The Telltale Heart
A Dishonored fanfiction by the Hyperactive Hamster of Doom
"We all start with innocence, but the world leads us to guilt"
- Unknown Prisoner, Cell Block B, Coldridge Prison
He had left behind his old life, and his old name, and fled the rat-stricken city of Dunwall in search of a new start. A ship sailing in the right direction - namely, away from Gristol - had taken him here, to this strange new city.
It was maddeningly loud. The city's streets were thick with braying livestock and outlandishly-dressed people who shouted to each other in peculiar accents and harsh foreign languages. The temple gongs sounded all day and night, and every now and then he would catch the strains of unfamiliar hymns, sung in praise of gods unknown. But however much he disliked the bizarre customs of this place, and the way people looked at him and frowned, the city was far beyond the bounds of the Empire, and beyond the reach of imperial justice. They could not touch him here.
Nearly six months had passed since he had rented these rooms, in exchange for a handful of gold coins. They were smaller and more cramped than the ones to which he'd become accustomed in Rudshore, where the only sounds had been the soft rush of water and the stealthy comings and goings of the men who served him. But that was before. Here, he lived in complete solitude, surrounded by a noise that penetrated everything - the windows, the walls, even the pillows he pressed against his ears at night in a vain attempt to block out the roar of sound.
And that was all right, he thought, as he sat at his desk and stared out at the city's dull, squat skyline, watching the sky fade from light pink to dark blue. He had no need for silence. If he required such a thing, there was a ready supply to be found at the shrine in the corner. For two months, he'd prayed in that corner, pleading with the bored, capricious god who had once spoken words of praise and favour to him. After a while, he'd grown resigned to the futility of his efforts, and dust now gathered on the faded wood of the altar and its broken relics.
Even his powers were starting to fade, little by little. He had tried a transversal yesterday and at the last minute, it had failed him; he'd tumbled down the stairs and struck his head on the bottom step. The impact had left behind a small bruise, but the tender purple spot behind his ear was nothing compared to the humiliation.
Once, he had been powerful. Respected and feared, in equal measure, because of what he'd done and what he could do. And now he lived anonymously, in fear of the silence and his own thoughts. Every time he blinked, he could still see it; the terror in her eyes, the look on her face, the blood on the blade.
Daud shook his head. Why did he continue to torment himself with the memory of Jessamine Kaldwin? There was a new Empress on the Throne of the Isles. A child, her daughter Emily; the girl was eleven years old now, and wielded more power in her dainty little hands than did most men. Some whispered that the real power behind the throne was her Royal Protector - widely rumoured to be her father - who had brought down the former Lord Regent and his cronies without so much as spilling a drop of blood. But that was idle talk and foolishness, he reminded himself. Corvo Attano was a good man, albeit one with a rather twisted sense of clemency.
Well, it was clemency, of a sort, if you considered the fates of Burrows' allies a slight improvement on death. The surviving Pendletons toiled tongueless in their own mines; Lydia Boyle languished in a tower on a distant island, like a captive princess from tales of old; Campbell had perished of plague in the Flooded District, with blood streaming from his eyes. Former Lord Regent Burrows himself was incarcerated in Coldridge Prison, with a cell located directly opposite a man who liked to whistle loudly and out of tune; Burrow's anguish was said to be quite pitiful to behold.
As for Admiral Havelock, who had poisoned his fellow Loyalists and tried to style himself the second Lord Regent, Corvo had left the man muttering at the top of the lighthouse on Kingsparrow Island, but had bestowed upon him a parting gift - a bottle of Dunwall Whiskey, and a pistol loaded with a single shot. Havelock was a naval man, after all. He knew that Gristol expected every man to do his duty.
Daud had smiled, rather grimly, when the news of the man's fate had reached him. It had been a relatively merciful end, but tempered with a kind of subtle, elegant cruelty that seemed... fitting, in the circumstances. Had Havelock really expected to get away so lightly after his betrayal?
Could he?
The thought stopped him cold. He, Daud, had murdered the Empress while her devoted protector looked on, tethered helplessly by magic and powerless to prevent her death. He'd taken away everything from Corvo Attano, even the woman he loved... and yet Corvo had spared him. For what, though? Was he planning something? Some viciously ironic revenge that would make him simply wish he was dead - or a swift blade in the night that would end his suffering in a single stroke, right when he least expected it?
He got up from his desk and began to pace the room. No, he told himself. No, that too was foolishness. Corvo Attano had more important things to do than sail the world in search of a guilt-stricken former assassin. He had a new Empress to guard, and no idea where Daud was. Would any man go to such effort, after all that had transpired in the months since they'd duelled in the Flooded District?
"No," he said out loud, calmly. "That seems unlikely. He has better things to do. If he had wanted me dead, then no doubt I would be dead already."
But as he sat down once again in his chair, the thought occurred to him that maybe the revenge Corvo had reserved for him was to leave the shadow of a blade hanging permanently over his head. To live constantly in fear, tormented by regrets and half-expecting true vengeance whenever he passed by the open mouth of some dark alley... there would never be peace for him, no matter where he went. Perhaps that was his curse. His punishment.
It was growing dark. He lit a candle, stared at the flame for a few moments, then snuffed it out again and let the smoke rise from the blackened wick in little spirals. He allowed the darkness to encroach, to creep into the room from every corner until it surrounded him.
He let his eyes close. Tonight, maybe, he would find peace in sleep. And if he should die before he woke... well, he'd know why. He would have only himself to blame, after all. He was the one who had killed the Empress.
Thump-thump.
His eyes snapped open.
"Who's there?" he demanded to know, rising from his chair. His hand darted to the hilt of his sword. "Come out! Show yourself!"
When no response came from the darkness, Daud drew his sword and stalked the few rooms that he called his own, blade at the ready. He searched every corner and space he could think of, flung open every cabinet and door, but his search revealed nothing. No matter how quickly he spun round, there was no shadow lurking in wait behind him, nor any telltale flicker that might have indicated a transversal.
He concluded at last that it had been his imagination, or some sound he'd heard from outside. The latter was entirely probable. Even at the fall of night, there were horses and livestock being led across the cobbles, people calling out to each other, doors being slammed shut against the dusk. Soon the temple across the street would start to sound the chimes and gongs that signalled the beginning of whatever service passed for evening prayers here.
Still a little suspicious, he sheathed his sword and went back to the leather armchair to doze. He might have gone to bed instead of returning to his desk for a nap, but that sound - he could have sworn he'd heard something. It was better to sleep lightly and be ready, he told himself. Death might come at any time, in the form of a man in a mask - a man with a mark on his hand, and a grudge, and a sword that folded away with one flick of the wrist. That beautiful sword, engineered to perfection but never once used, because there were more unpleasant ways to meet your fate than at the point of a blade...
Thump-thump.
Daud stopped, a foot from the chair. That had been no dream; no figment of the imagination. This time he'd heard the sound for sure. His heart began to thud in his chest; a dull, pulsing sensation which almost seemed to echo the noise in his ears.
Thump-thump.
"I know you're there," he said boldly. "Come out and face me. I'm not afraid to fight."
He lit the candle once again, then reached into the pocket of his coat and felt for his favourite bone charm. It had always brought him luck, and a slightly swifter blade. He had carried it with him ever since he'd found it washed upon on the beach, one sunny day in Serkonos.
Too late, he realised that it wasn't there. He'd left the little carved piece of bone behind him in Dunwall, along with all the other remnants of his old life. He cursed quietly. Of all the things he should have brought with him, and didn't... it was no wonder that the Outsider no longer heeded his prayers. That first bone charm was the one which had led him to the shrines in the first place. But he'd left it behind, casting aside the Outsider and the magic of the whale-bones for good.
Thump-thump.
He looked around again for the noise. It sounded almost like a heartbeat. But it wasn't his; this was louder, more insistent. Louder than any intruder's heartbeat could have been in his ears, no matter how close they stood.
And then he realised what it was. His blood chilled in his veins at the memory. Some of the men had found Corvo unconscious and drifting in a boat in the Flooded District, his lips stained purple with poison. They'd stripped him of his weapons and elixirs and dumped them in the old whale oil refinery, but they'd pulled something else from the pocket of the man's worn overcoat. A strange device, about the size of a man's fist, and shaped like a human heart. None of them had been able to guess what it did, or what it was for. They'd thrown the thing in the cell with Corvo, making uneasy little jokes about its presence and purpose.
Thump-thump.
One of the men had sworn that he could feel it pulse in his hand, and the others had laughed. But it had haunted Daud's dreams for weeks afterwards, until at last he'd understood. That leathery little clockwork horror had been crafted as much in the Void as in the real world, and its original owner...
The thought sent a shiver right through his body.
"No. It's over now," he said aloud, as much to convince himself as to quell that restless, vengeful spirit. "All I wanted was to leave, and forget. He let me go. That was the end of it."
Thump-thump.
"What do you want?" he said, a little angrily this time, to the empty room. "I kept my word. I left. Went as far away as I could. I wish it had never happened too, but there's nothing I can do about that now. I'm sorry. Isn't that enough?"
Thump-thump.
The noise seemed to be growing louder. Daud winced, and clutched his head; pain was pressing at his temples.
"Have I not ended your worldly suffering? Is that it? Is that why you haunt me?" he said plaintively. "Where are you? Tell me and I will bring an end to it, if that's what you want. Then we can both sleep in peace again. As long as you make it stop."
Thump-thump.
He started to search again for the source of the sound. It would be somewhere small and hidden - a desk drawer, or a cabinet, or under a table. He rummaged through his desk, pulling out the drawers and tipping them upside-down. When that turned up nothing, he ran to a cabinet and pulled open every door and drawer to look inside, then dropped to his hands and knees and started to crawl across the floor, listening for the sound. It was getting louder, and louder still; he had to be close now.
Thump-thump.
"Please, I'm sorry - just make it stop," he implored the hidden heart. "Tell me where you are and we can make it stop. Together. You'll do that, won't you? He showed me mercy - surely you will too?"
Thump-thump.
"You were kind. Everyone said so," Daud said, raising his voice in the hope that it might drown out the heartbeats. He had crawled into the next room now, listening; feeling for the pulse in drawers, and against every surface, even the walls. "Even Burrows, that sad little man. He said that your heart was gentle and kind; too kind, in fact. Too kind to be allowed to carry on beating, because the Empire needed order, not kindness. But now I realise the error of my ways. You ruled with compassion and justice, and your people loved you for it. I should never have taken you away from them. I know that now!"
Thump-thump.
It wasn't here. But it had to be somewhere. The beating of that whirring clockwork heart was growing louder, thumping so hard that he could feel the vibrations go right through his own body, setting his teeth on edge. Beginning to despair, he ran back to the room where he'd first started and put his ear to the floor.
"You have not changed so much in death, surely?" he pleaded. "You must still believe in mercy!"
Thump-thump.
It was coming from underneath the floorboards, he realised. He could feel it beneath his feet, and under the palms of his hands. One of the boards had squeaked a little more than usual over the past few days. Had Corvo somehow crept into the apartment and stashed that infernal heart beneath the floor, so that the ticking would drive him insane?
He had to make it stop. He dropped again to his knees and started to tug at the loose board, trying to pull it up. A nail popped out of one end and rolled across the floorboards, then another, as he prised the board free of its niche and slid it to one side, revealing the dusty space beneath.
Thump-thump.
"All right, all right, I'll find you! Just - stop!" he begged, pulling out his sword and using the tip of the blade to pry the next board loose.
A splinter of wood dug into his finger and made him yelp, but he ignored the pain and kept going. He had to find that device and put a stop to it for good. Then the tortured soul inside could rest, and he would be able to close his eyes without seeing that look of fear and agony written on her face.
The floorboards came up, one after the other. He was breathing hard with the exertion, face turning redder; his teeth clenched together as he strained to lift up the next plank, and then the next. The hole in the floor was now just about big enough to admit him. He dropped down into it and crouched down to begin his search.
Thump-thump.
Dust coated his fingers as he scrabbled through the debris. Nothing so far... but it had to be here. It had to. With increasing desperation, he redoubled his efforts to find the hidden heart. A sob broke free from his chest, but came out of his mouth only as a slight whimper.
"Why are you doing this? Why must you torment me?"
Thump-thump.
The heartbeats sounded almost like thunder now. But to Daud's dismay, there was nothing beneath the wooden floor but dust and cobwebs, and a few lost beads and coins; he'd hoped to find the heart in some small box, ticking and thumping in an unholy alliance of cogs and sinew. Or perhaps even still beating in its owner's body, perfectly preserved, as glassy eyes stared up at him from a face that would remain eternally young and lovely, because time meant nothing in the Void. And yet, despite being in exactly the right spot, the heart that whispered secrets to Corvo from the hereafter was nowhere to be found.
Thump-thump.
This was a dream, he thought hysterically, his chest starting to heave; his own heartbeat was running out of control, his breathing way too fast. A nightmare. He was dreaming, lost in the Void, and the Outsider would tap him on the shoulder, right before Corvo stepped behind him in that demonic metal mask and drew his sword and -
Thump-thump.
Daud dropped again to his knees and covered his ears.
"Stop!" he yelled. "Just - stop it! Make it stop! I'll do anything you want! But make it stop! Please!"
He clambered out of the hole and looked back into the dark, dust-smeared cavity in the floor, hoping for any sign of an end to his nightmare. The candle behind him flickered brightly; an idea seized him, and he snatched it up, banishing the shadows before him.
He had to burn it. If it was in the floor somewhere, hidden beyond his ability to reach it, then he would have to smoke it out, or destroy it with fire and flame. That would surely stop its beating for good, and then he would never again have to think about the death of the Empress. She would be at peace and then -
"No, this is madness," he whispered to himself. "It would burn down the whole building and everyone in it. Not just me. I'd commit even more innocent souls to the Void. I cannot... I swore that I would never take another life. But there must be some way out. Some way to stop it. To make it stop for ever!"
Thump-thump.
And then Daud started to laugh. That was the answer, wasn't it? It had been staring him in the face all along. The only way to end the guilt, the nightmares, all that he'd suffered since he drove his sword into the beautiful, blameless Empress, whose only mistake had been to trust too much... there was only one way to make it stop, to make it all end for good.
Thump-thump.
He set the candle back down on his desk, still sobbing with mirthless laughter. He picked up his sword, and laid it with care beside the little light. The movement made the flame sway, and the shadows dance on the walls. He threw open the door to the balcony and rushed out into the hot, thickly-perfumed air. With a deep breath, he looked up at the night's emerging stars and stepped up onto the edge. He gathered his thoughts, drawing them together for a few last words.
"Forgive me," was all he could think of.
As he launched himself into the void with a yell, and the night air rang out with screams from below, a masked figure watched impassively from a neighbouring windowsill. Throughout the ordeal, he had stood and watched in complete silence, with both hands tucked into the pockets of his dark coat.
Now, at last, it was all over. The indignant thumping on the pillow beside him at night would cease, and the angry whispering would subside into calmer reflections.
With one hand, Corvo Attano removed his mask and pocketed it. He would not need it again. With the other, he withdrew a small device, about the size of his fist. If he listened closely, he could hear the clockwork cogs and gears that powered it on its inside. Closer still, and he could catch a few words from a familiar voice...
He ran his hand tenderly over the leathery surface of the Heart, then pressed his lips against it in a kiss.
"Is that better, my love?" he said softly.
In response, the Heart pulsed in his hands.
Thump-thump.