Corvo wakes up drowning on land. Salty air clings thick in his throat as he stares up towards the ceiling and sees the bottom of the sea, fed by the rain falling upwards, the shadows of giant sea-beasts fading in and out of the depths. It's silent, not even echoing the sound of his attempted gasps, except for the alien croon of whales and the distant pounding of waves that might be the pounding of his heart. He stares up at the ocean and the blue glow all around him that goes on forever.

Corvo wakes up choking on air. Breath rattles out of him like the dry scrape of rat claws as he stares up towards the ceiling and sees plain grey stone, heart racing so hard it might break out of his ribcage.

It's still dark outside when Corvo slips out of bed and the cold floor stings his feet. Grit clings to the inside of his eyelids and he starts to tilt to one side if he stands still for too long, but stubbornness keeps him upright long enough to reach the window and brace himself against the glass. He's only wearing a pair of cotton pants, and goosebumps crawl up his arms and down his chest.

He can hear the whales singing through the closed window. After the unbearable weight of the silence in his dream, it's almost comforting, a reminder that being trapped in even the loneliest, darkest depths of the world doesn't mean being alone.

"You are never truly alone, my dear," says the Outsider. Corvo suppresses a reflexive twitch but doesn't turn around, keeps his eyes focused on his faint reflection on the window and the city lights outside. He notes that the Outsider doesn't have a reflection of his (its) own.

"I'd have thought you would grow bored by now," Corvo says quietly.

"You underestimate your own value."

"To what? To whom? You? I thought you didn't play favorites."

The touch, when it comes, feels like a chilled, wet wind against his skin, sliding down the curve of his spine over the dulled lines of scar tissue. Corvo whips around blindly, hand fisted for a lethal blow to the throat, but he just hits empty space.

"In another world, you were the avenging angel that left a trail of corpses in your wake. Children are such impressionable creatures, and when she saw the last good thing in her world soaked in blood, little Emily followed in your footsteps. Even now, the empress that will direct the fate of a grand civilization in the years to come looks to you for guidance. Your every action contains the potential of an empire."

"If that was all you were looking for, you would have given your Mark to Emily," Corvo bites out. "Or Sokolov." I'm a shadow, he thinks, a little frantically, I'm a sword to be wielded, nothing more.

"I used to think you were a force of nature," Corvo goes on, "but you're not. A force of nature doesn't discriminate, it doesn't care if someone is interesting or not. It just is. You're…not. Sometimes I think that you're more human than you know or want to admit. That maybe you're…" Corvo's tongue feels too thick for his mouth, his thoughts refusing to shape themselves into the limitation of language. He hates this, hates talking, hates trying to fit thoughts to words as though words alone could contain all the nameless being in a man's heart. "You're like the reflection someone sees at night in a window, except you can't even do that."

The silence is so heavy that, for a moment, Corvo feels like he's trapped in his dream again and suffocating on air. Then the Outsider says softly, "Rare is the man who can laugh in my face. Rarer still is the man who will question what I am."

"Rarest of all is the man who will listen," Corvo says, turning back to the window with finality, "but then, you're not a man, are you?"

The touch, when it comes again, is shocking in both its suddenness and unnaturalness. It's a coldness that flows through the raised hills of the whip-scars on his back, streaming along his ribs towards his chest, sinking deep into bones haunted by the memory of being broken, pouring into his veins until his lungs are filled with half-frozen seawater. It's a little like dying and a little like that first breath of air after nearly drowning, and Corvo doesn't realize his body is crumpling until his knees and hands hit the floor. He tries to turn his head towards the Outsider but his vision is bleeding blue Void and his ears ringing with the crashing of waves, he's suffocating on foreign oceans and forgotten eras and he can't – he can't –

Corvo finally comes back to himself lying spread-eagled on the floor, panting and alone, body only held together by wire and luck. The air is cool against bare, sweaty skin, and it takes several long minutes trying to remember how to be human before he notices the wetness making his loose pants stick to the inside of his thighs. He considers that for a while, vacillating between panicked sobs or trying to cut the Mark out of his flesh, and eventually settles on letting out a long, wordless sigh before gingerly getting to his feet to clean himself up.

…

The first assassination attempt comes during Emily's coronation. It's a nightmare for security, of course, she'd insisted on a parade through the streets so that everyone could see the pretty spectacle, not just the people important or rich enough to deserve being in the Tower. Corvo's only consolation is that he's now intimately familiar enough with the streets to know the best places for a sudden attack. Captain Curnow is a lifesaver and keeps Corvo from having either a nervous breakdown or killing every guard who makes even the slightest mistake, and Corvo debates whether the uproar would be worth promoting Curnow straight to the highest rank for an officer. He'll bring it up to Emily later.

Emily wears white trousers with a tastefully-frilled blouse and a jacket beautifully tailored in the latest fashion, and she sits at the front of the carriage, which is no longer covered in steel plates, so that she can smile and wave at her subjects. Officers in full uniform on white horses flank the carriage, and it's all heralded by a procession of men in ruler-straight lines of military discipline.

By all rights and tradition, Corvo should be seated beside her looking very professional and intimidating, but instead he Blinks from roof to roof, unseen, watching windows and doorways and the movement of the shifting crowds. The orange glow of Dark Vision melts across his eyes and flows through walls and blockades.

And then. In a dark, narrow alley where the crowd has its back turned are four guards taking on two men who seem to have Emily's death on their minds. Corvo sees the glint of a gun barrel in a two-storey window and corrects, Three men.

His bolt hits the sniper between the eyes, and before the body can finish toppling out of the window Corvo is suddenly standing behind one of the men in the alley, shooting a bolt point-blank into his back. The third man only has enough time to say, "What the f –," before Corvo's sword slices off his head, which falls on the ground with a meaty, hollow thunk under a thick fountain of blood. He's left standing over two dead men, half his coat soaked scarlet and the guards staring at him in horror.

"How did you," one starts, before his voice tapers off into a heavy silence.

"I was already over there," Corvo replies, pointing to a conveniently nearby doorway draped in shadow. A couple of the guards look at each other uneasily, but Corvo's hard, steady stare finally has their captain muttering, "Aye, Lord Protector, sir."

The rest of the coronation is relatively uneventful, barring one of the lords getting drunk during the ball and sharing some things that will provide plenty of gossip until the next big scandal. Corvo is still keyed up, however, imagining Emily's little body lying as dead in his arms as her mother's, and he spends the rest of the evening prowling through and around the ballroom like a silent, dark-eyed predator, inspiring an undertone of uneasiness throughout the court. His blood is the pounding of a storm-ripped ocean against rocks, his skull ringing with whalesong, the corners of the room cracking until blue Void-light seeps through the edges of the world; he is the only one who sees and hears.

Look at you, a voice whispers through the cracks, how striking you are like this.

…

"I am the beginning of all things, and the end. I knew that the rise of your species would silence the oceans. I know that in five hundred years your beloved empire will be remembered only by the rubble being slowly worn away by the waves, and I know when the Void will open its arms and drown the world. But I don't know you, Corvo. You are the paradox that breaks a closed system. Your guilt punishes you by allowing your torturers to walk free, yet your love for Emily would have you bleed the city dry. Your mercy is cruelty because you know death can be a blessing. I know eternity, Corvo, but I don't know you, and that makes you infinitely more interesting."

…

"Dereliction of duty," says the officer, and a shiver runs through the guards assembled in one of the smaller courtyards. Corvo stands with his feet apart, spine straight, one hand resting on the sword at his side as he looks out over the lines. The uniforms haven't changed since Jessamine's time and he knows, now, what those uniforms look like on bodies that have been stabbed, burned, disemboweled, or shredded by razor wire. Two men in particular have been singled out and stand alone in front of the other guards. Corvo steps forward and paces slowly in front of them, watching the way they stare straight ahead and very carefully don't look him in the eye.

"They were found with some of Slackjaw's bootleggers, Lord Protector," the officer continues stiffly. His voice has been tight ever since Corvo walked into his office, wearing an unreadable expression as he handed Corvo a discipline report.

Corvo automatically calculates: two guards, taller than average, one of them bulkier with muscle, and they move with purpose but poor balance; strong, but not very fast or agile; vulnerable at the spaces between their helmets and chestplates, at their joints and legs. Easy kills. Every so often a faint tremor rattles through their light armor.

"What did you expect to happen?" he asks softly, and sees them struggle, not wanting to be honest in case they seal their own fate but not wanting to be caught obviously lying. The silence stretches on painfully until Corvo adds even more quietly, "You left the southeast tower perimeter open."

The two guards glance at one another. Corvo lifts his sword and levels it at the guard on his right. "Draw your blade."

The guard doesn't move until the officer barks, "Do it!"

With a slight tremor in his hand, the guard steps forward, draws his blade, and raises it in a ready position. Corvo waits, unmoving, until the guard's nerve breaks and he slashes forward with a yell. It would be easy to draw it out, humiliate the guard in front of his squadmates or even maim him permanently, and it's nothing more than he deserves for leaving Emily wide open to a knife in the heart. In many ways Coldridge Prison was quite educational, and Corvo can think of so many things to make the man regret every sin in his worthless, spirits-damned life. It would be easy to slip into the man's skin and send him smashing onto the rocks far below the Tower, summon rats to eat him alive, blast him into a wall and snap his neck, stop time and trap him in one endless moment of terror forever. So easy.

Corvo takes a step to the side, turns on his heel, recognizes and dismisses the opportunity to slice a throat or hamstring, and strikes hard in the back of the guard's head with the pommel to send him careening down to the ground in a senseless heap.

"I'm sorry," the second guard says desperately, "I'm sorry, it won't happen again, Outsider's eyes, please – "

Corvo sheathes his sword and walks away, confident that, no, it won't happen again. The silence behind him is heavy, broken up only by the lone guard's panicked sniffling.

"The men are terrified of you," Curnow tells him later that night as they watch the servants set up dinner in one of the smaller halls. They're standing against the wall out of the way of busy people and delicately balanced platters of food, and Corvo keeps an eye on Emily as she sits at the head of the table and chats happily with whichever servant happens to pass by. Corvo grunts distractedly and ignores Curnow's amused smile. "They still talk about what it's like to see you sparring on the practice grounds, but now it's with a little more 'oh spirits I hope he doesn't kill me in my sleep.'"

Corvo rolls his eyes.

"They also talk about witchcraft," he goes on, serious, and his eyes flick down to Corvo's gloved hands. "Fortunately, the Abbey's still in too much disarray after the betrayal and death of two consecutive High Overseers to go witch-hunting, but you never know what they'll do."

"You know exactly what they'll do."

"Corvo!" cries Emily, bounding over with very un-empress-like energy. She takes his right hand fearlessly, entirely unmindful of his personal space because why should she be? "Callista's been going through the history of each isle and did you know that there were huge naval battles with Morley with cannons and everything? I want to know about Serkonos. Is it true that the ladies are all scandalous and the men all tall, dark, and brooding?"

Curnow is badly muffling laughter into his sleeve. Corvo asks weakly, "Where on earth did you hear all that?"

"I found a book under Callista's pillow. It's about a dashing pirate from Karnaca who falls in love with a Grand Guard's wife – "

Corvo makes a pained noise. "No, Emily, it's not true."

Her face falls, then brightens again when she asks, "But there are pirates, right? And I overheard some officers talking about how there are rumors that all the nobles hire assassins whenever they argue politics, what about that?"

"You should be careful with rumors," says Corvo. "Sometimes they're real and warn you when something bad is going to happen, but sometimes people use them to make innocent people they don't like look bad, too."

"Mother always did say that it wasn't fair how the nobles don't like that you look a little different and that you grew up with another language."

Curnow winces a little. Corvo, thinking of Gristol's perception of Serkonos as a den of whores and merchants, of the nobles' jaded palettes and their love of macabre novelty, says, "People only like differences that they think are actually safe."

"But you are safe," Emily frowns in confusion just as a servant says, "Your Majesty, dinner is ready, at your will."

"Yay!"

Corvo lets himself be pulled along to the table and seated at her right hand. She's a warm, cheerful, moving weight at his side, like a puppy trying hard to be grown up, and even though there have been times this past year when she hides her face in his chest and quietly cries Corvo is so, so thankful that she can still do this, can still laugh and be excited about new things and sneakily leave drawings of improving skill in his room.

"I want to try food from Serkonos. Can we make your favorite kind sometime soon?"

Corvo smiles until the corners of his eyes crinkle. There are no bared teeth. "If you wish."

It's a rare evening when there's nothing urgent demanding the attention of either Empress or Lord Protector, so they spend it together, coloring with pencils ("Corvo, is that a horse or a ship?" – "…It's a whale") and Corvo teaching Emily how to play Nancy ("Now I can challenge the guards! Will you show me how to smoke a cigar?" – "No"). His sword and heavy coat lay on the desk while he sits cross-legged on her bedroom floor, letting Emily crawl around looking for lost pencils and getting the knees of her white pants all dirty and grey. He wonders if Jessamine would be proud of her daughter and decides that, yes, she would be, so much so.

Please, he begs, and doesn't think about who is listening, doesn't think about the whalesong just below the edge of his hearing, please don't ever let this change.

…

"Everything changes, Corvo, except I."

The Outsider's voice flows cold over Corvo's skin, following muscle and scars. It trickles over the steps of his spine, carved in sharp relief, and pools briefly in the curve of his back before running fingers down his thighs. Corvo shivers and turns his face up towards the endless blue of the Void and broken fragments of time. He doesn't think the Outsider's words are true, otherwise he'd never actually be bored, but Corvo just smiles vaguely and closes his eyes.

Cool, dry hands sliding around the width of his ribs makes him suck in a sudden breath, surprised and unsettled and maybe a little bit terrified because this has never happened before, but he doesn't fight it or open his eyes, and the hands stop with palms pressed on either side of his chest. Even though he's fully clothed and wearing his Protector's coat, he can still feel the touch against his bare skin, chill but getting colder until –

– the hands become so cold that they start to feel weirdly hot, like spilled alcohol, and then they burn like a shattered tank spitting whale oil everywhere. The hands aren't touching bare skin but pressing beneath it, curling around his heart and holding it so, so carefully while it flutters and skips. Dimly he wonders if his heart is whispering his secrets to a god that already knows them, bleeding out all the little sins that have weighed it down like stones.

"I would have you know me, my dear."

He says faintly, "I think my sanity would – "

"Corvo," whispers the Outsider, and suddenly his whole body is burning while his lungs fill with seawater. For a moment his heart is crushed in possessive hands and then the world fractures into a kaleidoscope of the agony and ecstasy of a million, billion creatures. He sees Dunwall-as-It-Will-Be bleed into Dunwall-as-It-Once-Was and the Tower stands like a white beacon of crumbled black stone that never existed and an old woman carves a rune while the waves slowly bury her skeleton that's flushed with the excitement of new motherhood and the Void is breaking open and spilling out the world in its birth fluid as the world dies and washes up on the shores of the Void –

Corvo, the Outsider repeats, and Corvo slams back into himself, where time flows in one direction and past, present, and future are still separate tenses. The world is a step removed as his body straightens up, rolling its shoulders to settle itself like a coat on a new frame, and it moves towards the door, walks through the Tower corridors with none of the guards seeing the darkness wearing Corvo's flesh. They never meet his eyes, barely look at him, as he heads towards the highest, loneliest point of the Tower and looks out over the glorious ruin of the empire's capital. It's quiet in the late, late hours of night except for the screams of the dead and the haunting singing that echoes from the darkest parts of the ocean. Corvo can almost hear the words in the leviathans' crooning.

They sing songs older than your species, older than the land on which your kind walks. Only the Void is older, says the Outsider without sound or breath.

The world is caught somewhere between the faded colors of night and the Void-light that flays open its secrets. What are you, Corvo wonders for the first time, truly wonders and is terrified for it, and his own face cracks open with the facsimile of a smile.

I am the sum of all things. I have had as many names and as many lives as mankind could dream.

The Mark on Corvo's hand glows orange-blue and his body Blinks to the next tower, and the next, farther and faster than he's ever managed before – and it feels natural in the way breathing does, slipping through the spots in the world where the Void is just a little too close to the surface, the sudden stops and starts of time as familiar as going to sleep and waking up hours later with the sense that only minutes had passed.

He walks through the streets; sometimes rotten corpses blink at him with oil-slick eyes and the rats' chatter sounds like the clicking of dry bones. There's a group of men drinking whiskey, playing Nancy, down by the docks, and the Outsider says, One of them carries the carved bone of a leviathan in his breast pocket and speaks my name when no one else is around, and when the man knocks back another shot, the alcohol burns so hot that it blisters his throat, chokes him, panics the other men. There's no malice in it, just curiosity and a sort of amused indulgence – He wished to know me.

And Corvo thinks, You will be my end.

The Outsider just smiles with too many teeth, and whalesong crashes in Corvo's ears like waves, like thunder, and salt stings his nose, and corpses whose shrouds have slipped off their faces smile back. Dunwall is a city sinking under its own weight and it heaves under Corvo's – the Outsider's – feet, and one day it will sink into the bones of the forgotten city on which it stands. One day it will wash up unrecognizable on the Void's shoals and the Outsider (or Corvo, if he becomes death instead of just wearing its face) will swallow it back into the depths.

Corvo's head tilts back until the stars break through the docks' lights. They grow until they blind his eyes and he hears that Ancient Music and his flesh becomes a sixteen-note scale (not seventeen, not the last note that shatters the harmony, which only mankind could dream). Corvo's head tilts back until it breaks water and his mouth, his nose, his lungs fill with seawater and become home to the small creatures that crawl the black plains of the ocean floor. His ribs harden into the granite that holds up the Isles and his blood burns the hot blue-white of stars, of whale oil.

And, for the briefest moment, he is the Outsider.