a/n; and nearly two years later, I'll label this thing complete.
viii.
The clock ticks without abandon and without mercy. The brilliant hues of orange and dusky rose flutter and fall into the hands of crippled brown and snowy, slushy white. Autumn turns to winter, and hours would feel like days, Emily believes, were it not for the mantle of Empress resting on her brow.
Instead, two months pass without visitation from the Outsider. She is not surprised by this, though it does give her an off-hand anxiety that grows and grows each solitary day. He is outside of her thoughts during the daylight hours, but when the evening comes for her to retire, she can't help rubbing her left hand and wondering, wondering. The comfort is dim, and instead of warmth she feels the cold of lost possibilities.
"You've made me pathetic," she says to her reflection, one night out of many.
Wyman travels back at the end of the month, and though it's been six weeks hence, Emily feels as if she had only just seen him. She blames it on their continuous correspondence, with her mind hearing the lilt of his voice through the written word. She can see his smiles, and she can hear his laughter at the end of each quip his cursive twirls into the parchment.
She knows him so well, and he knows her as well as she'll allow. It's an unbalanced scale, and she knows it's unfair. He will still love her even if he knows everything about her—the mark on her hand she hides from everyone, the crueler stories of crawling back to the throne, the details in between. It is almost a betrayal, she thinks, keeping it all locked away. It has not, however, been purposefully hidden. It is moreso a trial of getting the correct words out of the deeper waters of her heart and into his own.
When he sits with her on the rooftop, like those many days of old—that other lifetime before the darkness and shadows—she has every intention of laying herself before him. He deserves that because he is, first and foremost, her friend.
"Wyman," she begins, taking a heavy breath, and she feels her muscles shake with the force. Why is this so hard for her? she thinks. Why is it all so impossible?
He must see something in her face, because he rests a hand on hers. She realizes that she's wringing her index finger, anxiety-ridden and vulnerable, and she hasn't noticed.
"It's alright, Emily," he says, and he presents her with a small, sad smile like he knows she can't tell him everything. "I know it's been hard. I don't want to make it harder."
Her eyes blur at his words. He has always been so transparent and honest. It's a shame she can't be the same. Had she been before?
No, she thinks. She'd only been naïve and rebellious. It's easy to remember the bad qualities in these moments, melancholy and arduous as they always seem to be.
"I'm sorry," she says, wiping her eyes angrily with the back of her hand. "You deserve to know."
"It's not about deserving," he tells her, holding her hand. "I love you. That's what matters." He shrugs. "It doesn't change anything for me. I don't want you to worry about that."
It will change something, her traitorous mind says. But he's right—it shouldn't change anything. Whatever it is she's holding onto is irrational, unfeasible, and unattainable. She's not even sure how to put into words what she's holding onto, and that's evidence enough, isn't it?
She gives him a deceitful kiss, and he retires soon after. She remains on the rooftop for a few more minutes, staring up at the starry spotlights above her. It's a chilly blanket, the dense shadows that wrap around her. They feel burdensome and suffocating this weary night, and she misses the confidence and surety it had given her before. When once she was never alone, there is now a heavy uncertainty. The darkness is an unknown, now, ripped away from her due to one intangible desire. It's almost comical how it's affecting her. She puts her left hand in front of her, curling it into a fist and feeling the bright blister of power. It radiates up her arm and to her shoulder, feeding a hot fire up her neck and into the back of her skull.
She has a menacing urge to blink across the rooftops surrounding her, to deplete all of her mana, to feel that strangely euphoric release from being reckless and running. It's a silly fancy—she isn't a child anymore, running away from court and leadership, but it is fun to tease the idea around. It's fun to remember the younger version of herself—and it's hopeful to think further that her younger version hasn't fully slipped away. It's merely been stretched, pulled to accommodate the trials of experience.
Perhaps you've outgrown him.
Her back involuntarily straightens at the old words that dash through her mind. She closes her eyes, unfurls her fist, and sighs. The fire vanishes within the layers of her skin.
Perhaps. Perhaps.
"A million possibilities," she echoes into the air. "And I decide on the one that doesn't exist."
She stands, turning toward the window ledge leading into her chambers. She walks into a block of shadow, and it's a sudden cradle of warmth. The contradiction makes her come to an abrupt halt. Her hand becomes a fiery bomb, undulating with an insidious force.
"I never said it doesn't exist," the voice says, melting into her ear.
She gasps sharply, turning around. The Outsider hangs above in the air, no more than five feet in front of her.
She is a mixed bundle—relief and anger flood her system at the sight of him, smirking with disdain, arms crossed in a holier-than-thou deportment. The picture can only be completed with a crown and scepter, perhaps a gaudy shawl, feathered on the edges and sparkling with jewels.
"The implication was clear enough," she answers, surprised at how strong her voice is in the silence of night.
He drops to the roof, feet landing with a succinct clap. His onyx stare hasn't changed. It drills into her, and she wonders for a mad moment what he sees in her standing there. She attempts to acclimate, the months' absence affecting her endurance. She holds the stare for as long as she can before she has to look away.
"Why are you here?" she asks finally.
"You said you considered me a friend, once. I'm here visiting a friend. That's a common custom mortals perform, is it not?"
His answer is filled with the sardonic, aloof disgust that, somehow, she's missed.
"That doesn't sound like a reason for you," she says. "Was the world not interesting enough?"
It feels as though he's glaring at her, but it could merely be the intensity.
"There is always the occasional backstabbing, lover's quarrel, murder. However, there is not one corner of the world that isn't too peaceful, for my tastes." He sneers. "You're doing your job too well, Empress."
"I do it to spite you, Outsider."
He takes a step toward her, and her skin hums.
"Please do," he growls. "There isn't enough spite to go around."
"I highly doubt that," she says, and he takes another step. She resists the urge to take one. She must stand her ground. "Spite, I'm certain, is the foundation of Dunwall. I'm not sure how you missed that."
He takes two more steps, and he's almost upon her now. Her skin is bursting at the seams. "I didn't. It's boring."
She almost laughs at how angry he sounds, wrapping her arms around herself for protection from his eyes.
"The Empress smiles," he says, and she didn't notice this either. She can only seem to stare and do nothing more.
"Am I?"
"You haven't smiled in a month."
"Lying is a poor man's currency. It doesn't become you, Outsider."
"I wouldn't lie about something so trivial."
"My smiles are trivial?"
He seems as if he doesn't know what to say. His face is as impassive as ever, but the shadows curve around his jaw, and it clenches once.
"I feed off despair," he says, though it isn't hateful. "Which means, yes, your smiles are trivial."
"What a shame. I'll remember to smile more when you're around, to remain spiteful, you see."
She even feels her lips curl up the slightest degree more, of their own accord. The Outsider seems livid, but she's not sure if she's reading him correctly. His eyes are too black in the darkness for her to tell.
He moves faster than a blink, and his hands are gripping her hips. The force that he's exerting is almost painful, and her mouth parts slightly in surprise. She uncrosses her arms on reflex, landing her hands on his shoulders.
"Emily," he says, the rough reverberations washing into her. He leans forward and he is kissing her, their lips sealing with clumsy immediacy before the urgency slows, and her hand is nearly ripping apart, filled with sensation, burning and sparking all at once.
She pules at the overwhelming sensation running through her and them. They are connected again, spirit and heart, god and human. It is too powerful—it should be too powerful—and somehow, her skin stretches to accommodate the unrestricted energy flowing from him into her.
"You came back," she breathes once he pulls away minutes or hours later. The night is as still and silent as it was when he arrived.
"You've made the rest of the world tedious," he says. "I had no other choice."
Her stomach twists. His apathetic tone does nothing to tame the uncontrollable flutter of her heart.
"Oh," she says.
He grimaces—she likes to think it might be his smile. "Are you speechless, Your Majesty?"
"Don't sound so smug," she says, a bit teasingly. His lip curls.
"I'm never smug," he begins, but she cuts off his sarcastic reply by bringing his face down into another kiss. His words are stemmed immediately. The force he has is extraordinary, his intent impure and infective. It underlines his tongue, pulsates through his fingertips like an earthquake into her hips. He is dangerous—as dangerous as any man, Emily thinks. He can kill her, vaporize her, betray her. He can control her, decimate her independence. He can do many things, terrible things.
He can surprise her.
When they part, Emily says the first thing on her mind. "How long will it be until I see you again?"
"Was two months too long?" he says, tone smooth and sardonic.
"Yes," she says, swallowing her embarrassment at the admission. It was him, after all, who came back entirely on his own.
He smiles at her answer, and she doesn't feel so vulnerable when she sees it. It's human, handsome, and a quick flash of white before it's gone again.
"Time is different for me. Dates are insignificant." He tips his head to the side. "I will keep them in mind, nonetheless."
She raises a brow. "I'm shocked, Outsider. You will be aware of the days that pass?"
"What is it that mortals say? Actions show the heart of man?"
"Something like that," she says, and she feels a small smile begin to form. "I'm not sure if that relates. You have no heart."
He sneers. "It would benefit you to remember that, Emily," he says, a cold inflection dripping through the words. To Emily, it doesn't sound like a warning as much as it does a fact. It would benefit her to remember everything about him.
She runs her right palm down from his shoulder to his chest, approximating where his heart would be. "I know."
He blinks down at her. His face turns grim and serious.
"I've fooled with many humans over the years," he says, a needlessly abrupt confession. "In many ways, with their spirits, their minds, their bodies."
She considers this for a moment. "It would alarm me had you not," she answers.
This only increases the darkness penetrating his face. "I feel something, Emily, but I cannot tell you what it may be. I am selfish, and I want all of you."
She gazes at the black slates of his eyes, trying to determine the inflections of light that cross over them. "I'm flattered," she whispers. "You'll have to court me longer before I'll allow you to have…all of me."
The idea is haunting and electrifying all at once.
"Court you? Is that what you think I've been doing?"
"I don't know what they call it in the Void," she answers facetiously. "But that's what it's called in this world."
"I can infiltrate your dreams," he says. "I can transport the fibers of your mind. I can enslave you to me, as I see fit, completely, eternally. But why should I, when I can't contain your emotions, your thoughts, or your actions? No. To me, courtship leads down the path of enslavement, and enslavement is exceedingly unsatisfying. You will never have all of a being that way. Their essence will allude you. No, Emily, I want the fabric of your skin, the layers of your mind, the soul through your eyes. I want to peel it apart. I want to know. All of you, to me, is everything."
It is unfathomable by mortal standards. Emily knows this immediately from the deep, godly depths of his words.
He stares at her, only the shine from the stars giving away the movement they make. He stares at her face, and parts of her face, and she wants to know so much more—so much more.
Her hand comes up to touch his cheek. "Someday," she says softly. "Someday, you'll have everything. And so will I."
He touches their foreheads together in an oddly and uncharacteristically affectionate notion. Emily closes her eyes against the touch, and in a moment, his grip releases, and there's a sigh in the air as he deteriorates into the smoky black soul of night.
