A/N: This has been posted up on tumblr/AO3 for a while, but I figured I'd share for anyone who isn't on there. It's a collection from a multi-paragraph RP between myself and my coauthor (kaldwinqueen on tumblr, Lavender_Whalebones on AO3). (If you're an emsider fan I highly recommend joining the tumblr emsider community; I have only had positive experiences.) The world of the story is with a non-lethal Emily.
The notes from the AO3 posting: [Due to the nature of multi paragraph "novella"-style RP, the formatting of this story is a bit odd and stilted, with staggered reactions between sections, but it doesn't exactly lend itself to a merging of narratives. In other words: not to be rude, but I'm not gonna go through nearly 90 pages (and growing) of writing in an extensive edit.] [I wrote for Emily; Lavender_Whalebones wrote for the Outsider.]
PART ONE: A REQUEST
There was something heavy in the air tonight and it wasn't just the daunting knowledge of his impending demise weighing on his shoulders. Rarely did The Outsider consider what the world around him felt like. He did not think to feel, only perceive. He did not think to see, for he already understood. Even if he thought to see, he would view through muddied waters, cracked glass, fragments of his humanity. But the idea of the end put a new perspective on things.
Emily's study was different. The coup had changed it. Not that it wasn't clean and tidy, but the coup had changed the whole of Dunwall Tower. Something was different, even if everything had been arranged to how it had been before. The presence of witchcraft lingered and the Void scratched at the surface here, where it had been prominent only months before. It was like a wound in the fabric of reality that was only just now healing, sewing sinews of what once was back together to create a patchy tapestry that he knew he wouldn't be alive to witness in all its tattered glory.
He dragged his finger along one of the two glasses he'd brought out from beneath the desk, shimmering and intricate. It was a brandy he'd chosen. Not that he could really taste the stuff. A Tyvian vintage. He knew Emily's schedule like the back of his hand. And it was right around this time that she'd sit down at her desk and grumble to herself over piles of paperwork. But he hoped she could entertain him for just one more night.
It was the same every day. Constantly papers, and ring kisses, and being told how not to speak to people and how not to offend anyone and - oh don't even mention all the bloody signatures. Primarily construction, rebuilding all that the coup had destroyed, but there were also budgets and schedules and approvals of delegations to the other Isles…
Emily straightened her back, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Calm. The day was nearly over. Now she was free of the constant buzz of surrounding advisors and attendants and... She breathed out. Free of the crowds. On her own. Just another night of the joy of being an empress.
That thought brought a small wry smile to her lips. What a joy it was, truly.
Regardless: now, at least, she would be alone. And she could take off these damned gloves.
Into her suite, door closed, gloves off — it was a ritual she'd begun to cherish the longer she had to hide her Mark. It itched to be free. She traced the pattern idly with her free hand as she turned to her desk-
"Fucking hells-" She cut herself short, a hand raised to her her chest in surprise. God of the Void. It was - well, the god of the Void. ...Why? Her eyes shot to him, immediately suspicious. She found it hard to speak at first. He always did that to her - or maybe it was just the aftereffect of the Void, stealing her focus and making her mind wander to mystical and entirely incomprehensible planes. It left her speechless.
She shook her head, trying to clear the call of the Void, and leveled her stare on the black-eyed god, voice steady, if a little on edge. "Why are you here?"
Against the warmth of the flickering shades cast outwards from the fireplace and the candle lit on the windowsill, and the shimmer of little crystal glasses, he contrasted greatly. His form always tugged at the shadows he sat against. They licked at his boots and accentuated his figure, aiding in the air of mystery that typically followed him wherever he went. But here it was just odd.
Here was a boy — no, of course not; here was a god, sitting against her desk with a bottle of brandy and two cups at the ready. His expression was no different than the one he wore between those brief escapades trudging through Serkonan back alleys, running into the pale lavender glow of whale lamps lining wooden shrines. But he could not see himself. His reflection was a blur to him, he could not determine the way he appeared to her. So in that way, there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
And perhaps just the slightest bit of nervousness as well.
"My my, dear Emily Kaldwin, it's a surprise to hear such foul language from an empress. I wonder what the members of the court would think, how they'd react if you made such a slip in their presence. Would they frown upon you? For being human? Or would they laugh and scoff in that posh way so characteristic of upper nobility?" He leaned back on his hand, dark brows furrowing thoughtfully.
Seeing the Void god in her own quarters was astounding to say the least. She opened her mouth once, as though she might say something, but nothing came to mind, and she closed it soon after, forehead creasing in befuddlement. The last time she'd seen him anywhere other than the Void he'd given her the way-too-powerful-to-bestow-upon-a-25-year-old tool that allowed her to move between times.
Not that the other powers of her Mark were any more appropriate. She glanced at her hand as it itched again, and found it faintly glowing. It irritated her. His patronizing tone didn't help.
Half of her felt the need to roll her eyes at his statements. Cryptic bastard. Then again… She straightened her spine, raised her chin, put on her Empress face. "You'll excuse me if I'm a bit…" She debated the right word. "...Crude." Her lips pursed, eyes sharp as they fell on the god again, and her words were the slightest bit sardonic. "I only ever seem to see you when you need me to dispose of someone."
Her eyes flicked over his form, looking for any kind of clue, but she found nothing unusual. If one considered the flecks of Void echoes and smoke to be the "usual." What she did find odd were the glasses set before him. Two of them. Her head cocked to the side almost imperceptibly. Was he expecting another guest, or was this some kind of elaborate introduction to whatever her next mission might be? Surely he wasn't just… offering her a drink? No, that would be… Just the thought of it made the corner of her lips twitch. Ridiculous. Truly ridiculous. The Outsider himself sitting down for a drink in the private quarters of the Empress of the Isles. The most blasphemous of events, truly.
The Outsider's eyes glanced over her figure, amusement flickering over his features for a moment. He even almost chuckled, though the sound wouldn't have escaped him, for he felt no need to breathe. It would have been odd and rigid, stiffly opening his mouth with the corner of his lips curving upwards and leaving him with a silently stupid look on his face, as though he'd braced himself for a sneeze that just didn't quite get the message and left him hanging there, waiting. So he stared at her instead, unblinking, almost deadpan as he poured them both a considerable amount of golden liquor.
"Dispose wouldn't be quite the terminology I'd use. Perhaps... proposition. Which, in that case, you would not be wrong in assuming that I have come with yet another proposition in mind. Though this one is different, admittedly, requiring far less skill, far less perception, agility — all of the things that ready you for combat and keep you steadfast on your feet." His gaze turned downwards and his fingertips traveled along the length of the desk but he did not feel the texture. His motions were slow, smooth and oddly sensual.
It was something he craved. The sensations lingered, memories swimming aimlessly through his mind. He knew what it should have felt like: rough on the bottom, smooth along the top where it had been so carefully polished to Tower standard. But he did not experience it, not through his own right. He felt something stir within him, as he always did when he pondered over that particular loss. Anger. He'd come to recognize it as a bitter frustration, he could not change the past but the past had changed him. Irreparably so. He turned his gaze back up to her, but hidden in his features was just the faintest traces of trepidation.
Emily's eyes flicked from the Outsider, to the glasses, and back to the Outsider. His black stare was intense. She'd be lying if she tried to claim his gaze was comforting. But she didn't exactly dislike it, either, oddly enough. It reminded her of the smoke that would curl around her when she and Wyman shared a hookah. Something dark and mysterious - forbidden - and disturbingly sensuous. She felt shivers down her spine, and covered them by taking a few counter-intuitive steps toward the Void god.
Reflexively, an eyebrow raised at his chosen verbiage. "You've come to proposition me?" The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, her lips closing soon thereafter, breaking eye contact as she internally chided herself. Her fingers twitched, eager to reach for a glass and immediately forget she'd ever mentioned that phrase in context. But she hadn't been offered a drink and she certainly wasn't going to reach for it like some common sot. She would hold her peace, no matter if her ears were starting to burn. No - back straight, chin up; there were no mistakes.
So instead of taking the glass, she watched his hands. He seemed to take an unusual amount of interest in the polished wooden surface of her desk, fingers skimming and caressing it. The more she watched his hands, the more she thought his motions obscene. She swallowed self-consciously and returned her eyes to his just in time to catch his glance as he looked up once more. There was something off about the way he looked at her. It was so hard to tell with those endless black eyes, but something was different and she was sure of it. Her brow furrowed briefly in confusion and determined curiosity, before she blinked it away. No. It wouldn't do to pry into the lives of gods. That couldn't end well for anyone. Still… she couldn't help the touch of curiosity that still lingered at the edges of her mind.
And still more she wondered: why was he here?
There were several beats of silence but his voice wasn't what broke it. He slid the glass across the desk in front of her, as to draw her attention to it. He never looked away from her though, a strange sensation bubbling in his chest. But something was better than nothing, and when you had only days to live, risks were to be taken.
For the first time in a long while, he was conscious of the way he moved, putting effort into his motions, and spending a little less time thinking about Emily's, even if he was intensely aware of her presence. Her dark almond eyes, her loose strands of hair framing her boldly structured face... her womanhood. He stiffened and forced himself not think about that.
Forced himself to speak.
"The Void is greedy, it laps up anything that comes within its grasps, hungrily devouring the cosmos one star at a time, until one day, every light in the sky will have been ravaged and consumed." He'd always been blissfully ignorant of his sensuality, the way he had with words, the way he phrased things — though methodical, often suggestive.
"... But most of all, it is starving for representation. It craves a figurehead to speak for it, to shower people in its presence and invade reality with slick slippery tendrils coalescing... curling around each and every vestige it can creep its way into... I satiate that desire, for now. Very soon it will search for something else... once I have been properly displaced." He spoke with a bit of caution, skirting around his words, cagey, cryptic as always.
"The Void did not take from what I did not experience. It did not rob me of my life, and I cannot blame it for what it did not do. I cannot blame anyone for perpetuating the course of fate... There were things I did not have the privilege of understanding. Though hardships aplenty, my life before... as I can recall it... was difficult. Cold, numbingly so. The people around me watched in disdain as I withered away on street corners. But what I saw was love, as abundant as the soil beneath us, but priceless in value. I do not desire much. What I proposition... is a taste." His eyes flickered down to her lips before he brought the glass up to his own, sipping the contents, his hands shaking very faintly.
Emily's fingertips tingled in the heavy silence before he spoke, shaken by the tension, but she was far too aware of her own movements to allow even something as simple as rubbing thumb and forefinger together. He was staring at her - no, into her - those eyes seeming to invade every inch of her body. She was grateful when he slid the glass to her, taking it perhaps a little too quickly and sipping immediately. Sweet. Just the slightest burn on the back of her throat. Deceptively delectable, but she knew too much was a recipe for disaster. As she sipped she watched him carefully, waiting for him to explain himself.
He only seemed to have a brief moment of partial relaxation before his body went rigid, and she found that instant somehow profoundly sad and beautiful. Just a moment of rest before he was swept up in these cosmic forces once more, returned to the place of a god again. For just a moment he'd practically been human. But then he spoke, his voice weaving tapestries both rich and ominous, words dripping over her and sinking into her very bones, and she was left in awe. As his warnings of the universe's inevitable collapse flowed over her skin she felt them, tight and hot, constricting her chest with an eerie dread.
How did he keep his tone so steady, his attitude so circumspect, even as his words lit on her skin like sparks? He ignited something in her, and the evenness with which he dealt that condition bothered her greatly. She found it hard to keep track of his intentions, too focused on words that crept into her ears, drawing images inside her eyelids, every blink putting her someplace else. And she knew this was important, too. She could tell from his approach, the way his lips formed the words so carefully, choosing each so purposefully - and yet this too was her undoing.
It took a moment for his words to truly sink in, past all the talk of craving and slickness and satiation. Very soon it will search for something else... She felt suddenly jarred, her fingers tightening on the glass in her hand to stop their sudden tremor. He was leaving? Was he - he couldn't - the Outsider surely wasn't dying. Her head spun as he went on, breath becoming shallow, trying to keep track of his tale even as the words danced and melded into one another in her head, twisting their meanings into some sensational lewd melodrama.
Emily's eyes fluttered closed for a moment, focusing her breathing, focusing her mind, calming herself so she might hear the Outsider's words. Truly, his story was heartbreaking. He'd told her some of it, before - in a way - but these details… She stared at the golden liquid in her glass, swallowing hard, her chest aching with sympathy. Part of her yearned to fight - he gave up so easily, so resigned to this fate - but she knew she could never truly understand the Void and all of its whims and intricacies. Still, there was a fire in her. Even as her breath trembled, something inside her raged and swore and promised to rain down fury on whoever it was that would do such a thing. Even if it was the Void itself.
She blinked rapidly, unsure if the tears she held back were tears of anger, grief, or desperation. Maybe none of those things. Maybe all of them. But they wouldn't fall. She wouldn't allow them to fall. She pursed her lips determinedly. A piece of her viewed him as hers in some way. Her connection to the Void, perhaps. The one who showed her things she had never imagined, and gave her powers she never should have wanted. And now someone threatened her — her… her Outsider. How dare they. She'd had her world yanked away from her once already, she wouldn't let it happen again.
She felt that fire growing in her heart — useless, she knew, and yet eternally hopeful. When she finally caught his eyes, hers blazing with this strange desperate fear, she caught just his last words. ...A taste...
"I-" Her voice was hoarse, overwhelmed by this flood of information, and she took another quick gulp of the drink in her glass, flinching a bit even as she tried to ignore the burn, and licking her parched lips. "I don't-" she looked down at the drink in her hand. "I'm not sure I understand."
He watched her unwind but found that the way his words touched her were not as satisfying as it once was. The way he could unravel her, inch by inch, seam by seam, it was physically visible now, the influence he had. And he knew that much, as he peered in on her day to day life, as nosy and intrusive as he typically was. He knew lots of things, he knew absolutely nothing at all.
He stood suddenly, upright, not floating nor dissipating and reforming, but walking, stepping forward evenly, his eyes penetrating the depths of her being, searching, seeking for something even he could not determine. A part of him yearned for something he knew only she had. He supposed that part of him was hidden deep beneath layers of stone as black as charred obsidian, the human part of him that howled in despair and relief simultaneously at the idea of dying.
He fell into wispy fractures and appeared behind her only mere moments later and something white chimed in his hand. It was a comb, made from the bones of an ancient leviathan. It was intricately carved with careful attentiveness and a strict attention to detail. It hummed with the song of the Void like most of the "heretical" artifacts.
"... May I, Emily?" His voice was hardly above a whisper and held hidden beneath it a quiet desperation. Her hair was long and fell down her shoulders in waves of dark coffee hues, but only at night did she release it from its tight placement. He would watch her then, taking pins and ties and setting them on her vanity before retiring to a bed far too large for just one person.
How lonely she must have felt each passing night, tossing and turning on a massive mattress. He couldn't help but wonder what it might feel like to occupy the space beside her and watch her drift into unconsciousness. But he nearly immediately disregarded the thought, placing a single hand on her shoulder, bracing himself for any possible reaction. He knew she was a firebrand, it was only in her nature to put up a defiant front; passion ran through her veins.
But he also knew who he was, and how much the Empire loathed him. He often wondered if Emily loathed him in that way. If she felt a hatred for him that was fueled by blind prejudice, and if so, he wondered if it were as intense as the hatred she felt for Delilah, or for the man who stole her mother away that awful day in the Month of Harvest.
Suddenly it mattered. Everyone else in the Isles could hate him, despise him, curse him to the very depths of the Void. But Emily Kaldwin could not. He couldn't stand the concept. He couldn't accept that.
When he'd taken his first steps forward, she'd tensed, breath gone from her lungs in an instant. It reminded her of the Void all over again, and she did as she had done there: kept her chin up, shoulders back, confident even as blood roared in her ears. When he disappeared she froze, and her head snapped to the side as she caught his reappearance in the corner of her eye. She couldn't turn toward him, even as she willed her limbs to do so. Her feet were frozen to the floor. Her body thrummed — whether resonating with the energy of the Void or simply trying to contain her suddenly frantic pulse, she wasn't sure.
His soft request sent goosebumps racing across her skin. Her eyelids felt heavy and it took a concentrated effort to keep them open, so tempting was the urge to close them and enjoy whatever images now danced at the edges of her consciousness. She was a live wire, all sparks and crackling current, and surely if he touched her he would feel it too — her pent up energy would burn through him, surely, it felt so tangible and so dangerous.
And yet, it didn't. His hand on her shoulder caused no flash of light, no crack of pain though her - just the small click of her mouth opening in surprise, a gasp that was strangled in her throat, back arching ever so slightly, unsure if she wanted to be closer or farther from him. The Mark on her hand, still glowing softly, caused her no pain but she felt as though it whispered things to her. Dark things. As though it had reached into the furthest recesses of her mind and now let those thoughts flow in a hot stream through her veins, urging her on.
She had to keep her eyes open. If she let herself indulge these thoughts - these images - she would have no control whatsoever. No. She wouldn't sate that hunger. Not here, with him. She must keep her composure. …And still, a practically morbid curiosity ached in her, and she found herself setting the glass aside to reach with one hand to undo the pins holding her hair in place.
Everything he had done in the past twenty minutes had been extremely out of the ordinary. Every move he'd made, down to the monologues slipping from his lips like strung silk. But it was imperative that she knew. That someone knew before he faded into nothing. He had accepted his fated demise, but he could not accept that everyone would remember him as one of two things: a heretical temptation, or a perverse thing to worship.
He couldn't accept that all the fractured remnants of his humanity would die with him, for what was a man without a legacy? And what was a legacy if no one witnessed it?
This would be his legacy, here in this office, booze burning at the back of his throat, a gentle hand reaching up to collapse against Emily's like soft flower petals, preventing her from continuing on her own. Instead he guided her, unpinning her hair and watching it drop in waves, eyes widening just faintly at the sight.
He was curious, but there was another sensation burning within him that left that still human part of him seething.
He eyed the faintest traces of skin behind the wall of soft strands, reaching up to run his fingers, chilled but not to an uncomfortable degree, through thick brunette locks, knuckles brushing against the back of her neck. He took the comb, nestling it downwards from the top, slowly raking it through, watching like a child admiring a small bird on the windowsill.
"The whole Empire would bend to your will now. Not out of fear, but a deep respect for everything you've experienced. The child empress, a girl no longer, but a woman who fought for the right of her people, without leaving a trail of blood and scraps of sinew behind her. And now she stands here, speechless, dumbfounded. It's almost amusing." His voice took a tone that it had only ever taken once before.
With a little boy whose nose was fractured and gushing crimson ichor, whose bones were fragile and hands trembling in the icy cold. Back then he had spoken to a little dove with broken wings, whose time had ended before it began. But now he was that dove, limping across the pavement, resting his head for one final sleep, and he spoke to her now, almost pleading, but unnervingly calm.
A hum escaped him. Not slow enough to be a lullaby but not quite fast enough to meet the beat of a waltz. It was eerie, layered in whispers of eternity.
His bare fingers brushing hers sent a skittering thrill through her body that hadn't been there on her clothed shoulder. Her Marked hand throbbed briefly, as though called to this being that even now stood so patiently at her back. Emily felt as though she were in a dream. It was surreal and all too eerie, the play of his fingers through her hair. She expected breath on her neck and felt none, the fact making him seem more of a ghost than ever. Still, as he explored this new sensation, she was touched by how innocent this small request had been.
Her hands dropped, one to the desk and one to her side, nervously playing with the hem of her sleeve unconsciously. His attentions were calming, nothing like what she'd expected of this odd entity. She very nearly relaxed, but his fingers brushing the nape of her neck made her suck in a quick breath, hand tightening on the edge of the desk. Silently scolding herself, she chewed her lip, her muscles tense even as she ordered them to submit. Her body didn't seem to want to obey her mind, and that made her uneasy.
The comb stroking steadily through her hair immediately reminded her of when she was much younger. These days, she only ever had tower staff help her with her hair for special occasions, much preferring to be self-reliant and do such tasks on her own. But when she was younger, with her mother… And when her mother had died - been killed - there were days as a young empress when a caretaker would soothe her troubled sleep with a horsehair brush and soft cooing lullabies. That didn't happen anymore. On those nights when her sleep was troubled there was no one to come in and stroke her hair, rub her back, envelop her in comforting arms… And she, of course, refused to ask.
As his movements continued, her body warred with her calming soul - even as her eyes drifted closed again - until finally her muscles yielded, her chin tipping to her chest, her head leaning in to his strokes. Her hand on the desk flexed unconsciously, and as his words slid over her she listened with serene but rapt attention. He praised her even as he marveled at her weakness, and the sentiment left her uneasy, for reasons she couldn't quite place. She wanted to refute him, but his words were true enough. She was, indeed, speechless.
But there was something more in him, something she couldn't quite parse from his words and tone. What else is it you want? Because there was surely something else. There was something in his voice - something hollow, empty - that yearned for some unknowable something that she couldn't envision. A small crease appeared in her brow as she tried to unravel his speech, dissecting the lilt of tones, but as his hum reverberated through him, through the comb, straight into her, she found herself distracted again. Shivering. She could hear the Void on him. More so than in speech, the timbre of his hum echoed with refracted shadows, shards of stone and the fog of aeons. It called to her, raising her pulse, filling her lungs with the idea of ozone and slate, and she found herself turning her head toward him. Not enough to dislodge his steady strokes, but just enough that she might see him from the corner of her eye.
His expression wasn't as steady as his words. His brows were curved down and furrowed together, not in anger, not even in concentration, for his gaze while planted mostly on Emily seemed to drift a bit. As if he were viewing the whole universe along the tender strands he combed through. He could recall nights not long ago, where he'd watched her from the recesses of the Void, watched her stir from her slumber gasping for breath, laying in bed staring distantly at the ceiling, lost in thought as the whole world tumbled around her. Those silent moments, even in their brevity, made his being ache. Not only with the usual emptiness that riddled him but also with a firm longing to comfort her, to stroke her cheek with the back of his hand. He wondered how she might react if he did.
But ultimately he decided that was unimportant now. She had a whole life ahead of her. Full of suffering, the grandest of enjoyments, love and hate and all of those tedious little things that made a person human. But he? He was a god. And a god was far less than a man. He was immortal and yet his time was running out.
He slowly set the comb onto the desk, his movements careful but lacking in the cold, hollow method that they usually had. Each step he took was centered on her, his attention was entirely and completely hers as of right now.
Once he'd finished he did not move. "There are some things that even after all of these long years of watching and waiting in the shadows, even after witnessing the cruelest of actions and the most sublime generosities, I still do not understand. The minuscule details that are so crucial to living escape me. And it is simply because I never lived long enough to come to understand them for what they are. I know of men of the highest caliber that shudder at a woman's touch, I have seen the High Overseer himself make haste to his hidden chambers only to share a night with a woman he hardly knows. Risking his career, his reputation, all for the sweet blissful release. Betraying everything he's ever been taught just for a night. And I've pondered if perhaps it's the self destructive nature of man that leads them into such intimate situations. But I've come to the conclusion that it isn't something I am worthy of knowing." He ran the back of his hand down her arm slowly, still standing behind her, his words hitting the back of her neck like a chilled breeze.
"It's a level of intimacy that I could never experience even now, one that I could never ask you to mimic. It would be an outlandish proposition, so it is not mine. But what I wish for are impossible things. Impossible, hysterical little things that you may even find yourself scoffing at. I yearn to feel the sun, beaming down against my face from between the cracks in the drapes that line the windows, I yearn to feel a pulse when I raise my hand to my chest, or to another's-" He appeared in front of her, eyes searching over her features desperately.
His tone fluctuated, sought something, it was clear now what he was feeling; it was fear. He was scared.
His hand settled just below her neck and he slowly shook his head, "I yearn to grasp at those tiny details I never understood, for the more that I see the more that I hunger, the insatiable desire entangling me, if I could breathe it would have choked me by now. It's a bittersweet asphyxiation, reminding me that I am still something, which is better than the alternative, is what I've come to believe," he rambled on, but that calm facade he shrouded himself in had shattered completely.
Emily watched his hands gently setting the comb aside, and her own fingers twitched, seized by the sudden urge to reach for his, to still his hand, feel his skin against hers. But twitch was all they did, staying where she grasped the side of the desk perhaps a bit too tightly, grounding herself. Her lips parted as though she might say something, but nothing came to mind. And then his hand had withdrawn, and the moment had passed.
She listened to his words, still staring at the discarded comb. He'd seen everything, she realized. She'd known it already, but the way he spoke now — he hadn't just witnessed everything. He'd seen everything. Watched and examined and observed all the base nature of man. As he went on, she felt a blush rising in her chest. She felt silly for it, but her breath was hot from her parted mouth and she soon felt the need to moisten dry lips, the motion only serving to remind her of the very things that made her blush to begin with.
She wasn't ashamed of her sexuality, by no means, but that wasn't what had her skin flush and tingling abashedly. No, not the deeds she'd done. She didn't regret a single stolen kiss or night spent with a lover. No, she blushed as she realized that, if he'd borne witness to these events, he very well may have seen her wanton acts as well. It wasn't just sinful overseers tempted into bed by the promise of a woman's touch.
He had her mind wandering, and feeling his hand trail down her sleeve she suddenly wished that no sleeve parted them. She wished to see his eyes when he witnessed the goosebumps erupt on her skin at his slightest touch, as they did now. Her shoulders shifted, back once more arching at the tingling feeling on her neck, nails digging into the palms of her hands. He claimed he'd never ask her to indulge any of these small intimacies… Was he aware of how he tempted her with the thought? Her own curiosity imagining how he might — how he might look beneath her. How his skin might feel on hers. How he might taste. She blinked, trying to clear these idle fantasies from her mind. Her errant mind…
Her guilt only deepened as he spoke of his own wishes, so sweet and innocent and pure, and she was the one - him, the Outsider himself, yet she was the one - imagining grander sins.
When he appeared before her, her face was warm, eyes bright, lips parted. She blinked in surprise, but didn't try to hide. He knew her for what she was, for better or worse. And she was flawed. His touch was cool, but not cold, even against her flaming skin, and it made her throat jump and catch, swallowing hard in response. Her attention shifted between his eyes and his lips, watching each word form with care. She needed to get a hold of herself. She wanted to get a hold of him.
She forced those feelings away, though they never went far, and brought her touch to his, grasping his hand between her own and looking down at where their skin met, even as she swayed toward him, drawn in by some gravity only he possessed. Questions exploded in her mind - When would it happen? How would it happen? Who would do it? How long did he have? How did he know? Was there a way to stop it? - but above all of those things; "What can I do?"
He grinned, genuinely, lips curled into a soft, sad little smile. Emily Kaldwin always sought out an enemy to defeat. She searched desperately for the origins of her problems and most of the time there was one person, or multiple even, who were the cause of said issues. But he supposed it ran in her blood, like the Serkonan hues of her skin, the flecks of gold in her eyes, her collarbones and long neck and dips and curvatures of her figure, all genetic.
He thought back to the bad old days, the days where men bled from the eyes and rats gnawed on bodies yet to be sent off to a landfill in the flooded district by carts on electric rails. The determination in Corvo's eyes, the raw, primal way he hunted down those who'd wronged him. Sometimes shedding blood, others times avoiding it. Perhaps it was genetic, an Attano thing, to catch the Outsider's wandering gaze.
His breath (for lack of a better word) had a scent, not unlike the sea, but there were hints of wildflowers, vanilla candle wax. Altogether it almost smelled sweet. Like a toffee, or a hard candy of some sort. His eyes found her hand in his and it brought him some odd sense of comfort. Everything was most certainly not going to be okay, in fact, it likely wouldn't be much of anything at all. He could imagine a vast nothingness, the escape of death. No more pain, no more fear, confusion, all of the Void's negativity and every small remark muttered under the breath of a city guard on patrol.
He finally turned his gaze up to hers again, "There is nothing you can do, nothing anyone can do. Everything has been set into motion. The cogs are turning, the machine is on. What I ask is... undoubtedly the most selfish request I've made of you yet, and I have made plenty. Especially where you're concerned." He reached up and brushed a bit of hair from her face. "I ask that... I..." He struggled to find a way to phrase it, finding that the words were caught in his throat, they wouldn't escape, swimming aimlessly without any clear direction. He leaned forward, staring down at her lips, concentrated, cautious. "I ask..." he lingered, tilting his head to the side just slightly, lids lowering, "...for a moment's... time..."
His lips were cold, like the majority of him, inexperienced, nervous, apprehensive. At heart he was still a boy who knew of sexuality, but never had the chance to experiment with his own, who'd seen people doing awfully sinful acts but had only briefly been accustomed to his own touch, and that was only very rarely when he felt safe and alone enough to put himself in such a vulnerable position. So here was a god, less than a man, aged by the Void with all of the world's wisdom as nervous and inexperienced as a schoolboy, sharing a kiss with the Empress of Isles. No. With Emily Kaldwin. He could go accepting that as his legacy.
The Outsider's smile was something she never thought she'd see. It was bizarre and intriguing and its sadness sent an aching pang through her chest. A sense of dread crept upon her as he spoke, her head shaking minutely, sensing his conclusions even before they dropped from his lips. No. He couldn't say there was no way to stop this. She'd done impossible things before. She could do this, if he'd just let her. The anger - the futile drive - flared in her briefly, but was quickly extinguished. She held tighter onto his hand, pleading silently that he could give her something to do, that he could lie to her, tell her that she had a chance to stop this, but she knew it wasn't so.
Frustration and despair warred in her hollow chest, even as guilt nagged at her, reminding her that he'd come here because he trusted her. Him - a god. He was entrusting this last futile gesture to a young woman twice deposed, who'd twice now reclaimed her throne. And as he lost his… he came to her. She supposed there was some poetic symmetry to it: a relationship that began with a death, to end with one.
Her eyes closed, pained, as he brushed the hair back from her face, and when they opened they burned with a desperate sadness. Her lips parted as he leaned toward her, eyes closing as though she might shield herself from the inevitable loss tomorrow would bring. She inhaled with a shudder as his lips rested a hair's breadth from hers, tasting the odd mix of man and Void she'd never quite be able to describe.
Her lips were gentle against his, initially thinking she'd let him set the pace before realizing his uncertainty. So instead she led, one hand still holding his while the other cupped his face, drawing him to her, breath escaping between their lips before she pressed against him once more, unconsciously taking a step toward him as she coaxed his lips open with hers.
If the air off his skin was indescribable, there was no possible attempt to be made for the taste of his mouth.
She tried to form coherent thoughts, but her body could only feel him, pressing into him desperately even as she tried to hold herself back. She wanted to be gentle, but it wasn't just him that was driving her mad — the Void was intoxicating, and it filled her. She overflowed with some supernatural hunger, needing more of him, feeling the smoke of the Void filling her lungs. More. Her hands trembled, feeling a rush of stone in her blood, her ears echoing with whale song. Was this why witches claimed to lay with the Outsider? The desire to feel this unrestrained power devouring them?
It was so much — too much. It swept her up in crashing waves and took all she had to pull back, stumbling, her knuckles white where she still held his hand. "Sorry-" she gasped, the hand that had cupped his cheek now grabbing the edge of the desk in surprise, knees weak. If she'd seen her own reflection she may have been horrified, black beginning a thin map of the veins in her neck, a small wisp of smoke dripping from her lips. Her pupils had nearly eclipsed her irises, blinding her until she could blink them back to their regular state. Truly, the Void devoured. "I'm- I'm so sorry." Her voice was hoarse, broken. She trembled before him as her body readjusted, shocked.
It wasn't good in the traditional sense of the word. It was different, it was the faintest lingering fragmented idea of what he thought a kiss should be. The closeness alone was enough to satiate his desires. His lips entangling with hers, hands settling themselves onto her hips and pulling her closer, pulling her into his being. He could feel the Void swarming around them, wrapping them both in its decaying embrace. He felt like for the briefest of moments they were one, a single entity nestled on a rock hurtling through space. Only him and Emily. Only their lips, their hands, their souls.
He hadn't even noticed the heat, the passion, the drive that Emily's humanity pushed forth. He was focused on the sensations he could feel, rather than the movements or the reality of the moment. He focused on the way she tasted for instance, lips sweetened with the Tyvian brandy, and the warmth that resonated from her quickening breaths. The warmth of her against him, even with the clothing that separated them.
It wasn't enough for him, he realized. He was an insatiable being, never would it be enough, no amount of kissing, frottage or sex would ever be enough to satiate his hunger. He wasn't starving for her sex he realized, he wanted her companionship. He was selfish, he wanted her. He ached to experience these little pieces of life that most took for granted with her.
He stared at her, hair disheveled, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights. His hand gripped the edge of the desk and the shadows around him waned, for just a few seconds his eyes, his real eyes shone through the inky black. Pale green peering back at her before the Void swallowed them and left him back where he started. "...Thank you," he murmured quietly.
She blinked, still disoriented, brow furrowing as she looked with confusion into his eyes. She could've sworn - for just a second - but then they were blackest black again. She must've imagined it. She turned to lean her hips against the desk, wanting to just collapse into her bed, but a part of her worried about that course of action. She didn't want him to join her. He terrified her, she realized. No not him, not the Outsider, but that thing that lived in him. That he lived in? That thing that made him who he was. The Void. Raw power that consumed even as it was consumed. A vicious thing. She knew better than to invite something like that into her bed.
When she licked her lips she was relieved to taste more than the impossible essence of the Void, still tasting that odd hint of sweetness that had been unique to the Outsider himself. It did a lot to ease her rattled mind.
She looked back to him, arms wrapping around herself without even realizing it, a wary sad curiosity slowly reigniting in her gaze. "...So what now?" Why did she ask? Surely, the answer would only hurt her.
He did regret it now. Coming here, doing that, leaving her with the horrific memory and the lingering sensation of the Void enveloping her. That feeling of being torn apart piece by piece by raw, unfiltered power. The universe had attacked her for a split second, and he had let it. He turned on his heel and recollected himself, eyes downcast in shame.
But he tried to remain stoic, he tried to pretend as though it hadn't happened. He would hold it together, if not for himself than for her sake.
"...I'll leave you here. And perhaps you'll forget tonight, you'll forget the sound of my voice. Perhaps you'll grow old and you'll recall nothing. Or maybe you will remember every minuscule detail. Either way, I don't have much longer." He was already waning, his presence faltering, shadows fading off as they stretched towards him.
His words stung, and she found herself roused just to prove him wrong. Spite stirred her limbs, shedding the weight of hopelessness that had descended on her. She lifted her chin, straightening, embodying the strength she stood for as Empress. Her eyes, free of the Void's inky corruption, leveled on him. "I won't forget."
She would hunt down whoever was going to do this to him. She would kill them before they got the chance.
Even as the idea entered her head she sourly had to dismiss it. Her people needed her. Her days of chasing after traitors and assassins were behind her now. She sat the throne, and ruled the Empire — alone. And so did he, in a way. Yet he was so ready to have it all taken from him?
She curiously took note of the undulating shadows that seemed to be calling him home, even as she brought her eyes to his. She gave him a steady, regal nod. "Good luck."
Somehow he had been expecting more from her, and also less at the same time. More so, he had hoped for more from her. Nothing explicit of course, but perhaps the rest of the evening. He knew though, that it was impossible. He glanced at the comb of bone on the desk and listened to it call out to him. The buzzing had been a nuisance at first but now it was mere background noise to him.
The Void was calling to him. It wanted him back, it urged him, shadows licking at his boots and hands almost affectionately. He had no choice but to accept his fate, even if now more than ever he desperately desired a completely different one. "...You're as gracious as ever." He spoke in hardly above a whisper and yet it still sounded as if his voice had cracked.
"You're truly the most fascinating woman in the Isles, Emily. It was an honor to give you my Mark." He dispersed, his being fractured, shadows engulfing one another until he was gone completely, leaving the room emptier than it had ever been before.