title: petals, petals on the water
summary: jacobs wonders what strange company he'd just allowed into the fortress. perhaps a gaggle of dignitaries, or perhaps a powder keg and its spark. (one day, emily closes her eyes. a stranger opens them.) —gen, au, oneshot.
word count: ~2500
cw: child abuse, character death
a/n:
i haven't finished dh2 yet sooo i might come back to edit this later? yeah.
(this will only make sense if you've played the knife of dunwall and brigmore witches dlcs.)
when pretty emily woke one day
she saw the world a different way
her eyes now looked with a stranger's guile
her dainty mouth smiled a stranger's smile
her hands now worked the stranger's wrath
her feet now walked a stranger's path
emily fed, another grew stronger
the stranger's cravings drove her onward
and no one who looked on emily's face
ever guessed who ruled in emily's place.
— A Poem by Delilah, c. 1836
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The vessel is a modest little thing. A tiny little rowboat with plush seats and a canopy — hardly uncomfortable from the look of it, but still, not regal enough for the likes of a Lord Regent, let alone the young Empress-to-be herself. Not that Captain Kieran Jacobs is about to opine this to Mr Havelock; he merely sweeps a bow as the boat pulls up at the shore of the lighthouse and holds it until the Lord Regent signals him permission to straighten again.
"Welcome, sir," Jacobs says, as proper as he can manage. "I hope your trip was fair?"
Havelock nods stiffly. Jacobs hasn't seen the man before, truth be told, hadn't even recognised his name when he first heard it — some decorated admiral from the golden days of Jessamine the First, disgraced under Hiram Burrows, the boys told Jacobs. Havelock certainly carries himself like an old soldier, faded scars hinting at battles passed, and despite his thinning hair and craggy, age-weathered features, he stands solid and intimidating with all the presence (and chilliness) of a Tyvian mountain. Almost the furthest thing from his deceased predecessor that he can be. Yet word has spread of his heroic redemption: rescuing Lady Emily from the claws of the very Serkonan traitor who'd murdered her mother! It's difficult not to respect the man.
But on closer inspection, there is something — unsettled about the Lord Regent. His small eyes shift anxiously, tongue darting out every few minutes to worry his chapped lips. His hands are locked together behind his back as if to restrain them. It is enough to make Jacobs feel a little twitchy, too. But can anyone blame him? Corvo is still at large, after all. Why else would he secrete Lady Emily away to Kingsparrow Fort without even stopping to crown her?
Speaking of —
Over the Lord Regent's shoulder, Jacobs spies the man's companions as they meet dry land: a handsome man in cleric's robes, an aristocrat with an upturned nose (that is more like Burrows). The new High Overseer and Prime Minister, if talk were true. Between them a girl no older than ten, clad in pristine white. She gazes about her with regal eyes.
Such an unassuming young thing, but Jacobs' eyes widen and his heart kicks into his throat. The princess! He inclines again, hurriedly, steeper than before.
"Greetings, Your Royal Highness." Or is it Your Imperial Majesty? Outsider's balls, what a time for his etiquette to escape him. "Welcome to Kingsparrow Island. We hope you —"
The Regent cuts across him, a terse scowl taking his features. "Spare the formalities, captain. Just tell me everything's ready. Exactly as I asked for it."
Jacobs blinks. Swallows. "Uh, yes. Sir. Lord Regent. We've taken every security precaution you asked for. Guards at every entrance, Overseers with music boxes, we just got the Walls of Light up and running —"
"Excellent."
It's not Havelock who interrupts this time, but the Lady Emily herself, drawing everyone's attention. Now that Jacobs studies her properly, he notices that her poise is perfect: she stands as tall as a girl her height can, hands laced politely in front of her. Despite everything she'd been through the past few months and the lingering threat of Corvo, she seems — calm. Perfectly calm. Almost eerily so, her mouth curled into a light smile and her head at a birdlike angle. Or perhaps it is because of the past few months that she appears so unworried. There is something alarmingly mature and self-assured about the look in her eye, and Jacobs wondered if a life of political turmoil can do that to a kid. Age them into the role, make them feel prepared for anything. Hell, with a single, quiet word, she'd commanded more presence than even the Regent.
He can't decide whether to be awed or a little unnerved.
Even the words from her mouth are disconcertingly adult. "Thank you, captain. I think I'll be very comfortable here." She looks at the men around her (it might have been Jacobs' imagination, but the High Overseer and Prime Minister seemed wary, as if expecting Lady Emily to make a break for it at any moment). Wide-eyed and commanding. "Shall we go in?" she says, and walks on without awaiting a response.
Jacobs blinks after the young monarch, then glances at the Regent and clears his throat. "She seems...very brave, sir."
Havelock's reaction then is the strangest thing of all, and something twists in Jacobs' stomach at the look on the Regent's face — something which tells him that he'd come to work on the wrong day. The Regent doesn't smile or even nod at the compliment to Lady Emily. He only frowns with narrowing eyes after her retreating back as if she were a broken puzzle, a code without a cipher. And Jacobs wouldn't admit it — not for all the gold in Dunwall Tower, at least to Havelock's face — but he thinks he saw a flicker of fear in those battle worn features.
"Yes," the Regent mutters gravely. "I suppose she is."
As they walk away, Jacobs wonders what strange company he'd just allowed into the fortress. Perhaps a gaggle of dignitaries, or perhaps a powder keg and it's spark.
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She'll kill Daud first, she thinks. Unless the Royal Protector reaches him first.
Of course it won't be simple. Though her victory was assured, Daud had proven himself a stubborn enough thorn in her side — but one which needed to be removed one way or another. Knowing what he knows, it is too risky to leave him alive. The man had killed one Empress already. What's to say he wouldn't stop at one if he thought himself justified? Would Daud's moral qualms hold him from running his blade through the body of a child, knowing well that the child is gone?
If the Royal Protector were here (and oh, he is coming — she'd felt the intensity of the bond between Protector and princess as if it were her own, and the strength of young Emily's complete and utter faith in him, the certainty that no matter where she goes he'll follow), she'd dispatch him now to kill Daud and be done with it. For what the Whaler has done to Corvo's lover, he might even relish the assignment.
But, ah, Corvo — therein lies another problem.
She'd slipped into Emily's limbs in the midst of a tumultuous time for the insurgents, clearly. Last she heard, Corvo had been dumped unceremoniously in the Wrenhaven river, food for the hagfish. But the knowledge that Corvo can, and probably will, survive the journey hangs over his former allies' necks like a guillotine. The Admiral hasn't slept in the week they've been here; she hasn't tried to escape once, yet they bolt her door anyway. Who will win, she wonders? These "Loyalists"? Or the late Jessamine's beloved guard?
And what will Corvo see, when he looks into Emily's eyes?
She'll need a bodyguard in the days to come, and the Outsider knows that Corvo's relation to Emily is the worst kept secret in Dunwall. But just like Daud, Corvo is a threat to her crown. He knows Emily too well, and there's no guarantee he'll comply if he realises there's no Emily left to protect.
No matter. She'll wait, and she'll see, and she'll adapt. She's used to playing dangerous games.
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If only this body were Marked.
This is her clearest thought as Farley Havelock rattles her head against the wall beside the fireplace. A storm howls outside the penthouse and a storm howls within, shaking the sanity from Havelock's eyes — his stringy, greasy hair in disarray and his teeth bared and his hands, huge and calloused, pinning the girl's body with her feet dangling. He seeths.
"What's your game, you little bitch? What are you hiding!"
Behind Havelock, Pendleton and Martin are frozen in shock and uncertainty. If they'd trusted each other enough, they might have shared a glance of concern. Pendleton (a coward, she'd pegged him as such) flaps his mouth, floundering as if considering intervention, but ultimately closes his eyes and swallows and reaches for the flask in his jacket instead. It is Martin who steps in, reaching forward after a brief hesitation to grasp Havelock's shoulder.
"Admiral, think about what you're —"
Havelock launches Martin away with a vicious backhand. She watches the violence unfold with placid eyes, though a bruise mars her cheek and inside her hackles are rising. The nerve of this brute, to lay his hand on her so callously!
If she were Marked, Havelock would have been ripped apart before his stroke fell.
He'd have been gripped by vines and his eyes plucked by thorns.
(But Emily is just a girl. Little girls have to wait for their revenge.)
Her silence only enrages Havelock more. He snarls, pulling her away from the wall only to throw her back against it.
Martin rubs the mark where Havelock struck him. "For Void's sake, Farley! She's the Empress! Have you lost your fucking mind?"
Havelock's gaze wheels frantically between her and his colleagues. He looks nothing like the dignified soldier he'd been last week. Paranoia unravels him. Isn't it funny, the way men rip themselves asunder in their political games? "Look at her, Martin! Look at her eyes! She's planning something. She knows something! Why isn't she trying to run?"
"You won't get her to cooperate by beating her like a beggar's wife!"
Havelock's breath is laboured. She wonders if he'll lash out again — but some remaining scrap of self preservation recognises the sense of Martin's words. He doesn't take his hands off her, though. He lifts her bodily, storming to her room/cell and flinging her inside, slamming the door and it's bolt shut hard enough to compete with the thunder without. She doesn't utter a sound until it's closed, where she picks herself up and brushes down her clothes (now smeared with dust and grime) and mutters a damnation. Murder sparks in those pretty brown eyes.
These petty men think they can use her.
These petty men think they can control her.
(Wait. See. Adapt.)
Pressing herself to the keyhole, she observes the three conspirators, barely even loyal to one another any more. She sees, with sharp and scientific eyes, the way they turned away from one another. The way their eyes flicker with private plans at one another's expense. More importantly, the way they flicker towards her door.
Fear. The sky crackles with it. Fear of each other, and fear of the strange not-girl in their midst, who does not struggle or scream or cry out for Corvo.
Fear will tear them apart in the end.
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Deep deep deep in the darkcoldquiet places of her mind, the girl trembles. What's left her of kicks out one final, feeble protest against the encroaching void. Cries out for mother. Where is Corvo?
The witch only smiles and swallows her whole.
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Emily is just a girl. Weak. Unmarked. But she is patient, and she awaits her perfect opportunity to uncoil and strike.
She works out the window's screws with the kitchen knife she'd secreted into the lining of her jacket. Funny, what tricks a child could pick up in Dunwall Tower. Havelock's whiskey-slurred monologue drifts through to her, a speech for an audience who can no longer hear or care. He'd come to her room last night reeking of drink, confessing everything, frantic as a sinner on his deathbed. Shattered a glass against the wall. Screamed at her when she'd been silent and impassive, demanding to know her secret, had she been in contact with Corvo, did she know what he was planning, why couldn't she just say something? She had a second bruise now.
(Fear will tear them apart in the end. She has no such issue.)
The window comes loose. Below, a blue as endless and hungry as the Void. Not even the waves can be seen at this altitude. It would be enough to frighten a man back into the room, but she climbs fearlessly onto the ledge and begins working her way to the next window. She'd had enough of waiting. Her teeth were ready.
It's unlocked. She slips inside and lands quietly on the floorboards.
"If Corvo hadn't been so damned good at his job," the Admiral deliberates after a long, indulgent sip. "If we hadn't gotten greedy and afraid. If, if, if."
She's never felt the absence of her former power as intensely as she does now. The Outsider had no reason to visit young Lady Emily except in her feverish nightmares, and she finds herself craving the itch and hum of power as an ex-addict craves the seed of the poppy. Weak. Unmarked. But Havelock is quietly crumbling and vulnerable and his poisoned comrades slump at the table behind him and the knife would suffice, for now, for now.
Besides, power for power — is it not an equal trade? The Void gives, the Void takes. All comes at a price.
"There's something wrong with the world," Havelock mourns.
She is quiet. Quick. But Havelock is quicker.
He catches her out of the corner of his eye whirls to face her, beady eyes expanding at the sight of her: an evil-eyed girl whose knife catches the firelight. Murder written in her scowl.
Havelock's fingers twitch near the holster at his belt — considering — before resignation settles into the lines of his face. His hands fall to his sides. His forgotten whiskey stains the floor. A man at the gallows. So very, very tired. "It was always going to end like this, wasn't it?" he whispers. "Outsider spare me."
The witch draws herself up with all the dignity of a lost queen and prepares the knife.
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They thought they could control me.
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She paints a pretty picture on the floor in Havelock's blood. Red-black rose patterns stain the wood. She thinks she'd like to paint this scene one day; she commits it to memory, the spread of bodies and warmth of the fire. She could hang the scene above her throne. She perches cross-legged and demure on the table with her knife in one hand, spinning idly with its point resting on the table, and a shot glass in another, recalling parties where Corvo snuck Emily sips of alcohol when the socialites and dignitaries weren't looking. The drink burns more than she remembers.
It is just as the stories claim: she does not hear the assassin approach. Corvo Attano is less than a whisper, ghosting up the atrium and only making himself known when he reaches the penthouse door. There's not a drop of red on his coat and he trails river muck across the threshold; he freezes where he stands at the sight.
And what a sight! Bodies poised like dolls at a tea party with no sign of a struggle and a little girl at the centre of it all, blood smeared on her once pristine clothes and across her chin, hair whipped by wind.
His hands begin to shake. He reaches up to remove the fearsome, deathly mask: lank hair and gaunt cheeks and bruised, aching, horrified eyes.
"Emily?"
She meets his gaze, unflinching, and something transforms in his face. He sees her. His grip shifts on the hilt of his sword.
"What have you done?"
The Empress blinks up at him and smiles. All teeth.
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petals, petals on the water,
tell me, tell me, where's your daughter?