yanara126-writing

[yanara126-writing]

The Many Meetings of Death and Death (1/5) - Poetic Justice

Daud is a wreck. Corvo is a player avatar. Neither of them is happy about it.

Well maybe the Outsider is.

-

Read here or on Ao3 (2528 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

--

Daud is a wreck. He knows it, even without seeing the looks his Whalers give him. He knows he scares them but there is nothing he can do about it anymore. He's been cracked down the middle for a long time, and the sword he's rammed into the empress had equally rammed a wedge into that crack, ruining his careful paint job. Sitting here now at his same old desk waiting for Attano to come and get his revenge was the closest he's felt to peace in six months. Either way, whatever comes of it, today it will be over.

Thomas stands in front of him, masked and stiff, as he reports sightings of Attano's rather chaotic escape and the slew of unconscious bodies he's already left behind. Even without seeing his face Daud knows well what his now second thinks of the plan. Knows that Thomas knows he doesn't expect to survive this. Knows that Thomas agrees and resents him for it.

Daud doesn't want to die. He thought he did for a while, deliberated ending it himself even, thinking that surely it would be better for everyone if he simply took himself off of their hands rather than dragging it out and everyone down with him. Billie's coup could have almost been a relief, had she not so succinctly demonstrated what he's done to her, to all his Whalers. He knows Thomas thinks that Attano is his bolt to the head but he is wrong. The knife to his wrist brought Daud no relief and instead made him realize that what he really wants is what he gave Billie. He wants out. He wants another chance. He wants something other than blood on his hands.

Attano may very well prove a bolt to his head, he wouldn't be surprised by it despite the man's strangely non-lethal approach to his prior escapades, but it will not be Daud who fires it.

"Understood. Get new lookouts on the roofs but make sure they know not to engage. Deal with the sentries as you will." Even if he dies today, his Whalers should not. Attano has proven shockingly merciful considering his fate, leaving far more bruised egos and throats behind than corpses. The bodyguard doesn't know which of his people were involved in the assassination, and Daud is hoping that anonymity will grant them some protection. If they don't actively get in his way, Attano shouldn't feel the need to kill them. Daud doesn't want to lose more of his people, even though they shittalk him, even though they grumble and whine, even though they play inane games and try to bother him into joining, even though he tried his best to be a distant leader and not care about them. Now, at what is very likely the end of his life, there is no point in lying to himself anymore. He does care. He cares about every face and name, he remembers all of them, even those he hasn't picked up himself, and it hurts far beyond the snapping of the bond when he loses one of them. This is between him and Attano, and Daud can only hope the bodyguard will see that too. But his Whalers he can order to let it be.

Thomas remains silent for some moments, though they both know Daud will not change his mind. He's known what will - what must - happen today, since the moment his men reported finding Attano barely alive on that boat. He also knows Thomas will not disobey. He's known the young man for much of his short life, has taken him in as a lanky, abused teenager like so many of their group, and has shaped him into one of their most proficient and loyal scouts. Billie would have fought him tooth and nail on the order. Thomas will obey.

It doesn't take Thomas long to crumble. His shoulders slump and he sighs. Daud is glad for the young man's mask, so he doesn't have to see the defeat in his eyes.

"Yes, sir." Thomas doesn't mumble, has been trained far too well for it. The Whaler bows shallowly and turns to leave. Daud silently watches him. At the door Thomas stops for a moment and turns to look but says nothing else, as if he simply wants to memorize the last moment he will see his master alive. He closes to door behind himself when he finally does leave.

Daud remains alone, sitting at his desk with nothing more to do, and waits for death to come.

Death eventually comes in the form of the ugly sound of metal striking metal. The sound comes from above him though and Daud jumps up from his seat and whirls around, seeing nothing. He doesn't bother with his void vision, that would be too easy. Instead he listens and indeed, now that he is alerted, he can hear quiet footsteps sneaking around the room. He announces as much, and the steps hesitate for barely a moment. There from the bookshelf.

Well, if Attano wants to make a game of it, he has plenty of practice playing. A bunch of urchins and street-rats don't train themselves into nearly undetectable assassins.

Daud draws his sword and starts walking over, slowly and deliberately.

"Do you think you can hide from a hunter of men?" He is taunting the man, poking at him, trying to see if he can bait him out. But when he rounds the shelf (and walks past the portrait of Burrows that he shoved a sword into during one of his more... difficult moments), there is no one there. The footsteps return after a moment from the other side of the room. So he can transverse too, can he. Unsurprising, it is one of the black-eyed bastard's most useful gifts, and it explains many of Attano's miracles. Daud turns and once again follows his ears, though he also keeps an eye on the top of the shelves. It's the first lesson he teaches the novices, 'up' is usually the right direction for them, and he doesn't doubt that Attano has realized it too.

They make another few rounds like that, Daud getting close only for Attano to transverse away at the last moment to another corner of the room, clearly there but never in view. Daud is beginning to get frustrated with this pointless game of cat and mouse.

"Is that how you protected the empress?" It's a low blow and he knows it, but he wants to finally get it over with. Get Attano to fight him, one on one, until only one of them will remain standing. The waterlogged wood under his feet creaks as he stalks forward, again to that damn bookshelf and the sword in it.

Daud doesn't know if it's the reference to his beloved empress, the insult, or if Attano has simply grown tired of dancing circles around him, but finally, he steps out of the shadows, sword drawn and mark ready.

"There you are.'' The man in the mask before him doesn't answer, simply holds his sword in front of his chest. All the better. Someone else tries to answer though and he feels the arcane bond flare to life as first two then three of his Whalers jump out of the shadow, unsummoned and unbidden. He thinks he can pick out Galia and Rinaldo, and possibly Quinn. (Not Thomas though, never obedient, loyal Thomas.) For a moment anger floods through him hard enough to drown out his own trepidation.

"No! This is between me and him, out with you all, now!" He can see them flinch and hesitate, but only for a moment. Then the room is empty again, except for Daud himself and Attano, who for some reason has decided to wait out the scolding. He shuts out the arcane bond, closes himself off to all of them as well as he can without severing it completely. He's not interested in acknowledging the childish sulking of undisciplined brats who clearly need another run of the gauntlet. And when he dies, the breaking of the bond will be less painful. Attano deserves his attention at least.

He yanks at the power of the mark and halts time, just to make sure.

"And now we fight, the duel no two others could fight, against the ticking of the clock." Daud knows he's being dramatic. But then, there are only two people now who could judge him for it, one who has suffered far worse from his hands before, and one whose teeth Daud will personally kick in once he's dead if he dares comment on it. Attano thankfully does not deign to answer and finally attacks properly.

As their swords clash over and over, momentum driving them all across the room, Daud is unsure if the man is a genius or a lunatic. Perhaps both. Either way he is relentless. His swings are fast and almost aimless, making it hard to predict their direction. He seems less interested in doing actual damage than in driving Daud into a corner. There is little Daud can do but dodge and try to get a few lucky hits in before transversing away to gain distance. Interestingly Attano rarely follows with a transversal of his own or any magic at all. It seems Daud has the advantage of experience in using their abilities in combat, but it is clearly the only advantage he has. Attano is as tough as he is fast and confusing, the hits Daud does get in don't seem to faze him at all.

The fight is exhausting and while Attano is apparently running on endless stamina even hours after being poisoned, Daud is not, and soon he can feel the strain on his body rising. Prolonged combat has never been his forte, an assassin who fights his target openly has already failed. He doesn't intend to give up though. He owes Attano an honest victory. And so Daud makes one last desperate gamble and transverses out of his office to the next rooftop, putting his back to the crumbling wall and shifting into a defensive stance. But this time Attano follows the transversal, just smidge to the right of Daud. The first hit slams his sword out of his hands, the second one slashes him right across the chest, splattering blood all over the roof. One of his bones charms goes flying as it's ripped from his chest. And Daud knows he's lost.

Dragging up just the last bit of energy from somewhere in his bones he blinks again, only a few metres, and immediately collapses. He only stays upright because of the piece of wall behind his back. He's gasping for air, trying to push past the burning pain in his chest as he's trying to stifle the bleeding somewhat. The cut is too long and deep for him to truly block it, but at least the pressure should keep him from bleeding out until he says his piece. Even if it hurts like shit.

Attano comes closer, bloody sword in hand but not raised. He stands. And waits. As if he knows Daud still has something to say. As if he's listening. Well. Who is Daud to leave him waiting.

"I have one more surprise for you." Is it though with how Attano is looking at him? "I ask for my life." He is hoping beyond hope that none of his Whalers are watching. That he's scared them enough with his yelling that no one is seeing this and will be disappointed by the outcome, whatever it will be. He knows even in the moment it's a vain hope, he can see the shadows of at least two on the surrounding balconies. Probably Ricardo and Galia again, the little shits. He doesn't reach for the bond to check. "When I killed your empress and took her daughter something in me broke." He's trying hard to get out the words, focusing beyond the pain in his chest, the frustration over his Whalers, the wild, desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, Attano will actually let him live. Somehow none of these distractions are as difficult to get past as Attano himself, who starts shifting his weight around and keeps turning his head. As if he's nervous. Daud swallows down another surge of pain and nausea and decides to ignore it. "Now I see the design on your hand, the mark of the Outsider himself, and I remember all I've done. The years of w- What are you doing??" He's glanced away for barely a moment, and suddenly Attano has his mask pushed up and a rat half hanging out of his mouth.

At least the man has the decency to look awkward about it.

For a short while they simply stare at each other in silence, Attano chewing on the dead rat and Daud bleeding out on the ground with no words to describe the situation. Eventually he decides not to try.

"Look, I am trying to say that I regret my actions and if you let me live, I will leave and never kill again." Attano, once again, doesn't answer. He doesn't do much of anything except finish eating the rat. Whole it seems, because Daud cannot spy the bones anywhere. Instinct bred by more than a decade of training idiot teenagers who like to shove weird shit down their throats has him watching the man for signs of choking. There are none. Does he... Does he have practice with this?

Eventually Attano pulls the mask down again and starts awkwardly shuffling away. He doesn't turn away from Daud, but instead of being suspicious he seems to just be awkward about leaving. No comment about conditions, no threats, not even really much of any emotion. He just leaves Daud to bleed out on the roof and vanishes back inside the building.

Daud feels... Something, certainly. He's not quite sure what though. Pain is the easiest thing to name, but aside from that... He has just been gifted his life. Attano chose mercy. In a strange and unsettling way but mercy nonetheless. He is alive. He should be grateful for that. Somewhere in his bones he is, but above all, even above the pain, he is simply deeply confused about what just happened.

Then the pain catches up again and Daud bites back a groan as he doubles over. Well fuck it, if Attano wants to be a cryptic, rat-eating little shit, so be it. Daud has an unexpected life to live. Or at least he will if he takes care of the gash in his chest first, something he will... need help with. He curses under his breath and tugs on the arcane bond, for once not much caring who he reaches. The rumour mill will have everyone caught up in minutes anyway. Immediately he is surrounded by at least a dozen baffled Whalers, all nearly falling over each other on the narrow roof. Daud only sighs as he watches their antics, now that Attano is gone. This will be a long day.

(And really, he is thankful for it.)

[yanara126-writing]

The Many Conquests of Daud

A young Whaler gets hazed. Daud assigns latrine duty.

--

Read here or on Ao3 (6680 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

-

The flooded district is never silent, much like big hall serving as the Whalers common room. At one point it may have served as the Chamber of Commerce's clerical office, but now it is a communal gathering point for Dunwall's most feared band of assassins, when they're not busy assassinating. This afternoon during the month of timber, there are not quite two dozen people strewn across the room, engaged in various tasks and chores that are better done in company than alone. One voice in particular stands out among the murmurs, young and curious, in the way the young ones are when they're trying not to be.

"I heard he sleeps with the madame of the Golden Cat every week."

"I'm sure you did."

"They say he's so good they don't even charge him there."

"I think 'they' might be jealous."

"I saw a book that says he had an affair with the Duke of Serkonos." The sound of whetstone grinding across metal stops for a moment, though the room is still filled with all sorts of noises. Tapping, cracking, snapping, the scratching of pen across rough paper, the more far off clashing of swords and banging of pistols from outside the window.

"Ooh, which version? The one where he seduced him at 17 or the other thing, where he's secretly ruling the country behind the scenes through his cock prowess?"

"I think it was about the Duke offering a blowjob because there was a contract on his head."

"Uuuh that's a new one I think. You got that, Misha?"

"All noted down, as always." A knife thunks into an abused cork board, hung on the wall, a scribbled-on sheet of paper stuck to it. The entire board is filled with similar notes, fastened there with various sharp items, nails, screws, splinters of river krusts, pieces of wood, and one lone, mysterious tooth.

"Sooo..."

"So what?"

"Is it true?"

"Is what true, calf, you gotta be more specific."

"I mean... Any of it? I mean I guess the one with the duke probably not..."

"Aaah, but why not? Can't you see we're drowning in Serkonan gold?" The man, Kent, Pickford thinks, but he doesn't have the names down just yet, it's only been a few weeks, jumps up with a dramatic sweep of the arm, to the other present Whalers' jeering delight, resounding through the room, courtesy of a rare still whole ceiling. Even the ever present rubble is pushed to the side and the centre of the hall is filled with all the still usable chairs and desks in the entire building, if not district. (The only exception of course being Daud's personal office.) He hasn't been here long, wasn't among the Whalers that had first carved out this base for them from the ruins of the Flooded District, and much to his own chagrin hasn't even grown enough to fill out his new uniform yet, but the joke is obvious even to Pickford. As is the fact that he is the butt of it. He tries not to blush and knows he's failing miserably. He settles for pretending it's anger rather than embarrassment and tries not to fumble with the mask or cleaning cloth lying in his lap.

"So you don't know, do you?!" His voice cracks at the end of the sentence, making him sound like a broken dog toy. Misha, sitting a bit away at the next table over, stops his scribbling and instead starts cackling hysterically. He promptly receives a Whaler's mask to his face and nearly falls off his chair. Unfortunately it only makes him laugh harder. Pickford debates just how much damage he could do to the older man's face before he would be pulled off of him and get his own ass handed to him. Might be worth the extra training bruises. But before he can decide to launch himself after his mask he sees that every other Whaler in the room is looking at him, those without masks all wearing the same smug, knowing and decidedly maniacal smile.

Against his own intentions Pickford freezes, the old instincts of fear when faced with the Whaler uniforms apparently still present. A few heartbeats pass and nobody moves. Is this what Daud sees when he's suddenly on the other side of the room and all hostiles drop? The moment passes and Kent (it has to be Kent, and if it's not he will be out of spite) puts down the knife and whetstone he's been working with the last half hour. He gets up and practically looms over Pickford and his measly 17 years, still with that unsettling grin on his face.

"Congratulations, calf, you just volunteered to be part of a sacred Whaler tradition."

-

Pickford is practically shaking as he stands in front of Daud's door. With what he's not entirely sure. Embarrassment is certainly part of it. The bouquet Rinaldo (Probably Rinaldo. It seems like a Rinaldo thing from what he's heard.) had excitedly pressed into his hands is more a pathetic bundle of weeds than anything else, though he's been assured these are definitely Daud's favourites. Nerves are another part, as is excitement. Pickford is not an idiot, he knows he's being hazed, but still... What would come of it? Pickford is a liar, certainly, it was how he earned his living out on the streets before being picked up by the Whalers, but he's not in the habit of lying to himself. Nothing good ever comes from self deception and the masked potheads from the Abbey can shove their bullshit where the whale song wouldn't reach. Pickford finds Daud attractive and he thinks he wouldn't mind if this hazing went a bit further. Their leader is not conventionally attractive, he's certainly not the Royal Protector who Pickford has seen a few times during the Empress's parades and who seems to be almost insultingly good looking for a bodyguard. Daud is not nearly as groomed or lean as Corvo Attano, doesn't have the same cutting cheekbones, but he has his own rugged, blocky charm, which the large scar over his eye only enhances. And besides that, the man has undeniable charisma, a way to draw people to him that has nothing to do with the mark. Even with only the few weeks he's been here Pickford can tell. The mark makes them effective, but Daud makes them loyal. It certainly doesn't hurt that many of them owe their lives to him personally, Pickford himself included. Really it isn't his fault that he fancies Daud. Who wouldn't after looking up at the man from the dirty ground of some back alley and watching him handily dispatch five guardsmen at once. He might not have done it for Pickford, but he saved him anyway, offered him not only a job but also a home, and had then practically carried him to the Rudshore base when Pickford's legs gave out under him from blood loss.

So yes, self-aware as he fancies himself, Pickford knows that he finds Daud attractive and that he really, really wouldn't mind getting physical with him. He knows that he probably idolizes the man a bit too much, considering his, and now both of their, profession. He also knows that he is 17 and Daud is... Older. How old...? He actually isn't quite sure about that. Old enough certainly to probably find him at best uninteresting and at worst disgusting. But still, there is always a little hope, isn't there? His few escapades with some of the girls around his neighbourhood (and one very enlightening one with the tailor's son) had never been really expected either...

Something thunks in the room in front of him and very suddenly Pickford realizes he's been standing in front of the door for at least five minutes. Before he can do anything but panic the door flies open and Daud stares him down, unsurprised and unamused.

"Do you need something or are you just here to stare at the door?" Pickford wants to answer, feels compelled to really, but all he can do is stand there and gape like a fish, frozen on the spot. The vast majority of his brain is screaming in terror, clutching at the stupid weeds. Surely this is it, Daud will realize what an idiot he picked up and kick him out. Kill him even. It wouldn't be hard to, Pickford has never been good in actual fights and has barely improved since his training started, he is a con-artist with a knife. Even if he doesn't die now, he'll lose the first home he's had in years, he'll never be a full fledged whaler, he'll never see his friends again, Cleon and Dodge will forget all about him, he'll never get to earn his mark-

The miniscule rest of his brain notices the small ink stain on Daud's thumb, the way the harsh expression wrinkles his even harsher chin, the way the scar over his eye stands out in the angled afternoon light through the hole in the wall next to them.

Then Daud's eyes fall onto the terrible bouquet in Pickford's hands. It's a lot harder to be terrified of a man pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing in the manner of an exasperated parent. Not that Pickford can speak from experience. The ink stain ends up on his nose.

"Alright, who was it this time, Rinaldo or Fisher?" When Daud looks at him Pickford freezes again, though the thoughts in his head are very different. He is suddenly very aware of all the other eyes he knows are there even if he can't see them. He has a split second to make a decision.

Who does he sell out?

"Kent. Sir." The decision is quickly made. While he would love to watch Misha suffer through Daud's punishment, he wants the status that silence will afford him more. He'll get direct revenge on Kent, and Misha, Rinaldo, and all the others who were there will better give him some respect if they don't want to join him. Pickford only hopes his voice isn't shaking as much as it feels like.

Daud's eyebrow rises even higher and it feels like Pickford is being skewered by the stare, but he keeps his mouth determinedly shut. Regardless of what would come out of it, it wouldn't be good, because the stupid bouquet is still in his hands and he still can't disagree with what it means, even though he is pissed to be here and would like to punch everyone's teeth in. Even Fisher, whichever one of the fucking idiots that is.

He tries to fix his own gaze on the ink stain on Daud's nose, too intimidated to return the stare and too self-aware to risk his eyes wandering where they shouldn't.

Eventually Daud seems to accept the answer, or at least that he won't get a better one.

"A new volunteer for the latrines then, how considerate of him." The man glances away, in direction of the common room, and just for a moment Pickford lets himself catch a glimpse of how the red jacket hugs his arms and frames his upper body.

Unfortunately for him Daud has not forgotten his presence. Pickford snaps his eyes back to the ink stain so fast he gets dizzy. Daud frowns at him and wipes his gloved hand over the stain Pickford has been staring at, checks the ink now on the glove, and sneers. Pickford can feel himself get redder than his master's jacket, his ears burning so hot he might as well be a whale oil lamp.

Daud only spares him a glance before turning away, starting a slow walk away from the office in direction of the common room.

"Come along." The order is rough as all of Daud's words are, but surprisingly not murderous. Not willing to tempt fate, the Outsider, or Daud any further Pickford hurries after him, not a word leaving his lips. He discards the damned bundle of weeds at the first opportunity and throws it through a collapsed wall into a puddle outside.

The walk is leisurely and unhurried and Daud doesn't even bother transversing up the ledges and stories, instead taking the long way around on foot. Pickford spends a few minutes puzzling about why, because surely it isn't for his benefit. Daud is not known to cut the newer recruits, or anyone for that matter, any slack. Then he hears, just so, at the very edge of his perception, the clacking of boots on concrete and the popping of a transversal. It occurs to him that if he already knew they were being watched, Daud must have known ten times over. It's not for Pickford that he's taking his time, it's to give the other Whalers plausible deniability. This answers one question for Pickford and creates about 10 more.

They eventually reach the common room (and Pickford has valiantly only once let his gaze wander over Daud's backside. Just for a short moment.). Daud doesn't bother knocking and instead simply throws open the double doors, just hard enough to cause a loud crash but not break the water logged doors.

The Whalers inside are the picture of innocence. About 20 people, none with masks, and all diligently working on their chores without a care in the world. No one flinches at the door's crash. There are small puddles collecting under their boots.

It takes less than five seconds for them to start shrinking away under Daud's drilling gaze.

"Find yourself another hazing ritual or you can fish that board out of the Wrenhaven." Which board he means is clear, even without the nod in the direction of the haphazard collection of rumours decorating the back wall of the room.

That threat gets the Whalers moving, some jumping up from their seats, some gesticulating wildly and all of them shouting protests over each other so loudly there is no hope of understanding any of them. Daud tolerates it for a moment, until he lifts one hand and the whole room falls silent again immediately.

"You heard me. Kent. Latrines for the next two months." Kent (and very quietly Pickford thanks the Outsider that it really was Kent. He'd have made it work otherwise but it would have been terribly awkward) slumps over the back of his chair, conveniently almost hidden behind one of the room's support pillars, and groans. "Rinaldo. Stake out for the Brimsley job." The sound of indignant splattering comes from the rafters and Pickford looks up to indeed find another Whaler crouched up there, with a mixture of horror and outrage on his face.

"But I didn't even- !" Daud doesn't even look up.

"Keep complaining and you'll get to do the job too." That shuts Rinaldo up though he doesn't look any less miserable. Pickford decides not to comment on his realisation that he was wrong about who handed him the weeds. Not that he indicted Rinaldo in the first place. "Misha." Daud squints across the room for a moment, while Misha casually leans into his chair next to the board, somehow the only one who doesn't seem to be balancing on a knife's edge. "You're on thin fucking ice." Misha smirks and lifts his hands as if in surrender. Daud continues glaring at him.

As abruptly as he arrived Daud turns and leaves, leaving the door wide open behind him and Pickford standing in the doorway. Very suddenly Pickford becomes aware of many pairs of eyes settling on him, none of them benevolent. He makes the strategic decision to retreat and does not stumble out the door, thank you very much. Without conscious thought he once again settles into step behind Daud, though where to he has no idea. Belatedly he realizes that he was not invited this time and Daud may very well not want his presence, but as their master has yet to comment on his tagging along he decides to risk Daud's annoyance rather than his sib- coworkers' imminent revenge. Better to give them some time to cool off.

For a short while they simply walk, though not back to the office curiously. First through the crumbling hallways of the financial complex's main building, and then eventually outside, following the walkways and ledges over the flooded streets out of reach of rats or weepers. Daud's steps are long but not unreasonable to follow and so Pickford hurries after him, trying to keep up while not slipping on anything. He's embarrassed himself enough today, no need to add falling and drowning because of his own incompetence to the list.

Eventually they reach the roof of an old storage building, the back half of which is already collapsed. Daud ignores the giant gaping hole behind them and sits down on the ledge of the building, one leg dangling into the multiple stories deep abyss below them, the other propped up against the ledge. Pickford knows it's a bad habit, he's gotten himself chewed out by Tynan enough times, but still he starts awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other as Daud takes out a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. Just standing around feels wrong, almost voyeuristic in a way that is suddenly much less enticing, but sitting down next to him, pretending to be an equal, feels akin to sacrilege. Daud pulls out a smoke, lights it with the flick of a finger, and takes a slow drag, while Pickford tries not to fidget with the sleeve of his uniform.

Moments pass and Pickford starts considering if just leaving would be less awkward, when Daud glances over his own shoulder towards him and lifts an eyebrow. He nods this head to the empty spot next to him. Pickford does not flinch, but he does freeze for a moment before the fledgling instinct to obey takes over. He shuffles over to the ledge, cursing himself quietly for his hesitation, and slides down to sit. He leaves a good metre between them, unwilling to seem too straightforward.

Daud glances over again and takes another drag, keeping his head turned, so the smoke blows away from Pickford. "You're not getting one."

"No, sir." Pickford nods. That is one of the first things he's learnt here. Daud doesn't share his smokes. With anybody. Says they shouldn't repeat his mistakes, but if they want to to do it on their own coin. Not many Whalers are smokers. Tynan is one of them, handed Pickford a smoke once and told him to take a deep breath. He spent the rest of the day coughing so hard his throat went sore and never touched another one.

A few moments more pass in silence, Daud smoking and Pickford rolling around a pebble lying on the ledge and occasionally letting his gaze wander over the dreary skyline of the flooded district, wrecking his brain what he's even doing here. Eventually Daud finishes the cigarette and puts out the stub on the concrete beneath them. He turns to Pickford, his face hard as ever, and Pickford tenses under the intense gaze. His body feels uncomfortably hot and Pickford is very aware it's not just the nervousness. He forces himself to turn his head towards the older man and not cower, though he still keeps his eyes on Daud's nose, rather than the piercing gaze or the firm, rough lips or the thick, sharply cut eyebrows, or the beard stubble or- Nose, between the eyes. Focus.

"So." It's not a question, but somehow Pickford feels like it is. Unfortunately he doesn't know which one.

"Sir?" Shockingly Pickford does manage not to mumble the question. Daud's brow furrows anyway, but at least he doesn't sound angry.

"What did you do?" Pickford can feel his face heat up and knows he must be embarrassingly red again. Oh how he misses his mask, but it is safely, almost religiously, stored under his bunk, after another apologetic polishing for throwing it. Unwillingly his eyes drop down to watch the pebble roll between his fingers rather than face Daud's piercing gaze.

"Asked after the board. Sir." He stumbles over the honorific, tacks it on just so at the end of the sentence, and winces. Disrespectful is the last thing he wants to be right now, but his face is hot and his fingers tingle with nerves. He hasn't spent this much time with Daud since he's first joined the Whalers, and on that first way back to base he was barely even conscious. And Daud is imposing in more ways than one.

"Ah. I don't know why they insist on keeping the nonsense around." Pickford doesn't know quite what to make of the tone of Daud's voice. There is exasperation, but also something else. Something... Warmer? "And keep your eyes up, boy." The pebble in Pickford's hand scrapes across the concrete as his hand tightens. He is nervous yes but- He also likes Daud's tone, in a way that warms his chest. Firm but not cruel. Demanding but in a way as if he had confidence in Pickford. And as always Pickford finds himself unable to disobey and lifts his head away from the safe pebble in his hands.

"Yes, sir." He swallows but does manage at least a short while to look Daud in the eyes. They remind him of the grey steel of the whaling ships. They speak of horror and violence beyond his imagination, but far more importantly, they speak of freedom. Freedom and companionship.

Pickford clears his throat and turns to look out over the district again, letting his gaze roam over the ruins of houses, halls, and estates, making sure that his head remains high. He's never felt a particular call to poetry, and doesn't quite know what to do with the thoughts that have started intruding on his mind for the last few weeks, but he certainly does know he will not admit them in front of Daud. He frowns. Or the others for that matter. A slight whiff of cigarette smoke drifts over. Daud must have lit another one. Pickford doesn't like the smell, not really, Tynan successfully beat that out of him, but still the quiet noise of rushing water below them and the vague smell of smokes is strangely comforting and Pickford relaxes bit by bit. This high up there are neither river krusts nor weepers to disturb the calm. Maybe Daud won't do unspeakable things to him. (And probably not the ones Pickford wants him to.) Maybe he won't get kicked out of the only home he's known in years for making some mistakes. Maybe he'll just also get assigned latrine duty, and that he can deal with. Even if it has to be with Kent. Because despite the mortifying experience of being hazed, Pickford is so very, very curious...

"Sir- is any of it true?" He asks before his courage has time to break away and even turns to look at Daud.

"Of what?" Daud grunts around the smoke hanging from the corner of his mouth as he glances at Pickford.

"The- the board, sir." Pickford winces at the stumble, but Daud doesn't acknowledge it, simply turns back to look across the districts. He takes another long drag, then takes the cigarette between two fingers and blows the smoke away.

"No. I don't bother with this sort of nonsense." Pickford frowns. The no he understands, makes sense even, as disappointed as he is about it. But nonsense? Does Daud mean the board itself?

"Sir?" he asks. Daud turns towards him and fixes him with a stare, an eyebrow raised.

"Sex. It's a waste of time and frankly not worth the trouble." That- is not quite what Pickford expected and he freezes. The air suddenly feeling much colder and the abyss much more threatening. Did he miss something? Is that a rule?

"I- yes. Sir," Pickford mutters, his eyes flickering away and back to Daud, his mouth dry. And then the Knife of Dunwall himself rolls his eyes at him as he flicks the cigeratte bud over the edge of the roof.

"I'm aware that not many people share my opinion. You are free to do whatever you want when you're off duty." Daud narrows his eyes at him, tone changing from exasperation to gravity. "The only rule is that if a problem comes up, you go to Montgomery and you tell her. Everything." Pickford nods rapidly, some of his tension dissipating as it becomes clear he hasn't accidentally stumbled into a trap.

"Yes, sir." He means it. He certainly doesn't want to tell their healer anything at all about any... Encounters he might have, but he wants to piss off Daud even less. He'd much rather get his ear chewed off again by Montgomery than face Daud's wrath. Or dissapointment.

Daud continues glaring at him and Pickford shrinks back under the intensity. "I won't have an outbreak among my Whalers because someone wasn't careful about where they put their junk."

"I understand, sir." Pickford swallows and nods again, twice just to be sure. Daud appears satisfied with the assurance and he lets up the glaring, instead pulling himself up from the ledge. He cracks his neck once with a quiet grunt and crosses his arms before looking down on Pickford whose mouth suddenly becomes very dry. The sun behind him gives Daud an almost mystical appearance, the way the light shapes a halo around his form, making his shoulders look even broader and his slicked back hair shimmer.

"Good. Aside from that, no means no, maybe does not mean yes, and don't come crying to me if you do a bad job." He hesitates for a moment, giving Pickford a short once-over. "If you need help, talk to Montgomery. She'll tell me if anything needs to be taken care of. Anonymously." It takes Pickford a moment to realize what Daud means and when it finally clicks the man is already gone in a whirl of black wisps. Pickford is left alone on the crumbling roof with very few answers and- not exactly questions, he wouldn't know what to ask even if Daud came back, but certainly a lot of confusion.

With Daud gone the lonely ledge high above the weeper infested rivers of Rudshore feels much less comfortable and Pickford drags himself up to walk back to base. He jealously glances back at where Daud vanished, not for the first time yearning to finally earn his mark. He knows that the risk that it won't take, and even more he knows the risk that will come once he has it, but Pickford has long come to terms with risk as a matter of life. Unfortunately, no matter how much he wishes, he has not yet earned Daud's trust enough and he will simply have to walk back. With a sigh he turns to start making his way over the walkways and ledges.

Without Daud to hurry after it takes him longer to get back and then another while to find a safe entrance into the Chambers of Commerce. Most Whalers simply transverse through whichever hole in the wall is available and the way he came with Daud includes a rather steep jump that would be uncomfortable if not unsafe to climb. He eventually finds a back door that is still usable though it requires a good shove that leaves his shoulder aching. The way up to their common room feels longer than it really is, leaving him to contemplate whether he should just find himself a different legde to wait until night shift and then sneak to his bunk. It's tempting, but then he remembers the feeling in his chest when Daud told him to keep his head up. He stands straighter at the thought, shoulders back and spine steeled. No, he will not be a coward again. Mark or not, he is a Whaler, and he will not shame Daud by running away. Besides, they're his- coworkers. Other whalers, hardly Overseers. He'll get a thrashing in training tomorrow anyway, whether he goes to face them now or not, and they'll hardly do anything worse. He's already embarrassed himself in front of Daud and came out ahead. All he has to do now is use the leverage what he has gained himself in only selling out Kent. Surely that will count for something, right?

By the time he reaches the door his resolve has chipped at the edges, but Pickford is used to making damaged goods look brand new. He steels himself again, takes a deep breath and pushes open the doors, putting on the most arrogant face he possibly can.

The doors fly open and the room turns completely silent. Pickford freezes in the door, his pretense at arrogant confidence falling instantly. The entire hall is packed with Whalers, certainly more than 40 strewn all over the place, frozen in the middle of various activities. Most of them wear the masters' blue. All of them now staring at him.

Suddenly the entire room is filled with noise so loud Pickford flinches in surprise. For a moment he fears that retribution for his tattling would be right swift after all, until his ears catch up on the fact that what he's hearing are not shouts of threats, but rather laughter, cheering, and, most bizarrely, clapping and whistling. He stands in the door looking over the bizarre spectacle until another Whaler pops up next to him, surrounded by swirling black threads. She's blonde and tall, with a glass eye in the left socket. Jordan maybe? Probably Jordan laughs and claps him on the back, pushing him into the fray. More and more Whalers crowd closer to him giving him a friendly shove, clapping him on the shoulder and all around being deeply strange. There's words being said, he can hear things like 'good job' and 'grow up so fast' but none of it makes any sense to Pickford so he focuses on not being petted to death while he's shoved around by merry Whalers.

Eventually he finds himself on the edge of the room, finally out of the centre of the commotion. The others are apparently satisfied with their effort to treat him like some sort of puppy dog and leave him to it. He can see some bottles being opened, though noticeably few glasses are visible. The riot has calmed down a little bit, having turned from tumultuous shouting into companionable chatter. Pickford slumps against the wall and let's out a deep sigh, wide eyes wandering around the hall. He spots Kent and Rinaldo at the window, slouched against the ledge and visibly sulking. Kent spots his looking and Pickford tenses, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but Kent just sighs dramatically, throws his head back and slides even further down into the chair until his ass is nearly off the seat. Rinaldo glances towards him, then throws his hands up in the air with the most exaggerated anguish Pickford has ever seen and throws himself onto Kent with such force they both tumble to the floor in a tangled heap. This starts another round of uproarious laughter ringing through the hall and someone throws a deck of cards over them, pronouncing them 'obnoxious dipshit and unlucky idiot, lawfully wedded'.

Pickford stays against his wall and questions if he somehow ended up in the Void. Master Daud once said the Void reflects a wrong reality, so that seems like it would cover it.

"Don't worry about them, they'll be fine, they just like complaining." Pickford flinches, the voice being far closer to his ear than anyone has any right to be without his noticing. He turns and finds Misha there, leaning against the wall behind them, a wooden tankard in his hand and mischievous glint in his blue eyes.

Pickford collects himself and does his best to put on his most disdainful sneer and turns demonstratively away. "I'm not talking to you." Misha has the gall to laugh.

"Ah, take it easy kid, no one here meant anything by it. And revenge for it is fair game, those two half-wits won't bite you over it." He chuckles. "Well, Kent might give you a bit of whacking during combat training, but it's only because we love you." Pickford feels a hand on his hand tousling his hair even further and he twists to glare at Misha. The older man pulls his hand away but he's still laughing. Pickford bites back a growl. The last time he tried that Tynan called him 'pup' for a week. "And don't worry your little head about your reputation. Getting weird at Daud is a rite of passage for a true Whaler. It's fun, you'll see when the next calf grows into it." Misha snickers, then throws back whatever probably alcoholic drink is in his mug. Once done he wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and sighs contentedly, before turning back to Pickford. He smirks and shrugs, though his eyes seem oddly soft in the dim light. "And besides, it's education you'll need before going to negotiate a contract with him for the first time." Pickford blinks and drops the act for the moment, curiousity nagging at him. That, and even the vague promise of one day being allowed to go with Daud to finalize a contract is more than just enticing.

"Why's that?" He tries not to sound too eager at least. Misha somehow grins even wider, but this grin has an edge to it, something sharp and biting that has nothing to do with the warmth from before.

"He's the mysterious Knife of Dunwall. He may not win a beauty contest but people will hit on him for the bragging rights. Best case, he doesn't notice and you only have to do one side of subtle damage control. Worst case they get extremely obnoxious and won't take no for an answer and then you need a very delicate touch to not escalate anything." Misha grabs a flask from his belt and refills his tankard, but Pickford hardly takes notice. Part of him wants to call Misha a liar trying to prank him again, but he remembers the conversation he had with Daud. And he knows his own desire. He's known about it of course. You don't live on Dunwall's streets for five years without knowing the game that is sex and the lengths some people will go to. But somehow here, with the Whalers, even dickheads as some of them are, that felt removed. They are invincible here. Daud most of all. The thought that it happens to Daud of all people, and repeatedly, has something churning in his stomach. "Good, be mad about it. It'll make you remember that doing it just for the notch in your belt is a dick move. To anyone." Pickford startles from his contemplation as Misha speaks up again. The older Whaler is looking at him with strange intensity that reminds Pickford of Tynan, when she teaches them about field work. Work that could kill them and will kill someone else if they succeed. It is... Intimidating. Pickford nods and Misha seems satisfied, taking a sip from his mug.

The sound of something breaking comes from the other side of the room, followed by mocking shouting and stomping. Someone yells about the Outsider's cock. Pickford thinks about that night with the tailor's son and is still curious.

"Does he really never...?" He stops himself before the last word and blushes again. It feels wrong to even ask, but the question needles him. It's not like Pickford has done it a lot either. Being careless with whom you take your clothes off on the street will get you robbed, stabbed, or something else painful. But those few times... Were nice. Really nice.

Misha gives him an amused glance over the rim of his tankard. "Nope. Never. Doesn't go out at Fugue either, just kicks us out and tells us not to lose our boots." Misha chuckles. "Billie once came back barefoot and half naked. He didn't like that very much." He takes a sip, then shrugs at Pickford. "As far as we can tell he never had a long term thing going on either. Or interest in one." Pickford frowns.

"Not at all?" Misha laughs again and Pickford almost regrets still asking. Almost.

"Not at all. You could time a watch after his frowning every time romantic tangles comes up." Misha's eyes sparkle a bit, even in the dim light, and he leans in to give Pickford a conspiratorial wink. That and a good whiff of what he's been drinking, mead from the smell. "My favourite is watching his lips get thinner and thinner during the briefing, every time we get a contract over some jealous affair or other. I think if it wasn't good money down the drain he would have already knifed someone over that." He snorts at his own joke and slaps his knee with the hand not holding the tankard while Pickford rolls his eyes at him. Still, he feels obligated to answer Misha somehow.

"Huh." It's not exactly as eloquent as he would like to be, but really Pickford doesn't have much more. In essence it's just what he already got from Daud. He's not quite sure what to make of it.

Misha once again seems to clock his confusion, much to Pickford's frustration. The older Whaler smiles at him warmly. "It happens, kid. Some people like men. Some people like women. Some people like both and some people like neither. We're a colourful bunch here, out from under the Overseers eyes. You'll get used to it." That- does make sense to Pickford and he slowly nods. As Whalers they are already heretics, using dark magic and wearing bone charms. It makes sense that it would draw in people otherwise hated by the Overseers. And though a part of him can't help being disappointed, he finds that this doesn't really change anything about Daud. In fact... It somehow fits. And really, it doesn't much matter whether he won't want Pickford because he's Pickford or because he doesn't want anybody. Misha chuckles with a sly grin. "And I promise you'll grow out of your little hero crush as well." Pickford's red-faced protest is nipped in the bud when Misha's grin gets softer. "We all did." Any retort gets stuck in Pickford's throat at unabashed earnesty.

The moment doesn't hold long though and Misha pushes himself off the wall with the momentum of someone preparing to leave. He hooks his tankard onto his belt and slides his hands into his pockets.

"Now, I'm gonna get out of your hair, I can see your friends on the edge of this ocean." A quick glance into the direction of Misha's nod tells Pickford that he's right, as he sees Cleon and Dash push through the crowd. "First though..." Misha pulls one hand back out, something held in the palm of his hand. Pickford can't help but stare when he recognizes what it is. It's a bone charm that Misha holds out to him. "Here. You deserve it. Good job, novice." Hesitantly Pickford moves to grab the charm, already mesmerized by singing he can feel down to his bones. Back in the streets he didn't dare keep one, for fear of the Overseers catching him, and on the weeks since he's not been lucky enough to find one. This one feels right in his hand, singing its quiet song directly into his heart.

He's so transfixed on the charm it takes Cleon nearly throwing themself on top of him to realize that Misha, already gone into the sea of Whalers, called him 'novice'. Not calf, not pup, but an actual title. With Cleon hanging off his shoulder and excitedly demanding he tell the story they missed, and Dash curiously examining the charm herself, he decides that maybe he does like having older brothers. Even if some of them are bastards.

[yanara126-writing]

Communion

Billie didn't like watching Daud visit shrines to the Outsider.

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Read here or on Ao3 (1026 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

-

Billie didn't like watching Daud visit shrines to the Outsider. She didn't like the feelings it stirred in her, the things it made her think. Despite this she followed him to them every time he spotted one on a mission. It was always the same. First he would slow, losing focus, until he stopped entirely. Sometimes, when the mission was time sensitive, he would shake his head and move on, eyes hard as steel, but limbs moving like through tar. As if it tore at him physically to ignore the shrine. The further away they got the more he would relax. But when the mission didn't need priority, then he would go without fail. Drawn like a moth to the lamp, despite his own insistence that the Outsider was 'rotten, black-eyed bastard'. He would curse but he would go, and Billie would follow. This time was no different.

He found the shrine quickly, hidden in a windowless room, its only entrance blocked by a bookcase. Bille watched him, herself hidden just out of sight, as he rammed his sword into the thin crack between shelf and wall and yanked. The shelf gave under his strength and the extra leverage and started to topple and fell with a crash. It nearly crushed Daud, who'd thoughtlessly stepped closer and only just avoided being buried with a quick jump. When he stepped through the hole in the wall, drawn to the unnaturally steady purple light Billie followed with a transversal. He stared at the rune, no doubt hearing its song. He'd described to her once, as a haunting tune, barely something to be called a melody, like a buzzing mosquito that isn't loud but you can't ignore it anyway. He'd scowled around his cigarette as he'd explained it, gaze far away, as if he hadn't even quite known she was there.

He stared like that too now. She said something, some inane comment about how the Outsider must smell. He merely grunted absently when normally he would have answered something equally inane. Something like how if she ever smelled him she should take a proper bath afterwards.

"I wonder when he'll talk to me." The words escaped her with an unsettling urgency, pressing out of her lungs without her consent, carrying with them an undeniable truth. The feeling roiled in her chest, quietly and uncomfortably as she watched him step closer to the shrine, completely enraptured, a dour scowl etched into his face.

Daud grabbed the rune as if it had personally underpaid him. As soon as it left the purple cushion his face went slack and his entire body slumped as if all tension in his muscles simply evaporated. The hand holding the rune swung with uncontrolled momentum, a visual so comical it felt obscene to watch. He didn't drop the rune though. He never did.

Billie watched him stand in front of the shrine, unaware and unseeing, entirely helpless, and grasped the sword in her hand tighter. The feelings churning in her chest bubbled higher, boiling her organs and making her head swim.

Jealousy. She craved the power at his finger tips, the entirety of it, not just the echo passed to her. She wanted the freedom it promised, the attention of something greater. She wanted what the old man had promised her when he'd taken her in, had made her his second, had put a blade in her hand and a dream in her head. She wanted to usurp him, to control him, to be him.

Rage. It rushed through her veins, simmered under her skin. She was angry at the old man, that he had caved, was crumbling. Six months ago had marked his decline when it should have been their highest point. The assassination of an empress. He hadn't been the unbreakable rock he should have been for years, but still he had seemed unconquerable, an unbreakable wall between her and anything that could harm her. They had been invincible. All that remained now was an old man broken by his greatest success. Vulnerable, right in front of her.

Fear. If the rage made her blood boil then the fear made it freeze in her veins. Daud's crumbling scared her. What did it mean for her? In truth she knew, had been preparing for a while now, was prepared to do what was necessary, but still it scared her. What she was going to do to the man who'd raised her, who'd given her something to live for again. Delilah had called it Billie's own fatal flaw, the weak spot she had to hide if she wanted to make it. Looking at him now, completely out of it, so easy to take down while he was speaking with his god, it shook her to the core. She tried not imagine how he would look when she was done.

When he finally broke out of it and shook his head and pocketed the rune, the biting scowl back on his craggy face, Billie stayed still, the sword back on her hip.

"You were in daze." She didn't know why she told him. It wasn't new to him or to her. "I hope it was enlightening." I never seemed to be, not in any way that helped. The last time, back when he'd come back with the name Delilah on his tongue and urgency in his movement, had brought him back to some sort of active awareness and participation, but it had only made him more obsessive in his failures. This time didn't seem to be different judging by his sour face. She craved to know what he'd learnt, for a taste of it herself. She was terrified of it.

Daud gave her no answer, his gaze gliding over her without catching. She took it at as a dismissal and transversed away, back outside the building and to the outpost on the roof. She waited up there and watched as he made his made his way through the building, one unconscious guard at a time, until Timsh was arrested. Humiliated and ruined, but alive without a scratch.

No, Billie didn't like watching Daud visit the shrines.

[yanara126-writing]

The Height of Friendship

Before there was a plague in Dunwall, before the Empress fell to a Whaler blade, there used to be a time of peace in Dunwall Tower, a time when adventure did not mean blood and pain and suffering, but dirtied clothes, green trees, stolen pastries, friendship, and the safety of knowing there will always be someone catch to you.

--

Read here or on Ao3 (6680 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

-

Day 15 of the Month of Nets, 1835. A warm and sunny day and, as far as Royal Protector Corvo Attano was concerned, a calm one. Empress Jessamine Kaldwin was having tea in the garden pavilion with some of the more polite court ladies, sitting around a prettily decked out table and enjoying a break from endless meetings. He himself was of course standing, as was befitting of the Royal Protector, turned just slightly to the side to grant the ladies some privacy while still overseeing any potential danger. (There had been a few too many giggles in his direction for Corvo's taste recently, many of them Jessamine's as she teased him for his attempts at dodging the rumour mill. He refused to surrender and had thus declared a strict period of professionalism. Jess had giggled at that too. Corvo had turned away so she wouldn't see his smile.)

The comfortable peace was broken suddenly, as so often, by the crown princess, Lady Emily. Running from the direction of the backyard gardens she could be heard shouting before she even rounded the corner, but instead of her usual excitement over an interesting bug or one of her artworks her voice was instead filled with anxiety, putting Corvo instantly on high alert. He knew his- the princess' tones very well, and she didn't sound to be in pain or terrified of imminent bodily danger, but nonetheless distressed. He left his weapons sheathed but moved his hand to the sword pommel.

"Corvo! Corvo, come help please!" Emily ran so fast she nearly collided into him in her haste and grabbed him by his coat, pulling him back towards where she'd come from with surprising strength for an eight-year old. Her short hair, usually styled as neatly as her mother's, was ruffled so much her hair bow was nearly sliding off, and her little white suit had streaks of dirt all over it. Before he could even ask what was wrong she was already rambling on, never letting up in her pulling. "It's Hadria! She got stuck in a tree! We were playing hide-and-seek and she found me so I told her it's her turn now but she hid so well that I couldn't find her for so long and I said she won and to come out but she didn't and then I heard her crying and saw her up in a tree really high but she's scared to come down again! I tried to help her but I couldn't get up and now she's still stuck and you have to help her Corvo I didn't mean to get her stuck I promise!"

Behind him Corvo noticed the court women had been stunned into silence as by the end Emily was near tears over her friend's predicament. Corvo himself relaxed and removed his hand from the sword, assured that no serious threat needed to be dealt with. This situation needed a different weapon. He glanced behind himself at Jessamine who had already risen from her chair and was smiling placidly at her companions.

"Excuse me, ladies, it seems duty calls. Please enjoy the tea, and we will meet again next week." The other women smiled and nodded, sending Emily some sympathetic looks as she was still pulling on Corvo's coat. Gently he pried off her fingers and instead took her hand in his so she wouldn't try to run backwards all the way to the ill-fated tree. She grasped onto his hand with all her eight-year old might and started pulling him again insistently. Jessamine stepped up right next to him and so he obeyed the princess' order and followed her away from the pavilion and into a more secluded corner of the garden, behind the tower.

It was undeniably an excellent location for hide-and-seek (Corvo had won many a round here, though bragging about winning hide-and-seek against two eight-year olds would get him laughed at by Jess again) with the many voluminous bushes, thick trees and occasional decorative fences around. The area had originally been constructed for the Empress' coronation festivities, but Jess had liked the cloistered feeling, and so the chaotic mixture of plants and decoration had stayed, later becoming the the perfect playground for Emily. Unfortunately the usually peaceful atmosphere was disturbed by the audible sobbing of a little girl coming from a tree at the far edge of the garden. Corvo spotted her in one of the old oak trees lining the outer perimeter, clinging to the thick trunk with desperation, a good few metres above the ground. A quick glance assured him that Jessamine had taken Emily's other hand, so he let go and started jogging faster towards the tree to save the crying child. Emily readily let him go once in sight of the tree and started shouting towards her friend.

"I brought Corvo! He'll get you down, don't worry!" Corvo did smile a little at that as he was hurrying towards the poor, crying girl. His job was not always comfortable or reassuring, but that was alright. He'd take a thousand sleepless nights, combat wounds and snide comments from the Gristol nobility, if it also included saving little girls from being stuck in trees, if it meant Emily's complete conviction that he would always be there to help her, no matter what.

Once at the tree Corvo quickly recognized the problem. The bark was filled with convenient fissures, strong enough to hold at least a child if not a fully grown adult, and there were plenty of branches capable of holding even his weight. However, the branches only started at about half the height of where Hadria had climbed to, and while the fissures were plenty enough for climbing up when one could see them, climbing down was another matter entirely for an inexperienced climber who also only stood to about his waist in height. With a bit of practice in falling right she probably could have even jumped from the lower branches and been completely fine, but that was practice she didn't have and, if Corvo could help it, would never need.

After a brief moment of testing the stability, Corvo started carefully climbing the tree. His boots were a bit of a hindrance, designed for stability on flat ground for combat purposes, not as climbing tools, but his long reach made up for it as long he was careful where he placed his feet. It didn't take long for him to reach the proper branches and then pull himself up to Hadria's perch, sitting next to her on the branch. By the time he was up, her heartbreaking sobbing had turned into quiet sniffling as she watched him climb towards her. He sat for a moment, looking out over the garden. The view wasn't particularly far with the plenty other trees to one side and the high wall on the other, but it was nice nonetheless. A secluded little corner, away from any disturbances. Below he could see Jess and Emily waiting, still hand in hand, the former with mild concern on her face, the latter practically vibrating out of her skin with nerves. He turned to the child next to him, who was decisively not looking down and instead simply stared at him with watery eyes while clinging to the tree, rumpling her ready dirty white dress. Perhaps this could be a moment of growth...

Scooting a bit closer to not give her the wrong impression Corvo let his eyes wander a bit again. "Nice little place up here, with the view. Don't you think?" Hadria didn't answer, but she hesitantly followed his gaze, looking out over the garden. That courage didn't hold long though and she quickly turned away again. In a moment of what was either all-encompassing desperation or impressive bravery she nearly threw herself at him, despite having to let go of the trunk, and clung to him with a death grip, her arms around his neck and her face buried into bis chest, the delicate braids tying back her hair falling apart with the force. Perhaps not the right moment then.

"Alright, understood. Let's get you down from here." He chuckled lightly. "Hold tight." Probably an unnecessary order considering she seemed determined to press all air out of his lungs with the force she clung to him with, but better safe than sorry.

Scaling down with a child clinging to his chest proved more challenging than probably necessary, but that was alright. Having her hold onto his back would have likely made the descent easier as he wouldn't have had to reach around her, but convincing her to change her grip would have been more difficult than simply dealing with the slight hindrance. Once down to the last thick branch he considered trying to use the fissures but decided against it. He'd been careful in choosing where to put his weight when climbing up, but he couldn't be sure they would also hold Hadria on top of that. Even if he were to slip they would be fine, perhaps a bit bruised at most, but there was no need to scare the girl even more with an uncontrolled fall. Instead he sat on the last branch, wrapped one arm around the child and scooted forward a bit.

"Careful," he mumbled into her hair so she wouldn't be too horribly surprised, but didn't specify. He jumped the last distance, easily bending in the knees and catching himself while holding onto the girl who only had time to gasp before they were already on the ground again. Immediately Emily flung herself at him before he even had a chance to put her friend back on her own feet. She mumbled something unintelligible into his coat that might have included the words 'Corvo', 'thank you', and 'sorry', though whether they were aimed at him or at Hadria he couldn't tell.

Eventually Jessamine took mercy on Corvo and gently lifted Hadria off of him to put her back on the ground over Emily's head, who quickly changed target and immediately threw her arms around Hadria's neck instead. Hadria herself still seemed shaken and was sniffling, her eyes and nose red from the tears, but she had stopped crying at least.

"I hope you both learnt a lesson about not climbing things you can't get down from again, yes?" Jessamine looked the girls over, her face deliberately stern even as her eyes shone with affection. Corvo stood back for the moment, his duty done and well aware that he could never quite manage to scold either of them as well as he should. Jessamine had always been better about this part of parenting. Softie is what Jess would call him. Playful is what he'd call himself. And then Jess would call him a child and laugh, giving him a light shove.

Hadria started tearing up again at the light scolding and even Emily fixed her eyes on the ground, clearly chagrined. Jessamine quickly dropped the stern facade and crouched down in front of them, a soft smile on her face.

"Now now, it's alright, there's no reason to cry anymore. After all, we have our strong and mighty protector." Jess glanced over at him for just a moment and Corvo found himself smiling again. They did, and as far he was concerned they always would. "How about we have a little story session in the garden? I have some time still before the next meeting." Emily immediately erupted into demands of which story should be read, the gloom of the situation immediately forgotten. Hadria didn't seem quite as convinced, but still her sniffling grew quiet  and she seemed intrigued at some of Emily's suggestions.

Jessamine smiled and took them both by the hand, leading them off towards the more open area of the large garden, Corvo always following.

--

It was a coincidence he noticed them when he did, a testament to them having clearly learned from their prior mistakes. The sun had already set, the girls been tucked into bed and Jess had successfully convinced him to spend the night with her rather than return to his adjacent quarters, despite his token protest. He'd only meant to lock his door to avoid awkward questions in the morning and was already back to Jessamine's door, standing in the open doorway, when he heard the tell-tale thudding of two pairs small feet traipsing down the hall. Away from the sleeping quarters.

"Is everything alright?" Jessamine put down her book of the Pandyssian myths and watched as he stood in the doorway peering down the hall, concern wrinkling her brow. Corvo smiled reassuringly.

"Nothing to worry about. We just have some nestlings on the loose. Trying to rob the kitchen again, I'd guess." A few months ago Emily had discovered a back entry into the kitchen, and since then nothing could hold her back from trying to sneak in and snack on the pastries already prepared for breakfast, not even the fact that the 'back entry' was a hole for trash. Hadria was usually co-opted into standing on lookout while Emily pilfered the jar, at least the few times they even got that far. Admonishment when they were inevitably caught would only stop them for so long before they were at it again.

Jess relaxed again, the tension easing from her and Corvo couldn't help himself but admire her for a moment as she was draped on her bed. She was always beautiful, of course she was, but quietly he preferred her like this. She was impressive as the Empress, stoic, regal, dictating the latest fashions with her elaborate hairdos and expensive suits. But here, with him, she let go of that tension she always carried, her long silky hair flowed down over her simple night gown, and that small, amused smile about th- her daughter's antics was worth all the world's grandest speeches.

"You should save our breakfast from the hungry beaks then." Her eyes shimmered in the low light of the lamps like the stars reflected in the wide expanse of the ocean. He didn't quite trust his voice, so Corvo said nothing but returned her smile, before slipping quietly out the door and after the children.

For a moment he debated with himself over what to do. It was very much past their bed time after all, and yet... They had managed to not let their plan on throughout the whole day and had nearly managed to sneak past him. The tower was secure enough and he would be behind them the entire time. He was curious to see how far they would get.

Soon he spotted them peeking around a corner ahead watching for the patrolling guard. While they dutifully kept their eyes out front and he could see Emily counting out the seconds with her hands, they did not think to look behind themselves. Corvo smirked and leaned against the wall, watching the girls intently stare down the hallway.

Moments passed, then Emily waved to Hadria and they hurried towards and down the stairs. Corvo followed quietly, making sure to stay just out of easy eyesight without losing track of the children. They made their way down the steps into the reception hall, making sure to hide behind every piece of furniture along the way, despite the lack of guards around. It took them a while to get to the room's doors, but by the end they were quietly giggling, having lost focus from the stealth objective. Eventually they reached the exit to the next hallway, from where it wouldn't be far anymore down to the kitchen. They had clearly run out of patience now, as Emily only threw a passing glance in either direction before scurrying along again, Hadria trailing close behind her. Deciding to save some time Corvo vaulted over the handrail down the rest of the way. The noise of his landing was largely absorbed by the soft boots he was wearing, but with the way the girls were engrossed in their own sneaking he doubted they would have noticed either way. He quickly stepped out of the doorway and followed them as they hurried down the corridor, staying always a little ways behind them.

Their waning attention had them miss the guard currently patrolling through an adjacent passage. They might have even gotten away with it anyway if not for the bad luck of the guard turning just in time to see them scurry past. The man did a double take and stepped forward, opening his mouth to call out. Not willing to let their little game end just yet, Corvo hurried into view of the guard on quiet soles and gestured for him to back off, pressing a finger to his lips. The guard hesitated, hand still vaguely raised, but he stayed silent. Corvo threw him a thankful smile and continued on, noting from the corner of his eye the way the guard tracked his movement with helpless confusion on his face. Corvo quietly chuckled to himself as he continued after the girls. They certainly had to make for an interesting sight, the princess and her friend in their nightgowns scampering through the tower in the middle of the night like burglars, followed by the Royal Protector in merely a loose tunic and a pair of slacks, a sheathed sword hanging from his hip.

For a moment something a bit like guilt bit into him, remembering Jess waiting for him back in her chambers. She would certainly not approve of their late-night outing through the tower. The moment didn't last for very long though. Jess would understand, and kids needed a bit of adventure to cut their teeth on. Letting them run around the streets of Dunwall to explore like he had done as a child back in Karnaka was simply too dangerous, but every time Emily looked at him with her big eyes, begging for a chance at adventure, and he had to say no, Corvo felt his heart break a little more. The Tower was secure and he would be there every step of the way. He would let them have this night.

Eventually they reached the back entrance into the kitchen, though it wasn't so much a back entrance as it was a broad hole in the floor, down to an alcove in the kitchen where the garbage container was placed. The opening had originally been constructed for convenience in disposal of any waste and garbage from the nearby servants' quarters as well as ease of communication with the kitchen personnel. A few months back however the alcove had been fitted with a new mechanism, courtesy of a mildly disgruntled Sokolov who felt insulted at being asked to design such a simple construction. The new installation allowed for the entire garbage container to be lifted up to the above floor level and thus more easily emptied. The renovations had drawn Emily's attention, who had of course been absolutely delighted at the news of an unguarded entrance into the kitchens.

Usually Hadria would remain up in the hallway standing guard to watch for anyone coming by (though what exactly the two thought they would do about it Corvo had yet to learn. It certainly hadn't helped them in previous escapades), while Emily would clamber down over the container to try and grab as many sweets as she could carry. This time however, when Hadria moved to turn to dutifully keep watch over the hallway, and Corvo slid behind the nearest corner to avoid being seen, Emily tugged on her sleeve and dragged her with her down the chute instead. Corvo raised an eyebrow to himself, but decided to stay up for now. There was no way he could hide his own entrance reliably and he was very curious what could have possibly changed Emily's plan.

After a moment of suspenseful quiet, something clattered loudly, shattering the silence, and Corvo flinched. Without hesitation he rushed over to the hole, not bothering to keep down the noise of his steps anymore as his own heartbeat rang in his ears. He moved to jump down after the girls, ready to do damage control, while praying that nothing worse than a scraped knee had come of the tumble he'd heard.

Before he could jump however, he heard Emily frantically whisper: "Put it back, put it back!" followed by a much quieter clattering of what Corvo now suspected was a pot, as well mumbled apologies from Hadria, neither girl sounding in pain. Corvo slumped down where he was kneeling on the ledge and sighed in relief. Not wanting to take a risk however, he leaned down to peer into the room below. The offending pot was easily identified, having left a small puddle of water where it had fallen on the floor and now dripping a bit on the table above where the girls had put it. Thankfully it seemed the pot had not been full, but rather had been recently cleaned and left to dry. Emily and Hadria had meanwhile moved further into the kitchen towards a corner cabinet barely in view for Corvo, the former excitedly bouncing on her feet, the latter visibily cringing and nervously peeking at the pot. Neither of them seemed to have heard his panicked rush to the entrance.

"After last time they moved the jar, but I saw where they hid it!" Emily practically preened at her success in spying and Corvo couldn't help his soft smile at her pride. Outsider help whoever tried to get between Emily and her favourite pastries. Which, in all fairness, should be him. He supposed he should be thankful that Jess cared as little for the Abbey as he did. "They put it up there at the top!" She pointed up at the cabinet, high above both their heads, then paused for a moment, making a face as if she'd bitten into a sour apple. "Can you- can you climb up there and get it? I'd do it, but you're better at it than me."

Hadria hesitated, her nerves apparent, but after a moment she seemed to steel herself and nodded decisively, moving closer to the cabinet and out of Corvo's vision. Emily practically radiated excitement. "Don't worry, if you fall, I'll catch you!"

Corvo frowned and moved closer to the ledge, leaning over uncomfortably, to broaden his field of view, not at all reassured by the idea of eight year old Emily trying to catch the other girl should she slip. He should put an end to it now, grab the both of them, give them a good scolding and then put them back to bed, but something stayed his hand. He remembered Hadria's terror from up in the tree earlier that day, how she had barely managed a look before clinging to him to hide away, and yet the girl had agreed. Emily could be forceful and easily swept up in excitement, but she was neither crue nor callous and would never force her friend into doing something that scared her. Hadria might have been shy and sometimes overly fearful, but never of Emily. She had made a decision that had to have cost her a good deal of courage, and Corvo was loath to undermine that. All cabinets were well secured, a safety measure Jess had insisted on in all work areas of the tower.

Corvo watched Hadria carefully and deliberately draw herself up on the counter and made a decision.

Step by step Hadria scaled up the side of the cabinet, using the protruding ornamentations as foot- and handholds, much to Emily's now only barely quieted down delight. It didn't take her long to reach the top of the cabinet, and with deft fingers used to hours of needle work she fished a closed, ornamented jar out of the very back corner. The handle in hand she turned her head to climb back down and froze, Corvo and Emily along with her. For a few seconds no one moved.

Just as Corvo decided the situation had gone on long enough and to finally get into the kitchen and save Hadria from the consequences of all their actions, Emily hesitantly spoke up, excitement having given way to audible concern. "Do you- do you need me to get Corvo?" Despite the situation, for which he himself certainly carried the blame for having let it go on as long as it did, Corvo smiled. With pride in Emily, for being so quickly willing to risk punishment for her rule breaking to help her friend, and, a little bit, with joy that Emily trusted him enough to know the punishment would not be so bad for avoidance to be worth her friend's suffering.

Hadria hesitated, grasping the jar handle a bit tighter, but after a moment she shook her head.

"No, I can- I can do it." Her quiet voice trembled, but she turned back to the cabinet, and lifted her right foot, carefully searching for a hold without looking down. Step by step she made her way back down, far slower than her ascent but without any slips, one hand tightly grasping the jar's handle and carefully holding tight to easier graspable holds while the other searched for a new one.

Finally she reached the firm surface of the counter and slid down to the floor, just so managing to set the jar down before Emily jumped to throw her arms around her, all need for secrecy forgotten, as she giggled loudly. Corvo let out a breath he hadn't quite noticed he was holding.

"Now, to the fruits of our labour." Emily declared as she pulled away again, hands clasped behind her suddenly very straight back, with all the demonstrative gravity of a child having listened to too many of her mother's advisors. She grabbed the jar and eagerly held it out to Hadria. "You should have the first one."

The other girl gingerly took off the jar's lid, and though she was again gazing down towards the floor, open hair hanging like a curtain over her eyes, Corvo could see the small, blushing smile on her usually so sullen, round face. Quietly he pulled himself up from his crouch, and stepped away into the hallway's shadowed corner, leaning with his back towards the wally and crossed his arms. He waited until he heard the quiet clank of the jar being placed down again and the enthusiastic crunching of pastries, fond affection warming his chest better than any baked goods ever could. Then he loudly cleared his throat.

"Thank you, Captain Curnow, I will make sure to check the kitchens again." The crunching stopped immediately, lapsing into complete silence. After a moment the quiet was broken by small feet hastily running towards him. Emily's head came first into view as she scrambled up over the garbage container, her short hair tangled without her usual red bow to hold it in place, followed shortly by Hadria clambering up after her. Both girls had sparkling eyes and crumbs stuck around their mouths. Neither of them bothered to look sideways, or sneak for that matter, too busy with the satisfaction of their successful heist no doubt. Without seeing him they dragged themselves up over the ledge and bolted down the hallway, as fast their short legs could carry them, giggling the entire way.

Corvo followed, long steps keeping up with the children easily. They dashed past the bewildered guard still patrolling the adjacent hallway, then raced up the stairs with impressive stamina for two eight year olds up past their bed time. With a last rush of speed they ran past Jessamine's door, nearly stumbling over each other as they slid through the door leading to the shared ante-chamber to their bedrooms. Having reached the upper floor just behind them, Corvo took his time strolling towards the door, whistling a quiet lullaby to himself that his mother had taught him. He pushed open the door and stepped in, making sure his footsteps were audible. First he veered off to the left door, to Emily's bedroom. The door was left slightly ajar, as it always was since the first time she'd screamed in terror from a nightmare and a servant had had to come get him because he hadn't heard. It squeaked slightly as he gently pushed it further open and stuck his head through the doorway. Only a few strands of Emily's dark hair were visible on the giant bed taking up half of the room, tangled and strewn across the pillow from when she'd thrown herself on the bed in a hurry, the rest of her and her no doubt terribly wrinkled night clothes were hidden under the thick bunched up blanket she'd pulled up over herself. He could still hear her snickering under the covers.

With a thoughtful hum he turned and walked back through the ante-chamber to the other door, sidestepping the many colourful crayons and half finished paintings strewn across the carpet. Hadria's room was quiet, the girl herself tucked under the blanket so naturally he almost overlooked her. She was not giggling anymore, but still breathing heavily, a slight flush on her cheeks. Corvo couldn't see her face entirely from this angle, but were he a betting man he would have put some money on her smiling into her pillow.

He hummed again and turned away, walking to the exit. "How comforting to know that her Highnesses are already asleep, as they should be." He spoke loudly so his voice would carry over through the doors and was answered with another barely disguised giggle from Emily's room. He slunk out the room and quietly resolved to keep the details of this little outing to himself. Jess would certainly guess most of it, and if she asked he would answer as he always did, but he had a feeling she would leave it be. The Spymaster might ask questions if the guard talked, but Corvo was well versed at this point in brushing him off. Burrows did his job, and as far as Corvo could tell he did his job well, but be also had a habit of involving himself in things that were simply none of his business. He had opinions on Emily's proper education, on her correct attire, on the way the Empress should present them both, on the company she kept. He had rather vehemently objected to Hadria's addition to the court, claiming her Morleyan heritage as a security risk.

Corvo brusquely shook his head and banished all thought of the man, reminding himself instead of the girls in the rooms behind him and the woman waiting for him up ahead. With a smile he slid the door further closed, leaving it slightly ajar, and finally returned to Jessamine, quietly opening her door. She had waited for him, sitting in the large canopy bed, leaning against the plush pillows with her book in hand, though she wasn't paying it any attention. When he entered she was already looking towards the door, a smile on her face that on anyone else might have been crooked, but on her  was just the right amount of slanted.

"You know, a father should discipline his children sometimes as well." Her voice was teasing, poking at his soft spots as only she could. Corvo smirked and straightened his back, pushing his shoulders back and crossing his arms behind his back, the picture of professionalism only disturbed by the fact that he was in the empress' bedroom in the middle of the night in his sleeping attire.

"Your Majesty, I have no children. I am a perfectly virtuous bachelor with no wife or offspring to my name." At one point their need for secrecy around their relationship had hurt, but neither Jessamine nor Corvo were 20 anymore, and they had both grown used to how it was, how it had to be, at least for now. It would have been a lie to claim he didn't wish they could freer with their words, to have Emily call him something other than 'Corvo', but the sharp sting of injustice had long faded. They had their little family, and that was alright, so Jess simply rolled her eyes at him with a fond smirk as she put her book away.

"Of course you are. Now come back to bed, I am cold." As always, Corvo obeyed, slipping out of his boots and under the blanket with her, the sword from his belt pushed under the pillow where it was out sight but easily reachable. She took the opportunity and shifted closer to him, pressing her back to his chest. He slung an arm around her, holding her close, his nose nuzzled into her locks. She smelled of her favourite hair oil, flowery and fresh. Jess pushed back a bit more, tangling her legs in his, sliding her feet down his legs. She hummed contentedly.

"That you always have to wear socks to bed..."

He chuckled and held her a bit tighter. "You said it yourself, it's cold." Though he's long stopped yearning for Serkonos and her warm beaches, he'd never quite gotten used to the ever frigid winds of Dunwall that seemed to bite under his skin right down to his bones, even occasionally during the warmer months. The tower was generally well insulated, and Jessamine's warm body next to his never failed to put a stop to any shivering, but he supposed even though his home, without any question or doubt, was now here, there'd always be a bit of Serkonos in him. That was what he would tell Jessamine. What he would keep to himself was that he was always loath to take off more clothes than he would be properly able to fight in. The only time he ever undressed entirely for any length of time was to wash up and- when Jess asked it of him.

Jessamine turned her head to the side, her hooded eyes glinting up at him, lips quirked in a rare mischievous smirk.

"Well, we can help that, can't we." Feeling her long, slender fingers sneak under his tunic and gently tug on his waistband Corvo laughed again. She rolled over on top of him and he raised himself up to kiss her. 

The children slept, the adults did not, the warm fireplace threw flickering shadows on the wall, and for a while happiness reigned in Dunwall Tower.

[yanara126-writing]

The Many Conquests of Daud

A young Whaler gets hazed. Daud assigns latrine duty.

--

Read here or on Ao3 (6680 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

-

The flooded district is never silent, much like big hall serving as the Whalers common room. At one point it may have served as the Chamber of Commerce's clerical office, but now it is a communal gathering point for Dunwall's most feared band of assassins, when they're not busy assassinating. This afternoon during the month of timber, there are not quite two dozen people strewn across the room, engaged in various tasks and chores that are better done in company than alone. One voice in particular stands out among the murmurs, young and curious, in the way the young ones are when they're trying not to be.

"I heard he sleeps with the madame of the Golden Cat every week."

"I'm sure you did."

"They say he's so good they don't even charge him there."

"I think 'they' might be jealous."

"I saw a book that says he had an affair with the Duke of Serkonos." The sound of whetstone grinding across metal stops for a moment, though the room is still filled with all sorts of noises. Tapping, cracking, snapping, the scratching of pen across rough paper, the more far off clashing of swords and banging of pistols from outside the window.

"Ooh, which version? The one where he seduced him at 17 or the other thing, where he's secretly ruling the country behind the scenes through his cock prowess?"

"I think it was about the Duke offering a blowjob because there was a contract on his head."

"Uuuh that's a new one I think. You got that, Misha?"

"All noted down, as always." A knife thunks into an abused cork board, hung on the wall, a scribbled-on sheet of paper stuck to it. The entire board is filled with similar notes, fastened there with various sharp items, nails, screws, splinters of river krusts, pieces of wood, and one lone, mysterious tooth.

"Sooo..."

"So what?"

"Is it true?"

"Is what true, calf, you gotta be more specific."

"I mean... Any of it? I mean I guess the one with the duke probably not..."

"Aaah, but why not? Can't you see we're drowning in Serkonan gold?" The man, Kent, Pickford thinks, but he doesn't have the names down just yet, it's only been a few weeks, jumps up with a dramatic sweep of the arm, to the other present Whalers' jeering delight, resounding through the room, courtesy of a rare still whole ceiling. Even the ever present rubble is pushed to the side and the centre of the hall is filled with all the still usable chairs and desks in the entire building, if not district. (The only exception of course being Daud's personal office.) He hasn't been here long, wasn't among the Whalers that had first carved out this base for them from the ruins of the Flooded District, and much to his own chagrin hasn't even grown enough to fill out his new uniform yet, but the joke is obvious even to Pickford. As is the fact that he is the butt of it. He tries not to blush and knows he's failing miserably. He settles for pretending it's anger rather than embarrassment and tries not to fumble with the mask or cleaning cloth lying in his lap.

"So you don't know, do you?!" His voice cracks at the end of the sentence, making him sound like a broken dog toy. Misha, sitting a bit away at the next table over, stops his scribbling and instead starts cackling hysterically. He promptly receives a Whaler's mask to his face and nearly falls off his chair. Unfortunately it only makes him laugh harder. Pickford debates just how much damage he could do to the older man's face before he would be pulled off of him and get his own ass handed to him. Might be worth the extra training bruises. But before he can decide to launch himself after his mask he sees that every other Whaler in the room is looking at him, those without masks all wearing the same smug, knowing and decidedly maniacal smile.

Against his own intentions Pickford freezes, the old instincts of fear when faced with the Whaler uniforms apparently still present. A few heartbeats pass and nobody moves. Is this what Daud sees when he's suddenly on the other side of the room and all hostiles drop? The moment passes and Kent (it has to be Kent, and if it's not he will be out of spite) puts down the knife and whetstone he's been working with the last half hour. He gets up and practically looms over Pickford and his measly 17 years, still with that unsettling grin on his face.

"Congratulations, calf, you just volunteered to be part of a sacred Whaler tradition."

-

Pickford is practically shaking as he stands in front of Daud's door. With what he's not entirely sure. Embarrassment is certainly part of it. The bouquet Rinaldo (Probably Rinaldo. It seems like a Rinaldo thing from what he's heard.) had excitedly pressed into his hands is more a pathetic bundle of weeds than anything else, though he's been assured these are definitely Daud's favourites. Nerves are another part, as is excitement. Pickford is not an idiot, he knows he's being hazed, but still... What would come of it? Pickford is a liar, certainly, it was how he earned his living out on the streets before being picked up by the Whalers, but he's not in the habit of lying to himself. Nothing good ever comes from self deception and the masked potheads from the Abbey can shove their bullshit where the whale song wouldn't reach. Pickford finds Daud attractive and he thinks he wouldn't mind if this hazing went a bit further. Their leader is not conventionally attractive, he's certainly not the Royal Protector who Pickford has seen a few times during the Empress's parades and who seems to be almost insultingly good looking for a bodyguard. Daud is not nearly as groomed or lean as Corvo Attano, doesn't have the same cutting cheekbones, but he has his own rugged, blocky charm, which the large scar over his eye only enhances. And besides that, the man has undeniable charisma, a way to draw people to him that has nothing to do with the mark. Even with only the few weeks he's been here Pickford can tell. The mark makes them effective, but Daud makes them loyal. It certainly doesn't hurt that many of them owe their lives to him personally, Pickford himself included. Really it isn't his fault that he fancies Daud. Who wouldn't after looking up at the man from the dirty ground of some back alley and watching him handily dispatch five guardsmen at once. He might not have done it for Pickford, but he saved him anyway, offered him not only a job but also a home, and had then practically carried him to the Rudshore base when Pickford's legs gave out under him from blood loss.

So yes, self-aware as he fancies himself, Pickford knows that he finds Daud attractive and that he really, really wouldn't mind getting physical with him. He knows that he probably idolizes the man a bit too much, considering his, and now both of their, profession. He also knows that he is 17 and Daud is... Older. How old...? He actually isn't quite sure about that. Old enough certainly to probably find him at best uninteresting and at worst disgusting. But still, there is always a little hope, isn't there? His few escapades with some of the girls around his neighbourhood (and one very enlightening one with the tailor's son) had never been really expected either...

Something thunks in the room in front of him and very suddenly Pickford realizes he's been standing in front of the door for at least five minutes. Before he can do anything but panic the door flies open and Daud stares him down, unsurprised and unamused.

"Do you need something or are you just here to stare at the door?" Pickford wants to answer, feels compelled to really, but all he can do is stand there and gape like a fish, frozen on the spot. The vast majority of his brain is screaming in terror, clutching at the stupid weeds. Surely this is it, Daud will realize what an idiot he picked up and kick him out. Kill him even. It wouldn't be hard to, Pickford has never been good in actual fights and has barely improved since his training started, he is a con-artist with a knife. Even if he doesn't die now, he'll lose the first home he's had in years, he'll never be a full fledged whaler, he'll never see his friends again, Cleon and Dodge will forget all about him, he'll never get to earn his mark-

The miniscule rest of his brain notices the small ink stain on Daud's thumb, the way the harsh expression wrinkles his even harsher chin, the way the scar over his eye stands out in the angled afternoon light through the hole in the wall next to them.

Then Daud's eyes fall onto the terrible bouquet in Pickford's hands. It's a lot harder to be terrified of a man pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing in the manner of an exasperated parent. Not that Pickford can speak from experience. The ink stain ends up on his nose.

"Alright, who was it this time, Rinaldo or Fisher?" When Daud looks at him Pickford freezes again, though the thoughts in his head are very different. He is suddenly very aware of all the other eyes he knows are there even if he can't see them. He has a split second to make a decision.

Who does he sell out?

"Kent. Sir." The decision is quickly made. While he would love to watch Misha suffer through Daud's punishment, he wants the status that silence will afford him more. He'll get direct revenge on Kent, and Misha, Rinaldo, and all the others who were there will better give him some respect if they don't want to join him. Pickford only hopes his voice isn't shaking as much as it feels like.

Daud's eyebrow rises even higher and it feels like Pickford is being skewered by the stare, but he keeps his mouth determinedly shut. Regardless of what would come out of it, it wouldn't be good, because the stupid bouquet is still in his hands and he still can't disagree with what it means, even though he is pissed to be here and would like to punch everyone's teeth in. Even Fisher, whichever one of the fucking idiots that is.

He tries to fix his own gaze on the ink stain on Daud's nose, too intimidated to return the stare and too self-aware to risk his eyes wandering where they shouldn't.

Eventually Daud seems to accept the answer, or at least that he won't get a better one.

"A new volunteer for the latrines then, how considerate of him." The man glances away, in direction of the common room, and just for a moment Pickford lets himself catch a glimpse of how the red jacket hugs his arms and frames his upper body.

Unfortunately for him Daud has not forgotten his presence. Pickford snaps his eyes back to the ink stain so fast he gets dizzy. Daud frowns at him and wipes his gloved hand over the stain Pickford has been staring at, checks the ink now on the glove, and sneers. Pickford can feel himself get redder than his master's jacket, his ears burning so hot he might as well be a whale oil lamp.

Daud only spares him a glance before turning away, starting a slow walk away from the office in direction of the common room.

"Come along." The order is rough as all of Daud's words are, but surprisingly not murderous. Not willing to tempt fate, the Outsider, or Daud any further Pickford hurries after him, not a word leaving his lips. He discards the damned bundle of weeds at the first opportunity and throws it through a collapsed wall into a puddle outside.

The walk is leisurely and unhurried and Daud doesn't even bother transversing up the ledges and stories, instead taking the long way around on foot. Pickford spends a few minutes puzzling about why, because surely it isn't for his benefit. Daud is not known to cut the newer recruits, or anyone for that matter, any slack. Then he hears, just so, at the very edge of his perception, the clacking of boots on concrete and the popping of a transversal. It occurs to him that if he already knew they were being watched, Daud must have known ten times over. It's not for Pickford that he's taking his time, it's to give the other Whalers plausible deniability. This answers one question for Pickford and creates about 10 more.

They eventually reach the common room (and Pickford has valiantly only once let his gaze wander over Daud's backside. Just for a short moment.). Daud doesn't bother knocking and instead simply throws open the double doors, just hard enough to cause a loud crash but not break the water logged doors.

The Whalers inside are the picture of innocence. About 20 people, none with masks, and all diligently working on their chores without a care in the world. No one flinches at the door's crash. There are small puddles collecting under their boots.

It takes less than five seconds for them to start shrinking away under Daud's drilling gaze.

"Find yourself another hazing ritual or you can fish that board out of the Wrenhaven." Which board he means is clear, even without the nod in the direction of the haphazard collection of rumours decorating the back wall of the room.

That threat gets the Whalers moving, some jumping up from their seats, some gesticulating wildly and all of them shouting protests over each other so loudly there is no hope of understanding any of them. Daud tolerates it for a moment, until he lifts one hand and the whole room falls silent again immediately.

"You heard me. Kent. Latrines for the next two months." Kent (and very quietly Pickford thanks the Outsider that it really was Kent. He'd have made it work otherwise but it would have been terribly awkward) slumps over the back of his chair, conveniently almost hidden behind one of the room's support pillars, and groans. "Rinaldo. Stake out for the Brimsley job." The sound of indignant splattering comes from the rafters and Pickford looks up to indeed find another Whaler crouched up there, with a mixture of horror and outrage on his face.

"But I didn't even- !" Daud doesn't even look up.

"Keep complaining and you'll get to do the job too." That shuts Rinaldo up though he doesn't look any less miserable. Pickford decides not to comment on his realisation that he was wrong about who handed him the weeds. Not that he indicted Rinaldo in the first place. "Misha." Daud squints across the room for a moment, while Misha casually leans into his chair next to the board, somehow the only one who doesn't seem to be balancing on a knife's edge. "You're on thin fucking ice." Misha smirks and lifts his hands as if in surrender. Daud continues glaring at him.

As abruptly as he arrived Daud turns and leaves, leaving the door wide open behind him and Pickford standing in the doorway. Very suddenly Pickford becomes aware of many pairs of eyes settling on him, none of them benevolent. He makes the strategic decision to retreat and does not stumble out the door, thank you very much. Without conscious thought he once again settles into step behind Daud, though where to he has no idea. Belatedly he realizes that he was not invited this time and Daud may very well not want his presence, but as their master has yet to comment on his tagging along he decides to risk Daud's annoyance rather than his sib- coworkers' imminent revenge. Better to give them some time to cool off.

For a short while they simply walk, though not back to the office curiously. First through the crumbling hallways of the financial complex's main building, and then eventually outside, following the walkways and ledges over the flooded streets out of reach of rats or weepers. Daud's steps are long but not unreasonable to follow and so Pickford hurries after him, trying to keep up while not slipping on anything. He's embarrassed himself enough today, no need to add falling and drowning because of his own incompetence to the list.

Eventually they reach the roof of an old storage building, the back half of which is already collapsed. Daud ignores the giant gaping hole behind them and sits down on the ledge of the building, one leg dangling into the multiple stories deep abyss below them, the other propped up against the ledge. Pickford knows it's a bad habit, he's gotten himself chewed out by Tynan enough times, but still he starts awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other as Daud takes out a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. Just standing around feels wrong, almost voyeuristic in a way that is suddenly much less enticing, but sitting down next to him, pretending to be an equal, feels akin to sacrilege. Daud pulls out a smoke, lights it with the flick of a finger, and takes a slow drag, while Pickford tries not to fidget with the sleeve of his uniform.

Moments pass and Pickford starts considering if just leaving would be less awkward, when Daud glances over his own shoulder towards him and lifts an eyebrow. He nods this head to the empty spot next to him. Pickford does not flinch, but he does freeze for a moment before the fledgling instinct to obey takes over. He shuffles over to the ledge, cursing himself quietly for his hesitation, and slides down to sit. He leaves a good metre between them, unwilling to seem too straightforward.

Daud glances over again and takes another drag, keeping his head turned, so the smoke blows away from Pickford. "You're not getting one."

"No, sir." Pickford nods. That is one of the first things he's learnt here. Daud doesn't share his smokes. With anybody. Says they shouldn't repeat his mistakes, but if they want to to do it on their own coin. Not many Whalers are smokers. Tynan is one of them, handed Pickford a smoke once and told him to take a deep breath. He spent the rest of the day coughing so hard his throat went sore and never touched another one.

A few moments more pass in silence, Daud smoking and Pickford rolling around a pebble lying on the ledge and occasionally letting his gaze wander over the dreary skyline of the flooded district, wrecking his brain what he's even doing here. Eventually Daud finishes the cigarette and puts out the stub on the concrete beneath them. He turns to Pickford, his face hard as ever, and Pickford tenses under the intense gaze. His body feels uncomfortably hot and Pickford is very aware it's not just the nervousness. He forces himself to turn his head towards the older man and not cower, though he still keeps his eyes on Daud's nose, rather than the piercing gaze or the firm, rough lips or the thick, sharply cut eyebrows, or the beard stubble or- Nose, between the eyes. Focus.

"So." It's not a question, but somehow Pickford feels like it is. Unfortunately he doesn't know which one.

"Sir?" Shockingly Pickford does manage not to mumble the question. Daud's brow furrows anyway, but at least he doesn't sound angry.

"What did you do?" Pickford can feel his face heat up and knows he must be embarrassingly red again. Oh how he misses his mask, but it is safely, almost religiously, stored under his bunk, after another apologetic polishing for throwing it. Unwillingly his eyes drop down to watch the pebble roll between his fingers rather than face Daud's piercing gaze.

"Asked after the board. Sir." He stumbles over the honorific, tacks it on just so at the end of the sentence, and winces. Disrespectful is the last thing he wants to be right now, but his face is hot and his fingers tingle with nerves. He hasn't spent this much time with Daud since he's first joined the Whalers, and on that first way back to base he was barely even conscious. And Daud is imposing in more ways than one.

"Ah. I don't know why they insist on keeping the nonsense around." Pickford doesn't know quite what to make of the tone of Daud's voice. There is exasperation, but also something else. Something... Warmer? "And keep your eyes up, boy." The pebble in Pickford's hand scrapes across the concrete as his hand tightens. He is nervous yes but- He also likes Daud's tone, in a way that warms his chest. Firm but not cruel. Demanding but in a way as if he had confidence in Pickford. And as always Pickford finds himself unable to disobey and lifts his head away from the safe pebble in his hands.

"Yes, sir." He swallows but does manage at least a short while to look Daud in the eyes. They remind him of the grey steel of the whaling ships. They speak of horror and violence beyond his imagination, but far more importantly, they speak of freedom. Freedom and companionship.

Pickford clears his throat and turns to look out over the district again, letting his gaze roam over the ruins of houses, halls, and estates, making sure that his head remains high. He's never felt a particular call to poetry, and doesn't quite know what to do with the thoughts that have started intruding on his mind for the last few weeks, but he certainly does know he will not admit them in front of Daud. He frowns. Or the others for that matter. A slight whiff of cigarette smoke drifts over. Daud must have lit another one. Pickford doesn't like the smell, not really, Tynan successfully beat that out of him, but still the quiet noise of rushing water below them and the vague smell of smokes is strangely comforting and Pickford relaxes bit by bit. This high up there are neither river krusts nor weepers to disturb the calm. Maybe Daud won't do unspeakable things to him. (And probably not the ones Pickford wants him to.) Maybe he won't get kicked out of the only home he's known in years for making some mistakes. Maybe he'll just also get assigned latrine duty, and that he can deal with. Even if it has to be with Kent. Because despite the mortifying experience of being hazed, Pickford is so very, very curious...

"Sir- is any of it true?" He asks before his courage has time to break away and even turns to look at Daud.

"Of what?" Daud grunts around the smoke hanging from the corner of his mouth as he glances at Pickford.

"The- the board, sir." Pickford winces at the stumble, but Daud doesn't acknowledge it, simply turns back to look across the districts. He takes another long drag, then takes the cigarette between two fingers and blows the smoke away.

"No. I don't bother with this sort of nonsense." Pickford frowns. The no he understands, makes sense even, as disappointed as he is about it. But nonsense? Does Daud mean the board itself?

"Sir?" he asks. Daud turns towards him and fixes him with a stare, an eyebrow raised.

"Sex. It's a waste of time and frankly not worth the trouble." That- is not quite what Pickford expected and he freezes. The air suddenly feeling much colder and the abyss much more threatening. Did he miss something? Is that a rule?

"I- yes. Sir," Pickford mutters, his eyes flickering away and back to Daud, his mouth dry. And then the Knife of Dunwall himself rolls his eyes at him as he flicks the cigeratte bud over the edge of the roof.

"I'm aware that not many people share my opinion. You are free to do whatever you want when you're off duty." Daud narrows his eyes at him, tone changing from exasperation to gravity. "The only rule is that if a problem comes up, you go to Montgomery and you tell her. Everything." Pickford nods rapidly, some of his tension dissipating as it becomes clear he hasn't accidentally stumbled into a trap.

"Yes, sir." He means it. He certainly doesn't want to tell their healer anything at all about any... Encounters he might have, but he wants to piss off Daud even less. He'd much rather get his ear chewed off again by Montgomery than face Daud's wrath. Or dissapointment.

Daud continues glaring at him and Pickford shrinks back under the intensity. "I won't have an outbreak among my Whalers because someone wasn't careful about where they put their junk."

"I understand, sir." Pickford swallows and nods again, twice just to be sure. Daud appears satisfied with the assurance and he lets up the glaring, instead pulling himself up from the ledge. He cracks his neck once with a quiet grunt and crosses his arms before looking down on Pickford whose mouth suddenly becomes very dry. The sun behind him gives Daud an almost mystical appearance, the way the light shapes a halo around his form, making his shoulders look even broader and his slicked back hair shimmer.

"Good. Aside from that, no means no, maybe does not mean yes, and don't come crying to me if you do a bad job." He hesitates for a moment, giving Pickford a short once-over. "If you need help, talk to Montgomery. She'll tell me if anything needs to be taken care of. Anonymously." It takes Pickford a moment to realize what Daud means and when it finally clicks the man is already gone in a whirl of black wisps. Pickford is left alone on the crumbling roof with very few answers and- not exactly questions, he wouldn't know what to ask even if Daud came back, but certainly a lot of confusion.

With Daud gone the lonely ledge high above the weeper infested rivers of Rudshore feels much less comfortable and Pickford drags himself up to walk back to base. He jealously glances back at where Daud vanished, not for the first time yearning to finally earn his mark. He knows that the risk that it won't take, and even more he knows the risk that will come once he has it, but Pickford has long come to terms with risk as a matter of life. Unfortunately, no matter how much he wishes, he has not yet earned Daud's trust enough and he will simply have to walk back. With a sigh he turns to start making his way over the walkways and ledges.

Without Daud to hurry after it takes him longer to get back and then another while to find a safe entrance into the Chambers of Commerce. Most Whalers simply transverse through whichever hole in the wall is available and the way he came with Daud includes a rather steep jump that would be uncomfortable if not unsafe to climb. He eventually finds a back door that is still usable though it requires a good shove that leaves his shoulder aching. The way up to their common room feels longer than it really is, leaving him to contemplate whether he should just find himself a different legde to wait until night shift and then sneak to his bunk. It's tempting, but then he remembers the feeling in his chest when Daud told him to keep his head up. He stands straighter at the thought, shoulders back and spine steeled. No, he will not be a coward again. Mark or not, he is a Whaler, and he will not shame Daud by running away. Besides, they're his- coworkers. Other whalers, hardly Overseers. He'll get a thrashing in training tomorrow anyway, whether he goes to face them now or not, and they'll hardly do anything worse. He's already embarrassed himself in front of Daud and came out ahead. All he has to do now is use the leverage what he has gained himself in only selling out Kent. Surely that will count for something, right?

By the time he reaches the door his resolve has chipped at the edges, but Pickford is used to making damaged goods look brand new. He steels himself again, takes a deep breath and pushes open the doors, putting on the most arrogant face he possibly can.

The doors fly open and the room turns completely silent. Pickford freezes in the door, his pretense at arrogant confidence falling instantly. The entire hall is packed with Whalers, certainly more than 40 strewn all over the place, frozen in the middle of various activities. Most of them wear the masters' blue. All of them now staring at him.

Suddenly the entire room is filled with noise so loud Pickford flinches in surprise. For a moment he fears that retribution for his tattling would be right swift after all, until his ears catch up on the fact that what he's hearing are not shouts of threats, but rather laughter, cheering, and, most bizarrely, clapping and whistling. He stands in the door looking over the bizarre spectacle until another Whaler pops up next to him, surrounded by swirling black threads. She's blonde and tall, with a glass eye in the left socket. Jordan maybe? Probably Jordan laughs and claps him on the back, pushing him into the fray. More and more Whalers crowd closer to him giving him a friendly shove, clapping him on the shoulder and all around being deeply strange. There's words being said, he can hear things like 'good job' and 'grow up so fast' but none of it makes any sense to Pickford so he focuses on not being petted to death while he's shoved around by merry Whalers.

Eventually he finds himself on the edge of the room, finally out of the centre of the commotion. The others are apparently satisfied with their effort to treat him like some sort of puppy dog and leave him to it. He can see some bottles being opened, though noticeably few glasses are visible. The riot has calmed down a little bit, having turned from tumultuous shouting into companionable chatter. Pickford slumps against the wall and let's out a deep sigh, wide eyes wandering around the hall. He spots Kent and Rinaldo at the window, slouched against the ledge and visibly sulking. Kent spots his looking and Pickford tenses, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but Kent just sighs dramatically, throws his head back and slides even further down into the chair until his ass is nearly off the seat. Rinaldo glances towards him, then throws his hands up in the air with the most exaggerated anguish Pickford has ever seen and throws himself onto Kent with such force they both tumble to the floor in a tangled heap. This starts another round of uproarious laughter ringing through the hall and someone throws a deck of cards over them, pronouncing them 'obnoxious dipshit and unlucky idiot, lawfully wedded'.

Pickford stays against his wall and questions if he somehow ended up in the Void. Master Daud once said the Void reflects a wrong reality, so that seems like it would cover it.

"Don't worry about them, they'll be fine, they just like complaining." Pickford flinches, the voice being far closer to his ear than anyone has any right to be without his noticing. He turns and finds Misha there, leaning against the wall behind them, a wooden tankard in his hand and mischievous glint in his blue eyes.

Pickford collects himself and does his best to put on his most disdainful sneer and turns demonstratively away. "I'm not talking to you." Misha has the gall to laugh.

"Ah, take it easy kid, no one here meant anything by it. And revenge for it is fair game, those two half-wits won't bite you over it." He chuckles. "Well, Kent might give you a bit of whacking during combat training, but it's only because we love you." Pickford feels a hand on his hand tousling his hair even further and he twists to glare at Misha. The older man pulls his hand away but he's still laughing. Pickford bites back a growl. The last time he tried that Tynan called him 'pup' for a week. "And don't worry your little head about your reputation. Getting weird at Daud is a rite of passage for a true Whaler. It's fun, you'll see when the next calf grows into it." Misha snickers, then throws back whatever probably alcoholic drink is in his mug. Once done he wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and sighs contentedly, before turning back to Pickford. He smirks and shrugs, though his eyes seem oddly soft in the dim light. "And besides, it's education you'll need before going to negotiate a contract with him for the first time." Pickford blinks and drops the act for the moment, curiousity nagging at him. That, and even the vague promise of one day being allowed to go with Daud to finalize a contract is more than just enticing.

"Why's that?" He tries not to sound too eager at least. Misha somehow grins even wider, but this grin has an edge to it, something sharp and biting that has nothing to do with the warmth from before.

"He's the mysterious Knife of Dunwall. He may not win a beauty contest but people will hit on him for the bragging rights. Best case, he doesn't notice and you only have to do one side of subtle damage control. Worst case they get extremely obnoxious and won't take no for an answer and then you need a very delicate touch to not escalate anything." Misha grabs a flask from his belt and refills his tankard, but Pickford hardly takes notice. Part of him wants to call Misha a liar trying to prank him again, but he remembers the conversation he had with Daud. And he knows his own desire. He's known about it of course. You don't live on Dunwall's streets for five years without knowing the game that is sex and the lengths some people will go to. But somehow here, with the Whalers, even dickheads as some of them are, that felt removed. They are invincible here. Daud most of all. The thought that it happens to Daud of all people, and repeatedly, has something churning in his stomach. "Good, be mad about it. It'll make you remember that doing it just for the notch in your belt is a dick move. To anyone." Pickford startles from his contemplation as Misha speaks up again. The older Whaler is looking at him with strange intensity that reminds Pickford of Tynan, when she teaches them about field work. Work that could kill them and will kill someone else if they succeed. It is... Intimidating. Pickford nods and Misha seems satisfied, taking a sip from his mug.

The sound of something breaking comes from the other side of the room, followed by mocking shouting and stomping. Someone yells about the Outsider's cock. Pickford thinks about that night with the tailor's son and is still curious.

"Does he really never...?" He stops himself before the last word and blushes again. It feels wrong to even ask, but the question needles him. It's not like Pickford has done it a lot either. Being careless with whom you take your clothes off on the street will get you robbed, stabbed, or something else painful. But those few times... Were nice. Really nice.

Misha gives him an amused glance over the rim of his tankard. "Nope. Never. Doesn't go out at Fugue either, just kicks us out and tells us not to lose our boots." Misha chuckles. "Billie once came back barefoot and half naked. He didn't like that very much." He takes a sip, then shrugs at Pickford. "As far as we can tell he never had a long term thing going on either. Or interest in one." Pickford frowns.

"Not at all?" Misha laughs again and Pickford almost regrets still asking. Almost.

"Not at all. You could time a watch after his frowning every time romantic tangles comes up." Misha's eyes sparkle a bit, even in the dim light, and he leans in to give Pickford a conspiratorial wink. That and a good whiff of what he's been drinking, mead from the smell. "My favourite is watching his lips get thinner and thinner during the briefing, every time we get a contract over some jealous affair or other. I think if it wasn't good money down the drain he would have already knifed someone over that." He snorts at his own joke and slaps his knee with the hand not holding the tankard while Pickford rolls his eyes at him. Still, he feels obligated to answer Misha somehow.

"Huh." It's not exactly as eloquent as he would like to be, but really Pickford doesn't have much more. In essence it's just what he already got from Daud. He's not quite sure what to make of it.

Misha once again seems to clock his confusion, much to Pickford's frustration. The older Whaler smiles at him warmly. "It happens, kid. Some people like men. Some people like women. Some people like both and some people like neither. We're a colourful bunch here, out from under the Overseers eyes. You'll get used to it." That- does make sense to Pickford and he slowly nods. As Whalers they are already heretics, using dark magic and wearing bone charms. It makes sense that it would draw in people otherwise hated by the Overseers. And though a part of him can't help being disappointed, he finds that this doesn't really change anything about Daud. In fact... It somehow fits. And really, it doesn't much matter whether he won't want Pickford because he's Pickford or because he doesn't want anybody. Misha chuckles with a sly grin. "And I promise you'll grow out of your little hero crush as well." Pickford's red-faced protest is nipped in the bud when Misha's grin gets softer. "We all did." Any retort gets stuck in Pickford's throat at unabashed earnesty.

The moment doesn't hold long though and Misha pushes himself off the wall with the momentum of someone preparing to leave. He hooks his tankard onto his belt and slides his hands into his pockets.

"Now, I'm gonna get out of your hair, I can see your friends on the edge of this ocean." A quick glance into the direction of Misha's nod tells Pickford that he's right, as he sees Cleon and Dash push through the crowd. "First though..." Misha pulls one hand back out, something held in the palm of his hand. Pickford can't help but stare when he recognizes what it is. It's a bone charm that Misha holds out to him. "Here. You deserve it. Good job, novice." Hesitantly Pickford moves to grab the charm, already mesmerized by singing he can feel down to his bones. Back in the streets he didn't dare keep one, for fear of the Overseers catching him, and on the weeks since he's not been lucky enough to find one. This one feels right in his hand, singing its quiet song directly into his heart.

He's so transfixed on the charm it takes Cleon nearly throwing themself on top of him to realize that Misha, already gone into the sea of Whalers, called him 'novice'. Not calf, not pup, but an actual title. With Cleon hanging off his shoulder and excitedly demanding he tell the story they missed, and Dash curiously examining the charm herself, he decides that maybe he does like having older brothers. Even if some of them are bastards.

[yanara126-writing]

They Had To Die - 1

Corvo Attano enters Dunwall tower fully intending to kill the Lord Regent. It doesn't work out how he intends.

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Read here or on Ao3 (3090 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

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Corvo slid the audiograph into the slot to play it for all the city to hear without much thought. He didn't quite know what was on it but whatever it was it would ruin the man. Perhaps even exonerate Corvo himself, though he wouldn't bet on it. His luck was not that good. Really he hadn't planned on doing it, hadn't even considered the possibility of proving the man's crimes, until the technician had brought it up. There was a vindictive part of him, the part that had demanded he take care of- No. That he kill the Royal Interrogator, the man who had tortured him for months on end and whose torments were the only interruption to his nightmares about Jessamine. Even as he skulked around everyone else, unwilling to kill people who had no idea about the atrocities being committed around them, that man had to die. That same part that had driven him to spill the only blood he had in the last week also demanded that he not simply kill the Lord Regent, the Spymaster, the Traitor. No, simple death was too good for the man who had Jessamine murdered and Emily held captive for months.

Whatever it was he'd been expecting when the audiograph slid out of view, it wasn't what he heard. Not a confession of plotting for the throne, not at first. The plague. The plague had been his fault as well. Corvo finds himself slumping against the machine, listening as raptly as the rest of the city surely was. There was so much more here than even he had been expecting. And yet... He thought he should call it worse. Jessamine would. And he was angry, not only for the lives pointlessly lost on accident when the plague had apparently gone out of control, but also for those intentionally extinguished, murdered for one man's idea of prosperity. Yet still, with honesty that was only possible in the corners of his own mind, he knew he wouldn't call it worse. That deep in his heart he could never consider anything worse than the murder of Jessamine and the pain inflicted on Emily. And then Burrows kept talking.

"I knew the truth would come out eventually. So there was no other way than to be rid of her, and take power myself. She had to die, you see. SHE HAD TO DIE."

The words, dry and almost desperate themselves kept reverberating in Corvo's ears as he bonelessly slid down the metal wall, his legs giving out underneath him. He'd known Burrows had been behind her murder. It was why he was here. He'd known, even before the Traitor had made it perfectly clear, that day before his scheduled execution. But hearing this now, hearing his twisted reasoning, hearing that Jessamine had been killed for being too close to uncovering a conspiracy... He should have seen it. It didn't matter that reconnaissance wasn't part of his job, he should have seen the danger to her right in front of his face, should have known that something was up when they sent him away, out of reach to protect her. He hadn't and now she was dead.

SHE HAD TO DIE

SHE HAD TO DIE

SHE HAD TO DIE

SHE HAD TO DIE

The words just kept roaring through his mind and he curled up tight, hands desperately pressed over his ears and face into his knees as if that would help, as if it could ever keep out the guilt drowning him. Suddenly the mask felt suffocating, as if it was melding into his head, weighing it down and pressing in with violence, so he yanked at the fastening and threw it across the small room, only dimly hearing it clank loudly into the wall. Distantly he could feel his nails start to dig into his scalp and something hot running running down the side of his head.

SHE HAD TO DIE

Over and over the torturous echo thundered through his mind, bouncing off every nook and cranny to be found there, louder and louder until he was sure his ears would bleed. Burrows was still talking, some distant, unreachable part of him that was still aware of the outside world supplied, but Corvo heard none of it. He vaguely registered the ping of the audiograph popping back out of the machine eventually and while it did nothing to quell noise in his head, it did make him aware of his location and his own ragged breaths. His head felt too warm, whether from tears, blood or exertion he had no way of telling or caring. But he had to get out. Now.

He stumbled his way to his feet, unsteady and clumsy and wobbled over to where he'd thrown the mask. Without any thought but the blaring need to get OUT he picked it up and put it back on. It still felt suffocating, wrong, but even that took a backseat to the all-consuming instinct to just run. One foot after the other and head filled with a cacophony of screams he stumbled his way down the stairs, past the deactivated arch pylon and out into the abandoned hallway. He blinked to a lamp and then down to the door more from muscle memory than active decision. The door surrendered to his forceful push and suddenly he was outside, surrounded by giant headlights and tallboys strutting across the yard. Cold air crept into his collar and under the mask, making him shiver for a moment, but it didn't help the earsplitting, blinding fog in his head.

Heedless of the lights and possible guards that he'd avoided before Corvo made a beeline for the Pavillon. For her grave. The stone with her name on it. He reached his goal in a haze, standing in front of the headstone and the world around him vanished.

She had to-

She had t-

His breath quickened and yet there was not enough air in his lungs. He gasped desperately trying to breathe past whatever was pressing down on his throat. Something was suffocating him slowly but surely and he couldn't- Where- he was in Coldridge strung up to a table and the torturer was slowly tightening the metal bands around his chest and throat. He couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe because SHE WAS DEAD-

Excruciating pain exploded through his back and he was thrown forward into the balustrade of the pavilion, slamming his head into the stone railing. Everything burnt and he was pretty sure he was bleeding from multiple open wounds but the fog had receded somewhat. He was at Dunwall Tower, and he had to not be here. Survival instinct took over, pushing past the suffocating feelings and Burrow's words still playing over and over in his head as Corvo realized a tallboy must have spotted him. He heard it charge up yet another electrical blast behind him and from one moment to the next he registered the blaring alarm.

Fuck.

With no moment to think, to focus and remember himself, Corvo simply threw himself over the railing, off the cliff and down to the walkways a good few metres below right as the charge hit the stone where he was just laying, blasting off part of the railing with a thunderous crack. The impact of his body onto the ground rattled something loose in him, both in his head and probably his chest considering the stabbing pain shooting from his ribs, and he remembered that he could have just blinked down, saving himself the probably broken ribs. Well, too late now.

The alarm was still loudly ringing through the complex and there were footsteps coming closer, as well as, more alarmingly, dog barking. Hissing through his teeth at the pain Corvo struggled to his feet and started running into the direction of the water-lock. No time for stealth, he'd already been spotted and deep in bones he knew that if he stayed still too long and let the adrenaline dip he would never get out of here again.

He only made it a few steps up the stairs to the gate when the dogs got him, the guards thankfully still a ways behind. One dog got him in the lower leg, sinking its teeth into his already bruised and burt flesh. A second one leapt onto his back as he stumbled, ripping into his right shoulder. He couldn't help the scream as he tripped, pushed over by the momentum and slipping on his own blood, only just managing to bring up his arms and not slam his head into the stairs. Desperately Corvo reached for his sword and stabbed blindly behind himself, catching one dog with the blade and irritating the other into letting go. Before it could latch on again he kicked his still somewhat whole leg out with as much force as he could muster. Something cracked but he didn't stay to check if he'd killed the cur. He scrambled back up and ran, forcing the doors open with his shoulder and nearly screaming again from the pain as the bloodied mass collided with steel, but the door gave.

Then the guards started firing at his back, loud cracks of pistol shots adding to the cacophony sounding through his ears. Finally at the edge of the water-lock Corvo made out a ledge further down where the bullets couldn't reach him, at least until the guards caught up, and forced all his remaining focus into a blink, but his concentration was too far gone. He threw himself through the void, the tell-tale tingle in his fingertips insignificant next to the burning agony, and reappeared a split second later, a hair's breath away from the ledge. He'd misjudged the distance. His eyes widened and he desperately threw his arm out, trying to catch himself on the ledge, but the stone was smooth and his strength fast fading. The ledge slipped out from under his helpless fingers and he plummeted down to the water below.

When he hit the surface his vision went white with pain and then everything felt suddenly very far removed. He could feel his body go limp and sink further down, detached, as if he was simply an uninvolved observer, and for that moment it was almost peaceful. Then the pesky need to breathe reared its head and from one second the next the agony returned, as well the raw, uncontrolled urge to survive. Without thought of anything he started struggling against the force dragging him down, kicking and throwing his arms to get up, Up, UP again until he finally broke the surface and gasped for air.

But he couldn't stay there, eventually the guards he could still hear shouting above him would think to look down. Dredging up the last bit of adrenaline he could still reach Corvo started swimming, ignoring the burning of open wounds and broken bones and the bloodtrail he was certainly spilling into the water. By the time he had left the lock behind himself and was in eyesight of Samuel and his boat his limbs were giving out. He dragged himself through the water as far as he could but it wasn't enough and just outside the boat's reach he started to sink again, body heavy as his arms and legs refused any further movement. He tried to get back up for air, to get into the boat, he tried, he tried so hard, *Emily, forgive me, I swear I tried*-

Water started pouring into his mouth, down his throat and into his lungs the same second as hands grabbed him under his arms and pulled him upwards. He broke the surface and started coughing, barely more than a limp, useless fish as his saviour yanked him over the side of the boat where Corvo stayed down only just so managing to undo the mask before he continued coughing and vomiting up water, lacking even the strength to claw into the wooden surface from the pain. After a moment of shuffling a blanket was gently draped over him which did little to really help the bonechilling cold settling into his limbs but it was appreciated anyway. The boat started moving as Samuel - it must have been Samuel, who'd fished him out of the water and given him the blanket, bless his soul - turned on the motor and started steering them away from the chaos that was Dunwall tower.

They stayed in relative silence for a while, Samuel keeping his hands on the rudder while Corvo was hacking out his lungs and shivering at the bottom of the boat, desperately clinging to the blanket. Only when they were a good distance away from the Tower where it was unlikely anyone would still be looking for them did Samuel speak up.

"Are you- are you alright, Corvo?" The question was certainly driven by honest concern, but Corvo nearly started laughing hysterically. Even drawing another breath had him coughing and spitting again however, his throat burning from the abuse along with the rest of him. "No, that was a stupid question, I'm sorry," Samuel muttered and the boat stopped moving as the quiet hum of the motor fell silent. Corvo was too tired to even wonder why. He found out regardless as Samuel crouched down beside him and started gently rummaging through Corvo's pockets, careful not to jostle him. Perhaps it should have concerned him to have someone else fumble with his stash that includes quite a few weapons while he was incapacitated like this, but it was Samuel who'd been nothing been kind to him and more importantly Emily, and Corvo was so, so very tired. It didn't take Samuel long to find whatever he was looking for and Corvo found himself pulled up into a halfway sitting position, leaning against the other man and unsure of how he'd gotten there. A bottle was pressed to his lips, tipping its cool contents into his mouth and he reflexively swallowed. The elixir ran smoothly down his throat, calming the itching burn that came from too much coughing and alleviating the pain throughout his body. Even his mangled leg stopped bleeding quite as badly and his ribs set somewhat. He still felt sore all over but at least it wasn't quite as agonizing anymore.

For a moment Corvo simply closed his eyes and breathed, leaning against Samuel who patiently sat still and waited. He was so, so cold and desperate for a change of clothes as well as a towel to dry his hair that was sticking to his head in a horrible mop.

"I can see it wasn't quite smooth this time, but you did a good job Corvo, you should know that. Even from the boat I could hear the announcements that they arrested the High Regent." Corvo went completely still, eyes suddenly wide, staring into the night sky above them. He'd- he'd forgotten about the mission. About killing the Traitor. The recording- it had shaken him so much he hadn't been able to think about anything else. He'd simply run. He hadn't killed the High Regent. He'd failed.

His breath started coming more quickly again as his chest felt too tight. The darkness of the night sky, blacker than the void, came closer and was about to swallow him whole. He couldn't- He didn't-

A hand started hesitantly rubbing circles on his back, the warmth pressing through his clothes in a startling contrast to the freezing wet cold. "It's alright, Corvo, it's over. We're almost back and I'm sure everyone- I'm sure Lady Emily will be happy to have you back. Everyone will shower you in praise and you can get something dry to change into. I'm sure they'll even get out the good stuff from the back cabinet. It's a big occasion and all with how you saved Dunwall. The High Regent is gonna rot in Coldridge forever with the confession you played for everyone. No getting out of that one without causing a riot." The words were halting, stumbling every new sentence as if unsure if they were the right ones. Rambling designed to distract with their amount rather than intended to truly communicate anything.

It did help a bit, grounded his thoughts back in reality. No, he hadn't killed Burrows. Maybe he should have. Maybe it was the right thing to do, but what was done was done. Burrows wouldn't get out of Coldridge, he had no allies that would risk their neck to get him out. And if it came to it, if heeded to be put down (if he needed to die)... Well, as Royal Protector to- to the new Empress. Emily would be empress. As Royal Protector to the new Empress he would have more than enough authority to have the man executed. Do it himself even. He could- he could fix this. His breathing evened out and the hand slowly receded though the older man made no move to leave completely, only looked at him with open concern.

Corvo wanted to thank him, assure him it was fine (it wasn't, would never be again, but that wasn't Samuel's fault), but the words wouldn't come. It happened sometimes, more since Coldridge. Instead he lifted a hand to his chin, the left one, as his right shoulder still protested painfully, and signed the thank you. Samuel, well meaning as he was, just seemed confused though assured that at least he was lucid again, and Corvo sighed, wiping away a drop of water that had run down into his eye. In the end he settled for simply nodding to the boatsman, an easy enough gesture to interpret, and Corvo sighed, wiping away a drop of water that had run down into his eye. In the end he settled for simply nodding to the boatsman, an easy enough gesture to interpret, and Samuel relaxed, a relieved smile on his face. He gave Corvo one more clap on the shoulder and got up with a grunt to bring them back the rest of the way, leaving Corvo to lie back down and try to rest, if only for a few minutes. He mercifully did not ask anything about the mission and Corvo offered nothing in return. They remained silent the rest of the ride back to the pub, only accompanied the splashing of the fans in the water, the quiet hum from the motor and their own thoughts.

She didn't have to die. Corvo didn't know if that was a comfort or not.

[yanara126-writing]

The Words We Speak

Corvo finds Jessamine's letter to Emily.

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Read here or on Ao3 (1008 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

-

You don't expect it, that is the worst part. Weeks later in retrospect, when things have calmed down and you down a drink too fast you know you really should have. You know this room. You have been in it many times before. Truly you don't know why you came in here. Strategically it was a mistake, the hidden door is the fireplace is clever, but extremely visible when open. Leaving again without being seen will be a challenge. Yet something has drawn you here, something that has nothing to do with the bone charm somehow hidden on the cupboard (and how did it get there? You know it wasn't there before). Was it fate? Was it the Outsider? Or was it just the desperation for something, anything familiar, comforting? You don't know and the drink in a few weeks time will give you no answers.

What you do know is that the unexpected sound of her voice breaks you, demolishes you so thoroughly you drop to your knees in front of the desk. The audiograph plays and her voice sounds through the room (and you are so very glad for the room's noise cancelling aspects. Not for the first time.) Not disembodied, confused, and detached like the wretched thing in your pocket speaks, haunting your every step. No, she sounds just as you remember her. Loving, hopeful, and so, so sad, drenched in a deep sadness you've never been able to bear seeing her with and have yet never been able to truly shake it for her. She speaks to Emily, of her hopes for- for your child. She speaks of you in the only way you've ever been able to speak of each other, indirectly, hiding their meaning behind plausible deniability- "Corvo, who was always dear to my heart."

Every word sends lightning to your heart and through your limbs. It hurts, it hurts so much, so unreasonably much to know that she is no longer here. That you will never hold her again, see her, even hear her speak of her hopes for Emily. You've seen her death again and again for the last months. In Coldridge there was nothing else, only her death over and over in front of your eyes, even as the torturer did his best to distract you. The dead man in the basement had no hope to ever eclipse the pain you feel now as it really, truly sinks in. That it's over. That Jessamine will never see Emily grow up. That she will never see the end of the plague.

No sound comes over your lips as you kneel on the cold ground in that hidden chamber you've spent so many hours in before. At first it's because you cannot bear to drown out even the quietest of her sounds as the audiograph runs. And then, when it pings back out, no more of her words to give, you find you still cannot sob. Your shoulders are shaking and your eyes are hot as tears are burning their way down your cheeks, as if trying to rip your face apart and melt the mask hiding your face. Your knees give out as well and you end up on the ground, fingers clawing and scratching at the stone, begging for some kind of support, something to hold onto, but the smooth stone knows no mercy for you. For once the silence is deafening in your ears, her words as gone as she is, and you cannot even fill the quiet with your tears for her. Perhaps this is your fate, silent for too long, never to be able to sound your grief again. First you were silent at her side, her guard, her protector, her love. You were happy with that silence and would have happily endured it until the end of your life for her. Then you were silent in Coldridge, six long months spent more in the torture chamber than in a cell. You did scream then, how could you not have, but never talked, never gave them anything. You had no dignity left to give, but at least you didn't give them the satisfaction of breaking you. Tragedy and helplessness had left only spite behind. And now, now you are silent for their sake. At the pub no one truly wants your words, and that is fine. You have never been one for many words anyway, and they give you something to do. They gave you Emily again. Outside you are silent to keep people alive. You cannot afford to fail, you will kill if you have to, but your silence may just buy their lives.

And so you lie here, prostrated before the ghost of her voice, sobbing silently as the spectre of past happiness tries to suffocate you.

You don't know how long you cry in that old, familiar little room and once you pull yourself up from the ground, feeling older and more ungainly than you ever have before, you don't find the energy to care. You probably should, after all you have a mission to complete, a regent to dethrone, a lie to correct. You should care about this chance to wash your reputation clean, even if only so you can stay with Emily, protect her from whatever threat will rise up next without the need to hide.

As you open the secret door, using those damn powers of the self-righteous prick using you for entertainment to get rid of the guard walking right at you, you do not care. As you drag his unconscious body behind a close by curtain you cannot care, because caring would only bring back the audiograph's voice ringing in his ears so loud and all-encompassing no alarm could ever hope to break through it. You have to succeed, so you don't care, you don't think, you don't feel, you simply stay silent and unseen, a shadow haunting the Tower, a ghost of past happiness who would suffocate the lies now living where your heart used to be.

[yanara126-writing]

From a Friend

Corvo Attano, disgraced Royal Protector, has been in Coldridge for three months. Three months of enduring torture and his own all consuming guilt as he tries to simply stay alive. As the days are drowned in pain and anguish there is one thing he is forced to acknoweledge. Someone is sneaking him food.

Hadria Granville meanwhile, ten years old and now abandoned at a foreign court, is terrified but determined to help.

_

Read here or on Ao3 (5203 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

_

All Corvo Atteno had known for the last three months was pain. Physical pain inflicted by the Royal Interrogator certainly, the man knew his trade well, but Corvo knew his better. Far worse than the torture was knowing that he had failed. That the empress- that Jessamine was dead and he'd only watched it happen. And Emily- his poor, sweet Emily was at the mercy of the people who'd killed her mother. And all the while he was here. Useless as he was That Day, and very nearly broken. He would not sign the confession. He would not give them that satisfaction. But at times... At times he did wonder if it wouldn't be easier to simply die. He had options. He could drown himself, though even in this state the idea of drowning in the dungeon's toilet seemed unappealing. He could provoke the guards into doing it for him. They were not trained like the Royal Interrogator to know the human body's limits, it wouldn't be hard to goad them into forgetting themselves during one of the unscheduled beatings he received in addition to the torture. A bit too much pressure at the right angle would crack his already abused ribs and stab into his lungs, drowning him in his own blood. Not particularly efficient but workable. A kick at the right angle might just snap his neck. Perhaps he could even steal a gun from one of them and end it himself. It wasn't entirely unreasonable, killing himself would deprive the traitors of a public execution. There would be no example made of him.

But no. As tempting as the thought was as he watched Jessamine die again and again before eyes, awake or asleep, he couldn't die just yet. As long as there was even a shred of doubt that Emily might still be alive he had a duty to be as well. Until the executioner finally got to chop his head off he would live and search for some way out, some way to save his-

So. All that was left for Corvo was to live. Preserve his strength as well as he could, try to heal what wounds he could before being mutilated again and think. And at that very moment, slowly regaining consciousness after yet another prolonged session with the royal interrogator there was one main thought at the front of his mind.

Someone was sneaking him food. Food that he clearly was not supposed to have. For one it was better than the slop he was thrown by the guards, that was only meant to keep him from starving to death but not more. Mostly it was bread, soft and fresh, occasionally with bits of fruit or cheese. All packaged in thin paper, something to keep it from the grimy floor but easily disposed of in the toilet. And that was the second point. The food bundles were always hidden. Tucked underneath the thin excuse for a blanket he had, behind the bed, where it wouldn't rouse any suspicion but also wouldn't be crushed under his unconscious, bleeding body if they dumped him back in his cell and bothered to walk that far.

Leaning against the wall next to the cot, breathing heavily and trying not to gasp at the effort of moving simply upright Corvo stared at the bread. This marked the fourth time he had found the mysterious gift. Someone had repeatedly snuck into his cell. And they had to have been sneaking, no guard here held any pity for the disgraced Royal Protector. The Traitor had chosen well when selecting who had access to him. Either they were part of their ranks or themselves incensed at the murder of their empress. Either way they would much rather rip his teeth out than give him food.

Mindful of any noise outside his cell Corvo broke off a small part of the bread and ate it. It wasn't poisoned, it never was. The first time he had found a bundle he had been too desperate to truly consider the idea. He hadn't eaten in more than a week, whether as another form of torture or an unplanned cruelty he had no way of knowing. In the end it hardly mattered. He'd eaten the offering and only afterwards when he wasn't quite as starved anymore had begun to consider the consequences. It could have been a trap by a particularly vengeful guard, a way to murder him without any way to trace it to them. Yet nothing had happened. It was simply food.

Corvo ate piece by piece, slowly, so as to not upset his stomach into vomiting it all back up. This wasn't his first time in captivity and he knew well the dangers of starvation. This was however the first time someone left him gifts like these. And no matter how hard he wrecked his brain he found no answer as to who it could be. Who could possibly still hold any affection for him, enough to risk their own life just to help him in this small way and who also could acquire access to his cell. If they were caught they would be executed much faster than he would be. Every small bundle presented an incredibly risky gamble with their life, just for this small comfort for him. He ate, but nonetheless he remained suspicious. Yet there was nothing for it. As far as he could tell the bundles had always been left when he was gone, tortured for his signature, and the mysterious sender was long gone when he regained consciousness back in the cell. He would simply have to wait and see if anything would change.

Having finished with the bread and the few grapes that had been included with still no tell-tale sign of footsteps outside Corvo took a breath, quiet as he could, steeling himself. This time his legs had received the worst of it, the left at the very least was broken in two places. The soles were burnt and blackened from the hot iron, but at least he could barely feel them now, which also numbed the pain. His right knee was possibly shattered or at least cracked.

Not dragging it out any longer Corvo pushed himself up, entirely silent though not completely straight. Slowly and carefully he walked over to the open hole at the back of the cell, keeping his breathing controlled and ignoring the lancing pain. Equally deliberately he placed the thin paper into the hole, watching it wash away, already fraying at the edges. The evidence gone he moved back towards the cot, shuffling far more than he would prefer. He sat and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the agony wash over him. As always when he closed his eyes he saw Jessamine's broken bleeding body. His breath never hitched. Feeling his thoughts fray he manoeuvred himself back down, lying flat on the hard surface of the cot, and tried to ignore the pain. He knew he needed the sleep, restless though it was and resigned himself to attempt it. No point in waiting out the next torture session or beating, they would come wether he was awake or not and in his current state he had no way of trying anything even if he did see them coming. He would wait for his time. And for the mysterious benefactor to return.

As it turned out, Corvo didn't need to wait for long. A few days later he found himself dragged by the shoulders back through the filthy corridors, barely clinging to consciousness and most certainly leaving a trail of blood in his wake. His head was bleeding along with his back he was fairly certain and he couldn't quite feel his fingers. A blessing most likely considering the pain still radiating sluggishly from his hands. Even aside from the broken bones in his legs he probably couldn't have walked on his own feet, if the turning and wobbling of the walls in front of his hooded eyes were any indication. Breathing was hard and his chest felt tight. Probably some cracked ribs at least. He didn't know if the guards knew he was not entirely out, but it wasn't like he was entirely certain himself. When they threw him down in the cell he nearly did scream as his now certainly shattered knee hit the hard ground and his teeth rattled in his head when his head crashed to the ground right after. The guards laughed. Maybe. He couldn't be entirely certain that it wasn't his own mind playing tricks on him, having the Traitor's laughter ring in his ears. He clenched his teeth and stayed where was, trying to even out his breaths while not aggravating his ribs further. Eventually, the guards' babbling long faded, he mustered all strength he could muster, thinking of Emily, and pushed himself up on his bruised but at least not currently broken elbows. His entire body objected as Corvo dragged himself forwards onto the cot and turned onto his back, trying to stabilise his legs and disregarding the stinging from his back. He had to prioritize, and bones were more important than flesh wounds. As soon as he had managed to drag himself onto one arm he collapsed backwards, once again painfully slamming his head into the ground, though at least from less height this time.

Corvo slept again then, or at least something as close to it as he could manage. He'd learnt to hate sleep in the month here at Coleridge, hated the loop of his failure it brought, Emily screaming in fear, Jessamine dying in his arms and begging him to save their- her daughter. He hated it, but once he managed to get out of here Emily would need him in somewhat acceptable condition. For that he would need sleep.

The sleep didn't last long. Corvo had never slept deeply, that was a habit reserved for those he was sworn to, and in the hell down here the pain only reinforced that habit. The guards would come one way or another and he had no strength to defend himself, but at least noticing them allowed some mental preparation, some small scrap of imagined dignity. As such he woke immediately when he heard the quiet clicking of a lock. His lock. He remained still and kept his breathing as even as he could to not alert whoever had entered. Not a guard. No guard would be trying to stay quiet, letting him sleep. He'd have already received a boot in the ribs if it was. The footsteps into his cell were quiet, slow, and soft, almost hesitant. Not reinforced combat boots certainly, perhaps not even leather. It sounded more like soft slippers, the delicate fabric ones that Emily had worn inside her own rooms. He waited as the steps slowly drew nearer. Carefully they stepped closer, until they seemed to stop at the side of the cot. Fabric rustled quietly, a sleeve yielding to movement, reaching over him.

With speed he hadn't been sure he was still capable of himself, Corvo's hand shot up and grasped the arm over him, eliciting a small gasp from the person standing over him. He nearly let go in surprise when he felt his hand reach entirely around a small wrist. He opened his eyes and stared at a child looking down on him.

No, not any child. Little Hadria. Emily's playmate. The little noble girl Jessamine had invited to be educated at court in Dunwall, so Emily wouldn't be lonely without any peers. It was undeniably her, but still looked unfamiliar down in this hell, a hell she didn't belong in. She had the same familiar round face as three months ago, but her ocean blue eyes were wide with fear, and her usually neatly pinned oak brown hair was tied up in a haphazard bun. She wore a dusty brown dress, clearly a size too small for her with abused fabric around the height of her knees as if she'd been crawling in it and soft, quiet, little fabric slippers that couldn't possibly protect her feet from the cold of the floor. With a sudden flash of realisation Corvo added another point of guilt to his ever growing list. He'd forgotten about her, drowned in his horror over Jessamine and Emily. Hadria stared down at him with terror in her eyes and a small paper package in her hand that smelled of fresh bread. For a moment they simply stared at each other, each more surprised than the other. Then heavy footsteps started ringing through the hallway outside the cell and broke the silent moment of recognition. Guard boots.

Corvo gave himself a fraction of a second to glance at the door, noting that Hadria had closed it behind her, however she had even opened it to begin with. Falling back on old, well-used reflexes Corvo lunged for the girl and grabbed her, for a moment forgetting the pain radiating through all his limbs as adrenaline filled his veins. This was more important. He pulled her close with the hand already holding her little wrist and quickly switched to grab her by the back of the neck for a firmer grip, while the other hand immediately slammed over her mouth to stop her from screaming. He needn't have bothered. Even when he threw her over his own body, between himself and the wall she made no sound, not even a sharp breath. A small part of him in the back of his mind was impressed, but the majority remained on high alert. He curled up around the girl, head and upper body turned towards the wall and her small body pressed into his chest, so she wouldn't be easily visible from the door. The girl remained eerily still and let him manhandle her without resistance, keeping completely silent, his hand still over her mouth, the other keeping her head secured under his chin.

There they remained, as the footsteps drew closer until they halted in front of the gated door. Corvo didn't bother trying to even out his shaky breathing this time, let them think he was simply curled up over his abused ribs. Lying there completely still, keeping his body between the door and the girl who really shouldn't have been able to get in here, he imagined, just for a moment, that a different 10 year old was tucked into his chest.

Moments passed like years as the guard still stood in front of the door. Corvo did not wait with bated breath, he was better than that, keeping your breath would have been suspicious. He was almost not sure the girl pressed into him was breathing though, limp and silent as she was. He didn't know what he would do if the ruse failed. If the guard walked in just a few steps and saw the child in his cell. He was in no condition to fight, even one man would be a challenge, broken as he was, and it wouldn't stay at one. He had no weapons to balance out the scales either. Instead he had a little girl that would most certainly die and maybe watch him be killed as well. But he would fight if necessary. He would force his broken body to obey until it gave out entirely if it might at least give this little girl a chance to get away. He only hoped Emily would forgive him if it came to that.

It did not.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, the guard snorted derisively.

"Eh, he's breathing. If he got a lung pierced he'd sound worse." He shouted off to the side, where no doubt at least one more guard was waiting. The response was an unintelligible grumbling from further down the hallway. The heavy footsteps retreated, one step after another growing quieter until they entirely faded.

Only then did Corvo dare to look down at the bundle of child still clutched to him. Hadria was staring up at him with big watery eyes and though she was clearly terrified not a single sound escaped her. She moved no muscle, not even now, only laid there on the cot next to him. She didn't try to escape, not even now when the guard was gone, and somewhat belatedly Corvo realized that it wasn't him she was afraid of.

With the relative safety, at least what counted for safety in here, came the rush of emotions. Confusion came first. How did the child get down to the dungeons and into his cell without anyone noticing? Repeatedly even if she had always been the one to bring the packages? Had someone else put her up to it? But even if, for what purpose? Were they hoping she would get caught? Why? Hadria was a child, and not a particularly politically important one, now that- now that Jessamine was dead and Emily gone. She came from a lesser noble family without much influence. If the Traitor had wanted to get rid of her without much fuss he could have simply sent her back to her parents. And even if the 'why' had made sense, the question of 'how' remained. Hadria had always been a sweet child. Quiet and well-behaved, a bit shy even, and studious in a way Jessamine had hoped would rub off on Emily. The most trouble the girl had ever gotten into was through Emily's little schemes, like stealing cookies from the kitchen or hiding out after bedtime. As Emily's friend she had been his charge by proxy as Emily could hardly be separated from her friend, from the moment they had been introduced and Hadria had never seemed to mind Emily's enthusiasm. At no point had she seemed anything other than a normal child. So how did she get in here?

Bubbling below the surface of confusion and dread that the guard might return was a good dose of anger. Regardless of how she'd managed it, her actions were foolhardy and unbelievably dangerous. She was recklessly putting herself in harm's way for no good reason and his instincts urged him to scold and admonish her for the stupidity. But speaking would most definitely be her death sentence, the guards weren't deaf after all. Instead he remained silent, and let his anger mold his stare into a glare. She seemed to catch his meaning at least in principle and lowered her eyes. If in shame or fear he couldn't tell. Her head still didn't move, remaining entirely where he'd placed her without resistance, but he could feel her small fingers grip the thin, coarse fabric of his shirt more tightly.

Suppressing the need to sigh Corvo slowly removed his hands from her mouth and neck, continuing to give her a hard stare. She obeyed the silent order and remained still, her eyes only darting briefly up to his face when she felt the hands move before focusing on his chest again. Slowly he moved to sit up, almost regretting the action as Hadria withdrew her fingers from where they'd been clenched in his shirt and grew visible tenser. He deliberately did not hiss as the pain of his legs and ribs returned with full force. At least his vision didn't swim this time. Once he sat securely and had made sure that no noise was coming from outside the cell he turned back to the girl who had still not moved even an inch. It would have been impressive if it had made any sense at all. Carefully he grabbed her under her arms and lifted her up from the cot, painfully straining his ribs again. He sat her down on her own feet in front of him and once again she obeyed, remaining standing and staring at the ground. Well, that would hardly do in this situation.

Corvo gently tapped one finger under her chin, prompting her to look up at him with those big blue eyes that miraculously still hadn't shed any tears. He softened his gaze and raised an eyebrow. He was angry, livid even, but in this situation there was no helping it and making her even more scared would not improve anything. A pity that they hadn't gotten far in signing lessons, they had barely managed a few sessions before he'd had to leave. They'd have to make do.

The girl hesitated for a moment and licked her lips. For a second Corvo was terrified she was about to start speaking and prepared to cover her mouth again, but instead she reached into a pocket of her rumpled dress. She pulled out the paper package and held it out to him. Corvo nearly cursed then. In his haste to hide the girl he had forgotten about the package. Had she dropped it when he'd snatched her it could have spelled her doom anyway, but yet again he found himself unwillingly impressed. He took the package, the same thin paper and content as the four before, and quickly stuffed it under the blanket out of sight without taking his eyes off the girl. Her posture deflated a bit when he put the package away and she just stood there, her eyes wandering over the cold grimy floor as if she didn't quite know what to do now. Unfortunately, neither did he. He still hadn't figured out how she'd even gotten in in the first place. Slowly, as if she could feel his heavy stare, Hadria looked up at him again, peering through the soft brown strands that had gotten loose from her haphazard bun and now hung over her face. There was something desperate in her eyes then, something that didn't seem like fear but something else... Equally slowly she pulled something else out of another pocket. A piece of folded up paper, this time firm writing paper, not the thin packaging. Once again she held the item out for him to take, her hands now shaking for the first time in their strange encounter. He took the piece of paper from her and as soon as it had left her fingers she wrapped her arms around herself, crinkling the dress even further, and firmly locked her eyes on a spot of dirt on the ground in front of her feet.

He glanced down at the paper and saw writing, unmistakably Hadria's, the fine, deliberate, but still slightly shaky strokes of a noble girl learning proper penmanship. The message contained only one sentence.

'I saw it happen.' Corvo's head snapped back up to look at her he felt something crack in his neck and the pain nearly blinded him for a second. Hadria herself still stood motionless but for the slight shaking that had spread through the rest of her body, avoiding his face. She had- No one had noticed her. Not he, not the Traitor, not the Murderer, nor anyone else, or she would be dead already. Victim of some 'accident', the plague, or even another assassin. A tragic victim they would have likely tried to also blame on him somehow. And with that thought both rage and terror filled his veins once again. The stupid girl had carried around her own death sentence for anyone to find. And now, if they found her here, or even just guessed she had been here later, they would beat her to death here, right in front of him and claim he'd somehow tempted her down here to murder her. They would smash her little head into the wall until she stopped screaming and they would make him watch helplessly again.

As quietly but decisively as he could Corvo ripped up the paper into fine pieces. The noise, quiet as it was, made the girl look up in surprise and he made sure she was watching as he shoved the paper scraps into his mouth and swallowed. This was too dangerous to simply throw into the toilet hole. There could be no freak accidents with this and he needed her to know that. He could almost see the cogs turning in her head as she stared at him. He could only hope she got the gist.

He gave her a moment, but they couldn't afford more. They'd already wasted too much time, she needed to get out immediately before the guards returned. He nodded at the door and raised an eyebrow at her. He hated not being able to get her out, not knowing how she'd done it, but he had little choice other than relying on her in this. She'd clearly managed it before without his help.

Hadria nodded quickly and reached for yet another pocket in her dress. (Just how many pockets did this dress have??) She pulled out a key. A key that looked identical to the one the guards had for his cell. Corvo stared. He wasn't quite sure what he was expecting. A secret talent for lock-picking maybe. But no, the ten year old had a key to the cell. For a moment she too just looked at the key, but then, with steel in her eyes that was almost adorable if it hadn't put her into this situation, she held it out to him. Offering him a chance at freedom. For a second he was tempted, but the second passed quickly, driven out by a lance of pain shooting through legs and chest. He couldn't leave, there was no way he was in any condition to attempt a break out when he could barely walk to the other end of the cell. Asking her to leave the key for later when he had healed was a possibility, his best shot would be shortly before his execution that they would want him to walk himself to, but it was risky. The guards could easily find it and though he trusted himself enough to know they would get no answers from him, he didn't know where she'd gotten the key from, and if it was traceable. No, better she not be involved at all in any escape attempt he could muster. He wouldn't put another child at risk, even if said child insisted on placing herself into harm's way. He wouldn't fail again. Gently he pushed the key back to her, taking her hand and closing her fist over it. She looked at his large, rough hand over her small one, and then back up to him, big blue eyes starting to shimmer with unshed tears again as her lips trembled.

Ah, there she was. Emily's shy little friend who she'd drag all over the castle in search of adventure, who would rather sit by the window with her needlework but still always dutifully stood on lookout while Emily pilfered the cookie jar for them to share later and he pretended not to notice. The little girl who got overwhelmed at official functions and sat by his feet so no one would bother her while she was sniffling through her tears.

Corvo debated picking her up and holding her for just a few moments, the way he'd done when her anxieties became particularly bad until Emily would return to claim her friend back. He decided against it. As much as he didn't like it, at this moment she couldn't be Hadria, the royal playmate, she had to be Hadria, the girl who had somehow repeatedly gotten past all guards and locks in the dungeon.

He let go of her hand and forced himself up onto his feet. As quietly as he could he stepped towards the gate and looked out, checking for anyone in range of sight. There was no one. He allowed himself a grimace of pain as long as Hadria couldn't see his face. The guards would hardly expect him to be conscious yet.

After a moment of checking he waved the girl over and she followed without protest or hesitancy, despite her still misty eyes. Not looking at him again she snuck a hand through the gate, covering the keyhole to dampen the sound, while the other gently unlocked the gate. Before slipping out she glanced at him one more time. He nodded towards the door. Before she turned away he grabbed her shoulder for a moment and looked her in the eyes. As deliberately as he could possibly manage, Corvo shook his head, hoping desperately that she would understand and not return. If she did understand he couldn't tell, she simply stared back at him with watery eyes until he gave her a light shove towards the unlocked door. On the quiet soles of her slippers she snuck out, barely opening the gate, and closed the door behind her. Corvo watched her as she snuck to the wall across the door. He frowned in confusion before she started climbing onto the table pushed against the wall. His eyebrows rose in surprise without his permission. There was a small vent gate a good bit above the table. Certainly too small for an adult, but maybe just big enough for a ten-year old on the smaller side. So that was how she got in here. Though how she got a hold of that key and how she even knew the vent system was another mystery.

He watched her delicately lift the apparently unsecured vent covering and pull herself up to the edge, where she scurried into the darkness of the vent, slowly lowering down the cover with her foot. For a moment longer she peered over shoulder back to him perhaps waiting if he would change his mind. He knew he couldn't. There was no way he could follow her through the vents, and all other ways would be suicide right now. Still he felt compelled to answer something. To not leave her with a last memory of him silently ordering her away. He lifted his hands and formed a v shape with his middle and pointer fingers, crossing them over each other.

'Be careful.'

After a moment she bent around as much as could in the tight vent, drawing her arms together and imitated him.

'You too.'

Then she was gone, as if she'd never been here. No, that wasn't quite right, was it... He shuffled back to the cot and heavily sat back down, cringing when it wasn't as quiet as he'd been aiming for. The visit had lasted not much more than a few minutes, but still the effort made his wounds burn so much worse than before. Even as everything hurt and his entire body protested at the idea of moving even the slightest bit more, he reached for the paper package he'd stowed underneath the blanket. For a moment he merely peered at it, the only piece of evidence that he hadn't succumbed to a fever dream and hazily remembered the little girl now left all alone in a nest of plague rats. Gingerly he unpacked the bread and ate piece by piece, enjoying what he hoped would be the last gift of its kind. He would prefer to starve again rather than risk the safety of the only charge he had left, by proxy or not.

[yanara126-writing]

Hypothetically

Under normal circumstances, a stranger in the small village of Palemorn would have been cause for suspicion, but these were not normal circumstances. The village was teeming with people, traders, pilgrims, priests, but first and foremost soldiers, all shades of kith in armour with different states of quality and condition. Anyone looking for a uniform to tie the group of soldiers together would have searched in vain, it seemed like everyone had simply grabbed what was accessible to them, from repurposed sharp farming tools to ceremonial armour. The only thing uniting them was the symbol of the dawn, sometimes painted on chestplates or pauldrons, sometimes stitched into the tunic, sometimes etched into a hilt, but ever present.

It was precisely because of this situation that no one batted an eye when the night after the god king's arrival in Palemorn, after the sun had set beyond the horizon and the soldiers had scattered all over the village in search of some entertainment, a stranger stepped into the tavern.

Waidwen meets a stranger in a tavern and learns that either way he doesn't have long to live.

-

Read here or on Ao3 (4960 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

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Under normal circumstances, a stranger in the small village of Palemorn would have been cause for suspicion, but these were not normal circumstances. The village was teeming with people, traders, pilgrims, priests, but first and foremost soldiers, all shades of kith in armour with different states of quality and condition. Anyone looking for a uniform to tie the group of soldiers together would have searched in vain, it seemed like everyone had simply grabbed what was accessible to them, from repurposed sharp farming tools to ceremonial armour. The only thing uniting them was the symbol of the dawn, sometimes painted on chestplates or pauldrons, sometimes stitched into the tunic, sometimes etched into a hilt, but ever present.

It was precisely because of this situation that no one batted an eye when the night after the god king's arrival in Palemorn, after the sun had set beyond the horizon and the soldiers had scattered all over the village in search of some entertainment, a stranger stepped into the tavern. He was a young man, old enough to be married but not to have taken over his family's farm. And the exact age to join a holy crusade in honor of their god. His brown hair, longer than was seemly really, was tied back out of his sun marked face, his clothes were clearly too large hand-me-downs with a lovingly embroidered emblem on the hem. An uninteresting footsoldier that barely anyone gave a second glance. And if his hazel eyes shone just a little too bright in the dim fire light of the tavern, well, stranger things were happening these days.

The tavern was already near bursting, filled with soldiers relishing in a night not spent in a hastily erected camp and villagers still dazzled by the awe-inspiring sight earlier that day that was Saint Waidwen's glorious arrival and were now hoping for stories from those who got more than just a single glimpse of their Saint and ruler. No one paid attention to the young soldier making his way through the crowd, his steps too awkward and posture too hunched to be anyone of import, and therefore interest. The sergeant who'd come into the small tavern an hour earlier in his polished, shiny platemail was much more interesting, and more than ready to keep telling stories of their glorious prophet and how often he'd already fought side by side with Saint Waidwen for as long as the rapt listeners kept buying him drinks. The newcomer briefly stopped at the edge of the crowd surrounding the man and listened to a few words. He didn't seem impressed with the heroic stories and simply frowned before moving on to the bar counter.

The man behind the counter threw him a harried look while hurrying from one end to the other, handing out mugs, jugs and tankards and collecting coin with nary even a moment to breathe. The young man waved his hand dismissively, he was in no hurry. The barkeep nodded lightly and moved on, ignoring the newcomer for now, much like the rest of the tavern.

He'd come here hoping for a moment of calm, a time free from the expectations and constant supervision his life had become, and yet, despite the anonymity the stolen tunic granted him, there was no peace to be found for Waidwen. Not from the constant roiling of heat in his soul and not from the stubborn fuzziness in his head that he couldn't seem to get rid of.

He leant against the bar, eyes shifting rapidly over the crowd as his fingers started tapping out a nervous rhythm.

"I am allowed to drink a cup of Wyrthoneg." He kept his voice low, only mumbling under his breath. The tavern was loud enough that likely no one would have heard him regardless, but there was no reason to draw people's attention with inane comments to himself. Then again, there was no reason to talk out loud at all, but it was a habit he'd developed over the last few months. An extra voice in your head suddenly makes the voice from your mouth the private one.

*There is no reason why you wouldn't be.* The voice was, as ever, calm and soft. There had been few moments in their partnership that Eothas had ever become agitated, and all of them had included grievous bodily harm. Which this would not. This was a fun, short outing, to take his mind off of the horrifying exhausting trek before all of them.

"Broder worries too much, it's not like anyone cares when we're not glowing." The stolen tunic had done its task, as had the hair tie he'd reluctantly used and no one in the tavern had given him even a second glance. No one cared about a simple soldier coming to drown his fears or revel in the attention, they only cared about Saint Waidwen, mouthpiece of Eothas. It rankled him, despite the relief of escaping the constant scrutiny for a little while.

*I'm sure.* Eothas said gently, because it was what Waidwen wanted to hear.

He continued tapping on the counter, bit his lip and tried to ignore the dizzying pressure in the back of his head.

He'd almost convinced himself that he was simply sleep deprived when someone slid through the mass of people clogging up the tavern and settled beside him at the counter. He winced as the pressure spiked for a moment. His fingers tapped faster. He was not in the mood for entertaining (gawkers).

The same didn't seem to apply to the stranger.

    "I'm told it's rude here to let a brave soldier sit on their own." Waidwen didn't flinch when the stranger spoke and it felt like a needle was rammed into his neck. One deep breath later the pain subsided again, leaving only the constant buzzing that never left him these days. When he finally turned, the stranger was looking at him expectantly. Or at least he thought they were, with a death godlike you could never be quite sure. He'd seen very few of them and all of them in the last year.

There was something vaguely unsettling in the stranger's growth covered eyes and sharp toothed grin. The pitch black growths seemed almost crownlike, spanning over their forehead and nose in ridged layers and peaking in two high spikes, as well as arching down their cheeks, framing their cheekbones and mouth as the only visible features. A white, Waelite eye tattoo was carved into their forehead.

Waidwen frowned as the shape wavered a little. He turned and went back to tapping.

"They forgot to tell me then." It wasn't quite a growl. He didn't want to piss anyone off, bar brawls tended to draw attention, but he also really didn't want to deal with people.

The stranger laughed, their warm, smoky voice floating just above the noise in the room. "I think I like you. Tell you what, I'll buy you a drink and you forgive my social blunder?" He sighed and the wood was granted a moment of mercy from the relentless tapping. For a moment he debated simply leaving again. But then what was the harm in indulging this stranger for a moment? They'd notice soon enough that there were better targets for gossiping. He steadfastly shook off the vague, ever-constant concern warming his neck and ignored the needle stabbing through his right eye as he glanced over to the stranger again.

"Won't stop you from spending your own coin, but don't expect any stories out of me." He threw a surreptitious look over his shoulder to the sergeant who was still surrounded by adoring villagers. Occasionally booming laughter or a wave of cheers sounded from the group as the man animatedly waved his hands around during his tales of heroics of saving saint, god, and country.

Waidwen turned back to the stranger and swallowed a wave of nausea. He wished he hadn't waved off the bartender.

The godlike threw an amused glance to the colourful group before turning back and smirking with raised hands as if in surrender. "Promise, no elaborate dickwagging required." Waidwen let out an unenthusiastic huff, but didn't disagree. As the stranger turned to call out to the still buzzing about barkeep for the promised drink he blinked in mild suprise. Behind their head growths peaked out two buns of hair, fire red and coiled. Probably a rare remnant of their aumaua heritage if their teeth were any indication. Not that it was any of his business. Or interest.

Waidwen went back to tapping the countertop. The grain of the wood was soft under his hands, both well sanded by its maker and smoothed down by many passing hands. His fingertips burnt.

A tankard was banged on the table in front of him with enough force to splash the Wyrthoneg both over his fingers and over the wood, filling the soft grooves of the grain with the sticky substance. Without thought he lifted his hand and licked the drink off his fingers as he mindlessly watched the liquid slowly creep across the table, soaking into the wood like he saw the dawn's rays soaking into every living being, regardless of the sun's position in the sky. The coolness of his tongue helped little against the burning. Where the wood absorbed the golden liquid, it turned a dark brown colour, soft and almost soothing. Above it sat more sparkling drops, shimmering in the firelight brightening room, almost glittering like early stars during sundown. Staring at them he could almost see his own face reflected, sprinkled over the wooden surface, first in the beads of Wyrthoneg sitting on the already soaked full spots, then in ever smaller droplets, specks sitting in the grain, so small that the grooves looked like canyons and he himself scattered between all of them, in ravines, mountains, fields without focus or reason, the only constant being an overpowering *warmth* making up every shattered piece of him.

A voice ripped through his mind like the roar of a cannon firing.

"I do apologize for the mess, but I think there's more in the tankard than on your fingers," the stranger chuckled with entirely room-appropriate volume. They were leaning casually against the countertop with one arm while lifting their own tankard with the other, not-perturbed in the slightest. Waidwen suppressed another flinch and quickly lowered his hand. After a moment to reassemble himself he grabbed the tankard and took a large gulp, decisively not looking at the golden liquid in it.

Judging by the quiet sloshing sounds, the stranger was content to simply drink in company for now.

The alcohol, however little it was, helped to dull the sharp sting of too clear sound and too detailed vision for a while. Probably better that it wasn't more potent, he felt like he might really crumble out of the confines of his body if he loosened his control too much. A few more gulps dulled that feeling as well. Eventually he felt stable enough to be annoyed again. And patience had never been his strong suit.

"So, what's the deal with you?" he asked with all the elegance and subtlty of a hailstorm, because while Eothas had taught him how to speak with flourishes, he rarely ever bothered with them. Eothas never corrected him.

The stranger laughed again, the way the merchants always did when they thought he wasn't counting the coins. The muscles in his shoulders tightened in irritation, even as the stranger answered with nothing but friendly mischief in their voice, nodding towards the bartender: "My deal is that I give this nice man some coins and he gives me drinks." Waidwen couldn't see the wink, couldn't see anything of their eyes through the pitch black growths, but the implication of it soaked through his aching bones like a well intentioned balm. It did nothing to lighten his mood.

"Oh haha, hilarious. How about a joke of my own then: a death godlike walks into an eothasian bar," Waidwen muttered. He wanted to scowl, to be hostile and inhospitable, so the stranger would leave him to his misery, but truthfully he was too exhausted for it. He didn't acknowledge the gentle, hesitant brush at the back of his mind, a flickering candle, a muted ray of light through heavy clouds, a wavering hand nonetheless held out offering. The moment passed, the soft touch lifted and Waidwen didn't give in to the yearning, the instinct to grab for it and the relief it promised. Eothas did not comment on it.

Yet again, the stranger seemed unbothered by his blunt suspicion and laughed. "Does the bar I say 'I forgive you' as the godlike rubs their head?" That did finally crack him a little and he snorted, more in exasperation but also a little bit of amusement. It was hard not to give in just a bit when someone was at last willing to banter with him and gave as good as they got. People these days were hardly ever honest with him in any way that mattered. He took another drink.

The stranger waited for a moment as they watched him down more of the wyrthoneg, their amused smile never wavering for a moment. Eventually he had his fill of the watered down alcohol and set the tankard back down with just a bit too much force to be entirely casual. The stranger leant back on their school, crossed their arms and smirked.

"Alright alright, don't want to get purged for murdering a holy soldier with my impressive wit." Once again, a wink was implied in the short pause. Dimly Waidwen wondered if his easy perception of the godlike's facial expressions was normal or if it was a skill born from frequently having to interpret feelings that weren't his own. Eothas said nothing to the thought. Waidwen didn't linger on it. If the stranger noticed his brief inattention they didn't acknowledge it. "Truth is, I'm here on business, Waelite business." They tapped lightly on their forehead with a strangely hollow sound and the eye tattoo almost seemed to flicker. "And you seemed like an interesting enough start." To Waidwen the explanation tasted like slightly moldy sonnread. Still sweet but with an undeniable rotten aftertaste. He took another swig and let the stranger wait for the answer they were clearly fishing for. When the taste didn't wash away with the drink he couldn't bring himself to be surprised.

"I thought you said 'no dickwagging required'?" he eventually muttered into the almost empty tankard, tasting only disappointment. Perhaps he should have been concerned. About spies, about yet another priesthood on his tail. But fear had been long burnt out of him, leaving only the dry ashes of resignation. No, he was not afraid of Wael. For all he was concerned, the whole world might as well be Waelites now, when all anyone ever wanted from him these days were answers that he didn't have or couldn't give. Perhaps he should be grateful that at least this one was bothering a random a soldier and not Saint Waidwen the Divine King. The thought felt like being violently shoved into a frigid lake.

The stranger's laugh sounded like jingling keys being dangled over his head, just out of reach.

"It's not," they assured, and Waidwen didn't believe it for even a second. "I don't even really know you're the one who has the secret that led me here. All I know is that I have to sit here for a bit and have a drink with you." The stranger, who really made a lot more sense as a Waelite priest, smiled, toasted their own tankard to him and drank. When they set it back down, it sloshed as if still full.

"Seems like a very vague holy mission," Waidwen huffed, elbows on the table and staring at the wall behind the counter, because he'd never been good at being polite or knowing when to stay silent. Hypocrisy sounded like a discordant temple bell struck at the wrong angle, familiar.

The priest shrugged, making the small, clear crystals attached to their scarf jingle ominously. "Comes with the trade. Though I wouldn't call it a 'mission' really. That would imply that Wael told me to do it. This is more of a... Personal interest." They did not wink this time, just smiled amiably with a sense of serenity that seemed almost out of character. Waidwen didn't like it any better than the sly grinning.

He took the bait anyway.

"So how do you know you have to sit here with me for your... Personal interest?" he asked, his loaded pause the exact same length as the stranger's. Over the last year his sense of time had become somehow both extremely precise and completely unreliable, a second stretching out into an unknowable infinity while whole days blended together until he couldn't be sure when he'd slept last. He'd also become very good at drowning any cold, creeping dread in the heat of annoyance.

"Ah, just because Wael didn't tell me to do it doesn't mean they had nothing to do with it," the priest replied. For the first time in their short conversation he really focused on the priest next to him. Their clothes were made for travelling, sturdy and altogether unassuming at first glance, except they were clearly of dyrwooden make. Their scarf suddenly stood out in sharp contrast, dyed a muted blue and decorated with crystals that seemed to almost glow slightly. The eye tattoo on their forehead was now purple. None of it had in any way occurred to him before. He was not afraid of Wael, no, but it was very different to not be afraid of someone out of reach, who may or may not be paying attention to you, and not being afraid of someone potentially right in front of you.

He narrowed his eyes and held the warmth in his head closer. The incessant buzzing flamed up again. "What does that mean?"

The priest chuckled, as unbothered as they had been throughout the entire conversation. "Nothing as grand as what you're imagining right now I'm sure. I don't start glowing for one. We just... Have an understanding. One that occasionally lets me siphon some knowledge from the vastness that is Wael if I go look for it." A slight tap on one of the crystals with their nails produced a quiet ping that reverberated through Waidwen's ears like a temple gong. But the sound was hollow, empty, like a hall left unfilled, the worshippers long gone. His shoulders marginally relaxed, but he stayed cautious. Few rooms stayed empty for long if someone was still living there.

"That sounds suspiciously like something you shouldn't be telling me." Perhaps it was a form of animancy instead? Waidwen frowned, eyeing the priest in front of him. He was not at all sure on his own stance on the practice, there had been so many other problems to deal with and realistically the only place animancy had in Readceras was as a political accusation or in a moral play, so he hadn't bothered looking into it. But if his choice was between a questionable mortal practice or another god getting personally involved, he'd certainly prefer the animancer.

"Maybe," the godlike agreed with a shrug. "But something tells me that I must anyway."

They told him stories of their own then. Of nobles having their pockets lightened, of government secrets stolen, of drafted spells mysteriously vanishing from their inventors' desks and of the small nibbling in the back of their own mind, never words, never orders, never a presence, but something far more delicate and interpretable. In the privacy of a crowd that didn't care about either of them, and with a steady, hot pounding behind his eyes, ready to burst forth at at any moment, Waidwen learned a bit more of the world, of gods, of cultures, and of people seeking to meddle with all of it. In a way it was almost comforting, the knowledge that out there, authority was not allowed to simply stand, that there was resistance to power, even in this strange way. It made him feel oddly reassured, connected in a way that had nothing to do with the silent voice in his head.

With each amused story some of the heat drained out of him, like a cool evening wind blowing away the noon's warmth, and he relaxed. At one point a new tankard was placed in front of him and he absent-mindedly sipped the wyrthoneg. Eventually he caught himself laughing at a mayor finding the love letters to his 3 misstresses pinned to the village board one morning. For a moment suspicion sparked in the back of his mind, but it went as fast as it had appeared. He was tired of being suspicious and for the first time in months he found it difficult to even try. Sweetness on his tongue, drink in his stomach and only the gruff voices of the people around him in his ears he decided that maybe he could stand to let it go. Just for one night. Even the pain behind eyes subsided just a bit.

Eventually his companion's stories trickled off, leaving a comfortable silence between them. The lights of the tavern were warm, the wood soft, and Waidwen was content for just a little while. But this piece of relief brought with it something else: curiousity. Something was itching in the back of his mind, for once it had nothing to do with Eothas, at least not directly.

Waidwen took a sip from his cup, enjoyed the taste for a moment, and then broke the silence.

"So that personal relationship of yours, it sounds a bit... Vague. Removed. Hypothetically, wouldn't it be easier for both of you to just be more direct about it? Something like, I don't know, share a body? If that works. To let you talk more easily, make use of that power yourself." He shrugged and drank again. The heat swirling up in his throat had nothing to do with the drink.

The godlike tilted their head curiously. "Is that what you think your saint is doing?"

"I wouldn't dare guess what his holiness is doing, I'm just curious." Waidwen lifted his tankard and took another sip to not have to look at them. The taste barely covered the ashy feeling in his mouth.

The priest hummed thoughtfully. "Well, I for one hope he isn't, for his own sake." They paused for a moment, mouth still open and fingers tapping on the table twice. Then they apparently came to a decision. "You see, mingling with the divine is a little bit like working with a raging river. What I did is dig a little pond," they cupped their hands, elbows on the table and fully turned to him, "And then I connected that pond to the river through a thin canal that has a movable gate. And when I need water I use a cup to get some from the pond. I have multiple layers of distance and safe guards. What you're describing would be more like throwing the cup into the river, shattering it and polluting the river in the process. Both would be ruined."

Somewhere behind them a tankard crashed to the floor, followed by a roar of laughter. Waidwen blinked. The death godlike stared back. Probably.

"Well. That sounds... Painful." His mouth felt dry. He took another drink.

"Oh I'm sure it would be excruciating. And fatal." The godlike agreed cheerily, then drank as well, a content smile on their face.

For a moment Waidwen considered thinking further on the comment, but quickly thought better of it. The cup in his hand was a much better thing to contemplate. He lifted the tankard and nodded to his drinking friend. The flesh under his nails itched, like they didn't fit quite right on his fingers. His hand never wavered.

"To not doing excruciating and fatal things then." The godlike chuckled and clanked their tankard against his with friendly enthusiasm.

"To not doing excruciating and fatal things!" As Waidwen emptied the tankard with one large gulp, the liquid felt alien running down his throat, slimy and rough at the same time, invading his body even as he let it. He slammed the tankard down on the wood with a satisfying crack, smacked his lips and sighed in a contentment he didn't feel.

The soles of his feet started burning in his boots, and he decided it was a night for bad decisions. He turned to the godlike, leant back in his chair and theatrically let his eyes wander over them. He didn't know quite what to make of them, more than usually, with their covered eyes and strange growths on their face, but he supposed they were probably attractive. Tall and built broadly, in a way that spoke of hard work and good food. The hair was a bit odd. Then again, what wasn't odd about him.

"Hypothetically, what would you say if I asked you to leave here with me? For the night?" For some reason he expected something then, some emotion or reaction not his own. He didn't know why he was disappointed when nothing happened but his own tension rising. He closed the hand not gripping the tankard into a fist and hoped the stranger didn't see the way his knuckles turned white.

The godlike chuckled. "Hypothetically, I'd thank you for the compliment. But since your heart isn't in it, I'd leave it at that." Their smile seemed softer than the others, understanding in a way that grated against him more than anything else. He hated himself a little bit for the relief that was all his own spreading through his limbs.

He hmphed and turned towards the bar, trying to dredge up the appropriate anger for being turned down. As always he failed.

"Don't take it personally." The godlike shrugged, still smiling softly. "There's plenty of people who don't find sex all that attractive. It's hardly a character fault." His neck burnt, this time in embarrassment, but he ignored it, just as he ignored all else. He hated that a stranger had seen through him so easily. Still he didn't quite manage to be truly angry about it either. At least the rest of this conversation assured him that he wouldn't have to endure the constant judgement for much longer. That dark thought did elicit a spark of a reaction in a part of Waidwen not quite his. Another part of Waidwen took some savage pleasure in it. The majority of him ignored it.

"What, is my sexual behaviour your secret?" he grumbled into the tankard, glaring into its empty depths.

The godlike laughed. "Maybe. Who knows really." The entirety to the country. But who was counting. (The entirety of the country and they didn't like that they'd never gotten past zero.)

Waidwen sighed and dragged a hand over his face. It left a strange fizzing sensation in its wake. Everything felt heavy, dragging and bloated with a certainty that never stopped yanking him forward. The tension in his limbs had evaporated, leaving him with nothing but the ashes of himself. For once he could afford to run away from them. He pushed the tankard away and got up, trying to concentrate on the feeling of the ground under his feet rather than the swirling in his head.

"Well, either way I think it's time for me to turn in. Got a way to march tomorrow." The godlike didn't seem to mind his somewhat abrupt goodbye and simply nodded to him amicably.

"Good night and good luck then." Waidwen nodded back and turned, no doubt to never see them again, one way or another. Despite everything he still felt a twinge of regret, like there was something he was leaving behind in that tavern full of noise bullshit and lies.

Eventually he'd managed to fight his way through the crowd and stepped outside into the cool air of night, the noise behind him finally muffled through the door. He took a deep breath and kept his eyes focused on the surrounding houses and not the stars that hung like threats in the sky. He started walking towards the camp beyond the village border. He'd of course been offered to stay in the mayor's house, but first he'd have to change back into his own clothes, which he'd hid outside the village.

His hands starting stinging, like the fingers were about to peel off from both hand and bones. He flexed them for a moment and sniffed, a mixture of spite and tired acceptance filling him.

"Well. Nothing we didn't know before, is it." His voice was quiet, even in the silence of the night as they'd left the bustling tavern behind. Nothing like the booming voice of Saint Waidwen. Nothing like the grudging rasp of the soldier. Just him and a rapidly shrinking eternity.

Eothas didn't answer, but a soft warmth returned to his neck. Not burning, not pushing, only present as they moved onwards to something neither of them could stop.

It occurred to neither of them that they had never felt the need to ask the stranger's name.

And so lone soldier slowly strode through the streets, in the direction of the camp just outside the village, noted by no one.

Inside the tavern, a godlike clacked their tongue and sat, thinking.

Anyone bothering to ask the locals the next day about a death godlike drinking in the tavern would have their silly delusions quickly corrected. The village of Palemorn had not seen any godlikes in more than a decade.

[yanara126-writing]

a kiss on the back of the hand, Remastered

Mani Thilion fan Fürst, advisor to Divine King Waidwen, feels and fears.

-

I have finally reworked this four year old piece that has been annoying me for an eternity! I just did not know what a register was at the time and as a result the voice was horribly off. But! He I have not forgotten my boy Mani, he is not abandoned, I do love him. And I will continue to torture him for my enjoyment. Eventually.

I have also uploaded the new version to the collection on Ao3, if you prefer. I'm always happy about reactions on there as well (and if you like this, there is more like it in that collection. Have fun!

-

In the beginning it had been convenience. Certainly, it had been strange that a peasant farmer had succeeded in rattling the population as much as he had, and deeply disconcerting that he had accomplished a Woedica damned coup against the local government. Of course, he had been somewhat shocked in the first moments. But Mani was nothing if not cunning, and so he had decided to use the situation to his advantage and had pledged his loyalty.

Later it had been respect. The uncultured farmer had caused him quite a lot of frustration, but at some point they had found themselves on equal ground. What better way to unite than a shared hatred of establishments of power? What better way to unite than a shared disappointment in family? And for the first time Mani was put into a position of power by someone who expected and trusted him to fill it well.

And even later it was fondness. Mani did not know when exactly it happened, but at some point they went from king and councillor to friends. Perhaps it had been the first time someone had targeted Mani in an assassination attempt and Waidwen had stepped in front of him without hesitation, perhaps it had been when he had first seen those horrible scars on Waidwen’s back. Regardless of what it had been, it had made the situation personal. The man might be an uncultured oaf, but he was his uncultured oaf.

Now… now it had stopped being a game. Now it was no longer about playing his cards in the game of politics, about paying back every disgrace he’d had to suffer at the hands of the nobles back- no, not home, back in Aedyr. It was not even about helping his friend. No, now it was war, and now his friend, the uncultured peasant oaf, had grown into a god king. Now it was awe… Now it was love.

They were standing before the crowd of cheering peasants, the whole plaza full of people declaring their support, but Mani’s eyes were on his king. Gone was the unrefined fool who couldn’t brush his hair. Gone was the stubborn country bumpkin refusing to wear something that wasn’t old and tattered. Gone was the half feral young man who would flinch if someone dared step up behind him.

Instead there stood the god-king he’d tried so hard to portray before and had never quite been. Immaculate clothing, no matter how simple, clean, back straight, self-assured and confident, and completely in control of the situation. Calm. A leader.

One Mani would follow to the end of time and back if asked.

And one Mani wouldn’t follow, because he had been asked to stay.

He knew why, in fact in Mani’s opinion it was the most logical choice they could make. Someone needed to govern Readceras while Waidwen was gone, and he was capable and prepared for the task. Mani wasn’t a soldier, he could not do much good on the front lines, but back here he could keep the country together.

Mani hated it. He hated that he had to let go, and he hated that he would have to trust others to keep him safe. And he hated that it was the right choice nonetheless.

Mani watched peasants cheer out their approval, saw Broder standing not far to the side with a proud gaze on Waidwen, and felt inadequate. Now was the time to voice feelings, to show his admiration and pride, to demand he be careful. And still all those words he had always been so proud of failed him. How could he possibly explain this storm of conflicting emotions churning within his chest to someone else, when he could not understand them himself?

And so he didn’t. He buried all this confusion, deep within himself where no one would ever find it, banished all thoughts of logic or pride, and what remained was the only way of expressing love he’d ever known. And for the first time he found he really wanted to.

Mani stepped forward. The crowd quieted a little. Waidwen’s head turned as he watched Mani step before him, somewhat expectant, but without any unease.

His steps felt heavy and sounded too loud. All eyes were on him, and once again there was this confusion. It was strange, he felt like he should hate what he was about to do, and hate even more that people were watching, but he didn’t. It felt right. And yet his hands were sweating.

Mani knelt. His back to the people he looked up to Waidwen and held out one hand, his mouth feeling oddly dry for reasons he had no interest in examining. A few seconds passed, and suddenly Mani became aware that perhaps Waidwen didn’t know what Mani was trying to do. But before Mani could truly start panicking at his failure in properly teaching the appropriate etiquette, Waidwen slowly lifted his own hand and put it in his. For a second Mani was distracted at how unlike his own it was. Mani’s hands were soft, meticulously cared for and entirely unmarred. Waidwen’s were covered in calluses, small scars and rough spots, from years and years of being abused with manual labour again and again. This was a hand no noble would ever willingly touch with even their fingertips.

With all the care one would treat a new-born child with he lifted Waidwen’s hand, turned his head downwards and gently pressed his lips against the weathered skin. Without conscious decisions his eyes closed and all that was left was the sensation of warm, rough skin against his much softer lips. No sound passed through to him if there was any at all left, and the world had not suddenly seized to exist. As far as he was concerned, it might as well have.

He stayed like that as long as he could, dragging out what was supposed to be a short proclamation of respect into an intimate moment. Even as he slowly drew back from the kiss, he did not want to let go. He did not want to let this moment end and see what would happen afterwards. He did not want to give up this last shred of control he still had.

So Mani stayed on his knees, Waidwen’s hand still in his own, and pressed the back of it to his forehead, eyes still closed, denying their surroundings. He could not explain why this was so important to him, why he could not give up this last shred of connection, why he needed this physical tether so dearly, why he even did this in the first place. He’d kissed plenty of hands in his life, and he had hated every one of them. Hat hated having to grovel before others who thought themselves his superior, to bow to someone else. He didn’t hate this.

The hand against his forehead moved, and for one short moment Mani was tempted to hold on tighter and refuse to let go, but the hand didn’t pull back, instead moving to the side of his face, softly caressing his cheek. Against better judgement Mani opened his eyes, looked up, and met Waidwen’s gaze. The man (king, god, friend) was looking at him with a strange mixture of warmth, curiosity and understanding.

For just a second longer this moment was theirs, shared in intimate companionship, but all moments must end, and so this one did all too soon as well. The atmosphere was broken when Waidwen glanced to the side, and upon looking back to Mani pulled his hand from his face, instead holding it out in a clear offer.

Finally starting to notice the noise and people behind him Mani hesitantly grabbed the offered hand and let himself be pulled up to his feet. He already missed the warm contact.

Reluctant as he was to leave behind this strange comfort, Mani did as he had always done and seamlessly fitted himself back into the role of arrogant noble. Chin up and face smoothed out into indifference he returned to his place behind Waidwen. Warmth filled his cheek, a shadow of the feeling from before, that comforting touch, and he couldn’t help but desperately try to carve it into his memory.

A pit of dread formed in his stomach then as he watched Waidwen from behind. There was no reason for it, everything was going well, and still there was a nagging in the back of his head, this insistence that there had been something else, that this warmth that he was still feeling hadn’t been all. Mani knew this nagging well, he had carefully cultivated it over years, had honed his senses to all the subtleties of court, and it had never failed him. In that moment Mani prayed for the first time, to Eothas, to Hylea, to Woedica, to whoever would hear him, that just this one time it would. That this wouldn’t be the last kiss he was allowed to give his king, his god, his friend.

[yanara126-writing]

Ante Portas

Cassia Orsellio and Anon von Valancius have a friendly talk. No wine glasses are broken, but barely.

-

Read here or on Ao3 (2323 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

-

The Orsellio palace was the picture of imperial elegance. High, beautifully painted ceilings, gilded paneling and dainty ornamentations on the walls, the floors covered in soft carpets. Mud trailed over the extravagant fabrics as the Lord Captain, Rogue Trader von Valancius strode through the halls, boots still covered in the outside dirt. She paid no mind to the horrified servants that lined the halls, all bowing deep and thus with excellent vision of the defiled carpet.

The Novator Orsellio led the way in front of the Lord Captain down the hallway, with long smooth steps almost gliding over the ground, her eyes never lowering or drifting away from the goal, a heavy, decorated oaken door, set in a gilded embossed frame.

The door opened on its own, as soon as its mistress neared, swinging wide open and revealing an opulent office, outfitted not only with a huge, ornate desk, but also a sitting area constructed of a fine, low table and two blood red, shockingly soft looking armchairs, emblazoned with the Orsellio emblem on the back. A servo skull was hovering in the corner, sorting papers into two different stacks.

The two women entered, the younger stepping in first, waving away the servo skull. It promptly abandoned its prior task, quickly whirring past the older woman as she stepped into the room and out the door, off to complete some other mindnumbing task, away from the any private conversations.

The doors closed with a quiet metallic clicking, cutting the room off from all nosy eyes and ears beyond.

The noise took with it the tension in the young Novator's posture. Her serene visage was replaced by a glowing smile as she stepped beside one of the arms chairs and turned to her companion with a bow.

"Lord Captain, I must thank you again for honouring me with your visit. It is always a boy to see your vibrant colour." The Lord Captain grinned, slightly too sharp teeth showing, and plopped herself down on the other chair, sprawled out over the armrests and put her boots up on the table. Mud dripped onto the previously spotless surface.

"As always, it's my pleasure, Novator Cassia." Cassia Tisiphia Evriaella, Novator of House Orsellio seemed to grow just a little taller with pride, returning Anon's biting grin with no heed to the threatening appearance of her patron or the lack of care for the furniture. With a step to the side she reached for a locked cabinet next to the desk without ever looking away from her guest.

"How does my cousin make himself?" she asked. Nimble fingers swept confidently over dark wood and clicked open the lock on the cabinet, revealing a collection of colourful bottles inside. "I have received his reports of course, but he has always been prone to some exaggeration, I am told."

Anon smirked. One didn't need to have Cassia's talent at soul reading to know that young Florian Orsellio's colour was green. Behind the ears to be precise. He was no future Novator certainly but... "Mmh. He's young, impressionable, and talented at his job."

Young Novator Orsellio returned her former Captain's smirk, less devious but nonetheless knowing. With a quick glance she selected a blood red bottle from the collection in front of her and moved to close the cabinet again. "Just as you like them. It is why I chose him as my replacement."

A dry chuckle filled the room. "That sounds dangerously close to an accusation, Lady Novator." Neither woman's smile wavered, their sharp gazes almost throwing sparks while the atmosphere suddenly turned a biting citrus colour. Neither leader made a move to act on the charged looks of possibilities.

Until the tension fizzled out when Cassia took two long steps to the empty armchair and delicately lowered herself onto the cushions, alcohol bottle in hand. Her smile grew softer.

"I suppose it does. But it is not one. You have taught me much, and I will forever be grateful for it." The bottle opened with a quiet pop and Cassia poured the wine into two already prepared crystal goblets, each drop filling the cup with the viscous red liquid, far beyond what was appropriate for noble company.

She gently picked up her own cup and carefully, deliberately drank from it, not more than a finger.

Only then did the Rogue Trader lean forward from her slumped position and grabbed the second cup, drinking from it far more liberally and without hesitation. After the first gulp her eyebrows shot up and she took another look at the cup with pleasant surprise.

"Your appreciation is noted." Anon took another drink, this time taking a moment to savor the heavy, fruity taste of expensive wine coating her tongue.

Cassia smiled knowingly behind her cup. For a little while they remained in comfortable silence, enjoying the wine.

The comfort didn't hold for long, as it rarely did when the Lord Captain Von Valancius was involved. A family tradition.

The Navigator slowly grew restless, more and more often glancing over the rim of her cup at the Rogue Trader in front of her. Something was clearly bothering her, presumably whatever had made her extend the invitation to Orsellio Prime in the first place. Anon kept sipping the wine in silence.

Eventually the lady Orsellio broke and set the cup down with a soft clank. "Lord Captain..." Cassia hesitated a moment, before resolve washed across her ethereal features and she continued, firmer this time. "Anon. If I may, part of why I requested your visit was that I might ask a question. One that is better spoken in privacy than over a vox system. If I may...?" She looked over questioningly, waiting for permission. Good girl. Still... The Lord Captain was loath to accept anything as private that hadn't been personally vetted by herself. She glanced across the room suspiciously eyeing all corners. Yet once again Cassia proved a diligent student. A light smile graced her lips, the closest thing the grand Lady Orsellio would ever allow herself to a smirk.

"I had the room cleared of listening devices when I moved my office here. Master van Calox was very helpful in the endeavor." The Lord Captain smirked, still roaming the room with her eyes but noticeably less tense.

"I'm sure he was." A golden eye settled on two red ones. "Alright, ask then, Cassia." Anon took another sip of wine. Cassia gently held the cup as it was standing on the table. She knew better than to grip it tightly and show her nerves. A Novator was never nervous.

"You had no reason to allow me the freedoms you did, to be kind to me. You could have simply ordered me to sign a contract and I could not have denied you. You are well versed in violence, as long as we have known each other, the shades of crimson have never left you. And yet you chose to educate me, pushed me to take the reins myself that you could have held for me. I would like to know why." Not a question, a statement. A Novator did not beg for answers.

Anon sipped the wine again. And neither did a Novator so easily reveal her cards. They had long come to an understand and considering Cassia's own dealings with her house, she undoubtedly had understood the lessons Anon had, purposefully or not, taught her. A diligent student indeed. No, the true question was not about books, or birds, or speeches or forced contracts but something far more tempting. Why did you let me destroy the Atlas?

A truth that Anon would reveal to no one but in her darkest passions with her toy, the Atlas had been tempting. A tool so definitive that its influence was impossible to remove. No need for games of power or diplomacy, a chance for ultimate authority over an entire Navigator house. But at the end of it, the authority wouldn't have been hers, and that much power would not be held by leash for long. She slowly licked a drop of wine from her lips, savouring the taste and admired the wonderful woodwork of the cabinet on the other side of the room. She took her time to respond. An indirect answer for an indirect question.

"You're right, I could have simply forced you. I could have kept you under my thumb and saved myself some trouble. But you would have resented me for it. And frankly would have been much less efficient at what I needed from you." She took another drink, the glass now almost empty. A pity. "I once told you that a ruler has to be tyrant, friend, and jester to their people all at once. It is a philosophy I live by. Fear is a double-edged tool. It is useful as a first motivation. Fear of others can drive people to your protection, and fear of you will keep them in their place. But if fear is the only tool at your disposal, eventually it will come back to bite you. A terrified servant will not perform to their best ability and is much more likely to eventually retaliate. Willing loyalty is harder to achieve but much more easily kept. Look at what happened on Janus. Vyatt overstepped the bounds of her authority. The only thing holding the commoners in place, the fear of her, snapped back into her face." Would it have ended as badly for Vyatt had she not also incidentally incited the Eldar? Perhaps not, but what was life but a line of shitty luck. "And so I became your friend as well as tyrant. And I do hope you'd never imply I am not hilarious." Rogue Trader Von Valancius smirked and held out her empty cup. Lady Orsellio smiled and refilled it, the bottle now almost emptied.

"Yes, I see. Is that why you keep the xenos around? To drive people to seek your good graces?" The girl got bold with her doubts answered it seemed. It was a poignant question and not one posed in good faith. Anon almost smirked again at the audacity. Instead she took the filled cup and let the wine swish over the glass with smooth round motions, a carefully thoughtful expression on her face.

"Marazhai... Is a toy. But even a toy can be a useful tool on the occasion." And indeed, he had been useful. Dispatching assassins, keeping an eye on the developments both in the webway and the darker parts of society she no longer had easy access to, and being *oh so very delicious to watch suffer*. But that was hardly a topic that was anyone's business but hers, much less the esteemed Lady Orsellio's whose reputation had no space for illicit xenos dealings.

That was a Rogue Trader's prerogative. And if her smile became a touch smugger, Cassia would not comment on it. "On the topic of Marazhai, did Florian also inform you that he tried to fight my xenos toy?" Anon had always relished in her ability to do the impossible, in this case turn the mutant girl in front of her somehow more pale than already was. But her fingers did not tighten on the glass. Good.

"No, he very much did not." Anon chuckled darkly and gulped down more wine before continuing.

"It was very entertaining. I believe he was trying to defend my honour. Since he wasn't listening, I decided to let him learn the lesson the hard way." Cassia did not answer, but deliberately and slowly peeled her fingers off the wineglass in front of her without averting her gaze. Anon drank again.

Eventually she graciously decided to alleviate the navigator's clear dread and waved her hand dismissively.

"Don't worry, I wouldn't let my boy toy seriously maim my brand-new Navigator. And I'm told a lot of the young officers find his new scar very handsome." She gave Cassia a sly wink for good measure. The other woman relaxed marginally, though she did not seem at all pleased at thought of her cousin's fraternizing.

"Well, I hope it remains at that. But still, I must speak to him about appropriate behavior." It was after all hardly the Navigator's duty or right to involve himself in Rogue Trader business. Especially when said business would without a doubt brutally kill him without hesitation if given the chance.

Anon waved her off after finishing her second cup of wine. "Feel free to but I think that lesson stuck already. He issued a very formal apology to me while his face was getting patched up." And it had been a very entertaining apology. The boy had been genuinely contrite. It had been almost adorable how seriously he held his little speech while a medic had stitched his face up. Though he had still insisted on giving her toy a dirty look when he'd finally been allowed to leave.

Cassia finally fully relaxed and nodded silently, clearly relieved he had been able to even voice anything, much less a formal apology even while being treated.

Anon set the glass down with just a bit too much force, causing an uncomfortably loud noise to echo through the room, and pushed herself out of the chair. She cracked her neck twice and glanced back at Cassia.

"Well, my Lady Novator, I thank you for the truly delicious wine, your tastes are as ever exquisite. But I think it's time for me to turn in for the night." Cassia quickly followed her example and stood, entirely composed and her perfectly polite smile back in place. She bowed.

"Of course, Lord Captain I am ever at your disposal should you need me." The Rogue Trader did not grace her with an answer but simply nodded, and turned to leave. A satisfied smirk on her face, she strolled out the room knowing well that her empire was in good hands: hers.

[yanara126-writing]

Navigating

Anon Harlock, newly minted von Valancius, was assuredly running out of patience. She needed a Navigator and since the keeper had, admittedly unsurprisingly, revealed himself to be a traitorous idiot and the old man had decided to spontaneously die, that left her with the brat. Who just wouldn't stop crying.

-

Read here or on Ao3 (1214 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

-

Anon Harlock, newly minted von Valancius, was assuredly running out of patience. She needed a Navigator and since the keeper had, admittedly unsurprisingly, revealed himself to be a traitorous idiot and the old man had decided to spontaneously die, that left her with the brat. Who just wouldn't stop crying.

After a few minutes of very grating waiting, the girl had just lost her home and despite some rumours she was not entirely without a heart, the Lord Captain had enough. She crossed her arms and glared down at the younger woman.

"Enough tears, you're coming with me now."

Despite her impatience and rough tone she truly hadn't meant it as a threat, it was a simple fact that they couldn't stay. Unfortunately it seemed that even the blood and guts splattered all over the walls and floor were not enough to spur the inexperienced heir of house Orsellio into wanting to leave her defiled home. The lighting flickered ominously as the mutant girl's head snapped up to stare at the stranger who had seemingly uprooted her life. Without meaning to, Anon's hand twitched to her rifle's handle. Wide, tear stained eyes staring up at her were hardly a new experience for the hardened pirate, but they were significantly more unsettling when they were a shimmering blood red without a pupil and coming from beneath a third eye that could rip her to shreds simply by opening.

"And if I refuse? What... What are you going to do to me?" Coming from another, Anon might have taken it for an invitation to start flirting, but despite robbing quite a few ships and occasionally planets in her time, she was not in the habit of robbing cradles. There were better ways to tie important children to her person. Particularly when they had been isolated from any and all reality like the young woman before her had clearly been. The three Fs had yet to fail her. Firm, frank, and funny.

"I shall give you the honour of a prolonged session of admiring my wonderful visage to this sour backdrop. We'll both be stuck here considering my lack of a Navigator and your lack of a..." She threw a pointed look around the gore decorated room, before raising her eyebrow at the young woman before her. "Well, anything."

The navigator girl hesitated, staring up at her in confusion. Well, at least she stopped crying. Small victories. Unfortunately the victory remained small and the only person who could get the Lord Captain's fancy new ship out of the dump of a system remained on her knees, fingers buried in viscera. Hopefully she'd wash her hands before touching the stirring stick. Did Navigators use those? Maybe she should have checked in more with the old geezer in her old crew...

Ah but of course all that still necessitated that the little princess got on her feet and came along. Preferably willingly, handing a desperate captive the controls to the entire ship during the extremely sensitive moments of warp jumps did not for a safe travelling experience make. Anon von Valancius, Rogue Trader of the Koronus Expanse and Lord Captain of the Reginatrix Universi sighed with annoyance, her dark blonde hair falling over her left eyes as she briefly lowered her head.

"Oh alright fine. Abelard, where's my booklet?" The ever diligent senechal stepped up beside her, making sure not to step on any corpse bits in process.

"I have it here, Lord Captain."

As he handed over a small but impressively thick little booklet, he glanced at the young Lady Cassia, kneeling on the ground and splattered with her guardians' blood, with a sympathetic frown. Huh, a thing to note. She already knew that Abelard Werserian, despite his claims to the contrary, was not first and foremost a navy officer, but a family man. A sentiment that was seemingly not limited to merely his own offspring. With a short blink Anon filed that piece of exploitable information away in her brain for later use. First, the navigator girl had to be convinced. If she wanted to play the spoiled little princess, Anon would just have to play along for a little while. At least marginally.

With fleet fingers she quickly rifled through her booklet. The smell of ink and fresh paper mingled in the air with the stench of rapidly cooling blood.

"Let's see, where is it... Ah yes." With some theatrics the Lord Captain cleared her throat, straightened her and back and audibly knocked the heels of her boots together. "Lady Cassia, I, Anon von Valancius, Rogue Trader of the Imperium of Mankind, offer you my protection and grant you shelter aboard my vessel." The speech ended with a dramatic bow, certainly much too deep for a Rogue Trader towards a crew member, however noble they may be. Still bent down, she looked at the girl in front of her, now at her actual eye level, and raised an eyebrow. "Happy now?"

The emotions rolling over the young woman's face were certainly entertaining, ranging from appreciation over outrage to girlish glee. In the end she settled on plain confusion. "Why... Do you have that?"

Anon straightened again, grinned, smoothed out her leather coat and waved the little booklet around. "This? It's useful to keep track of all the little details of etiquette, ceremony and all that. I am still somewhat new to the job and practicality has taken precedent over decorum for now." She resisted the urge to turn away and give her treasure another loving lookover. The first thing she'd done after Theodora's untimely and extremely convenient demise had been to dig through all documents on her new writing desk. In the process of vetting everything for interesting information she'd found the little booklet abandoned in a corner of the office together with other material Theodora had apparently not found worthy of her attention. It was of smooth, pearl white paper, with the distinct smell of cotton grown in the peculiar soil of Kolarrax Six, a world deep in the Winterscale protectorate, and bound in wonderfully soft, red grox leather. A beauty and a joy to write in. Using a datapad for her notes would have been an unforgivable waste.

"I see... " The young Navigator's eyes unfocused for a moment, as if she was looking somewhere beyond this reality. For a second Anon thought she might start crying again at the sight of the corpses strewn everywhere behind them, but instead something like resolve finally seemed to wash over the bone white, unsettling features. The young woman rose to her feet in a disturbingly fluid manner, as if reality itself had shifted rather than her body. With squared shoulders and lifted chin, hands crossed behind her, she finally gave an answer.

"I, Lady Cassia of house Orsellio, accept your most gracious offer." The following bow was elegant and deep, just as was appropriate for a Navigator to a Rogue Trader. The Lord Captain grinned.

"Good job, girl." She gave the still bowed young woman a light pat on the head and turned around, confidently striding towards the shuttle bay. Her retinue quickly fell in step behind her. Including, after just a moment of hesitation, her first stepping stone to not Theodora's empire, but her very own.

[yanara126-writing]

Constellations

Redcliffe lies behind them, the Arl saved and the city free of walking dead. But Warden Solveig cannot accept her success quite yet, guilt gnawing at her, for her reaction to Alistair's confession. He should have told her before. His royal status made him an even bigger target than he already was. She'd been correct in her anger. And yet, could she truly blame him when she wasn't any better?

"My full name is-" Untrue. "Was. Solveig Aeducan. Second child of king Endrin Aeducan and Olwen Harrowmont, Proven Champion twice over, Keeper of the West Gate, Left to the Throne."

-

Read here or on Ao3. (2738 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

-

The usually comforting dark of the night sky was oddly stifling. The stars seemed less like glittering gems in a rock ceiling and instead rather like threating sparks in a powder chamber. Solveig was painfully aware of the uncanny softness of the grassy ground under her boots as she silently strode towards the edge of camp, heading for the familiar blonde head just peaking out behind a low hill.

For a moment she hesitated on the top of the earth mound, considering the view in front of her. Alistair was flopped on the ground, one leg pulled close, the other stretched out, every so often throwing a stick for a visibly excited but impressively quiet Barkspawn. He hadn't noticed her yet, and the dog was too busy jumping around and bolting after the toy, tail wagging in a frenzy. The urge to leave pulled at her limbs, pinching and pricking her skin, but she refused to give in and let it drag her back to the centre of camp. The nagging guilt, ever growing and suffocating as it was, weighed heavier than the long practiced impulse to shut up and show nothing. The endless, gaping sky felt only more threatening.

Feet securely on the ground she gave a whistle, sharp and clear, still unfamiliar but strangely easy on her lips. Promptly as always Barkspawn ripped around, sharp eyes glued directly on her own, tail wagging rapidly. Within a second he changed direction, leaping and bounding over the ground. He skid to a halt in front of her, just so avoiding running her over in his excitement. Giving the dog a firm head rub through the surprisingly soft fur, Solveig distinctly avoided looking at Alistair.

"Come to steal my playmate away?" The overly played up indignation only badly masked the nervous tension in his voice. Well ingrained instinct took hold and her feet shifted just a tad wider, shoulders backwards and back straight, portraying confidence with every muscle in her body before even turning her head.

"Don't worry, a good commander knows not to give orders that won't be followed." The dog barked happily as if in agreement, promptly panting blissfully as she scratched his jaw. With a flick of her wrist she tossed the stick back over to Alistair who caught it one handed, steady and practiced.

Barkspawn immediately whirled around, alert, brown eyes eagerly drilling holes into the man holding his beloved toy. Alistair complied, hurling the stick a good distance away, with far more force than during the previous throw. Neither Solveig nor Alistair commented on it.

As Barkspawn galloped over the plains, while the two left behind remained in awkward silence. The stars twinkled overhead, sparks floating closer to the fuse.

Solveig was certain her movements were no less smooth than in any other battle, but no skirmish had ever made her limbs feel this heavy and stiff. She sat down next to Alistair. Despite her best intentions her eyes went back to following the dog in his wild chase, even as she finally forced the words to be spoken. Letting the sparks reach the powder kegs.

"So. What you told me at Redcliff. That you are a prince." What an atrocious opening, far too awkward.

"I'm not." His answer was instant and downright petulant as he frowned and turned away. Solveig fought to stop her irritation from showing. Nothing would be won here by losing her temper.

"Yes, as you say. Though your human ideas of lineage make no sense." She shook her head in quiet distaste. Why would it matter that his mother has been a commoner when his father had been a king? But regardless, cultural inanty was not why she was here. "What I'm attempting to say is-" Just a second's hesitation as her breath caught. Too long, hesitation was weakness, failure, death. Her lips were dry and she had to acknowledge, perhaps she was weak. "There's something that is appropriate to tell you in exchange. Everyone in fact, but I shall start with you. As a token of trust." And as another such token she wouldn't look away from him in this conversation. She owed him that much after her outburst at Redcliffe. Shame of her own hypocrisy warmed her cheeks at the memory. Perhaps she had no right to her Paragons anymore but that was no reason to add on to her crimes.

This attempt at broaching the matter, pathetic though it was, seemed enough to catch his attention again despite his visible discomfort. He was still tense but at least he was looking at her again. "Well, you certainly have my interest now. What, are you secretly the Maker's daughter or something?" It was almost funny how incredulous he sounded. That single raised eyebrow, clearly trying at another sardonic joke yet not managing to entirely banish the boyish curiosity.

"You're not as far off from the truth as you seem to believe." The soft ground under her clenching fingers gave way far too easily, allowing her fingers to dig into the dirt, and for one irrational, almost hopeful moment she thought it would open and take her back, rather than make her face this situation. A coward indeed.

"What." Any notion of incredulous humour had vanished from Alistair's face, leaving behind only bare, brutal confusion in his raised eyebrow and blank eyes. Her last seconds of grace had run out.

"My full name is-" Untrue. Untrue. "Was. Solveig Aeducan. Second child of king Endrin Aeducan and Olwen Harrowmont, Proven Champion twice over, Keeper of the West Gate, Left to the Throne and..." Solveig's breath caught, rage and hatred, desperation and grief roiling inside of her. With effort she pushed the unwanted, unneeded, *unhelpful* feelings back down, voice and face left carefully blank. "Not quite heir presumptive, but it would be a lie to say my ascendency was impossible." At the end of the sentence Alistair was still staring, not angry, not indignant, but hopelessly confused. Looking for answers. She longed for the numb emptiness of the day after Trian's death. The Stone did not grant her her calm often anymore, spitting out the burning heat of anger, shame and everything else she'd worked so hard to bury.

Maybe he'd grown bored, maybe he sensed the tense atmosphere, but either way, Barkspawn came trotting back, beloved stick held securely in his mouth. She turned to the dog, clinging to the idea that surely doing her duty to another being in her service wouldn't count as cowardice for not facing Alistair anymore. Ready to throw the stick again she moved to grab for it, but the dog ignored her hand completely, instead flopping down with his head on her lap, seemingly content in drooling all over her. Slowly moving to pet him, Solveig could almost pretend she hadn't just laid bare all her secrets. And then Alistair spoke again.

"You. Are a princess?" His lack of anger almost irked her as much as the surfacer term and Barkspawn growled quietly when her next pet fell out a tad too harsh. Before answering she gave the dog an apologetic scritch and took a deep, slow breath. Finally, all the heat started bleed out of her with the breath, leaving behind only cold, tired, exhausted spite. Let Alistair have the ugly, stinging truth then.

"I was a commander. For a full day even. Until my younger brother murdered our older brother the crown prince, pinned the blame on me and got me sentenced to death in the Deeproads the moment he could."  And that was the core of everything wasn't it? Bhelen had betrayed her and at no point had she seen it coming. She'd been so busy with the idea of that young, light haired child always trailing her with constant curiosity that she hadn't noticed when he'd stopped asking her questions.

For a while they both remained silent, only the dog's quiet panting filling Solveig's ears, as the strange night's chill krept into her bones and her own thoughts threatened to choke her. What was she even doing here? Why did she care what this surfacer whelp thought of her? Aeducan or no, she had no reason to care. So what if she had been a hypocrite, he was a foreigner, a subordinate, and she was a dead oathbreaker. And yet...

Alistair interrupted her musings with his own. "That's where Duncan picked you up." That was one way of phrasing her cowardice. She had been sentenced to die in the Deeproads and she had refused. It had been her father's orders, not Bhelen's, yet still she had refused. The memory brought all the seething, burning rage bubbling back up. She took another deep breath, decisively stifling her rising temper and letting the calm of the stone ground her again.

"Quite so." Alistair nodded absently. And Solveig waited.

"Did he know?" A fickle question and one Solveig didn't have as clear an answer to as she would like. She frowned and bent to scratch the dog behind the ears, stalling for a few seconds while settling for an honest but not too inflammatory answer.

"He knew I was Aeducan and exiled. He shouldn't have known anything else. He offered to let me keep my secrets, though I have my doubts about his sincerity." There had been a few too many knowing looks and allusions to really believe him.

"Is that why you've been acting so cagey about-" He faltered, eyes glassy and distant for a second. "Him?" The word was harsh and defensive, almost an accusation, as always when it came to Duncan between them.

Solveig sighed. "I don't begrudge you your grief, Alistair."

"That wasn't the question." She could feel his eyes drilling holes into her head. No, it hadn't been, had it. But how could she explain it? For all her suspicions and misgivings about Duncan, Alistair didn't deserve to have the last image of his father figure crushed. That pain of knowing that the person helping you, propping you up in a hostile life, perhaps even loving you, was ruthlessly scheming others' downfalls behind your back, making the hard and inevitable decisions. And Alistair especially shouldn't have to become the same.

Slowly Solveig rubbed her hands over her face, dark strands, so different from her brothers' light manes, falling into her eyes. So it was that he dragged out one harsh truth after the other right from her core. Elbows on her knees, hands on Barkspawn's soft fur, she turned to him, feeling more exhausted than maybe ever before.

"We share the fate of rejected royals, Alistair, but we are not the same. I respect Duncan for what he did for the Grey Wardens and for you, but he was not my saviour." There was no saving her like he'd been saved from the templars. "It's difficult to explain to a human what it means for us to be executed like this. Either we die, slaughtered by the darkspawn, or we are cut off from all that makes us dwarves. Alive technically, but dead regardless. Solveig Aeducan is gone. Executed in shame and disgrace for dishonourable fratricide." He was still staring at her, brows furrowed and lips pressed into a thin line. He didn't understand. Of course he didn't, how could he? She grasped at the memory of Redcliffe, looking for an explanation on his level. "You told me you want me to like you for who you are, without your lineage. I am no one without my lineage. Without my duty."

That seemed to rattle something loose in him and he turned away, shoulders sagging, even as a spark of recognition darkened his eyes. He started fiddling with a blade of grass, distinctly avoiding her gaze. "Seems like you were doing pretty well anyway. You know, helping people, fighting the blight. All that."

"Does it?" Solveig sighed again, almost surprised she l had any air left in her lungs with how much this evening seemed to delight in stealing it from her. "I don't care about these people, Alistair. I have no stake in all of this. I might as well be a walking corpse like all the others in Redcliffe. I'm only helping as you call it because it's the obvious thing to do. A red thread to follow. Until it cuts. The thirty year limit doesn't scare me. The thirty years do." The blade of grass between his fingers ripped. Without comment she handed him the stick the dog had forgotten about. He took it without looking up and started fiddling with it instead.

She'd said her piece. Had told him what she came here for and truthfully much more. There was no reason to stay sitting here, on the too soft ground in the too heavy silence. And yet she stayed seated, pinned down by something that had nothing to do with the dog in her lap. Solveig watched Alistair as he listlessly twirled the stick between his fingers, light hair falling into his eyes. She couldn't just leave him like this.

A strange, almost nervous desperation took hold of her to try and make him understand- something. Anything to not make him think she was rejecting him. Licking her once again dry lips she searched for the right words that continued to elude her. "Look I- I do understand. What you find in the Grey Wardens. But I cannot, because I didn't choose this. I was supposed to have a trial. And if not that at least period of grace after the sentencing. I would have joined the Legion of the Dead." But of course Bhelen couldn't have left her even that. He'd never been sloppy and letting her join the Legion would have given her opportunities far too dangerous to allow.

Too late she noticed her mistake as Alistair glanced over and narrowed his eyes at her. "The what now?"

For the what felt like the millionth time she struggled to explain what had always been obvious to her. Sometimes it felt like she'd spoken more exclusively in explanations in these last few weeks on the surface than she had in all her years before. "The Legion of the Dead. They are... Similar to the wardens I suppose." A revelation puzzeling to herself as well, but one that she couldn't deny once uttered. "A last haven for all those society would or could not keep to retain some of their dignity. No matter your sentence, it is fulfilled when you join the Legion. You die, your crimes are repaid. And then you eventually die physically, for the protection of Orzammer. I died. I wasn't given the opportunity to at least do so honourably. So now I'm here. Cut off from all that makes me, dying a human death."

But those clearly hadn't been the right words. Instead of calming down Alistair only seemed to grow more agitated, chewing on his bottom lip and stabbing the ground with the stick a few times before leaving it there and placing his head onto his hands. "Yeah. Alright. No, you're right, I don't get it. But just..." He glanced at her almost helplessly. "Look maybe it doesn't mean anything but maybe this can be your new duty? The new Solveig? I know there's only me left now, and the Wardens aren't your Legion, but that has to count for something, right? I'm not really a full kingdom but hey if it helps, I can be your new subject."

"That's not the point, Alistair." She wished she could answer him differently. Give him the right words to understand, to explain that it had never been about the throne, about ruling why wouldn't Trian and Bhelen understand

But in the end it was only her here, alone and again without a way to explain.

"No. I guess not." He didn't argue, didn't yell or tell her off, just sank back into himself, the words as understanding as they were despairing. There was something about him, all slumped there on a strange ground under a non-existent ceiling, trying to be something familiar to her. For her. Grabbing a fistful of the ground again, she thought, maybe, just maybe she could try one more thing.

"But thanks, Alistair." It wasn't good. It wasn't alright. But maybe, with the way he put his hand on hers and sat a little bit straighter, it was enough for now.

"You're welcome, Solveig."

[yanara126-writing]

The Dead, the Traitor, and the Lost

The Dead, the Traitor, and the Lost 

The party stands United Against the final foe Of future lived alone The king and queen are crowned Knights face in passion’s duel The maidens share their soulful stare Lovers all around

One left behind in frozen ground Lies underneath their love Mourned and not forgotten The sacrifice is e’er unwed The grave is cold and lonely No hero’s soul remains alone The loverless is dead

One made a mockery of destiny And left the rightful path Sowed violent affliction vast In hearts deserted left a crater Where evil reigns supreme Love will never prosper fair The loverless turned traitor

One wandered off into the dawn Alone one fateful morning Shattered pain and pieces fly Bereaved behind all mourn the cost That victory has left them The broken stand forewarning them The loverless is lost

Beyond the curtain here and there Remain the unimportant Faceless voiceless loveless shapes All filled with love for those adored They stand aside in darkness Unseen unheard bemourned beloathed The loverless ignored

And so we wait for future’s time When curtain’s lift all over And stories tell our tales The way consists of bridges crossed And many more before us Until then we remain as them The Dead, the Traitor, and the Lost

[yanara126-writing]

how do you end a story

when darkness is too heavy

death too inescapable

losing e’er consistent

failure too insistent

when pain would mean despair

  how do you end a story

when light seems too oppressive

life too much a lie

winning is ineffable

success too inexpressible

when joy would mean estrangement

  How do you end your story?

[yanara126-writing]

On Angel’s Wings

Celestial Powers from a demonic source. A young angel on a brink. A slightly older angel with answers. (Or at least with comfort.)

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Read here or on Ao3. (2652 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

-

‘How frail must your faith be’, they had asked him. ‘Do you really think it’s fair to judge people by the source of their powers and not by the way those powers are used?’

Sitting at the cliff now, legs dangling over the edge, they called themself a liar. There in the silence with only their own thoughts ringing in their ears they stared down into the dark depths below, allowing themself for only a short while the image of throwing themself over the edge. A temptation of relief. A lie, like everything else in this place. A lie like themself.

They couldn’t even say they were really surprised. The burning rage they had felt back in Kenabras had never really left them, always bubbling beneath the surface no matter how much they tried to drown it with celestial essence. And then what they’d found in Areelu Vorlesh’s laboratory… The eery familiarity the place had held for them, the cold feeling snaking through them at the sight of Targona’s prison, the blurry memories ominously rising to the surface of their mind, it all had planted doubt in their heart. Doubt that their goddess had really chosen them, doubt that these powers were divine in nature, doubt that their position as commander was deserved. But they had clung desperately to the celestial shine of their powers, to the comforting feeling of warmth and purpose. To Lariel, whose place they’d taken, without even knowing. How fitting then, that their punishment should come with his rescue.

Steps came up behind them. Too light to belong to their mortal companions, too forward to belong to Targona. There was only one other angel left at the camp now.

He was dimmer than his sister and The Hand. Marked by the years he’d spent captured and tortured. Still his light spilled over the hands in their lap and over the ledge when he sat down next to them, close enough that his wings gently brushed against their shoulder. They remembered his wings from their vision, beautiful and vibrant, a radiant white against the darkness of the caves as they had fanned out to hide the mortal behind him. The rumpled mass of feathers now to their side barely resembled the magnificent view. Still, he looked better than when Targona had first dragged him out of the echo’s lair, tears streaming down her face while he hung of their shoulder, barely conscious. For one he was clean, blood carefully wiped away, still bleeding wounds healed with two loving pairs of hands. And beyond that there was… something about him. A confidence Arturas couldn’t place. Seeing him in the wreckage of that dreadful place they had thought they’d been too late, that even if he wasn’t dead now, he would be broken beyond repair. And yet… And yet he was there now. Not only sane, but still here. With them. Though of course if that could be considered sanity was still an open question.

They sat in silence for a while. He made no comment after joining them, only sitting, and looking out into the same depths below. Arturas didn’t know what to tell him. What do you say to someone who’s place you unwittingly usurped? Whose soul you exploited and claimed as your own? Who you did not notice was even still alive as you drew on their power?

Arturas was cold. Colder than usual. The warmth beside their felt wrong. They did not deserve the comfort of it. But this wasn’t about what they deserved was it? They had already used him for their own gain, while he’d spent decades tortured here.

“I’m sorry.” Sorry did not nearly cover their feelings, but for once their gilded tongue of diplomacy failed them. They glanced away from the void below, but did not look up at him, instead picking at their nails. Almost like a schoolgirl being scolded again. Oh, how they wished their crime had just been lewd pictures on the blackboard again.

“Whatever for?” His jovial tone made their back straighten without their intention. His chuckles sounded unnaturally melodious, despite the slight rasp to it. It felt… familiar. His warm voice shook something loose in there, burying some of their pain under an avalanche of fondness. Perhaps they should have felt shame for clinging to him as a lifeline once again, but somehow it didn’t feel quite so wrong anymore. A small smile forced its way onto their face, though they still avoided looking at him.

“Ah, I don’t think I can return your sword. It’s not really...” Out of habit they stretched out their arm, reaching for the shimmering power at their core, but at the last moment they caught themself, instead just gesturing clumsily with their still raised arm. It seemed wrong to flaunt the blade in front of him of all people. “…material anymore.” They trailed off awkwardly, suddenly very aware of the habits they’d built over the last months.

“I think it’s in good hands right now.” He sounded so confident, so absolutely convinced, they couldn’t help but finally turn to him, finding him already watching them with warm, sparkling eyes. They felt their mouth go dry even as they fought the urge to reach out to him, to touch him and make sure for themself that this was real. The years spent in the abyss had left their marks on him. His skin was no longer flawless, having lost colour much like his wings, and even after the thorough care and healing some stubborn scars and blemishes remained. His once rich silver hair, though meticulously brushed and cleaned, was uneven, shorn off or even ripped out in places. And still, having suffered decades of torment without rescue, knowing what they were and where their powers truly came from, he looked at them with the same love and conviction they had seen in their dream and visions. They wished with all their heart they could agree with him.

“He knows me better than you, you know. What makes you think your judgment is better than his?” Because The Hand had left them, and Lariel was still here. They had let the Herald go, only convincing him to return their companions to Golarion first, at least those who wouldn’t accompany them further into the Abyss. But Lariel had stayed. Targona had stayed. They all had stayed when The Hand had left. They didn’t know what hurt worse.

For some moments Lariel looked at them in silence, conflicting emotions flitting across his face too fast to really parse them. Shadows of grief, anger, helplessness, and compassion all lurked close to the surface, threatening to spill over and into each other with such force that for a moment Arturas thought they were their own. Eventually the onslaught of emotions receded again, and he settled on mirth, his lips quirking upwards lopsidedly, his eyes creasing with the smile.

“Well for one, I’m not a stick in the mud.” Against everything, against all their inner turmoil and doubt, Arturas laughed, shaking their head in that familiar fond exasperation. How was it that even here in the Abyss they found themself surrounded by smug jokesters? And smug he was about their reaction; they could feel it rolling off of him in waves. But then what room did they have to complain? It was after all them who kept seeking them out. And encouraging them. They smirked, for a moment all pain forgotten.

“That’s rude, you know. Some might even call that treasonous.” Lariel returned their smirk, his wings slightly shifting upwards, producing a quiet and strangely calming rustling.

“Some are also busy sulking on the other side of the abyss, so I’m not too worried.” Oh. That had not been in the implication they had wanted to make. Never that. The knowledge tasted bittersweet on their tongue even as their face softened from the mischievous smirk. Their eyes caught on a messy gash down the side of his face, partially covered by dull hair. They remembered blood gushing down his face, burnt and miscoloured, drenching his face in a horrid mess of red and brown and black. And they remembered large hands, gentle despite the sharp, golden bracers covering them, tenderly washing off the filth and grime, glowing with a soft healing light. It had been strange to see the giant soldier crouched down so low, his usual dauntless zeal replaced by a much calmer, sombre peace, but somehow, they’d had no doubt this was how it was supposed to be. Not when every movement spoke of care and love, so genuine and soft and unconditional that they couldn’t help the shameful spark of jealousy.

“He wouldn’t think that. Not of you.” You cannot return to the crusaders and fight alongside the righteous. The words still rang in their ears, pitying and condemning. A judgement in every word, in the way he hadn’t even been able to bring himself to touch them anymore. The rejection stung still, buried in their heart right alongside the guilt of never having voiced their own concerns, of having let him believe the same thing they’d talked themself into. Of having leveraged his duty against him and hurting him again for their own aims.

“Maybe he should then.” Much like theirs, Lariel’s face had lost the lightness of humour, a heavy melancholy darkening his eyes. They hated being responsible for it. His eyes drifted away from them for a moment, roaming over the chasm in front of them, his wings sinking as if pressed down, seeming somehow darker than before. Moments passed in quiet. A new sliver of dread joined the old ones. Had they alienated him too now?  Had they hurt him as well? Had they- “I do know you though. And you know me.”

Once again, his eyes met theirs, less playful now, but still so caring and warm as to burn right through the wires of dread at their core. They did know him. There was still the bitter voice saying they shouldn’t, that they were nothing but a parasite on him, an imposter and thief, but the voice drowned in his warmth and the certainty that they did know him. Far more than they truly should with just the visions from down under Kenabras. What could they do but nod in silence when the spark of sincerity burning in their chest was notably not theirs? When homesickness to a place they’d never seen was eating at them? When even then, The Herald’s first arrival had lit up fires of familiarity and longing in them.

“I don’t remember much of the last years. But I remember when you picked up the sword. Wherever your power came from, whatever you were meant to be at some point, when you picked up my sword, you became part of me. And I of you.” Slowly, gently he laid his hand onto their shoulder. Light, so as to allow them to pull away with no difficulty, but firm enough to leave no doubt of his intentions. “And I couldn’t be prouder of that.” A million voices screamed through their head, telling them to deny it, to tell him again what a sham they were, telling them that it wasn’t their right to deny his feelings, telling them that it was all a trick somehow, that he was wrong and would soon notice it. And somewhere deep down, under the familiar painful pulling in their chest, there was a small voice telling them that maybe they could believe it. That perhaps this was how Daeran felt, each and every time they assured him of their love. The hand on their shoulder squeezed a little tighter, the smile before grew almost imperceptibly softer, as though perhaps Lariel had heard the voice too. And perhaps he really had, for he left them just enough time to consider believing the voice before the sparkle of mirth returned to his eyes. “Don’t worry about the old stick in the mud, he’ll come around, I promise. Just give him some time to blow off steam.”

“I will. It’s just…” It wasn’t that they were missing the words for it. They had narrated them to themself often enough, but the idea of saying them, intentionally causing someone else to know them as well, wiped any words off their tongue and choked their throat. But for once they dragged them back, swallowed the dryness and didn’t stay silent. At least a little. “Painful.”          

And indeed, there was no judgment. No reprimand or dismissal. Only quiet understanding, sad and kind. “He is a hard one to disappoint. But here’s the thing and listen well.” There was a gravity to his words, a weight and importance that demanded quiet and attention. He leaned almost imperceptibly closer, and even the constant buzz of wrongness constantly seeping through the Abyss seemed to hush at his demand. “With all my heart, I love him dearly. But he is an idiot.”

As Lariel stayed quiet, waiting for the point to sink in, Arturas’ thoughts were anything but. They wanted to laugh and scold and cry at the same time. Was this a joke? It had to be. But Lariel wasn’t laughing. And so they didn’t either. But staying silent at this, when all their heart still tore from muddled longing and duty, that was impossible as well.

“I don’t understand. I try but I can’t. Why do you defend me from him when he’s right? I’m a sham, at worst a changeling who usurped your place and at best an imitation.”

“Do you call a fire an imitation of the spark that started it?” The response came fast and firm, for the first time an adamant disagreement. A scolding almost, in their defence. Could it really be that easy? “Look, I get it. You don’t have to believe me right now. Just consider this: it doesn’t actually matter how this happened. However we got here, I love you. Targona loves you. Your friends love you. And he does too, even if he doesn’t want to hear it right now. Give it a thought, okay?” Once again he gripped their shoulder, a short squeeze, an assurance of attention, a smile, sincere yet somewhat pained.

When he got up Arturas thought about stopping him. Whether to argue some more, to ask for another assurance, to just quietly cry they didn’t know. They did not stop him. Instead, they watched him get up and step away from the cliff edge, his feet even now so much lighter than theirs had ever been. Before he turned the corner, back up the path to rest of their group, what little remained of it, he stopped and looked back once more.

“For what it’s worth, I think you make an excellent angel.” And with that he was gone, not giving them the chance to respond. Possibly fearing another rejection.

And they wanted to. To argue and deny the compliment, to remind him of where their powers had come from, and yet… And yet so many had remained. Regill Derenge of all people had called them dependable, even knowing what they were. Daeran had grabbed them and kissed them on the mouth with all the passion of the first time back in Drezen as soon as they had reached the Nexus again. Even Seelah and Sosiel had not once voiced any mistrust of them. And now even Lariel, who arguably should hate them the most, had given them so much more support than they had ever expected.

Sitting in the eternal half-darkness of the Abyss they watched the shadows dance over the ground, fleeing and shrinking away from the constant glow surrounding them. They thought about the glow of Lariel’s skin and feathers and hair, and how it was just a tad bit more golden than theirs.

So perhaps, just maybe, they could give it a thought.

[yanara126-writing]

Life is a Gift (Day 13: “Burn”)

The Ivory Sanctum is tearing at Arturas, and, as so often, Daeran is the final straw.

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This was written for @oc-growth-and-development’s OCtober list, thank you for the wonderful prompts!^^

Read here or on Ao3. (1398 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

-

Rage, pain, and fear filled her body with adrenalin, tearing her senses from one sensation to the next in a hectic frenzy. The corpses on the ground reeked, in the background there was screaming and her companions’ panting. The halls of the Ivory Sanctum were dark enough to make fighting difficult, but not enough to hide the red shimmer of freshly spilled blood in front of her. The open stigmata on her skin burnt, but not half as much as the fury in her gut.

“Really, the stench h-“ Before even she realized her own movement, she had his fine collar between her fingers. The force with which she slammed him into the next wall had her wrists ache from the impact. Somehow even through the blood rushing in her ears she could hear his quiet choking sounds as she held him just so above the ground against the wall. Her fingers shook with fighting instincts, but her grip held steady.

“Do you really not get it? Is this still a fucking joke to you? Do you think this is the same as the council chambers where I let you push around Konomi for some fun?” Her fingers were going white with pressure, and she could feel the collar’s seam slowly ripping. Her throat felt hot and tight. Their surroundings were still dark and barely visible, hazy and indistinct in the background. His finely cut face on the other hand was in sharp focus, illuminated by the dull glowing of his now messed up hair. Glowing eyes wide he stared at her, soft lips parted and quietly choking in air. She hated the fear in his eyes. She hated the way he was looking at her now. She would hate his eyes getting glassy and unseeing more. She pretended the burning in her eyes was sweat.

“Daeran. I don’t want you to die. This is not about them. It’s about you. Get this into your fucking head. If it wasn’t I would have dumped you in Kenabras.” She didn’t want him skewered on some demon’s talons. She didn’t want him dead at her feet because the thing stuck to him discarded him like a broken tool. She could protect the others and they themselves. She could take hits for them and rain divine justice on their enemies, and if that was not enough, she could get them back on their feet. She was terrified of what would happen if it wasn’t enough for him. Every time she saw a spell, a sword, an arrow aimed at him her mind kept flashing back to the vision at Heaven’s Edge. Of a terrified child sitting among the corpses of his family. An image burnt behind her eyelids, only occasionally replaced by the vision from their first night together, watching herself and him from behind alien eyes.

“I get it. I really do. But this cannot continue. Please.” She hoped her voice didn’t sound as broken as her throat felt. It was all so, so much. Power still rushed through her, fizzling painfully through her veins, accompanied by that scorching rage and freezing fear. The shadows around pressed down on her, creeping in, constantly threatening, never a second peace.

But there was warmth under her hands. And light in front of her. And the promise of a little peace on the horizon.

She did not decide to loosen her grip and let him stand on his own again, but nonetheless her fingers slackened on his collar. She didn’t look at his face anymore, couldn’t take the look of fear in his eyes. Instead, her gaze was caught on her own hands near his throat, still gripping the fabric, and on the warm skin beneath it. Somehow, even after weeks and months of travel with her, he was unblemished, unscarred. One of the few torches on the walls flickered, casting shadows over both of them, and for a moment she saw her nightmares again. A slashed throat, blood spatters over the fine shirt, his skin cold and dull. His head violently ripped off.

She didn’t know which one of them flinched harder when she shoved her face into his chest and bit back sobs. She knew her shoulders were shaking, but what was she supposed to do about it? It cost her all the energy she still had to keep quiet at least.

He smelled like roses he gifted her. The fabric of his shirt even crumpled and stained was soft against her face. It was familiar and comforting in a way she had never expected to experience. She could feel his heartbeat beneath her cheek, loud and steady. The rise and fall of his chest, much slower than hers and far less erratic. Grounding and soothing.

She told herself the wet sob when she felt his soft hand gently stroke her head was intentional. The hand stayed as she stood there, slumped against his chest, and fought her breathing back under control, as if he didn’t know what do with it now. He wasn’t as stiff anymore, no longer tensed as if to bolt at any chance, but she knew well what his relaxation felt like. She couldn’t stay like this.

She swallowed down all pain and fear and anger, and finally bothered to break the flow of power causing her to bleed slowly over him. One more deep breath she allowed herself, one more time to lose herself in the scent of her roses before she pulled away from him. Though her heart longed to close the distance again, cling to him and stay there until maybe he could finally believe he  wouldn’t suddenly vanish from between arms, she forced herself still and hard again. He didn’t understand her fear. Of course he didn’t, he couldn’t, or it would make everything so much worse, but still she had to stop this somehow.

“Pull this again and I’ll knock you out and leave you at the entrance.” The way he looked at her now, the uncertainty breaking through his habitual confidence... It made her want to cry more. Made her want to rip apart with violence what had made him like this, had made her like this. Had put them both in this position of being unable to comfort the each other.

But of course she couldn’t, and all she could do was remind herself that hopefully it was a ‘not yet’.

And so she turned away from him and their companions, hiding her tears in the shadows of the Ivory Sanctum, burning away her pain with righteous fury and determination.

“Go do your damn job. We’ll make a short rest here.” Her voice sounded hollow even to herself, but shuffling ensued behind her, followed by the short bursts of light typical for healing spells. She made sure to remain well outside the radius of his channellings when she sat down under one of the archways, staring into the darkness outside.

After a short while the heat behind her faded away. Steps came up to her. An oh so familiar grace, lacking it’s familiar confidence. The glow of his hair even lightened the darkness outside the room. She could feel the calming cool of a prepared healing spell for her.

“Don’t touch me.” If he had asked why, she wouldn’t have been able to explain. She craved his touch like nothing else, and yet the idea of accepting the help revolted her.

He stopped. For a few seconds nothing happened. Just when she thought he wouldn’t listen, would make sarcastic remark again or push her away for that show before, the light steps retreated again without losing a word. No one talked in the room and only the quiet rummaging in backpacks could be heard.

She couldn’t help but glance behind herself and after him. Head held high he didn’t look back and instead walked back where their friends had made camp. But there on the floor, just where he must have stood, laid a familiar dark coloured bottle. A potion to inflict wounds. Healing for her. For a second, she hesitated before she picked it up. The bottle felt cool in her hands, so unlike the usual healing spells with their burning warmth. She knew for a fact she had not bought it for their journey.

She smiled and quiet tears ran down her cheeks as she drank the potion.