AN: Dishonored belongs to its creators. I've just borrowed them for a minute.

The Glass Heart

In the deepest, blackest time of night when even the denizens of the dark sought their lairs, far into the Flooded District, in a seemingly abandoned building, a man lay sprawled upon a cot. The room in which he slept was cold and spare; the furnishings were simple and utilitarian. The cold light of the full moon oozed into the room through a single window. In spite of the chilled temperature of the room, the sleeping man wore only breeches. A single thin sheet twisted around his hips and legs.

The being known to some as the Outsider stood in the shadows and watched the man sleep. The man on the cot shifted and groaned. His hands clenched, his jaw tightened, sweat seeped from his pores. His body sought the release his mind refused to grant him. The Outsider nodded and smiled then disappeared in a puff of black, oily smoke. The sound he made as he exited was no louder than a baby's sigh but it was enough to wake the sleeping man.

Daud jerked awake; his arm slashing out to eliminate the threat he had sensed in his sleep. He took great gulping breaths as he scanned the room. Finding it empty, he sat up, turned his back to the wall and untangled the sheet.

"I know you were here, ya black-eyed bastard," Daud growled into the darkness. "I can smell your stench." Dancing there at the edge of Daud's perception was the scent he always associated with the Outsider. It was an odd combination: the sharp stink of ozone, the salty tang of the ocean, the dark muskiness of damp undergrowth, and under it all the faint, light sweetness of lavender.

Satisfied he was alone, Daud reached around the edge of the bookshelf at the head of his bed. He withdrew a Cullero cigar and a small metal match box. With shaking hands, he struck a match and lit the cigar. He took a long drag, drawing in the fragrant smoke. He stared into the shadows and reflected upon his dream. It was the same damn nightmare of the same damn series of events of the same damn day…the day she died…the day he killed …her…Jessamine…the Empress.

"Why do you haunt my dreams, woman?" he demanded. "Why of all those I've dispatched, do you beleaguer me?"

Daud took another pull of the cigar. He leaned his head back against the wall, exhaled, and watched the smoke drift towards the ceiling. The events of that day taking form in the smoke. He and four of his Whalers went to execute the plan. They had moved in over the rooftops, casting a wide net. Marco and Sean went in first. That bastard, Corvo Attano, somehow remarkably was there. Sean had been dispatched with a point-blank shot to the chest. Marco dueled Corvo with swords but was also defeated. Then came Dara, a much more apt swordswoman. She kept Corvo dancing until Dusk came in and tethered him. With Corvo subdued, Daud stalked the Empress.

She had been a magnificent target. She didn't beg, didn't cry, didn't plead. She had been the quintessential female protecting her young. She had actually dared to lay hand on him trying to push him away from her child. Daud had faced supposedly tough men who were not as strong as this slip of a woman; men who pissed themselves and cried like children but not her. She had been angry and had tried to fight him off. But impressed as he was, she was just a job, a sword thrust under the ribs. Her daughter, Emily, delivered to the Pendletons. Afterwards, Corvo was placed in jail for the murder and kidnapping.

And now, Daud thought, she haunts me. Every night he dreams of her, sometimes replays of the events, sometimes just flashes of images and emotions, and sometimes dark, oppressive nightmares filled with blood and screams.

The night's sleep ruined, Daud kicked off the sheet and stood. He stamped out the cigar then gathered his clothing. Not bothering with light, Daud moved across the room to a basin. He turned on the faucet and let the cool water pool in his cupped hands. He splashed the water onto his face and neck and into his hair. He grabbed a small rough towel, dampened it, and scrubbed the sticky sweat from his torso and arms. Daud dried himself with a second towel then dressed with extreme care.

Once the last buckle was secured over his great coat, he stepped across the room to the door. He pulled on his gloves as he left the building. Daud made his way out of the Flooded District and through the city, sometimes walking and sometimes transversing. He journeyed down alleys and darkened thoroughfares. He ghosted past the City Watch and Weepers, neither realizing that Death stalked nearby. He passed homes, businesses, factories and warehouses. His destination was a gazebo in a courtyard and the stone marker that it housed. Daud knelt before the marker and brushed his gloved hand across the last line of words etched into it.

Empress to us all.

"Some of us do not deserve to have you as our Empress," Daud told her. "Some of us deserve your contempt and disgust. I have watched this city degrade. It is diseased and rotting without your presence. I should have never taken the job. I should have stuck a sharp piece of metal into Hiram's eye when he told me the details. I would give back all the money to undo what I have done. Of all of us in this morbid play, you are the only one who deserves to have lived."

Daud stayed kneeling before the Empress's grave until dawn. As the weak light crept across the horizon, Daud stood and traversed away. He slowly made his way back to the Flooded District and the machinations of the corrupt aristocracy of Dunwall.

Thanks to the Dishonored Wiki for being the font of information that it is, especially to MDGeistMD02 who answered all my terribly invasive questions.