Author's notes: You know how in the Indiana Jones movies, that famous fedora hat always comes back to him no matter what? He'll even risk his own life to make sure he never loses it! Well, I'm SO SORRY, but there's no way I'm letting Corvo's sword be lost forever! (lol). Please forgive the extreme implausibility of it miraculously showing up, along with skiff (another hard one to sell) in the wreckage of the Jessamine. Sorry, not sorry.

Part IV continued

"Schism"

Chapter 38

I took my boots off. Despite the encroaching high tide, the black sand seemed endless, a shoreline hugging the obsidian cliffs like a shimmering necklace of black diamonds.

The sand felt good between my toes.

The island's barren beauty made me wonder about other islands. How many were out there? Untouched… Pristine… Places where, for a moment, I could forget that I was a monarch on the run, deposed by a coup d'état, and could simply exist––right here, right now––alive in this moment.

To simply be.

I'd almost lost Corvo, my last remaining parent. I'd seen a legend come to life, risen from the Deep, all tentacles and teeth. I'd seen the most powerful warship in existence smashed to smithereens, sunk beneath the waves… After all that, after the wonder of the great Leviathan in the cave beneath the island and the hope I'd felt when the ancient Pandyssian had taken my hand in the darkness… it seemed enough to simply be.

I rolled up my pants and walked into the waves, just far enough to feel the water lap against my knees. It was painfully cold, but I liked it. Everything felt new. I splashed water on my face and neck. I'd washed Corvo, but what about me? Blood had a penchant for getting everywhere. My long coat was badly stained, and blood was crusted beneath my fingernails.

I watched the waves as it carried away the blood, but not the memory of those it once belonged to.

So many dead.

We'd struck a mighty blow against my enemies by sinking the Jessamine, but everyone aboard had died. The men I'd vainly tried to save by knocking unconscious had died. The innocent doctor with shackles around her wrists who had tried to help my father and I had paid with her life.

I feared what their deaths would do to the fabric of the world, that fragile balance between order and chaos.

Dunwall had teetered on the edge of ruin during the Rat Plague. Corvo could have pushed her over, drowning the city in blood, but instead his choices had brought her back from the edge into prosperity and renewal. I wanted that ending, that bloodless victory when I finally toppled Delilah and restored my rightful place as Empress…

But I feared I was losing control, pushed too far unto a darker path on my journey back to the throne. The truth was, I wanted to kill Delilah. I wanted her blood. How much more blood would be spilled to slake that dark dream? And by who? Corvo the Black? The Whaleborn? My allies. My responsibility. My choices.

The ripples in the pond, Outsider.

I missed him. I could admit that, despite everything… I hated that I wouldn't be able to see his black eyes again until Karnaca. I apparently needed a shrine or a rune to call him from the Void.

Why do I miss him when he's right here?

A broken smile crossed my face as I looked further down the beach.

Well, a different him.The Pandyssian. Whaleborn. The man with no name. The man who, on his first day born four thousand years in the future, had already witnessed so much chaos and death.

Caused so much chaos and death.

My father had killed eight men, but the Pandyssian had taken ten times that many. He'd saved us––but at great cost. Did he feel that burden? How could he not, pulling at the dead, bringing their bodies to shore?

I slowly walked towards him, my feet sinking into wet sand, the high tide lapping against my legs. I knew I was stalling. I was nervous. There was so much to explain, none of it easy. And it was awkward. Like talking to a stranger and yet feeling like you already knew them.

The Pandyssian was the Outsider, and yet he wasn't. He wore a familiar face, a god's, immortal, but his eyes were as human as mine. What had those eyes seen? How was he not at the edge of turmoil? He'd called himself the Sacrifice, had said 'they held the Knife above me.' What must it be like to wake up, here, after seeing all that? I couldn't imagine what he thought of this world––the black sands and the Jessamine (a modern marvel) and my rat-eyed father and my Morley giant and the Captain with her ability to pull a man back from the brink of death with magic-blood––and me.

What did he think of me?!

I'd been the hand in the darkness, leading him out of the cave. He trusted me, and he had protected me by calling forth the beast from the Deep to crush my enemies. Why? Was it some strange lingering effect from the Schism? Like a piece of him had shared the Outsider's concern for me… The same Outsider who had frozen time to stop Corvo from hitting me?

An Outsider who protected me.

Or was it empathy? Or self-preservation? The Jessamine had attacked him directly: that missile hitting the beach in doubts and more churned in my head as I neared the Pandyssian, getting closer and closer.

I couldn't stall for long.

He had eleven bodies so far, further inland, arranged side-by-side like a mass grave, and was pulling on the arm of a twelfth when he paused in the waves.

His back was turned, but he sensed my approach. I clenched my fist, the Mark singing in my blood. I wondered if he felt it, too, that burning sensation, a tingling aura that intensified the closer I moved to him.

He turned to face me, his eyes glinting so warily that I stopped in my tracks, afraid to move any closer lest he bolt still seemed so jumpy, precariously balanced between the urge to fight or a heartbeat, he stared at me like I was a stranger, but then the wariness fled his eyes and he returned to his grisly task, pulling on the arm of a dead man. No, dead woman. Her white dress clung to her frail body, soaked through, exposing her sagging breasts.

"Doctor Toksvig!" I cried, slapping through the waves. She was face-down, her gray hair spilling over the water like a fan, her white skullcap long gone.

"Do not touch," the Pandyssian blurted in warning, wrenching the old woman away from my reaching grasp. "The dead belong to the Angra Mazul."

I stopped short, breathing hard, my heart torn by regret. The old woman was innocent!

I met his eyes, grief-stricken. "I knew her. She's not like the others!" I nodded angrily at the dead men along the beach. The traitors. "She's not like them. She was loyal."

His green eyes wavered. "I'm sorry, Emily Kaldwin…" His voice hardened. "But you must not touch."

"Why?"

"Because this is my burden," he said, his voice cracking. He lifted Doctor Toksvig from the water, her body slumped over his shoulder, his strong arms holding her in place. He looked at me sorrowfully. "I did this. I roused the beast from slumber."

His eyes warred between guilt and relief––for dead men he didn't know––for a war he had no clue about. He didn't know Delilah. Didn't know I was an Empress who had lost her throne. Didn't know a great many things.

But he knew death, and he knew he had caused it.

He didn't recoil from the dead or what he had done. When I looked in his eyes, I saw guilt––and relief for being alive in the end to feel that guilt.

The Pandyssian carried the doctor to shore and I followed. He gently laid her next to the others, folding her hands over her chest and smoothing her hair away from her face.

The doctor stared with vacant eyes.

I shivered violently and knelt in the sand, a respectful distance away, my gaze falling across that long line of bodies. Considering how many had died, it was a small selection.

"She is the last," the Pandyssian said, rising to his feet and looking back at the waves. "The rest are claimed."

Only debris scattered the shore. Broken pieces of what had once been the greatest ship in the Royal Fleet.

I watched him draw in the sand, sitting on his heels, his brow furrowed in concentration. The markings he made flowed and shimmered in eerie blue light, forming an intricate design at the feet of the dead. It reminded me of sheet music. The island's dark beauty accentuating his.

When he was done, the bodies, as one, sunk into the earth, the sand swallowing them whole. They were gone. The shimmering light died, the drawing in the sand no more than a faint outline in the sun's shadow. I stared at that empty space––for how long I did not know.

His shadow fell over me, the Mark burning hotter than it had ever been. I looked up at him.

He held out his hand. His sorcery hand.

I took it and he pulled me up––but not softly like I had expected. Instead, he yanked me towards him, powerfully gripping our hands together, the Marks burning as one. His hand was bare, the Mark starkly visible, but mine was hidden beneath black leather wrappings. He couldn't yet know that I had it, too, but he felt it. I could see it in his eyes.

Those eyes pulled me closer as surely as his hand, their emerald depths swollen with confusion and need, and that lingering awe that had not left his face since exiting that dark cavern below Tempest Island.

"What are we?" he asked, barely a whisper.

"Marked," I said, breathless against him.

He was hurting me, crushing my fingers in a tight grip, but then he suddenly released me, his face flashing with wide-eyed disbelief. "You hold my name?" he blurted, so incredulous and hurt, like he couldn't believe I had something so unalterably his. Something he had lost!

Did he think I had stolen his name?

"It's called the Mark of the Outsider," I hurriedly explained, unwinding the leather to reveal the Mark on my hand. Side by side with his, it was the same. "Your name is a symbol of divine favor. It means we can draw magic from the Void."

"Whose divine favor?"

"Yours."

Terror rippled through him. "My Amonkalahira––is that––"

He couldn't continue. He looked sick.

"Yes," I said, "but we call him the Outsider. He watches from the Void, watches with his black eyes." I wrapped my hand, uncomfortable with it exposed. "I know you have a lot of questions. Frankly, I'm surprised you haven't hammered me with more questions, but I'll do my best to answer them. I'm here for you."

He was shaking his head, fear and anger and confusion building until I thought he might burst. "You said my name was stolen. Now, you wear my name?"

"Your name was stolen by a witch."

"A witch?!"

Damnit, I shouldn't have mentioned the witch.

"We'll get your name back, I promise." I was trying to calm him down, but I felt like I was pushing him over a cliff. I scrambled, "I'm sorry––"

"Dead men dream," he said, rolling his head back and looking at me with a slightly crazed look. I wondered if he felt trapped in that dark cave again, if he believed this strange new world really was the underworld. His afterlife.

"You're not dead," I said, clutching his arm where he'd been cut open by sharp volcanic glass. "Dead men don't bleed, remember?"

He winced, the wound too fresh, and shook his head, refusing to believe me. I ran my palms down the length of his arms and took his hands in mine. "You're not dreaming, either," I said. "This is real."

I hated to see him so afraid and confused, and so angry at me, like I had done this to him. His confusion at seeing the Mark on my hand had thrown him off kilter. Did he still trust me?

"It can't be real," he hoarsely replied. "I have prayed in the House of Satakal my entire life. I have sat at the feet of the Hooded Ones and learned the ancient secrets of the Maormer, but I have never been able to do that."

He jerked his head towards the Ocean where the sea monster had crashed over the Jessamine, pulling it beneath the waves. I was speechless.

"You say nothing?"

I tried to think of something plausible. "Maybe it was the Mark. Maybe it amplified your magic somehow." What else could it be? Hadn't the Outsider warned me that he'd never done this before, that there might be unforeseen consequences?

He growled at my words, pulling on my hands like he wanted to go, but not knowing where.

I let myself be pulled, following his panic-stricken tugging as he moved a few steps, only to stop short and look back at me like I might show him the way.

"If this is real, Emily Kaldwin, then take me home," he said, his eyes solemn and searching. "I want to go home."

Then the question I'd been dreading fell from his lips.

"Where is my home?"

I twisted out of his grasp and turned away, holding myself against the chill. How do I tell a man that his family and everyone he has ever loved is dead and gone? That he can't go back? Sunlight battled thick, dark clouds, tossing the world between bright sunlight and gloomy shade. I followed the watery horizon, trying to find the words.

He stepped around me, facing me. It was the Outsider's face, but vulnerable human eyes. I couldn't lie to him.

"It's not where," I finally said. "It's when."

I took a deep breath and said, "You died four thousand years ago. You can't go home because your home is gone."

He listened, but I saw his eyes shudder like a door had closed. He didn't believe me. He didn't want to believe me. He said, "No… No! This is not my sacred destiny!"

"It's your new life," I said, pleading for him to understand, to accept reality.

His eyes turned angry. "I shouldn't be here! I can't be here. This… life is an abomination!"

He ran away, bolting across the sand.

I let him go, tears welling in my eyes. The wind sharply gusted, whipping the ends of my ponytail. I covered my mouth with trembling hands, feeling terrible. Did I say too much? The wrong thing? I hated hurting him, but what else could I do? Lie? He had seen the awful truth when the Outsider had looked down on him with black eyes, burning the Mark into his hand. Eventually, he would understand what it all meant. Eventually, he would understand that he had nowhere to go.

I watched him run.

Run nowhere.

I turned away, walking the beach, trying to push him out of my mind. I understood his need to run, to get away. Had I not done the same exact thing when I used to escape the Tower at night, running along the rooftops?

I followed the water's edge towards a spattering of rocks. This side of the island was different than the north, the shoreline curving with jutting rock formations that arched like rainbows over the water. It was breathtakingly beautiful. I spotted a ring of stones that had grabbed pieces of the Jessamine like a watery vortex, the wreckage all bunched up in one tangled-up mass in the middle. I climbed closer to see if anything might be salvageable.

The largest pieces looked surprisingly intact. Balancing at the edge of a large stone, I realized it was the skiff––the actual skiff the Fletchers had stolen from the Jessamine––but it was capsized! The wooden hull was scratched up, but it looked seaworthy. How was I going to get it out of there? It wasn't exactly massive––for a skiff––but it weighed too much for one woman to pull alone.

But one woman with magic? I bit my lip in concentration, trying to snag my arcane tether around the bulky object.

Maybe I could fling it towards me…

My scream turned to laughter as the skiff went flying in the air, twisting madly like a giant hand had tossed a coin. I ducked as it sailed over my head, landing in a big splash, right-side up, in the water rushing to shore as the tide moved in with a big crashing wave. I used Far Reach again, leaping inside the skiff before it got away, the tide rushing back out.

I dove over the controls, mumbling, "Please still be working, please still be working…" The small engine roared to life and I laughed. Yes! Maybe this can help us.

I had to tell the Captain.

The skiff wasn't exactly an ocean-faring vessel, but it was powered by whale oil. It could go much further and faster than Meagan's manual rowboat.

I maneuvered the vessel until I was pointed towards the Dreadful Wale, then hit the throttle once I drifted into deeper waters. The skiff raced across the waves, the wind in my face. It felt good. I looked down, feeling something wedged under my foot. In disbelief, I grabbed the hilt, flicking out my father's folding sword in one practiced motion, the length of the blade unraveling in a silver blur.

"Outsider in the Void," I breathed, utterly shocked. I took it as a good omen and folded it back, sliding the sword into my belt holster. I felt whole again, strangely enough.

I found two more swords under the bench (weapons from the men that had died on the beach, I assumed), and felt grateful. Stranded on the island, we had nothing but what we could find.

Half-way to the Dreadful Wale, I spotted Dougal returning on his second round-trip, the rowboat weighed down with cargo, along with Eileen and the Princess. Rosemary was noticeably absent. I drifted side-by-side with him as we passed.

"Your Highness!" Dougal cried, grinning ear to ear. "I see you found the skiff!"

"And recovered my father's sword."

"And here I thought the sea monster was going to use it as a fancy toothpick."

Eileen elbowed him hard, then gave me a sweet, heartening look. "Your Highness," she said. "We are so pleased Lord Corvo pulled through. My husband told me how close it had been."

"Thank you," I said, glancing over the shoreline where Corvo was resting like a beached seal, warming bare-chested in the sun. I nodded at the Princess and smiled at them. "I'm glad you all made it." I leaned under the bench and pulled out one of the swords, handing it to Dougal, hilt-first.

He accepted it with a grim face. "Just in case," I said. "See you back onshore. I'm going to speak with the Captain."

"Your Highness," Dougal nodded. "I'll be back for another trip to grab Rosemary and whatever else I can fit." He gripped the oars and pulled away in a mighty stroke.

I docked with the Dreadful Wale, disturbed by how high the water lapped against its metal hull. The square hatches we had used on that first night we'd boarded were completely underwater. I climbed over the railing, glancing at the smoldering hole the missile had left in the protective plating. It didn't look pretty.

I headed inside and down the stairwell, confronted by the out-of-place sounds of water inside the ship. It had a strangely echoing quality. Emergency lights were flickering in the dark.

Meagan was inside the engine room, waist-deep in cold water and swearing profusely as she tried turning a gigantic red-colored valve. "Can I help?" I asked, wading through the water to reach her.

She looked at me, wiping her brow. "On three," she said, moving to the side to make room for me. "One, two, three!" She grunted noisily as we budged the stubborn valve until it released, spinning wildly in a rush of water through the connecting pipe.

She wiped her brow, sighing. "There. The pressure should stabilize, now."

Her dark eyes panned over me. "What's with the grin?"

"I found the skiff, Meagan. There's almost a full tank of whale oil left in her. I was thinking we could use it to get off the island."

"Not all of us," Meagan said, wading through the water to inspect a chugging machine further back.

She suddenly looked at me, her dark eyes flickering.

"What are you thinking?" I asked, holding my arms above the water. I wasn't happy about getting my pants soaked through again, but after a day like today, discomfort was inevitable.

"Glory Point," she said hesitantly.

"The smugglers' cove?"

"It's far, but not too far if we keep the skiff light. Just one person." Her eyes steadied. "Emily, I should be the one to go. I know people there who can quickly repair the Dreadful Wale and stay quiet about it."

"But what about the water pump? Did you get it working?"

"I did. I thought Anton broke the damn thing but turns out his tinkering made it better. It'll keep the ship afloat until I get back." She waded towards the stairwell and I followed. "I can hire a ship to tow us back to Glory Point. All sorts of ships typically dock there. Whalers. Pirates. For the right coin, they'll do it with no questions asked."

"Sounds like our best chance. Take whatever gold the Prince gave us––whatever you need," I said, pausing on the stairwell as she turned back to look at me with worried eyes. "What? This is good news, Meagan. I'm glad your ship has a chance, now. I'm sorry it got this bad."

"Me, too," she said, lowering her gaze to hide the look in her eyes. Maybe she didn't want me to see how important the ship was to her. "Alright. I'll gather what I need and leave first thing. I should be back by morning with the tow ship."

"Good luck."

"And Emily?"

"Yes?"

"You'll find Rosemary in my secret room," she said, clearly hating the word, but going along with it for brevity's sake. She handed me a key. "Dougal felt we had to keep her locked up during the attack and the brig was flooding so…"

"I'll get her," I said, accepting the key with a lump in my throat. "Thank you."

"The water pump might still fail. Don't spend the night here," she warned. "I don't envy you––the island is haunted––but right now it's safer for everyone to make camp."

It's not haunted, I thought. It's just close to the Void, two worlds overlapping in a dark cavern beneath the island.

"I understand. Thank you, Meagan. We'll see you in the morning."

As she walked away, I felt the sting of unease. I was putting a lot of trust in her. If she didn't come back, eventually Delilah would. The witch knew where we were, now. I could only pray that she'd been totally blindsided, that never in her wildest dreams would she have thought the Jessamine would fail her and so hadn't prepared a contingency plan. Delilah would have to scramble, and any ships she'd eventually send would be significantly slower.

Delilah wouldn't give up. That was the point.

I had to get used to the feeling of always being on the run, of looking behind me in fear and apprehension. Until I reclaimed my throne and destroyed her, Delilah would always be a threat.

I entered the cargo bay, startled by the mess. Everything looked out of sorts, like Dougal and the others had packed in a hurry. I went to Sokolov's old quarters and found the rucksack I remembered seeing stuffed in a corner. Inside I found my father's Mask from the time of the Rat Plague, Samuel's little toy skiff, a whalebone comb, and Rosemary's bright red party dress from the Sunset Regalia. I went back to the small cabin where my father usually slept, grabbing the weapons I'd unwisely left behind. My crossbow. The pistol. Extra ammo for both went inside the rucksack, and the stun mines.

Now, it was just Rosemary to grab.

Standing at the door to the secret room, I heard music. A sad violin. I fitted the key and turned the lock, slowly opening the door. At the movement, the music ceased.

"Emily!" She dove into my arms, hugging me fiercely. "I thought you were dead! I thought we were all as good as dead!"

"Are you okay?" I asked, backing away to look at her. Her clothes were damp and her hair was a frightful mess. "Did you almost drown?"

"Yes, but I had the idea to possess one of the rats! They're all over the engine room, you know, and when one floated between the bars into my brig, I grabbed its tail and entered its little body. Oh, Emily, they're amazing swimmers!"

"That was good thinking."

"I kept the rat," she said, opening one of the desk drawers––the tiny room only had a desk, chair, and audiogram machine. She exclaimed in delight as a white, little rat looked up at us, its little nose twitching. She scooped it up into her palm and nuzzled it against her cheek.

I was astonished. "You want to keep the rat?"

"Why not? I'm alive because of her." She gave me a curious look. "Emily, I heard Dougal talking about a sea monster, of all things. What in the Void is going on out there?"

"I'll tell you on the way."

I waited for her to grab the violin, but I found myself hesitating at the threshold. The room looked picked clean.

"What is it, Emily?"

"Did you see Meagan take anything out of this room before they locked you up in here?"

Rosemary absently stroked the little rat's head, thinking. The creature looked like it was dozing in her hand, utterly contented. "Yes, actually. A wicked-looking sword. Oh, and a punch card for the audiogram machine. I saw her tuck it away inside her jacket."

"Really?"

She studied my face with big, blue eyes. "Do you think it's a secret recording of something horrible? I can try to steal it for you, if you want." She nosed the little rat, making a cute face. "I can use Little Lucinda. We can crawl straight up into Meagan's jacket and grab it!"

"Lucinda?" I blurted, my heart jumping. "You named the rat Lucinda?"

"Yes. I remembered it from somewhere. Why?"

I thought of the writhing witch in Delilah's arms, pleasing her on the bed in the Void. Dark-hair, dark-eyed. Mocking me. Laughing at me. Moaning like a whore as her face flushed.

Delilah had called her Lucinda.

"Pick a different name," I said coldly, widening the door and pointing for her to go in front.

I wasn't giving her my back.