Disclaimer: This fan fiction is just for fun. I do not own Bethesda or anything related to the Dishonored games.
The Domino Empress
A Dishonored Fanfiction by Zireza
Story Summary:
Staggered by the Outsider's warning that a powerful witch plots to steal her throne, Empress Emily Kaldwin must face her worst fears… Losing her throne, losing her father – and perhaps even losing her heart, for the black-eyed bastard has taken an interest in her. All who fall beneath the Outsider's black gaze descend into madness, so she has learned from her father, the Royal Protector, but when the Outsider offers her his Mark, Emily soon realizes she wants more than his magic, she wants him.
Story Tags: Human!Outsider, Low Chaos Emily Kaldwin, Low Chaos Corvo Attano, Corvo the Black, Good Witch, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Slow Burn Romance, Elder Scrolls Influence, Ancient Pandyssian, Spoilers for Dishonored 2 and Death of the Outsider, Eventual Smut
Warning: Rape, Incest
Spoiler-Free Comments About the Fanfic:
"I'm so in love with this amazingly insane story. I love the twists you've put into it. Keep writing! I want to see how it plays out between Emily and The Outsider" - IsabellaSanguine (FFnet)
"I'm literally looking every day for a new chapter... Thanks for writing such an amazing fanfiction, i'm looking forward to the next chapter!" - Belle from Switzerland (FFnet)
"Holy fuck, your writing is impeccable. I adore the way you describe things!" - Skeleton_Rings (AOO)
"Holy shit wow. I am 1000% down for this ride, and wait with bated breath for more. Everything about this story is interesting and beautiful!" - broomclosetkink (AOO)
"After the first chapter I said 'Now pace yourself so you have something to be going on with.' Then blew through it all in 3 days. This is superbly written and a good alternate take on the games story so far." - MadamaButterfly (AOO)
Feel free to leave me a comment! I'd love to hear from you. :)
Chapter Summary:
It's the day before Empress Jessamine's remembrance ceremony. Fifteen years ago, Emily's mother was assassinated, her world torn apart. Tensions are high in the Empire. The Crown Killer has been murdering Emily's outspoken rivals. Some are pointing fingers at her Royal Protector, the legendary Corvo Attano. With Emily's lover, Wyman, departing for Morley, Emily holds her best friend close, the beautiful Rosemary MacKenzie, her favorite court musician and once-lover. Emily knows she'll need her family and friends more than ever if she's going to make it through the next two days...
(The story roughly follows the events of Dishonored 2.)
This story is a WORK in PROGRESS. Chapters may go through Frequent Revisions. Nothing is Complete until I hit that Complete Button one day :)
Part I
"In the Eye of the Hurricane"
Chapter 1
17th day of the Month of Earth, 1852
I heard a soft knock at the door. It was Coral with my morning tea. I watched her set down the silver tray at the foot of my bed and march to the windows, flinging aside the heavy drapes until sunlight flooded my royal chambers. I groaned and sunk back beneath my blankets.
"Now, now, Your Majesty," Coral said, her fists on her hips. "It's too fine a day to be moping about. Your young man will be back in no time, you'll see."
I reached for Wyman, but his side of the bed was cold and empty. We had already said our goodbyes.
A long, delicious goodbye. I felt for the slippery ache between my legs and sighed.
"Four months, Coral," I moaned, sinking further beneath the blankets. "We'll have never been apart that long."
"Oh, four months, is it?" a new voice teased. "What an eternity!" I looked over to find my friend rolling her eyes as she pranced through the door. Rosemary blew me a playful kiss then took up her customary spot at the harp beside my bed.
I laughed as she plucked an overly sad tune, giving me her big blue eyes.
Coral ignored the silly wallowing, plumping the pillows at my back as though coaxing a turtle to emerge from its shell. In true turtle fashion, I slowly obliged, emerging from my blankets to sit somewhat regally I suppose, upright and forward.
I tried to smooth my hair, but instead found Rosemary snickering at my vain attempt.
"I see you gave our dear Wyman a night to remember," Rosemary observed, grinning ear to ear as she drank in the sight of me on my messy bed. Undoubtedly, it all screamed sex.
I threw a pillow at her. "If you keep playing that Void-forsaken dirge, I will throw you out of my palace!"
Rosemary ducked as the pillow flew over her head. "But I thought you couldn't live without him!"
"Oh, stop it!"
Her giggles rang like chimes and I couldn't help but smile.
Rosemary looked beautiful in the sunlight, with her back straight and her fingers poised over the harp strings. Her hair glowed like spun gold down her back, and at her throat she wore the emerald choker I'd given her last year in the Month of Seeds. It'd been a gift, just as she was a gift to me––a 'cultural gift' to be exact: from the Isle of Morley where poets and musicians were as coveted as prized jewels. The Queen of Morley had sent her to me from her court in Wynnedown.
Rosemary MacKenzie was my favorite court musician.
And a horrible tease.
"Do you see what I have to put up with?" I put to Coral as she served the Gristol green.
"She'll be the death of you," the old chambermaid grumbled.
"What else did you bring me, Coral?"
I eyed the silver tray at the foot of my bed, spotting breakfast––a shiny red apple and plump grapes on the vine––and a neatly folded letter with a long-stemmed red rose placed over it. My heart quickened. "Is that––"
"Aye. Left it at your door like the bloody romantic fool he is."
The old chambermaid stoked the fire until it burned merrily. The hearth's white stone gleamed in the morning sun, reflecting the royal blue of my grand bed. A long line of ruling emperors and empresses had gazed into those flames, contemplating one crisis after another. And here I am, lovesick over a man. I felt foolish pining after Wyman, but he was the first suitor I could honestly see myself marrying. Too many men of the aristocracy were hopelessly conceited, or so prim and proper I could die of boredom. Wyman made me laugh.
"The Void save us! He's too romantic," Rosemary sighed dramatically, wiping her brow and pretending to faint.
But at the last second she fell towards the silver tray and snatched up the red apple, spinning in a circle with it held between her breasts. She exclaimed, "Your Morley Red!"
I choked into my tea as she threw it at me. The apple bounced and rolled down my chest, coming to a rest between my legs. Rosemary cried, "Ah, the man knows where he belongs!"
"You wicked girl," I laughed, but––just for her––I rubbed the apple's skin against my leg and made a show of taking a big, juicy bite. She understood.
Morley Red. My Morley Red.
He loved when I called him that. Unlike his blonde kinsman, Wyman's hair was decidedly red, a shade so bright and orangey that––along with his freckles––made him look adorably fire-kissed.
"Don't make me wait!" I laughed as Rosemary dangled the letter from her fingers.
"Is it poetry, do you think?" Rosemary sighed dreamily.
"Read it," I commanded, taking another bite. I had a fierce appetite (mostly after last night), but just as tempting were Wyman's parting words, no doubt bittersweet. Coral grumbled and rolled her eyes, but I caught the shadow of a smile as she turned to poke the embers once more. The fire battled the infamous twin daggers of damp and cold that always seemed to permeate Dunwall Tower.
Rosemary dramatically cleared her throat and stood ramrod straight as though orating before Parliament. She delicately unfolded the letter and spoke Wyman's words, her voice as sweet as honey. "Emily," she began.
Emily. Not Empress. Not Your Highness. Just me. The intimacy sent a shiver down my spine.
I closed my eyes.
"I didn't want to wake you this morning, but you'll forgive me since we must have said goodbye a hundred times last night. And the only chance I get to see you with your hair all whichever way is while you're asleep."
I bit my lip, remembering the feel of Wyman's fingers digging through my hair, his mouth trailing hot, wet kisses up my neck.
"As soon as the sun rises, you'll put on your Empress face. It makes me happy that I know your real face, the one that laughs at our silly rhymes."
My Empress face.
My armor. Not many knew, but I would think of my mother, the late Empress Jessamine, and mirror that side of her that had been cold and calculative––when she had to be. Not for the first time, I wondered if Mother would have approved of Wyman. It was one thing to enjoy bedding the man and quite another to wed him. My mother had never married, and so a part of me feared taking such a drastic step.
If I was a common girl, no one would care one whit who I married…
But I was Empress, ruler of four nations, and the hungry wolves circling my throne cared very much indeed who I married. I heard the whispers. Tainted blood, they said, because my father was a foreigner––and worse, a commoner. A nobody. My detractors claimed the Empire would fall into ruin if I failed to marry Gristol nobility, that I needed to purify the bloodline, to return House Kaldwin to its roots.
To be sure, a few aristocrats were openly agreeable over the rumors of my dalliance with Wyman. They talked of the Morley Insurrection, of old wounds that needed mending.
But Wyman was no Prince of Morley. He was the seventh son in an offshoot branch of minor nobility, third cousin to the Queen of Morley, a foreign monarchy beneath my boot. In Gristol, such things mattered. Class divisions were as stark as black and white. But in Morley, I'd learned, such social constructs were more often doors not walls. Poets, musicians, writers––all the brilliant and creative minds Morley produced were eagerly plucked from every rung of society, high or low. While Wyman was praised for his poetry and held in high regard in Morley, the opposite was true in Gristol.
But I didn't care. If anything, it made me laugh. What dagger looks I caught! Pure jealousy and wounded pride as the men of Gristol nobility suffered my clear preference for Wyman's company. It's not that I paraded our budding relationship before them––my mother had been equally circumspect about her love life in public––but gossip and rumor thrived in Dunwall, the capital city of political intrigue.
"Silly rhymes, indeed," Coral grumbled under her breath. "He calls himself a poet, but all I hear is a cat mewing at the moon."
"Senile old bat!" Rosemary laughed. "Wyman's poetry is to die for. Wouldn't you agree, Your Highness?"
I opened my eyes, scowling at her. "Keep going, Rosemary. Surely there's more."
Wyman had written me plenty of long letters before, each one tucked away with the other treasures I kept in my safe room.
It was then I saw my father.
He was silently watching me with his arms crossed, his shoulder pressed to the wall of the long hall beyond my immediate bedroom.
He had entered like a ghost, so quiet I hadn't heard a thing. Hidden like a secret, quiet like a sunset. His dark gaze met mine and I smiled faintly. I gave no indication to the others that I had seen him. I enjoyed the feeling that we were alone––and, yet, not.
Of all the people in my life, he held a special place in my heart. I didn't have to wonder if he loved me––proof was measured in days, for every day that I ruled as Empress was another day he had made possible.
I was alive because of him.
His face was lined with age and his beard was sprinkled with misty gray, but his dark brown eyes gleamed bright and youthful, testament to the excellent physical shape he maintained as my Royal Protector. He carried his special folding sword at his belt and hidden throughout his person were other sophisticated weaponry and gadgets invisible to the untrained eye. He was always close at hand, safeguarding my life with his own.
Yesterday, the scheduling secretary had tried to slot him in for dinner at his request, but I had brushed it off, preferring to spend the evening with Wyman before he left for Morley. I'd promised to make it up to him, but I knew my father was upset with me.
With today's launch of the ISS Jessamine Kaldwin and tomorrow's remembrance ceremony, we would need each other more than ever.
Rosemary continued with the letter, unaware of my father's discrete entrance. Her voice reached a high, wailing pitch, dramatically wallowing in Wyman's despondency. "I don't want to go back to Morley, but I'm needed there. It'll be four months before we can see each other again. I'll miss you!"
My father began to loudly slow clap and both Rosemary and Coral jumped in fright, spinning towards the sound.
"Lord Corvo!" Rosemary exclaimed, her round cheeks blushing quite becomingly. She had a terrible crush on my father, much to my amusement, but he responded to her, as always, with cool dispassion. He walked past her (I swear, he unconsciously swaggered everywhere he went), swiping Wyman's letter from her yielding hands and then stood towering beside my bed, looking down at his only child with that look. Yes, the one I dreaded the most: tough love––wells of it just pouring from his dark eyes. He couldn't play and smile and laugh with me like Rosemary did. Because. Because he was on a mission to save me, to protect me. My enemies were drawing closer and I had to be ready, not bedraggled and 'distracted by courtly love,' as my father so often put it.
And he came like a dark storm on the horizon, bearing bad news.
"Her Highness has no time for love letters," he said, flipping the newspaper unto my bed. Still, he held out Wyman's letter for my taking, his head lolled to one side in long-suffering patience. I snatched it, scowling, but in truth I was gripped by fear and helplessness. The newspaper could only mean one thing, promising bad news indeed. I didn't want to face it––not yet, not until I had properly put on my Empress face. I was still in bed, an utter mess, with sex on my mind like a blissful dream I never wanted to wake from. My cheeks burned. I hated when my father made me feel like a child, but he was right. Bloody right.
I had an empire to lead. A throne to keep.
"Coral, warm my bath," I ordered. Not the most legendary way to start the day, but first things first. "Not too hot, please."
The Void knew I was hot enough. I felt angry. Angry at myself. Angry at the world for being so unfair. Last night now felt as distant as the stars. I had dared to dream of nothing but girlish things, of kisses stolen in the night, of Wyman's breath on my neck and his hands on my breasts, of him moving inside me, whispering in my ear. I liked that, wanted that, but now I had to turn my attention to less… pleasant things.
I glanced at Rosemary, the girl still staring like a fool at my father. "Rosemary, darling, please give us a moment."
She bowed her blonde head. "Of course, Your Highness," she said quietly, reflecting the sudden shift of mood in my royal chambers. But as she passed the silver tray, she gracefully picked up the long-stemmed red rose and brought it to her nose, smiling at me with secretive eyes, reminding me that love should never be forsaken. It was worth fighting for.
Now alone with Father, I fixed my troubled gaze on Wyman's letter––there was more to read and I wanted to read it––but the treasure of his words felt somehow dimmed. I put it aside.
I glanced up at Father.
"Who was it this time?"
"Ichabod Boyle."
Corvo turned away towards the fireplace. He leaned against the mantle, quietly watching the flames.
A deadweight of dread sank into my belly as I stared at his back. Another critic of my throne, dead. A year ago, I'd passed an unpopular decree on whale oil rationing, and from there it seemed everything had begun to unravel.
Whales were being hunted to extinction––an inconvenient truth for the upper class whose luxurious lifestyle was largely powered by the miracle fuel. Even if it meant exorbitant prices, I wanted sustainable practices put in place to reverse declining whale populations around the Isles and more humane methods employed in slaughterhouses. My father had told me stories of what he'd seen during the Rat Plague, of unimaginable suffering endured by the magnificent beasts.
But Ichabod Boyle and his ilk most definitely did not want to curtain whalehunting and the considerable profits they gained from it. He'd founded an Anti-Rationing Club to protest my decree and openly criticized my rule.
As a Boyle, his name alone carried weight and many were listening.
"He fits the pattern," Corvo said over his shoulder as I forced myself to read the dreadful words put to ink, words that would be read in every corner of my Empire, damning me and mine for another murder we didn't commit.
'Crown Killer Strikes Again! Dunwall Citizens express shock and fear as yet another outspoken critic of Empress Emily Kaldwin has met with a violent demise. The latest victim is none other than Ichabod Boyle, notable entrepreneur and supporter of the arts.
Boyle recently wrote an opinion piece harshly criticizing the Empress for what he called her "slipshod style of governance" and her "willful neglect of duties." Authorities are convinced the Crown Killer is the culprit, given the gruesome details left at the crime scene.
As her Majesty's most outspoken adversaries fall one by one to this notorious assassin, we boldly ask: Is it now the duty of the Royal Protector to murder all who dare criticize the Throne?'
I didn't often lose my temper.
"As the Crown Killer grows bolder, so does the Dunwall Courier," I hissed, crumbling the paper in my fists.
"Emily––"
He snatched it from me and fed it to the flames.
"Emily," he said again, in a calmer voice, but I would not look at him. I watched the pages curl and burn, but it did nothing to assuage my anger. I buried my face in my hands. I could scream.
"It's pointless, Father! How do we possibly defend ourselves in the court of public opinion without looking even more guilty than we already do?"
"Emily, look at me."
I sighed and forced myself to obey. Could he see that I was on the verge of crying? Did he see how weak I felt? Did my enemies?
"I could execute everyone around you," he said, straight-faced. "That would solve the problem."
I cracked a smile.
Dark humor, but a part of him serious. Just the two of us against the world.
"If only I was that kind of Empress," I said. "But, truly, Father, what are we to do?"
He sighed. "I've a mind to sail south and tear Karnaca to pieces looking for answers."
For months now he'd been trying to piece together the Crown Killer's origin and movements. My father was Royal Protector and Royal Spymaster, and his informants spread throughout the Empire were all pointing south to Karnaca, the capital city of Serkonos––his distant homeland.
But my Royal Protector would never leave my side, not after what had happened to my mother.
"Your Highness, the bath is ready," Coral announced.
Welcoming the intrusion, I gave her a grateful nod. "Thank you, Coral. I'll be right there." She left us alone. I gave my father a troubled look, but promised little more than, "We'll talk again soon."
"As you wish," he said and forthwith departed, taking with him his dark mood, but not the dread he left behind.
The wolves draw closer.
With a long, melodramatic sigh, I peeled away the heavy bedcovers and forced myself to get out of bed––a struggle on more days than I cared to admit.
I tried not to think of Wyman doing the same thing that morning. I missed his easy smile.
The Tyvian rugs were soft beneath my feet and the wooden floors charmingly creaked with age. I thought of running. I wanted to escape the Tower, to jump from rooftop to rooftop, free from the chains of court.
Perhaps tonight.
I walked down the long hallway, passing the closet to my left. The door was open, but Rosemary was not inside. I found her instead in the large room at the end of the hall, tossing rose petals into my bath. She saw me and immediately stood, bowing her head. She asked softly and with such concern it made my heart ache, "Shall I play for you, Empress?"
What would I do without her?
"Please do, Rosemary. Something silly and fun." I slipped out of my night garments. Wyman's scent lingered on the fabric.
"Ah, I know just the thing."
She picked up the Serkonan guitar resting on a pile of neatly folded towels (she often played music while I bathed) and sat on the little stool next to my enormous claw-foot tub.
I swirled the bathwater with my toe before settling in with a contented sigh.
"One of yours?" I asked her. She was a master at her craft, composing music like one breathes. Nearly every week she had a new piece to share.
"One of ours," she corrected with a devious grin, fiddling with the guitar strings before diving into the melody. I recognized it immediately; we'd written the bawdy lyrics together, laughing so hard the entire palace had thought we'd gone mad. We'd called the song The Empress with No Pants based on an… unfortunate incident that had occurred in my study. How I'd kept a straight face in front of Erick Plainstow, my dour-faced scheduling secretary, while Wyman was hiding beneath my desk with my pants around my ankles and his fingers curling inside me, I'll never know.
Just thinking about it made me blush––and ache for him.
The adoring way he crushed his lips against the bare skin of my leg, stifling his helpless laughter beneath the desk, all the while making me want to drag him out and jump on top of him. He was a passionate man, always laughing. Always loving.
"Thank you, Rosemary," I said as she strummed the last note. "You have no idea how much I needed that."
"I'm not done with you yet," she teased. "Allow me."
"If you like."
She scrubbed my back with a soft sea sponge as I gazed out the window at the dreary gray sky. She helped me with my hair, too, untangling my ridiculous, post-coital knots with a whalebone comb. I didn't mind; her touch was as sweet as her voice. Was it strange that my favorite court musician served me in this way? Perhaps to an outsider, but I trusted Rosemary with all my heart. She was my friend. My best friend. An advisor to the Empress, if you will. A close and cherished confidante who was with me nearly all day, every day.
Half-way through my bath, Coral returned with another tray fresh-laden with pomegranates seeds wrapped in lettuce leaves and sticky-sweet Bastillian figs. They reminded me of Wyman, of us lounging in bed as he fed me by hand, his fingers teasing my mouth.
"Four months," I groaned.
Rosemary's eyes reflected my misery. She said, taking my hand as I rose and stepped out of the bath, dripping wet, "Aye, Your Highness, a dreadful thing to contemplate, but Wyman is sure to write often from Morley."
She paused, suddenly hesitant.
"And you'll have me. If you wish it."
At one time, I had wished it very much indeed. Had acted upon it. Rosemary was my first. I'd learned how to love with lips and tongue, our fingers inside each other. Sweet memories, now. It'd been easy to trust her in that way, to learn the secrets of the bedroom with someone far more experienced than I.
In truth I'd been uneasy and conflicted about sensuality before I'd met her. They called it deviancy in Gristol, a temptation of the flesh that corrupted the soul. The Abbey of the Everyman, the state religion, warned against promiscuity and lustful living. The Seven Strictures spoke of Wanton Flesh, of the 'depredations of uncontrolled desires' that led to misery.
But Rosemary, a native of Morley (like Wyman), had taught me that love was sacred in all its myriad forms––that there was no shame in what we did, only beauty––and that the Isle of Morley held very different customs around sexuality and love. They were open, and Rosemary opened me.
But when my interest in Wyman had begun to grow, I'd decided to break it off with Rosemary. I loved her, but it had turned into a sisterly love, as strange as that may sound, even to me. I still wanted her in my life, but no longer in that way. In truth, I was just more attracted to men, and Wyman in particular.
Maybe it's his poetry, I thought with an inward laugh. He has bewitched me with words.
Rosemary was more than understanding. Her reaction made me feel like an Empress like no other time in my life.
She didn't reject me or guilt me or yell at me for loving Wyman; she simply accepted my decision as the way things had to be. She knew one day I would have to marry and give birth to an heir.
But she had pushed for one concession: to still be with me––just for the sex––if Wyman agreed, of course, or even to try a threesome.
The offer didn't shock me. There was precedence for such loose behavior among royalty. History was riddled with Emperors who took mistresses and Empresses who bore children outside of marriage––myself being an example. My mother and father had never married, though the love they had for each other was undeniable.
But I'd told her no.
Gazing into Rosemary's bright blue eyes, innocent in their love and honesty, I prayed she wouldn't take my rejection too hard. Rosemary and I were best friends, yes, but Wyman owned my heart. I couldn't just have sex. It had to be more.
"I will always cherish our love, dear Rosemary, but those days are over."
She responded with a coy smile. "I have four months to change your mind." She patted me dry with a plush towel from head to toe, kneeling before me, then paused to blow on the dampness between my legs.
"Dress your naked Empress," I commanded with a laugh, lifting her with a finger beneath the chin until she was standing before me. I kissed her softly on the lips before she bounded away towards the closet.
She liked to pretend I had her wrapped around my little finger, but it was probably the other way around. I shook my head, smiling, and went to sit at my vanity to look at myself. My eyes were a rich forest-brown, like my father's, and lined with thick black lashes. My skin, like porcelain, was clear and healthful, shining with youth and vitality. My hair was black as a raven's wing and––ugh…
Could use some help.
"Should I wear a wig?" I asked Rosemary when she returned with my pant suit draped over her arm.
"What, and have it fly off at the docks and into the river?"
I laughed, meeting her eyes in the mirror as she came to stand behind me. She threaded her capable fingers through my hair. "I'll make do, Your Highness."
She did more than that. She made me look like an Empress, as beautiful and regal as my mother's profile stamped on old coin. She swept up my hair like a nautilus shell with perfect spirals. My eyelids she darkened with kohl and my lips she reddened with carmine. "I swear, Emily," she said, grinning proudly at her work. "What would you do without me?"
"I had the same thought."
The pant suit came last. Rosemary knew what today meant and what I always wore on my mother's anniversary.
A high collar in beige satin. Breast-length cape. Ornate clasps held the doublet beneath, accentuating my narrow waist. Silk cuffs, again in beige. The pants were loose, but only because I had grown more lean and muscular over the last few months. Stress had increasingly become the impetus behind my desire to escape, either to the rooftops in the dark of night or down at the abandoned waterfront to train with Father.
The suit's fabric was enchanted black, almost like the color of spilled red wine in certain light.
It was my mother's look, the pant suit she'd worn on the day of her assassination, the fabric mended where Daud's blade had pierced her chest.
But instead of spilled wine, it was the color of blood I would always imagine sinking into the fabric. It disturbed me. It disturbed others. I was wearing my dead mother's clothes, yes, but for me it was a way to keep her alive, always in my heart.
"Is it well?" Rosemary asked, adjusting my collar one last time. I stared at my reflection, the ghost of my mother staring back.
"Yes."
Rosemary opened the door to the outside world. "Your council awaits, Your Highness."
I put on my Empress face.