yanara126-writing

[yanara126-writing]

The Many Meetings of Death and Death (5/5) - System Error

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 (6729 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 is 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 and reports of Attano's long expected escape. The two guards stationed on the level above his pit were found unconscious and in a rather obviously staged compromising position that neither Dash nor Betram are going to live down any time soon, but no one has seen hide nor hair of the man himself.

Thomas stares at Daud, and even through the mask he can tell that his second is not amused. By the prank or by Daud allowing it to happen. Attano's crusade through Dunwall has been surprisingly non-lethal (with, Daud suspects, the confusing exception of one Lady Boyle, though there is no concrete proof for Attano's involvement in her death) but neither Thomas nor Daud are green enough to believe it will stay this way here in Rudshore. Even if Attano decides the Whalers are simply a tool, not worth the effort of slicing his way through them for revenge, Daud is the hand that wields the tool. The hand that slew his empress. Attano will come for Daud, one way or another. Daud knows this. Thomas knows this. And Thomas resents him for just letting it happen.

Despite what Thomas thinks, Daud doesn't want to die. (Something in him shudders at the thought. It's not fear, Daud has long made his peace with the fact that death might come at any moment. It's not exactly dread either. It's something closer than that, something familiar, in the way that Burrows is familiar, the way the Overseers are familiar, the way that betrayal is familiar.) He is prepared to, knows he most likely will, but he doesn't crave it. Billie has been a slap in the face, as she so often was, in more ways than one. The knife in the back has not been entirely unexpected, he knows damn well he's been out of character since Dunwall Tower, but learning the extent of the damage to their own she was willing to cause was a punch to the gut. As was learning he was wrong when she handed him her sword and life. A two-fold revelation under the stone Empress' gaze, and how the bastard in the void must have laughed at that. His crimes do not stop at murder, he's also ruined all of them, his Whalers, people who trust him. And he has not. He cut Billie loose, sent her on her way, and she took it. So maybe... Maybe there is way to stop. If not for Daud, then maybe at least for his Whalers.

Daud only hopes Thomas will see that.

"Understood. Deal with the se-"

The door to the office crashes open and Attano struts in like he owns the place. His face is bare, the skull mask hanging from a hook on his belt. Right next to it are his weapons, folded up sword and crossbow dangling from another hook, the revolver in a holster on the other side. The mark stands out dark and fresh against his skin, but it's dull and lifeless.

Thomas freezes like a statue and while Daud would love to claim a better reaction, doing so would have the black-eyed bastard lecturing him again about untruths. His right hand drops to the sword at his waist but doesn't draw it. Something about this feels wrong. It can't be a trap, this is their base and Attano is alone. And yet this is bold to the point of idiocy, and no idiot could have completely dug up an entire regime in just two weeks. (That thought gives him a headache almost strong enough to make him wince.)

Attano comes to a stop in the middle of the room and then the bastard has the gall to lean back on his heels in a show of demonstrative casual confidence not even Billie would have dared.

"Thomas, bring us some wine, why don't you. Unopened, if you will." The thrice void damned bastard who somehow knows his Second's name smirks wryly and nods towards Daud, and Daud chokes down the impulse to throw the ink jar on his desk at his head. "I'd make him do it, but he wouldn't know good wine if it bit him in the ass."

Thomas hesitantly tugs on the bond, his question clear. Daud gives an answering shove but doesn't take his eyes off Attano and his bizarre behaviour. If this is an attempt to get Thomas out of the room for their fight it is an absurd one but Daud will take it.

Thomas still hesitates, glancing over to Attano and Daud can see his hands shaking. Daud frowns.

"Go." The growl is enough to shake Thomas out of it and he takes a step back, throwing one last look to his master, before he transverses out and leaves Daud and Attano alone in the room. Murderer and victim. Perhaps in both directions soon. Daud grips the sword, though still sheathed, tighter.

But instead of doing what would make sense, Attano simply clucks his tongue and prances over to the desk, not even looking at Daud. Instead his eyes roam through the room, as if cataloguing every single item of value in grabbable distance. (That thought doesn't make a lot of sense even while he has it, but somehow he can feel the truth of it down to his bones.) Attano grabs a chair off to the side and drags it over. He flops down in it with all the grace of someone hours off of being poisoned and slumps as if this this is a tavern. Only then does he finally look at Daud himself.

Something in Daud freezes, clamps up and shuts down at the sight of the steel grey eyes that have been haunting his nightmares for months. It-

It's some shape of-

Of that damn recognition again. Like-

Like he recognizes the man. In a way that he shouldn't. In a way that has nothing to do with the wreck he saw that day at the Tower. When he himself became a wreck. When the Empress died and-

And when Daud died.

Except no, he didn't die, clearly, no matter what the bastard in the Void rambles about, he's alive, has lived even when the world itself has been out to kill him. Attano may claim him, but he hasn't yet.

Then why does the man sitting across from him, doing nothing but looking out of hooded eyes, feel like death itself to Daud?

He doesn't like how much the question sounds like the enigmatic god he doesn't worship anymore.

Thomas steps out of the shadows and the strange feeling vanishes as suddenly as it appeared when Daud rips his eyes off of Attano. Thomas left his mask somewhere before returning, his face bare and tense, a bottle of wine in his still gloved hand. The image is absurd, almost as much as Attano's presence is.

Thomas steps closer and puts the bottle down on the desk. It's a Serkonan, hardly a vintage from the little Daud knows about wine, but the name is familiar enough to imply a certain popularity. A bottle from Thomas' personal collection no doubt, not one of the cheap cooking wines they sometimes find for the kitchen. Daud isn't sure what conclusion to draw from that. He is however sure that one way or another the bastard in the void will eventually lecture him about it, so he decides to ignore it.

Thomas slots into place a step behind Daud, standing, his hands at his sides and close to his weapons. Attano casually ignores him and leans forward to grab the wine, then bites into the cork like the heathen he is and rips it out. Daud doesn't need to check the bond to feel Thomas glowering from behind him.

Attano smirks. "If you want me to do it right, bring an opener next time." He takes a long swig from the bottle and Daud can hear Thomas' jaw crack. When he's done Attano sighs and plants the bottle back on the desk, pushing it a bit towards Daud and looking expectantly.

"I don't drink," Daud snarls, contempt desperately trying to drown out the ever more all-consuming confusion about what the fuck is going on.

Attano raises a doubtful eyebrow at him and doesn't give him the satisfaction of finally making sense. "Would that even do anything to you? Alcohol is a toxin technically." It takes effort to not try and shove one of the papers on his desk into the man's mouth to either shut him up or finally provoke him into attacking as he's supposed to. It takes slightly less effort to conclude that the void bastard is apparently playing favourites far more obviously than even Daud predicted with the amount of knowledge that Attano has that he really, really shouldn't. Considering the state he arrived in it seems safe to assume he does not have the same resistances, meaning the scrawny little shit in the void talked too much. Beyond the usual cryptic babbling.

Well. No point in keeping those things secret then. Daud glares anyway.

"The whiskey does." Not a lot certainly, more than one Whaler has tried to challenge him in their drinking games, and later just tried to subtly keep up with him when he told them to fuck off. He started drinking his occasional whiskey in his office after that.

Behind him Thomas twitches, a testament to just how high-strung his second is right now. Thomas has always prided himself on his control, as has Daud, that he is slipping now is... concerning.

If Attano notices the tension he doesn't let it show, remaining slumped in the chair. "Huh. Guess the dose does make the difference." The only thing the man projects is mild curiosity, and if that isn't a deliberate choice Daud will eat his bonecharms, but that one sentence carries something else with it, an underlying bitterness. Like a rotten tyvian pear.

They lapse into a loaded silence, and for the first time since his Whalers fished his death out of the Waters of the Wrenhaven, Daud lets himself fall back into the well-used skills that forged it, and scrutinizes Attano in more detail. In the light falling from the hole pretending to be a window Attano looks like shit. He's pallid, a sickly pale that no Serkonan should be, his hair is hanging off his head in greasy, dirty clumps, and his rumpled, wet clothes stick to his skin, highlighting just how much weight he must have lost since that cloak actually fit him. All in all the former Lord Protector makes for a sorry sight. Like a drowned rat that a wolfhound dragged out of a canal.

And like a drowned rat, chances are he'll kill them all still anyway.

Though rats usually don't drink wine straight from a bottle, much less go in for a second gulp.

When Attano puts the bottle down again he somehow looks even worse than before, bedraggled, broken down, and so very, very tired. Well, that's something Daud understands at least. Can empathize with even, if his ruined soul is still capable of such a thing.

Something small crumbles in him, erodes like a pebble being ground down and into dust by the Wrenhaven and the ever-constant tension, his eternal companion, unravels, making him feel every single one of his 42 years and another 20 on top. He's not sure if it's a good or a bad thing. Regardless, there's no way but forward, and  the drowned rat of a man in front of him doesn't seem inclined to do anything but stare at the wine bottle in front of him.

"So." Attano blinks at him and doesn't look any more focused.

"So," he repeats. Daud tries to be annoyed at the complete non-answer and fails to find anything stronger than mild exasperation. At least the man isn't slurring his words, which already makes him better than his Whalers after Fugue. It still feels like trying to get Leon to explain where her pants went and why she is wearing an Overseer mask as a loin cloth. (Comparing the former Royal Protector, the man whose life he ruined, to one of his- one of his people is neauseating. Especially when Billie once again flashes through his mind.)

"What now?" He rasps, and tries to bury the unwanted memories. Attano sighs and lets his eyes wander through the room again, briefly catching on Thomas, but quickly skipping further when Daud shifts slightly to block his view.

"What now... Isn't that always the question. Every time." Something about the tone in his voice makes Daud stop short. As if it matters. As if he doesn't simply mean his crusade against the coup that toppled his Empress. As if Daud should know what he means.

"Every time?"

"Mmmh. Every time." Attano shifts in his chair, leans back and immediately grimaces when it creaks and gives a little against his weight. The petty satisfaction sparking up in Daud's chest is quickly extinguished by Attano's suddenly sharp focus. When he continues his voice feels like the icy winds of Tyvia.

"You killed Jessamine. You regret that you did it. You've spent the last 6 months wallowing over it as if it wasn't your own damn free choice to do it. You have around 60 people under your command, most of them around 20, some younger, some older. Many of them you picked out of a life of abuse or certain death." He nods towards Thomas without taking his eyes off Daud.

"Thomas here has a wine collection he keeps behind a loose brick above the sewer entrance. You gave him a bottle once. It was terrible but none of them wanted tell you." The wood behind Daud creeks almost accusingly, which is all the confirmation Daud needs. He quietly files it away under things to deal with after he finds out what the fuck Attano is playing at here.

"Quinn snores, Bertram and Dash have almost kissed three times, and Misha annotates porn novels about you." Daud keeps his face and mind carefully blank, even as Attano leans forward with the carefully weighted movements of a predator, his eyes sparking with something familiar. Something not quite human.

"And I remember having come through here four times already." Something rings in Daud's head at that, strums at the bonds of black magic making up his nervous system, reverberates through his veins with a strength he hasn't felt since the shitkicker in the void first branded him. A message with all the subtlety of a whale fin slamming into him. Truth then, no matter how little sense it makes. A mystery from his thrice damned patron yet again.

A river krust outside gurgles, the bone charms on his chest ring like laughter, and Daud chooses spite. At least for the moment.

"Four times," he rasps, and Attano nods gravely, with the look of a cat having caught its prey.

"Yes," the drowned rat agrees, and for the first time in six months something like wry amusement sparks in Daud's chest.

"No." That does finally get Attano to startle, and his damned look of self-important gravity turns into much more appropriate annoyance.

"What, no?" Even though Attano still doesn't sound nearly violent enough, should be growling and spitting and snarling rather than speaking in the same irritated tone Daud has used with particularly unhelpful clients, Daud smirks. Cynical though it may be.

"Bertram and Dash. It's been four times. And they've been fucking anyway, just the novices haven't been able to prove it." Bertram and Dash's maybe, maybe not relationship is the subject of many a bet among the younger Whalers, and though Daud could not possibly care any less about the brats' escapades, Attano's face is satisfying enough he's considering adding a few coin into the pot as a reward. If he'a still alive after this, anyway. "You won Pickford 20 coin with your stunt today."

"I-" Attano stares at him, speechless. Daud hopes a fly flies into his dumb open mouth.

Eventually Attano sighs and rubs a hand over his face in defeat. "Fine. So what about the situation?"

Daud raises an eyebrow at him. "As far as I'm concerned the situation is you should want my head, we fight, and the winner walks away. If you think it's different, convince me."

Attano stares at him like he's lost his mind. Which, while likely true considering present circumstances, is an unfair assessment from the man in front of him of all people. "Isn't that what I just did?"

"All that proves is that the brats are gossiping on the job and the twat in the void is playing favourites." It's not that Daud doesn't believe him, the constant ringing making head ache is enough reason to assume he's not lying and likely not delusional. And though the brats are definitely gossiping it's unlikely that Attano could have picked up all that information in the little time it took him to get from the Refinery to the Chambers of Commerce. Couldn't have possibly known about Daud's own... issues, since his regicide. And even if he did somehow gather six months worth of gossip on the way, if the asshat in the void tattled on him like a toddler, what would be the point in lying? In walking in and pretending when simply killing Daud would be a much easier way of revenge than trying to gaslight him with this strange story. And even if he didn't want to fight, the man was clearly practiced in stealth. Had he seriously tried he could have likely snuck in, grabbed the key and gotten out again. No, Attano is not lying, but Daud cannot let a mystery stand, and he is, perhaps above all, very petty.

Attano continues staring for a few moments before turning away from Daud towards Thomas. Daud tenses and his hand clenches around the sword on his hip, but Attano makes no move for a weapon, and instead looks at Thomas in baffled disbelief, like he expects the Whaler to commiserate with him.

"I don't know how you manage to deal with him."

"Don't talk like we're friends." Thomas sounds more like his master than ever before with the way he growls and something twinges painfully in Daud's chest at the thought, something suspiciously close to how he feels at the thought of his blade sliding into the Empress' chest.

"...No, I suppose we're not." Something shutters closed in Attano's expression, a levity Daud didn't know was there but that becomes patently obvious once missing.

Attano leans back in his chair, once again all coiled tension and power, ready to spring. Daud shifts his weight towards Thomas and tenses, ready to move. "I was hoping you'd remember something. That the Mark was doing it and you would believe me. I suppose not." A strange note of bitter disappointment suffuses Attano's words, in a tone that makes Daud's hackles rise with the way it reminds him of whale song, crumbling memories, and endlessly deep, black eyes. He grinds his teeth and reminds himself that in contrast to the void-eyed weasel Attano is vulnerable.

"I didn't say that. I said convince me." Because he does believe Attano. He hates it and would much prefer to simply fight it out, draw his sword and get the resolution that's been coming for him for six months, or 30 years. But he does. That doesn't mean he's gonna make this easy on the bastard.

Attano stares at him again, eyes tight and calculating, and cocks his head in that absolutely infuriating manner of his. In contrast to their shared eldritch headache however he seems to decide that cryptic silence is not the best way to have a conversation. His eyes drift off Daud, somewhere into the middle distance, gathering himself, though he doesn't relax even for a second.

"The first time I was here..." He starts off haltingly, slowly, not fumbling exactly but like the words don't fit quite right in his mouth. "Or at least the first time I remember. I was confused. Hurt. I'd been running around for two weeks like a puppet on strings, not quite knowing what I was doing or why. I didn't question it much. Coldridge didn't leave much of me to do the questing in the first place, and the Mark didn't make it easier. I knew some things already but it was... Abstract. Vague. Impressions more than anything. It left me somewhat... Unfocused." Daud nearly flinches when something snaps through his mind like an arc pylon, leaving the most bizarre after-image burnt into his retinas. He squints at Attano who raises an eyebrow at him. Daud valiantly ignores the expectant look on him in order to not be tempted into punching the man.

"Did you... Did you eat a rat?" Attano actually snorts, the absolute rat bastard of a man.

"Ha, yeah."

"Why?" Daud bites out. Attano shrugs.

"It helps with focus." Daud takes a deep breath. Waits a moment. Listens to the soft rushing of the Wrenhaven outside of the window. Imagines landing a good fist in the Royal Protector's face, feeling his nose crunch against his fingers and finally hearing the logical, sensible noise of steel being drawn. Then he takes one of the sheets of paper stacked on his desk, halved, paper is damn expensive these days, dips the pen into the ink bottle and makes the most nonsensicle note of his life. He carefully puts the pen down, closes the ink jug and sets out the note to be added to his board of issues to solve later.

He turns back to Attano. "Okay."

Attano has watched him the entire time and undoubtedly thinks his own thoughts behind those somehow both intense and entirely dead eyes of his but graciously keeps them to himself.

Instead he lets his gaze wander around the room for a few moments, avoiding Thomas this time, and seemingly absentmindedly drums his fingertips on the desk. Daud doesn't think for a moment he's actually inattentive. When he continues, it's with a far-off look and thin lips.

"Something happened. At some point. I don't know when, there's no clear cutoff, nothing to point to. One moment it was all over. Emily safe. I was trying to keep the Empire standing. And the next I got up in my cell in Coldridge, a key under my cell door." He glances back at Daud, eyes hard. "It couldn't have been a dream. Too precise. I knew guard rotations, the exact cache locations, the names and habits of everyone involved. I was prepared that time." Attano stares right at him and for a moment Daud feels like he missed a transversal and stepped into the abyss. "I used it to my advantage. No one ever saw me because I knew where they would look."

That... seems right, and yet at the same time does not. People have seen Attano. Not many, but some have. Daud knows this, he's had his Whalers collect every single report they could get their hands on. And of course there is the obvious issue with this story.

"I've seen it, every night for the last few weeks. I thought it was a nightmare, fears, punishment maybe. But now I know it's not. It was you." Thomas spits the word like it's acid and even without being able to see his face Daud knows his eyes are still promising murder. He holds tighter again, but Thomas makes no move to fight him.

Attano slowly lowers his hands, his eyes fixed on Thomas in a way that makes Daud's skin itch, but the man stays back against the wall and makes no move to pick up the sword or reach for another weapon.

"I didn't kill him that time. I didn't lie. I-" he glances over to the desk for a moment, something indefinable flitting over his face, because if it is the guilt it looks like Daud may try and stab Attano himself, and that would make a terrible example for Thomas yet again. "I did the next time."

Thomas sounds like Billie did when she first confessed to him about the death of Radanis Abele and Daud carefully does not think about that. "No, you did. You cut him open like a rat and left him to die there. I found him. And I watched him drown in his own blood. And then- and then-" He trails off, head dropping and shoulders trembling just slightly.

Attano looks vaguely sick. "...Oh."

It feels strange to be the subject of conversation, his own horrible death being the subject of conversation, when no one is looking at him or paying him any attention. Daud is not used to people daring to ignore him, and his own murder is a topic usually spouted directly at him, by clients, by the occasional Overseer, by targets, and before that by the man who stole his childhood, made him a weapon and then tried desperately to control him and keep him in chains. They all failed where Attano, apparently, succeeded.

It's not surprising. Not really. In fact it's about the only thing that's made sense in the last hour, the last six months. Thomas' reaction is however.

Daud opens his mouth to- to do something. To scold Thomas for his behaviour, to voice his disappointment at his second's complete loss of control, to congratulate Attano, draw the attention back to himself where it has been for thirty years, or maybe just stop them from looking like that, but as soon as he takes a breath Thomas flinches and snarls, ripping his head around as much as he can to try and look back.

"No! You don't get to- you let him! You let him do it to you and made me, made us pick up the pieces!" Daud thinks he makes some kind of noise, choked off and embarrassing, as he feels something freeze in his chest and the mark on his hand burn, but if he, but if he does no one is in a state to mention it. Attano still looks like a deer caught in the spotlights, and Thomas is panting shakily, his head bowed deep enough for his blonde fringe to fall over his eyes.

A second passes, two, three, and suddenly Thomas relaxes, lets his shoulders drop, lifts his head and falls into parade rest as much as he can with Daud's arms still pinning him. "You can let go now. Sir." He adds the title with a contempt that not even Billie ever dared. Daud pulls back anyway. His chest feels like its burning.

Thomas rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck once, twice, and sighs with the tired disdain of a man twice his age. He looks away from Daud. "You don't- You don't just get to leave us. You don't get to take that from us." You don't get to take yourself from us.

Daud has no answer for him. So he does what he's always done when it feels like his control is breaking away into the Void. He grips tight, puts on his meanest face and pretends anyway.

"Go and gather everyone in the common room. There'll be new orders soon." Thomas hesitates for a moment, cold, resigned eyes turning to Attano, who suddenly seems oddly soft.

Attano shrugs. "I'm not here to kill him. Clearly it didn't work when I did anyway." Perhaps Thomas sees something in his eyes that he doesn't in Daud's, perhaps he's tired of the dogged dedication to keep his master alive, perhaps he's finally thought better of whether he even wants it. Either way Thomas sighs and turns away, gone in the blink of an eye with only ashy black flakes remaining.

With him goes whatever energy Daud had left and he feels like the Whale in the Slaughterhouse. Sucked dry of what matters the most over the course of months, with only death left for him, to be cut up for parts.

He turns to Attano, not bothering to pick up his own or Thomas' left behind sword. "So, what do you want."

Attano sighs, and slides down the wall to the floor, until he's entirely sitting on the moist wooden floor, a leg stretched out and one pulled close. His head thumps back into the wall and he looks out the hole on the other side. Or under it?

When he starts speaking his words come slowly, almost wistfully. "This here... This is the furthest I've been able to deviate. I didn't know if it would work, but it has so far." He lapses then, sniffs once, and raises his hand, the right one, to his coat. Leaves it lying over his heart and closes his eyes. Daud waits. He doesn't have anything else to do anymore.

When Attano drops his hand and opens his eyes, turns to Daud and stares him right in the eyes he looks like a different man. The drowned rat is gone and left behind the Royal Protector. "I want you to come with me. Help me deal with Havelock and get Emily out of there and then we'll- We'll find something." Without any active decision Daud steps closer. He looms over Attano like this, and yet it doesn't feel like Daud's the one in power. He never has been, has he. Not for all his powers, for all the nobles killed, for all the coin or people under his command. Not in any way that matters. And his struggles to prove the universe wrong only managed to drown the city in blood.

He remembers the empress. The child. Billie kneeling in front of him, offering her blade. Thomas' desperate struggling is still lingering the warmth of his shirt and the creases of his coat. There's no question what he'll do, not really. And perhaps just this once Daud has run out of pettiness to argue with.

"Alright. Fine. We can start with the bastard, it's probably his fault anyway. Or he'll at least know something." And maybe now that they had this conversation, even if they fail, perhaps Daud will remember more the next time, more than just the short flashes he recognizes as memories now. For a brief moment he considers telling Attano about Delilah but quickly disregards the thought. The man has other problems currently, and Delilah is unlikely to be related. He can't imagine she would have let herself lose more than once to  him, and as far as he can tell his own expedition never changed. And perhaps... Perhaps if they do fail, if the world repeats again, and Daid will be allowed to remember... Perhaps he has a chance to stop the worst. Stop the Overseers. Stop Billie.

He banishes that line of thought before it can run him down to darker paths and expectations.

Attano nods, and his shoulders sag a bit, just slightly less tense, as he gazes back outside. He looks almost serene like this, time stopped in a way the Void could never hope to achieve.

Then the absolute fucking cretin starts chuckling.

"Ah, and you should send someone up to the roof with some clean pants. I caught one of yours pissing over the side and got so startled I shot them with sleep dart on reflex." It turns out Daud has not run out of pettiness and with no Whalers present to be an example for there is no power in the Void that could stop him from knocking Attano over the back of the head. Attano himself just keeps laughing, and if there is something desperate in his voice, in the way his eyes crinkle and his chuckles sound through the room, then there is more than enough to match in Daud's movements and in the way he clings to the arcane bond, that flares alive and bright, with not a single hole in its tightly woven net.

[yanara126-writing]

The Many Meetings of Death and Death (4/5) - Razor Rain

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 (2386 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

--

Thomas wakes to pain burning in his mind. Not the pain that is familiar, a stab wound, acid burns or even a bullet, but the agony of yawning emptiness in his soul, the likes of which he's only felt once before. During the Overseer attack.

This is worse. Back then (was it really only two weeks ago?) he was writhing in agony, clinging barely to consciousness as that awful sound set his left hand on fire and drilled itself through his skull, locking off that now cooly familiar connection through the void in his mind. That was better. It hurt horrendously, made even worse by knowing what it meant, that one of their own had betrayed them, but even then there was trust. Daud was coming. All Thomas had to do was live to see it.

Now there is no such trust. Groggy, in pain and his senses dulled Thomas knows well where is. And what the pain in his head means. He keeps his eyes shut, listens to the water rushing outside the window, and imagines, just for a short moment, that it's a few months earlier. That he's simply taken a hit to the head on a mission or an unlucky slip during training and that Montgomery is about to come and patch him up. That Daud will soon transverse right in front of his nose to rip him a new one for such an amateur mistake. That the worst the world can do to him lies a decade in the past next to the decaying corpses of his parents and their co-conspirators. He doesn't succeed.

A broken sob rips itself from his throat that has nothing to do with the pain. With effort he opens his eyes, forcing them to focus, even though he would rather do anything else in the world than face reality. Face the undeniable proof for the gaping hole in his mind where the bond has been for almost half his life. But Daud has trained him better than that. The world doesn't care for what you want, all you can do is face it and force your will onto it. And the rest is Void.

When his eyes finally focus and compensate for the waning light outside, every muscle in his body freezes. He is where expects to be, under the window in Daud's office. (Propped up against the wall rather than lying on the floor, his mask on the ground nudging his hand, which implies things that do not penetrate the pain and fog in his mind.) Not four metres away from him is Daud, slumped over his desk, framed by the setting sun shining through the other window. A whaler sword is stabbed through his back, wedged so deep it's pinning him to the wooden surface. Sightless eyes stare blankly back at Thomas. Blood still trickles slowly down his chin, collecting in a small puddle, soaking into the already waterlogged wood of the desk.

Thomas only doesn't scream because he stops breathing. His fingers are numb against the waterlogged floor. He is no stranger to death, has never been. Not before and certainly not with Daud. He has taken lives himself, in defense and otherwise, and has watched life drain from countless more. He has known for a long time that his own is unlikely to be peaceful and is content with that. But this is wrong in a way that tears into his soul anew, sinks its poisoned teeth into him and rips out his heart into tattered bits. Daud was supposed to be... Not untouchable, not anymore, not since that day six months ago, but unyielding. A rock in the branding, chipped and discoloured but firm against the rising tides.

Thomas has known for a while that something had to break, to give. Has watched Daud pace and skulk around the base with tight shoulders and tighter words, waiting for a reckoning they all knew had to come. Sitting in here, in the quiet office with only the sound of weepers shuffling past beneath the window, his legs aching from the awkward pose and the hole gaping in his soul, Thomas can't help thinking the universe made a mistake. This was never supposed to happen. Daud wasn't- Daud wasn't meant to die before Thomas. Thomas isn't blind, he quietly took Lurk's place for a reason, he is the best scout Daud has trained aside from her, and he is proud of it. He knows Daud meant to die to Attano. The fact that he spared the man when they fished him out of the Wrenhaven already half dead and then had them throw him into a barely secured pit is sign enough on its own, that he then sat here and just waited, refusing to order the Whalers to engage, is the curled signature under the execution order. Thomas is not happy about it, but he knows. He also knows Daud meant to make it an occasion, a challenge, a fight to keep Attano busy and make himself into the barely defeated monster. A hard earned victory for Attano and a cleaner conscience for Daud as he died.

The body staked to the desk has nothing to do with Thomas' master. It's not the Knife of Dunwall who died here, not the terror of the Isles, not Daud the assassin, Daud the man who plucked Thomas from certain death and gave him a weapon to fight all of Dunwall's horrors with, like he's saved so many others of their number. The broken bleeding corpse across from Thomas is not his master. It's a mutilated old man, barely recognisable and yet horrifyingly familiar.

No fight happened here. Daud didn't see it coming. Didn't even have the time to get up from his chair. Attano rammed a sword through him, one of their own, and Daud died alone, pinned to the desk like an insect in an exhibit at the academy, while Thomas lay unconscious on the floor. Morbidly he wonders if the fact that Daud's head is turned towards him means his master was looking at him in his last moments. Watching over Thomas' insensate body for one last time while was bleeding out and drowning in his own blood. He hopes not. He hopes it was over before Daud could notice that he wouldn't be granted his last fight. That Attano took even this from them. Or perhaps Daud was staring over to the window accusingly, demanding to know why Thomas didn't- didn't save him. Didn't do his job as he was trained to, didn't see Attano coming, didn't do what he came here to do and stayed here for even though he was ordered away. Another sob forces itself from Thomas' chest and it sounds like it reverberates through the gaping hole in his head.

Slowly, still dizzy from what was most definitely a modified sleep dart and from the shattered remnants of the bond clouding his perception, he drags himself off the ground. He stumbles the few steps over to Daud's body and crumples  again next to his master. His knees hit the floor with a thud and as he stares into dead, glassy eyes staring through him, nothing can hold the flood ripping through him anymore. One sob turns into many and soon he is a mess on the floor, as broken as the corpse before him. The tears flowing from his eyes burn, as if themselves made of the acid Thomas feels shredding his chest. Grief, fear, hatred, all intermingling into one dizzying concoction of emotion that threatens to drown him. He looks to the body, the pool of blood he can now see that collected on the ground beneath, to the tip of the sword that juts from- from the chest into the desk, his breath having turned into wet gasps, as if it was the still warm blood choking him rather than hot tears.

He doesn't know how long he kneels there on the ground, losing all sense of time as he can't look away from the corpse's eyes. They're not accusing, they're not surprised, not pained, they're only empty, like the glass pearl Jordan wears in her empty socket. As if no one had ever been behind them. Until Thomas can't take it anymore and slowly lifts his trembling hand. He tries to be gentle, to be soft, but he doesn't know he can be anymore. It feels less like closing Daud's eyes for the last time, and rather like forcing down a corpse's eyelids. There is nothing gentle in the action, nothing soothing when there is nothing to soothe left, only the desperate need to not have to see anymore.

It's somehow worse after. He stares at his hand, the feeling of dead, cold flesh ingrained in his fingertips. It's not the first body he's touched, not even the first body of someone he's known and loved.

It gets more difficult every time.

But this is wrong in many more ways. It's wrong that Daud is dead, it's wrong that he died sitting, it's wrong that Thomas could reach out and touch him like this. Daud's touches have always been precious things, treasures given in rare moments of intimacy. Receiving the mark as he holds their hand through the burning of the new connection in their mind. A rough shove or yank in missions gone sideways. Fleeting flashes of personal attention that many saw and all keep silent about. He helped Jordan slot in her new eye. He tied off the bandages around Misha's chest. He stitched a cut above Billie's eye. He clasped Thomas' shoulder after his first solo scouting mission. They are given, never taken.

Reaching out and touching him seals reality in a way that nothing else has. Not the gaping ragged hole in his mind, not the sword stabbed clean through the body, not the sight of empty eyes. The feeling of stiff, creased, rapidly cooling skin against his fingers.

The door flies open with a crack, slamming into the wall to reveal Rulfio, no mask to be seen but sword ready in hand. He freezes in the doorway as he takes in the sight. The bang rips something loose in Thomas and he stumbles to his feet, glancing over at Rulfio who still stands by the door, the older Whaler's face caught somewhere between anguish and resignation, shoulders slumped and hands curled into desperate, helpless fists.

Like a spark ignited rage fills Thomas, burning through the grief and terror and dousing it in blessedly mind-numbing hatred and fury. Some Whalers rely on emotion to keep them above water, draw on spite and anger to be able to do their jobs and sleep at night. Thomas has never been one of them, but in that moment he understands. The intoxicating feeling of seething resentment, the burning need for vengeance. It's not just Thomas. It's all of them, all Whalers, their family, that Attano took this from. And perhaps it was deserved. Perhaps it was fair. The death of a killer (how many of their family have died to Attano's hands? He doesn't even know yet.) for the death of an empress. But Thomas learnt long ago, locked behind a basement door and trying to set his own broken fingers, that the world doesn't give people what they deserve. And he refuses to let this be the only time it does.

With a snarl he turns to the body, grips the sword impaling it and yanks. He can feel the blade grind along bone and sinew as he forces it out. The body is jostled with the movement, and Thomas nearly vomits. Eventually the sword comes free, bloodied tip to hilt. Thomas' knuckles go white as he clenches it. Rulfio hasn't moved from the door, watching Thomas with a strange look in his eyes.

Outside someone screams, a heart wrenching roar muffled by a Whalers' mask. Rulfio flinches and turns to the window, his usually tan skin white as a sheet in the setting sun. Thomas chokes on another sob. His head feels fuzzy and nausea rises in his throat, and yet he knows he cannot stop now. There is no stopping anymore. There wasn't for Daud, and Thomas will follow him as he always has.

He drops the sword the desk like it burns his fingers and turns back to the body. His hands shake as he reaches out and slowly slips off Daud's coat. It takes some maneuvering to get it off the stiffening body without having to touch it too much, and Thomas feels like he's suffocating the entire time, like he's committing a terrible sacrilege and the void itself is crushing him for it. Eventually he has it in hand, sticky with not quite dried blood, the back ripped open where the sword stabbed through it. Unable to stop his shivering he can't look up from the ruined coat.

The sound of leather on wood eventually makes Thomas glance back up, to find Rulfio hesitating one stop into the room, that strange look again in his eyes as he fixates on Thomas.

The screaming outside has tapered down into muted sobbing, but the voices have multiplied. He can hear some clambering, Whalers long used to the void in their step trying to figure out how to safely enter the building again without their transversals.

Thoma swallows, his breath shaky, and squares his shoulders. No stopping.

He shrugs off his own blue coat and lays it over Daud like a blanket, like he simply fell asleep over their reports again. Then he takes the ruined red coat, torn and stained as it is, and draws it over his own back. It's uncomfortable, it's too big, it's filthy, and it fans the flames of hatred making his face burn. He takes the sword, red and gleaming, and turns to Rulfio.

Rulfio looks back, emotions racing across face too fast for Thomas to see, if he had anything left to even care about them. He glances between Thomas and the body and the window. Then something seems to click or maybe break and steel fills eyes. He draws himself up, taller than Thomas, his shoulders tight and he nods. No words are needed.

Thomas grips the sword tighter.

It's time for hunting.

[yanara126-writing]

Master

The first time one of them calls him Master he beats them black and blue in the training yard. Afterwards, looking at the gasping and trembling shape of Aedan on his knees in front of him, barely 16, he feels nauseous in a way he hasn't in years. That Aedan still looks at him with admiration makes bile rise in his throat.

He leaves the boy to Montgomery and locks himself in his office, and when that isn't enough he climbs out the window and finds the highest roof in the city outside of the tower. He burns through two packs of cigarettes that day.

The second time it's Leon (Leonid still then, until her second half joined half a year later), 15 and freshly changed out of her bloodied maid outfit. He glowers and sends her out with Aedan to clean out the rats nest in their new base' cellar and puts her on first watch for a month. If anything it seems to spur her on more. He smokes so much that day that Montgomery has to make him a tonic so he can keep leading training without his voice giving out. She confiscates the rest of his smokes for a week.

The third time it's Scott, not one of the new kids, and he doesn't mean anything by it. It's almost casual when he says it, handing over a missive from a new client. Daud nearly tears the paper in half when he rips it out of Scott's hand. He doesn't go to see Montgomery that evening, but the tonic still finds its way to his desk.

That night, after he peels off his blood drenched clothing after a kill gone messy and hurls them into the laundry pile with enough force to splatter the blood over the walls, the Outsider draws him into the void, for the first time in months. But it's not the facsimile of his own bed that he finds himself in.

Instead what greets him when he opens his eyes is the cage where he lost his childhood.

He learns then that while he can retch in the void he cannot vomit.

While he prefers to let the Outsider wait for a while these days, he cannot get out of the room quickly enough, nearly hitting his head on the tiny gate that marked the end of his innocence and stumbling out the door beyond into the destructured realm that is the Void. Vertigo that has nothing to do with the void rips into his mind, tipping his sense of self and forcing him to his knees as he's desperately gasping for breath past the horrible tightness in his chest.

It takes him a few moments, or an eternity, until he can drag himself back up and steel himself against the familiar, deconstructed vision of the hell that shaped him into the man he is today. One transversal after another he gets further away, until all that is left are impersonal blocks of stone and dirt floating next to the whales and he doesn't feel quite so much anymore like he's teetering on a ledge that will maybe not kill him but drop him back into the time he wished it would.

When the Outsider appears and seals his voice he can almost pretend to be unaffected.

"Hello, Daud." Nothing shows on the leviathan's face, as it has always been, but for the first time it fills Daud with a burning hatred. If the Outsider notices, as he has to, as he always does, he doesn't deem it worthy of a reaction.

"You have become a man of titles, Daud." The boy cocks his head and Daud tenses. "They call you the Knife of Dunwall. The murderer who stalks the night. And of course your own people, your collection of children and outcasts who steal, spy, and murder for you, they call you master now, don't they." It's not a question. Daud wants to hurl. Vomit, insults, or fists he can't quite tell.

The Outsider lets him stand there for a few moments, looking over him impassively with those black, uncaring depths pretending to be eyes.

"I wonder, Daud. Will you let them? Or will you forbid them from using the word, punish them the way he punished you for refusing it, and become like him anyway." It's still not a question. The bastard has already decided and Daud has never hated him the way he hates him now. His back stings with the phantom pain of lashes, of beatings, he feels the hot, itching sensation of fresh blood running down his thighs, rope burns flame across his wrists, the world swims in front of his eyes like someone has hit him over the head. Daud doesn't know if it's the Outsider's doing or his own mind's, but in the haze of rage, hatred, and old, long buried panic he cannot bring himself to care.

It feels like an eternity until the Outsider finally releases him and he shoots upright in own bed, drenched in cold sweat. The first thing he does is bend over the side and vomit. Some primal part of his mind that he has long since locked away and buried, has pretended to have killed along with his master expects to be slapped for it.

The sun has risen over the rooftops of Dunwall when he finally drags himself out of bed to clean up the mess and start the day. The Whalers notice, those few that they are in those days, but no one comments on his foul mood. His jacket is returned by Leon, washed of all traces of blood and scrubbed so well it almost shines. Montgomery hands him another tonic without a word. Aedan asks to show him a new maneuver with the knife he's learnt.

Daud doesn't comment when any of them call him Master, let's them call him what they want without reacting anymore. The group grows, some pick it up, some don't, but eventually it is enough of them that he doesn't bother keeping track. He establishes a system of ranks, masters and novices, and explains it is to better manage their tasks to their skill level, as well as provide incentives for growth. It makes sense and no one questions it.

It also makes sense that he would be a master.

It takes Daud years to stop feeling the pain of phantom wounds when he hears the not yet broken voices of children call him Master.

[yanara126-writing]

The Many Meetings of Death and Death (3/5) - Mercy Is the Mark

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 (2979 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 and in the privacy of his own mind where none of them can see he scares himself too. 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. He's been strange and out of character for months, but at least those actions he could justify as a crisis of morality. Choices to be able to live with himself, however unproductive they were, however much they disturbed Billie. Sitting here at his same old desk, waiting for Attano to get out of the pitiful hole they've thrown him into, he feels more conflicted than ever.

He tries not to let Thomas see it who stands in front him, staring him down with the most accusatory glare he's ever seen on the young man. Attano is gone. They haven't found any bodies yet, but Attano is not a merciful man. He has carved his way through Dunwall in a righteous crusade, felling the conspirators one after the other, as well as guards unlucky enough to try and stop him. Some of his victims are never found, but they don't have time right now for a headcount. And frankly he cannot be sure he would notice a bond breaking, not right now. And doesn't that add another stab to his long list of guilt. Daud knows Thomas resents him for the choice to not simply kill Attano and be done with it, and he cannot blame him for it. It was a stupid decision born of months long desperation, and one that his Whalers will pay for.

Daud doesn't want to die. He doesn't want his people to die either. And yet he may very well have ensured both. Ironic almost that Billie now keeps the best chances of survival. He doesn't regret sparing her life, sending her off, both as mercy and punishment, but sitting here in his office knowing he has made yet another irreparable error he can't help but think maybe it would have been better had Billie succeeded. He has repeated her mistake and let another killer into their midst. He doesn't expect to receive the same mercy she did. All he can hope for now is that the body count will be lower, that Attano will be satisfied with Daud's life, rather than going after his Whalers as well as the Overseers had done. That is a price he is maybe not happy, but certainly willing to pay, a bed he has made himself and he will lie in. Delilah was for the girl, his own life will be for Attano. (Something rings in the back of his mind at that, something familiar, something claiming that Attano will not kill him. It's a ludicrous thought, considering both of their histories, a pathetic hope Daud is above, so he ignores it.)

"Understood. Deal with the sentries as you will." Thomas stares him down and they both know that nothing will be done about the sentries. Either they are dead already or there will be other funerals to hold tonight. Daud's being one of them.

"Sir." Thomas says, and it's not agreement. Daud doesn't argue. Instead he turns back to his desk, old and creaking from the humidity and starts sorting papers. A pointless task at what is sure to be his and the Whalers' last day one way or another, but human nature makes it difficult to simply wait for death.

Daud expects Thomas to turn, put his mask on and leave. They both know how this will end after all and the surviving Whalers (and by the Outsider's bastardly ways he hopes some of them will survive his bullheadedness) will need a steady hand with both Billie and him gone. While Thomas does put on his mask after a last dirty look, he walks over next to the room's window and stands with his back against the wall. A good view of the doors and a defensible position.

Daud considers him from the corner of his eye, standing watch as still as a statue. Loyal as ever, despite his master's terrible decisions. Daud has no illusions that he will be able to make Thomas leave. His loyalty seems to be endless in a way Daud most definitely doesn't deserve, but he can feel that he's found the limit of Thomas' obedience. Perhaps it should be frustrating, or even reassuring, that in a fight between obedience and loyalty, loyalty has obviously won out, but all Daud has the emotional capacity for now is resignation. What will come will come, and Thomas has made his decision along with Daud.

Time passes, Daud shuffling paper on his desk, standing, not sitting, that would feel too much like an invitation, and Thomas standing watch, while nothing happens. Daud fidgets with the sword at his waist. Not the one bloodied by his last kill, that one he'd left lying around in a corner of the room, uncleaned and reeking, until a few weeks later it disappeared. Daud never asked who took it or what happened to it. Water gently splashes and rushes outside, the ever present noise of Rudshore, the death gurgling of an entire district. The occasional Weeper moans are a thematic touch, all the more as they never used to reach up to their base. They used to clean out the streets as well as possible, for security and to try and keep the plague away. Now they formed a dirge to Rudshore. And to Daud.

The dirge is the only thing audible for a while.

When Attano finally comes it's sudden and all at once. Thomas drops from one second to the next, and before Daud even has time to flinch, much less try and reach him, that horrible skull mask is right in his face and Attano nearly skewers him. Daud manages to block the strike only thanks to decades of practiced paranoia.

Sparks fly as their blades meet, the crash shattering the soft requiem with savage violence, the desk shaking from the force. Despite himself Daud's eyes widen as he stares at the mask mere centimetres away from his face, static and unmoving, even as Daud's arms start trembling under the pressure. No sound comes from Attano, not a grunt, not a growl, not even a breath. Were Daud a man of superstition and if he hadn't seen the man just hours before half dead and choking on his own saliva, he'd be tempted to think Attano died in Coldrige and only his vengeful ghost escaped to kill him now.

Following a vague instinct somewhere in the back of his mind that insists Attano will not follow him, Daud gives way, letting a knee buckle as Attano presses down on him, then transversed away across the room, leaving the man to stumble with the sudden momentum. He lands next to the stairs, away from Thomas. He doesn't dare avert his eyes from Attano or reach for the bond to check on the Whaler. Either Thomas is already dead or he is unconscious and better served by being ignored. Either way Daud can't help him anymore.

Attano catches himself and whirls around, staring straight at him. Daud's resolve hardens. All other thoughts fade away, all thoughts of Whalers, doubts, regrets, until all that remains is the moment. This is it. Make or break. He will give Attano what he came for. He will not go down like Campbell, like the Pendletons, Lady Boyle or void-damned Burrows. He will make Attano bleed for it, will not make his death cheap, for either of their sakes. For Attano the satisfaction of a revenge well earned, of a monster slain, and for himself the hope that that will be enough of violence in Rudshore. His life was always destined to end in violence anyway.

Attano stalks forward, not following with a transversal of his own. Does he not have one? No that seems ludicrous. Again that strange familiarity rears its head and Daud shakes it off with a growl.

Of course that's when Attano pulls out a fucking revolver. Daud curses and ducks away just before the bullet would have ripped through his shoulder. One more reason not to try and put himself between Attano and Thomas. At least he knows Attano's ammunition isn't endless. He counted before throwing the box down the refinery shaft. Four more left.

He makes the calculated decision of not letting the man use them and pulls on the void, grasping for the familiar power coursing from his left hand throughout the rest of his body. With one step he's in front of Attano again, his sword lifted and ready to run the man through. He doesn't have any illusions that it will work. It doesn't as Attano rips his own blade high to block the strike but he does drop the revolver with a clatter. Daud grits his teeth and drives the sword forward again, pushing Attano back from the gun. He doesn't dare try and kick it away. In his experience those things are at best unreliable, but when they do go off they pack a punch.

The fight continues as they drive each other through the room, one slash, parry and doge after another. It's surprisingly easy to keep Attano away from Thomas' lifeless form. He tries not to think too hard about that. An easy endeavour with the way Attano keeps the pressure on, never relenting. The Royal Protector is a monster with the blade, and Daud is suddenly very aware that had the man been able to shake off the tether back at the Tower, they would have all been dead.

No one comes to interrupt their duel. He tries not to think too hard about that either. He's not sure what he would have done had any Whalers tried to intervene. He doesn't want them in the line of fire, this is his problem, but... He doesn't want to die either. And regardless of the traitorous whisper in the back of his mind spewing ludicrous delusions, Attano will kill him.

Daud grits his teeth and presses forward, banishing all thoughts of life and death and Whalers from his mind. No one is coming. One way or another he will finish this today. He may never know whether his people are not coming because they respect his wishes, because they resent him, because Attano knocked them out, or because they're all dead. Perhaps it's for the best.

The sounds of steel clashing against steel resonates through the large room. For a while Daud is keeping up, relying on his experience with the dark magic of the void coursing through his veins, but Attano is the better swordsman and the void's blessings aren't infinite. Especially with the black-eyed bastard playing favourites with his shiny new toy. Attano resembles one of Sokolov's damned machines more than a human in the relentlessnes of his approach. It's inevitable that eventually Daud slips.

That damned foldable contraption masquerading as a knife slips past his guard and only well used instincts turn the wound from complete bisection into a wide bleeding gash. Unfortunately the same instinct has him transverse through the window out onto the walkway, right past Thomas. The moment his feet touch wood he curses through his teeth and snaps around to face the window, even as his left hand uselessly presses against the gushing wound and his knees start to buckle.

Attano follows on foot, stepping over the sill and stalking right at Daud. He doesn't spare Thomas even a glimpse.

Daud does not relax, he is an amalgamation of bad decisions but he is not stupid. Still something in the very back of his mind relents at the sight. If Thomas isn't dead yet he likely won't be later.

He tries to shamble backwards and lifts his sword to block the next strike, but he knows well the by now agonizing slash in his chest at the latest has sealed his fate. The certainty is... Not as comforting as he hoped it would be. He grits his teeth and resolves to at least make it count. For what he isn't sure.

Blood seeps through his fingers and his chest burns. His focus has run out and his left hand is occupied anyway, Attano has an easy time ripping the sword out of his right. It goes flying and knocks against a crumbling wall before tumbling off the walkway. Before he has time to even try and duck Attano's next strike comes down, the sword's grip slamming right into the side of Daud's head.

He does drop at that. His vision goes white and his knees give out and for one blissful moment his mind is blank, right up until he slams into the pitiful remnants of an office wall, teeth rattling from the force of the blow.

A groan rips through his throat and the world tilts on its axis. His limbs go numb and limp. Everything is fuzzy, indistinct. Everything except that fucking mask.

It comes closer, almost floating, disembodied from everything else.

Daud tries to open his mouth, to speak, to say his piece, those words that never quite stopped floating through his head. His breath comes heavy, gasping, and the words are stuck deep in his slowly more blood-filled throat. Watching the mask approach, the way Attano's tightly wound body comes into deadly focus, begging for his life seems worse than pointless. So he doesn't.

Daud considers at least lifting his head for the final strike. Out of pride, respect, or some desperate plea for the quick death of a slit throat he doesn't know. In the end it doesn't matter. Blood loss, pain, and resignation fill his body with immovable lead, more thoroughly than the Outsider's damned dreams ever could. His eyes slide off the mask like repelled by a bonecharm as he collapses into himself even further until only the water-dark and bloody leather boots remain in his vision.

The boots come to a stop, in easy reach of his throat. Or heart. Or however else Attano wants to do this. Daud waits for death. For pain. For something. He shivers, suddenly very cold, and the blood soaking through his shirt is almost a balm with how it warms his chest. Vaguely he's aware that the blood loss is why he's cold, his life leaking out of him with every beat of his shriveled up heart, but it's so very hard to care.

For ten, twenty agonizing heartbeats nothing happens, except that his throat feels ever more slick with blood. There is a dim awareness of that being wrong, that a simple fleshwound across his chest shouldn't start filling his lungs with blood, but it's fleeting, gone with the next flood through his chest.

"Fuck." The word barely penetrates the pounding of his own heart in Daud's ears, much less the tone of exasperated resignation they are spoken with. The boots turn with what seems like unnecessary flourish and walk away, leaving drops of blood on the ruined flooring.

Daud watches without comprehension. Attano is gone. Daud still breathes. Why?

More blood wells up in his throat and a violent cough rips through him, forcing him to bend over and sending new waves of agony through his chest, neck, and head so excruciating if he had any air left he would be screaming. The blood continues staining the ground, parts of it running like the Wrenhaven down his ruined coat, parts of it spit, coughed, and vomited out.

Ah. Of course. That makes sense. Attano has simply already seen it. No mercy for the Empress' killer, not even that of a clean and brief death. What point is there in cutting in his throat when he will die anyway, horribly and in agony. It's only surprising Attano didn't stay to watch.

Daud would have. Once.

(He doesn't dwell on why this feels like betrayal, like Billie all over again, as if the man doesn't have more than enough reason to kill him. He lets the feeling drown somewhere in his blood filled lungs.)

He doesn't try to get up, doesn't even consider trying to find an elixir, something to delay the inevitable. He can feel his strength waning with every beat and doesn't fancy dying with his face in a pool of his own blood if he can at least avoid that. The blood shimmers with the few rays of light the sun manages to get through the clouds in this damned city. It almost looks like an ocean sunset in Serkonos, those summers when the sun turns the waves into wine. For thirty years he's only seen the beaches in the bastard's twisted visions, where the void leeches all colour and warmth from them.

Daud sits there, staring at his own pooling blood, until he can't feel the stonework against his back anymore and his consciousness fades, slowly yet unavoidably, like a Whale sinking to the bottom of the ocean. It's not Daud who makes the comparison.

(Thomas finds him there, still dazed from the sedative as he clambers through the window. Daud still breathes then, shallow and bubbling, slumped against the crumbling ruins of their home. Thomas screams and the other Whalers slowly picking themselves up from where they dropped come running. Someone turns to get to Montgomery.

Daud dies in Thomas' arms, surrounded by yet more Whalers, lung sliced open by a strike too deep and breath stopped long before Montgomery can get across the Chambers of Commerce. He never learns that the worst injury sustained by the Whalers is a broken ankle from falling out of a transversal when the bond breaks.)

[yanara126-writing]

The Many Meetings of Death and Death (2/5) - Ghost

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 (2359 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 that Attano's cell has been found empty. There is no sign of the man anywhere, as if he has simply vanished into thin air. Daud is unsurprised, the man has been essentially a ghost since the empress's murder (though how much of it was really his choice in those six months?). Neither is Thomas it seems. Even without seeing his face Daud knows well what his 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. Attano may be a ghost, but history is full of stories of vengeful spirits, literal or otherwise. Is Daud himself not one of them?

Daud doesn't want to die. He thought about it once, but the appeal didn't hold for long. (Truly it felt strange to even think about it, as if he's already come to the conclusion but his head hadn't caught up yet.) He wants- he wants what he gave Billie. He wants to be set free from his guilt and his regrets, as much as anyone can be. But in contrast to Billie, there is no one left who could forgive him. He succeeded where Billie failed and with that cut himself off from any way out, any recourse, any possible path to redemption.

All but one.

He doesn't delude himself into thinking true redemption could lie at the end of the path, but maybe it can at least be some relief. He has paid back some of his harm to the girl by dealing with Delilah, but that was a non-repeatable coincidence. The only way he knows to pay back Attano even a tiny smidge is by letting the man get a piece of him. So no, Daud does not want to die, despite what Thomas thinks, but he is ready to face it. He will give Attano the fight he owes him. (That thought too itches strangely somewhere in his mind. As if Attano has already left his mark on him. But then, hasn't he? It was the Empress's blood that ran down his fingers, staining them forever, but it was those despairing grey eyes that made sure he can never see the colour again without drowning in his own despair. And Dunwall is very grey.)

"Understood. Deal with the sentries as you will." Under different circumstances he would be furious and every single lookout would be running the gauntlet a hundred times, but truthfully he doesn't see a point to it. Attano has proven over and over just how undetectable he is for anyone looking, punishment will not change that. And deep down he knows that he is selfish. He doesn't want his Wahlers' last memories of him to be of anger. He deserves it, and perhaps it would be better for them in the long run, being able to leave the thought of him behind with disdain rather than his own suffocating regret, but Daud is and always has been selfish. Let this be the single spark of something good in his legacy of blood.

For the same reason he is glad for Thomas' mask, hiding the young man's face. He doesn't need to see to know the way that resignation creases his brows and thins his lips, he's seen it often enough before, over the years and even more often in these days since Billie's departure, but he prefers not facing it again. It wouldn't change anything, Daud knows he is as stubborn as he is selfish, but it would hurt.

Thomas says nothing for as long as he can get away with, and Daud lets him. Eventually though the silence must end, as all things do.

"Yes sir." Nothing shines through Thomas' inflection or movement. To any observer he would seem entirely composed and neutral as he bows and turns. Daud doesn't need to touch the arcane bond to recognize it for the lie it is. For the first time in years Thomas is scared, and Daud can do nothing about it.

Thomas transverses out of the room with no more comment. For one morbid moment Daud wonders if he just wants to enjoy the last minutes of his powers, but the thought whips away as quickly as it came. Some Whalers would certainly do so, but not Thomas. Thomas simply wanted to leave.

With nothing left to do but await his inevitable reckoning, Daud sits down behind his desk, the rickety old chair creaking under his weight, and waits for a ghost.

The first thing Daud becomes aware of is that his head hurts. The second thing he becomes aware of is that the rest of his body isn't much better. Void blast it, he feels as if a whale was dropped on him with the way every muscle in his body aches. The third thing he becomes aware of is that he should be dead. Probably. His head is resting on something cracked and woody, presumably his desk since that is the last place he remembers being. His limbs aren't tied to anything, both legs and arms hanging limp and aching, and he cannot hear anyone else in the room. Slowly and carefully he drags himself up from where he is slumped over his desk, not able to suppress the pained groan forcing itself from his throat. The room seems to tilt before his eyes and he is forced to press his eyes shut for a moment, waiting for the dizziness to subside. Eventually he blinks and looks over the empty room.

No one is here. No ghost, no human, not even a rat. He checks with his void gaze, the world becoming tinted in the same old dull blue, looks through the surrounding walls and sees nothing before he is forced to return to his normal vision or empty his stomach from the nausea muddling his head. He feels- well he feels like shit, but that is still remarkably better than he expected to feel when he sat down here... However long ago. He squints through the hole in the wall he calls a window and tries to judge how much time has passed. He dimly remembers it being around noon, but now the sun is almost setting beyond the ruins of the Flooded District.

Another careful rolling of all his limbs reveals that everything is where it's supposed to be and as far as he can tell he isn't injured. Beyond the hammering in his head and the pervasive aching he is perfectly fine. Another, more careful glance around does however reveal that he has been robbed very thoroughly. His keys are gone, as is the pouch he uses for coin, as are his audiographs and bone charms. Had he left out the paperwork for prior contracts Attano probably would have nabbed that too. The only thing the man left behind is a sheet of paper that wasn’t on his desk before.

Hesitantly Daud reaches for the paper precariously balanced on the edge of his desk in front of him. (It's angled in a way that makes him suspect it might have been balanced on his head before and he hadn't noticed it falling.) The texture identifies it as one of the wanted posters he has hung on his wall, as reminders both of past contracts and future possibilities. This one in particular is of Lizzie Stride (a keepsake more as a joke than for any useful reason), but the important part is the back of the poster, scribbled full with tight curved writing in his own ink. The pen is still lying next to the open inkwell, dripping excess fluid into the wood of the desk. The hollow feeling of frustration is easier to focus on than the terrible confusion and trepidition. Bastard could have at least closed the inkwell, that shit isn't cheap these days.

But the writing doesn't vanish and neither does his headache, no ghost appears and everything stays quiet but for the gentle rushing of water that permeates the entirety of the Flooded District, so eventually Daud has to face the facts. Attano came through. The man had him at his mercy, despite his best attempt to stay vigilant, and let him live. Whatever revenge he enacted is barely worse than an unpleasent hangover. And he left a letter.

'To Daudshit Dipshit,' Already the first line makes Daud want to rip his eyes out, but through decades of vigorous training of staring down misbehaving brats he keeps his reaction to a twitch of an eye. The paper in his hands crinkles in his grip but doesn't rip.

'How come you get so many non-lethal weapons? I have to make do with just a maximum of ten sleep-darts and my own damn arms. I have shot too many people point blank in the chest with a dart because they surprised me, why the fuck do I not get stun mines? Chokedust? A bonecharm to make choking faster?' ...What? He- What?? (Something about his baffling confusion feels familiar, in that strange way that thinking of Attano always does these days. As if he's done it before. He's sure somehow the black-eyed bastard is responsible and so he decides to ignore it.)

'You should know that despite this, I still wasted a whole three sleep darts on you. I hope you wake up with the world's worst hangover. Don't bother looking for your keys or purse, I robbed you blind and we both know you deserve it.

Sincerely,

Corvo'

For a few moments Daud simply sits and stares. Is he still asleep? Did Attano knock him out hard enough to cause hallucinations? Is the black-eyed bastard torturing him? No, he knows well the Void feels different. As he sits in his chair he can feel the dampness in the wood under his hands, can hear the creaking of the floorboards and the occasional hiss of the river krusts at the edge of the building that they never got rid of to keep the fresh recruits on their toes. The Void always feels empty, no matter how many things it shows him. There is always the underlying hollowness gaping there whenever the black-eyed bastard decides to hold him a disappointed speech. This here, this place that he has spent years in now, raising a whole generation of Whalers, is real, with its reeking, screeching, terrible and familiar presence. So is the letter in his hands. Somehow. Before he can put down the paper, perhaps to scream, perhaps to calmly light a smoke, perhaps to throw himself out of a window and see if that sets the universe right again, he sees a narrowly scrawled post script at the bottom of the sheet.

Despite his better knowledge he doesn't hesitate to read it.

'Ps. Teach your Whalers some fucking workplace safety, I had to save one from drowning because they fell off a ledge when I knocked them out.'

He still sits at his desk, blankly staring at the page when Thomas comes bursting in through the door, sword in hand, mask askew and gasping for breath. He freezes in the doorway at seeing Daud just sitting at his desk. Barely a second passes until he's pushed stumbling into the room, nearly falling over his own feet as three, four, five Whalers try to force themselves through the doorway at the same time, all in similarly disheveled state with weapons drawn. Running footsteps are sounding in the middle distance and he's starting to feel the sharp tug at the bond of frantic transversals from Whalers further off.

Faced with the absolute absurdity of the moment, his baffling confusion at the letter, the strange feelings of déjà vû haunting him, the utter lack of closure Attano granted him, Daud starts to laugh. He laughs loud and long, his head thrown back, until there are tears in his eyes and his laughs turn silent from lack of air. He's not quite sure what he's laughing about really, it's not like anything is really funny. Attano is clearly insane, either has always been or has lost his mind to the torture of Coldrige, Daud has been denied the one thing he has lived for the last few months, and his Whalers are behaving like the untrained street-rats he's trained out of them. Really he should be livid, and perhaps he is, but in that moment all he can do is sit at his desk and laugh until the tears stream down his face and his shoulders shake as if he's sobbing. Damn both Attano and the black-eyed bastard. Whatever comes now comes after.

(The group of Whalers watching in a strange mixture of horror and relief grows for about two minutes, until Thomas regains his own senses and starts shooing them out again. Rinaldo and Rulfio take up post outside of the door, unbidden but appreciated, and keep out the younger members who don't quite understand what is happening. Fisher and Montgomery only throw one glance through the window before setting up in the kitchen and trying to throw a meal together from what has survived their recent prisoner's escape. Daud's adrenaline crash after the months-long tension will not be pretty and it does not come in the way they've been expecting, but at the end of the day every Whaler gives the Outsider their thanks for it.)

(Daud eventually finds their shrine. He categorically refuses to give the black-eyed bastard the satisfaction of taking the rune.)

[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.

--

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.

-

Read here or on Ao3 (3090 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

-

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.

-

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.

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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.

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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.

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Read here or on Ao3 (1214 words)

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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.