A/N: Honestly I had no idea what to title this. As with the last part of this story, it kinda dragged me along with it. This sequel will likely go a bit dark, and have strong heresy/blasphemy themes cause - dammit - this game gave me a stricture kink, and I'm weak. Expect another 3-? part ficlet (looks like minimum 4), this time with even more smut. It's not quite PWP, but it's damn close. This picks up almost immediately after The Rhyme of the Rosewater Hag.
Emily heeded his warning.
...To some extent.
She certainly minded her oaths.
At first she censored herself, banishing the name of the Outsider from her vocabulary, finding herself invoking strictures instead. Curses she'd previously speak herself in the right bawdy conversation suddenly made her think very different things whenever a friend muttered them, and she even was brought to blush once or twice. Her nights became a test of how still she might remain before sleep.
The days of the fugue feast were spent in absolute agony: alone, the tower in lockdown, her usual suitors excused to go break any promises they'd made (though she didn't trade much in promises with her consorts). She'd tried to sleep through it, to devote herself to work, but she was one of only a handful of people in Dunwall who even attempted to do such a thing. The sound of revelry drifted through her windows at all hours for three straight days - one of the longest feasts they'd had in years .
By the end she was feverish, desperate, touch-starved and nearly mad with frustration.
Fifteen minutes to midnight, as the hymn of atonement rang out throughout the city, she stepped from her third under-heated shower of the day straight into her waiting bathrobe, her muscles not at all soothed by the cool water. Fingers flexing and twitching anxiously, she grabbed for her last resort.
Sliding under the covers, she placed the book on her pillow and leafed to the chapter she wanted.
She spoke the words under her breath, so she might hear them over whatever blasphemous thoughts chose to plague her.
"Restrict the Wandering Gaze that looks hither and yonder for some flashing thing that easily catches a man's fancy in one moment, but brings calamity in the next. For the eyes are never tired of seeing, nor are they quick to spot illusion. A man whose gaze is corrupted is like a warped mirror that has traded beauty for ugliness and ugliness for beauty. Instead, fix your eyes to what is edifying and to what is pure, and then you will be able to recognize the profane monuments-"
She choked on her words, cleared her throat, and hurriedly moved on.
"Restrict the lying tongue that-" She stuttered, skin tingling at the words, but soldiered on. "-that is like a spark in a man's mouth. It is such a little thing, yet from one spark an entire city may burn to the ground. The father of a lie will suffer a punishment compounded by each person relayed it. Better to live a life of silence than unleash a stream of untruth. The echoes of lies come back as-"
A distressed whine breached her lips, and she leaned her head back. Why. Why had she thought this would help?
Piety. Piety and grace and chastity and-
She shook her head, pressing it into the mattress as she groaned her frustration. Seven bloody strictures. Snapping her head up with an irritated determination, she forged on.
"Restrict the Restless Hands, which-"
Teeth sunk into her lip and she thrashed onto her back, fingers digging into the sheets as her back arched. One week. She couldn't even make it one week? What was wrong with her? By the- By the Void. He was right. She was insatiable.
"Ou-" She stopped herself from cursing, and instead growled her fury. Grabbing a pillow, she stifled her frustrated scream, then slammed it down beside her again. She glared at the ceiling.
I hope your life is torment. I hope you burn every second of your existence. I hope you suffer like I suffer - and worse.
Gritting her teeth, she snatched the book up and clutched it in a vice grip as she read louder. "Put your hands to the plow, the fork, and the spade. For even the lowliest labor that is rigorous squeezes the muscles as a sponge, rinsing impurities from the mind and body."
"Restrict roving feetthat love to trespass. They pay no heed to the boundary stones of other men's fields. They wander into foreign lands, only to return with their soles blackened by iniquity. Where have you strayed that destruction now comes behind you? Would you walk across burning coals or broken glass? Then why do you prowl into the homes of the honest, or into the dens of hidden things, for the result is the same. You will fall into the Void! Instead, rest your feet on a firm foundation so that when the winds of-" She clenched her jaw, and continued, practically spitting his name, "-the Outsider shriek against you, you will stand firm and not be overthrown."
"Restrict the Rampant Hungeror the intemperate will rise up among you like a virulent swarm, devouring everything wherever they go, even filth. For what goes into your body, poisons you, and if you eat filth then filth is what you will vomit up. Surely the glutton will sell away birthright, family, and friends for a morsel of meat."
"Restrict the- " She didn't even try with the sixth stricture, her words raising in pitch, a nearly hysterical babble. "Restrict an errant mindbefore it becomes fractious and divided can two enemies occupy the same body no for the first will direct it one way and the second another until they stumble into a ditch and its neck is broken likewise two contrary thoughts cannot long abide in a man's mind or he- he will- become weak-willed- " She slowed, faltered, and the book fell to her side as she closed her eyes, feeling the prickle of frustrated tears. The last words were a desolate moan, a whispered cry, pleading, guilty, utterly lost. "...and subject to any heresy."
That had been her fugue feast.
Ironically, it was only after the days of debauchery and lawlessness had ended that Emily changed tack.
The morning of the first day of the month of earth, she dressed with determination, shooting the occasional glare through the ceiling, as though she might reach the god himself. Had he enjoyed seeing her tortured by her own chastity? Falling asleep in tears, fingers clutching the bed frame to stop hands that longed to be so restless?
By lunch, she'd rectified the situation.
"Outsider's crooked cock, that was good."
Emily smirked up at the ceiling at Wyman's words, pointing her toes and shifting her hips, altogether preening at the praise. She writhed a bit more, making a show of it, groaning her agreement with a spiteful challenge in her eyes. Rolling onto her side, she traced a finger over her lover's chest, pressing her mouth to their shoulder as she spiraled inward, her touch closing in on its target-
Wyman laughed, pushing her hand away gently. "Fuck, Emily - again? Give me a moment's rest, will you?"
Her eyes lit with a hungry mischief and she lunged, pinning the Morley noble to the bed as she straddled them, nipping playfully at a pale collarbone. "By the Outsider," she smirked, voice a parody of shock, "one might even say I'm insatiable."
"One might," they murmured in agreement, a single blond brow raising in amusement. A hand cupped Emily's cheek, and her lover's gaze was bemused. "What's gotten into you today? I've barely seen you since the Evelyn party and now..."
Teeth flashed as Emily grinned. "I missed you over the fugue feast," she admitted, punctuating the statement with a kiss - quick and casual at first, but soon melting into something that promised far more.
Again, she was gently pushed back. "We're not exclusive, you could've taken anyone for the feast - you seemed quite fond of Rosalind-"
Em pouted, sitting back on her thighs, lips twitching slightly at the sharp intake of breath as she began a slow, subtle gyration. "You mean the witch who sold me to the Rosewater Hag?" She watched her lover's face grow distant, a flush blooming in their cheeks, and hummed in a mockery of contemplation. "Hmm… she's alright, I suppose."
Wyman's breath slowed, and they shot a suspicious look at Emily. "...You're doing it again."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Her grin was wicked as her movements grew firmer, grinding against them.
"Oh really." The words - and the accompanying smile - were wry.
She paused, and held up a hand as her heart skipped a beat. "May the Outsider pull me into the Void right this instant if I lie." She waited, expectantly.
When she made no movement, Wyman let out a small huff of amusement. "You're a pathological liar, is what you are," they murmured, a hand running up and down her side. "How you escaped the Hag is a miracle."
Emily shifted her hips again. "I guess the Outsider is looking after me."
Blond brows furrowed. "Can you - can you stop bringing him up? It's kinda weird."
She stopped moving, a drop of mortification freezing her in her tracks as a blush turned her bare chest pink. Pulling away, she settled back on her side of the bed, turning her back and crossing arms over her breasts, suddenly self-conscious as she glared at the sheets. "Way to kill the fucking mood," she mumbled.
"...Em…" The mattress creaked as weight shifted, and a soft hand rested on her shoulder.
She shrugged it off. "No, you were right, we've done enough for the day," her voice was bitter.
Their hand hovered, as though they might try again, but with a sigh they pulled away.
Emily stared at the ground, angrily, as noises of cloth on skin came from the other side of the bed.
Clothed legs appeared before her. A patient hand lifted her chin, and lips pressed gently to her forehead.
"You know where to find me."
A moment's hesitation, then they ducked down for a quick kiss. "And don't worry: your Outsider quota resets at midnight."
She had to smile wryly at that, and when she pushed them away this time, it was playful. They were forgiven. "Get out of here, consort."
Wyman made a deep flourishing bow. "As you command, Your Imperial Majesty."
Once her wanton flesh had been satisfied, the other strictures were far easier to follow. Well… except for her errant mind. But that wasn't so bad, was it? Not compared to the rest.
Restless hands lay still, tamed, fingers woven together as she lay on her bed that night, a small complacent smile on her lips. She'd already decided it: if he was watching her, she wouldn't be doing any private performances. If he saw, he saw her with other people. His name and their names the only words on her lips.
He wouldn't scare her, wouldn't shame her for her desires. He'd taunted her in the Void. It was her turn to taunt.
It started gradually enough. Wyman was her consort of choice, even turning her minor obsession with profanity into a new way they might tease her, though not fully understanding the meaning behind it all. A new delegation from Serkonos gave her a gorgeous Karnacan conquest: a tryst in the garden, Emily's expert touch eliciting the same whimpers and moans from the girl that had been dragged from her own throat in that place where the stone screamed.
The new season's parties weren't quite as exciting at those in the month of songs, but she made the best of it. As she'd promised herself, Hettie Ashmore had been shunned. Met with polite smiles and batted eyelashes, but still shunned. Her circle had shifted a bit, adjusting for the guest list of each party, but she'd become quite generous with those she favored. With a single soft stolen kiss from the charmingly shy Katya, she'd drawn Katya's favored suitor into her net as well, snaring him with a heated glance over the girl's shoulder as their lips had met.
If the god called her insatiable, she would be.
...If he saw any of it, he never responded.
A month went by, her hedonistic behaviors ebbed and flowed. Soon, she settled back into her old habits, though her restless hands had remained still. Instead, she began a new nightly activity.
"...which quickly become the workmates of the Outsider. Unfettered by honest labor, they rush to sordid gain, vain pursuits, and deeds of violence." She murmured the words with an almost smug smile, a finger tracing little circles on the opposite page as she read aloud. "Of what value are the hands that steal and kill and destroy? Instead, put your hands to the plow, the fork, and the spade. For even the lowliest labor that is rigorous squeezes the muscles as a sponge, rinsing impurities from the mind and body."
Every other night, she read them all. She barely skimmed the words after a month. After two, she had them by rote.
For all her knowledge of the strictures, she didn't do particularly well adhering to them. The nights she didn't spend reading were spent sneaking out to roam the rooftops. She was reckless, living for the rush of adrenaline the run gave her, taking care to conceal her identity but then doing things like stealing grapes from the guard barracks.
One particularly risky leap had her hobbling back to Dunwall Tower with a twisted ankle. It took her out of commission for nearly two weeks, though with the height of the fall… it really should've been broken. It had been odd… one moment she'd been scrambling for purchase on a third floor balcony, losing her grip- and then had only seemed to drop a few feet to the alley below. Corvo had been furious, refusing to let her take any elixir to speed the healing, seeming to know beyond a fraction of a doubt exactly how she'd been injured, though she didn't know how he possibly could. After all: she was an expert at sneaking out.
And then she was 19.