Hello people. This is my first work, so it might be a little not professional. Please ignore grammar mistakes, I apologise for those. It might get a little boring in the middle, but I beg you to hold on.
BTW : I'm strictly against Corvo x Jessamine AND Corvo x Emily. So I've introduced my own character Willow Ride. Read on to know more about her.
One - The Lost Philosopher And The Unsung Hero
Willow Ride sat at her desk, watching the half torn piece of parchment lying in front of her. Her brown eyes were stationary, and to anybody who glanced at her, she would appear lifeless. Her moca skin shimmered like gold along her hands and fingers, also as dead as her eyes under the lamp light. She looked like a statue - frozen in time, like a thing that was unaware of the raging progress going on around it, of all the machines and roaring engines that functioned at the foot of the tower, of the sounds of men and women working on a new age, of the mighty beasts being slain far across the oceans. She wasn't like a dead body, no - more like a sculpture, because something like a dead body would decay with time, would change with the age and the weather, would still have reactions going on within it, yielding to the earth and the air. She looked like a sculpture because nothing else seemed to matter to her.
But she wasn't a dead body, or a sculpture.
Inside her, there were blood chilling screams, resonating in every vein in her body, and feelings tangled up and raging on at such an enormous rate that on a scale that could equate emotions to mechanics, hers would be as intense as the action in the city.
The empty torn parchment had been the reason, her unyielding mind had been the reason, her failed intellect had been the reason. It was frustration, building up so fast that even her fingers started to tremble. In a movement as sudden as lightning, she shook - much like the sculpture had just burst into life - and tore the parchment even more, and tore into such small bits that she couldn't even tear it any further.
She sat in her chair, fingers trembling, the torn pieces held tight in her closed fist. She threw them away, and they fell onto the crimson carpet, like withered leaves that had fallen from an old tree.
She sat on the chair for a few more seconds, taking deep breaths, soothing herself, trying to convince herself that she would try again tomorrow, it was already two in the night, that that was the reason why she couldn't think of anything, and that she would surely succeed tomorrow.
Just like she had done for the past two years, on and off.
Taking a shaky breath, the trembling mass of flesh and bones moved, got up from its chair and dragged itself to the bed. It sat at the edge, looking out of the window, at the dark night that was as still as herself. The tower stood upright on the East, barely a few metres away from the building she was in, and she reminded herself that she had to go back to that place tomorrow, that she had to serve the empire, she had to do her duty.
She looked down at the torn pieces of parchment, and lay back on her bed. She closed her eyes, pushing her black hair away from her ears.
He rushed through collapsed buildings and dirty ram shackles, disappearing one second and reappearing far ahead at the next. The mystical symbol on the back of his hand glowed brilliantly, but he was too fast for anybody to see it. He moved like a ghost, like a surreal creature that covered itself with a cloak that seemed to be made from the shadows itself.
Then he froze. His dark figure loomed on the sliding rooftop of an abandoned building. The moon seemed to be right behind him, casting a faint border on his mystical form, right from his broad shoulders to his feet. The ends of his dark coat fluttered in the wind as he looked ahead of him - at the dark clouds that drifted by at incredible speed. It was like the time was rushing ahead, as if the whole world was in a hurry, and the clouds billowed and faded and rearranged themselves in front of his eyes.
A figure appeared beside him, standing at a distance, almost at the edge of the rooftop. This one was unlike the masked man. The second figure stood straight, shoulders forming a perfect line, head held neither too high nor too low, but positioned right at the masked figure. The second one had a different aura, like a sense of something accomplished. He had a deep scar running along a side of his face, and a wide forehead, below which were two piercing, cold grey eyes. They were staring right at the masked man.
When the second man spoke, his voice was low, almost hoarse, husky. It sounded like the voice of someone who had a thousand secrets, and not just any secrets - but the secrets of the most dangerous kind - the ones that would never be revealed.
He said, ' Killing me hasn't changed much, has it?'
It wasn't a question, because both of them knew the answer and were completely aware of the fact. It was a mere statement, a truth so obvious that even saying it simply was too much.
The second man stepped forward, slowly, his footsteps echoing in the silent night. His red coat fluttered, revealing his brown boots and his empty scabbard.
'How is the empire, Corvo?' He spoke, stepping around him. Corvo made no attempt to look at him, but simply held his eyes on the rapidly shifting form of the clouds. His entire being was inclined on the man's words, because he spoke the ugly truth that he himself would never admit.
'Has the Plague passed?' The man continued, circling him slowly, never taking his cold stare away from him. 'Has the city been rebuilt? Are the streets echoing with the sounds of people's laughter and children's joy?' He stopped beside him, and said, 'Has our black-eyed friend spared you some ill fate yet? And the most important thing . . .' He leaned forward and said, ' Has your Empress risen up from the dead?'
Corvo clenched his fists, and turned to him. He had no answer, and that was the worst part, because now he was exposed, like a raw burning wound on someone's skin. Only his mask saved him from utter failure, because his helplessness was not visible openly.
'See?' Daud said, stepping back. He bent his head to the side, to expose his neck, and there it was - a deep cut, reaching as far into his flesh as to expose the veins. Blood gushed out of it,trickling down his shoulders, staining his red robe to a vile crimson. 'That will never heal, and it will never stop bleeding,' he raised his head again, and his cold grey eyes bore into Corvo's skull.
'Just like your conscience, which will never cease to bleed. Also like your Empress, who will never come back to life,' He stepped back, moving away from him. Corvo looked at the assassin anxiously, even though he knew every word he was going to say.
'Vengeance is not a finale, Corvo, Lord Protector, it's a game. It's an endless game, an endless circle of ugly events ending in blood and gore. I asked you for my life, and you refused.' His form seemed to dissolve in the air slowly as he walked away and turned to the moon. He looked back at Corvo one last time, and spoke the words that he dreaded, that always rang in his ears and haunted his thoughts.
'Now it's my turn.'
Corvo opened his eyes, and instead of the clouds, he saw a wooden ceiling - the ceiling of his four poster bed. His breathing was a little faster than usual, and he could feel his heart pumping against his chest. Under normal circumstances, he loved the feeling, the banging of his heart and the shortness of his breath, because it made him feel alive. Lately, he had come to dread the same sensation because of his dreams. He closed his eyes slowly for a few seconds and took a deep breath. Daud's voice kept echoing in his head, and the vision of his wounded throat kept flashing in front of his eyes, but he had learned to endure it. He opened them again and sat up to look at the clock.
5:00.
The view outside his window was of the tower veiled by a thick bluish morning fog, drifting in a calm pace, reminding him vaguely of the clouds from his dream. His white coloured cotton shirt was drenched in his sweat. It was a thin material, full sleeved with buttons that ended half way down his chest. He sighed and pulled it off. He threw it aside and rested his elbows on his knees, looking at nowhere in particular.
It had been a year since the Reign of Lord Regent had ended, and about eleven months since Emily had been crowned. There was still panic in the city, although it was less when compared to before. Anton Sokolov and Piero Jeoplin were on the verge of creating a cure for the plague, but there still seemed to be something missing in their efforts.
Nothing had changed much, except that there had been fewer killings and unexplained disappearances.
He stood up and walked into the bathroom. He had to report in the courtyard at six o'clock, and arrange the security patterns around the tower. At six thirty, he had to patrol in the corridor of Empress Emily Kaldwin's chambers while she finished her morning works. At seven, she would step out with her servant, and would walk to the breakfast table with her servant and The lord protector by her side. By eight, she would be present at the court, and then the hectic schedule would commence.
Corvo spent about ten minutes in the shower and used the rest of the time to dress himself. He never left out a single loose detail in his attire, because he was one of the most important figures of the Empire's defence, and he was expected to look as proper as possible. Even a single flaw in his manners or dressing could raise a hundred eyebrows in the court, especially because he was not only Corvo Attano, The lord protector, but also The Corvo who had a lot of accusations on his head. It began with the accusation of killing the Empress, which was still brought up occasionally, inspite of Empress Emily presenting herself as a witness, and it went on up to using Black magic.
And most of it was true.
Nobody dared to question his authority or position, especially in the presence of The Empress, but when he spent a few moments alone, he could feel a hundred suspicious eyes, hear a thousand accusing whispers.
Some of them had been ridiculous, infact, so utterly hopeless that they made him laugh whenever he thought of them. There was one that accused him of making an army of witches and assassins, to attack the Empire. He had heard it at a Royal Ball, and had stood pale for a second, unable to decide how he could react - he didn't know if he could laugh at it, or sniffle. The next second, he ended up laughing, loud and clear among the crowd. He earned a lot of weird glances and a few women even walked away like they feared him. That satisfied him. The look on their faces had been priceless.
But these things bothered him only when he was not around Lady Emily, when he was alone in his bed, or washing his face in the bathroom. When Emily was around him, his mind only concentrated on her and people around her, studying every detail of every person, remaining at high alert. One hand of his was wrapped around the hilt of his sword most of the time. When people spoke to him, he merely glanced at them and gave them one word replies. He only spoke properly to the guards or the soldiers, sometimes even overseers, and only about matters concerning the safety of The Empress. On duty, the only person he could ease up to was Lady Emily, because he had always held a soft spot for her, she was like a sister to him. Sometimes he even dared to think of her as a child he never had, and that compelled him to protect her even more.
But Lately, there had been a few disturbances in his behavior.
They were obvious only to him, because they originated in his mind, and in his conscience. Sometimes on duty, he would look around to find a shadow, a dark, looming presence among the people, and the next second, it was gone. Sometimes he heard screams, and they weren't strange, because they were the grunts and voices of the people he had killed.
Two memories haunted and disturbed him the most - the memory of Empress Jessamine Kaldwin being stabbed by a man, the vision of her lifeless body sinking to the ground, the memory of her life ebbing out of her body.
The second was the memory of slitting the throat of the one who had murdered her, the memory of his form falling down a rooftop, the feeling of his blood splattered on his knuckles.
The second memory had initially given him a sick pleasure, a hot satisfaction in his chest. For a few months, he smiled to himself when he recalled it, especially at moments when he saw Jessamine's paintings, or found Emily lost in thought, a strange misery lingering in her eyes.
But that was only for a while.
Slowly the pleasure decreased, and the memory didn't fill up the hole in his heart anymore. The satisfaction vanished little by little, and was replaced by emptiness - empty because he knew nothing had come out of it.
Killing Daud didn't end the Plague - and thats what Jessamine wanted. Killing him didn't spare Emily her pain and agony, she still suffered without any change. Slicing his throat didn't Solve the problems, and it didn't justify for him killing the others.
Then the dreams had begun. They haunted him day and night, although he tried to keep it at minimum on duty. Soon all that came out of the memory was the sensation of blood on his fingers, blood of a living thing, spilled in exchange for the blind pride of revenge.
Corvo sighed. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, at his tired, dark eyes and deep frown. He pushed his hair back and grabbed his sword. He then turned to look at the clock.
5:55.
Willow Ride walked across the huge corridors, smiling half heartedly at whoever wished her.
She clutched a wooden pad in one hand which held a stack of papers. She wore a white formal shirt with short frill borders at the neck. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and on top of the shirt, she wore a black sleeveless vest, buttoned up properly. A loose silver chain hung from the hem of her vest, attached to a hook on the garment, the other end carrying a silver watch that was buried in her pocket. Her black boots made muffled sounds on the carpet as she walked hastily to the courtyard, where she had to give her report to Anton Sokolov and Piero Jeoplin. As she walked across the stone bridge, she saw them at the corner, standing in the balcony, where Sokolov stood admiring the view while Piero sipped his tea sitting by a table.
'Good Morning, Sir,' she smiled at Piero, who simply nodded at her. She was accustomed to his empty responses, because she knew that when he seemed lost, his mind was at work, deducting possibilities and trying to make the impossible possible. She stepped to Sokolov and stood a few inches behind him.
The Royal Physician turned, and said, 'Lovely morning, Miss Ride. I just finished my tea. Great flavour, especially with the lemon. Would you like some?'
'No, thank you,' she answered simply. She stepped forward and handed him the report. It was concerned with the status of a few weepers from their lab, and it was her responsibility to check on them, to administer the doses of medicine, to take a full report of their behaviour and health.
She was their apprentice, and someday, if something unfortunate happened to Sokolov, she was to take his place as the Royal Physician.
Sokolov studied the pages carefully, turning them over one by one. His steel grey eyes moved rapidly from sentence to sentence, and when he was done, he took a deep breath.
'Well,' he uttered. 'Not bad. Subject 5, 8 and 11 have shown remarkable improvement.'
'The others?' Willow asked, looking at him.
'It depends on the strength of their systems and the extent of sickness, Ride. I'm definite that they will show improvement too, very soon. Me and Piero have just come out of the lab for a little refreshment. We're working on adding a new herb to the medicine, which will boost up its performance.'
'Thats good news, sir,' she gave a little smile.
'It will undoubtedly enhance the quality of the elixir by three times,' Piero spoke, looking at the horizon. 'And it will be the same price, so it will be available to even the poorest people in the kingdom. If used continuously for eight years, it will completely wipe out the rat plague.'
'When do I start using it on the Weepers, sir?' Willow asked them.
There were distant sounds of marching from under the bridge, and a few soldiers walked past, assembling to their guarding duties.
'We will give you the doses by today evening, if possible,' Sokolov answered. His eyes drifted to the bridge, and he said, 'Welcome back, Corvo.'
The Lord Protector walked across the bridge, looking at Piero and Sokolov. He smiled at them, an empty, meaningless smile.
Willow bowed her head and stepped back as he walked past.
'Good Morning, Miss Ride,' he uttered, and she smiled. He wished Piero and Sokolov with more familiarity, but it didn't take a genius to figure out that he was troubled. He didn't say much, and only gave half hearted responses. Then he walked away, saying that it was time for his duty.
As he walked into the gates, Sokolov spoke, 'Now there's a man that will never receive the glory he's worth.'
'I do not think that bothers him much,' Piero said, his eyes still on the horizon. 'However, it is still shameful that the Empire does not trust him, even after all he's done.'
'They say he worships The Outsider,' Sokolov said, stroking his mane. 'That he has seen and spoken to That God himself.'
'Now don't include your personal interests into this, Sokolov. We all know they are just worthless rumors. He is a good man, and deserves much more than he's presented with.' Piero looked at her. 'Do you believe the rumours?' He asked.
Willow Ride had spent nearly three years as Sokolov's apprentice, so she knew all about him, all about his interests, especially his interest in The Outsider. She had seen runes in his labs, had discovered scribblings of strange prayers and rituals in his desks, and she had even asked him directly. Anton Sokolov admitted, and even told her things about The Outsider, because he trusted her.
Unlike many others, the Outsider never scared her, or fascinated her. To her he was just another subject, something she wasn't really interested in. That was the reason why she had remained as Sokolov's apprentice for so long, because his strange interests never bothered her.
Being in service for three years, she had personally witnessed the final year of Empress Jessamine's reign, and also Her Lord Protector, Corvo Attano.
At a few occasions when she had seen him and spoken to him, he seemed like any other soldier - sincere, dedicated. His eyes were always alert, he never seemed to drift away or think of anything else except his duty. He protected The Empress like she was a Goddess, and in his presence, no one had even dared to speak ill to her.
But she had also seen him fight, and the vision still haunted her sometimes, because when he fought, he was like a demon. He looked like his only purpose was killing, taking away someone's life, much like a wolf with a sick bloodlust. Some of the soldiers trembled when he practiced.
'Not all of them,' she answered to Piero. 'But he is a good man, as you said.'
I hope you liked it. Please leave a review! Constructive criticism also welcome! And if you want to simply bash me about something go ahead.
Please also tell me what you think of Willow Ride.
Thank you so much for reading!
xoxoxoxo