- Bow -
His touch is almost unnoticeable at first. A wisp of smoke as her eyes shudder into dreamless sleep. The hairs on the back of her neck standing up, sending a shiver down her spine as she awakens to the nauseating rocking of the Dreadful Wale. Her breath shudders, as if she has seen something she should not.
Rain pitters against the metal siding, and she dreams of Corvo on occasion, of him trapped in stone and Delilah with her dark eyes and sleek hair. She grits her teeth, tries to think of possibilities of escape, of the easiest way to free her father and escape to Pandyssia across the waves.
It repeats in her head over and over – her father's cry of pain and then nothing – his reaching form stuck in agony. And he is there, slowly watching, waiting. Not always, but enough to grab her attention, to make the repeated scenes awkward and strange. First it is his eyes, covered in smoke and cloud, hiding through the crowd, always on her, watching from the back of court. Dark and clear and cloudless.
A smirk appears when she next falls into slumber. His lips look soft and sarcastic, too dangerous for something so mild. He is not a member of her court, watching in amusement as the witch grabs her by the neck, chocking her until she is forced into wakefulness with nothing but the sweat on her chest the proof he was there.
His face is entrancing. Corvo's cry rings through her ears as she watches him. He runs his thumb over his bottom lip, savoring. His face is mesmerizing – sharp edges and smooth lines, shifting and changing and yet always the same. Eyes as dark as the void. He is made of smoke, she thinks.
He speaks to her, "I know you, little Empress, daughter of Corvo."
His lips catch her ear and she awakens. Her head is cloudy, blissfully unaware, and Meagan brews her a cup of tea for her migraine.
His hand cups her jaw, and she cannot see him, his form pressed against her back, "I knew your father once, in the bad old days."
He is warm, his breath hot, and the nights have been long, "I never expected to see you."
He is wistful, not upset at the idea, and yet melancholic that she would have passed this life without him, with his unseeing eyes.
"So, your Imperial Majesty," the name has enough disdain in it, "What are you going to do about it?" And there is smoke against her back, swirling in dark ribbons.
Karnaca winds pull warm air into her tiny cabin on the waves, and that is when he appears. He is full of glory in a dark and dismal fashion, eyes never leaving her face, her lips. Stalks her like prey, waiting for his moment to pounce. He is the Outsider – king to beggars and thieves and the unfortunate. Friend of her father and made of the void.
And he watches her.
Waits for her to accept his gift, "Empress," he says, voice deceptively soft, and he holds to her his hand, strong and calloused, marked.
His knee bends, and she sees. He is no king. He watches her and he waits.
Kisses her hand as she places it into his, savors the thumping of her wrist, for he is no king. He marks her with his brand, for those that cross her will know that she belongs to him. And that he serves her.
