought made his stomach turn, made his fingertips ache and twitch just faintly. His mouth was dry, his throat was tight. He visibly tensed as though his father's hand were there, lingering and threatening to fall against his cheek until he saw red. He pushed past that, though.

Months ago, he would have rather slit his own throat than step foot in the Void ever again, the mere thought alone sent him into a trembling stupor. But now? Knowing that he had to, knowing it was a necessity, well aware that there wasn't much time left, there was no other choice.

"... The solution is perfectly clear Emily. There were eight that I marked, connected to the Void by the tether I tied to them. Touched by another world. One of them could take my place, but this is my choice. I am choosing not to subject another to the cruelties of that existence, it's simple... I'll return. The balance will be restored, the Abbey will have its whipping boy, the cogs of the universe will turn as though brand new, perhaps even better than before... And you will be the best empress the Isles have ever seen." He spoke evenly, despite the tension building, despite his eyes that flickered away from the conversation or the way he twiddled his thumbs beneath the table.

Emily stared at him, her brow furrowing slightly, looking mildly confused. She blinked.

“No.”

It wasn’t said vehemently, or passionately, just spoken as though correcting someone who’d just claimed the sky was yellow. And she was correcting him. Because what he said was obviously not true. He said eight. Her, Corvo, Daud, Delilah, and… four others. Which meant at least one of those four could easily still be out there.

Perhaps following the path of the storm? It would hit Dunwall, of course - and they would really have to come up with some tower defenses, if they were in need of them - but maybe there were other cities it was hitting especially hard. She could choose a few trusted agents to search — maybe Billie could help, with her… odd gifts. Send out agents, find the other four Marked - however many remained - and choose a sacrifice. She didn’t like the idea of sacrificing anyone, but if she had to do so it certainly wasn’t going to be anyone in this room.

She turned to Corvo, ready to issue the order, and found him looking at Oliver with narrowed eyes, face inscrutable. All traces of amusement were gone from his face, but so were all hints of anger. He couldn’t truly be considering this an option, could he? It wasn’t. It wasn’t an option; it was ridiculous. Oliver may have thought he knew everything, but he was a pessimist — a self-hating tortured soul with a martyr complex. A masochist. She’d find another way, and he couldn’t dissuade her. She was the Empress of the Isles. And if she needed to lock him up to keep him from his stupid suicidal savior plans, she would. Keep him safe. For as long as it took to find someone else.

Or until the world ends.

The thought was dismissed immediately. No. The world wasn’t going to end. This was a complex problem but it had a simple solution. They just needed to get started as soon as possible.

“We need agents to start searching for the other four Marked-”

“Three.”

She faltered. “Three?”

Corvo hadn’t looked away from Oliver. “The other three Marked. One of the four is dead already.”

He was disconcertingly certain of that fact.

“...Three, then. Find who we can. Choose a sacrifice. Start looking for other places of odd occurrences.” She turned to Oliver. “Who else did you Mark?” Her voice remained level — calm, self-assured. But in a corner of her mind she was already planning to make him promise. To promise her not to do it himself. To give it time. If he- ...If he felt about her, the way he claimed to - and she was very nearly positive he did - he would promise her. They may not have much time, but they had time. The storm wasn’t the end, just a harbinger. They had time.

Oliver quietly decided to himself that they most definitely did not have as much time as Emily most likely thought they did. The storm was the end. He could make no promises.

But he could entertain her. He could play her game, as it was more convenient than having her order him into a prison from which he'd have to escape. He knew how much she valued those close to her, as well as the lengths she'd go to keep them safe.

His eyes, pale green hues, shifted towards Corvo and an almost knowing expression painted his features. His voice was quieter, and took on a certain tone. It could have been defeat, or perhaps it was acceptance. He knew his fate. Emily had given him the literal time of his life. He owed her this much, to give her these final days in return. To express how deeply he felt for the Empress of the Isles, Emily Kaldwin. He was amused if anything, by how the most intriguing hero in all of the Isles could be so fundamentally flawed. Humans: such intricate little things.

"...Two," he clarified, glancing between them. He did not open his lips to talk of the lonely rat boy that spent his days wandering the streets of Gristol. Begging, knees knobby from the weight of himself against the pavement and clothing worn and tattered, falling apart where he stood while noble folk looked to him and tilted their chins skyward, scoffing in distaste. It was a story he didn't think they'd want him to recall, though he had many of those he kept locked away within him, relished memories of the past that he clung to even in this pitifully limited form he now took.

Instead, he settled with a moment of silence, reverence for the small child that he related to. He, a cold, calloused monstrosity of the Void, had been touched deeply by the scavenging little street urchin whose shoes hardly fit and creaked as he stepped. "...There is one who remains in Serkonos. A member of the Oracular Order. Her name is Sianna Devries and she hides a dirty secret from her sisters, shrouded by a cloak comprised of the Void itself, distant and weary. She ages now, faster than before, she notices that her bones aren't what they used to be, that her skin has begun to loosen along the shrinking muscles and tendons. She is your best bet at winning this race," he explained, leaning forward and setting his chin on clasped hands.

He was lying to her and it was genuinely painful, a deep aching at the center of his chest. But in her state of delusion she would likely grasp at any straw, or the very thought of that straw existing. He needed to get to Shindaerey Peak, he needed to seal the crack in the slab; he couldn't do that behind her bars. Finding his remaining Marked ones would be near impossible within the amount of time they had left, which was a little more than a week, week and a half at best. He wasn't even certain they were still alive.

Two. Just two. And from that, a single name. Her hope had dwindled to a small thread, but it rushed ever stronger for it: a river that could pass through the eye of a needle. She couldn’t give up now. She clung to this last scrap of information, mind already making plans. Pulling a blank piece of paper toward her, she scrabbled for a writing utensil and immediately began marking things down. “Then you’re off to Serkonos to find her.”

They’d need to take the fastest ships they had, as soon as possible. Tomorrow morning, probably, just for the sake of acquiring a crew. She knew Corvo had some sailors on his payroll, though perhaps not enough to fully staff a ship, but this was a mission about speed. A small ship would do, if it was quick. She needed to make him promise as soon as possible. Even then… “Corvo, you’ll go with him.”

Corvo looked to her, blinking that intense concentration from his eyes as he took in what his daughter said. “Emily, I can’t leave you here alone-”

“I’ll be fine,” she snapped, before clamping teeth down on her lip and leveling her voice. “You’ll be quick - get in there, make the sacrifice, get back here as soon as possible - and everything will be fine.” She finished her quick notes and stilled her hand. One deep breath. Calm. Level. Don’t make this desperate. She glanced to her Royal Protector. “I’ve managed without you before, Father. I think I can survive a week or two.” She said it assuredly, but doubt did color the edges of her mind, no matter how much she refused to acknowledge it. Regardless: she’d live. She might suffer... but she’d live.

Corvo’s reluctance was undisguised, but the fire of her determination was visible enough that he seemed to bite his tongue. He hesitated, eyes flicking briefly to Oliver before returning to Emily. Eyes held hers for a heavy moment before he nodded, and uncrossed his arms, taking the few steps to lift Emily’s notes from the table. “I’ll go make the arrangements.”

She stopped him with a hand on his wrist, and he looked to her with a sharply focused gaze, that softened at the warmth in her eyes. “Thank you.” I love you. They may not have said it as often as they could, especially not in the company of others, but they both knew it. She saw his jaw tense, and she could tell he was holding himself back.

And then she could feel the moment he thought ‘fuck it’ and just slung his free hand around her and leaned down to press a kiss firmly to the top of her head. Her face automatically scrunched the way it had when he’d done such things when she was younger, but the smile still spread over her lips. His voice was low and the rumble comforting as he added, “We have to talk later, Emily. Alone.” She didn’t need to see his eyes to know he was shooting a look at Oliver, though she could only assume the intention of that look. A warning? A knowing glance? Her eyes were fixed on her own hands, the small smile still lingering as she wondered.

Oliver did not move from his spot at the table. He had just signed his life away, officially. All of the aspirations he had, the hopes for the future, to make the Empire better, greater than it ever had been before, vanished before him. Turned to dust, floating aimlessly off in the distance as though they were nothing but a dream he had many nights ago. He knew once he met with the Void again, all of this would feel that way. A bittersweet memory to look back on, that last glimmering sliver of humanity he would cling to until the icy fixtures of oblivion devoured the last remaining hope tucked away within him. He would remember her.

Her scent, her skin, her lips and those piercing dark eyes of hers. The way her lashes fluttered against his neck so pleasantly, the darkness his kisses left behind along the expanse of chest. Her voice, hands prepped for the ensemble of noblemen and public figures she met with routinely. She wore many masks but he was one of few to look upon her face and see a grin. That, he hoped, would be enough to bare another few thousand years in the Void, or however long he'd need to be there.

Watching the two of them made him feel just the slightest bit better about the situation, eyes flickering between them with a small grin tugging at his lips. In some odd way he was proud of Corvo, of what he'd accomplished and the tribulations he had to overcome. Everything for the sake of the empire, everything for the sake of his daughter. He'd endured so much and even at his ripe old age he still managed to watch over her, a crow on her shoulder, better than any well learned, up and coming guardsmen ever could. He truly was a marvel.

When he caught Corvo's gaze however, he felt his stomach drop. He knew that the Royal Protector was onto him. Emily had a wild imagination, at her most desperate she could be blinded by hope. But Corvo? Corvo was a realist, he was gifted with the ability to see things for what they were. Oliver knew he'd been seen through, but he did not wear an expression of fear, regret, or even remorse.

He looked defeated but peaceful, giving a single, slow nod to the elder and turning to focus on the flames that licked at the bricks of the fireplace, studying the way they danced along the wood below. How fragile it was, a bucket of water would reduce it to nothing but embers and smoke.

Perhaps he would have to speak with Corvo too, alone.

Another squeeze around her shoulders and Corvo excused himself, off to ready a vessel and crew, prepare for a voyage the next day. As the door closed, Emily turned her attention to Oliver.

“You have to promise me.” Her eyes burned into him, fiercely willful, and she grabbed for his hands, holding them in hers. She could feel the newly-formed callouses from his training, so different - so much more human - than how they’d felt in the Void. If he could just stay human. “You have to promise that you won’t follow through on this- this martyrdom fantasy.” She spoke the words with scorn thickly covering her anxiety.

Heart pounding angrily in her chest, she summoned every bit of authority she could manage. Her eyes were bright, perhaps eerily so, a mix of determination and desperation. Her words were firm. “I forbid you from sacrificing yourself.” You’ve already suffered enough. She would make Corvo promise, too. Corvo would wield the blade. Oliver was there to locate and confirm the identity of their target, maybe perform any ritualistic bits and pieces that might be necessary, but nothing more. He would not touch the weapon. She wouldn’t let him. He was self-destructive, and she needed to protect him from himself.

It was her eyes that broke him. Not the firmness in her voice, the demanding tone it took. It was the look she gave him, desperate but certain, confident and trembling. Even if he was a bit offended by his actions being reduced down to some "martyrdom fantasy," he understood her. He knew she only wanted to protect the few people she held dearest to her. He respected that. But he could not put aside the Empire because of some inexplicable attraction he had to her. More than the Empire: he could not betray every living soul in this waking world for the selfish desires he had in mind.

He was hesitant, gaze flickering over her features, hand slowly reaching up to meet her cheek, thumb brushing over her lips as he silently thought of his next words. He wore a steady expression, but it always faltered just a bit in her presence. He didn't respond to her, didn't even open his mouth to speak.

Frankly, he didn't want to have to leave her on a broken promise. So he was at a crossroads, on one hand he could tell her he wouldn't do what she very damn well knew he would and he could play into her hands and entertain her fantasy, or he could risk being locked away and watch the world crumble around him as they desperately struggled to find the last remaining Marked ones in the very little time they had left.

His silence was off-putting, and the longer he didn’t speak the further her heart moved up her throat. She could sense the blade hanging over them — a twin-bladed guillotine poised to fall. Eyes darted between his, and she could feel her walls crumbling even as she tried to keep calm. “Please.” Her voice was low, quiet, almost with the tone of a warning. She wouldn’t lose him. She couldn’t. It was silly, frivolous, trivial — these feelings that shouldn’t be there but were.

Her grip tightened and she looked down at their hands, closing her eyes as she tried to keep her emotions at bay. “Please.” Desperation colored her whispered words and creased her brow. She clenched her jaw, finally opening her eyes again to stare into his. She held his gaze as she slipped from her chair, falling to her knees at his feet, shaking her head. You can’t put me through this. Don’t put me through this. Her chest ached, and her throat was sore as all her energy went toward keeping her composure. The breath she drew was shaky, and her mouth opened to speak. “I-” She quickly shut it as she felt her voice waver, and she ducked her face, pressing her forehead to their interlocked hands. She could feel the tremor of her skin, but stood no chance of stilling her hands.

He wouldn’t promise her. But she needed him to tell her — to tell her it would be okay. She felt pathetic. But she was too selfish, too needy, to hate herself for it.

He wouldn’t swear to her. But maybe she could buy them some time. “Just-” Her words caught in her throat, and when they returned they were hoarse. “Just come back alive.” She wouldn’t ask him to swear not to do it. But to give it a chance, to put it off, to at least attempt another solution. She knelt at his feet like it was his empire: supplicant. Begging. Her voice was just above a whisper. “Please, Lir — just come back alive.”

Seeing her unhinged like this was disconcerting. Untangling her, reducing her to her rawest, most vulnerable point was fun in the right context, but now? Where she sat on her knees with her heart open to him, eyes full of desperation, he couldn't deny her that trivial luxury. A falsehood, a promise made to be broken. They were both most certainly aware of that.

But he caved in, his chest aching in guilt and sympathy and remorse, every negative aspect of getting close to someone all bundled up and knotting at the core of him like a stab from the inside out. He took a deep breath that trembled on his lips. His eyes flickered over her and in the lighting of the flames only feet away they took on an almost golden hue. "...I won’t leave you, Emily. I will return with my life. I will return for you." He spoke carefully, brows upturned, hands tightening around hers.

"But there is a chance, Emily, that none of this will work. That the whole world will come crumbling down around us even if I do manage to find her. If that's the case, this will be our last night. And I want you to know that I couldn't think of a better person to spend my last peaceful night with than the Empress herself..." He smiled bittersweetly, worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth nervously.

He didn't know if it was the pressure of the situation or just her in general that spiked his anxiety, but now she wasn't the only one with quivering hands.

He could be lying to her. If he was being sensible he was — she was being horribly selfish, destructively so, but she wanted so desperately to believe him. To clutch at the smallest possible spark of hope and fan it into a roaring flame. She felt sick. Angry at herself, and angry at the world, and so so angry at the Void for putting her in this situation to begin with. This was why she didn’t get attached. Too much of her needed him. It was too dangerous. It was affecting her decision-making, but she couldn’t bring herself to take it back. She was aching, her chest feeling hollow, anxiety bubbling up into her throat, and the guilt ate at her but she forced it away with sheer reckless hope. Her mind wouldn’t even consider the alternative. No - it couldn’t comprehend an alternative; no words, no images formed. It wouldn’t happen. She wouldn’t let it.

...How could she possibly function for the rest of the day with this looming over her? Their last night? How was this fair? Her life had been completely overturned in less than a month. A whirlwind that had ripped through her and uprooted everything. Why was she feeling so damned much?

She had never been a pious person — to the Abbey, to the Outsider; she’d recited strictures to the satisfaction of her tutors, she’d plucked runes from altars but never knelt at them. But here, now, as the rage and sadness and loss and- ...and love devastated her, she averted her eyes and touched her lips to his hands like they were holy. She worshipped him for the briefest moment; not for being a god, but for being human.

Her eyes didn’t meet his as they struggled through the pain that throbbed in her. She strangled it. Destroyed it. Built up a levee of resolve and determined force that would endure. The small soft moment passed. She dropped his hands. Rising to her feet, raising her chin, there was fervent intensity in her set jaw and fierce gaze. She glanced down at him, every inch regal, and brought a hand to his cheek.

When she kissed him, it wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t yearning, it wasn’t hopeful, it wasn’t pleading. It was possessive. Protective. She wasn’t letting him go, and no one - nothing - could make her.

#the void devours #emsider #fanfic #dishonored fanfic #emily kaldwin #the outsider #rp #roleplay #co-op writing #collaboration #kaldwinqueen #corvo attano #dishonored #ANGST ANGST BABY #a storm is coming #team outsider #guess who added tags on ao3 #my writing

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