Chapter two: Gone

POV: Third person

She vaguely recollects the events from earlier today. The sun had been shining cheerfully when she entered the now bloody throne room, and things had been quite nice, despite it being in sorrowful memory of the former Empress. Now, her head spins and blood cakes on the top of her head, in her hairline and around the lobes of her pointy ears. Things hurt, dreadfully so. Some of the dark red liquid wasn't her own, and instead, from Ramsey's boot, which happily trudged through humanity's water like it was air, but a great section of it was oozing from a cut in her head. A small gash gathered from some unknown part of the confrontation—it doesn't matter where it came from. It is still there, and ought to receive medical attention.

That's the last thing on her tired mind, right now.

Emily tries to stand up, using the wall behind her for support. Her ring is missing, and her sense of balance has also been robbed. It no longer exists—she feels utterly stupid when she falls back down onto the wooden, rug-covered floor with a light thunk.

"Come on, Emily. Do not let them hear you. I need to escape. Come on…" she mutters to herself, crawling on her hands like a cat to reach the door a few feet ahead of her. It takes excessively long… too long to be reasonable. A small cut must not be the only thing she's gotten from that encounter. A broken rib, maybe?

It's hard to breathe.

The brass handle does not budge when her hand reaches up to it and pulls down; it just shifts itself ever so slightly, as if it was mocking her pathetic efforts to escape. She needs to think, to clear her head from all the plaguing junk that has decided to sit there. However, there is no time for that. If she waits any longer, they might just come back for her and drag her drowsy body into Coldridge. They being Delilah and the rest of the coup's members.

Such a treasonous plan indeed… how had they even known Delilah was Jessamine's sister? If anyone else had come knocking on their door with such information, they'd be admitted to a mental asylum for treatment concerning their sanity. Were the Duke and Delilah friends somehow? Did they both share the dream of dethroning Emily from where she should rightfully sit? All the more treason.

She wasn't that bad an Empress, right? Or is the Duke merely greedy enough to destroy another for the power he wants? That, too, is a very real possibility.

Giving up on opening the door in its clearly locked state, Emily leans her weight against it and peers through the lock hole. On the other side, chatting pleasantly and calmly, are two guards with irrelevant faces. Nobodies who have betrayed the Empress in turn for some gift or wealth, probably. A promise that may not even find itself fulfilled.

"These must be some of the Duke's men. Traitorous dogs…" she needs a plan, and an efficient way of executing it. The latter will be a lot harder to sort through, seeing as though the inhalation of oxygen is not getting any easier as the clock on her desk tics by the passing time.

She remembers vividly a time where she sat at that desk without pants on, while her lover, Wyman, hid underneath her and away from the guard whom entered to give a report. Using a lot of willpower, Emily had managed to stay put with a straight face the entirety of the time, all the while pretending to listen to the meaty guard through pleasuring waves that would not stop in his presence—adding a lot of difficulty to the situation. As soon as he had left the two burst into a fit of laughter, almost forgetting their previous activity. Those were good days, but now they are over. For now, at least.

"I'll see you soon, Wyman. I promise. But in the meantime I need to get out of Dunwall—it's not safe here anymore."

She turns her neck and cranes it towards the window on the opposite side of the room. The muscles in her back ache like the aftermath of a vigorous training exercise, maybe even worse, but if there's no pain, there is no gain.

The window. She could walk along the building's ledge and get to her private chambers. From there, she could get out and escape the palace.

And now I have to move all the way back. Brilliant.

The crawling does not take as long this time, it could almost be mistaken for a 'normal' pace, were it not for the strange limp and buckling of her left arm every few seconds. As soon as she gets out of here, a doctor is what she'll have to search for, whether she likes it or not.

The window isn't stiff to lift, thanks to a constant use. Whenever Emily wanted to escape and jump on building rooftops, she would use windows to sneakily navigate her way to her safe room, which held access to the outside world of the city. Although, she mustn't be sneaky enough, because Corvo seems to know about her near-nightly escapes. How he managed to follow her through the fast-paced running throughout the night is beyond Emily—not that she minds his quiet company. He truly is her protective shadow. A being just beyond sight to appear whenever the action is deemed necessary.

She needs to get that shadow back, to free him from his 'prison,' for lack of a better word.

But how? How can she accomplish such a feat all on her own?

There is no one to help me. I'm alone.

It's hard to breathe.

The city skyline looks the same as always, with the same vast buildings peeking upwards to meet the sky… yet the perception Emily has for it has changed drastically. No longer does it seem warm and inviting, a thriving place that survived a plague which should have eradicated the entirety of its population. It seems cold and still—albeit not like her encounter in the throne room with the black-eyed bastard.

He is probably responsible for all this s—t. If he wasn't, he would be here to help me. But no.

'Angry' is an understatement to her personality right now. This internal fire fuels her need to escape, pushing her towards the safe room like an explosion caused by incendiary crossbow bolts in a Whale Oil tank. The flames spread across any surface they can lick, although, in this case, the travelling is quite slow. Emily moves across the stone ledge like a snail, lest she lose her already non-existent balance and fall to her death. Not only would that be completely useless to the situation at hand, but very embarrassing.

A few drops of bright red come against the white beneath her; the wound must be bleeding once more, only proving its seriousness. It's a pity she doesn't care or give a single coin over its progression.

Her bedroom window is a lot harder to open, seeing as though it is constantly checked for any weaknesses (a security operation) but, with a few big shoves, it starts to lift upward. Why they have to check windows hundreds of feet above ground was, and still is, completely unknown to her, but security insists the protocol is of utmost importance, and there is no point in arguing.

Without warning, the Empress freezes in her tracks like an animal in the sights of a hunter, and there is nowhere for her to run. A guard is staring right at her, sword already drawn. Even if there was room to turn around and go back to the study, she's too wounded to move at an appropriate pace.

"It's Emily Kaldwin! Come, quickly!" He hollers, waving to no one in particular past her bedroom's entrance. His face depicts that of a young boy, barely out of his teenage years, with an unquenchable hunger for adventure in his eyes. The young lad must be no older than seventeen, Emily decides.

"Fall backwards," a voice hisses through her brain, although it doesn't sound like her inner conscious. It sounds a lot like the man in her throne room; the voice perfectly replicates the cold wind against her neck as an unkillable being leaned down to whisper in her ear. "If you don't fall backwards right now, that boy will stab you through your chin, completely ignoring the orders asking to keep you alive. You will not even get the chance to scream."

She does not have much time to contemplate the pros and cons of her options, but for the brief moment she has left, Emily wonders whether or not she should trust the Outsider. If her father truly was marked, does that not mean he can be trusted to a certain degree? Could it be she has been directed away from the scriptures because of the Mark her father held? How many people know?

Sadly, she is now out of time. The guard lunges forward, his blade tilted upwards towards her face, just as the Outsider said. There are no memories flashing before her eyes, or maybe they are just much too far for her to see—Emily doesn't know, nor does she care. Her only instinct forces her to bend backwards and lose balance, slipping away from the ledge she was upon a mere few milliseconds ago. Her thought process halts entirely, and it is only once she feels the wind blowing on the back of her head and clothing does she reboot from her paralysed state.

Bastard!

Anton Sokolov, years ago, told Emily a great many things in the small hideout they had been cooped up in. The Hound Pits pub, as it's called, served as a place where she learnt more about natural philosophy than her teachers could ever hope to know. In addition, a few life lessons and bits and pieces.

"You shouldn't be going backwards," his wrinkled face studied one of the few pieces of paper available for use. Neatly, in the upper left-hand corner, was a spelling test containing a mere ten words. Two were incorrect, albeit not too far off their true spelling.

The previous test, taken two days ago, only had one incorrect.

The young Emily hadn't said anything in reply, only pursing her lips and rubbing her tired eyes. Strange dreams among a mixture of nightmares and creaking buildings had starved her from any true amounts of rest—fatigue was hanging around her like a loyal dog would its owner. She did not care for the spelling test's results.

They aren't too important a list of words, anyway.

The man who helped shape today's technology did not have as much wisdom and insight into humanity's ways back then, but he had enough to know something was wrong with the heir to the throne—past the obvious mourning and worry. Emily would sometimes look out onto the skyline, where the sky meets the vast ocean, and stare for minutes without diverting her gaze. Sometimes, even blinking was avoided, as though the lovely albeit plain scenery required her complete attention. Though it was not forced or strained; she had no troubles with keeping her eyes open like one might have if they were purposefully staring.

She just looked empty in such a way that it was like her very soul had been touched by the Void.

Anton theorised it had.

"Tell me about your dreams, girl." The paper fell down to the splinter-covered desk, almost blending in amongst the countless drawings around it. Emily loved expressing her creativity through pens, crayons, paints and the like. It is a pity they did not have the resources—charcoal had been her main tool.

"My dreams?" It sounded more like a statement, than a question.

"Mmm."

"Sometimes they're nightmares about mother and father… I do worry about their safety, though," she chuckles quietly, "I know nothing bad will happen to them. And… there are other ones."

"Go on," he hummed.

"They usually start with some lady reciting weird words or… something. There are glowing blue lines like Whale Oil everywhere—it rather reminds me of some sort of spell. It's pretty. She looks at me and goes to say something again, but before she can finish, things go black and white. And then they go away."

"Away?"

"The place changes. It changes into a strange place with no sun or sky—an unlimited place… kind of like the ocean, but a light, dreamy purple… like mummy's necklace," she recalled one of many pendants her mother would wear during formal evenings. On a rare few occasions, she was allowed to wear it for herself, and made that fact very clear to the guests with proud boasting.

Do you like my necklace?! It's Empress Jessamine's, but I can have it for a while!

"There's… a man there. He is very kind, much kinder than my teachers—you excluded, of course. The ones at the castle are boring. Anyway. I can never see his eyes; they are always cast towards the ground, as if he does not want to look at me. I asked him if that was the case, but he didn't answer—he laughed."

"What is this man's name?" Anton had suddenly spiked his interest in the subject much higher than he previously could have predicted. He was leaning forward in his seat, hungry eyes searching for any information.

"He does not have one. It was stolen from him." Emily replied, finally meeting his gaze with her own.

"Bastard…"

Falling was not a particularly 'fun' thing to do, in Emily's eyes. Especially when the lethal surfaces—cliff edges, winding tree branches and the like—begin to near and you count down your final seconds, knowing that there is no chance for you to survive.

This never should have happened. Why did this have to happen? An aunt she didn't even know she had is usurping her throne and her father, the Royal Protector… well, she doesn't know what to think of his situation. Certainly, he is not dead, but he isn't… here.

Instead of castle being at her level, there is now steep cliff, and Emily knows she's about to die. In a matter of seconds, she will hit a tree branch or a jagged rock and bleed out, her broken bones squeaking for mercy as they are drowned in the red substance they help create. She doesn't have any time to accept this, let alone hope for a good future upon her kingdom. Here, the Kaldwin—the real Kaldwins—bloodline ends.

The sun fades, turning all things a dark, undistinguishable bunch of shapes. Reality becomes fragmented, like a mirror having been assaulted by an angry drunkard's fist when he couldn't afford any more whisky to fill his empty cup. Things go very cold, which is a bit surprising, because she thought her blood would be a warm, burning temperature on her skin. Or maybe she had died upon impact; maybe life had left her tumbling body instantly so it didn't have to cause her any undeserved pain. Would she ever be able to thank it?

The Empress slams against a solid surface, pushing the no-longer-necessary oxygen from her lungs. She wheezes reflexively, hand pushing against the flesh above her breast to unsuccessfully still her shaking rib cage and spasming diaphragm. Contact with the floor had not been smooth—but why had she hit it in the first place? Where was she?

It quickly became apparent that, wherever she had now found herself, it wasn't the place dead people went. Technically, her gratitude should outweigh the pain in her body, though she cannot seem to muster any kind of smile, only a ridiculously informal expression and wide eyes to try and absorb all the visual information around her. Dark, long shards of what looks to be black rock erect from all directions. But what's more impressive, is that the rocks themselves were floating in nothingness; everything, including the black beneath her feet, was seemingly weightless, but unmoving all the same. A sun to explain the light around her does not exist, but there is impossibly the ability to see. There are no skies to indicate night. There is no clear logic.

There is nothing but cold and stone and her beating heat, which thumps loudly in anxiety.

"I did tell you to fall backwards, Your Majesty," a voice hummed somewhere behind her. Gears—like the ones in Corvo's mask to regulate the spyglasses—turn inside her cranium, piecing this strange puzzle together. When the combination to the lock clicks and she finally understands, she whips around to stare at the Black-eyed Bastard. He looks calm, if nothing else. None of these recent events seemed to faze him in the slightest; he was the perfect image of composure and carelessness—or, perhaps, he's just above such mortal issues. Inside her, it sparked rage to ignite a huge fire, setting alight her eyes with fury unmatchable by any painting Sokolov could ever hope to paint.

She opened her mouth to speak—yell, scream, create any kind of noise to release her frustration—but was promptly cut off before she could even start. "Delilah has set in motion a chain of events that will change your life, Empress. The Empire's, too. I can only wonder: what are you going to do about it?"

"You sure wonder a lot," she snickered cruelly, recalling their previous encounter.

"As would you, were you able to control that temper. Or maybe," he clasped his hands behind his back, fiddling with rings on his fingers, "you would think, just like your father. Asses the situation, make a plan, and entertain me. Are you interesting like him, Emily Kaldwin?" The question was blatant and straightforward—rude, even, considering whom he was speaking to. However, what would Her Majesty be able to do about it, besides fume further like he predicts she will in the nearing future? After centuries of existing and observing life in the world, the patterns in humanity's brain have become tedious and boring, losing his interest more and more as the days progress. Time, though it has blended into something unimportant to the ominous watcher, seems to stretch infinitely when there's not a good show to attend. Corvo, of course, was one of those few people that could be mistaken for an entire series of plays or books—a library of humorous jokes, in a twisted way. He was entertaining, unlike the people around him.

Lies would be told if the Outsider was to say he did not care for his dear Corvo. The man was quite the tool to repair his depleted levels of fun.

Would Emily be the same?

The girl in question considers him for a moment, the look in her eyes slowly melting away into something more familiar. The look of curiosity—what has led to the deaths of so many, boldly instils within her heart and reveals itself, finally. "My father was one of your…" she made a gesture with her hands as though that might explain the words she couldn't find, "and he's gone—for now. I need to get him back… and my throne. Can you help?"

"You haven't changed at all, Empress," he smiled for a brief moment. Though she's very unaware of it right now, this was far from the first day they have seen and conversed with each other before; this is not their second conversation together. A past pristinely remembered, yet cloudy concerning detail because of a child's poor ability to recall, has proof of them intertwining paths before. "Caution and fear has never been your nature. You were always one to buy more dangerous reactions to situations. It gets you in trouble a lot—and that's what I like about you." He leant forward, brow quirking upward to emphasise his speech. Emily reflexively took a step back and frowned a little. Speed was so prominent in everything right now; time is going so fast and she can barely keep track of the clock's movements, let alone the events going on around her.

When he receives no audible reply, he unclasps his hands, summoning in one a beating heart with splintered wood throughout its surface—primarily the top half. There are little cogs and gears that turn in harmony and stitches to hold it all together.

His creation, formulated by the hands of a Loyalist so many years ago, now has its captor returned to relatives once more. This strange, magical vessel holding Jessamine Kaldwin—the deceased mother of the girl before it—beats rhythmically faster, as if it is excited by the aforementioned presence. He couldn't blame it; they were very fond of each other in life, so why can't this be the case in Void, too?

A pair of brown eyes gaze down at the Heart, eyeing its existence with a curious caution. It seemed familiar to her—like a memory just beyond the edge of what is known—and she cannot reach it, no matter how far she stretches her arms forward. The Outsider has the answers to her questions, she knows this, but would he even give them to her? Does all information not have a price, and isn't everything to be earnt?

"My Mark," he supplies the price for her. "I've been watching you for a while now, and you intrigue me. Let me 'corrupt' you, as the Abbey would say—as you would say, despite breaking their rules." The Heart dematerialised into thin air and the ominous being stepped forward, latching onto the Empress' wrist just as he had done in the throne room. His eyes, though completely black and infinite in depth, look terribly smug—or maybe their perception is just influenced by the smirk on his lips.

What other choice do I have? She asks herself, stomach performing a million somersaults in her body. I need to get Corvo back, but I can't do that without help. I hate to do this… but…

A nod.

A singular, affirmative nod.

If her father had been brought into this strange world, too, it surely couldn't be too bad. After all, his common sense knows no bounds (in this kind of area, at least), thus he wouldn't accept the offer unless the pros outweighed the cons. Delilah wields some strange magic, and having her own edge to boast would be extremely helpful, if not necessary for survival. The boons of having this Mark were certainly present and visible, but what of the cons?

That, she cannot figure out.

This is one huge leap of faith. Unironically, it's just like the situation at her window.

Interrupting her musing abruptly, a painful burning sensation made her wince. Her left hand, skin a clear, pale white in colour, was glowing in a bright red and deep blue, leaving behind black ash in a strange shape. She doesn't know how to describe it, only that she knows it would get her killed on sight, if the right person saw it. The Outsider's mark. There is no going back now.

What had she just gotten herself into?

"My, oh my. This is going to be fun—don't you agree?"

Sorry this is such a bad and short chapter. I'm writing this in the middle of class so it's extremely rushed and probably filled to the brim with mistakes ;~;