It was dark.
All of it – everywhere.
Corvo couldn't tell if his eyes were open or not. They burned as if from prolonged exposure to the elements however the world was still shrouded in obscurity. His limbs would not respond to him. It felt as if cotton had replaced his nerves dulling all reception of feeling and movement. There came a moment of panic as Corvo was struck with sudden fragment of conscious thought, but it was gone nearly as quickly as it had come. The world swam beyond his cloaked eyes. He was disoriented and felt sick.
He was shaken back into consciousness by the rocking of the boat – vaguely aware of the two figures standing over him. Now his eyes were open and they burned with the strain. It took a moment for him to recognize the threat and longer for him to actually formulate some semblance of retaliation. Though the effort was maddeningly difficult and just as useless. He could barely keep the air flowing to his lungs. Getting up and defending himself was far out of the question.
Corvo's head lolled with the swaying of the vessel. He knew the two Whalers were talking to each other as they stood stooped over him, but he couldn't discern the sounds into proper words. His nerves weren't the only things stuffed with cotton. The world seemed to move slower around him as his mind slowly drifted away, unable to retain a string of conscious thought.
The two assassins were still on the boat when he succumbed to the dark once again.
Maybe they would make the dark permanent.
The darkness gave way to water.
At first, Corvo thought he was drowning.
His lungs sputtered in reflexive response gasping for the precious oxygen he would surely be deprived of. However, no water filled his lungs. There was no difficulty whatsoever in his breathing. His mind took just a moment too long to realize he was not, in fact, about to die from lack of air. A strange calm fell over him. It was numbing.
His arm was hanging over the boat and his hand barely reached the surface of the water – the tips of his fingers submerged but nothing more. The promise of hagfish coming around to make a midday snack out of his vulnerable limb briefly flickered behind his half-lidded eyes, but he couldn't concentrate enough on the thought to actually be concerned about it.
Vaguely, Corvo was aware of the fact that he was moving. The boat, which's edge he was hanging precariously over, was being propelled. Whether it was because of some current or external force was something he could not confirm. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it was the latter, but he could not pinpoint the reason why or how.
The pain he had felt earlier was not as numb as the rest of him. The pain was everywhere, and yet it was nowhere. Corvo could not pinpoint a specific source and sometimes he couldn't feel it at all. But he could feel it throb with each lethargic beat of his heart. Momentarily, he would question its existence before being heartily reminded and then once again being filled with doubt.
His eyes closed though he had no mindful recognition as to when. Strange emotions brewed within him, but his muddled mind could do nothing with them. He knew he should be somewhere, doing something – that maddening sense of duty not lost when all else was. But he had not the memory nor brain power to retrieve it.
He was rocked back into oblivion by the steady movement of the boat.
His mind fell victim to the darkness.
Noises permeated the dark.
The black cloak over his eyes did not give way.
They were mechanical in nature - the grind of gears, the jingle of chains. His feeble concentration was reeling and his ears rang. His body felt heavy as it was hoisted upward by some unknown force. For a brief moment, Corvo wondered if he was dead and ascending upward toward a place where he would no longer have to tax his brain with suck unanswerable questions. His mind, quicker now, abandoned the juvenile thought as it was spawned.
The darkness fled when the light came. His vision blurred but clear enough to make out the figures below him slowly getting smaller as he rose higher. He was filled with an uncontrollable, indefinable rage that had to apparent source or outlet. He could not act upon it, he was not able, and he had no recollection as to why such a strong and dangerous emotion would overcome him like that.
He expected the darkness to follow.
It did not come.
Instead, Corvo felt his strength slowly returning to him. He sluggishly pulled himself upward as to stand in whatever vessel the Whalers had trapped him in. He leaned heavily against the bars unable to support himself. His mind still worked too slowly to connect any dots and though darkness did not come he lost track of how much time passed before he had stopped his vertical ascent.
The Whalers were already there, dressed in their black uniforms, and were quickly accompanied by a man in red. Corvo recognized him, or at least knew that he should. The mark on the back of his hand burned with unfulfilled promises of violence and revenge. His hands thirsted for his throat. His mind craved closure. But he would not get it.
Not today.
Not ever.
The man in red spoke to him. Corvo heard the sounds but could not process the words. Any lingering sensation of defiance dropped with the case that held his gear – his tools of destruction. His stomach lurched as his mind slowly began to put pieces back in place and make sense of his confusion.
Jessamine.
She was gone. Killed by the man before him and her throne lost to those he worked for. Despair overtook him, unable to fight the emotion away like he had always done. When Daud struck him, Corvo did not resist, did not complain. He let himself crumple to the floor of the chamber.
He pleaded for the darkness.
And it came.
The dark gave way to darkness.
Light filtered in through small cracks in the wooden planks above him.
He knew where he was the moment his eyes snapped open – clarity of mind and strength of body having returned to him. However he made no move to get up. The assassins had him captured, but it would not take much for him to escape. The boards above him were feeble. The stones at his side would be more than enough to shatter them, but he made no effort. A couple of rats scurried around in the confined chamber next to him, but they did not bother him. Nothing could bother him. Nothing except for everything. The pit inside of him was growing and there was very little that it did not consume in its wake.
Jessamine was gone, and everything that he had ever fought for was gone with her. Her rule had been lost, and Corvo had been helpless to stop it. Anger. Anger at no one except for himself permeated his very being. His fist smashed into the ground but it was lacking in the fury required to make the pain satisfying. Grunting, he rolled over and sluggishly pulled himself onto his feet before stumbling and falling back onto the cold floor.
Something fell out of his coat pocket with the jerking movement. It took him a moment to realize and a moment longer to pick it up. It was a piece of paper. He uncaringly unfolded the neat slip ripping it slightly at one of its damp corners. A crudely drawn picture was waiting for him within the confines of its folds. At first it was completely incomprehensible but he realized that it was a picture of him. The word written at the bottom in large, sloppy script gave him pause.
Daddy
Corvo's head bowed forward as he gripped the slip of paper with trembling hands. Guilt struck him with the weight of his betrayal. Emily. She was still out there. How could he have been so selfish? Willing to sit here and rot when she was out there waiting for him to come and rescue her.
Carefully, as not to damage it any further, he folded the drawing up and slid it back into his pocket. The tears fell from his eyes but he did not feel them. He picked up the mask that had fallen on the ground and glanced at it once before placing it where it belonged. He was not a man who had been wronged. He was not a man who had given up. He was not a man to be pitied. He was not Lord Protector. He was not Corvo Attano.
He was a man out to do the job of an army.
And there would be darkness.